44.
The hiss of steam and the screech of locomotive wheels disturbed me and I was at once alert, aware it was daylight once more and we were entering a station.
I wiped the condensation from the window to establish our whereabouts and jumped to my feet as realisation dawned. If hung with Nazi swastikas, still the signs announcing Warsaw’s central station were unmistakable.
I shook Elone gently to wake her from her slumber before moving across to perform the same task upon Nicolae.
I knew it was necessary for us to alight at this station and board a second train to complete our journey to Krakow. This much a guard had confirmed to me during the course of the night, when he had come to inspect our tickets.
Fortunately, Izabella and Wojciech had prepared us for just such an eventuality and, with the little ones asleep at my side, I evidently passed for a competent teenager conducting my charges across the countryside. My Polish, if imperfect, aroused no suspicion. The guard was officious and did not try to engage me in conversation beyond the predicted and practiced exchange.
Now, alighting onto the cold platform of Warsaw Central Station, I felt the first hint of fear as the desperate nature of our situation dawned. We were alone, in the capital of a foreign country, surrounded by hurrying Poles and Germans, many of whom wore the hated Gestapo emblem.
I drew Nicolae and Elone to my side and looked about the station for information indicating where we would board the train for Krakow, but nothing was obvious.
Nicolae indicated his need for a toilet and we manoeuvred our way around the station in the hope of finding such a facility. But as we moved from our own train my blood ran cold as I saw a line of cattle trucks on a siding across the way.
The children saw them too and I felt their grips tighten against my palms. Nicolae fell silent, his needs forgotten. Elone tugged at my arm drawing us in the opposite direction and I let her lead the way without objection, searching for comforting words, but none came.
We were half way across the station, fighting our way through the crowd, when loud whistles blew and at once the crowds melted away, people vanishing quickly through exits or moving to the station’s borders.
Not realizing what was happening we were slow to respond, and found ourselves suddenly alone in the centre of the station.
Bewildered.
Frightened.
A Polish guard shouted, “You children! Where are your parents?”
In confusion I responded in my native tongue, stopping myself instantly, cursing my carelessness.
Fortunately we were too far distant for the guard to hear, and as he shouted his demand a second time, Elone responded in Polish, “We have lost them in the crowd. One minute they were here with us, now they are gone.”
Her quick-witted response saved us from further attention, for the guard gestured angrily for us to clear the concourse, shouting “To one side, now! Do you want to catch the plague from the filthy Jews?”
I grabbed Nicolae’s and Elone’s hands and bustled them to the side, blending with the waiting crowd before Elone could respond further. “Don’t be offended, Elone,” I muttered beneath my breath. “He only speaks so because the Nazis are here.”
But somehow I knew this ill-feeling to the Jews ran deeper, and I feared that, far from being a help, Elone’s command of language and her quick mind might well prove a liability.
As we turned back to watch, long lines of Jews began to file patiently into the station, occupying the concourse with their usual quiet dignity.
I watched with numbed mind as Germans and Poles alike jeered as they filed through, SS guards on either side happy to encourage the abuse, and as the announcement was made for them to chalk their names on their luggage, which would follow them on to Treblinka, memories of Bucharest assailed my mind.
Elone’s hand gripped mine tightly. I knew Treblinka was not the place where Mama and we had been bound, but surmised it must be a camp of similar purpose, and looked on with mixed emotions, aware the Jews would be transported in horrific conditions, but jealous too that they would, if they survived the journey, have the chance of a new life on arrival.
I could feel Elone quake, fearful memories etched into her mind, and pushed the children to the back of the crowd, asking in Polish, “Toilet? Where is the toilet, please?”
At first we were ignored, but then someone pointed to a block some metres distant and I guided my charges into its sanctuary, determined they should not be further reminded of the events that marked the last moments we had seen our respective parents alive.
I ushered the children into a feculent cubicle, urging them to make use of the opportunity, for I honestly could not say when another might arise.
Overcome with curiosity I hauled myself onto a ledge and peered through a tiny window affording a view of the station.
As I watched the last Jews crammed into the cattle wagons and the doors closed on them I became alarmed, for now station workers with hand carts began loading the chalk-labelled luggage, only to transport their cargo not on to the waiting train but into a warehouse adjacent to the toilet block we now hid in.
If my Polish was poor, still I was convinced the Jews had been informed, just as we all had back in Bucharest, that their luggage would follow in the final carriage. Yet as the locomotive built up steam and prepared to depart with its cargo of despair, it became obvious to me that the Jews’ belongings were not destined to join them.
I could not help but wonder what would these people do when they arrived at Treblinka without their baggage? Without even clothes to change into?
Curiosity compelled me to investigate further. I spoke quietly to Elone, asking her to stay with Nicolae in the toilet block until I returned. I was, I told her, going to find out where we should wait for our train.
I saw the information board proclaiming the time and platform from which our train to Krakow would depart and checking the clock was thankful we had not long to wait.
Perhaps I should have stopped here and returned to my charges, having satisfied my legitimate mission, but the fate of the Jews’ luggage strained at my mind, for I owed it to Elone to learn more.
