by Ann Arnold
Israel pulled her into his embrace, burying her face in the wool of his coat. His arms were steel bands around her. When she knew that no one would hear her cries, buried in the force of her husband’s embrace, she finally released them. And then she realized. The Germans didn’t just take the color from the world, they took emotion and decency and honor as well.
Now all that was left was heartbeats. How much longer could they last?
Fall 1940
Manek walked tall down the road to town. He was seven years old now. A man. Mamusia had arranged for a tutor in the village square to teach him his letters, since boys with gold stars were not allowed to go to public school with other children. He didn’t mind. His teacher was a nice retired lady, and the best thing was that she never said anything if he showed up late. This morning he was supposed to go over his letters with her. Poppa would be so proud when he could spell his name.
When he made it to the square, everything seemed the same as always. The stalls were open with the remaining produce of the season. The police captain was sitting outside. The Germans had taken over his station, so now he had to do most of the business in the square. People were going into the bank, children running to get into the schoolhouse before the teacher grew angry.
Everyone kept their head down and moved quickly.
Something was wrong, though. Different.
The Germans. He couldn’t see any Germans.
Rather than proceed to the retired teacher’s house and learn his lessons, he whirled around and rushed back toward home. He’d learned since the day he stole the wagon. Things were never going to be the same again. No laughter. No tricks. Poppa no longer spoke of prayers at the Shul. Mamusia did not smile.
Most of all, he had learned when the Germans are doing something, you have to know what it is. You have to know where they are.
Manek had heard his parents talking in whispers during the night, when they thought the children were sleeping. He could hear the fear in their anxious voices. Rumors were swirling of violence, unexplained disappearances, and no one knew what to make of such harshness or what it meant. His own cousins had come from Germany a few months before. They had left their homes in fear, over what the Nazis were doing to their neighbors and in their small town. When they arrived, the stories they told were unbelievable. Could they all be true? He could not imagine leaving his home, so it must have been really horrible to make them flee.
When he reached his property, he paused in the tree line to watch. Crouching down, he wrapped his arms around the tree to help keep his balance. Poppa and Uncle David were standing at one side of a table that had been brought outside, their dining table if he guessed right. Two German officers were sitting at the table, and in front of them stretched a long line of people. All of them from Brzostek, all of them with the bright yellow star on their chests with the word Juden.
He was too far away to hear, but he could still see what they were doing.
The Germans were checking people on a list laid in front of them. Some of the villagers were sent to trucks parked on the road. The gray trucks were dust-covered and worn-looking. The back had an opening, and a tarpaulin cover was draped over it, covering the sides of the truck, held down by sturdy ropes. They were being divided into two groups. Some were sent to the trucks on the left, others to the trucks on the right. Manek could see Uncle David was getting angry. Poppa kept putting his hand on David’s shoulder as if he were reminding him of something.
People seemed sad. Their heads down, faces sad as they were sent to the trucks, especially the ones sent to the trucks on the right. This was normal, though. The Germans came and took them away to go to work, and then they brought them back. This summons had happened many times before. Even Uncle David and Poppa had worked for the Germans.
The officer stood and yelled, words garbled and too harsh for Manek to decipher from where he sat.
Manek was stunned as the angry officer strode over to one of the people and punched him in the face.
Uncle David had enough. He lunged away from Poppa’s hold to stop the officer, who turned on him. Uncle David never stood a chance. The German was bigger, stronger, and better fed. He punched Uncle David, and when he fell to the ground, the officer started to kick him.
Over. And over. And over again.
Manek held to the tree tighter, praying the beating would stop. He bit his lip to keep from crying, from screaming. His gaze returned to his father and stayed there. Trying to understand what Poppa would want him to do. He could see his Mamusia come out of the door behind Poppa, also frozen as the officer continued to kick Uncle David.
Finally, the brutality stopped.
When Mamusia and Poppa started toward David to help him, the officer yelled again. They knew not to come any closer. Just a few weeks ago, in front of their house, a Jewish man had tried to outrun the Germans. He was shot in the leg and fell to the ground, then beaten to a pulp. After, as the Polish neighbors tried to lend a hand, they were forced back, screamed at and told that if they approached the man, they would be shot dead instantly. No one had any choice but to watch in horror over the next two days as his life slowly slipped away. There was nothing they could do to help him. They did not dare to even try.
Uncle David was dragged to the right truck with the crying people and thrown into the back. He wasn’t moving. He didn’t make a sound. Poppa and Mamusia could only hold each other as Uncle David was driven away.
When the second truck was full, Poppa joined the rest of the people on the left. He gave Mamusia a single nod as they were taken away. Manek collapsed against the tree, his body shaking.
He’d learned after the wagon. Watch. Know. And most of all, don’t be seen.
After they left, he used the forest and the fence to hide him on his way back to the house. The German officers had stayed behind. They went inside with Mamusia. She was all alone with them.
Manek was seven years old. He was old enough to help his Mamusia.
“What do you mean, you have no more eggs?”
