Sheva's Promise Read online

  It was only when we met again after the war that Mrs. Krupka, the angel, told me that she had noticed the bandages on my legs, but had pretended not to notice so as not to add to my worries. “You had trouble enough without that,” she said, “and you must have been made of iron to survive . . . But I always believed that God must have had some special reason for wanting you to live, and I tried to help you all I could.”

  From that time on, she relieved me of my work in the kitchen so as to spare my hands—and no doubt for hygienic reasons, too. Mrs. Krupka was meticulously clean about the house and rather particular. She joked about my being too elegant to be her servant, and that I ought to have a maid for myself!

  One day she said to me, “Hania, my husband told me that it’s time we should have you registered at city hall. It’s the law that a person has to register after three days in a new location; otherwise there’s a fine.” And I had already been there a month!

  I knew about that, of course, but tried to evade the duty of registering—I just didn’t have the courage to go to the city hall or to the police to report my residence. “I—I think it’s still too cold,” I stammered. “Maybe after the holidays . . .”

  She smiled knowingly. “Oh, you poor child. It’s hard to let go, and hard to hold on, isn’t it?”

  In general we tried to avoid touching upon dangerous topics in our daily conversation, because Janko, who was a very bright child, quickly caught on to our words and plied us with constant questions. We feared that he might repeat what we had said when others were around. He was inquisitive about my origin, where I came from, whether I was related to them, why I didn’t go with them to their church on Sunday, where my parents were, and so forth. Endless questions . . . The child was too smart!

  I was eagerly counting the days to Christmas and to the arrival of Olga, Mr. Krupka’s sister. When Mrs. Krupka wrote her the last time, I asked her to say, “If possible, bring greetings to Hania.” Olga knew about my escape and she was intelligent, so she must have guessed that we meant for her to bring news about my mother and sister. I hadn’t heard anything since leaving Rohatyn.

  Olga arrived at last, fashionably dressed as always. She had graceful legs and her whole appearance was very chic.

  “Hania!” she called out on seeing me. She knew from her sister-in-law’s letters that this was my new name. It still sounded strangely in my ears—but I preferred to be called Hanka Buczek rather than Maria Bandera, the other name I could have assumed. Olga brought presents for everyone, especially toys for Janko.

  The house was filled with a holiday atmosphere and gaiety. At the dinner table, Olga had to tell her brother all about their mutual friends in Rohatyn and the latest town news—who had what position now, who had been dismissed, who had been arrested, and so forth. Olga’s pleasant voice filled the room and Mr. Krupka and his family listened avidly. Mrs. Krupka, sensing my impatience, gave me signs that she would get Olga to talk to me privately, soon. But I had to wait until Janko had gone to bed and was safely asleep, out of the way. Finally, Olga came to my room—she was going to sleep in my bed tonight and I on the floor in the kitchen. She began to tell me how the ghetto had come to look. She lived nearby and wherever she went she had to pass near the ghetto, so she saw and heard everything that went on there. Gentiles knew what was going on even before it happened. She told me that on December 8, there had been another akcja. The Germans took nearly two thousand people to Belzec.

  “This is the third akcja!” I exclaimed in horror. “How many more can they organize? There can’t be many Jews left in the ghetto.”

  “That’s true,” Olga said. “Even though they have secret shelters, the Jews are running out of food and water. Most of the people in the ghetto are sick with typhus—they are without doctors, without medicines . . . Life is getting worse each day, and it’s even harder now to escape.”

  “What do the people say?” I asked. “Do they predict the end?” Olga nodded. I could read the answer in her face—words were unnecessary. I thought, Maybe I should return to the ghetto? Maybe I could be of some help? I might be able to get Mamma and Rose out and into some safer place; I just couldn’t let them stay there and die . . .

  Olga continued, “Be glad you have such a refuge, Hania. Frankly, I am surprised that my brother and sister-in-law agreed to take the risk. You know how dangerous it is to harbor a Jew. I see even now they go around like persons under sentence of death—and no wonder! But if you return to the ghetto now, you’ll never get out again. The ghetto is surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence and the Ukrainian police stand on guard continuously, day and night. Whoever tries to escape gets shot on sight.”

