“Attention!” We straightened out at the command, shouted by an SS Rottenführer, a thin, ruddy-faced fellow with watery blue eyes that kept tearing from the cold. It was almost amusing what good, disciplined soldiers they had managed to make out of us by now.
I stared at the ground in front of me as an officer stepped out of the building and approached the Rottenführer to exchange salutes with him.
“As you requested, Herr Leutnant. Two hundred and fifty German Jews. All females,” the Rottenführer reported and slammed his heels together.
“Thank you very much. Most obliging of you, after you shot nearly all of my workers yesterday and left the entire building without heat,” the officer commented sardonically.
“I apologize, Herr Leutnant. There must have been a mix-up in the papers.”
The officer released an irritated sigh and inspected the line in front of him.
“You all speak German?” He addressed us directly for the first time.
“Jawohl, Herr Leutnant.”
We even responded in their fashion now. A little trained army indeed.
“Are you all healthy?”
“Jawohl, Herr Leutnant.”
“Anyone has lice?” After a few moments of silence, he went into pains of explaining, “you’ll be working near and in the Government Building, so it’s important that you’re perfectly healthy and don’t carry anything that can transmit such dangerous diseases as typhus. You’ll all be checked by medical personnel later today and they will immediately discover deceit. So, I would really appreciate it if you didn’t waste my time and told me right away if you don’t fit the criteria. If you don’t, you’ll return to your usual workplace tomorrow. Count today as your day off.”
Subtle glances were exchanged along the line. No one wanted the day off. The day off meant no worker’s ration. Women silently deliberated if they should risk it. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the officer’s wrist jerk impatiently as he clasped his hands behind his back. He was growing annoyed with the silence, no doubt and the memory of yesterday was far too fresh to risk any uniformed man’s wrath.
“They will tell you if they have lice if you allow them to return to work today and not tomorrow.” I don’t know what prompted me to address him and not even properly at that. Our SS escort glared at me; the officer, however, turned to me, inclined his head, suddenly interested. “They won’t receive any food rations if they miss a day at work,” I went on to explain. “They can’t afford a day off, lice or not.”
He walked up to me and stopped. I kept my head down as they had taught us, looking at the hem of his long, blue-gray overcoat and the tips of his boots, polished to mirror perfection.
“What is your name?” His tone changed from harsh and abrupt to polite, reminiscent of the manner one would adopt when talking to a woman, not a sexless working force as most of them took us for.
“Ilse Stein, Mein Leutnant.”
“Willy Schultz. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Fräulein Stein.”
A hand, encased in a warm, fur-lined glove, appeared in front of my downcast eyes. I glanced up in confusion. He was smiling, apparently amused by my reaction.
He was older than most of the rosy-faced SS around us, in his late thirties perhaps. I guessed his age not so much by the lines around his eyes, the color of which oddly matched the color of his coat but by a certain measure of weariness in them, as though it wasn’t the first war he’d seen and now was infinitely disappointed by the manner in which humanity was progressing.
“You can shake it. I don’t bite.”
Under the Rottenführer’s mystified glare – why would anyone want to shake hands with a Jew? – I carefully placed my bare palm into the Leutnant’s and gave it a tentative press.
“You should wear gloves in this weather, Fräulein Stein. It’s not Germany; you’ll freeze your fingers off without noticing.”
He sounded as though he were genuinely concerned. I shot him another mistrustful, probing glance wondering if his sense of humor matched the SS one. Mostly, it was they who amused themselves in such a manner at our expense.
“Today is my sister’s day,” I replied in an even tone.
“I beg your pardon?”
He was still holding my hand in his, only now he covered it with the other. I contemplated yanking my palm out of his but decided against it at the last moment.
“We have only one pair of gloves among the three of us. So, we switch days.”
Now, I was outright staring at him, waiting for perhaps one more “witty” remark. He only blinked a few times, blankly, before dropping my hand. Suddenly, he was pushing a pair of his own gloves into my hands, repeating, “take them, don’t be silly now,” until I finally clasped them in my frozen fingers, unsure as to what to do next.
