by Meryl Ain
To sweeten the pot, Irv Rosen joined in. “Look, I’m a news photographer, and I brought along my camera to take a picture of you and Mr. Zilberman for my magazine. The story would be about a former concentration camp prisoner confronting a Nazi guard. If you tell us the truth, I will forget about it. I will tell my editors the story did not pan out.”
“Just tell us your SS member number, and we will be done,” Moe chimed in.
And with that, the former Nazi caved.
“It was six, six, six, seven, nine, one.” The number rolled off his tongue reflexively. But then, at the thought of losing his family, his home, and his livelihood, Roy/Rudolf broke down.
“Correct,” said the police officer. “Thank you for being honest. Do you have anything else you want to say to us?”
“It’s true; I was there, but I was only following orders. What choice did I have? But I never directly killed anyone myself.”
“What do you mean you never killed anyone yourself? Didn’t you mislead tens of thousands of innocent people into the gas chamber by telling them they were going to take a shower? Didn’t you usher men, women, and children to their deaths?” Moe was relentless.
“But that wasn’t like pulling the switch or putting the noose around someone’s neck or shooting someone in cold blood.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Irv. “It had the same effect; in fact, it was just more efficient.”
Jakob Zilberman, who had been silently grinding his teeth and wiping his sweaty palms on a paper napkin, finally broke his silence.
“I saw you; you enjoyed it. You felt powerful as you led people into the gas chamber. I will remember your smirk forever.”
“And what were you doing at Birkenau that you survived to know what I did there? If I directed you to the gas chamber, why is it that you are still alive?”
“I was a Jewish prisoner, see.” He thrust out his arm to show his tattoo. “I was forced to clean up the dirty work of the Nazis. I disposed of the bodies after you and your ilk murdered my people.”
“Ah,” said the Nazi guard turned deli man, whose smirk had returned. “You were a Sonderkommando, so you are complicit too. Why didn’t you refuse to do the job? I think it is because you wanted to live. Nothing wrong with that, I say. But if I’m guilty, you must be guilty too.”
At that moment, Jakob wanted to lunge at the German. How dare he compare a Jewish prisoner to a Nazi killer? After all this, the Nazi had gotten under his skin again. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, You son-of-a-bitch Nazi bastard! He wanted to grab Moe’s gun and shoot him. He wanted to take Irv’s camera and hit him over the head with it. But that’s not who Jakob Zilberman was. He’d had his confrontation, and surprisingly, he now felt worse than before.
“Okay,” said Moe. “I have to get back to policing the streets of Queens. And I’m sure these other gentlemen have to leave too. And you must have work to do.”
“So, you’re not going to turn me in?”
“No, you told us the truth,” said Moe. “A deal is a deal. But you’d better be on your best behavior from now on. Your secret is safe for the time being. Just no more anti-Semitic remarks or innuendos, or I will be back. And then I will crush you.”
At that moment, Roy remembered the unfinished sandwiches in the back. He ran back to Eva and Judy, who forgot they had ordered them; they had been so engrossed in eavesdropping on the conversation. He apologized profusely. The two women said they didn’t want them anymore because they had to leave. Roy said the food was on the house, and he’d bring it to them to go.
While Judy and Eva waited for their take-out bags, they saw Jakob and the two men leave the deli. Jakob had been so absorbed in the interrogation that he’d never noticed his wife. But his wife had noticed him, and she knew she had to think long and hard about how to handle it.
Judy, on the other hand, knew what she had to do. She could not wait a day longer to discuss the Shoah with the twins.
As he walked outside, Jakob was now so agitated that he felt he needed to get away immediately. He thanked Moe and Irv and told them he was going to walk home by himself. He needed to clear his head.
As Irv walked Moe to the police car, he said, “You really didn’t have any proof, did you?”
Moe laughed. “Of course not. Look, we put the screws to the Nazi. I really had no authority to do what I did. And what about your scoop?”
“The truth is that the editors weren’t interested in the story. They said no one cares about Nazis anymore. If it was about Commies, that would be a different thing. It’s all about Communists now.”
The minute Eva walked out of the deli, she sadly came to the conclusion that she would not be socializing with Judy. She could not bear the embarrassment of ever discussing the incident with her again. She was mortified that the Nazi had said in public that Jakob was no different than he was—that they had both done what they needed to do to survive. It was so much more complicated than that. Of course, everyone knows that the Nazis were cruel and vicious and hateful. But still, she was afraid that Judy would now think less of her and Jakob. She didn’t want to discuss this further with her. She was concerned that Judy would surely think of it every time she got together with her. Eva just wanted to push it to the back of her mind with all the other bad memories. She could only hope that Judy had enough discretion not to tell the whole world about it.
By the time Eva arrived home, she had also decided that she would not mention the incident at Brodsky’s unless Jakob brought it up. She was sure that the accusations of the guard would unleash a new round of soul-searching and self-recrimination for him.
There was no comparison between the healthy, well-fed, strong Nazis, who ate and slept and bathed in comfortable homes with their wives and families, and their Jewish prisoners, who were starved and beaten, and who slept in rows of crowded barracks, stacked one on top of another, she thought. The Jews lived with terror and typhoid; the Jewish prisoners served at the mercy of the SS.
