by Andrea Simon
“Sala is good. You know her, she is friendly with the entire village,” Anna said. “I don’t know how she does it. I get so angry because if you walk down the street with her, she stops to talk to everyone. It can take an hour to go a quarter of a mile.”
“She should be careful who she talks to nowadays,” Ida said, seemingly forgetting that she had behaved similarly when she took me around Volchin, only we didn’t have time to stop and socialize.
“Try convincing Sala of this.”
“And, do you see the rest of my family?”
“Of course, I’m at your house at least once a week. Your family is fine, Ida. Don’t worry so much.” Anna patted Ida’s hand as if she were the older of the two.
“How can I help but worry?”
“It’s not so bad in Volchin. Who wants to bother with such a tiny village?”
“There are less places to hide there.”
“You always have to think of the worst.” Anna said this with good humor, though I thought it wasn’t a nice thing to say. I admit I was looking for something to dislike about Anna. She was a brunette with a creamy complexion. She was beautiful, I suppose, though not as beautiful as her friend Sala.
“I’m not a complete pessimist,” Ida said, “I know my aunt Masha from New York City, America, will send us money soon. My father is looking for ways . . .”
She left out the rest of the sentence, maybe realizing she had told Anna too much already. Perl warned her over and over that no matter how good a friend is, you should only divulge what is absolutely essential. It’s not that the friend will squeal on you, but she could reveal something innocently. You can’t be too careful. Again that word careful. Ida usually argued with Perl but lately her arguments were tentative and came out like a bad habit.
“Did you get what you needed, Esfir?” Ida asked.
I was so flustered that I said “yes” and ran out the room. When I got downstairs, I realized I had forgotten to take any books.
Twenty-Nine
THE WINTER OF 1940 was one of the coldest. It was becoming more difficult to find wood for the stove than food, which was saying a lot.
It was time for all of us to leave Brest, to go back to our families. We managed to scrounge enough treats, though, for a farewell party, if you could call something we dreaded a “party.”
Everyone contributed. I waited on a bread queue for hours. Perl donated a jar of plum preserves and two boiled potatoes; Ida found two mushy apples she had hidden under sweaters; Franny had traded her gold necklace for four eggs and a small wedge of Swiss cheese; Liba procured a bag of oatmeal and a cup of goat’s milk; and Rachel pilfered an orange from a student’s kitchen table. Mr. Kozak (Mr. Epstein) brought chocolate and shnaps. Perl yelled at him, unconvincingly, for corrupting minors.
Freyde brought the biggest surprise. On the dining room table where everyone displayed their treasures, Freyde plopped down eight blue school booklets and eight unused pencils. She and Yossel had stolen them from school last year when Yossel came into her class to help transport a large project back to Perl’s. Near the coatrack, the supply cabinet had been open and Yossel pointed and nodded. Freyde shook her head; Yossel nodded more vigorously. Freyde must have relented and, she explained, acted as the lookout while her brother stuck the books spread around his waist and tucked into his belt. He had slipped the pencils in his coat pocket.
They had rushed out of school, and Freyde heard the insistent and increasingly loud blare of police sirens. She almost held her arms up in surrender until the cars zipped past and turned the corner. She had to hold onto the wall for support. Yossel put his arm under hers and pulled her along despite her wavering like a drunk.
“I was terrified,” Freyde said. “You can imagine. But after the police were out of sight, I felt a sudden rush of exhilaration, that we got away with our crime. Since then, I hid them in my suitcase.”
There were enough booklets to give one to Mr. Kozak since Yossel had also mysteriously “disappeared.”
It was a Friday night and Perl lit the Shabbes candles. I was shocked about Freyde’s stolen property, but it was followed by a bigger shock. Mr. Kozak wore a yarmulke—probably from the real Mr. Epstein’s belongings—and holding a cup of shnaps substituting for wine, he recited the Kiddush, the Shabbes blessing given before the meal, in Hebrew, which Perl had written out phonetically. No one said a word. Automatically, we rose and stood until he finished. Then he raised his head and his eyes rested a second on each of us, not missing one. Clearing his throat, he said, “Now that I am Mr. Epstein, this is my duty.”
