Karolina's Twins

by Ronald H. Balson

  “Throughout the occupation, my father had been outwardly compliant with the German standing orders, while secretly continuing to meet with his resistance group. It was dangerous to be a dissident. It was a standing invitation to an execution. Any talk of insubordination was punishable by death, and rewards were given to Polish informants. Yet, Polish partisans were passionate people. Do not think all Jews were lambs to the slaughter. There were cells—covert meetings in basements where plans to disrupt the Germans were discussed. My father was a respected army officer and his contributions were valued.

  “In Chrzanów, however, the web of secrecy was too porous. Ultimately, the Germans, with their slinking intelligence units and frightened collaborators, uncovered groups of dissenters and the Nazis quickly apprehended them, one by one. Many times they were taken to the town square and publicly hanged from wooden gallows. Other times they were sent away to unknown destinations. My father had friends in town, Jews and non-Jews alike. And so, when his time came, he received a warning note—the Nazis were on their way to pick him up.

  “It was early afternoon. March 12, 1941—the precise date has been permanently etched in my memory. My father rushed into the house, pulled me aside and said, ‘I’ve been told the Germans will be here later today. They’re coming here to question me. They may take me down to headquarters and then let me go. In a worst-case scenario, they may not let me come home. I could be sent to a prison camp. You should be prepared for that.’

  “‘Why?’ I said. Suddenly I was shaking, my lips were quivering, my eyes were starting to fill. ‘Why would they take you?’

  “‘Rumor? Innuendo? A traitor among us? I don’t believe they have any evidence of wrongdoing, but that’s never stopped the Nazis. I don’t think they’ll bother the rest of our family, but they might. They may want to take us all in for questioning. Just remember, you don’t know anything and you never saw anybody.’

  “‘Daddy,’ I cried.

  “‘Lena, they may just be coming to tell us that we have to move from our house. They’re telling people all over Chrzanów. I don’t know. No one knows. That’s why everyone’s constantly afraid, because they’re unpredictable. Like a coiled snake.’

  “He put his hands on my shoulders. ‘They might just want to relocate our family. But I can’t be sure. It could be worse.’ He handed me an envelope full of money. ‘You’re young and strong and healthy. When they come, I don’t want you anywhere near us. Go upstairs into the attic and shut the trapdoor. Do not use the ladder. Do not make a sound. If they’re here to take the family, you stay up there. Even if they shout. Do not come down until you’re sure it’s safe. Maybe late at night. Maybe not even until tomorrow.

  “‘They know who’s in our family and they might search for you. When it’s safe to come down, go directly to the Tarnowskis’ farm, out Slaska Street, west of town. About ten kilometers. I’ve made arrangements with the Tarnowskis. They’ll take you in and hide you.’”

  “So, your father thought the whole family might be arrested and sent to a camp?” Catherine said.

  “Or worse. But by 1941, it was also possible for me to get sent to a labor camp, independent of my father’s activities. By then, the Nazis had been demanding young men and women to send to slave labor camps. There were whole industries staffed by Jewish slave labor. Being seventeen, I was old enough to be chosen.

  “Demands for Jewish workers were generally filled through the Judenrat. We were required to check the board every day. If the Judenrat posted your name for work, you had to appear at the given time and place, most often the town square, first thing in the morning. If you didn’t show up, the Nazis would search for you. If they found you, they’d kill you. Then they’d take five other members of your family. If they didn’t find you, they’d grab twenty other people at random. There was no mercy. No pleading.

  “A few weeks before, the Nazis had rolled through town, screaming through their megaphones, ‘Alle Juden auf den Marktplatz. Schnell. Macht schnell.’ Thousands of us, men, women and children, gathered in the rain in the market square. In the middle, wooden gallows had been constructed. Four Jewish men stood on stools, yarmulkes on their heads, ropes around their necks, their hands tied behind their backs, waiting to die. They softly chanted the Shema, which was fine with the Nazis. People that chanted the Shema died, and everyone should know that it doesn’t matter what you chant, you will still die. They stood that way for two hours. Then an SS commandant strode to the center and raised his megaphone.

