Sheva's Promise Page 5

  Just before I entered our house I heard loud noises coming from within, and when I opened the door to our apartment there was the Wieners’ son-in-law, Shloma Handschau, with his five-year-old son, Nuchem.

  “We know everything already,” Mother said, tears rolling down her face, as she broke into Shloma’s torrent of talk. I saw Rose had also been crying. I caught up little Nuchem in my arms; his lovely blond hair fell in ringlets upon his forehead. Handschau went on talking, ignoring the interruption, telling us that he and little Nuchem had taken refuge with some Catholic people he knew and had hidden in a barn until the akcja was over. And it wrung our hearts to hear little Nuchem say, “I have no Mamma, no Grandma, no Grandpa anymore; even Chaimek is dead. They all got shot, with guns. Why did they shoot them? Why?”

  I watched my mother’s sad, brown eyes fill with pain and resignation; I saw her suffering for us, for everyone. She said, “Now we have a picture of our future. Now we see what some people had feared. The fear had not been unfounded. They were wiser than we; they foresaw what would happen. But in one thing they were wrong, for they thought that the women would be spared. But here they kill not only women but children, little children who don’t even know who or what they are, children who might someday grow into useful citizens—whom even they could train to be whatever they wanted. They murder these children.”

  Soon afterward my aunt Sara came to our house with Handschau’s younger son in her arms. She was pale, exhausted, with the tragedy of the akcja written in her face. At the sight of her, none of us could say a word. She was glad, of course, that we were alive and safe, but she also could find no words to express it. And the child’s big, blue eyes stared out of the tiny, frightened face as though, somehow, he understood everything.

  At last, Aunt Sara opened her mouth to speak. “What will happen now?” She echoed the question everyone had in mind. Looking at the two little children, she said, “And what will happen to those kids?” We could not answer.

  After Handschau’s family left, we received news that my father’s brothers and their families had survived the akcja. But my best friend Liba, along with her family, had been shot and thrown into the mass grave. Our neighbor, Yoyne Nemeth, gave us a clear picture of how the people had been gathered in the marketplace, loaded on trucks, and taken to the common graves to be shot. They had been packed so tightly that many had panicked, lost their senses, and began to laugh hysterically, screaming and tearing their hair. Many perished before they got to the place of execution. Many young girls had first been stripped and tortured and beaten before they died, while their parents had had to look on while the Nazi soldiers made fun of them. Though Nemeth told us so much, we felt that there were things we would never know fully. They were impossible to describe, too horrible to tell.

  People outside of the ghetto, Nemeth said, looked on while all this was going on, but no one raised a voice of protest. And he had also witnessed many of the local Gentiles assisting the Nazis in their action against the Jews.

  We sat silently. Who knew what was still waiting for us? Perhaps we should have envied those who were already dead: they were finished with all this brutality and terror. My mother sat and listened, sadly shaking her head. Having two young daughters, she feared for us.

  3

  The Face of Hate

  WITH THIS TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE still fresh in their minds, those who were left alive in the ghetto—there were over two thousand—had sufficient reason to dwell in mortal fear of repercussions. Most of the people did not undress to go to bed and were afraid to fall asleep, sitting instead in readiness for any emergency, all night, night after night. How long could one go on like this? We had to devise some plan of mutual assistance.

  At last the neighbors got together and decided to take turns keeping watch outside our homes. A member from each family would be assigned a time to stand guard and in case of any suspicious noise or movement, they would alarm the entire neighborhood. These “sentries” were changed every few hours.

  The second step was to find a hiding place in which to build a shelter in the event of another akcja, which could take place any day. This was quite a serious problem. Meanwhile, of course, our stomachs demanded food, and we needed wood to cook by and to heat our homes with.

  Though more than three thousand men, women, and children had been killed, the Germans brought in other Jews from surrounding towns and thrust them into our ghetto. These people had been forbidden to take anything with them, save what they had on their persons—which usually amounted to only a few rags of clothing, and perhaps diseases or lice. As if we hadn’t enough misery, enough mouths to feed up until this time, our situation was worsened by the arrival of these newcomers. But these horrible sights and all our forebodings were nothing before the imperious demands of our empty stomachs. Generally, the people on the Aryan side of town were growing more and more reluctant to exchange food for other articles of value. And the reason was obvious: Why should they barter with us when they could wait for another akcja to take whatever they pleased? All they had to do was wait. The next akcja seemed to be hanging in the air, ready to strike at us any day.

