Don't Tell the Nazis

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

  “Excuse me, Herr Zimmer, but I have a question. It may not be a polite question.”

  The blacksmith smiled at that. “You want to know why I am here if I am not a Nazi. Am I correct, Fräulein Krystia?”

  “Yes … That is what I was going to ask you.”

  “I had a blacksmith shop in a village near Chernivtsi,” he said. “I also had a teenage son. My wife died long ago.”

  So, like Frau and Marga Schneider, Herr Zimmer was an ethnic German from Ukraine. “Is your son still at home?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “The Soviets took over my shop and our house during the time of the Nazi-Soviet Pact. We were deported to the Reich. My son was drafted into the German army, and I was selected to live here. I pray every day that my son survives the war. But even more, I pray that my son does not become a Nazi.”

  Herr Zimmer’s words hit me hard. I had been so wrapped up in my own troubles, and also so resentful of the invaders, that I had never stopped to consider that not all of them were bad. Was I just as guilty as the Nazis of judging others by things they couldn’t control?

  “I am sorry about your son, Herr Zimmer,” I said. “And I’m sorry that you lost your home.”

  “Fräulein Krystia, when I look at you, I think of my son. I hope that strangers will treat him as an individual, and not by what they think he is.”

  As I walked home, I thought about our conversation. I couldn’t control that the Nazis considered me a “subhuman.” But what I could control was how I treated others.

  Only one good thing was happening. The identity papers that Uncle Ivan and Mr. Segal had created, transforming Jews into Ukrainians, seemed to be working. As Dolik and I sat on the front step during the warmer evenings, he’d whisper to me the names of those who had escaped. Some went on foot, disappearing into the mountains, while others would trot beside a slow-moving train in the wee hours of the morning and hop on when an open car rolled by. Knowing that the documents worked gave me hope, but it also made me wonder why Dolik didn’t try to leave. I knew for a fact that he and his brother both now possessed forged passports and that Doctor Mina had a false Kennkarte.

  “Mami feels that it’s safer for us here right now,” Dolik told me. “The war is all around us, so how could we truly escape? Why jump from the frying pan into the fire? Plus, it’s Mami’s responsibility as a doctor to stay and help.”

  Was Doctor Mina right? Maybe our false documents gave nothing more than false hope. I could also understand why she was reluctant to leave her patients. With the brutal work schedules, starvation, and violence directed against Jews in particular, she had been kept very busy.

  But deep in my heart, I felt that the false documents could make a difference. I continued to take Krasa to the pasture twice a day, and continued to transfer the photos and documents. Auntie Iryna usually brought the documents herself. She tried to come in the evening so Maria and I could see her in person. Like all of us, she had become thin, but she looked fierce with her hair braided tightly against her head and her blouse tucked into military trousers.

  Since most of our own milk was now confiscated, I could no longer use the ploy of daily milk deliveries to get any new documents to the Segals.

  It was Maria who came up with a solution. She took the packet from me and put it in her own pocket. “I’ll take them. I see Nathan every day when he’s finished work. No one should find that suspicious.”

  In addition to delivering the packets to Nathan, my sister also began getting up an hour early each morning to walk along the train tracks, searching for anything useful that might have fallen off the trains during the night. Mostly what she brought back were pieces of coal, but once she found a package of dried fruit that must have been dropped by a person escaping.

  My little sister was growing into a very brave person.

  Maria also lined up every day for the single piece of bread that our ration cards allowed each of us, but sometimes she’d come home with nothing. On other days, the bread she brought back would smell like something from the outhouse. At least we had a bit of milk and the occasional egg, plus the wild greens and roots that we foraged.

  But Dolik’s family had no chickens or cow. The Segals didn’t either. And Jewish ration cards provided even less bread than ours. There was a black market in food—Volksdeutsche who worked at the warehouse would steal from there and sell it back to the locals—but the prices were so high that only the wealthiest could afford it.