“Aren’t you going to put them on?” Back to smiling from Herr Offizier.
I did as he ordered me, growing annoyed with his games. No one showed us kindness here. They were all out for our blood and that’s how things stood between us. Every act of goodwill was a ploy of some sort. I mumbled a quiet thank you, yet felt my nerves being ready to snap. I didn’t trust any of them, the uniforms. This artificially-created sense of normality unnerved me even further; I didn’t like the sudden change of the habitual state of things.
Herr Offizier, meanwhile, hid his hands in his pockets, waiting for me to say something. I stood before him, silent, like a statue.
He must have realized that I wouldn’t talk without being addressed first. Must have recalled how it was with women from his first brigade, now all dead. “Where are you from, Fräulein Stein?”
“Originally Nidda in Hesse. Deported from Frankfurt.”
He encouraged me with a nod. His pale, clean-shaven cheeks were growing rosy in the frost. He must have been cold; not cold like us, frozen stiff in our thin coats but not as comfortable in his warm overcoat with its fur collar as he was when he’d just stepped outside to inspect us. I wondered why he wasn’t going back inside. It must have been warmer there, than here, even though the central heating wasn’t on. They would have had some sort of heating lamps, most likely.
I avoided looking at him. There was something different in him, something different from the others which I couldn’t quite put my finger on and that confused me even further. I was afraid of him more than I was of the SS because I failed to understand his motivation.
He shifted his weight from one foot to another. He couldn’t bear this Russian winter, I could see it.
“What did you do in Frankfurt? Any qualifications?”
“I worked in the factory that produced parachutes for the Luftwaffe, Herr Leutnant.”
He broke into a beaming smile and pointed at the insignia on his uniform cap.
“The Luftwaffe,” he announced cheerfully.
Only now I realized that he didn’t belong to some special commando unit. The Luftwaffe. Proud knights of the sky who nearly leveled the entire Minsk to the ground. I wondered if he flew a bomber or a fighter.
“Perhaps, it was one of your parachutes I was wearing during the Polish campaign.”
“Perhaps,” I conceded politely.
“I had to bail over Holland a few times. Perhaps, it saved my life once.”
“Perhaps.”
He appeared to be waiting for me to say something else, to continue with this oddest sort of conversation but I stood before him like a Carmelite monk on leave. We were all freezing and wondering if we would get a chance to eat today and he wished to exchange pleasantries.
“How would you like to be in charge of my new brigade, Fräulein Stein?”
I looked up at him once again, searching for a hint of some intended malice on his face. But he appeared suspiciously well-meaning, with blue, honest eyes and lips that would not stop smiling at me.
“As you wish, Herr Leutnant.”
“Splendid. Please, count one hundred and ninety-seven women for me, the ones who don’t have lice. I only need two hund
red for the heating brigade and these two ladies are all that’s left of it.” He motioned at two young women clinging to each other not too far from him. I didn’t even notice them before. “You will be number two hundred.”
“Can the rest return to their usual assignments?” I asked him before he’d turn around to take his leave and forget all about us.
“Of course.”
“They’ll need an official paper explaining why they’re late.”
“Yes, yes, he’ll sign whatever needs to be signed for you.”
The SS Rottenführer straightened a bit under yet another glare shot in his direction. It seemed, his kin were in some sort of hot water with the Luftwaffe now, even though I had little idea how the two branches were even related and even less concerning who had the authority over whom.
“And one more thing; after Fräulein Stein makes a list of workers, I want you to copy it and sign; if something happens to my new workers, I will hold you personally responsible for that. Do you understand?”
“Jawohl, Mein Leutnant!” A sharp click of the heels.
For some reason, I breathed out in relief when Leutnant Schultz had finally left.
Chapter Eight
“How do you know him?”
