Sheva's Promise Page 3

  I thanked him, and soon afterward I left the potato field, promising I’d return the next morning—though I was not really sure that I would. But how could I return home empty-handed? Gathering up the courage, I asked the farmer if he’d give me a small basket of potatoes so that we would have something to eat for supper. He agreed. We went to the farm buildings, and there he told me to take two basketfuls out of the silo—adding, on a generous impulse, a small loaf of bread. Blessing him, I turned homeward.

  Happiness filled my heart, so that I even forgot for a while who I was, and forgot the dangers on the road. The cold wind had whipped my cheeks to a burning redness, but that made me look all the more like a peasant girl, so that I did not attract attention from the passersby. When I approached the bridge that led to our ghetto, I saw in the distance a familiar silhouette. As I neared it, I recognized in the dusky light my mother, bent with cold and fear, waiting for me. When at last she saw me coming, she began to weep for joy. How relieved she was to see me safe—and not only that, but to see me carrying the fruits of my labors.

  “Give me one of the baskets, Shevele darling,” she insisted. When she realized how heavy it was, she wondered how I could have carried so much, so far.

  “Oh, I didn’t carry it,” I replied jokingly. “My arms did.” Mamma gave me a look. My gay mood must have seemed strange to her, I suppose.

  When we entered the ghetto, we walked more slowly and sighed with a feeling of relaxation, even as I put on my armband. Oddly, we thought ourselves safe, even in this danger-ridden ghetto, simply because our home was here. From a distance we could already see Rose looking out of the window, frightened and uneasy. When she saw us, she ran to open the door wide. Joy radiated from her blue eyes and her lips parted in a welcoming smile as she embraced us.

  “Oh, what a day this was!” Rose exclaimed over and over. “I did not know what to think could have happened to you. Look at your dirty hands, Sheva! They’re red and cracked from the cold. You’re not going back tomorrow; tomorrow you will find the work even harder.”

  Mother and Rosie joined in begging me not to go back to the potato field tomorrow, but I was tempted to earn a whole sack of potatoes—even though we already had enough for supper and for breakfast. The loaf of bread was a surprise for my mother; I had covered it with newspapers under the potatoes in the basket. When she emptied it, there was the bread! Mamma said, “Only Shevele knows how to provide for us,” and again her face was wet with happy tears. “We love you.”

  As the next few days passed, I began to find the work a bit easier. After three days in the fields, I had earned a sack of potatoes weighing one hundred kilos. This was a fortune for us! In normal times one could have bought such a sack for 1 zloty, but not now. My problem now was how to get these potatoes back into the ghetto. To carry them in baskets would take much too long—and we never knew what the next day would bring.

  Struck by an idea, I told the farmer that we owned a good Singer sewing machine that Mamma would willingly trade, and maybe also offer some bed linens or a piece of furniture, if he would come with me and talk to her and at the same time deliver the potatoes to our house. It was truly dangerous to venture with a farm wagon onto the streets of the ghetto, but the farmer agreed to deliver the sack of potatoes. Also, he told me that at a later date, he would bring us other food products in exchange for the sewing machine. And so it was that in a few days he came with a wagonload of corn, flour, some butter—and took the sewing machine away! Everything had to be arranged on schedule and was done quickly, for he would have been fined heavily if caught delivering foodstuffs to us—and we would have certainly been punished.

  With a grieving heart my poor mother gave away her prized possession. She always used to sew for us—negligees, pajamas, all sorts of things—but it was more important now to have something to eat. For a machine that once cost fifty dollars, we received food products worth about one dollar. However, this was not the time for sentimental feelings about one’s household treasures.

  The holy days came and went. There was always distressing news circulating in the ghetto. Now we heard that the Nazis were taking all Jewish men to labor in another city—and that these men never returned. Again, we heard that the Germans were demanding a contribution from the Jews in the ghetto—actually, a money ransom that we had to deposit in the Judenrat for the SS troops.