  This, then, was the end. Olga looked at me with surprise; I didn’t know I had spoken my thoughts aloud. I added hastily, “I don’t mean the end of the war, but the end of the Jews in the ghetto.”

  “I understand,” she said and fell silent.

  I recalled my mother’s last words: “If you survive, don’t forget what happened to us.” Her words will forever remain in my mind; the sound of her voice still reverberates in my ears. Oh, yes! I did not escape just to save my own life or to better my own condition, but to bear witness to their sufferings—the agony of my people.

  After a while, Mrs. Krupka joined us. The house was quiet; Janko and his grandmother were sleeping. Mr. Krupka had had to go on a trip to Lvov; he traveled there rather frequently.

  Olga told me that my mother was very depressed, resigned, and was awaiting death any day. She said that after the December 8 akcja, now everyone had the end in sight.

  “How do my mother and sister look?” I asked.

  “How do they look?” Olga repeated—but did not give me any answer. She went on to say that my mother was afraid that I might be recognized as a Jewess, because she had heard that a fellow was caught in Chodorow posing as an Aryan—she was sure it was Hugo Goldberg . . . I cried bitterly. I remembered Hugo saying, “Wait for me . . .” As I listened to Olga, I wondered if Goldberg was dead—and thought about the fact that this could happen to me as well. And even as my mother and sister knew that they too were facing death any day, they were still worried about me.

  Mrs. Krupka stroked my hair, saying, “Let’s stop this talk. I think it will be all right. You fought off your sickness like a tigress, and you’re alive. There’s a purpose in that, you’ll see. But I’m afraid Janko is beginning to suspect something strange is going on here.”

  “Dear God!” Olga’s voice was filled with anxiety. “A nosy child can be very dangerous. And Janko is too smart for his three years. Now when the guests come for Christmas, somebody can readily recognize Hania, if they see her in this house.” Mrs. Krupka interrupted. “We’ve planned for that emergency already. Our superintendent’s daughter will be our waitress.”

  “But perhaps I could help,” I said, “if I wore a white cap and apron, like a French maid. I’d like to see how people live and enjoy a good time, to forget even for a few hours . . .”

  “See, Olga, what a little devil she is! She’d have the nerve to serve at the table with policemen, Gestapo, and SS men sitting there as guests!”

  “I have a soul made of steel!”

  “Oh, go to sleep now!” Mrs. Krupka told me. “You know what she suggested to my husband? She wanted him to give her a job in his office! What do you think we are doing, playing with the Germans?”

  Hmm, I thought . . . If I’m Hania, if I’m free, if I’m supposed to be a Christian girl, why can’t I live and act like a free person?

  The preparations for the Christmas feast went on; the air was filled with the aroma of cooking and baking. After dinner, Mr. Krupka returned, stamping the snow off his boots and energetically shaking it off his coat. He was lively and talkative after the ride in the sleigh from the station, but when he saw me his expression changed. I was a symbol of danger . . . In Lvov he had heard about various cases like mine. With each day the Jews found themselves in an increasingly precarious situation. Having me
in his house was like having a bomb that could explode any day and wipe out his entire family. I could sense his feelings, but I understood perfectly. It was a great responsibility he had taken upon himself.

  The next morning, I helped set the tables and clean the silver. Everybody had a job to do around the house. When Mr. Krupka came home from the office, he started to arrange the vodka bottles and liqueurs. Finally, there was the last-minute flurry to get dressed before the guests started to arrive. I ate and was told to be off to bed right away. So I went to bed and they closed the door.

  Janko did not miss his chance to ask a question. “Why is Hania in bed?”

  “Because she’s not well,” his grandmother replied.

  “That’s strange. Ever since she came here she’s been sick all the time. Why do you keep her? Why don’t you get another girl?”

  “Don’t you like Hania?”

  “Yes, I do. I love Hania. But she’s sick too much.”

  He said it so sweetly that it was impossible to be angry. His grandmother gave him a hug and a kiss and a fond pat on the behind. He stood off from me, knowing that whenever I was sick he must not come too close. But how I would have liked to hug him, too!

