Finally Arthur got up. He put on a short jacket over a navy-blue sweater, and lifted his knapsack, then set it down and walked over to Papa. He opened his mouth to say something, but then remained silent.
Papa rose slowly. First he raised his healthy arm, and then, with incredible effort, he moved his half-paralyzed right arm in a crude embrace. It was almost a miracle that he could bend that arm. We knew it caused him pain almost beyond endurance. He put his left hand on Arthur’s black hair, then with a quick motion, his right hand. It was for us children a familiar and comforting gesture.
How pale his hands were now, but they did not tremble. Papa’s glassy eyes looked up. Then he pulled Arthur toward him. His lips pressed Arthur’s forehead.
“God be with you, my son!” He took Arthur’s shoulders, and pushed him toward Mama’s embrace. Her small, white, fine hands rested a moment on his head, but she was smiling. I never saw her look so strong.
Arthur lifted both her hands to his lips, and returned her smile with one of his gayest, saying, “Maminka,” which he used to call her when he was a very small boy.
Mama said quietly, “It is an easy good-by, my child, because I know you will be back soon.” Still smiling, she kissed his forehead.
Then, with a quick, almost relieved gesture, Arthur turned to me, lifted me up, kissed me on both cheeks, and said gaily, “It will be a pleasure not to have you always trotting behind me.”
That broke the tension. I caught his arm, and stood on tiptoe, trying to swallow my tears. He stooped down to me and whispered quickly, “Be strong, they will need you.”
Then he quickly ran down the steps to the sidewalk.
We all followed. We wanted to go with him to the station, but he turned around.
“Please,” he said, “do me one favor. I don’t want anyone to come.”
No, he didn’t want us to see how he was going to be locked up in a cattle car under the whips of the Nazis. He started walking very fast down the street. It was just getting light. Then he slowed down. He stopped. I knew he wanted to turn around and to see the picture of his family in front of his house and wave a last good-by, but he didn’t. He hesitated a moment, but didn’t turn around. Instead he started to walk faster and faster toward the unknown.
Chapter 4
PAPA TOUCHED MAMA’S ARM SOFTLY FOR A MOMENT AFTER Arthur was out of sight. I followed them back into the house. Nobody spoke. Papa and Mama found it difficult to be together that day.
Papa withdrew to the Bible. Aunt Anna, when she returned, went into her room and closed the door. Mama put on a coat and shawl over her head and went out. I followed her to the cemetery, a few minutes’ walk from our house. It was on a hill fenced in by a high brick wall. Some parts were very old with tombstones dating back to 1700. Mama walked slowly along the gravel path, her steps quickening as we approached the section where our family was buried. Black marble tombstones with faded inscriptions rose from behind the shrubbery. I saw one fresh inscription gleaming in gold: “Julie Mücken-brunn.” That was the grave of my mother’s mother. She had died a year and a half before. I saw Mama put her head on the stone, as she must have put her head against her mother’s breast many times as a child. Completely engrossed, she muttered, “My child … my child … oh mother!” and started to cry bitterly. I could not catch all she said. It was a strange, quiet soliloquy, yet I felt that a voice was screaming within her, “Oh God, bring him back to me.”
Then Mama stood upright and addressed the stone in a different manner.
“You are lucky, mother. If only I could be certain that someday my children would be standing on my grave.”
When we reached home, I went straight to my room. There was no use to try to make conversation. Everyone had the desire to keep to himself.
Idly, I started looking through a photograph album. I came across pictures that had been taken during the past summer. I lay down on my bed, looked up at the blue ceiling, and made a wonderful game of remembering the past, using these fragments to weave dreams for the future. No present existed.
