Anca's Story--a novel of the Holocaust

by Mark Williams

  Eventually, the guard arrived at our carriage, attending first the Jewish family. He directed them to disembark from the train and go to a building on the far side of the station, where other Jews were also bound. They followed his instructions without question, only young Elone turning to glance in our direction before her mother grabbed her arm and pulled the confused child to her side.

  The guard turned to us, but I did not take in the exchange between him and my mother, my own attentions drawn in watching the Jews, for I could fathom no logic in separating them now if we were all bound for the same destination. I heard Mama’s voice rise as she challenged the guard’s directions.

  “All night? Surely you are mistaken? I have two children with me.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “No. This is not acceptable. Why were we not told in advance?”

  The guard lowered his voice. “Please, for your children’s sake, do not cause a scene.”

  “But this cannot be right,” Mama insisted. “Why, even the Jews are being taken to a place of comfort. Surely that cannot – “

  “Be quiet, woman!” The guard cut her short with a sharp retort. “I do not make the rules. Would you rather argue your case with the Gestapo?”

  Mama’s indignation subsided at this thinly veiled threat. I clasped her arm and looked the guard in the eye. “Please, my mother is tired. She means no offence. Is that not right, Mama?” I shook my mother’s hand, silently pleading with her not to pursue her grievance. A Gestapo officer was watching from a distance. Mama must have espied his attention, for she nodded her head, and clutched Nicolae to her side.

  “You are wise, child,” the guard said. “Try to sleep, now, that the night will pass by quickly. You will receive further instructions at dawn.” The door slammed behind him, leaving us alone in the carriage.

  Resigned to our fate we tried to make ourselves comfortable as best we could, now doubly grateful for the repast we had been allowed to share with the Jewish family during the course of our travel.

  Fortunately, the journey had tired us all immensely and Nicolae, though at first inquisitive of the station’s activity and then mindful of the absence of his new friend, quickly found comfort in slumber, his head resting upon my mother’s lap.

  I volunteered my coat as a blanket for him, resigned to spending the night quietly shivering in the cold carriage while assuring Mama I was quite comfortable, for fear she would insist I take her coat in turn.

  Despite the discomfort of the narrow wooden benches I too finally succumbed to sleep and, for a welcome change, found pleasant memories to occupy my dreams.

  19.

  It is the way of dreams that sometimes they become your waking reality. Thus it was for me on this occasion. For uncounted hours I had revelled in joys past, dancing in the spume of the Black Sea, young and carefree, with Mama and Nicolae and, of course, dear Papa.

  But, as all good things must come to an end so, eventually it was time for us to go home. As I relived our return, boarding the train, relishing the excitement of the station, the flush of steam, the screech of locomotive wheels against the rails, dream mingled with reality and suddenly the slamming carriage doors in distant Constanta were slamming carriage doors in war-torn Bucharest.

  It took a few seconds for me to shake the remnants of dream from my mind and as I did so I saw Mama’s face before me, smiling as she spoke, although her words were not yet audible.

  Suddenly I was being shaken by the shoulder and I sat up in an instant, banishing all but reality from my mind as I realized it was Nicolae, anxious to rouse me.

  “Wake up Anca! Wake up! We have to get off now!”

  We quickly joined the crowds gathering on the station concourse, fearful that we might miss vital instructions and be left stranded at Bucharest.

  Uniformed officers barked orders in German, Romanian and other languages I could not identify. We were told to form a line to one side of the square, where it appeared we were being grouped either by nationality or language. Those slow to respond were angrily harassed by Nazi officers impatient of the very young, the elderly or the infirm, and I was shocked to witness people struck with rifle butts if they were tardy.

  Satisfying myself that Mama had Nicolae secure beneath her coat I remembered Chaim’s advice and resolved to look down, clasping my mother’s arm with one hand, dragging our trunk with the other.