  “‘These men have been tried and convicted of willfully violating the law.’ He turned to the men and pointed. ‘This one gave money to a Polish woman to buy him fruit in blatant violation of the ration laws. Verboten! This one was found listening to a radio hidden in his basement. Verboten! This one was convicted of plotting insurrection against the Reich. This one refused to report for work.’

  “Then he turned to face the crowd. ‘Do not think our rules are mere suggestions. They are mandatory! They are to be obeyed without question. We told you violations would be dealt with harshly. Now you will all witness what happens when you choose to violate the law.’ He raised his arm and walked away. One by one, the stools were kicked out from under the prisoners.”

  “And you saw it happen?” Liam said.

  Lena nodded. “That, I did. And heard it. And felt it.”

  “How awful,” Catherine said, and placed her hand over her mouth.

  “Seven more were hung in the same fashion in 1942. Although I have not seen it, a monument to the seven martyrs has now been erected in Chrzanów.

  “When my father gave me my instructions to hide in the attic and go to the Tarnowskis, I protested and I cried. I didn’t want my family going anywhere without me. I didn’t know the Tarnowskis. I’d seen them in town, but only on occasion. Mr. Tarnowski was a gruff old man. He frightened me. They were not Jewish, nor did they have any young children. I knew that the store had carried their account for months when they couldn’t pay. I could well imagine that this was their way of paying my father for their overdue loan, but I was wrong. I later learned that it wasn’t a monetary obligation to them. They were Righteous Gentiles, and they made that offer to my father out of the goodness of their hearts.

  “‘What about Milosz?’ I said to my father. ‘Will he stay with me in the attic?’

  “He shook his head. ‘No.’

  “‘I can take care of him,’ I protested. ‘He can hide with me.’ My father brushed away a tear, cupped my face and kissed me on the forehead. ‘My angel, always looking out for your little brother. But Milosz cannot climb up into the attic and he cannot make his way to the Tarnowskis. He will stay with your mother.’

  “‘I can lift him into the attic, I can push his Maserati to the Tarnowskis. I’m strong. We can make it, I promise.’

  “My father’s eyes glistened and he hugged me so firmly I thought he’d squeeze the air out of me. ‘I am so blessed to have such a wonderful family. Milosz cannot make it in or out of the attic, and you cannot push his Maserati into the countryside. It would only mean that the two of you would be caught.’

  “He smiled so gently. ‘It may be that the Germans only want to talk to me. They may not disturb your mother or Milosz. But if they do, if they decide to take them somewhere, I have made arrangements for you to be safe. Hide. Then go to the Tarnowskis, and may God be with you.’

  “No sooner had he finished his sentence than we heard the squeal of tires outside the house. ‘Go!’ he commanded, and I scrambled into the attic.”

  THREE

  LIKE MULTIPLE BLOWS OF a hammer, a rifle stock pounded on the front door, reverberating throughout my house. I shivered in the seclusion of the attic while I heard repeated shouts of ‘Öffnen Sie die Tür,’ meaning ‘Open the door!’ My father called out, ‘Just a minute, I’m coming, I’m coming, don’t break my door.’

  “The banging didn’t stop, and neither did the shouts. Finally, I heard the door open and the sound of jackboots clack
ing across the floor of the foyer. A stern command followed: ‘Herr Scheinman, folgen Sie uns,’ meaning, ‘You are to come with us.’ ‘Why?’ my father answered. ‘What do you want of me?’

  “‘Mitkomen!’ the German snapped, ‘Come along.’ There was a pause, and then my mother said, ‘He’s an officer. He fought in the war. He fought for you. Veterans are not supposed to be arrested. Show them your medals, Jacob.’

  “‘We know who he is, madam.’

  “Something was said that I didn’t hear, and then, ‘All right, all right, I’ll come. Hannah, you wait here. I’ll be home in a little while.’

  “‘Nein. Nein. Alle,’ the German said. ‘All of you.’ My father replied, ‘What do you want with my family? I’m the one you want to question. There’s no need for them to come.’

  “‘Ich sagte, Alle!’ the German shouted. ‘I said, all of you! I have my orders. You are being relocated.’

