We heard nothing direct about Arthur. Perhaps in defense, a belief was born in me. “Arthur is living,” I kept saying to myself. “He must be.” But now my parents’ worry suddenly turned to me. If Mr. Pipersberg were not to be found, the Gestapo might look for us. We spent a terrible, anxious night. Something snapped in my mother’s mind. She kept mumbling over and over, “Arthur, Arthur, where are you?” She was beyond fear for herself.
I could not sleep, I could not lie down. I sat at the window of my bedroom and watched night fade into morning. The Gestapo, did not come.
Two weeks passed. Then one day, late in November, the mailman stopped. He delivered a printed card ordering all Jews to report on Monday, December 2, 1939, at six o’clock in the morning, to an armory on Hermann Goering Strasse. Each person was allowed twenty pounds of clothing. All valuable objects, money, and keys to all closets, clearly tagged to indicate to which lock they belonged, should be put on a table in the front hall of each house. Violators of this order would be punished by death.
There it was! We were to leave our home. That well-known silence again engulfed us, broken only later that night when Mama resumed her cry of “Arthur, Arthur!”
In the morning a man stopped by to say that we could sell some of our things. Papa did not want to leave Mama’s side, so he told me to sell everything. Word spread quickly and the people of Bielitz came to our house and to others to buy. They brought carts to our door, dragged the furniture out, and loaded it. Our home was being torn apart and all I could do was to stand by and watch.
One man gathered all our silver and flatware into a bushel basket, added a few crystal bowls, and handed me a couple of dirty, crumpled notes in exchange. I wondered where he had gotten them. Another person picked up a glass from the set which Arthur and I had given our parents on their twentieth wedding anniversary the previous April. It was a liqueur and wine set, beautifully engraved. He held the glass by its slender stem for a moment, then let it fall to the floor. It broke into a hundred pieces.
“I want that set,” he said to me, “but I can’t offer you much since a glass is missing,” and he pointed to the pieces on the floor.
I watched the shelves of the library emptied. Someone took the owl from a bookcase. It was a ceramic bird, claws resting on two books, the Bible and Aristotle. Its eyes were electric bulbs. Arthur had often read by its light. To me the bird had always seemed alive. As a man carried it away, its eyes were glassy and cold.
Someone whisked away the dining-room tablecloth, the one Mama had worked on for over a year. It was all handwork, with a silver fringe.
In place of the familiar paintings, there were light-colored patches on the wall.
The sanctity of our home was gone, the chain of tradition broken, the shrine built by love and affection desecrated … and there I stood with a few pieces of paper money–dirty, crumpled, greasy bills–and a handful of coins. Shame burned in my hand. I closed my eyes and turned to go upstairs and give the money to Papa.
Papa’s arm was heavy in its sling. Mama’s breakdown was complete; finally she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. The day after tomorrow we were to leave our home. What could we do for Mama? She was constantly calling for Arthur.
I had terrible visions of what might have happened to him. Had he died of hunger and thirst in the cattle car? Had they beaten him, or had he run into the forest, only to die of cold? Did a bullet hit him and kill him instantly, or did he have to suffer? Is he in the forest of the East, or in the waters of the San? His clothes are surely cold and wet. Are his eyes open or closed? These pictures kept haunting my mind. Did it really happen to him? If not, why did he not write or send a message? He must be alive, I kept saying to myself, and then I saw his face in the dark, motionless, surrounded by icy water. Mama was calling him again and again. That night I felt so close to death that I wanted it desperately. It seemed an easy solution, a quick way out. We had heard of a family who committed suicide together. I half-wished my parents had suggested it.
I was standing at my window, my forehead against the cold glass. It was late and I hadn’t gone to bed. It seemed almost a luxury to die, to go to sleep and never wake up again. Then I felt Papa’s hand on my shoulder. I didn’t turn. He put his hand on the nape of my neck and turned me forcibly toward him. He looked steadily at me and then answered my thoughts.
