Sheva's Promise Page 12

  I stood by the radio set as though paralyzed, listening intently. The uprising had been met with firm resistance; Germans in all their might were devastating the ghetto, while awaiting still greater reinforcements. But at least my people would die with honor, as heroes. Oh, how I wanted to be there with them! Oh, God, how willingly I would have joined their ranks! Great God of our fathers, give them strength, help them . . . and bring peace back to a suffering world . . . show that You have not forgotten us entirely . . .

  One evening the superintendent came by, excited and pale. He told us that there was a terrible commotion in town: It was said that the Germans were going to liquidate the ghetto in Brody, and that they were also going to search every house in the Aryan quarter for Jews hiding in Gentile homes. We listened gravely, but we had heard such news too often before to panic. When the superintendent left, we began discussing what to do. If there was an inspection, I must not be found in their house!

  After much deliberation, it was decided that I could hide in the provision store owned by a friend of theirs. The lady had gone to Lvov for the holidays and she planned to stay there for some time afterward, so before leaving she had given Mrs. Krupka the key and had asked her to feed her pet cat and to keep an eye on things while she was gone. That would be an ideal place to hide me . . . In case of an inspection, I would have to say that I had climbed in through a window, thus incriminating no one but myself. Olga had come back to Brody for the holidays, and she went with me to the house that night. When we entered, I had the impression that I was in a prison: the three small rooms were cold, the cement floors were frigid and hard. Along the walls hung coils of sausages (kielbasa), smoked hams, other meats—dried or smoked—and rows of knives and other cutting tools, butcher’s cleavers and saws, and various machines for grinding or preserving meats.

  There was a small cot in one room, covered with a blanket. Olga said that sometimes when a workman or guard stayed late, he would be allowed to sleep on the cot. She did not stay long in that dismal place, which smelled of blood and spicy brine. She said that she was going to padlock the door from the outside and would return in the morning.

  I thanked her, and listened to the receding sound of her quick steps in the corridor outside. Quickly I extinguished the lamp, and completely dressed I crawled under the blanket—it was as cold as a layer of ice—and lay on the narrow cot, my teeth chattering from fear as well as cold. It was completely quiet; only the cat meowed pitifully from time to time, scratching itself.

  There I was, trying to sleep even if only for an hour—but sleep would not come. When my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I could make out the outlines of the knives and cutting tools that hung upon the wall. I remembered Olga’s words: “Hania, this war will go on for a long time. Every day becomes more and more dangerous. What are you going to do with yourself? Brody is no longer a safe town for you to hide. Where do you plan to go?”

  In the morning, when I heard the key turn in the lock, a wave of fear flooded my heart before I remembered that Olga was supposed to come, to bring me my breakfast and milk for the cat. Indeed, there she was—and the cat was already rubbing against her legs. She sat on the edge of the cot next to me and we talked. I was supposed to stay there during the day and, if things remained quiet in town, she would come for me in the evening and take me back to the Krupka’s house. I told her that now I really would try to obtain an identification card and go away somewhere. Too many people knew about me by this time, and Brody was no longer safe. Olga added that she too had noticed that her brother’s nerves were frayed—whenever anyone called from the police or city hall on routine business, he almost jumped for fear that he had been caught sheltering me.

  It was now only a matter of a few weeks, I felt, until I would have to leave Brody for the unknown. I was appalled at the prospect, but I had no choice. Either I went away, or the Krupka family stood in constant danger of discovery and death. But where to go?

  That evening, returning to the Krupka household, I must have looked miserable. Mrs. Krupka gave me one look and said, “Oh, you poor dear! Come here, let me comfort you.” She put her arms around me and led me to my corner in the kitchen, but would not let me do any work, insisting that I rest and sleep.

  Olga and Mr. Krupka left right after Easter, and the house was quiet. A horse-faced German woman—a friend of Mrs. Krupka’s who sometimes dropped in for a visit—came by one day to say farewell, for she was being transferred to Lvov where she had been offered a better position with a higher rank. Mrs. Krupka ran into the kitchen where I was preparing coffee and whispered the news to me.