  Joining a group of our countrymen we stood and waited, anxiously watching the crowds divide. The Gestapo officers became increasingly irritated with those still unplaced, shouting violently in German as if raising their voices might transcend the barrier of language, but I could no more make sense of their orders than the confused civilians receiving them.

  A gun shot rang out beneath the canopy. I heard a scream and the station at once fell silent, all attention upon a Gestapo officer in the centre of the square, a still smoking pistol in his hand, standing over the prostrate form of a man.

  The body lay as it had fallen, a pool of blood forming around the head. As my eyes took in the scene my legs felt weak and nausea began to rise from my stomach. A sobbing woman broke away from the civilians restraining her and threw herself upon the dead man, shouting hysterically at the officer who had fired the shot. It was not a language I recognized, though I heard someone behind me mutter quietly that she was a Magyar, from Hungary.

  I turned to Mama in confusion, surprised to find her facing away, comforting Nicolae beneath her coat, shielding him from the obscenity that was taking place nearby.

  “Turn away, Anca,” I heard Mama say. “Do not let them see you stare. Just stand quietly. It will be over soon.”

  With Mama and Nicolae safe beside me my thoughts turned to Chaim, his wife Golda and the sweet child Elone, whom Nicolae had so recently befriended. I scanned the concourse for any sign of them, aware for the first time there were no Jews anywhere to be seen.

  Before I could gather my thought there was a commotion once more where the dead man lay and I watched in horror as two Iron Guard officers took the feet of the victim and unceremoniously dragged away the body, leaving a trail of smeared blood in its wake.

  The chaos and noise of the concourse had been replaced by sober order and sombre silence, broken only by the woman’s hysterical sobs. For the rest of us, we merely stood and watched, not knowing what to expect. Not knowing what we could have done to help.

  Fear hung over us, tangible as a dense smog.

  20.

  As if the incident had never happened, officers now began addressing each group in their own language, an Iron Guard lieutenant standing before a small crowd of perhaps two hundred Romanians, dictating instructions for the next phase of our journey.

  I focused my attention on his words, anxious that we should not contravene a directive and reap the wrath of the Gestapo.

  “The trains will shortly be arriving to escort you to Krakow, from where you will be transferred to your respective camps for resettlement,” the lieutenant informed us. “Keep your documents safely with you, as these confirm your final destination. I regret the journey will not be pleasant, for space is limited and the distance long. We expect your quiet and orderly cooperation at this difficult time. Women and children will be separated from the men for the journey.”

  The lieutenant raised his hand to quell the murmur of objection.

  “Quiet! You will be separated, women and children in one train, men in another. This is for your own convenience, to avoid the need to share the limited toilet facilities, nothing more. The sooner you arrive at the camp the sooner you will be reunited with your families. Warm showers, clean clothing and hot soup will await you on arrival.”

  A murmur of relief ran through the crowd at this news. Someone demanded, “Just how long will the journey take?”

  The Iron Guard officer shrugged nonchalantly. “No questions, please. In a moment you will be provided with chalk. Please mark your luggage clearly with your names. Your luggage, too, will be carried separately,
to make your journey more comfortable. Once labelled it will be collected here, and returned to you on arrival at your destination.”

  Station workers appeared before us and handed out misshapen stumps of chalk. I took a piece and inscribed our family name, Pasculata, with meticulous care on the side of our trunk. As I did so Mama knelt beside me saying, “Anca, please. My diary. I must have it by my side.”

  I knew how important Mama’s diary was to her and quickly raised the lid, retrieving the precious journal for her with seconds to spare before a station worker gripped the jute handle and began to drag the case away.

  “One moment!” I shouted, and locked the trunk lid securely, fearful that our few possessions might be lost during transit. Bad enough that our luggage should leave our side at all, for it was all we had. As if echoing my own fears I heard an angry voice behind me remonstrate with the Iron Guard officer.

  “What if it is lost?” a man of ruddy complexion angrily demanded, one foot planted firmly on his valise. “It contains all my family’s belongings. Personal items of sentimental value. I prefer to carry my trunk with me.”