It was a wonderful escape. For instance, there was Krynica, where Mama and I had gone in the summer. It was an elegant summer resort, about three hundred kilometers southeast of Bielitz. I recaptured the thrill, the excitement of the preparations, the dressmakers, the fittings, and finally the journey. I remembered it all so well. I had loved Krynica from the start. Our hotel faced the Carpathian mountains on one side, beautifully landscaped gardens on the other. There was a wonderful swimming pool, tennis courts. If only Mama hadn’t insisted on going to the promenade concert every afternoon, which meant being properly attired with hat and stockings. How I hated it! I remembered too the open-air concert we attended the day before we left. It was a lovely August afternoon, white benches, lovely flowers, happy people, deeply tanned men and women in colorful summer frocks. I was so proud of Mama. She looked beautiful in a navy and white print dress and wide-brimmed white hat. The orchestra played Viennese waltzes. She always smiled at those waltzes. They brought back her girlhood, for once at a ball in Vienna she was chosen Waltz Queen.
Suddenly, a slim young man ran up to the pavilion, pushed the startled conductor aside, and called out:
“Are all you people crazy? Are you unaware of what’s happening this very hour?” Pointing toward the silent mountain peaks where Poland’s frontier met German-occupied Czechoslovakia, he continued, “From up there disaster is coming at any minute. There is going to be a war, and you are sitting here dressed up, listening to pretty music. Go home, take up arms. Let us stand against the enemy!”
His white shirt was open at his neck, his sandy hair fell on his forehead, his hands were restless, his voice possessed a strange quality of power and conviction. Soon the police arrived and the young man was taken away.
“A maniac,” the people muttered. “He will be locked up for disturbing the peace.” But most everyone left the concert.
Mama had thought that we should go back to Bielitz at once but I urged her to stay on for another week as we had originally planned. Mama was still undecided when in the morning the telegram from Papa arrived saying that he wanted us to come home. We packed hastily and left on the next train.
As we passed close to the Czech border I wondered fleetingly if there would really be a war. The forests were green and looked so peaceful, the wheat stood ripe and rich in the fields, and peasant children waved to the swiftly moving train. But as we stopped at larger stations the thought of war came back again. Baggage was piled high on platforms, crates and trunks marked “Warszawa” in large letters could be seen everywhere.
In the early evening we arrived in Bielitz. Papa and Arthur met us at the station. At the sight of them my uneasiness vanished, although I noticed that Papa did not look well. He said his arm was bothering him. Mama was alarmed.
“You look so pale, Julius,” she said.
“No,” he answered, “it is you who are so tanned.”
The house was cool, and I experienced the wonderful feeling of being home again.
Was it the day after our homecoming, or several days later, that Mama summoned the doctor for Papa and that he was put to bed? But I did not want to think of Papa’s illness now, or of the coming of the Germans, or of Arthur’s going away. How much easier to think of all that had happened before the war, of my school, a private girls’ high school run by sisters of Notre Dame, where we were required to wear demure navy-blue uniforms with light blue piping, brown rayon stockings, and simple shoes. Only during the summer vacation could we wear the clothes we wanted. Yet the austere uniforms did not bother us in the least. They only made our summer clothes seem brighter, more desirable.
These thoughts were a wonderful escape from the present. Comfortingly, the past was unwinding before me, my wonderful childhood, safe and sheltered, too sheltered perhaps for what the years ahead were to bring, but full of lovely memories from which to draw strength.
Days passed and stretched into a week without news from
Arthur. Nobody had heard from any of the boys. Daily I went to the Kultusgemeinde, the Jewish Community Center, to find if word had been received from anybody. During the second week after Arthur’s departure, when I had come home with yet another negative answer, Mama told me that Papa was resting and that Mr. Pipersberg was with him. That immediately put me into a better mood for I adored Mr. Pipersberg. He was of medium height, had wavy gray hair, a small, clipped mustache, friendly, sparkling blue eyes, and an infectious smile. He was Papa’s close friend and business associate. He was a widower with married children, so he now devoted himself to the factory. Charming and intelligent, he had traveled all over the world, knew many amusing stories, and always had one to suit any occasion. He spent much of his time in our house and on holidays always brought us lovely gifts.