  “Get her address in Lvov,” I said. Mrs. Krupka nodded her head; she understood fully what I had in mind. A while later I heard her voice in the living room, as she said to the German: “Our Hania would like so much to go to Lvov!”

  The German woman replied that she would be glad to help me find a job if I ever went there. When she left, she left her address and promised to write as soon as she was settled. I thought, This might be the place for me to go.

  I wondered if Mr. Franko Krupka would keep his promise to write as soon as he arrived in Warsaw. The Jewish ghetto was still fighting, according to reports received through the radio. At first it was thought that the Jewish uprising would last only a few days, but with God’s help they still seemed to hold on valiantly. Whatever the outcome, I must provide myself with identity papers. Franko had stressed the importance of this, and I realized that even a day’s delay could be catastrophic.

  The nervous Krupkas finally decided to buy a dog to protect us while Mr. Krupka was at work. It wasn’t a big dog, but it could bark with authority. They called him Zeze and he soon made himself a member of the family, our constant companion, and Janko’s beloved pet. Zeze was a black, short-haired mongrel, but he at once sensed that he was to be our protector. Now, when we went out for short walks with Janko, Zeze always went with us. The child needed fresh air. He liked the dog so much that he no longer questioned why I did not go with them to church on Sundays; he wanted me to stay home and take care of Zeze so the puppy would not be lonely.

  Lying in bed one night, I realized that I had to shake myself of my dangerous sense of relative comfort and security. I decided that tomorrow I must obtain a work card and then a Kennkarte, to legalize my presence in Brody. Right after breakfast the next morning I went to the city hall to apply for a work card. On the way I prayed that I would not be recognized as a Jewess. I had looked into the mirror carefully that morning, trying to see whether my features could pass as Gentile. I thought so, but my opinion was not the final word. It depended on luck, or on the sharp eyes and wits of the clerk at the desk. All I had to support my claim that I was a Polish girl was the birth certificate—it was such a flimsy bit of paper! Walking along the street, I felt so lost, so strange, as though I belonged to another world entirely.

  When I entered the building, I walked directly up to a table where a secretary was writing. She spoke to me, first in German, then in Polish. I told her why I was there, and she motioned for me to go to another desk. There, a Ukrainian girl took my birth certificate and examined it. My eyes did not leave her face for a moment. In answer to her question, I told her where I was employed as a servant, and I also asked for a food rationing card.

  When she heard the Krupka name, she smiled wryly, for she knew that no one under their roof had need of a ration card; they had plenty of food. But she said nothing about that. Taking some forms, she started asking more questions. If my heart had wings it would have taken flight from fear at that moment! For one of the questions was: Is anyone in your family, even remotely, a Jew?

  “No, no!” I shook my head.

  She looked at me queerly, but kept on writing. I hoped my face was not red. I had never lied so brazenly before—though I soon would become a professional liar. I thought this questioning would never end. I wanted so much to go out and get a breath of fresh air! I seemed to be burning up inside. I heard people coming into
the room, passing through, but I never looked around, even when I heard them give the Nazi salute, “Heil, Hitler!”

  At last, she finished writing and asked me to sign the form. I did so rather clumsily, for a servant girl was not supposed to be proficient at writing. I also tried to hide the fact that my hands were too well-cared-for for a girl in my humble position. Slowly, I scrawled “Hania Buczek.” It was a strange feeling—I had never signed that name before, but I might as well get used to it now. The clerk returned the birth certificate, looking at me closely and, I thought, rather suspiciously. For it was rare for someone in Poland not to have more than just a birth certificate as proof of identity. She told me that I was to bring in two photographs of myself; then I would be sent to the police to be fingerprinted for my Kennkarte. Meanwhile, she handed me a food ration card.

  I thanked her in Polish and left. I could hardly believe that the so-called examination was over! My papers would now be sent to the Land-kommissar, mayor, for his signature.