Most of the Sonderkommandos had been shot after six months on the job. Jakob Zilberman was an exception. He bore witness to the heinous crimes he had observed first-hand. He was more courageous than she, his wife had to admit. He was not afraid of sharing his truth. Eva faced her demons alone—in her mind and in her heart—both in nightmares and in sleepless nights.
On the way home from Brodsky’s, Judy stopped at the library to take out a copy of The Diary of Anne Frank. But the librarian informed her that all of the copies had already been borrowed. She told her that she could reserve the book, and she would contact her as soon as a copy was returned.
“I must have a copy now,” she said. “It’s very important.”
“Well, I can call the Jamaica Library, but I doubt they’ll have it either. It’s become especially popular, ever since the Broadway play. Perhaps they have it at Barry’s Stationery Store across the street. It’s in paperback now, so it shouldn’t be too expensive.”
Judy made a beeline for Barry’s, now intent on this mission as if her life depended on it. Inside the store it was on prominent display, so she snatched it up and then realized that she was holding the last copy.
She returned home, and as soon as the girls entered the house from Hebrew School, she sat them down and showed them the book. After what she had witnessed in the deli, she knew she had to give her daughters a version of her own story that she found palatable. She would not wait for her husband. She could not trust what he would or would not say.
“I heard what Mrs. Cohen said in Hebrew School, and I want to tell you our own family history and answer any questions you may have. Papa lost his whole family in Europe—his parents and grandparents, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, and cousins. It’s true that Hitler wanted to get rid of all of the Jews and he killed about six million.”
With that, Bronka blurted out, “Esther’s parents were in a concentration camp and have tattoos. Why don’t you and Papa have them?”
“We weren’t in a c
oncentration camp.”
“Did you lose family in the war, Mama?” Bronka asked.
“My mother died right before the war broke out.”
“So how did you and Papa survive?”
“By hiding,” she said.
“Where did you hide?”
“First I found a hiding place in an attic, and later in the forest.”
“Wasn’t it cold in the forest?”
“Yes, it was. I brought blankets, and we built a dugout and covered it with a tarp.”
Judy made a snap decision. It wouldn’t be exactly a lie, she told herself—just an edited version of the truth. Some people embellished the truth, like Faye, to make it more entertaining or palatable—or to portray themselves as important. Others edited it, like Irv Rosen. He told you only what he wanted you to know. But Judy reasoned that JoJo and Bronka were ten years old. She had the right to tell them what she thought they could handle. Besides, Aron would be angry that she had broached the subject at all—especially without first consulting him. She did not want to risk another scene. She realized that in leaving out her true origins, the obstacles she had overcome, and her good deeds, she forfeited painting herself to her daughters as the hero she truly was. But she reasoned that she could always deal with that in the future.
“The Zilbermans were in a concentration camp, but we weren’t. There were many concentration camps, and a death camp like Auschwitz, where they were, was the worst place to be. Other Jews who weren’t captured, hid—in Christian homes, in barns, in the forest,” she explained. “There were people who weren’t Jewish, who defied the government and helped the Jews. But most of the Jews in Poland died. Not just those in the camps, but those who hid as well. Just in our hometown, Kielce—there had been more than twenty thousand Jews living there before the war, and afterward there were only two hundred.”
Judy felt relieved, as if a weight had been lifted from her. She had given the girls just enough, not too much. The information was sufficient for their age. They would not think she was withholding a secret. As they got older, they could find out more.
“And I got a book for the two of you to read. The library was all out of it, so I bought the last copy at Barry’s,” she said as she showed them The Diary of Anne Frank. “You can take turns reading it, and then I’ll answer any questions you have.”
JoJo was satisfied. Mama had answered the twins’ questions. The stories she had heard were true. The Nazis had wiped out most of the Jews of Europe. She would read the book and find out more. She would discuss it with her sister and maybe ask her mother some questions.
But for Bronka, it was not enough. When she became obsessed with something, she had to know every last detail. Moreover, ever since she was a little girl, she had been fixated on the truth—what was real and what wasn’t. Tiny Tears’ fake tears had not fooled her. Neither had Mindy. Despite all of her material possessions, Mindy was a sad girl. Was it because her father was dead? Was it because her mother was rarely present?
And while Bronka was glad that her mother had finally brought up Hitler and the Nazis, she wondered why the subject had not been mentioned before. Esther Zilberman knew about it, and so did the Rosen girls. Mrs. Cohen had discussed it in Hebrew School. Everyone was reading The Diary of Anne Frank. The library was out of it, and Mama had bought the last copy at Barry’s. Why were she and JoJo the last to find out about something that had affected her parents so deeply? Something about the way her mother told the story made her curious.
Bronka resolved that she would get to the bottom of this. She would find out the truth. She would read The Diary of Anne Frank and ask questions. She would have her antennae up for clues. Mama had not given them the whole story—and she was determined to discover the secret, no matter how long it took.
“So at least we know the truth, now,” JoJo said once they were in their beds, the lights off, the dark like a protective blanket in which the girls could talk without seeing each other. Bronka often felt it was easier this way.
