Sheva's Promise Page 2

  Everything was done in a hurry. The room we were allotted was in a two-family house not far from a church that stood on the borderline of the newly organized ghetto, and so, though our quarters were hardly comfortable, we found ourselves at the very center of rumors and activity. After these orders were issued, the Germans formed a Jewish police and a Jewish council (the Judenrat), at the head of which stood the former leader of the Jewish community. A young fellow was elected chief of the Jewish police. He was energetic, bold, and somewhat callous—qualities that were indispensable in his position, for no one who was sensitive or had any qualms whatsoever could have carried out the orders that were given him. The Jewish communal police and the council were quartered in a large building, from which they were to govern the ghetto. The Judenrat had to see to it that the ghetto was kept clean, that the people should not walk on streets forbidden to them, that people were delivered to work—in a word, they had to do everything to please the authorities. Otherwise, we would be punished, even for the smallest and most insignificant transgression of German orders. And the Ukrainians were worse than the Germans.

  Now we were confronted with the problem of getting work to supply us with the necessities of life. The Jewish militia began to recruit men and women for compulsory labor. The women were assigned to clean offices, schools, and other public buildings. Each job had its supervisor—often Ukrainian—and each supervisor had the right to beat, kick, or abuse anyone he disliked. We received our food supplies from the Judenrat. We no longer had any dreams of getting sugar or butter—these were unattainable luxuries; we were happy with a loaf of bread. Everyone tried on his own to obtain some small extras by begging or buying them from friendly Poles or Ukrainians. Besides our usual population of around ten thousand Rohatyn Jews, the ghetto was soon further swelled by a large number of so-called refugees who had come in from various other towns. These newcomers found living conditions here even worse than we did, for they had few friends among the townspeople and they were already exhausted and impoverished because of their wanderings since the beginning of the war. Consequently, they became the first victims of the hunt for compulsory laborers, as they had no people to shield them; they were strangers in our midst. In other times the sight of their emaciated faces and their despair would have filled us with pity, but we could now think only of our own survival.

  Officially, no Jew could leave the ghetto, except those who were sent to work outside. To distinguish us from what the Germans—and soon we too—called the “Aryan” population, every Jew had to wear a wide sleeve band of white cloth emblazoned with a blue Star of David. These bands were worn on the left arm above the elbow. We grown-ups understood why, but it was difficult to explain to the children why they had to be decorated in this manner—they could not understand why they were any different from other human beings.

  My personal problem was to discover how to walk out of the ghetto and into the Aryan section. With a Jewish armband on my sleeve, it would have been impossible. Though the ghetto was not yet completely sealed off, one had to have a foolhardy kind of courage in order to venture beyond the gates. But when hunger twisted our entrails, I found the strength and the daring to try it. I could no longer bear the sight of my mother’s and sister’s pale, wasted faces. Once having successfully stepped out of the confines of the ghetto, I began to go almost every day to visit people I knew outside—mostly Ukrainians. Very often I would return home, discouraged and sad, with no results from my dangerous venture; but from time to time I succeeded in bringing home a whole loaf of bread, or even some butter or cheese! On such occasions my mother, seeing from the window the happy expression on my face as I returned, ran to open the door. “Shevele, what would we ever do without you!” she exclaimed tearfully. “God grant you, my darling Shevele, such courage that you may continue to make your way in life!”

  There was a little boy, Izio Horn, whom I used to tutor when I was a student before the war. His father had a bakery, which now supplied bread to the Judenrat. Izio remembered and appreciated the help I had given him in school, and on several occasions he brought loaves of freshly baked bread to our house. It touched me deeply, and one day I went to thank his mother. With tears in her eyes, she said, “No one had to tell him to do this. He stands by the oven and as soon as the bread is baked he grabs a loaf, saying ‘This is for my former teacher.’” “I am proud of your son,” I said. “And I am proud of my pupil.” I loved Izio for his thoughtfulness.