  A few days later, after I had gathered my wits for another excursion, I set out for the photo studio. On my way, I saw large notices pasted on the walls of the buildings, reading—in German, Ukrainian, and Polish—WHOEVER HARBORS A JEW WITH FALSIFIED PAPERS FACES THE THREAT OF EXECUTION. These posters shouted at me, mocked me, and made me shake with horror and indignation. I saw people pausing to read these notices. Apparently they must have been put up only recently.

  I felt my knees giving way under me, but I went ahead. I knew the photographer was Ukrainian, so when I reached his shop I spoke to him in his own tongue. When he posed me and told me to smile, I tried very earnestly to smile—for I did not want the picture to betray my suffering and sadness. He asked me to return for the pictures in a couple of days; he was too busy, he said, to finish them the same day. There was nothing I could do or say to change his mind.

  A few days later, I mustered up courage to go back for my photographs. I walked along the streets, confidently and almost cheerfully. My elation was short-lived, however. When I opened the door to the studio, I was suddenly paralyzed with fear—for behind the counter stood the Nechaika girl from Rohatyn, who had come to the Krupka’s party. We faced each other for an electric second. I could see by her expression that she was no less surprised to see me than I was to see her. Her eyes searched mine, then fell to my sleeve—she saw that I was not wearing the armband that all Jews had to wear. She seemed to be alone in the establishment; I saw no one else. Without a word, on an impulse, I turned around and fled as fast as my legs could carry me! I ran and ran . . . It must have looked suspicious, but I felt that I must run away from Nechaika—as far away as I could! I did not look back to see if she was following me, but I ran through the winding, twisting streets, covering my trail. Before long I was “home.” Climbing the stairs slowly, I wondered if I should break the news to Mrs. Krupka at once. As soon as she opened the door for me, she asked: “Have you got the photos, Hania?”

  “They weren’t ready yet,” I lied. I tried to avoid her gaze and busied myself about some work, but the rest of the day I was tormented by the dreadful thought that Nechaika might give my photograph to the newspapers . . . Perhaps she had already guessed with whom I was staying? It would incriminate the whole family, and it was all my fault!

  I could not touch any food at dinnertime. I heard Mrs. Krupka tell her husband that I had gone for the pictures but that they were not yet ready. He did not seem to believe it. No, I thought, I can’t hold it a secret any longer. When I cleared the table, I told Mrs. Krupka that I had something very important to tell them.

  “Very well,” she said, “I’ll tell my husband not to go out. Wait till I send Janko into his room to play with the dog.”

  Though I felt that the words were choking me, I told them what had happened in the photographer’s studio. I omitted no detail. Mr. Krupka and his wife exchanged despairing looks. He said in a hollow voice, “This is a tragedy! And now they have her photographs!”

  “Yes,” she echoed, “that’s all we needed! It’s the end of the world! We knew that Nechaika had recently come to Brody to live and that she was working evenings as a cashier in the cinema, but we didn’t want to upset you, Hania, so we kept quiet. But now she knows you are here, and by putting two and two together, she must guess that you are staying with us. Oh, what a misfortune! Oh, my poor Janko—why must the innocent child suffer because of our folly!”

  “Not only the child,” Mr. Krupka exclaimed. “We all will suffer.”

  I was quick to stop him. “I am leaving Brody tonight.”

  “But where will you go?”

  “I don’t know, but I am going to pack this minute; I’ll just take a few most needed things—and go.”

  “But you have no papers,” Mr. Krupka said.

  “I know. But I am going, anyway,” I said bravely. “I can risk my life, but I cannot put you in danger any longer. I must leave tonight! In case of a police investigation I must not be found here.”

  “But you have given our names and address at the police station when you went to register.”

  “Yes, but I could have done that without your knowledge. Your signatures are not on my application form. As long as they don’t find me in your house, they cannot hold you responsible. And if my picture appears in the newspapers, and if I’m caught, only I will be punished—only I will be shot. I am ready for anything.”