  “‘But our things,’ my mother said. ‘I need to pack them. You didn’t give us any notice. The other families got at least a week’s notice.’

  “There was silence again. Then I heard my mother. ‘No, please, sir. Please give me a few minutes to gather some clothes and a few items.’

  “‘You may come back, maybe tomorrow,’ he answered slowly.

  “‘Let’s be honest,’ my father said. ‘You’re not going to let us come back here. Let us pack our things.’

  “‘Das ist genug—that’s enough!’ he said. ‘Wir gehen—we’re going.’

  “Silence again. Then I heard my mother cry. ‘Stop. You’re hurting my arm.’

  “‘Leave her alone,’ my father said, and I heard him grunt as he must have been punched or knocked to the floor. And then there was another plea from my mother. ‘Stop. He needs his wheelchair. He cannot walk.’

  “‘Then he will have to crawl,’ the German said. ‘We’re going and there is no room for a wheelchair.”

  “‘She told you he can’t walk,’ my father said angrily. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  “Milosz cried out, and I heard my mother scream, ‘Stop pulling on him! He’s a child.’

  “‘I told you, no chair. He will walk or he will die.’

  “‘I’ll carry him, I’ll carry him. Let him be,’ my father said. ‘Don’t cry, my little Milosz.’

  “‘Where is the rest of your family? The girl?’

  “‘Not here. My daughter’s at school in Lublin. She doesn’t live here.’

  “Ha! Do you Jews ever tell the truth? All the Jewish schools and all the high schools are closed.’ He then barked commands to others, instructing them to search the house. I heard soldiers walking and opening doors. I heard their boots on the stairs and I was sure they were coming for me. They would find me and pull me from the attic and God knows what they’d do to me for hiding. I sat very still, breathing as shallowly as possible. They opened the closet door and rustled through the clothing, barely two feet below me. And then they moved on. ‘Nichts,’ they finally reported. ‘Hier ist niemand—there’s nobody here.’

  “The whole scene seemed to take an eternity, but in minutes they were all gone—the Germans, my mother, my father and Milosz.” Lena took an embroidered handkerchief from her purse and blotted her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” Catherine said.

  Lena nodded. ‘It was a long time ago, but still…”

  “They were right below you, searching the closet, and they didn’t see the attic door?” Liam said.

  “Our attic was very small, not a real attic, just a space above the second floor, so small you couldn’t stand erect. It didn’t have a trapdoor, just a three-foot panel in the ceiling of my mother’s closet. Just a piece of painted plywood you could push up and move aside. Unless you knew the opening was there, you wouldn’t guess there was an attic. Certainly not one that could accommodate a person. And it was further hidden by my mother’s hatboxes that sat on the top shelf, blocking the panel.”

  “How did you get up there without a ladder?” Liam said.

  “There were closet shelves that held her shoes and handbags. It was easy—hang onto the rod and climb up the shelves. I’d done it many times. For a child, it was a ladder to a secret hiding place.

  “By nightfall my family had not returned and I suspected my father was right, they would not be coming back. Of course, I didn’t know what had happened to them and I tried to keep a positive attitude. I think if I’d allowed myself to believe they’d been sent away or killed, I would have panicked. I held fast to the belief that we’d all be reunited soon. That was the only way I could keep it all together.

  “I remember that first night alone. I curled up, but I couldn’t sleep. I cried most of the night. I was so frightened of being left alone, frightened of the men who took my family, and frightened of an uncertain future. In the morning, I lay there listening to the silence. Eerie, for my house was never without sounds. Simple everyday sounds—footsteps in the hall, a pot on the stove, a shower running, Milosz practicing his scales, the creak of a door—the sounds of a house that was alive. But this day, except for the wind rattling the windows and a squirrel on the roof, the house was dead quiet.

  “I was hungry and thirsty, but afraid to come down. I decided to wait until it was dark again. It was March and the sun didn’t set until after six. By then I was starving and I had to use the bathroom. I quietly removed the attic panel and, in my bare feet, lowered myself to the closet floor.