I found myself dallying nonchalantly at the side of the warehouse, looking for a window from where I might gain the insight I needed. There were some splintered wooden pallets, below a high window, down a siding barely visible from the main concourse and I made my way there unnoticed and clambered up to the grime-laden glass, hesitantly peering in.
Though it seemed like seconds, the station clock would confirm I spent nearly fifteen minutes at that window, precariously balanced on the pallets, staring, disbelieving, at the activities revealed.
45.
There below me were row upon row of Polish workers emptying the very luggage I had just seen retrieved from the concourse.
Emptying cases and bags, valises and hold-alls, spilling their contents onto rows of tables, where the goods were being sorted, sifted, mixed together regardless of ownership.
If at first the scene seemed one of chaos, luggage being emptied, the contents thrown into baskets and crates, the more I watched the more I saw order in this madness. It became apparent that the belongings were being sifted by value. Jewellery, candelabra and fine pottery were put carefully to one side, under the close supervision of SS guards. Clothes were being sorted, coats and jackets into one basket, shoes to another and so on.
All these personal effects, items I knew just a short while ago had belonged to countless hundreds of Jewish families, were being sorted and separated with callous disregard of their owners’ wishes.
Confusion and alarm juggled against one another in my mind as I saw box upon box of photographs, pictures of families, of grandparents, of little children, being tipped into an unmarked crate, piled one load upon another and I knew, somehow I just knew, these mementoes were destined for incineration.
It was a puissant portent of things to come.
In shock I lowered myself to the
ground, by now desperately fearful for the children.
Elone grabbed my arm as I rejoined them, unable to hide her concern. “Anca, you are quite pale. What is it? Are you not well?”
I struggled to maintain my composure, forcing the scene from my mind, telling myself I had been mistaken. That the Jews’ luggage left on the station concourse and that which I had just seen ransacked were not one and the same.
I clutched Elone to me, and Nicolae too, saying, “Come little ones, I have found the platform we need to wait at. It is just across the way and our train is due very soon.” I added, “Remember, children, speak only in Polish while there are people around us. Come, let us make haste.”
I led them in silence across the station to the appropriate platform and we waited impatiently for the arrival of our train. The children were quiet, for it was easier to say nothing than employ our limited command of Polish talking among ourselves.
For my part I was too subdued by what I had just witnessed to be inclined to persiflage, so welcomed the young ones’ reticence.
At length the locomotive pulled noisily into the station, dragging its ophidian procession in its wake, grinding to a deafening, shuddering halt before us. I was thankful to see it was comprised of passenger carriages, not cattle wagons.
We stood by as passengers alighted then, selecting a sparsely occupied carriage, made ourselves comfortable in a far corner. The information board, though only in Polish and German, had been instructive, and I had established we had not too long a journey ahead. We had by now consumed the provisions Izabella and Wojciech had provided for us and I knew the children would soon feel hungry again.
The other passengers in our carriage were at some distance and, protected by the engine’s roar, we were able to converse quietly in our native tongue, though I would not be drawn by Elone’s questions as to what had so upset me at the station, rather changing the subject to more pleasant matters.
Elone seemed soon to forget the incident and for my part, if unable to forget, I at least pushed the memory to the back of my mind, enjoying some juvenile word games with the children until at length Nicolae began to yawn and very soon dozed, his head on my lap. I pulled his legs onto the seat to make him comfortable and Elone joined him in this position, engaging in casual chatter until she too succumbed to slumber.
Time passed quickly, or at least stations were tended and soon departed, which was much the same thing for me. I mentally counted off the stations as we stopped each time, having calculated how many preceded Krakow, and knew we would soon be approaching our destination.
I was about to awaken the children in anticipation when a voice boomed out, “Tickets! Passports! Have them ready for inspection!”
I was at once mortified to see a Polish guard advancing along the carriage, accompanied by a Gestapo officer, scrutinizing the travel documents of our fellow passengers.
Panic gripped me, for we were without papers of any sort and I had no confidence I could carry off our deception beyond the most simple of practiced responses.
I looked about me, desperate for inspiration, for some way out of this peril, but realised our only hope was to bluff our way through. The guard on his own I could probably manage, for his attention would be on our tickets, which were in order. Wojciech had seen to that.
But if it were realised we were not Polish nationals then the matter of passports would inevitably be raised and the SS officer would become involved. Bad enough, I knew, to be foreigners in this country, travelling without authorisation. But if Elone’s Jewish heritage were realised...
I struck the thought from my mind, for it was unthinkable what might happen. Then, all at once, the guard was at our seat, firing questions too rapidly for me to understand.
I feigned sleepiness, asking him to repeat his query and he did so more slowly for my benefit. As I showed him our tickets he leant across and grabbed at Elone’s legs, shoving them from the seat. “Keep your dirty shoes on the floor, child,” he shouted angrily, and I quickly leant across and eased Nicolae’s feet to the ground, trying not to wake him.