  Each day Dolik’s cheeks seemed to grow hollower—a combination of his starvation diet and the heavy labor he was forced to do.

  “You can’t go on this way,” I said to him one evening as we sat together on his front step. “There has to be a way to get more food.”

  “We have a little bit of money saved,” said Dolik. “But we can’t afford much when we buy food from the Volksdeutsche.”

  “What about buying it from farmers in the outlying areas who might have been able to hide some produce?”

  “There’s no way to get in touch with them,” he said. “This armband is a red flag to the Nazis. They watch our every movement.”

  “Maybe I can figure something out.”

  After that conversation, I visited Auntie Polina and told her of the problem.

  “We don’t have much food either,” she said. “The Nazis were thorough. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Auntie Polina set up a network of trusted farmers in the area, and among them they sold her the meager bits of food that they could spare—a bit of hard cheese from this one, sometimes a potato or two from that one, or a carrot from someone else. Then she’d meet me at the pasture. I paid her with money from the Segals and the Kitais. I also bought food for ourselves with the money we earned working at the Commandant’s, and while this was a cheaper method than buying on the black market, the money still didn’t go very far.

  “I wish I could just give this food to you instead of having to make you pay,” said Auntie Polina. “But the farmers need to buy seed to replace what was confiscated, or there will be no crops next year. And they have to repair the buildings and replace the tools that were stolen or destroyed by the armies.”

  “I know, Auntie,” I told her. “I appreciate all that you’re managing to do.” What I didn’t say is that I feared all of us would either starve or be killed if things continued as they were.

  When I walked home that morning with a pocket of false documents plus three potatoes in my blouse, I witnessed a man being beaten by the police for having potatoes.

  “If I find out you were giving these to Jews, I’ll come back and shoot you,” said the policeman as he hovered over the cowering man.

  I silently stepped past them, head down and heart pounding. Would the policemen catch me next?

  Once I got home and tethered Krasa, I collapsed into the corner of the shed and wept. What kind of person was I becoming that I could walk past a man being beaten and terrorized and only be glad that it wasn’t me? I took the documents out of my pocket and looked at each solemn face staring back at me. I hoped and prayed that my small acts of rebellion would make a difference, that some of these people would escape and that my neighbors wouldn’t starve. I took the potatoes out of my blouse and left one of them hidden behind a tin on the shelf. That would be our supper tonight. I would have to find the ideal time to sneak the second potato to Dolik. Maria would give the third to Nathan.

  I climbed up to the loft and looked through what we had stored there. Maybe I could find something to barter for food. Auntie Iryna’s plates and kitchen things were up there, but they were plain and worn and only of sentimental value. We had some jars of jam and pickles that we were saving for when Krasa’s milk went dry in the winter. And then I remembered the box Auntie Stefa had sent us from Toronto before the war. Had she sent something valuable to barter with? I brushed the straw off the top of the box and lifted the flaps.

  An opened envelope addressed to Mama sat on top. When I pulled out the folded letter, a
photograph fell out. It was a picture of Auntie Stefa, grinning, wearing a big coat with a fur-trimmed collar and standing on the steps of a modern building. She looked like Mama, except happy and well fed. I unfolded the letter and read:

  Kataryna—

  Eaton’s had these in their bargain bin and I couldn’t resist, so I bought the whole lot. Hope they’re useful. But why don’t you just come to Canada? I would be happy to sponsor you and your girls. There are plenty of jobs here for single women, plus Krystia and Maria would get the education they deserve! Think about it, won’t you, sweet pea?

  Love, your big sister Stefa

  I folded the letter around the photo and put them both back in the envelope. What would our lives be like now if we lived in Canada instead of Viteretz? We’d have enough to eat, and there would be no war happening all around us. And maybe I’d get a big coat to wear. It sounded almost like heaven. But Viteretz was home, and Tato was buried in the cemetery across the road. Even so, part of me wished we were all safe with Auntie Stefa and far away from the Commandant and his Nazis. If only I could snap my fingers and make it happen.