“Do we?” Bronka asked.
“Mama told us. We can read the book and find out more.”
“It’s not going to tell us the truth about our family, JoJo. Mama told us what she wanted us to know. I bet there’s more to the story.”
Judy Lubinski was hardly the only one in the neighborhood who harbored a secret. But in her case, she didn’t believe she was lying, just not sharing the whole truth with her daughters. Across the street, Lenore had actually perpetuated a boldfaced lie to Mindy about the existence of her father. And then there was Irv Rosen, who was an enigma wrapped in a puzzle. Was he Catholic or Jewish? Was he a celebrity or just a blowhard?
Irv Rosen enjoyed his work very much. He could feel the adrenalin rushing when a good lead was about to break. In the morning, he read every newspaper he could get his hands on, and each evening he did the same. His photographs—especially those of the Rosenbergs—had won him prestigious awards. Those who were smitten with the rich and famous wanted to be in his presence.
Irv Rosen would hold court, mesmerizing his listeners with tales of what Dick Nixon had said to him or how Marilyn Monroe had blown him a kiss. His position got him free tickets to ball games and the theater, as well as access to exclusive cocktail parties. Actually, he liked nothing better than to get a few drinks in a bar after work, sharing experiences with his fellow newsmen.
While Irv generally drove the girls to school in the morning, his wife Connie didn’t really know where he was for the rest of the day and evening. He was rarely in the office, and his assignments were far flung. He would call in from time to time, and when he returned home, he would tell her where he’d been and whom he had met. She would listen and ask questions. She liked following current events; she had developed a taste for breaking news during World War II when she worked on The Belvoir Castle. And her daughters could not get enough of their father’s exploits. She had warned them not to repeat what they heard in the house, but she knew it was a losing battle. So breaking news became a unifying force in the Rosen household.
On the other hand, Connie wasn’t all that impressed with the famous people her husband often bragged about meeting and socializing with. She figured they were just like anyone else, except perhaps for their talent, wealth, luck, or connections. From what she read about their personal foibles, she wasn’t envious either. Neither was she interested in accompanying Irv to encounter them at swank events in Manhattan.
Connie’s family was her life, and she wanted to have more children. She was one of eleven, and she liked being part of a large Catholic family, one that she was attempting to build for herself in Bellerose. But after three miscarriages, she had almost given up on her desire to have more children, specifically a son.
Over the fourteen years of their marriage, Irv had used his freedom to full advantage. He came and went as he pleased. He could accompany Jennie Mandelstern to the Women’s House of Detention to visit her daughter, confront a former Nazi in the middle of the day at Brodsky’s delicatessen, or sneak into services on Yom Kippur. He also used his flexible schedule to carry on clandestine affairs with women who were the very opposite of his wife.
He had started out slow with Lenore—bringing roses for her and her mother that first week after her release. Then he helped her get a job at JHNQ, and had a plant delivered to her on her first day at work. He was very cautious at the beginning, stopping at the hospital perhaps once a month to check in on her. He knew she was fragile, and he was gentle with her. They would sit in the hospital coffee shop for a half hour or so, and she would confide in him. After all, he had seen her shame and humiliation; he was one of the few people with whom she felt comfortable. She did not need to hide anything; he needed no explanations.
But after a year of being Lenore’s friend, they became lovers. Five years after Lenore’s arrest, the mutual attraction continued to deepen, and Irv was juggling a double life.
In Becky’s case, her double life was in her head, but it was begin
ning to manifest itself in ways that affected those around her more and more.
It was a crisp fall Saturday, and after they returned from services and had lunch, the twins headed upstairs to their bedroom to play with their dolls. With Thanksgiving a week away, Bronka had an idea.
“Let’s build a boat out of blocks and then act out the dolls coming to America, just like the Pilgrims and like us.”
“Good idea,” said JoJo.
As always, Judy had neatly lined up their growing collection of dolls on their beds, but their Ginny dolls were missing.
“What happened to Amy and Joy?” Bronka asked, as she got down on the floor and looked under the bed.
Johanna opened the drawers of their chest and looked in the closet. “They’re not here; do you think a robber came in and stole them?”
“Aunt Becky was the only one in the house while we were gone,” said Bronka “Let’s go down and ask her.”
The door to Becky’s room was ajar, so they walked in. The sofa bed was open, and Becky was lying on her side with one doll in each hand, mumbling unintelligibly. Even though it was two o’clock, she was still in her green flannel nightgown, which was bunched up, exposing a light brown birthmark on her leg. Her hair was greasy and her breath was stale.
“Aunt Becky, what are you doing with our dolls?” JoJo asked.
At first, Becky said nothing. She had a vacant look on her face.
“Are you playing with them?” Bronka asked her.
Becky bent her index finger, motioning that the girls should come closer as she spoke in a barely audible whisper.
“No, girls, this is no game. This is serious business. The dolls have been warning me about serious trouble here. They know things that we don’t know. Now, don’t tell anyone because this is top secret. I may have to take you away from here. We are all in danger. Maybe I will take you back to Israel with me. Go and pack your things so we will be ready to go at a moment’s notice.”