The German officer was yelling at Mamusia and Mrs. Pilat. “You live on a farm. Farmers have eggs. Where are your eggs? Dirty Jewess. You must be hiding them from me. Is that what you’re trying to do?”
“No, sir. I swear it. We don’t have any chickens, so we don’t get any eggs.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Where are your eggs?”
Manek could see the man draw back his fist. He was going to hit Mamusia like he did his Uncle David. No. He was a man now. He would have to protect her. “I can find you eggs.”
The officers whirled around so fast to see Manek in the doorway, they almost fell sideways. One of them put his hand on his side arm. Mamusia and Mrs. Pilat’s eyes grew huge, and Mamusia gave him a quick shake of the head. She didn’t want him to be seen. He knew that. But he wasn’t going to stand by and let his Mamusia be abused. “I know farms where we can find you eggs,” he promised the officers. “Come with me. I know just the place.”
“This is a farm. She must be hiding them.”
“Enough,” the other officer told the angry one. “Let’s see what the kid can find.”
“I promise.” He waved them out of the house and away from his mother. “I know two families who might have eggs. I’ll take you. We’ll get your eggs from there. We can go right now.”
He forced a smile on his face and kept walking backward, his eyes never leaving the officers. Follow, he begged in his mind. Get away from my Mamusia.
Outside, once they started walking, he felt better. He hurried to stay ahead of them. His legs were pumping so fast he was almost running. The Germans liked fast things. Cars. Motorcycles. Planes. Hopefully, even little boys. He wanted to get them their eggs and return to his home without them. He wanted to make sure his Mamusia and Mrs. Pilat were okay.
He wanted them to know he was as well.
When they got to the second farm, the Germans got their eggs. Once he saw them looking over their prize, he
quickly disappeared into the trees and out of their sight. Don’t be seen. Don’t be known. But make sure you know where they are. What they’re doing.
Back home, he accepted his hug from Mamusia, and the scolding that went with it, and went to sit down with Zosia while Sala worked on dinner.
Manek didn’t ask about Uncle David.
He already knew that Uncle David would not be coming back.
January 1942
They always seemed to come in trucks. The roar of the engines was the first assault, followed by the smoke and noxious fumes from the exhaust pipes. Once they hopped out of the trucks, the Germans had a gift for outdoing the bad tidings their machines heralded. On this winter day Sala stood in the yard next to her shriveled garden as the latest swarm of Germans drove up. Since the S.S. had driven past on that horrible day, she’d grown accustomed to their demands. Israel was the head of the Jewish community, so he was constantly being called into town to meet with them. He was often summoned to meet with the Germans. They wanted to make sure he would communicate calm and order to the rest of the Jewish population. Sometimes they accused him of some made-up slight, only to then absolve him of the wrongdoing, so as to evoke a false sense of fairness and security. Even worse was their use of Israel’s house to organize the forced labor details.
Somewhere her brother was imprisoned in a labor camp.
Or he was lying in a grave.
That’s what had happened to a good number of their neighbors. The rumors they heard from their German relatives had some truth in them, rumors always do. It’s a terrible thing to pray your loved one was in a labor camp, for it was the best case scenario. Even Manek had learned by watching their neighbors disappear. German justice usually led to people being laid six feet under.
The Germans seemed to hate everyone. It felt like they had turned their rage on Poland, where the Jews were caught with nowhere to run. With the Germans occupying their land, their armies conquering vast stretches of Russia, they were trapped. There truly was no place to run, no way out.
When Israel came out of the barn they shared a look of understanding. Almost two and a half years of occupation had taught them to be ready for anything. She still remembered Manek’s face the day he distracted the officers into going to look for eggs in other farms. Sala was just grateful he hadn’t had to witness his uncle and his mother being beaten in the same morning.
That was the last time she’d sent her child to the tutor. As Israel kept saying, they would find a way to teach their son what he needed to know.
What he learned on his own was scary enough.
“You are the Schonwetter family?”
Israel rushed over and answered for her. It was better that way. She was always scared what would come out of her mouth. She did not possess the polite, easygoing nature her husband displayed to them. “We are, sir.”
“Good. This is good.”
“May we help you with something?”
“You have ten minutes to collect your belongings.”
“Excuse me?”
Sala’s hand went to her chest. Were they to go to the labor camp, too?
“You have ten minutes to collect your belongings. Just take your clothes. Nothing else.”
“Sir, forgive me for asking, but where are we going?”
“That is not my business. Find a place to stay in town. You are no longer allowed to live here.”
“Who else is going to?”
She shut out her husband and the officer’s voices as she saw the people stepping out of the trucks. Volksdeutsche. Poles who were declared German in everything but nationality. They were the worst kind of collaborators, and all other Poles, Jew and Gentile alike, hated them.
“These people own your house now. Get out.”
