by Andrea Simon
“Esfir, why do you ask?”
“You seem different; I mean, quiet. That’s all.”
“Oh, Esfir, it’s not you, please don’t think so. Nothing will ever change between us.”
This was all I needed to hear. It was sickening what she told me. Ania’s uncle, Father Janusz, had been taken in the middle of the night and imprisoned. Later he was shot. Ania’s oldest brother, Erek, the one I admired at the soccer stadium, had joined the Polish army and was imprisoned. Her next oldest brother, also a soldier, was missing in action. Nobody was safe.
After this admission, Ania and I didn’t talk about our families, though a P could have been branded on her forehead as a J could have been seared onto mine. We still held hands when we walked to school, unconsciously dressing as alike as possible.
Yet, most of us thought that the Soviets were more interested in occupying our land than changing our lives. Businesses were allowed to run and people continued to practice their religions as before.
TROUBLE INTENSIFIED WHEN our area, already overflowing with refugees from western Poland, became inundated with immigrants from the East—Soviet officers, civil servants, commissioners, the police, along with their families. Some were placed in positions that had been involuntarily vacated by Poles. Others found little or no work.
All these newcomers needed a place to live.
We were surprised by the Russian émigrés. They, like the Soviet soldiers, looked poor and downtrodden. Some women wore rags wrapped around their feet; they carried makeshift suitcases and bundles of dirty clothes. Often they pushed themselves into one mass, walking with dazed expressions. Later, we heard from neighbors who had to vacate their homes for the Russians, that these interlopers often didn’t comprehend the notion of privacy or luxury.
Suddenly, the Soviets became our evictors: seizing homes, moving people to already crowded places, imposing rules, such as each room should accommodate at least two people. There seemed to be no order to these restrictions. We never knew who would be kicked out and to where.
At Perl’s we were safe, for the moment. Already, we had two girls to a room and Mr. Kozak officially moved into Perl’s bedroom. She invited Yossel and his friend to share Mr. Kozak’s former main floor room.
Though Mr. Kozak had to keep a low profile, he was dealing behind the scenes. He had saved a lot of money and still maintained connections. I suspected that he had paid a hefty sum to keep Perl’s house from becoming a Soviet enclave and for the privilege of living with her.
New rules emerged not only regarding our living conditions but our belongings. We were allowed nothing in excess. If we had more than one change of clothing and underwear, we hid them underneath the linen in the attic chest. Occasionally, gangs burst into homes to search for anything they found that exceeded the required limit. We heard they took these goods and exported them to Russia.
Perl said we had to call Mr. Kozak by another name, Mr. Epstein, pretending he was her husband because of the anti-Polish measures. The Soviets, like the Germans before them, had been arresting Poles in great number and deporting them to the “new” Poland. We prayed no one would ask him for papers, or discover that Perl’s real husband was dead. This was the only time I could think of that a Pole pretended to be a Jew for safety reasons. And now, we Jews, instead of standing with the Belorussians against the Poles, felt a new protective kinship toward our Polish neighbors.
My mother phoned Perl at the post office and expressed her concern about Drora who still could not admit to anything wrong with the Soviets. When my sister wasn’t at a meeting, she was handing out Communist leaflets on the street. She flirted outwardly with Russian soldiers. I couldn’t believe this was my shy, bookish sister. Like Freyde, politics was transforming her into a bolder, more feminine person.
The love of everything Soviet began to quickly wane, even for diehards like Drora.
Twenty-Eight
PERL, WHO HAD accepted most changes (except for the loss of Sonia) with good humor, even enjoying the new tenants, was beginning to shout unexpectedly about her valuables, often mumbling to herself. Mr. Kozak, I mean, Mr. Epstein, kept warning her to keep quiet or express her thoughts to him privately. She was able to relinquish almost anything in her house, but when it came to her Dresden china, she put her foot down. She wrapped each plate, each cup, each saucer, gently with newspapers and lay them in a small crate. Then she placed a layer of cotton bunting, followed by a thin board to protect the china. On top, she lined apples, neatly in rows, and stashed the box in a corner of the attic. Her logic was that if anyone discovered the crate and opened it, they wouldn’t be interested because apples were plentiful all over our territories. That was the trick, she said, “Find something that nobody wants and camouflage your valuables in an obvious place.”