Mama told me to go upstairs and announce that lunch was ready. Papa and Mr. Pipersberg were engaged in a serious talk when I entered, discussing the risks involved in going to the plant. It was too dangerous, they realized, and finally they decided that neither of them should attempt it for a while.
The afternoon passed pleasantly. When Mr. Pipersberg got ready to leave, I decided that I would go with him part way and see Ilse, one of my friends. It was less dangerous for a girl of my age to venture into the streets than for a man. Ilse Kleinzahler was one of my best friends. Her father had gone with the same transport as Arthur, and she, her mother, and her four-year-old sister, Kitty, had gone to live with her grandparents. Unfortunately, the grandparents lived on the other side of town and we did not see each other as often as I should have liked.
As we left the house, Mr. Pipersberg said, “I am going to the factory.”
“I thought you decided against it,” I said.
“Oh, I am not going inside,” Mr. Pipersberg replied, “I just want to pass by.”
“In that case I will go with you. I can go to Ilse’s house from there.”
He hesitated. “I don’t know if you should.”
“You know they wouldn’t do anything to me,” I said, and that settled it.
It was a cold, dark day; a slight frost was already on the autumn leaves. I wondered how the factory would look, having heard that the trees surrounding it had been felled by the Polish Home Guard in a vain attempt to stop the German advance. After half an hour’s brisk walking we began to see it. I was shocked by the sight of the barren gray walls. Four buildings, forming a rectangle with a courtyard in the center, stood grim and forbidding in those unfamiliar surroundings.
We did not dare approach the main gate but turned off just before we came to the paved road leading to it and went to a small side entrance. However, it was locked so we walked around the building to find another entrance. As we turned a corner we came to a dead stop. From where we stood we saw huge trucks parked within the gates. Heaps of costly pelts were being loaded onto them. I felt Mr. Pipersberg’s hand tightening around my arm. The accumulation of years of work was being carried off.
Instinctively, I looked toward the windows of my father’s office. Then I heard a strange laugh from Mr. Pipersberg. Trembling, he pointed to a large red sign with bold white letters:
DOGS AND JEWS NOT ALLOWED TO ENTER
“I am glad your father is not here,” he said, “I am so glad. There is no use going in.” He slowly turned away, a pathetic picture. “You had better go home. Run fast. I want to be alone.”
Without a backward glance I hurried home. I had lost all desire to visit Ilse.
At home I avoided my parents and silently went up to my room. Again I lapsed into daydreaming about the past. All at once I realized that Mr. Pipersberg reminded me strongly of the young man in Krynica who had created the disturbance at the open-air concert. Mr. Pipersberg must have looked like him when he was young.
Lost in thought, I suddenly became aware that my doorknob was turning slowly. I jumped up from my couch to throw open the door. There stood Mr. Pipersberg, his face gray as ashes. His overcoat was gone, his jacket was spotted and crumpled. I led him to my bed, and he lay down.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
He put his finger to his lips and motioned me to be quiet.
“Don’t tell anybody. Get some warm water and cotton, if you can.”
When I returned he had removed his jacket. His shirt, flecked with blood, was clinging to his body. As I helped him remove it, I saw him bite his lip. There were wounds on his back and chest. His left eye was bloodshot, turning blue.
He was silent as I dressed his wounds, then he spoke, as if to himself. “I couldn’t stand it. I had to go in, and then they asked who I was. None of the workers wanted to tell them, so I said I was the owner. ‘You are a Jew, aren’t you?’ and so they beat me. Some of the workers moved as if to interfere, but they were afraid and they finally turned away. I barely made it to your house.
“Don’t tell Papa,” he warned me. “Let me spend the night here.”
I brought him tea and a sandwich. He sipped the tea, but couldn’t eat. “Is there any news from Arthur?” he asked. When I replied that there was none, he shook his head and closed his eyes.
That night I went to Arthur’s room for the first time since he had left. Everything was untouched, just as he had left it. My mother had not even made the bed. There was still the faint imprint of his head in the pillow. I curled up at the foot of his bed, so as not to disturb it.