  “No lights had been left on and the house was pitch black. I walked down the stairs, my back against the staircase wall so I wouldn’t be seen through the front window. I stopped first in the bathroom and then headed to the kitchen. The living room shades were up and I was scared that someone outside would see me, so I crawled through the room on my hands and knees.

  “In the middle of the floor I came upon Milosz’s Maserati. It was bent and broken, one of those bastards must have stomped on it. One of Milosz’s shoes lay on the floor. That hit me like a punch in the stomach. They had yanked him out of the house with only one shoe. Poor little, gentle Milosz. I sat there and cried. Why would people do this?” She looked at Catherine. “Seventy years and I still don’t have an answer.”

  “No one does,” Catherine said.

  “I wanted so badly to run out the door and catch up to my family, wherever they were. But…” Lena shrugged and shook her head. She wiped away a tear. “Finally, I crawled into the kitchen and found a piece of leftover chicken and some milk in the refrigerator. I sat on the floor and ate my dinner. Actually, I wolfed it all down because I was deathly afraid that someone would walk in at any minute. Then I packed some food and a jar filled with milk, put them in a bag and brought them up to the attic, like a squirrel hoarding acorns.

  “There were no windows in my attic, but there was a tiny aperture, a split in the wood, maybe a half-inch, just below the very top. I could see the moon for a few minutes each night. With my eye up against the seam, I could see the stars. I talked to the stars. I asked them where my family was. I asked them when I should try to make my way to the Tarnowskis.” Lena sat back and smiled. “They never gave me very good advice.

  “I ventured back down the next night and the nights after that. I grew bolder. I no longer crawled. I stopped caring whether anyone could hear the toilet flush, even though I’d only flush in the middle of the night.”

  “You didn’t go directly to the Tarnowskis?” Catherine said. “I thought you were instructed to go directly there.”

  “I was, but I was more frightened of leaving than I was of staying put. Things were settling into a routine. I began to think that maybe I would be safer just living in the attic until the war was over and my parents came home.

  “The attic became my little corner of the world. I decorated it. I brought up sheets, a pillow and a coverlet. Two dolls I had owned since I was five sat by my pillow. With a candle, I would read my favorite books. It’s a funny thing—at first the loneliness is insufferable, but after a while, you find th
at your mind is very good company. Your thoughts become conversations. My solitary existence became manageable. Even enjoyable at times.”

  “That didn’t sound like a workable solution,” Catherine said. “Sooner or later you would have to come out.”

  “Of course. But I was seventeen. And I missed Karolina. I thought about her a lot. What if she came by the house, how would I know? I certainly couldn’t answer the door. I imagined the two of us getting together somehow and hiding from the Germans. I contrived scenarios. The two of us could run away, make it into the countryside. Find our way down to the mountains.” Lena shrugged. “I had a lot of time to think.”

  “By the end of the week, I ran out of food. I had already run out of milk. I had water, I could do without milk. But food? That was another story. Other than a few cans of pickled preserves, there was nothing left in the house. I had devoured the contents of the refrigerator, the cupboards, the boxes of cereal and all the canned goods. There was no avoiding the obvious—I would have to leave for the Tarnowskis or go to the store.

  “I conferred with the stars that night. The grocery stores were open only during the day and walking the streets in broad daylight was dangerous for me. What time would be best? Should I walk the streets when they were busy? Would I be invisible in a crowd? Or is it better when fewer people are on the street? Would there be less chance of recognition?

  “I wondered, since the Nazis came for my family, have they come for others as well? What remains of the Jews in our neighborhood? Have they come for Karolina? Are the Germans watching my house? Patrolling? They had laughed when my father said I was in Lublin. Are they now looking for me? Am I better off abandoning my safe hiding place and making a mad dash for the Tarnowskis?

  “I struggled with those questions all night and decided the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t. I would stay and replenish the pantry. My father had given me money, so he must have intended it to be used. I weighed the options and decided the risk of a short walk was preferable to moving in with the Tarnowskis. I was comfortable in my little corner of the world. Just me and the stars. I could wait it out. Wait for my family to return, wait for something better to happen, wait for … I didn’t know what. Putting off the decision seemed more agreeable than placing myself at the sufferance of total strangers.”