Mr. Kozak-Epstein’s simple declaration caught in my throat and I tried to breathe in my tears, but they were too heavy and I finally gave up and let them pour down wetting the linen napkin on my lap. When I looked up and around, all the girls—including Rachel—were crying.
Perl dabbed her eyes with her sleeve and said, “Let’s eat this feast. Who knows when we’ll be together again.”
Maybe she thought that would make us feel better, but now I was sobbing and pushed back my chair and rushed into the kitchen. I didn’t want everyone to see that I was so immature that I was unable to stop. I composed myself and returned. Without missing a beat for my sudden departure, they continued passing the plates—each item had been placed on a plate by itself to make it seem like we had many courses. I sat down, and Ida said, “Here, Esfir, take the apple. I saved the biggest slice for you.”
There was no big ceremony for our leave-taking. In January, Jews had been forbidden to travel by train without special permission. Arrangements were therefore painstaking and unpredictable at best. Ever resilient, we all departed within twenty-four hours. The twins left first, responding to relatives who came in a wagon unexpectedly in the evening. Rachel vanished in the middle of the night. There was no note, no good-bye. If it was her father who came for her, we didn’t know. I suspected that she left on her own.
The next morning, Ida had planned to get a ride with a Soviet army truck. Since Mendel left, Ida was morose and seemed to care less about matters of her safety. Perl had been horrified and tried to talk her out of it. Ida had spoken to the soldiers on several occasions and testified to their trustworthiness. We didn’t believe her.
Perl scurried about packing and unpacking. One minute she decided an item was a “must,” and another minute, she ruthlessly threw that same object on the floor. Her china was a necessity as were her grandmother’s silver candelabra, her Chinese teapot, her embroidered tablecloth, and a selection of quality clothes that as far as I recalled, she never wore. She had arranged with Mr. Kozak to have these boxed and delivered to an undisclosed location, assured by Mr. Kozak to be invader-proof.
Last week, Perl had made, what she called, a difficult decision to come with me to Kobrin. This meant leaving Mr. Kozak, who as I mentioned before, was Catholic and, as such, was tied to his wife. Not that he planned to go back to Mrs. Kozak, but he knew he could never marry Perl and didn’t want to compromise her reputation. As if anyone cared about such traditions in those days.
Perl once mentioned that Mr. Kozak had grown children, but I never heard him speak about them. So, I suppose, he had family in Brest more closely related than we were. But I don’t think he stayed because of them. As a formerly influential businessman, he maintained secret contacts and had access to hideaways that hopefully would help him ride out the war. No one had to say it, but we all knew that his role as Mr. Epstein wouldn’t last long because being a Jew would eventually destroy him one way or another.
I excused myself when Perl said her good-byes to Mr. Kozak. It was swift and unemotional. Perl continued packing and unpacking, and I left her to her tasks, but I noticed that her body was shaking the way it does when someone is crying.
When it came down to it, Perl didn’t really have a choice. There was no place for her in Mr. Kozak’s world, wherever that would take him. And, when it came down to it, in times of trouble, your blood family was your anchor.
So on a below-freezing morning in late February, Perl, Freyde, Ida, and I trudged in the falling snow to the train station. In another of Mr. Kozak’s magician’s tricks, he had produced train permits for Perl and me. We left Freyde near the station where she expected Yossel to “reappear.” They hoped to hitch a wagon to their family in Bereza.
Ida was supposed to meet the Russians near the ticket area. As Perl and I walked away from her, I turned around and we shyly waved to each other. I can’t explain it, but that wave said so many things to me. It said, “See you soon, I hope.” It said, “Thanks for all the times you supported me.” It said, “I pray for your well-being.” And it said, “I love you.”