  I could remain not disillusioned only in my friends, the Babinks and the Krupkas. Whenever I went to see them, they always helped me with whatever they could. And each time I brought something home, my mother would bless them. Truly, this was the only source from which the fountain of mercy flowed for us. From time to time I went to the marketplace without my armband and tried to barter an angora sweater or other woolen things that I had made, or possibly my sister Rose’s beautiful handiwork, for a few potatoes, beets, or carrots. And this was at the risk of my life—not only for the attempt to barter, but for removing my armband. I could not make many such trips, especially when I began to see large signs in store windows: IT IS FORBIDDEN FOR JEWS AND DOGS TO ENTER HERE.

  Besides this fear for our lives and our constant hunger, there was not a day that the German storm troopers did not make some demands of us. For example, they ordered the Judenrat to form a hospital in the ghetto immediately. The hospital had to be filled with patients and fully staffed. As for patients, those were not hard to find; but who would want to go to such a hospital? At the moment, however, it was easier to find patients than beds and bedding.

  And where were we to find such supplies if not from the poor, oppressed people of the ghetto? I was chosen, among others, by the Judenrat to assist in this collection, since they claimed that people liked and had confidence in me and that I had the ability to work effectively on such a project. There were several of us engaged in this work: Yoyne Nemeth, who lived in the same house as us, his daughter Tyla; Mrs. Kleinwaks and her daughters; and my sister and I. Our task was to collect the needed pillows, sheets, and towels; Nemeth, with someone else’s help, carried the metal beds. The people gave, because they knew that if the order was not carried out they would get, instead of the hospital, an akcja.

  When furnished, the hospital rapidly filled up with patients. Some did not have to be asked to come; they were carried in, no longer able to walk. Then the Germans came, and not a soul stirred in the streets for fear of being shot. While the Germans had plans to exterminate all the sick, they would not spurn killing off any healthy Jews who might get in their way. When they did away with all the sick people in the hospital, their vacant places were immediately filled with new victims and the process began all over again. The Germans had it all calculated mathematically. If even one patient succeeded in hiding or escaping, he had to be returned—or the Germans, with the help of the Ukrainian police, would shoot tens or hundreds in his place.

  While going around collecting bed linens, I met a young man named Hugo Goldberg, from the city of Bielsko, near the Polish-German border. He came to Rohatyn in 1939, when the Germans occupied Bielsko, and had resided here ever since. Hugo was tall and handsome. When we met at some friends’ home, he was astonished that I should be collecting for the Jewish hospital—for he took me to be Polish, a Gent
ile, and of course it was forbidden for them to enter the ghetto. But then he noticed the band on my sleeve and said, “With a face like yours, there’s no need for you to stay in the ghetto!”

  I explained that I was not alone. I had my mother and sister, thank God! I could not leave them, and it was useless for me to plan an escape; they needed me and I could not visualize them living without me—or me without them. He understood my reasons perfectly, but again he said, “What an opportunity for you to go away from here—anywhere! You simply do not look Jewish. If you could just get out of the ghetto! Here, you only wait for a horrible death. That seems to be our inexorable lot; there is no hope for any of us.”

  This was the substance of our first conversation; somehow his words sank deeply into my consciousness and gave me no rest. Perhaps he is right, I could not help thinking; perhaps I should get away, and then try to help Mamma and Rose escape from the ghetto, too. I said nothing about this to anyone, but I thought of it often. I wished I had talked to Hugo Goldberg longer; he might have known of someone who could fabricate the necessary document for my departure. After all, I could not travel under my real name, Sheva Weiler; I would have to assume a fictitious name and pose as a Gentile. I was consumed by the idea of leaving the ghetto and going out into the world—there was nothing here for us but death . . . yet how could I safely accomplish my escape to freedom?