  Occasionally my mother wanted to go out of the ghetto, but we forbade her doing so. In spite of her Aryan features, she might have been caught—and she would not have been able to squirm out of a bad situation as well as I, who was young, quick-witted, and always had everything planned in advance and would know what to say if the authorities caught me.

  Even in this miserable ghetto, where each day seemed like a week and each night was like a year, Rose, my shy, easy-going, and unassuming sister, used to say to Mamma, “I don’t care if they give us just a little food, or if they send us to hard labor, if only they will let us stay together—if only they will not torture us . . .” My sister Rose had blonde hair and blue eyes. We did our best to comfort and reassure her. Thus our days and nights passed in gray monotony. Mother tried to keep busy, cleaning the place just as in normal times. “Always,” she used to say, “we must sleep in a clean bed, and the food we eat must be served on clean plates. We cannot give in to despair. Every war brings changes. Each one of us has a role to perform.”

  We keenly felt our tragic situation—we saw very well what we could expect—but we had to go on living and hoping. What else could we do? And so, in order to be able to go on, we tried to help each other. My job was to get food supplies and to obtain news from the town. My mother’s was to keep our little family together. And my sister—it was my sister’s job to cry over every beggar who knocked at our door and pleaded for a bit of warm food. Actually, these were not real beggars; mostly they were refugees who came to Rohatyn in 1939, displaced persons who could not take much with them when they fled. Now, in rags, after two years of poverty, they took on the appearance of professional beggars, worn out with hunger. Some of them were highly educated people who, before the war, had occupied high positions—but now they were broken, homeless, and impoverished. My sister had a heart full of pity for them. If one of the beggars had the luck to come to our house just before dinner, Rose would always say right away that she was not hungry and would give her share to him! She would say, “Mamma, look how awfully thin he is! He must have been without food for several days. I have had my breakfast this morning, I’m not hungry.” And thus the beggar would get her plate of hot soup, or whatever we were having. Not only did Rose do without food to aid those less fortunate, but she often went without sleep, trying to find an explanation for why God allowed us to suffer as we did; after all, she reasoned, we did not harm anyone. Yet she could not find a satisfactory answer. Rose could not reconcile herself to this injustice. In time, it became apparent that she was terribly afraid. She grew thinner from day to day; her dresses just hung upon her bony frame. And her guileless blue eyes became larger and deeper with the fear that lurked within them—it was as though fear was devouring her physically as well as morally.

  Whenever I could, I went out of the ghetto to sell something or to barter for food from the Christian population. Among the Gentiles, I knew a few Ukrainian people, and in particular a family named Krupka. I frequently went to visit them with the idea of exchanging some item in our possession for bread. I liked these fine people and they received me very hospitably, always offering me some refreshment or a meal depending on the time of day I called. (Through a false sense of pride I usually thanked them and did not accept the food, though it made my mouth water just to see it on the table.) If I sold something to them, they paid me fairly to the last zloty of its value, or if they could not pay immediately they would pay me a few days later. They never let me feel that I had no rights now, or that by being Jewish I was to b
e despised, and in this they belonged to a tiny minority.

  Outside the ghetto lived another family I knew, that of the lawyer Babink. During the Russian occupation Mr. Babink, an attorney, was not allowed to practice law, but taught school in a village nearby. I remembered that I had once been able to procure an anode battery for his radio, not an easy task in those days. It had been good to see the gratitude in his eyes when I gave it to him, and he assured me, “Miss Sheva, I’ll never forget your great kindness. Whenever you need anything, come to me.”

  Well, why not visit the Babink family now? Surely, they would not throw me out, and maybe they would like to barter with me for food? And indeed, when I called on the family one afternoon, they were very kind to me, and gave me some bread and potatoes.