  Meanwhile, streams of Jews recently expelled from other towns and villages continued to flow into Rohatyn, having been ordered to live here. These people arrived hungry and in rags. No one knew where they could be housed; the Judenrat as well as the Jewish militia had to find a solution. We were now terribly overcrowded in the ghetto and we wondered what the reason could be for bringing us all together in such a way. We did not know the answer to this riddle—not yet.

  I spent my days knitting sweaters from skeins of wool that I still had from before the war. This is my favorite hobby—and for Christmas I knitted a sweater for Mrs. Krupka’s little son, Janko, who was then only about two and a half years old. The last time I had been to see Mrs. Krupka she had asked my advice on what to give her husband and their little boy for a Christmas present, and I had volunteered to knit sweaters for them. There was little time, so my sister and Mamma helped me with the knitting. By Christmas Eve, the two sweaters were finished and I ran over to deliver them, though it was night and I risked my life to keep my word. But Mrs. Krupka truly appreciated my efforts to please her. Out of the goodness of her heart, she packed a large bag of food for me to take home, for she knew how much we needed it. She was marvelous and I loved her.

  Whenever we could spare some food, we would take it over to my aunt’s house to share it with her son and grandchildren. My favorite cousin was Chaimek—whom I had loved from his infancy. When he was still only a baby, I used to stop on my way from school to play with him. My mother was always sewing or knitting things for him; the child practically grew up in our house, staying with us frequently, and was like our very own. Now, since my grandmother had come recently to live with us, he came even more often. He was a tall, thin lad of almost twelve, with a delicate and intelligent face.

  Winter had come and the earth was frozen hard under the deep drifts of snow. People came down with the grippe; from time to time we heard of one or another of the ghetto’s population dying from it. The older inhabitants of the ghetto had less resistance to hunger and cold, and they succumbed. Our grandmother became very ill and was confined to bed for over two months. We did whatever we could to help her and she lived with us. With considerable difficulty we summoned a doctor, but he said that in such circumstances he could not promise much. She developed pneumonia and on March 10, 1942, she died.

  At such moments one always recalls the good deeds of the deceased, and I, too, remembered how good Grandma had always been to us. Grandmother never could rest until she had checked to see that her grandchildren were safely home and in bed before her. When we were small she used to live only a few streets away, and whenever she came to our house she always brought us chocolates. For each good report card I used to get a present from Grandma; once it was a real watch, once a lovely bookcase, and most often a gift of money.

  Now, on this cold March morning, we followed Grandma to her last resting place in the cemetery. Mother and her two sisters sat at home for seven days, the traditional Shivah mourning period. Our house was filled with a great sadness.

  The loss of our dear Grandma, our family’s first victim in the ghetto, was only the beginning. Little did we know what different kinds of death the future held in store; all we could feel was sorrow because of our loss. Our only diversion was to visit relatives, and have them come see us. I remember as though it were yesterday how my mother asked Chaimek to come eat with us, after our period of mourning was over; she even wanted him to sleep in Grandma’s bed. I remember it was March 19, and Mamma made pierogi especially for Chaimek because he liked them so much, though she had only potatoes to fill them with. We all sat down to eat
, and then Chaimek took a nap. Although it was still early, he was exhausted from his lack of sleep the preceding night. Fear of the Germans, constant listening for their sudden raids, made us all nervous and afraid.

  When evening approached, we wanted to keep him with us overnight, but Chaimek, fresh from his nap, refused to stay. The boy insisted he must be with his parents at night, so he started to get dressed. I gave him my pullover sweater and warm woolen socks. He kissed my mother goodbye, and Rose and I went out to see him home safely. At the door he turned back to thank Mamma. “Auntie Gitel,” he said, “those were delicious pierogi. I would like to come back tomorrow to eat the rest of them. You are a better cook than my mother!”

  Laughing at his childish remark, Mamma packed up a few of the pierogi so that he could take them home and share them with his family; his sister’s children particularly would be glad to have something nice for supper.