Easy for Perl, maybe, but I couldn’t figure out where to hide my journals and Miriam, my most precious valuables. I reasoned that nobody would want my journals, with every space taken by writing and drawings, but Miriam was a different story. Though Ida assured me that Soviet children were probably not allowed to have something as frivolous as a doll, I knew Miriam would be an exception, especially on the black market. So my new preoccupation was finding a place for my doll, not so distant a location that I couldn’t get to her if I needed. This spot changed frequently, from between blankets in the linen closet, to under a plank in the outhouse, to being wrapped in sweaters and placed in a deeply dug hole in Perl’s garden. Each hiding place lasted for a few days until I was convinced that place was ripe for discovery.
Whatever plans we had to go home for the New Year’s celebrations (formerly our Chanukah or Christmas vacation) were cancelled. Staying put was the order of the day.
By the beginning of the new year, 1940, replace was the word we heard the most. The Russian ruble replaced the Polish zloty, and Russian and Belorussian became our official languages.
IN LATE JANUARY, we had an unexpected visitor. After midnight, I heard pinging. At first, I thought Ida was whistling in her sleep. Then she awoke and asked if I had heard something. There was another and another ping. We traced the noise outdoors, and Ida pulled the curtain back and saw a dark figure waving frantically. She opened the window and stuck out her head.
“Ida, Ida,” the man called.
“Mendel, is that you?”
“Yes, Ida, shush, let me in, please.”
Without closing the window, Ida grabbed a shawl and ran out the room. I heard her rushing down the stairs and the opening and closing of the front door and loud talk and then softer. They must have moved to the kitchen because the voices disappeared, and I could see the light shine on the snow outside the door from my window.
I didn’t know what to think or if I had been thinking at all. I felt nauseous and dizzy, freezing and sweaty, heart palpitations and shortness of breath. Anything physical there was, I had at once. Mendel had never come here at night, alone. There must be something terrible happening.
I had to find out. The rest is very embarrassing to admit. Hugging the banister, I snuck down the stairs. I crept close to the kitchen’s swinging door, which naturally opened slightly. It was enough for me to see a flash of action every now and then and enough to hear what they said.
The first thing I saw was Mendel and Ida pressed together, kissing. Mendel was moving his arms up and down Ida’s back, cupping her behind. “Oh Ida,” he moaned. “I want you so.” As quickly as they disappeared from sight, they returned. There was a furiosity to their movements; I caught Mendel’s hands pulling up Ida’s nightgown and I waited for Ida to protest, but all I heard were shuffling and muffled groans. Finally, Ida, said, “No, Mendel, not here.”
I backed away then, afraid they were going to come through the door at any second. I stopped by the staircase when Mendel’s voice changed from caressing to imploring, going from low incomprehensible sounds to louder strings of words. He said, “You have to come, you have to.”
“But, Mendel.”
�
�Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of everything.”
“What do you mean?” Ida asked in a strange voice.
“I made secret arrangements to get to Vilnius.”
“Vilna?”
“Yes, in Lithuania, where everyone goes to get to Palestine. It’s the only way, believe me.”
“But it’s so dangerous. I’ve heard of those who’ve been caught by the secret police and sent to Siberia.”
“Don’t worry,” Mendel said again, though, with less conviction. “I have connections—and a plan.”
The couple’s voices increased and seemed nearer to the door. Quickly, I took the stairs, two at a time, snuck into my room, and leaned on my door, still trying to listen. Their voices rose and disappeared. I crawled into bed, panting. I didn’t know if I was more disgusted with myself for spying or anxious about Ida. Should I wake Perl and tell her that Ida was on her way to Lithuania? Since I still heard sounds, I decided to wait it out.