I didn’t do what I wanted, which was to rush into Ida’s arms and hug and kiss her, to follow her to Volchin and hide in her attic. I couldn’t afford to indulge in emotions. I was already a wreck and we had a lot to undergo until we arrived safely in Kobrin.
Perl and I found the train and shoved ourselves aboard. Almost all of the seats were occupied. There were many refugees and soldiers. We sat on a long bench along the wall of the coach. Some people sat on their suitcases or bundles. We sat and we sat. The train didn’t move. It was too crowded to get out of the car. If we left for a minute, we would probably lose our seats.
We were afraid. Our papers were in order, but we were Jews and papers meant little. We shared a hunk of challah and dried apricots. The train was cold but heat was generated by the pressed bodies, most of us wearing layers of clothes. My bladder was bulging. Perl said if I had to let go, I should. She said, there was so much rubbish on the floor, including various liquid splotches, no one would notice. But I held it in by squeezing my legs together and daydreaming of being mashed in bed between my sisters.
By the evening, even Perl couldn’t take it. Since we were close to an opened door, the easiest route was to climb over sleeping bodies and bundles camped in the doorway. We decided to go one at a time to save our places and belongings, though I was petrified to be separated from Perl for even a moment. We had rehearsed a story, loaded with fake hysterics, in case we were stopped. I dashed to the station bathroom, relieved myself in a clogged and overflowing toilet, and battled my way back inside the train to our seats. Perl stood ready to sprint.
We slept in snatches, nodding onto each other or the stranger on our other side.
The train stayed at the station all night and most of the next day. Finally it moved. Then it stopped for hours at another station, where we were able to relieve ourselves again and buy a cup of tea and bread from a vendor. While we waited, I daydreamed. I remembered that Ida had told me about the bathrooms at the Tarbut. They had immaculate English-style flushing toilets with long pull chains. I wished I could have seen one.
We made it to Kobrin. It took thirty-five hours to go about thirty miles.
WHEN WE FINALLY got to my house, after the long time it took to shlep through the snow at night, we were so cold and exhausted that we barely greeted my family and flopped down on the nearest bed, which was my parents’. We didn’t take off our coats and slept until the next morning. I awoke and went straight to the outhouse. Then I was ready to say hello.
There were strangers in my house! I didn’t know why this surprised me. People coming and going was so ordinary, you were lucky to still have your bed when you went to sleep at night. The new tenants, or I should say “occupants” because they rarely paid us anything, were a poor Russian couple and their colicky, constantly crying, rather shrieking, baby. They stayed in the living room, which was now off-limits to us. When they needed to use the kitchen or outhouse, they wandered in, never knocking. They weren’t rude; it was almost like they didn’t know they should ask permission for something so basic.
I tried to keep out of their way, though my mother said I should offer to help with the baby to show my friendliness. I didn’t want to, not because I didn’t like babies, which I did, but because I was uncomfortable around them. I knew enough Russian to communicate, but the woman looked sickly and pasty. The husband was short, almost the same height as his wife, and also appeared sickly and pasty. He had a brown beard with rust streaks, and she wore a ripped kerchief around her brown hair. The baby had a flat head with sweat-stuck blond strands and her nose was caked with dried snot. The husband and wife kept tossing the baby to each other. I wondered if this was the reason the baby, a girl named Duscha, was always crying.
So to make my mother happy, I offered to take the baby for a walk. The man and woman, I forget their names, shook their heads. I offered to give the baby milk from my glass, a big sacrifice for me, and this time the mother shook her head so much I thought she was having a seizure.
My family now spoke to each other in Yiddish, not to block the Russians from understanding as much as to maintain our privacy and safety. Their refusal of my help made my mother sad. She hoped it was more about shyness and awkwardness than anti-Semitism.
“Who knows?” my mother whispered to me, as if they secretly understood Yiddish. “Could be they think that since we are Jews, we will contaminate the baby.”
“Well, the baby couldn’t be any worse off.”