“Whatever you are thinking now is wrong. It is cowardly.”
I couldn’t deny it. He lifted my chin up and looked at me firmly again.
“Promise me that no matter what happens you will never do it.”
I couldn’t speak.
“I want your promise now,” he said.
“I promise you, Papa,” and in the years to come, when death seemed the only solution, I remembered that promise as my most sacred vow.
The next morning good news came. We would not have to go to the armory. The transport was postponed. We could stay in our home. But Mama was no better. She slept most of that day and the next.
Chapter 6
SHORTLY BEFORE CHRISTMAS IT SNOWED HARD FOR SEVERAL days. Normally, I would have been out on my skis, sliding over the hills; this year I had not even thought about skis.
Two days before Christmas a thaw set in. The sun shone brightly and the snow melted rapidly. The streets were dirty. In the afternoon a German policeman knocked at the door. His shouting, at first unintelligible, turned out to be an order directing us to move to the basement, where Trude had lived. Papa, Mama, and I hastily started to bundle our things together and move some furniture into the hall.
“Faster, faster,” shouted the policeman in a rasping voice, and Papa, poor Papa, struggled to lift the pieces with his lame arm. Going downstairs, I passed Trude. She was already taking her things upstairs.
“I am glad,” she said, without malice or sarcasm, “that we are having a nice place for Christmas.” She simply stated it as a matter of fact. It seemed the most natural thing to her.
I felt rage rising in me; I might have hit her but Mama was behind me, pushing me down the stairs.
The basement was flooded, the walls were damp, and the electricity had been cut off. Mama went up to the attic and found an old kerosene lamp that hadn’t been used since the First World War. I watched her polish it and clean the chimney with a soft cloth. She then lit the wick. It smoldered but finally burned, smoking a bit. Mama replaced the chimney in its socket, and turned the wick up. The old lamp threw a soft light around the table, toward the mildewed walls, toward a few familiar furnishings. We were in our home still, yet I felt that we were far away.
On Christmas Eve, as on all Christmas Eves as long as I could remember, I went to see Niania. Niania was the only person who had come to see us regularly and who didn’t seem afraid of what the Germans would say or do. Her position in our household was unique. Niania Brenza was an old Austrian, still loyal to the long-dead Emperor Franz Josef. Reflecting the period when our region had been part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, she spoke only German. Niania’s life had been a hard one. She had lost her husband when she was quite young, and had brought up her four children by herself. Her only son, a lawyer, married shortly before World War I, enlisted in the Austrian Army at the outbreak of the war, and was killed in action. He never saw the daughter his wife bore him. Mrs. Brenza’s daughter-in-law had taken a job as housekeeper not too far away from us and Mrs. Brenza had brought up the child, Irma.
Niania often told me about the events that led to her coming to our house. It was in April, 1924, that a fire destroyed the house she lived in, including all her possessions. Niania knew my grandparents slightly and, the day after the fire, came to ask my grandmother for some clothes. She came, she told me, wearing an old postman’s jacket which had belonged to her late husband, the only item of warm clothing that had not been destroyed by the fire. My grandmother had an idea.
“My daughter Helene,” she said, referring to my mother, “is expecting a baby soon; we are looking for someone to take care of it.”
So Niania, then fifty years old, and Irma, age seven, moved into our house. At the outset it was to be only until Mama was stronger but as it turned out Niania stayed in our house for the next thirteen years, until two years before the war.
Once during those years Niania had taken a room a few houses away from us with her daughter-in-law and Irma but for the most part Niania lived with us and Irma grew up in our house.