  The Iron Guard lieutenant turned on the man, hurling abuse in a raised voice, warning him to remove his foot from the trunk. His words were impolite and I shall not repeat here other than a summary of the exchange, for the man behind me was not lightly deterred. He angrily challenged the officer’s authority.

  As he did so I felt Mama’s hand on my arm, drawing me to the back of the crowd, putting distance between us and the two antagonists. I followed meekly, mesmerized by the argument raging just a few metres away.

  “You are a traitor,” I heard the man declare, his voice laden with venom. “You wear the uniform of our country yet perform the deeds of these... These animals.”

  “Do not try my patience, old man,” the officer warned, looking anxiously about him. “I follow orders, nothing more.”

  “Orders? They are the orders of the devil!”

  The lieutenant looked bewildered. “Be quiet, you fool, and do as I say.” He glanced round to see the eyes of the Gestapo on him. He lowered his voice. “Do you not understand, old man? I have no choice in this, any more than you do.”

  The defiant older man raised his voice still louder. “I understand entirely. You are a traitor. You throw in your hand with these evil swine to protect your own cowardly hide.”

  “Quiet!” screamed the lieutenant. He cast another glance at the Gestapo officer, now standing with his arms folding, watching the exchange.

  “I do not take orders from you, or them,” the man declared.

  The lieutenant angrily drew a pistol from his holster. “Silence, old man, or I will shoot.”

  As the officer brandished the weapon the station fell silent once more. Mama pulled me back, Nicolae thrust even further beneath her coat. She urged me in loud whispers to look away, but I could not.

  The sentiments being voiced, even the words used, were strangely familiar and I realized these phrases, of treachery and cowardice, were just those I had heard Papa use in his argument with the Iron Guard in Medgidia, outside our home. A week later Papa was dead, executed by firing squad, his crime to challenge the authority of the Iron Guard and their Nazi leaders. I wanted to go to this man, to calm him, to warn him, to let him know of Papa’s fate, but fear rooted me to the spot.

  The man stood defiant against the officer even as those around him moved away, distancing themselves for their own safety, the attention of the entire station by now directed on this exchange. The man’s wife begged him to back down. Their daughter, only a little younger than I, was crying hysterically, and the woman tried to comfort her while at the same time pleading with her husband.

  “Gheorghe, please, no! For God’s sake, no! Do as they say. The trunk is unimportant. It is of no consequence.”

  If the man called Gheorghe heard his wife he paid no heed, but stood firm against the Iron Guard lieutenant. Two men placed themselves around the woman and daughter and slowly edged them away. The woman struggled against them, the girl screaming.

  Now the man called Gheorghe and the Iron Guard officer stood face to face, one arrogant, armed with a pistol, the other defenceless yet bravely, foolishly defiant. The Gestapo officer strode across and confronted the two. The lieutenant turned, raising his arm and stamped his feet in the Nazi salute.

  The defiant Gheorghe spat angrily into the dust at his feet. “I am ashamed to call you my fellow countryman.”

  The Gestapo officer ignored him. “You have a problem, Herr Lieutenant?” he asked in broken Romanian.

  “This person will not allow his trunk to be placed with the others,” the Iron Guard officer reported, still hesitantly pointing his gun at the man before him.

  The Nazi looked at the defiant Gheorghe contemptuously. He turned back to the Iron Guard officer and shrugged indifferently.

  “Then shoot him.”

  At this order a gasp ran through our group and the man’s wife screamed out, pleading to her husband to apologise and do as bid. Mama was tugging at me, urging me to look away, but I could not. It were as if my eyes were drawn, like magnets, towards the unfolding drama.

  “He will not shoot,” Gheorghe stated with quiet confidence. “We are both Romanians. He will not shoot one of his own countrymen, traitor though he may be.”

  The lieutenant’s face paled, sweat breaking out across his forehead, the hand holding the pistol shaking visibly.