The girl was about my age, perhaps a few years older, a black bundle covered with a gray shawl. Just like everyone around, she wore almost everything she owned under that coat. Just like the rest of the Byelorussian Jews, she addressed me in Yiddish.
“You don’t beat around the bush here, do you?” I remarked ironically without taking my eyes off the list, ensuring that everything was in order. The SS Rottenführer was smoking and pacing with great impatience nearby, but I’d rather risk his annoyance than misplace someone’s name and leave that person without their daily ration.
“Have you known each other before the war?” The girl looked at me askance. She barely reached my shoulder yet had the bearing of a right NKVD officer. Must have been one of those, fanatical Party kinds. I easily recognized the type by now – we had those in spades in Germany and they didn’t differ much from the locals in their zeal. Same sect – different idols.
“No. First time I’ve seen him in my life.”
Satisfied, at last, with the list, I ran up to the Rottenführer and handed it to him. To sweeten his sour mood, I diligently lowered my head and murmured a “Bitte, Herr Offizier,” emphasizing the title and putting just enough tremor in my voice. Two things they liked: feeling important and being feared; I’d learned it well by now. He straightened his shoulders a bit under his private’s uniform, nodded curtly and started in the direction of the Sovietskaya Street, waving the small column of “rejected” women after himself with a languid grace of a Feldmarschall, no less. Good. Now, he won’t beat any of them up on the way to their respective workplaces.
“He gave you his gloves.” My new acquaintance didn’t give up on her interrogation. After I left the remark without comment, she moved to stand right in front of me, blocking my path. “Why was he so nice to you?” Her gaze zeroed on the yellow star sewn onto my coat. “You’re not even a mischling. You’re a full Jew.”
“Thank you for establishing that fact.” I swung round in the hope of giving her the hint to stop it, with her third degree.
She clasped my sleeve instead. “Tell me how you know him; that’s all I’m asking!”
I wondered if she indeed belonged to the NKVD or some such. I began considering reporting her.
“Herrgott!” I yanked my arm out of her grip in annoyance. “He gave me the damned gloves – so what? Don’t make a song and dance about it! He’s your boss, you’ve known him longer than I have; you tell me why he did it!”
She regarded me in silence for a few moments.
“You really didn’t know each other prior to this day?” she asked again, but this time more conciliatory.
“No. I promise we didn’t know each other prior to this day.” I softened my tone a little as well. “I’m pretty sure he’s had a bit too much cognac in his coffee this morning to keep him warm and was feeling uncharacteristically nice and generous, that’s all.”
“Nice? Schultz?” She arched her dark brow. “No. Efficient and superficially polite, like the rest of them, yes; but nice? I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Then, I guess, he fancies me,” I replied in jest. “Who knows, perhaps he’ll send his adjutant with his calling card this very evening and invite me to the local Luftwaffe ball.”
Judging by her thoroughly confused look and brows knitted tightly together, she took my words literally.
“I’m joking,” I clarified, just in case and offered her my hand. “My name is Ilse, by the way.”
“Liza.” She grabbed my palm and gave it a good, firm, Soviet shake. “Are you from the Sonderghetto?”
“Yes. You’ll have to tell me what it is exactly you did here with your brigade.”
“The boiler house is over there.” She gestured toward the steep slope that started across the Sovietskaya square. Along it, rail tracks ran. Liza pointed at the unloaded cars. “Trains with supplies – wood and coal – stop right in front. We unload the cars and slide the wood and sacks with coal down the slope. Part of the brigade, which works below, stacks it all there and another part brings it to the boiler house. A few people work inside. Stepan, our only man, shovels the coal into the furnace. Obviously, unloading cars is the hardest job while the boiler house is the most kosher duty – it’s nice and warm inside. Make sure to rotate the shifts, will you? Sonya, our former brigadier, didn’t. I told her it wasn’t fair, not a communist thing to do but she preferred double rations that she collected from the ones who bribed her to get the best assignment. Her own father would have disowned her, had he known! To Siberia, with no further investigation! Stupid cow! Always thought only about herself!” She was suddenly furious.
