The Hands of War

by Marione Ingram

  I was not as thorough as he had been, but I had no difficulty touching him and I was not repelled by his faintly musty smell. The black and silver hairs that covered his jaws and chin felt like the shredded wheat that was shipped in little boxes from Battle Creek, Michigan, for our breakfast tables. I lingered a bit on his large ears, lightly passed over his nose and eyes, and finished by slightly dislodging the round cap of embroidered felt that nestled in slightly damp curls on the top of his head.

  “Excuse me!” I said in Hebrew. His smile widened, revealing one or two shiny gold teeth.

  “I can tell that you’re an intelligent young girl,” he said, readjusting his yarmulke, “and now that we have been formally introduced I hope that we will be good friends.”

  I looked at his eyes and tears formed in mine but I didn’t feel the urge to retreat. Instead, I put my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. In time I became fluent in Hebrew and he became my first male confidant. I wouldn’t ask his advice directly but would tell him as dispassionately as possible about people or events that bothered me. He would relate this to something that had happened in his past or something he had read or heard about and then would ask what I thought about it. If he didn’t agree with my analysis he would ask further questions, finishing with an observation or a quote from the Torah that told me he understood my position but thought it deserved further consideration. I was amazed to find that he didn’t hate the Nazis and their collaborators half as much as I did.

  He told me that even civilized people may behave badly if they believe they have been treated unjustly.

  I once ventured the opinion that Jews might believe in justice but justice didn’t believe in us.

  “You’re right that our beliefs may generate hostility,” he replied, “but we must strive for justice even when this inflames our own people. This is our conviction, our faith.”

  Looking at Dr. Liebewitz and marveling at his resistance to the Nazis I felt ashamed that I had rudely questioned the basis for his belief, but this didn’t stop me from challenging pieties by him or anyone else at the school. The notion that Jews were “the chosen” people really put me off and would have, I think, even if the murder of millions had not been so fresh. After so much unchecked slaughter, it was impossible for me to believe that the all-powerful God of Jews and Christians was anything but a myth.

  Despite my religious qualms, I enjoyed my Hebrew lessons and became Dr. Liebewitz’s star pupil. Except for math, I enjoyed my other studies as well and various extracurricular activities such as music, drawing, and dancing. And I greatly appreciated access to a small but well-stocked library. I even enjoyed one sport, soccer, and believed I was the best goalie in school. Like most of the children at the school I was outwardly calm during waking hours and able to laugh and play and conceal my rage. But there were some who were more easily upset than the rest of us and a few who experienced serious difficulty controlling their emotions. And then there was Uri.

  * * *

  Uri came to the school in the middle of a term, which was not unusual since the process of sorting out refugee children continued for years. What was exceptional was his refusal to communicate with anyone about anything, which naturally sparked gruesome speculation as to what he must have experienced. Although the adults wouldn’t discuss this with us—they just said to “act natural” around him—a consensus developed among the students that Uri must have seen his parents murdered or been made to work as one of the camp commandos who removed the dead from gas chambers and carted them to the crematoriums. When I asked Sonia if either theory was correct, she confided that she didn’t know any more than we did.

  The first time I saw Uri—I didn’t “meet” him since he refused to acknowledge my greetings or even look my way—I concluded that he probably hadn’t told anyone his story. He was several years older than I was—I couldn’t tell how many—and taller, with a crooked nose, high cheekbones and large eyes whose corners seemed to be pulled back toward his ears, showing a lot of white. His stiff, straight hair looked like it had never been combed or brushed, but he frequently ran his fingers through it. Although he stared intently at everyone and everything, he refused to respond to questions by as much as a nod. By force of will he created an invisible perimeter that others couldn’t cross.

  After Uri had been at Blankenese for a few weeks, I told him that I was being taught Hebrew by a man who had been blinded by the Nazis and that he wished Uri would visit him. Uri didn’t respond the first two or three times I suggested this, but eventually he followed me to Dr. Liebewitz’s study and allowed the professor to examine his head and torso with his fingertips. Even in the dim light I could see that Uri trembled as he was being examined. After that, however, he served silently as Dr. Liebewitz’s helper and guide, and the professor became his tutor. Uri became calm and responsive when he was with the professor and the two must have talked when they were alone, since Dr. Liebewitz was able to relate some of Uri’s background to me.

  From the good doctor I learned that Uri was from a town in western Hungary, near the border with Austria. He and his parents and an older sister had been arrested by the Nazis and sent to Auschwitz, where his parents had been gassed and cremated, and he and his sister had been selected to work as slave laborers in one of the factories. After the Russian army had battled its way to the Polish border, Uri and his sister had been transferred from Auschwitz to a factory in the west. A few months later that plant had been bombed and many of the slave laborers had been killed, possibly including his sister, although Uri hadn’t been very specific about how his sister had died.

  Although he understood and could speak German, Uri refused to speak with anyone but the headmistress and Dr. Liebewitz for quite some time. He continued to take classes and would write some exercises, but he would become visibly upset, sometimes almost violent, if a teacher pressed him for more. He didn’t attack people but would bang furniture, plumbing, dishes and other objects with his fist or whatever he had in his hand. When I asked Dr. Liebewitz how the rest of us should react to Uri’s behavior, he counseled patience.