This wasn’t the only change in my house. Drora was also listless and depressed. You could have mistaken her for a relative of our new tenants. Her hair was lackluster and spotted with dandruff as if she hadn’t washed it in a long time. She insisted on speaking Russian only, even to us. My mother said Drora was still defending the “poor Bolsheviks.” We realized Drora had to keep up some pretense for her peace of mind so we let her go on.
Rivke was another story. Her rounded body sunk in like a concave vase; she bounced about like a grasshopper, as if she was afraid to stay in one place long enough. I had never seen her display so much energy. My mother encouraged her to go to school every day in case she could find something to eat there, maybe from another student or from the wastebasket. Was this my mother speaking? Was this the woman who wouldn’t take a zloty from a customer after my father died unless she gave more than was required? I was besieged by disorientation. Where was I? Who were these people around me? Had I come to the wrong house?
FORGET ABOUT MY father’s shop. Every Russian wanted a watch. The inventory disappeared overnight. The shop was collectivized and new workers took over. What they did there, my mother didn’t know. She said, by that time, there were almost no watch parts left. Anything valuable, like an antique clock face or pocket watch chain, she had either sold on the black market or hidden; she didn’t want to tell me where in case someone tried to beat it out of me. In a strange way, I think she was relieved to lose the business. The constant worry about buying and selling, much less keeping up with the standards set by my father, was a big burden for her, though she would never admit it.
Instead, my mother worked in a nationalized warehouse that distributed provisions, mostly food, clothing, and household supplies. Drora worked there, too. Though tempted to steal, they were under strict supervision; and if any merchandise was missing from their sector, there were severe penalties. Perl’s application was just accepted for a job at the same warehouse, which seemed to have a shortage of workers.
Drora, like Ida, also tutored Russian to Polish refugees and on occasion was paid with leftover food. My grandfather went from being a bookkeeper in a yeshiva to being a bookkeeper in a shoemakers’ artel, a cooperative association.
One day, Perl had an evening shift and came home in the morning. Drora and my mother had the following shift and returned in the late afternoon with anger on their faces. Each retired to her respective room and slammed the door. Drora wouldn’t let Rivke or me inside. And Perl, who had been sharing the bedroom with my mother, didn’t dare go near their door. Dinnertime came and Perl set whatever we had reserved on the dining room table. She knocked on both doors of the armed camps. My mother came out first, her lips pursed. Drora thumped down the stairs and sat down, scowling like a rejected lover.
Perl broke the ice. “Listen, you two. Whatever it is you are fighting a
bout isn’t worth upsetting the entire family. We need each other now, more than ever, so swallow your bitterness.”
My mother said, “You’re right, Perl. Drora and I had been discussing the Bolsheviks for a change. I don’t know how she can go on finding excuses for their abhorrent behavior. Anyway, I’ve said this to her already.”
“More than once,” Drora said, sarcastically.
“I told you two to stop.” Perl banged her hand on the table. “Shh, we don’t need to alarm the tenants.”
I think it was that remark that loosened the frown lines on both faces.
“I don’t mean to talk you out of all your beliefs, Drora. But there is a reality here.”
“I know, Mother,” she said in Yiddish.
My mother responded with a loving voice. “Darling,” she said, “I just heard from one of the workers who had seen an article in the underground Jewish press.”
“And?” Drora said.
My mother’s voice turned to a whisper, though she continued in Yiddish. “There was a Polish report on the September campaign, including losses inflicted by the Germans and the Soviets. I’m not sure if it’s true, but even if it’s close, it’s frightening.”
Then she lifted a tiny note stuck in her brassiere and read: “About 660,000 soldiers from the Polish Army were imprisoned, one-third captured by your precious Soviets! And about sixty thousand of the total prisoners were Jews, most of whom were murdered.”
She tore the note into bits, admitting how she had written down the statistics at work, how she had disguised the numbers and names in code.
“This doesn’t include the thousands upon thousands of civilians and soldiers murdered outright. And who knows how many Poles and Jews have been, and continue to be, deported,” she said, no notes needed. “By anyone’s calculation, these are tremendous figures and there is nothing in the world that excuses it.”