  Soon I heard the guests coming. I heard the doors opened and shut. There were the usual loud exclamations and greetings, and “Heil, Hitler!” I raised myself and peeked through the keyhole. The ladies went to the adjoining room to fix their makeup, laughing and talking all the while. I recognized the superintendent’s daughter, tall, thin, nice-looking. They had outfitted her in a white apron and a frill of white lace on her dark hair. A pretty maid! I was filled with jealousy and tempted to get out of bed. I’d have looked even prettier in a maid’s uniform, I thought childishly, and I was younger. I’d comb my long hair up in a sweep off the back of my neck. I’d receive many compliments without a doubt! In these imaginings I sought a bit of satisfaction for my hurt feelings. But I knew they’d never let me come out to meet the guests.

  And anyway, who were these guests that I foolishly wanted to serve? Mostly Germans and policemen—SS, Gestapo, and Ukrainian murderers. Suddenly I realized how silly I was to want to go out there and share in their merrymaking. I felt my blood pressure rise. As I squirmed in the bed, restlessly, I heard Mr. Krupka’s voice; he seemed nervous and excited. From time to time, I heard the sound of heavy boots, and the hated salute: Heil, Hitler! Loud voices were talking in German. Even the Ukrainian police spoke German, though with broken accents. The flow of guests seemed endless.

  My heart pounded like a hammer. I thought: What an ironic coincidence! In one room, the German authorities, the Gestapo—and here, in the adjoining room, a Jewish girl. Under the same roof, the haters and the hated! I did not hear many women’s voices—mostly men, laughing loud, then singing. From time to time little Janko’s treble piped above the rest. Oh, if only he wouldn’t get the idea of looking into my room! But I supposed his mother and granny watched him sternly.

  It must have been quite late when the door creaked open and Mrs. Krupka entered my room. “Hania, are you asleep?”

  “No. I couldn’t fall asleep.”

  “You don’t know how lucky it is that you’re hiding here . . .”

  “Why?” I knew there must be some special reason.

  “When I saw who came with one of the Gestapo, my heart almost stopped beating,” Mrs. Krupka said. “You remember Nechaika from Rohatyn?”

  “Dear God, I can’t believe it!” I exclaimed.

  “Yes. She told me that he’s her friend and that he brought her with him to Brody. We need her in Brody like we need the cholera!”

  “Which one of the Nechaika sisters are you talking about?”

  “The one who used to work in the grocery store.”

  “What!” I almost screamed. “That one knows me very well. Her store was close to the bookshop where I worked during the Soviet occupation.”

  “Now, you see, she has a better job—being a Gestapo’s mistress. You ought to see the rings she wears and the bracelets! She looks elegant. But sleep now, Hania. And don’t dream of leaving this room tonight! You know, that Nechaika woman has spoiled the whole party for me,” Mrs. Krupka admitted. “Even my husband and Olga and their mother just stared, speechless, when they saw her come in. I was terrified that Janko might say something that would give you away! But fortunately, he was a good boy . . .”

  Mrs. Krupka went back to the party. After hours of drinking, at last I heard the guests saying farewell. Things quieted down again in the house, and shortly afterward Olga and her mother came into my bedroom, bursting with the news about the Nechaika girl.

  The next morning, when the family assembled for breakfast, I noticed that Mr. Krupka looked displeased about something. I could not begin a conversation with him because Janko was present. Later, as they were getting ready to go to church, Mrs. Krupka told the child that I was not going with them because I had to help the cleaning woman. He was bursting with questions, as usual, but this explanation had to satisfy him. By the time they returned from church, their mood was happier and the frown of anxiety was no longer on Mr. Krupka’s face. Perhaps he had found comfort in prayer.

  On New Year’s Day we slept late, but in the afternoon various friends dropped in to wish a happy new year. The superintendent and his daughter were among the first to come. There were also two chauffeurs who only recently had started to work under Mr. Krupka—one, a dark-haired fellow with flashing black eyes, the other, blond and tall—both young Ukrainians. They had heard that there was a young Ukrainian girl at the Krupka house named Hania, and today they would have an opportunity to meet her!

  After they departed, Mrs. Krupka joked about it. “Hania, that dark-haired one was making eyes at you! And no wonder; any young buck would find you agreeable to look at. But he doesn’t know that you wouldn’t go out with him—not even to a movie.”