  “Uri needs more time,” he would say, “and he needs our friendship. We must be patient friends until he feels that he can trust us. Then he will be fine.”

  Perhaps because most other children seemed insufferably impressionable and most adults seemed somewhat artificial to me, I felt a special affinity for Uri. Although he was much more extreme, we both preferred to remain outcasts rather than become the sociable tools others wished us to be. Or so I told myself, since I very much wanted him to like me. There were times when I thought he might, at least a little, but if he did he still wouldn’t allow me to get close or have any real exchange of views. The only person he seemed to trust was Dr. Liebewitz. So I tried to get closer to Uri through my tutor. The obvious way to please Dr. Liebewitz was to excel in my study of the language, so I concentrated on learning Hebrew with an ardor that surprised even me. To my teacher’s delight and mine, I made astonishing progress very quickly. Since I knew that Uri was being taught Hebrew in a more indirect fashion by our tutor, I was eager to impart my quick grasp of the language to him. I imagined that he might be able to say the things in Hebrew that he couldn’t bring himself to say in German.

  But Uri and just about everyone else except Dr. Liebewitz seemed more put off than charmed by my accomplishment, as if I had breached some unwritten covenant by making a difficult subject seem easy. My mother was especially nonplussed because I accompanied my interest in the language with also embracing the practices of the Hebrew religion. Here again I was motivated primarily by a desire to get closer to Uri, who seemed to be responding positively to the religious instruction gently administered to him by Dr. Liebewitz. So I didn’t let my lack of belief prevent me from being an ardent practitioner of the ritual. Because of the genocide, and now also because of my feelings for Uri, I wanted to identify with Judaism. I also thought my display of devotion would please my mother, because her mother had be
en deeply religious although she hadn’t often gone to temple. Most of all I wanted to repair the troubling rift in my relationship with Mother. Although she was still my hero, a crack in our relationship had appeared soon after the war ended and seemed to widen further every year. But, instead of helping, my observance of dietary and other religious rules served to increase the distance between us. She was, I discovered, quite snootily secular.

  The only person other than my tutor who was genuinely pleased by my headlong plunge into Judaism was my father. He had told me more than once that I had a duty to stand up and speak up for those who had been killed. And as a reward for my success in learning Hebrew, he gave me an expensive watch even though it was a very lean year for anyone not connected to the black market or the British occupation. Father knew that I had longed for a watch for some time and took me to a fine old shop in Blankenese so that I could pick it out. I chose a watch that looked suitable for either a boy or a girl. And I couldn’t wait to get back to school to give it to Uri.

  When I handed Uri the watch and told him it was his to keep so that he would always know the exact time, he looked it over very carefully and turned the winding knob a few times between his thumb and forefinger, testing the action. Then he hurled it as hard as he could against a stone wall. I may have gasped but I didn’t move or say a word. I was stunned but I also wanted to appear calm. Without seeming to glance my way he walked over and examined the watch where it lay in the driveway. Apparently it was still running because he then stomped on it several times.

  “I don’t need a watch!” Uri said almost sadly. “It’s always now!” I wasn’t completely sure what he meant or whether he was speaking to me or to himself. But I was thrilled by the possibility that he might open his feelings to me.

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “I don’t need it. I just thought you might like it.” I ransacked my brain for something to keep our first conversation going. “I have a book in Hebrew that you would probably like better,” I said, “I can get it for you if you like.”

  Uri didn’t respond or appear to take any notice of my offer, but instead headed toward his room, which he made clear was strictly off-limits to me. I walked over and picked up the watch, wondering what I would tell Father. The watch looked to me to be beyond repair. I didn’t intend to find out. The one thing that seemed certain was that I couldn’t tell Father or anyone else what Uri had done. There was no telling what might happen if I did. I decided that the best course would be to pretend to lose the watch and, if possible, to do that in such a way that the loss would be attributed to bad luck rather than carelessness. I realized that it needed to be done quickly before Helga or Rena found out and started asking a lot of questions I wouldn’t want to answer. So I walked immediately to the front of the building and found a counselor who was wearing a watch and asked him the time, telling him that I needed to set my watch. I then ran to a spot where a clump of large stones bordered the Elbe River. Standing on a rock at the water’s edge I pretended to wind the already defunct watch, then closed my eyes and fell into the river, flinging the watch as far as I could toward the deep. Although I was a good swimmer I yelled for help, which quickly arrived. Back on the bank, shivering and scraped, I lamented the loss of my new watch and was told to be glad that I hadn’t drowned.

  Father and everyone else seemed to accept my loss as an unfortunate accident. Everyone but Uri. I didn’t attempt to talk with Uri in the days following the incident but neither did I try to avoid him. The sly truth was that I was more attracted than repelled by his rejection of an expensive watch. After I had given it to him, I told myself, it was his to do with as he wished and therefore no skin off my nose if he chose to destroy it. At the same time I didn’t want to give the impression that I would be friendly no matter what he did to offend me. So I adopted an attitude of polite indifference to whatever he was doing. And it worked. About a week later, when no one else was around, he spoke to me again.

