Sheva's Promise Page 11

  “He’s sleeping,” I said. “It must be out in front of the house.”

  We ran to the windows that faced the street, pulled aside the curtains—and there was our answer.

  A mass of people—some with bundles, some with children in their arms—trudged through the snow. The little children, mostly half-naked, hung their heads on their parents’ shoulders, clutching them desperately in fear. The people moved forward, some six or seven in a row, along the highway, slowly, step by step, without a word, showing no reaction. Only the weeping of the children broke the sudden silence. There were Gestapo men in helmets, high boots. Mrs. Krupka and I exchanged understanding glances. Words were futile. I hid my face in my hands and began to cry, lamenting loudly. She wept with me, but pushed me away from the window. “Go, go, Hania—don’t watch this. Don’t cry, please. I don’t want Janko to wake up and see this sight. He’s still too young . . .”

  But though she kept tugging at me, I could not tear myself away from the window. I didn’t care if someone saw me from the street. My repressed tears broke through, and I sobbed unrestrainedly. Mrs. Krupka put her arms about my shoulders, trying to comfort me. “Oh, how can God look upon this and remain silent!” she exclaimed. “They are being led like lambs to slaughter.”

  People had gathered along the sidewalks. They looked on from a safe distance at these thousands of condemned Jews, but the Gentiles did not care. I felt I wanted to go out and join their ranks—or, better, seize the gun from some Gestapo man’s hands and shoot him! Maybe I could kill one, maybe two of these monsters . . .

  Mrs. Krupka held on to me tightly and finally succeeded in pulling me away from the window. “Hania, you can’t help them. There are too many; they are armed. Some of them are leading police dogs with them. It’s simply impossible to do anything now!”

  Though I knew she was right, I got up from the bed and went back to the window as though drawn there by an irresistible magnet. The mass of people had receded into the distance. On the street below, there were the imprints of their feet in the snow. They were being driven to destruction, just as they were, barefooted, half-naked, in midwinter.

  This was the first time I had witnessed with my own eyes an akcja of my people. I had lived through two akcjas in Rohatyn; I had seen post facto the results of the massacres. But each time I had been in hiding. Now, however, this day, I had become an eyewitness. I shall never forget that scene to my dying moment. Will my mother and sister be such victims?

  Mr. Krupka returned at suppertime. He undoubtedly had heard about the akcja, for they were talking about something in hushed voices at the table while I was in the kitchen. I caught most of what was said. The akcja had not been confined to Brody, but had taken place in several other towns. Mr. Krupka was quite upset. In Zlochev, he had seen posters on buildings, notifying the populace that if anyone was caught harboring a Jew, he and his family would be punished by death. The same posters were in this town, Brody.

  Listening, I felt that the time had come for me to break away—but where could I go? They must want to be rid of me—I couldn’t blame them. I certainly did not want to be the cause of their deaths. No doubt they would have been shot in the central square, for an example to the rest of the townspeople.

  A few days later, the superintendent dropped by for a visit, and the main topic of conversation was the akcja. He was sure that there had been several thousand Jews taken from the ghetto and sent to Belzec to be cremated. He said that one family had wanted to pay him a large sum if he would hide them in his house, but he had been afraid. Now they were gone—dead! It was impossible to stop the superintendent from talking in a loud voice, and little Janko heard everything. It must have reminded him of the Jews he had just recently seen in the ghetto when I took him to the shoemaker . . .

  The next time I was dressing Janko, lacing his shoes—he sat on a chair, and I on a low stool before him—he looked at me very strangely. He looked and looked, narrowing his lids. I asked, “Why are you looking at me?” And then suddenly he threw a bombshell at me.

  “Hania, you know—you look very much like that Jewish girl, Sheva, who used to come to our house at Rohatyn. She knitted a sweater for me, just like you knitted for me last month. I remember it all now!”

  It was as though a bolt of lightning had struck me. And we had thought he was still too young to know the difference or to remember me from the past! Mrs. Krupka, standing nearby, turned to the boy, wagging a warning finger at him. “This is not Sheva, do you hear? This is Hania, Hania, Hania! And she is as Ukrainian as you and all of us are. You must not call her Sheva, you must not say she is Jewish! If ever you say that again, Daddy will punish you . . . If ever anyone heard you say that and told the Gestapo, we’d be shot!”

  The child’s face clouded up with sadness. He said, “I know. This is not Sheva. This is Hania. And I won’t say it again, for I mustn’t. Forgive me, Hania!” I only hoped that it would never happen again . . . and it never did happen again.

  The radio communiqués reported severe losses suffered by the German army at the front, and we knew they had had to mobilize new reinforcements, but that still did not mean the end of the war. We heard there was a shortage of laborers in Germany because more men were being called up to the front. Now they were recruiting laborers from the occupied countries. We heard through the radio how many of these laborers from occupied countries came voluntarily to Germany, because they were given wonderful working conditions and could live in luxury. Occupied Poland was no exception. Polish and Ukrainian youths were sent to Germany. At first they went willingly, but after a short time their families began to receive awful letters. The majority of these young people were sent to factories, mostly ammunition plants. They had to live in barracks, and living conditions were not up to their expectations. The pay was insignificant. Besides, the Germans—who looked upon themselves as being superior to every other nationality—regarded these imported laborers contemptuously. It was rumored that many returned if they could. At any rate, no one now went to Germany to work willingly. Soon the Germans began rounding up able-bodied people for work in Germany.