  Difficult as life had become for us, we had to go on living. When the Judenrat summoned us to work, we girls did not let our mother go but went, by turns, in her place. Frequently there were alarming rumors about an impending akcja1—a purge of the ghetto by the Germans. Then we hastily put on as much clothing as we could, ready to run at any moment. But the akcjas didn’t occur. And, as the days went on, more and more refugees flowed into our town from various villages and smaller towns. The ghetto was filled to overflowing, and there was now no place where we could get food. Perhaps once every few weeks, the Judenrat issued a loaf of bread per person. Problems mounted on problems.

  Eventually, after what seemed like years, the holy days approached—Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. The rainy season began, the cold rains of autumn, bringing the discomfort of deeply mired streets. There wasn’t enough wood to heat our apartment. The days were gray and dismal. Mother once remarked sadly that the supply of potatoes was dwindling rapidly—and there was no flour left at all. We had no alternative but to organize our energies and do something once again.

  I finally decided to go again to the marketplace outside the ghetto. On the way I summoned sufficient courage to remove my armband. There were usually many Germans and Ukrainians at the market, and as a Jewess, I had no right to be there. Going from one village vendor to the other, I looked into the women’s faces, wondering if I might meet someone who knew me. Many people from the villages used to come to the Knigokultur bookshop I used to work in, and they all knew me. Perhaps I could exchange something for food? It was no longer a matter of some small household item; I thought of bartering a piece of furniture, or linens, or pillows—anything. We needed wood for fuel most urgently; it was impossible to remain through the winter in an unheated house, and mother had to have fire to cook something. Finally I met a few villagers whom I recognized. Some talked to me, but others dared not show they knew me for fear of the Germans. Suddenly I noticed a farmer whom I knew, standing by his wagon. I approached him confidently, for I was not bashful by nature, yet I would have to weigh each word in talking with him. I would have to be brief, and yet I would have to explain our desperate situation to him in hopes that he would take pity. He heard me out and nodded his head; he knew of our plight. And yet he said that he could sell us nothing. As I turned sadly away, however, he called me back and asked if I wanted to come out to the village and work a few days in the fields. When he added that I could earn a hundred-kilo sack of potatoes, I couldn’t believe my ears. Naturally, I was overjoyed. Only those who had to live in a ghetto would appreciate what a treasure that was, to be able to obtain an entire sack of potatoes . . . I accepted his offer gratefully, and he explained how I could get to his farm on the following day.

  As I walked home, I dreamed of the wonderful things that my clever mother would make from this anticipated bounty—potato dumplings, latki, potato soup, baked potatoes. And, of course, we would give a few to our neighbors as a treat! And I couldn’t forget our aunts and cousins! I rushed into the house, my face beaming with joy, and rattled off my good news. My mother, however, was not favorably impressed. Even Rose said that I should not be allowed to go dig potatoes on a farm. “Mamma, don’t let Sheva take that job,” she exclaimed. “They will turn her over to the Germans and they’ll kill her. I’d rather starve than see her go there!” But I explained to Rose that it was useless to sit at home, doing nothing but moaning. We had to have food to keep alive, and we had to fight for it, if necessary.

  I could hardly wait for morning to come. I arose very early, put on a full-skirted peasant-style dress, tied a kerchief on my head, pulled on a coarse jacket—and when I looked in a mirror I hardly recognized myself. Poor Mother sighed and prayed incessantly. I tried to turn the adventure into a joke, saying, “Mamma, I must be your husband now, and it’s my responsibility as head of this family to provide for you and Rose!” Feeling like the brave heroine of a melodrama, I left the house in high spirits. When I turned around in the street to wave to her, I saw my mother standing in the window, sadly shaking her head.

  I had to go a long way to reach the farm, which lay outside the village of Zaluze. I had to cross the small bridge over a river from the side where, nearby, the Rohatyn ghetto ended. My best friend, Liba Teichman, lived near this bridge and I had to pass her house. It was still dark; the sun had not yet come up. I thought, If I were to knock on her door, perhaps Liba would accompany me to the village, but I did not want to wake her family and alarm them needlessly. Passing her house, I could not help but reminisce about the many times that I visited with her; how we spent happy hours in her garden, laughing with our school friends, and how often we used to meet boys on the bridge, flirting and taking snapshots of each other.