  He said that I had behaved stupidly when I jumped into the river. He said this matter-of-factly and tried to maintain the same tone when I told him I had jumped because I didn’t want my father to tear him limb from limb.

  “He wouldn’t,” Uri said, letting a smile split his wide lips.

  “No, he wouldn’t, not over a watch. But I didn’t want him to think I didn’t appreciate his gift.”

  “Then, why did you give it to me?”

  “Because I was stupid enough to think you would appreciate it.”

  “I did, but I didn’t want it. In the camps, only the guards had watches.”

  “We’re not in a camp.”

  “I know. Sometimes I forget.”

  Mother with Rena (left), me (center), and Helga (right) at Blankenese.

  Chapter 9

  Uri’s Story

  After our brief exchange about the watch, Uri began to talk to me whenever we were alone, and I began to contrive ways to make that happen. Otherwise I might have to wait days to hear the end of a story that had been broken off at its most interesting point because someone else had come within earshot. One of the first things I asked him was whether, as many at the school believed, he had stopped talking because he had seen his parents get killed.

  Uri said that he hadn’t seen that happen, that he had been separated from them before they were killed, but that he had later seen his dead mother being carted to the crematorium.

  “What did you do?” I asked. He started to speak, but then some other children came near us, pretending to be interested in the flowers growing nearby but really trying to eavesdrop, and he hurriedly walked away. I trailed after him, but he refused to talk any more that day. When I finally found myself alone with him two days later, however, he took up where he had left off.

  Uri said that when he saw his mother on the cart, he didn’t recognize her at first. She was naked and they had cut off all her hair, but her eyes were open and staring at him. She seemed to be trying to say something but couldn’t get the words out. He had started screaming and trying to pull her out from under the other bodies. But another prisoner had knocked him to the ground and covered his mouth to silence him.

  “How horrible!” I said, regurgitating the memory of naked dead bodies in the streets of Hamburg. I asked him about the other prisoner.

  Uri said that he had saved his life, that a guard would surely have killed him if he had kept screaming. Uri’s voice was sad and I reached out to touch him. But he pulled back quickly and refused to say anything more, although he didn’t walk away this time. Instead we both walked down to the river and sat on the rocks and watched the freighters and British warships plying the Elbe.

  The next time we talked I tried to suggest that we had things in common. I told him that my grandmother, my uncle, and my aunt had been deported to a death camp at Minsk, which wasn’t so far from Auschwitz. I also said that I would have been at Auschwitz with him if it hadn’t been for the firebombing of Hamburg. We had already received a deportation order, I explained, but then the bombers came and killed so many people we were able to get away. The British and the Americans took turns, I said, the RAF at night and the Americans during the day. But I conceded that Auschwitz must have been even worse.

  Uri said it had been very different. Prisoners had prayed for bombers, but nobody had been listening. He also said that I would have been killed my first day, since I would have been considered too young for work. He didn’t explain how he had avoided the gas chambers but did say that he had been helped several times by other prisoners. One man, a teacher like Dr. Liebewitz only not as old, had taught him how to keep going when he was ready to drop.

  “You do this,” he explained, “by first making yourself tense all over, tightening every muscle as much as you can. Then you relax and let yourself sort of float. Do that three or four times,” he said, “and you feel recharged with energy.”

  I said that it sounded simple, and he agreed that it was. He said he had recharged standing up and even during a march and that it
had saved him several times. He added, however, that there had been times when nothing helped.

  I asked what else he had learned, and he said that a man had taught him about weeds and mushrooms and other things he could eat. Other men had helped him in different ways. “A man who had sold women’s underwear told wonderful stories that made people laugh, and there were other old men who told good stories,” he recalled.

  When Uri talked with me again a few days later, I asked him about his work at Auschwitz. He told me that at first he had been assigned to heavy manual labor, hauling rocks, sacks of cement, digging lines for pipes or latrines, or any other dirty job they wanted done. Then an old man who pushed a two-wheel cart bribed enough people to get Uri assigned as his helper.

  “We hauled everything, including dead bodies,” Uri said. The man could have made Uri do all the hard work, but he did his share for as long as he lasted.

  Once Uri started talking with me, he also began to participate more fully in classroom activities. Yet he still wouldn’t converse with anyone else except the headmistress and Dr. Liebewitz, and he wouldn’t talk with me if others were present. So we began to walk along the river together or sit on the seawall or do whatever it took to find privacy. This caused considerable consternation for some of the faculty and other students who didn’t think we should have special privileges or be allowed to avoid sports or meals or anything. There were even some who said that we were sneaking away to do naughty sexual things, a charge that literally took my breath away when I heard about it from Sonia. If they think I’m capable of doing that, I thought, maybe I am. I told Sonia more or less what was going on and why, leaving just enough of a hole in my story for a tiny seed of doubt. She told me to keep talking with Uri and not to worry about the others.