  The Gestapo officer smiled. “This is your chance to prove him wrong, Herr Lieutenant. Shoot him. Now. On my authority.” He raised his voice. “Do it.”

  The Iron Guard officer stood motionless, his face demonstrating the transition of emotion from arrogance to fear. Suddenly the Gestapo officer drew his own pistol and pressed it to the head of the Iron Guard officer.

  “Kill him, Herr Lieutenant, or I kill you.”

  21.

  For a few seconds it seemed even the locomotives had stopped, so quiet had the station become. Wife and daughter looked on in horror, unable even to scream. No-one dared breathe. Then, even as I watched, the Iron Guard lieutenant slowly tightened his finger on the trigger.

  It was too much and I somehow managed to avert my eyes. A shot echoed around the station and blood splattered across the ground, almost to my feet. When I looked up the defiant Gheorghe was slumped face down on the ground, blood-imbrued clothes confirming the deed.

  The lieutenant was still in position, the pistol in his outstretched hand, staring down and the man whose life he had just taken, his face ashen.

  From the crowd, even from the man’s wife and daughter, there was only stunned silence. No-one dared move. Slowly I raised my eyes to the Nazi officer, whose own pistol was still pressed to the head of the Iron Guard lieutenant.

  “You see, it was easy,” the Nazi told him. “As easy as this.”

  Without warning he pulled the trigger and the Iron Guard lieutenant fell where he stood, his body slumping next to the man whose life he had just taken. The second shot jolted us back to reality. No-one moved forward to intervene, but I knew I was not alone in falling to my knees, my legs unable to take my weight, fighting back the convulsions in my stomach. Forcing myself to look up I saw the Gestapo officer turn to us, his face, his voice, devoid of emotion.

  “Now, you will relinquish your trunks as directed. Then you will await further instructions. In total silence. Is that clear? One more foolish outburst and I will kill that child.”

  At random he pointed his gun to a young girl nearby. The child screamed and her mother threw herself around her daughter, sobbing quietly, not daring to release her emotions more fully. Then the Nazi spun on his heels and walked away, barking orders in German, returning the station to a state of furious activity.

  I wanted to go to the bereaved woman and her daughter, to offer comfort, but fear prevented my limbs from moving. I just knelt as I had fallen and watched, not even able to cry, as the two bodies were dragged away. No-one dared speak. No-one dared look
the other in the eye. It were as if every emotion at once were fighting for release, but fear and shock dominated, suppressing all others and I found myself staring blankly at the blood soaking into the dust of the station floor. Mama refused to turn round, hugging Nicolae beneath her coat, trying desperately to comfort him and dissuade his interest.

  I longed for something to distract my attention from the blood on the floor and in this at least, found reward, for amidst shouted orders in German I saw the doors of the far building open and from there emerged, in single file, the Jews. I scanned the queue desperately for sign of the family that had so recently befriended us and at length saw Golda and little Elone, looking tired and fearful, emerge from the building. At this point I realized there were only women and children present. Of Chaim, of all the Jewish men, there was no sign.

  Behind us the noise of locomotive activity drew our attention and I saw an enormous engine drawing what appeared to be cattle trucks into the station, in a procession at least twenty wagons long and behind which another engine of similar size pulled a similar cargo. At first I was mystified, for some of the truck doors were open, demonstrating they were empty, yet there was no evidence of cattle at the station awaiting transportation.

  The mystery was quickly to be resolved however, for barely had the train stopped than the lines of Jews received new instructions and began filing across, boarding these same wagons.

  Those that had difficulty mounting the vehicle were forcefully pushed or thrown on by Gestapo officers and when the truck appeared quite full to capacity still more Jews were pushed on, until the doors had literally to be forced shut, every last inch of space occupied.

  As one truck filled the next was opened. When young children or the infirm or elderly stumbled or met difficulty mounting the wagon, Gestapo officers pistol-whipped them or set about them with their rifle butts, knocking them to the ground, then forcing them to get up and continue the embarkation.