  The winter snows started to melt. Spring was not far distant now; the days grew warmer, tempting people to come out of their houses, stirring them to travel, to new enterprises, new life . . . For that matter, transportation had improved. Trains ran more regularly, and it was easier to go from town to town. Everyone seemed to be on the move, and now that Easter was drawing near there were many things to buy and sell—everyone needed something and went out to get it, whether it was food, or furnishings, or a new spring wardrobe.

  Olga soon returned for a visit, and she told me how she had managed to deliver my gift package to my sister. Describing her meeting with Rose, she said that my sister looked very thin; her clothes hung on her bony frame; she was sad, depressed, and missed me very much. Chills shook my body as I listened. Olga said that my sister’s large, blue eyes—now sunken into her wizened, fearful face—were her only recognizable feature. She had talked with Rose through the broken boards in the fence separating the ghetto from the Aryan quarter. “Hania, listen to me,” she said, seeing the impression her words had made, “you can’t save everybody. You must think of yourself. You must find yourself a better, safer hiding place than Brody.”

  I knew that. I wanted to leave—just as much as they all must have wanted me to leave. But where would I go?

  When Olga went back to Rohatyn a few days later, I did not give her anything to take to my mother and sister; not even a letter. I did not want to expose her to any further risks.

  One day, my work was interrupted by Mrs. Krupka, who handed me a letter that the mailman had just brought to the house. The letter was addressed to the Krupka family, but when she opened it she saw that it was for me. I jumped for joy, thinking it must contain good news. The letter was from Sal Kreisler, a much respected man in Rohatyn, who knew me well. He also knew about my plan for escaping from the ghetto. Now it appeared that he had rece
ived a letter from Srebrnik (whom he also knew) from Dnepropetrovsk, and he was sending it on to me, with a note from himself. The sender of the letter was some Pole from Rohatyn. Sal Kreisler mentioned in a discreet way that people generally were leaving town and that it would soon be quite empty. The letter contained the news that Srebrnik was working very hard, even during the deep frost and snow. Srebrnik said that he was expecting every day to hear from his friend, but he had not yet arrived . . . He would like to know, Srebrnik wrote, if he had changed his mind, and where he was now . . .

  I was very glad to receive this letter and to know that Srebrnik had reached his destination and was settled. (Later, after the war, I would see him in Israel.) On the other hand, the news that Hugo Goldberg had not arrived at Dnepropetrovsk was a blow. It seemed to corroborate the rumors I had heard that someone had been caught at Chodorow and shot. I felt sure that this must be Goldberg. Apparently he had been recognized—and killed! As the realization of this sank into my consciousness, I seemed to hear only his voice: “I want to share your birthdays in the future. Wait for me, Sheva!” I was still here, but Hugo was gone. He had saved me, he had helped me to leave, and now he was dead. I missed Hugo; we loved each other. I burned the letter, sobbing my heart out.

  Now that warmer days were here, I had to start thinking of getting an identity card that would enable me to go out of the house. I had to provide myself with legal and government papers, no matter what the danger or the cost. It would be impossible to remain within four walls once the summer came. It would certainly have looked suspicious in the eyes of the Krupkas’ newly made friends at Brody, and to people like the superintendent and the chauffeurs.

  A short time before Easter a letter came from Mr. Krupka’s younger brother, who was in the German army, informing them that he would come for the holidays. This was a new shock! I had known him in Rohatyn, though only slightly. He was an intelligent, mild-mannered man, but an ardent German patriot. How would he react to seeing me in their house now—a Jewish girl posing as a Christian? I’d have to lay my cards on the table; I could not turn away from the risk, nor could the family squirm out of the difficulty now. Husband and wife looked at each other in silence after reading his letter. What they may have said later, when I was out of the room, I don’t know—but I went through a small hell at that moment. I didn’t think he would report me right away, for it meant informing on his own brother’s family. But somehow, later on, he might find a way of reporting me without involving them directly—perhaps by claiming that they did not know that I was Jewish. What worried me more immediately, however, was that Mr. Krupka had had enough of me and my troubles! I could read from the expression on his face that I had long overstayed my welcome and that he would be glad to be rid of my presence in his home. No one would accuse him of lack of charity or hospitality—it was a case of self-preservation.

  The day of Mr. Krupka’s brother’s arrival finally came. As in a trance, I saw the door open and, behind it, Franko Krupka, wearing a German uniform. His brother was behind him—I could not see his face in the shadow of the entrance. But Franko Krupka was the same as I remembered him—slight of build, charming, and gracious of manner. My heart beat rapidly at the sight of him—perhaps not so much from fear but simply because of the strangeness of seeing a man with a gentle face wearing a German uniform.