“Ow! You hurt me, you brute!” Elone objected in Polish, indifferent to both the guard’s authority and to the presence of the SS officer standing just a few steps away.
Without thinking I urged her to be quiet in my native tongue, my breath held in abeyance as I realised what I had done.
The SS officer was instantly at my side, staring down at us with cold, unfeeling eyes. “That was not Polish, child. Where are you from?”
I knew deception was pointless. “Romania. We are Romanians.”
“Name, child?”
“Anca. Anca Pasculata.”
He turned on Elone. “And you, little girl? You who think you can talk to your superiors in that way? What is your name?”
My heart all but stopped, praying she would only announce her forename, for to say she was a Pfefferberg would surely seal all our fates.
“Elone,” she said.
I interjected quickly, “She is my sister, Elone Pasculata. Please, forgive her rudeness. She is very tired, for we have been travelling some while.” I added, “This is my brother Nicolae. Please, Sir, do not disturb him unnecessarily, I beg of you.”
The SS officer glared at me. “I will disturb whosoever I wish, child.”
He made as if to move towards my brother and Elone immediately placed herself in front of Nicolae, saying, “Leave him alone. He is only six.”
The SS man looked surprised by her defiance. He glared at her, as if contemplating his response.
“You are travelling alone?” the guard demanded.
Before I could compose an answer Elone said in Polish, “What are you, stupid? Do you think three children so young would be travelling alone? Our Papa is looking for the toilet.” She wagged her finger at the guard as one might chide a small child. “He will be back shortly and I will tell him how you hurt me.”
If impressed by her quick mind and command of a foreign tongue I was at the same time mortified by her tone, yet her rudeness proved to work in our favour.
The Gestapo officer leaned forward until he was level with Elone, a hand extracting his whip from its holster. I held my breath.
“Child, you are very loud. Very brash. And so young. You cannot be more than eight, surely.”
“I am nine, not eight,” Elone declared, meeting his unflinching gaze with fiery eyes.
“Is there no end to your insolence?” the Gestapo officer asked. “I wonder at your father, that he should bring you up so. You would benefit from a good whipping to teach you some manners.” He tapped the horse whip unfurled against the palm of his hand. “Perhaps I should give you the benefit of my Aryan upbringing.”
“You lay one finger on me and my father will have you thrown off this train,” Elone informed him in such confident tone I myself almost believed her. “He is well-connected in both Bucharest and Warsaw, I would have you know, and will have you sent to the eastern front before this day is out.”
The officer’s mouth fell open, uncertain how to respond. At length he stood back and a smile crept across his cruel mouth. “Consider yourself lucky I am in a good mood today, little girl. You are forthright, and I like you for it. It makes a change to see someone so young stand up for themselves. I tell you, the way these obsequious Jews simper to our every whim is quite sickening at times.”
I laid a cautioning hand on Elone’s arm, anxious she should not respond to any derogatory comment about her people. She glared at him, but held her tongue.
The SS man demanded, “Your father, which way did he go?”
I was thankful we had not selected an end carriage this time. I gestured behind me, in the opposite direction from where the two men had come.
“That way. He will be back soon. He has our passports with him.”
“But you carry your own tickets?” the guard asked. “Is that not a little strange?”
“That was in case you came to us while he was gone,” Elone said
quickly. “How could he know you would want to see our passports as well?”
The guard seemed satisfied by this explanation, but the SS man peered closely at her.
“Elone, did you say your name was?” He rolled the name around his tongue, savouring it, then, “Elone. Hmmm. It has a certain Semitic ring to it, do you not think?”
My heart missed a beat. I feared we were found out. But once again Elone was to show a maturity and understanding beyond her years.
She stood up angrily, turning on the Gestapo officer and shouted at him at the top of her voice. “Are you calling me a filthy Jew? You ignorant pig!” She jumped onto the seat, shouting down the carriage, “Papa! Papa! This man dares call me a Jew! Papa! Come quickly!”
The guard and SS officer alike reeled in embarrassment, the latter raising his hands to calm her. “That will do, child. I apologise. There is no need to make a fuss. I just wanted to be sure. You know how underhand these Jewish scum can be.”
Elone sat down sullenly and I chided her in mock tones of anger. “Elone, behave yourself, or I will tell Papa of your insolence.”
The SS man shook his head sadly. “She is spirited, of that there is no doubt.”
He turned to me. “Your father, girl. What is his name?”
“Petre,” I said. Petre Bogdan Pasculata.”
The SS man nodded. “We will have words with him, I think. He should know how ill-mannered his children are in his absence.”
“No, please, no,” Elone spoke up, evidently enjoying her role play. “He will beat me if you inform him so. I am sorry. Please, I did not mean to be rude.”
The SS man smiled, almost sympathetically, though I could not quite bring myself to attribute such a warm emotion to anyone wearing the Gestapo uniform.
He said, “Very well, child, but behave yourself hereon.” He brought the whip down hard on his own hand to make the point. “One more word from you and I will see to it you do not sit in comfort the remainder of your journey.”
And with this chastisement they turned and walked away.
Anca's Story--a novel of the Holocaust Page 13