Next morning I woke early and tiptoed to my room, wondering if Mr. Pipersberg would want some hot coffee. He was gone. My blankets were neatly folded. The only evidence of what had happened the evening before were the wads of bloody cotton in my wastebasket.
Chapter 5
DAYS PASSED. IT WAS NOW THE BEGINNING OF NOVEMBER. DAILY I went to the Kultusgemeinde but still there was no news from Arthur. There were, however, many rumors circulating that new transports were being formed; some even had it that all Jews were to be deported.
Bielitz had been incorporated into the German Reich by this time, along with all other territories which had belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Empire before the First World War. The part of Poland not officially incorporated into Greater Germany was commonly referred to as the Gouvernement. Bielitz was only some thirty kilometers west of the dividing line that ran through Auschwitz (Oswiecim), which later became the most horrible extermination camp in all Europe. As a result of the rumors, many of our relatives and friends started to leave for the Gouvernement, believing that the restrictions imposed on them in Bielitz would not apply there.
Aunt Anna had decided to go to Czortkow, her home until she had moved to Bielitz some years before the war. It was deep in Poland and was now occupied by the Russians but she hoped that once she was in the Gouvernement she might be able to go through to Czortkow, where she still owned real estate. She urged us to join her.
“You still have some belongings and valuables that you can take along,” she said. “Besides, I am sure that Arthur and David are in the Gouvernement.” She pleaded with Papa but without avail.
“I can’t keep you from going,” Papa said, “but we are staying. I can’t work with my arm, we have almost no money, but here we will manage somehow. Helene was born here, the children were born here, and I have lived in Bielitz for more than twenty years. After all, we have friends here. We are staying.”
So Aunt Anna and her daughter Miriam left. For a while we had letters from them, but in December, 1940, our letters came back stamped in red: MOVED WITHOUT LEAVING FORWARDING ADDRESS. We never learned what happened to them, except that they never reached Czortkow.
Several days after Aunt Anna left, shortly before noon on a bitter cold day, a woman we knew came to tell us that she had heard the Gestapo was making the rounds looking for Mr. Pipersberg.
“Try to find him,” she said to my father, “and tell him to hide.”
Such warnings were not ignored. We knew that Mr. Pipersberg would probably be in the home of his former secretary, not far from the factory. From a window in her house, he could watch it
in comparative safety.
“I had better go,” I said.
It was icy. The snow was blown by a strong wind. There was hardly a road to follow. I saw a horse-drawn sleigh with two peasants inside wrapped in blankets. I asked them to give me a lift, which they did. The tired old horse painfully pulled the creaking sled. I was half-frozen before I reached the little house.
Mr. Pipersberg was there. He was about to eat but when he saw me, he jumped up from the table. When I explained why I had come he told me to return home quickly, then he ran out of the house to find a place to hide.
I hadn’t gone a hundred yards when I saw a big black car with uniformed men pulling up to the house. They went in. I started to run. After a few minutes the car passed me again, speeding back. Suddenly, the magnitude of what I had just done struck me. I could visualize the Gestapo questioning Mr. Pipersberg’s secretary. How could the frightened woman avoid telling them that the daughter of his best friend had been there? I reproached myself bitterly for not having stopped the car to admit that I had warned Mr. Pipersberg, that I alone was responsible, that my parents had known nothing about it. But it was too late.
I pictured my homecoming, finding my parents gone. Perhaps I had saved Mr. Pipersberg, but endangered my parents! Breathless, hoping against hope, I ran. My parents were home. The relief of seeing them was so great that I did not immediately notice how excited they were. I started to tell them everything, but Papa just numbly shook his head. I knew then that something else had disturbed him. He soon told me what it was. Word had just come about the transport that had taken Arthur away. For eight days the boys had been locked in cattle cars, taken to the Gouvernement, and turned loose in the woods. Then the SS troops had beat and shot them at random. Those who were able to ran away. Thirty-six prisoners were said to have been killed. Someone brought this news to the wife of a man who had escaped.
All But My Life Page 3