It seemed like hours before Ida returned. She closed our door and turned on the light. Her hair was dislodged from her braids, her eyes red and moist. She was shivering uncontrollably; her teeth were chattering. The window was still open; I closed it, scanning for any sign of Mendel. All I saw was the barren oak tree, icicles extending from branches like translucent mutations.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Oh, Esfir, I just don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mendel wants me to go with him, leave the country. I couldn’t give him an answer, either ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ I just couldn’t make such an important on-the-spot decision.”
“Go alone with Mendel?” I asked.
“Yes, but how can I leave my family? If the police ever caught me, they’d kill them. How could I take such a risk?” Ida became hysterical, shaking and sobbing.
Then, she seemed to lose her speech. “He . . . he . . .”
“He, who, you mean Mendel?”
Trying to coax out her words, I spoke to her as to a child. “Ida, what is it that you want to say? Please, try.”
Ida gave me a long look as if she were weighing the benefits of unburdening to me. The tautness around her mouth relaxed as if she suddenly realized that at ten, I was no longer that little, naïve seven year old, feverish with idolatry.
“What have I done?” she choked out through spasms. “By not saying ‘yes,’ I may as well have said, ‘no.’ ”
“You did the wisest thing you could,” I said.
“No, Esfir. You don’t understand. I may never see Mendel again.”
“You will, Ida. You will.”
“No I won’t. I just know it. I’m a coward. I said that I wouldn’t risk my family, but I’m also too scared. I don’t want to get sent to prison, to Siberia, to die of hunger or worse.”
“Nobody wants that, Ida. This is normal.”
“But, Esfir,” she cried, “you don’t know this, but Mendel and I are in love. It’s a secret, but I know you won’t tell anyone. He said as soon as we could, we’d get married. Oh, Esfir, I think I just lost my one chance for true happiness.”
I reminded Ida that she had been a Shakespearean actress, that she had a tendency to be dramatic, to see life in extremes. “There is no reason to think you won’t see Mendel again,” I said in a timid voice. “The Russians can’t continue to punish and punish. Eventually, we’ll gather our strength and fight back. And, Mendel will be at the forefront, waving his own flag.”
Where I got the words to answer, I don’t know. I tried to sound like I knew what I was saying, but I had no idea who the “we” were who would be fighting back; and if the “we” was “us,” I had no idea on the “how” and the “where.” I knew Mendel had ties to the resistance movement, as well as the Zionists, the two often overlapping. He had a burning and yearning personality.
Maybe I had said the wrong thing to Ida. She was progressive, too. But, she didn’t believe that the prince was going to save her. She would make her own fate.That is why America attracted her; there, she could be herself. But this time, this night, she didn’t seem like a woman almost turning eighteen, but like a little girl who needed to believe in fairy tales.
For years, I had been hearing that we Jews should stay here in Poland, trek further east into Russia, emigrate to Palestine, even flee to Madagascar. Now it was Lithuania. All I wanted to do was go to a safe and quiet place with Miriam; it could even be the next street.
Something was changing in me. I realized that Ida was also much more than this saintly wonder of my construction. She was a young woman, with real feelings of love and hope. I didn’t understand it all yet, how could I? Now I realize the meaning of something my mother once said: “The older we become, the more the gap between ages shrinks.”
RUSSIFICATION WAS IN full swing. Private property was prohibited. Trade between city residents and peasants was halted. Food became more and more scarce. We waited in long lines for up to ten hours for a piece of bread.
The Soviets had committees and others in “cells” whose jobs were to spy on people, to make them afraid to say or do anything that could be interpreted as anti-Soviet. We were searched at random. With the arresting, killing, and deporting of huge numbers of people, the Soviet Union was trying to shift the population, to clear out all the intellectuals, the educated, civil servants, the military, and others useful or capable of independent thought. They had the perfect role model: Nazi Germany.