Sala ran inside and grabbed a bag. “Manek, pile your clothes together on your bed,” she called to her son. Swiftly, as efficiently as possible, Sala tossed her clothing into the bag they kept under the bed, the one Israel had used once to go to Germany to visit his sister, long before they were married. Now she filled the bag with undergarments, stockings, dresses, and her favorite wool blanket, anything that she could think of that would keep them warm during the cold winter. She kept her special coat ready at all times, the secret pockets filled. She’d wear that. The items she was packing was what they’d need to survive.
When she had it filled, she grabbed the remaining case, the one she had used the day she married Israel, and rushed into Zosia’s room. Such happy memories these bags represented, they hardly seemed big enough to fit so much despair. In Zosia’s room she took a deep breath. She had to be smart. Little girls need so many things. She pushed her emotions away as she crammed as many clothes and outfits inside that she could fit. She looked at the special dress she had made for Zosia’s last birthday. She had taken such care in sewing each stitch, so excited to see her twirl around in it when she finally put it on. The dress was getting a bit small on the ever growing child. No matter, she was taking it anyway. Nothing a needle and thread could not alter. She did not want to leave anything of any value behind for those filthy animals.
When she joined Manek, her heart stumbled at the small pile of things he had assembled.
No toys. No books. No mementos of any kind.
Her son already had an education. He hadn’t learned merely reading, writing and mathematics.
He had learned how to survive.
When she went outside, Israel had run out of arguments for the German officer. The house was theirs. Poland was theirs. The Schonwetters were just inconvenient Jews, standing in the way.
“I’m ready,” she announced to her husband.
“You took only your clothes?”
“Of course, sir.” She looked boldly into the face of the German officer. Let him see she was not broken. She was not cowed.
As the Volksdeutsche started to file into the house, she suddenly remembered. “Excuse me, sir?” When the German looked at her, Sala consoled herself with the thought his gaze showed some small trace of respect. “The Pilat family are not Jewish. This is their house, as much as it is my husband’s. Will they please be allowed to stay?”
“Now that they’re not in proximity of you dirty Jews, I’m sure that’ll be acceptable.”
Our hands are far cleaner than yours. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
In the window, she saw Antony Pilat. He gave her a quick nod. He’d take care of things. He’d remember. He had to; she would make sure of it.
At least a friend would still be living here. “Come, Israel.”
She handed her husband the two bags and led her family away. The Schonwetters had lived in this house for three generations. She had not. She knew she could survive. Looking at her cowed and shocked husband, she tried to cheer him. “Antony will still be there. He’ll make sure the animals are taken care of. He’ll keep watch over things,” she promised Israel.
“It’s my home—”
“No,” she stopped her husband. “We are our home. That was just a building.”
Looking down, she saw Manek gazing up at her with the same admiration and respect that he usually showed only for his father. His bag, far too big for a child his size, was almost too much for him to handle. She considered taking it from him. Helping him like the little boy he still was in that moment. But she remembered the eggs, and knew that taking the bag would insult him. She instead gave a single nod of encouragement, and Manek started to walk again. She took Zosia’s small, fragile hand, and together, they all began the long trek into town. Israel kept stumbling as he continued to look behind him, but Sala noticed that her son never turned back.
Both of them kept their eyes focused straight ahead every step of the way.
April 11, 1942
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Sala checked on the kids sleeping nearby before she went to the window. Manek immediately sat up in bed, placing a hand on his sister’s shoulder. Her son had developed a wise old man’s knowledge of when he need
ed to be ready.
Sala sidled up to the window from one side, edging the curtain over. This wasn’t their house. They had merely lived here for three months since the Nazis kicked them off the farm. That dark day an older couple who had once owed Israel money was willing to take them in. Israel had never recovered from the loss of his childhood home and farm. Although he retreated into himself, he never lost faith in God and truly believed that He would still save them. Sala was not so sure that God was listening, but she was grateful these people had given them their children’s empty room, and they seemed to enjoy having the Schonwetter little ones around.
When she peered through the window, she was shocked. On the other side of the glass was Captain Ziedler’s wife. Draped in a dark cloak, she had fear in her eyes. As she glanced around in the night, she gestured to Sala to come outside. Ever since the Captain and his wife had come by the other day with an abundance of chocolate for her daughter, Sala had been on alert. As they played with her sweet, innocent young girl, they had the gall to ask the child who she preferred, them or her own Mamusia. She did not blame Zosia for her answer. Chocolate was a powerful weapon to use with a hungry, small child.
Sala prepared herself to hear the worst. Israel had been taken earlier to speak with Captain Ziedler and the SS commander. They hadn’t thought much about the summons at the time because it had become commonplace. Israel was still their ambassador to the local community, both Jew and Gentile alike.
Sala opened the window a bit and nodded at the other woman. Grabbing her shawl, she wrapped it around herself as she slid on her shoes. Manek moved to the other side of his sister, his eyes bright and wary. He positioned himself next to the open window. Whatever trouble she faced, she knew her son would stand beside her.
Captain Ziedler’s wife hovered in the shadow of the house. Sala was almost pleased that whatever bad news she was about to be handed, her son would hear at the same time.