  I reached into the box to see what it was Auntie Stefa had got on sale. Flat packages of something wrapped in cellophane. I pulled one out and held it up to the light from the window. A package of ladies’ silk stockings? I pulled out the next package and the next. The entire box was filled with silk stockings. How utterly useless. What farmer would want stockings? I packed them all away and climbed back down the ladder.

  Something else that gnawed at me was Krasa’s pregnancy. Would we be punished for not disclosing that she would have a calf in the spring? As each day went by and her belly got more noticeable, I was sure we would be caught. How long did we have before a policeman noticed? They would take her away, that was for sure, but would they punish just me? Or Maria and Mama as well? Added to that, Krasa’s milk was drying up more quickly than we expected. It was going to be a very hungry winter.

  I shared my worries with Auntie Polina the next time she came to the pasture with potatoes. “I have a solution,” she said.

  The following day she met me at the pasture, a dull-eyed cow in tow. “This is Yasna,” she said. “Believe it or not, her name matched her personality when she was younger.”

  “I imagine you were very bright and pretty in your day,” I murmured to the old cow, scratching her between the ears. Then I asked Auntie Polina, “Why did you bring her here?”

  “We’ll trade,” said Auntie Polina. “I’ll keep Krasa over the winter. I’ve got enough good hay, and she can give birth in the country. The Commandant will be none the wiser.”

  “But didn’t Yasna stop giving milk long ago?” I asked. “We’ll starve without milk.”

  “Yes, Yasna is dry. And Krasa will be drying up soon. Lysa too. But I’ll make cheese and bring it when I can,” said Auntie Polina. “And in the spring, we can swap back. Take Yasna home. She’ll give you an excuse to come to the pasture to get produce from me until winter sets in. Plus, if anyone checks, you’ll still have your one allotted cow.”

  It was a good plan. I hugged Auntie Polina with all my strength. “Thank you.”

  These were small victories over the enemy—the extra food so our friends wouldn’t starve, and making sure we kept Krasa safe so we wouldn’t starve—but then the Commandant circulated another notice. It was a long and detailed one. Copies were nailed to posts and buildings all over town. Doctor Mina stood beside me as we read. She was a fast reader, so she summarized it: “They’re making all the Jews of Viteretz—or should I say Lebhaft—move out of their homes and crowd into this area.” She pointed at a map of the city. “They’re calling it the Jewish Ghetto.”

  The notice flapped in the wind. I held down the bottom to keep it still. Doctor Mina pointed to a grayed-out area. “That’s where we’re all supposed to move.”

  It was a bombed-out area in the oldest part of the town, between the boarded-up Old Synagogue and the town square. It used to have stores and a warehouse, but many of the buildings had fallen into disrepair even before the war. In the last two years, those buildings had been hit by artillery fire, so even the ones that still stood were not fit to live in. During the Soviet occupation, the ragged refugees who had followed the Soviets here would build campfires in the bombed-out rooms for warmth and cooking. When the Soviets fled, the refugees followed them, leaving rotting refuse and smoldering campfires in their wake. The area was uninhabitable, and it was also just two blocks long. There had to be more than a thousand Jews still in Viteretz. How could they all fit into such a tiny area?

  “When do you have to move?” I asked.

  “They’ve given us two weeks.”

  “Perhaps now is the time to escape,” I whispered to Doctor Mina. “All of you have your papers now.”

  “And where would we escape to, Krystia?” she asked, throwing her arms up. “There is no safe place for Jews to go. Besides, with the food restrictions and overwork, our people will need me more than ever.”

  And while I nodded my agreement, I felt like weeping. Yes, there was danger in escaping, but there was danger in staying too. Being in the ghetto would make them a sitting target.

  For the next two weeks, the mood of Viteretz was one of high frenzy. While most Jews were out on forced labor duty, Doctor Mina combed the area that would be the ghetto, looking for a suitable place to live.