  Chaimek had no foreboding that there would be no tomorrow for him; that he was kissing his aunt and cousins for the last time; that this was to be his last meal. None of us had the slightest premonition. On the way back, Rose and I stopped to see my friend Liba Teichman who lived nearby, but we stayed only a few minutes because it was late and we were not allowed to be out at night. Taking leave of Liba, we hastened home. We did not know that it would be our last visit to her; that the next morning her house would stand empty, without a living soul, and that Liba, my childhood companion, along with her whole family and thousands of other Jews from Rohatyn would be laying in the bottom of a mass grave.

  * * *

  1. Akcja, from German Aktion, refers to the roundup of Jews, followed by their extermination on sight, in ghettos, or in a concentration or death camp.

  2

  The First Akcja

  THE MORNING OF MARCH 20, 1942, dawned cold and icy. The people in the ghetto were still abed when, at about six o’clock, we were awakened by loud shouting. At first the voices seemed quite distant, but soon they came nearer; we could hear the crying of children amid the noise of pistol shots. Mamma, Rosie, and I jumped out of bed and ran to the windows. I saw a helmeted German soldier with a gun in his hand, leading one of our neighbors by the beard. My sister, looking out of the other window, cried out, “They’re shooting the people!”

  Nervous spasms shook my body. Quickly, I threw a coat over my pajamas, and in house slippers I ran to the outhouse in the rear yard, calling them, “Run, hide yourselves!”

  My sister, seeing me flee, ran after me. She rapped on the door of the privy, thinking that I meant to hide there, but it was too late to explain. The shouts and shots were heard on all sides. We shook as in a fever. It was too crowded in the privy and too dangerous for both of us to remain. I told Rose that I would leave. “Don’t lock the door after me,” I said.

  “Where are you going?”

  But there was no time to answer. In any case, I didn’t know where I would go, except that I would try to leave the ghetto. Rose still tried to detain me. “I’m sorry for you,” she said, “they will kill you.” She caught hold of my hand, but I pulled it away and ran.

  I heard shots close behind me, but I didn’t look back. I ran and ran, until I felt the cold bite into my bones and my legs felt stiff, but I kept on running. I was afraid to stop. When I found myself outside the ghetto, I turned in the direction of the Krupka’s house. Maybe they would take me in . . . I burst into their house like a bomb. There was no one in sight except their servant woman, who was scrubbing the kitchen floor. Realizing that there was not a moment to lose, I snatched the brush out of her hands, tore the kerchief from her head and tied it around my own, telling her to busy herself with something else while I started to wash the floor on my knees. If the Gestapo happened to be looking in all the houses for escaped Jews, they would not recognize me . . .

  The servant thought that I had gone mad. She waved her arms, utterly confused, but I had no time to waste on explanations. “Just do as I say!” I repeated, sternly.

  Before long, another Jew, an acquaintance of the Krupkas, also came in, seeking a hiding place. He started to tell the servant what was going on in the ghetto, but at that moment Mr. Krupka entered, pale with fear. Standing on the threshold, he took in the situation with a glance. Here I was, in pajamas under my coat, scouring the floor; there was this other Jew, obviously seeking refuge. He looked inquiringly at the servant, but she only shook her head from side to side, as if trying to justify herself.

  “For God’s sake!” Mr. Krupka exclaimed. “Do you want to bring misfortune to this house? The Germans are searching everywhere. If they find us sheltering escaped Jews, they will punish us or kill us most likely. Go, hide yourself in the yard, in the latrine, or in the barn. I don’t have to be responsible for what goes on outside my house, but if you stay in my house the Germans will kill me along with you.”

  The other Jew went out—I don’t know where. I also left, and kept on running straight ahead, still wearing the kerchief over my head. Behind the Krupkas’ home was a school that I had to pass if I was to continue. I heard someone shouting, “There’s a girl wearing a coat over her pajamas, running away!” But I kept on, without looking back. I passed the suburb of Babince and neared the village of Kutce. I felt that my forehead was burning like fire; I could scarcely catch my breath. In the distance I saw a small hut and decided to try to reach it before my legs gave way. With each moment I felt weaker and weaker, but now I was near the house. Suddenly, I slipped on the icy ground, fell, and blacked out.