Niania took care of me from the day I was born. She taught me to sit up, she taught me my first steps and my first word, “Papa,” after that, “Niania.” I called her that always. We all relied on her, we confided in her. She seemed to be in charge of everything. Best of all, she knew so many wonderful stories. It was not until Irma, her grandchild, married that Niania finally left our house for her own, nearby. She was then sixty-three. Every morning in warm weather she waited at her open window as I went to school to toss me an apple or a piece of candy. On cold days she would stand in the doorway, wrapped in the huge brown and green checked shawl on which I had so often fallen asleep in her arms. There she stood, waiting to inspect whether I wore my warm underwear and woolen mittens. And on long winter evenings I would go to see her and sample her delicious potato pancakes. It was then that she would dip into her seemingly inexhaustible stores of exciting, mysterious stories.
Although the Germans had summoned her to the police station and warned her not to enter our house, Niania came and went as before. None of the neighbors reported her, possibly because she was so old or perhaps because they realized how closely our lives were linked. Niania brought us the things Jews couldn’t buy: sugar, jam, sweets, an occasional egg. When we protested that she was depriving herself she would look at me and say,
“The child has to eat, she is growing; my life is almost over.”
That was my Niania, a proud and simple woman; her spirit shone brightly in that world of betrayal.
I went to see Niania on Christmas Eve. Christmas in her house seemed pretty much as it had always been. The tree, the same ornaments, the smell of fresh pine, and little, thoughtfully wrapped presents for us. Only the presents were different. In former years Niania had usually given me books or toys. For Mama she would have some handwork–a crocheted vanity set or embroidered cushion. This year she had woolen mittens and sweets for me, for Mama a glass of jam and a pound of sugar. The gift I took to Niania was very different indeed. Instead of clothing and the usual basket with fruit and wine, this year we had nothing to give but a pale green Chinese vase on which two dragons served as handles. After I had opened her gifts, Niania offered me cookies; they were the same as always but somehow they tasted different.
From her window I could see our garden. Snow was falling again and the garden house seemed to me like a gingerbread house with spun sugar thickly covering the roof.
After Christmas our rations were cut severely and on each ration card was stamped the word JEW. Our rations were less than half the rations of non-Jews. Our coal ration turned out to be even more meager but with only two rooms to heat, and by wearing heavy clothes indoors, we managed to keep warm. With the new year came the order to wear white armbands with a blue star on which the word JEW was inscribed. Shortly thereafter, we were instructed to wear a yellow star with black inscription; the new colors would be more distinguishable against the snow.
Concern and doubt about Arthur never left us and then. just after New Year, a letter came from Gisa, addressed to him. How he had waited for news from her! It said that she and her family were living in Krakow and that they had lost everything. She went on to say that her father was very ill. I replied immediately and informed her that Arthur was no longer at home. A few days later another letter came from her, containing wonderful news; she had heard about Arthur from another source. He was in Russia, and safe. Now we waited eagerly for more letters. We thought that soon she would have direct news and forward a letter from him.
One cold day early in February, Peter, a friend of Arthur’s, arrived from Krakow. Krakow was about eighty kilometers from Bielitz. It was possible at times to obtain a travel permit and Peter had managed it. Gisa had told him to see us and bring us the latest news about Arthur. The reason, he explained, that Arthur had not written directly, was that mail was being held up by the censor. So Arthur had sent news to Gisa by means of someone who had returned from Russian-occupied territory.
Peter stayed for dinner and it was a wonderful evening. Mama and Papa seemed younger and happier, and questioned the poor boy for more and more news. In the end, he probably invented some to make them happier.
When he started to take his leave, I walked up the stairs with him to the door. Outside the icy wind was howling.
I turned my happy face toward him to say good-by, and told him laughingly, “Oh please, tell me just one more thing about Arthur.”
He didn’t answer.
I thought at first that he hadn’t heard me above the howling of the wind, so I repeated my question.
He grasped me by both shoulders, looked into my eyes, and whispered fiercely, “Gisa doesn’t know anything about Arthur. She is trying to make your parents feel better. Oh, why did I tell you! No, please,” he continued, “it isn’t quite so. There are some rumors. There may be a foundation–”
He left me standing out in the snow, dazed. Shattered hopes were worse than no hope at all.