All because of unfair assignment distribution? I sensed something deeper in her tone, thought about asking but then didn’t.
I gestured my new brigade to follow me. We started in the direction of the slope. From the boiler house, faint smoke was rising.
“The Germans have been working it overnight,” Liza explained. “Only a few soldiers and just so that the pipes wouldn’t burst from the cold. It’s freezing inside the complex. They all curse those muttonheads from the SS.”
“I thought it was the SS headquarters.” Over my shoulder, I checked the black banner. It was still there.
“Only a few floors. Field police or some such. The Luftwaffe and the Wehrmacht occupy the rest, but since it was the SS that entered the building first last June, it was they who hoisted that black drape there. First come, first served, I suppose, even though the Luftwaffe made most of them move out already in July.”
“Were you here, in Minsk, when they came?”
“Yes. Most of us are locals. The whole brigade was local; I’ve known many of them personally, even from before the war.” Her voice was strangely detached, as cold as the air outside. “After yesterday, only Sima and I are left. The rest of the brigade – gone.”
“Yes, Schultz said that. Damned business.”
She nodded. My eyes teared in the cold; hers were dry. “We were waiting outside, in the snow.”
“Us, too.”
“Yes. There were probably a few thousand workers lying near the gates.” Liza sniffled and pulled her woolen shawl onto her forehead. A few strands of dark hair framed her temples. She seemed preoccupied now, somewhat lost. “We were all skilled workers; they were not supposed to shoot us.”
“They shot everyone who moved.”
She was quiet for some time. Then spoke, her voice suddenly harsh and accusing. “It’s all Sonya’s fault. She said she had to use the bathroom. What bathroom, in the middle of all that?! I, for one, did my business under myself when I couldn’t tolerate it anymore. So did the rest. But not Sonya, no. She, Sonya, is the commissar’s daughter, she’s better than that. She said they had no right to forbid us to use the facility
and got up, the stupid cow.”
I imagined very well what followed but didn’t want to ask.
“They just mowed down everyone around her, just like that, without warning, for nothing.” Liza spread her arms wide, moving them in a deliberate, deadly circle. “No one else moved. Their only fault was lying close to the one who dared to rise to her feet when it was clearly verboten. I should have reported her as a commissar’s daughter, to the SS, when they came, in the beginning, to make those lists of theirs. I knew what she was in for and I kept quiet; risked my own life not denouncing her. If I’d only known that because of her, all of those girls…” Her face was flushed with emotion. It was fierce and agonized and forbidding and sorrowful all at the same time. I averted my gaze, preferring to look at the train tracks instead. “The bullets missed only two of us, out of two hundred. Purim’s miracle, eh?”
“Are you religious?” I asked out of the blue, not even sure why.
“I’m a communist.” She finally shifted her eyes back to me, seemingly relieved with the change of the subject. “Are you?”
I shrugged with indifference. “I’m nothing, I suppose.”
“You must be something.” She offered me the first smile. It was warm and tender – a miracle on its own that this girl could still smile. I almost admired her strength at that moment.
“No. You know, I envy you, the Ostjuden. You at least have your ideology. You take your strength out of it. We have nothing. We are nothing. They took everything from us and gave us nothing back.”
“What do you mean, gave you nothing back? You got the gloves out of the deal, didn’t you?”
I stared at her straight face; caught the beginning of another smile, snorted after finally getting the joke through my thick skull and then outright burst out laughing, hysterically, until tears sprung to my eyes.
We stood in front of the Yama – the Pit – as it had already been baptized by the population of the ghetto, promptly reduced by a few thousand. Beside me, Liza was speaking, her voice breaking from time to time. Yet, her eyes were dry, almost as black and impenetrable as the night around us.
No Woman's Land: a Holocaust novel based on a true story (Women and the Holocaust Book 2) Page 6