  I don’t know how long I lay there unconscious. When I opened my eyes I saw a peasant woman standing over me. She spoke in Ukrainian, which I understood perfectly.

  “You are sent from God, and I will help you.”

  I stared at her, uncomprehending. What had happened?

  She helped me get up and took me to her home. As soon as we were inside, she began to prepare warm food for me, saying, “I had a dream last night that a great calamity befell the entire country. Then I saw a young girl, like an angel, in a white kerchief, who asked me to help her. Just now I was looking out of the window because I heard shooting in the distance. And I saw you, just like the angel in my dream, only you were lying on the icy ground in front of my house. God must have wanted me to aid you. I will save you, because you are sent from Heaven.”

  I listened to all of this, hardly believing my own ears. There was a whirring noise in my head. Here I was, among strangers, a runaway from the akcja, and they—these strangers—wanted to help me! It surely must be a divine miracle!

  The peasant woman stood near me, praying. Now I noticed a little child creeping along the floor of the hut, from one end of the room to the other. A baby girl, maybe a year old; unable to talk, but constantly smiling at me.

  The man of the house came in. He stood in the doorway, looking at his wife and then at me through narrowed eyes, as if unable to take in what he saw. At last his wife broke the heavy silence.

  “See, here she is. I told you about my dream last night—and it came true! She’s wearing the same white kerchief . . .”

  Again, the farmer observed me thoughtfully. Then he nodded his head. “Yes, we must save her because she was sent by God, and she is holy.”

  These events left me so shaken that I too began to believe in the dream and to call it a miracle from God. Seated by the table, waiting for the food to be heated, I saw through the window two uniformed Ukrainian policemen with rifles slung over their shoulders, and two Gestapo men in helmets—and a small boy who was indicating to them the house in which I had taken refuge. My heart began to pound, and without much thought I jumped to the ledge above the kitchen stove and hid myself behind some burlap bags that were piled there. In peasant cottages, kitchen stoves have vent-hoods with a pipe that leads to the chimney, and this is where I crouched. It all happened so quickly that my hosts, their backs turned to where I was seated, did not notice.

  Almost immediately, I heard a knocking at the door, growing louder and louder. The peasant�
�s wife opened the door and I heard a man’s voice: “This boy told us that there is a Jewess hiding here. We know she was wearing pajamas and a green coat.”

  The woman looked around and, not seeing me at the table, thought that I had run away and disappeared again. “What? There is no one here,” she finally said. “Look for yourselves. We’re not hiding anyone.”

  The policemen translated this to the Germans, brokenly, but they began to search the house anyway. They looked under the bed, in the closet, even inside the bedclothes. The woman insisted they were not hiding anyone, and her husband, too, swore that there was no one here.

  Meanwhile, I was beginning to feel the heat of the stove, and the burlap bags were suffocating me. To make matters worse, the woman nervously kept throwing more wood into the stove. I thought, if they don’t go away soon, I’ll be burned alive here in these rags . . . The baby continued to crawl upon the floor. Then it began to cry, so one of the policemen picked it up and sat down with the child on his lap. Talking and amusing themselves with the baby, the men stayed on for something like half an hour. The peasants offered coffee and bread with butter, but they refused; perhaps they thought that they had already wasted enough time that could have been used to hunt down and kill escaped Jews. Anyway, they apologized to the peasants and left. I still feared to leave my hiding place, for I could not be certain whether they would return. The voices of the peasant couple drifted up to me.

  The woman said, “I told you it was a divine apparition. How could she disappear so suddenly?”

  The man replied, “You must have a talk with the priest and say a prayer in church on Sunday.”

  Finally, after a long time, I crawled out of the vent-hood, unable to bear the heat of the stove any longer. They looked at me, incredulously, and then at each other, making the sign of the cross.