When I returned to the basement, Mama and Papa were talking. They were so happy I decided not to tell them what Peter had told me.
I spent a tense night waiting for morning–waiting to see Niania. Although I had sometimes kept secrets from Papa and Mama, I never kept any from Niania. But when morning came I decided that I was not even going to tell Niania about it. I was tempted to confide in her, yet somehow I could not get myself to do it. The secret about Arthur was mine and mine alone.
I don’t think my silence was due to a noble desire to spare my parents the painful truth. Probably it was the typical behavior of a teen-ager, always willing to dramatize, to play the martyr. The feeling of sparing them disappointment and pain gave me new confidence and strength.
Letters kept coming from Gisa and always they contained indirect news about Arthur. Then, in March, a cablegram came from Mama’s brother Leo, in Istanbul, Turkey. It read: “Got Arthur’s letter. He is well.”
Our joy soared high, but then I remembered that I had written him that we had no news from Arthur, and that we were worried. I somehow felt that he might have made up the cablegram to calm our fears. On the other hand, I felt that he would not take such a grave responsibility upon himself. I tried to enjoy the news but I couldn’t do it fully.
That evening while Mama was busy preparing supper Papa called me to him. “Sit down, Gerda, there is something troubling you. Won’t you tell me what it is?”
“Nothing, nothing, Papa,” I insisted.
He looked at me firmly as if reading an open book. “It is about Arthur,” he said, “and it started the night Peter was here. Now tell me what it is.”
I was at the point of telling him when suddenly, without my knowing why, different words formed on my lips.
“Yes, Papa,” I began, “it started the night when Peter was here.” I spoke slowly, deliberately. “When I heard him talk about Arthur being free from our troubles I couldn’t help but envy him.”
I toyed with my hair as I spoke. “I miss going to school so much and doing all the things I used to. I know that I should be ashamed that I begrudge Arthur his freedom, but I cannot help it.”
“Well, so that’s it.” Papa sighed. “I was afraid that Peter might have told you something he did not tell us.”
I was trembling inwardly but my story had worked wonderfully. I had a rare feeling of pleasure. I felt like an actress in a great scene.
Next morning Papa went up to the attic where he unearthed some textbooks that Mama had used when she attended Austrian schools.
“You were quite right,” he said to me, “in what you told me last night. I should have thou
ght of your schooling before. I intend to teach you all I can.”
We had studied and read Polish in school and I had also studied French and Latin, but my first language was German. I had grown up speaking it, although I had never learned to read and write it. Papa now set out to teach me this part of it.
He proved a fine teacher. I learned far more than I would have at school. When I told my friend Ilse about my studies, she wanted to be included. She came as often as she could and Papa taught both of us. I often felt that up to now I had not really known Papa. In the many months that we worked together he revealed his dreams and his frustrations.
Papa came from a town on the Austro-Hungarian border. His parents had wanted him to become a rabbi. He told me how the sunlight falling into his room at home had distracted him from studying the Talmud and brought forth a longing to see the spring flowers blooming in the meadows.
“I had to get outdoors,” he said. “Can you understand that?”
Finally he had gone to Vienna and worked his way through medical school.
“Medicine brought me closer to life and death,” he reflected. “I loved talking to people, and I wanted to heal their bodies.” Then, as if ashamed of what he had said, he added, “But never underestimate the teachings of the Torah and the wisdom of the Ten Commandments. In them you can find a whole way of life, ethics, and the basis of human actions. They were written thousands of years ago, yet they are the foundations of every law in the world.”
Papa was about to get his degree when the First World War came. He joined the medical branch of the Austrian army and was one of the first to go to the front. He operated and amputated day and night.
“No, medicine was not ideal,” he said. “I couldn’t detach myself from death and suffering. Medicine was not my true vocation after all.
All But My Life Page 4