  Beyond the bridge I removed my armband and went ahead, quietly, calmly, seeing no one. My feet slipped in the miry road and the walking became more difficult; my shoes were soon coated thickly with mud. As I neared the village, I began to meet people, and they greeted me with the traditional words, “May Jesus Christ be praised!” I answered them with a smile and continued on my way.

  Again my thoughts turned to breakfast at the farmhouse, for I was growing hungry. Would I get something to eat? I had not let my mother prepare anything for me before I left home, as it was so early. I hoped I’d get pierogi—a kind of small pie filled with potatoes or other delicious things.

  The farmer and his wife were already waiting for me. They gave me hot coffee and as much bread as I wanted to eat. It was wonderful! They asked me not to talk to the other workers and to keep my kerchief drawn down about my face so that no one would recognize me. I promised to be careful.

  We went out to the fields together. Now I was thinking only of food; that I must work quickly, earn the potatoes, and bring them home as soon as possible. I knew that my mother was worried about me, but it was now too late to turn back. I must work through the whole day, and perhaps even several days, if all went well. The holy days were coming and we had to eat decently.

  Bent over the clods of earth, I gathered the potatoes. A strong, cold wind was blowing. My back began to ache, but I did not complain aloud. I gritted my teeth and kept on digging. From time to time, some of the other workers, Ukrainians, would say something—about the war, about the Jews. Their words cut me sharper than the wind. My face was burning, my knees hurt, but their remarks hurt more, and they added to my physical misery.

  I could hardly wait for the noonday pause. I felt that if I did not get some rest, I would faint. My strength was already depleted by my recent experiences. It seemed I could lie down in the mud and sleep for several hours—or maybe forever. Such a life was not worth living. Why was it a curse to have been born a Jew? Was it my fault? What was my crime? Why did these people think themselves better than Jews? I felt like crying, crying loud and long; perhaps somewhere in this world someone would hear me and help.

  I recalled the words of the Russian woman who had worked with me in the Knigokultur bookshop. “Sheva,” she had said, “come with me, away from here. The Germans are like animals; they hate the Jews.” Now, it occurred to me that maybe I should have run away. But again, why should I? After all, I wasn’t a Communist. Neither I, nor my mother, nor Rose, had done anything again
st the Germans—so what could they hold against us?

  At last, a moment’s respite! I saw the farmer’s daughter coming toward us, carrying a large basin from which a tantalizing vapor rose. Umm, I thought, maybe it will be my favorite, pierogi—anyway, it will be something warm and I’ll be strengthened and refreshed. Maybe the afternoon’s work will go more easily.

  It wasn’t pierogi, but rather rice with hot milk, bread, and coffee. Each one of us received a large bowl of rice, as much as we wanted, and a piece of bread. I wished I could immediately share my meal with my loved ones at home, but it was a futile thought. I swallowed the food voraciously, even though the rice burned my tongue and lips; I was afraid that someone would find it strange to see me eating so rapidly, but I could not control my eagerness for food. At last, having satisfied my hunger, I rested a bit and went back to work. Many thoughts came to my mind as I bent over the field. Oh, God—what changes have occurred in my life! There was a time, not so long ago, when we lived like human beings, went wherever we wished, freely. Now we were slaves . . .

  The afternoon dragged slowly. Would the evening ever come? As the sun sank lower over the horizon, I felt the cold creeping into my bones, but I consoled myself with the thought that soon I’d be going home. The farmer must have seen the weariness in my face, for, with a pitying smile, he whispered, “It won’t be long now and you will be going home. I don’t want to have you stay until it’s dark, for it is dangerous to walk alone at night.”