  “Let me get you a ticket,” Mr. Krupka said. “But—to what city?”

  “I’ll go to Lvov.”

  “Go, Jarema,” Mrs. Krupka urged her husband, “go, get her the ticket and find out when the train leaves. Let it be the late train. Then get the superintendent to come with the wagon to take her to the station. Oh, God! God, be merciful to us!” Mrs. Krupka started crying.

  After he left, Mrs. Krupka turned to me and said, “Hania, why did this damned Nechaika come here? Maybe she wouldn’t inform on you, but can we be sure of that? We can’t take that risk in these times and circumstances.”

  “Life is like a nightmare,” I replied. “It’s lasting much too long to suit me.” I went into my room and took my suitcase out of the closet. Little Janko came in and saw me packing.

  “Where are you going, Hania?” he piped, curious as usual.

  We told him that I was going to see my mother; that I had received news that she had suddenly fallen ill and needed me. We used the same excuse for the superintendent when he called for me later that evening.

  Mrs. Krupka seemed to be more nervous about all this than I. By nature, she was the worrying type and was easily upset. She went from room to room, looking for something to give me. She kept bringing me various items, adding them to my modest possessions—a silk nightgown, some toilet soap, things like that. She also prepared a food package containing ham, sausages, and loaves of bread—she tried to coax me to take it, as though I were really going home to visit my mother. She folded her hands as though in prayer and looked at me sadly. “Hania, when you started packing I couldn’t help but think—it’s almost six months since we took you into our family. We did not conceal anything from you ever; we had complete confidence in you. Do you suppose that today I can see you go away without my heart breaking? Can I let you go into the unknown?”

  “That doesn’t depend on you,” I replied. “That’s how it has to be. You have saved my life, you nursed me through an attack of typhus, and I am deeply grateful. But circumstances are such that now there is no alternative. I must go and leave my fate in God’s hands.”

  She seemed to be listening to her own thoughts, not hearing what I said. “Hania, if you at least had some definite place to go, even to spend a night or two before you leave to go away still further into the world. I’ll give you my sister’s address—she lives in Lvov, on 12 Piekarska Street. Here, write it down. She will take you in, I’m sure, for she is kind-hearted, like me. Although, on the other hand, they may also be afraid of the Germans . . . But you take this package of food for her, as a pretext. The rest will
be up to you. I have faith in you. The rest is in your hands.”

  I put my arms around Mrs. Krupka and kissed her. We could not hold back our bitter tears. It was hard to believe that all this was really happening.

  I took only my summer clothes and what I was wearing for the trip. I would carry my brown sport coat over my arms, in case it was cold at night in the train. I carefully rewrapped the small bundle with the jewelry that Mother had given me. Mrs. Krupka put away my winter clothing, saying that she would send it to me wherever I was next winter. I did not even reply to that; I was not planning so far ahead.

  The rest of that evening a pall of sadness descended on the house. We were so preoccupied with our problems that we did not hear or see what was going on just a few streets away. Only when Mr. Krupka came with the ticket for me did we learn that the ghetto in Brody was being liquidated. “What a time Hania has picked for going away!” he exclaimed testily. “The entire railway station is filled with Gestapo men. I got her a ticket for the train that leaves at two in the morning, but how she will be able to get on it without being caught, I don’t know. Everybody is being examined. They expect many Jews will try to escape from the ghetto. And she doesn’t even have papers!”

  “I have a birth certificate,” I threw in, “so at least they will know that I was born some place!” Whatever might happen, I decided that I would go. I took the ticket and thanked Mr. Krupka.

  Little Janko broke into our conversation. “Hania, when will you return? Come back soon,” he said, with tears in his large brown eyes. “Come back as soon as you can.” And he cried.

  Ah, what a night that was! Though darkness fell at last, no one thought of food or sleep. Now we could hear shots coming more frequently from the direction of the ghetto. Fear chilled our bones. I felt as though I had fallen into a quicksand that would engulf me completely. If I must die, I thought, let it come quickly, without torture . . .