  “We found a room,” Dolik told me finally. “It’s on the second floor of what used to be the sugar beet warehouse.”

  “The three of you will all be living in a single room?” I asked.

  Dolik shook his head. “That room is for us, plus the Segals—so six in one room. You wouldn’t believe what the owner is charging us. That’s why our two families have to rent it together.”

  The Commandant declared that each Jew was allowed to bring only a single suitcase into the ghetto. Anything left behind became property of the Reich.

  “I won’t be able to have a darkroom in the ghetto,” Mr. Segal confided to Mama.

  “But without your photographs,” Mama asked, “how can Ivan make the counterfeit documents?”

  “We’ll still have our cameras, but it’s a matter of developing the film.”

  “We’ll take your darkroom equipment to the insurgents’ bunker in the woods, then,” said Mama. “And Michael, you’ll have to write out very careful instructions on the developing process, so someone there can do it.”

  Doctor Mina’s single suitcase was stuffed with just food, essential medical supplies, and cash. Dolik’s and Leon’s suitcases were similarly packed. All three wore as many layers of clothing as they could, with winter coats on top and pockets stuffed full. Even so, they had to leave a lifetime of possessions behind.

  Doctor Mina sighed as we surveyed her second-floor office. “Look at how much of my medical supplies I’m losing.”

  Her office was larger than our entire small house, the shelves stuffed with hundreds of precious vials and bottles and boxes.

  “We could put some of it in our loft and try to bring it to you bit by bit,” said Mama. “But there will be so much left behind.”

  “Perhaps we should smash all this?” said Doctor Mina. “I don’t want the Nazis to get it.”

  “What about the insurgents?” I asked. “They surely have need of medical supplies.”

  Doctor Mina turned to me. “That’s a good idea.”

  The insurgents used the frenzy of the Jews’ house-swapping, packing, and moving to sneak box upon box from Doctor Mina’s office. Some of her supplies were stored in the church until Uncle Ivan could get them, and one box was put under our kitchen table. With a lot of subterfuge and a little bit of luck, a good portion of the precious medicines made it to the woods. One box of essential supplies stayed hidden in our loft.

  During the upheaval of the move to the ghetto, a handful of Jews with false documents escaped. Some headed to Germany, the eye of the storm, posing as Ukrainian slave laborers. Others fled to the wo
ods. But the Segals, like the Kitais, decided to stay: the Segals to help with the false documents in order to get more people out, and the Kitais so Doctor Mina could look after the sick and injured in the ghetto.

  No sooner had our friends moved into their cramped quarters than the houses their families had lived in for generations were occupied by our enemy. This was well and truly becoming a Nazi town, with our neighbors all replaced, except for the Zhuks next door and the priest and Anya across the road.

  Would the Nazis be watching us for unusual activity now? How would I transport documents and food without raising suspicion? And once there was snow on the ground, I would no longer be able to use the pretext of taking Yasna to pasture.

  With the closing of the ghetto gates, the Commandant decreed that Jews found outside the ghetto without permission would be shot on sight. Slavs who gave Jews food would be shot. And as if that wasn’t enough of a deterrent, the Nazis posted signs all over town claiming that contact with Jews could spread disease.

  By the beginning of December, barbed wire was installed around the entire two blocks that were now deemed the Jewish Ghetto. There was a single gated entry at the south end, patrolled by police. No one was allowed in or out without a specific reason and the proper papers.

  I hadn’t figured out how I was going to pass food and documents through to Dolik and Mr. Segal if I couldn’t get inside.

  I hoped that my routine looked innocent to my new Nazi neighbors. Usually by late fall I would still take the cow out of the shed for fresh air twice a day, but she would be eating hay from the loft by this time, not grass in the pasture. If there was snow or ice on the ground, we stayed close to home, because I couldn’t risk her slipping and breaking a leg. But this year, up until now I had still taken Yasna to the pasture twice a day so I could check for documents.