  He entered the room with a deliberate step, greeting first his sister-in-law. Then he caught up little Janko and started to throw him playfully up to the ceiling, kissing and hugging the squealing child. Then he turned and shook hands with me. It would be a lie if I said that I did not feel a stranger in this family, or that I looked upon Franko Krupka’s uniform with anything but revulsion. Yet he greeted me with a tolerant smile, saying with formal politeness, “How do you do, Miss Hania?” His brother had given him my name.

  I forced myself to return his smile. After all, we had to take him into our confidence and ask his advice regarding my problem. My life depended upon him, as it would on so many others. Who could help me better than a man who was with the Germans—if only he were willing to help me? He was stationed with the Nazi army in Warsaw, and had connections.

  After the general conversation that the family enjoyed after dinner, and after Janko was put to bed, we began to discuss seriously ways of solving the Krupkas’ great problem: Hania. I showed him the birth certificate with the name of the Polish woman, Hanka Buczek, that I had adopted for my own. He read it carefully as I went to the closet and retrieved the coat in which I had traveled from Rohatyn to Brody. Franko raised his eyes and watched me with growing curiosity as I ripped away the lining back of the pocket and took out a passport—the passport that had served me during the Russian occupation. Mrs. Krupka looked at her husband and at Franko, then shattered the puzzled silence: “What does that girl have up her sleeve? She has not one, but two documents in her possession!”

  I handed the passport to Franko. He opened it slowly and read: “Ukrainian. Good!” But when he saw the name Bandera, he muttered to himself, “Oh, no!” Then, aloud, he continued, “Not this name.” He shook his head in protest and dismay.

  His brother echoed his amazement. “Where did this poor creature get such a name?”

  Mrs. Krupka laughed. “She has plenty of nerve!” The name of the famous Ukrainian leader, Stefan Bandera, was nothing to play with in any form. I had not chosen the name, but I was stuck with it. Franko examined the document a long while, marveling at the counterfeiter’s art in deleting my former name and writing in the adopted name so that the change could hardly be detected. “He’s a real professional! It’s past believing how he did it!” That was the unanimous opinion as the passport went from hand to hand. And yet, in spite of the perfect piece of deception, the passport was worthless because of the fatal name.

  “With such a name,” Franko said, “you have a good chance of going straight to jail. Go, take this fool passport and burn it up in the kitchen stove.”

  So I did. I threw my precious passport into the stove, lit a match, and watched the flame envelope it slowly. In a few minutes the name was nothing but a small heap of ashes. Returning to the room, I said, “The passport is burned . . . and I had had such great hopes, thinking it would be my best means of escape! I felt so much safer, having one extra document—like an ace up my sleeve. And now that is gone!”

  “You’re lucky that you didn’t try to register here on the basis of such a passport,” Franko said. “They would have arrested you at once, taking you to be some of Bandera’s kin, and then they would have discovered who you really are . . . Yes, your only possible solution at present is to pass yourself off as Hanka Buczek, a Pole, born in Ruda, county Rohatyn . . .” He was reading from the birth certificate before him. “There is a slight problem, because the real Hanka is much older than you.”

  “Yes,” I replied, thanking him for his advice, “there’s always some problem.”

  “Remember, when you go to register, dress up like a peasant girl and try to make yourself look older. Remember!” Franko looked across the table at his brother, as if to say, “Do you know what you have taken on yourself? Do you realize the danger you placed your family in by helping this Jewess?”

  I broke into the heavy silence. “And if they start asking me, as I heard from others that they do, who my grandfather and my great-grandfather were, and whether there were any Jews in my family ancestry, and if they telephone to Ruda and learn that Hanka Buczek is living there and I’m only a duplicate—what then?”

  “Then you’re done for . . . then you’ve really fallen into a trap. That is what this is all about!”

  “Oh, God—and then you, all of you, are lost!” I exclaimed.

  Again silence. No one could find anything to say. This was too serious a matter for a ready-made answer.

  Franko said suddenly, “Maybe if I could get some other document and send it to you . . . I’ll look around. But lately they have little confidence in anyone, even military personnel. Let me think abo
ut it.” He muttered, as if to himself, “Whom can I trust? I cannot trust anyone with this delicate matter—it’s too dangerous . . .

  “I am very tired,” he said, pushing his chair away from the table and getting up. Mrs. Krupka suggested coffee, but he did not want anything more. After a few words, we went to bed, though I suspect that no one slept very soundly that night.

  The tension in the Krupka household grew as the Easter holidays came and went. Mrs. Krupka’s nervous condition was bad; she could hardly control herself, though I tried to make things as comfortable as I could, taking most of the work off her hands.

  While I busied myself about the house, I listened to the radio. One day—it was April 19, 1943—the musical program was abruptly interrupted to bring news of the Jewish uprising in Warsaw. I could hardly believe my ears. “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed and held my breath, while the commentator told how a Jewish resistance organization had repulsed General Stroop and his men when they arrived at the ghetto. This communiqué about the uprising in the Warsaw ghetto shook me to the core of my being, and tears of joy streamed down my face. At the moment Mrs. Krupka and I were alone in the house; she looked at me and saw pride and happiness beaming in my countenance. “At last! At last!” I cried. “There are some brave souls willing to risk all for the cause of freedom. Kill the Nazis!”