  “He’s a nice boy,” I said, “but I have enough troubles for now.”

  When Olga went back to Rohatyn she took a lot of food and other goods. She also took, at my request, a large loaf of bread and a few bars of soap for my mother and sister Rose. Olga reminded me that it was next to impossible for her to get inside the ghetto now; she would be afraid to try it, though perhaps she could reach them through the broken wires in the fence or through some other crack in the wall surrounding the ghetto.

  For days afterward, my heart skipped a beat every time the mailman came to the house. The Krupkas were also anxious to have news from Olga, for they feared that she might be stopped on the way with all the foodstuffs she had along; the Germans were very strict with food speculators. But at last a letter came! I tried to contain my curiosity until the family had had a chance to read it, but when Mrs. Krupka started to read it a small note fell out of the envelope. She picked up the paper, glanced at it and handed it over to me. “This is for you, Hania, from your family.”

  I snatched the paper eagerly from her and nervously began to read, the tears streaming down my face.

  “Is it bad news?”

  “No, neither good nor bad. It’s just as I expected,” I said. “If you wish, I’ll read it aloud.”

  Dear Hania, We received the things you sent us. Thank you very much. The soap especially is a great luxury. Take care of yourself. Don’t go out, because we know there has been much snow and it’s terribly cold . . . We hear that there is an epidemic of influenza everywhere and many people are dying from it. We also had a hard winter, and we don’t go anywhere. We are bored with staying home all the time. Remember, you are most precious to us. We dream of being with you again. We’d like to go to see you, if it were possible. We miss you very much. We are hoping for the day when we can be reunited. All the time I am consoling Mamma (Rose writes) but she cannot accept her fate with resignation. Because it’s difficult to obtain remedies, we fear that our wishes will remain only fancies.

  Enjoy good health, and don’t forget us!

  Your loving Mother and Sister

  Whe
n I finished reading, Mrs. Krupka took the note from my hands and read it again to herself. Her expression was full of sympathy and sorrow. She returned the paper to me and I reread it, etching every word on my memory, in my heart . . . and then I broke into loud lamentations.

  The days passed slowly. The little bit of news we got from radio and newspaper was disquieting. There were days when I felt so miserable that I’d have gone out into the street just to be caught and put under arrest. I had had enough of this hiding and pretending . . . Now that Janko’s grandmother had also left, I went out for walks with him more frequently. Once I even went with him to the ghetto section of Brody—it was not sealed off here as in Rohatyn. I could not find a shoemaker on the Aryan side who had time to fix Janko’s little boots, so Mrs. Krupka told me to go to the ghetto. It also gave me a chance to observe conditions there; perhaps even hear some news. While waiting for the shoes to be repaired, two Jews were holding a conversation in loud voices. Their speech sounded strange in my ears, though I knew Yiddish quite well. The entire surroundings seemed strange to me now, and I wondered how they could stand living in such poverty. At that moment I felt glad that I had escaped from such a life.

  Now I could fully appreciate my good fortune in being able to live in the Krupkas’ home—which, in comparison with what I had seen in the ghetto, seemed like a palace. As soon as I entered it, I was enveloped in the fragrance of good food. The place was clean, neatly furnished, and comfortably warm. It was a wonderful place for me to hide from the storm! Filled with a humble sense of gratitude, I worked more willingly. If only to live through the winter . . . The spring might bring some change—perhaps even the end of the war!

  Then came an incident that I shall never forget. One morning very early, I started the fire in the kitchen stove and went about preparing breakfast. Mr. Krupka had gone to the town of Zlochev the day before, so nobody was yet stirring in the house. Suddenly I seemed to hear the cries of children—not one child, but many, many children. And then the sound of shooting. At first I thought that I must be imagining it, but the cries became louder and nearer. Very quietly, I opened the door to Janko’s room. He was sleeping soundly. I returned to the kitchen and again I heard those cries . . . I went out on the balcony that led to the yard; the sounds were louder there, of course, but I could see nothing. When I came back inside, Mrs. Krupka entered the kitchen, looking as though she had just awakened from a deep but frightening sleep. Terror was reflected in her eyes and her mouth trembled. She asked, “Hania, do you hear something—or did I dream it? The crying of children, the shots . . . Where’s Janko?”