Special evening classes were held for training in Communist doctrine. Stores and markets were transformed into military facilities. Local hospitals shut down and government ones expanded. Private medical practice was prohibited and most lawyers were disbarred. Cinemas and theaters were nationalized. Posters of Lenin and Stalin were plastered everywhere. Loudspeakers placed around town played only Russian songs and propaganda.
The Soviets were training us into a nation of puppets.
We wore Russian-made clothes. Everyone spoke or was learning Russian. The Soviets, our saviors, turned into enemies. Perl said she wasn’t surprised. She had a long memory and it went way back to the Russian pogroms of her childhood. She said, “There is no coincidence that the word pogrom is Russian for “to wreak havoc.”
I had been complaining less about my school life. I had been getting used to it. And I had a special soft spot for my first teacher here, Miss Petra. All that was short-lived. Overnight, it seemed, sometime between the old year and the new, Miss Petra had disappeared and Comrade Maximov, who seemed to know nothing about teaching children, took her place. Religion, Polish history and literature, and Latin and Greek were no longer our subjects. Doctrines of Marx and Stalin were interspersed into unrelated subjects. All my favorite books were removed from libraries and bookshops. At night, we had to attend Communist lectures and “debates,” receiving leaflets about barbaric nations and the need to suspect anyone who didn’t adhere to superior Soviet principles.
I shouldn’t have been surprised that the Soviets frowned on Zionist groups. The Tarbut girls and their friends began to hide Zionist literature and to meet in secret. No one should dream of going to Palestine, not when they were supposed to be good Russian subjects!
By then, the Tarbut school system was effectively over. The study of the Hebrew language and literature had been prohibited; Yiddish was declared the language of instruction for all subjects in Hebrew-speaking schools. Then the curricula was revamped. Russian teachers were imported. Soon the study of the Bible was prohibited, even when translated into Yiddish. Textbooks were replaced with those from Russia. Religious holidays were cancelled; national ones were established. And the final blow: a Russian school had replaced the Tarbut; Christian students replaced the Jews.
Despite all this, our Tarbut girls remained in Brest. Travel was difficult. They still held out hope that some governmental bureaucrat would provide a solution for former Tarbut students. Coming from smaller towns or villages, the girls also reasoned that they would be able to earn more money in Bre
st.
Free classes in arithmetic and Russian were available to the public; however, they were normally too crowded or inconveniently located. Being proficient in Russian, Ida tutored several students, especially among the Polish refugees. Most could pay little; some gave her food.
As for the other Tarbut girls, Rachel also tutored Russian, although her grasp was very limited. She hoped she could fake it enough to get by. Freyde obtained a position in a food collective; the twins got jobs as clerks in the local government service.
Unlike Mendel who “disappeared,” some Zionist youth leaders voluntarily returned after months in Russia and Lithuania. Instead of focusing on those training for aliyah, they established kibbutz groups, underground schools, and clandestine presses. These activities gave the girls some hope, especially Ida.
In early February, Ida had a visit from a Volchin girl, Anna Gagarina, a classmate of Sala, Ida’s middle sister. Since Anna was a Belorussian, it may have been easier for her to travel than for a Pole or a Jew. Anna was in Brest for some health reason. I do recall that she had to meet her father somewhere nearby. He had a horse and wagon. In those days, you didn’t ask too many questions of people even if you knew them.
There wasn’t too much to offer Anna except tea. Ida was embarrassed and put a cookie on Anna’s saucer. Ida had been saving that cookie for a “rainy day,” and as far as I could see, the sun was shining.
The girls went up to our room for privacy. After ten minutes, I couldn’t stand it anymore and decided to invent an excuse to go to the room. I was becoming an expert in sneaking around Ida’s private life.
A brainstorm: I needed my books for homework. Who would suspect such a simple thing? The door was ajar and I snuck in and said, “Oh sorry to interrupt, I’ll only be a minute. I have to get my schoolbooks.”
I fussed around the stack of books, taking one book off at a time and making another stack. Ida didn’t notice what I was doing.