  Meanwhile, I was called upon to assist in a new project—to help operate a kitchen for the hungry. Getting the food was the most difficult part; the Judenrat was able to provide some potatoes, vegetables, and bread, but in very limited quantities. Who came to the kitchen? Mostly the displaced, homeless people, refugees, they were always hungry and swollen from starvation. Some of the newcomers from surrounding towns and villages came also. My heart was sorrowful at the sight of them; they were a picture of misery and despair as they stood in humble queues for a bowl of soup. And if someone happened to walk or run quickly, they would panic, thinking that it was the start of the akcja, and like frightened mice, they would throw down their bowls and scurry away to safety.

  The soup kitchen did not last long. People stopped coming, fearing they would be picked up there and taken to the hospital. And the food they received was not worth the risk; besides, the portions grew smaller each day.

  My mother and Tyla Nemeth’s mother were proud of our work, but they were just as well pleased that we did not have to go there anymore. This did not mean, however, that I ceased going out of the ghetto. I continued to visit the Aryan section for as long as I could. My acquaintances there could not have been delighted with my visits, but as long as they allowed me to come in and showed me even a little heart, I persisted in being their uninvited guest. Through them I learned what was going on in the world outside, though the news did not give me much comfort.

  Suddenly, summer came. It was warm and beyond the river the trees and gardens were green, but there we could not go. I could only stare at the river and remember how, when I was a little girl, we used to live near it, and how I spent many happy hours there, in the shade of orchard trees, or sitting on its banks and dangling my legs in the water. Now that world of my childhood seemed strange, and forgotten . . .

  I was not alone in my nostalgic fascination with the river. Among those of my contemporaries who were left alive was Klara Altman, Mayer Altman’s daughter. Her father had gone to America before the war with the intention of sending for his wife, daughter, and two sons; before he could realize his plan, however, the war broke out. Klara was young, intelligent, and refined, always dreaming and hoping that the war would end soon so that she could rejoin her father beyond the ocean. Almost every day she would come to the tea room, where I worked after the soup kitchen closed, and we became the best of friends. Poor girl! She still believed that any day now her father would get them out of the ghetto. Listening to her, I thought—and sometimes even tried to explain to her—how little it depended on her father’s willingness or ability to save them. Had it been possible for our people in America to do anything, there would not have been a soul left in the ghetto—everyone would try to save his kin from such a fate. But Klara could not believe that they would let the Germans effect a complete destruction of our people. Her hopes, of course, were in vain . . .

  On the other hand, I seemed to be guided by a sure instinct. Though I was very active and tried to fill my days with work, I could not forget the lesson the first akcja taught me. I still remember the suffering, the dreadful sights, the various raids and manhunts that followed, and the excesses that the Germans committed. I heard the various rumors coming from my Gentile acquaintances; I knew the Germans would sit in judgment upon us. I kept remembering the words of Hugo Goldberg: “Escape from the ghetto!” I could not forget, and slowly plans were forming in my mind.

  As time went on, I never ceased to go whenever I could barter something for food. Returning from one of my foraging expeditions, I found our apartment empty. It frightened me, for always either Mamma or Rose would wait until I came home. A neighbor looked in at the opened door and told me that my mother had gone to the Judenrat. Trembling, I inquired what had happened.

  “They called your sister to report to the Judenrat office,” she explained. “When she did not return after several hours, your mother became very worried and decided to go there and see what had become of Rose. We heard the Germans were rounding up girls to send to concentration camps, and not for the usual work duty . . .”

  Tired and hungry though I was, I ran immediately to the Judenrat. When I entered the vestibule, I saw a Jewish policeman standing on guard in front of a door that led to a cell. Through the iron grating I could see several girls, among them my sister Rose, her face swollen from crying. Indescribable panic was reflected in her eyes.

  “Sheva!” she called out shrilly, as soon as she perceived me in the dim hallway. Her face instantly radiated joy at my coming. “Look, they told me to report here, and they put me in this cell! Tomorrow morning they are going to send us to a ‘camp’—to our death. I know they will kill us!”

  “Quiet, quiet!” I said, trying to comfort her. “Don’t cry. Try to be calm. Tell me, where is Mamma?”

  “She went upstairs somewhere, I think,” Rose replied, “to see the chief of police.”

  I ran upstairs and met Mamma coming out of the office. She was greatly agitated and had been weeping. “Mamma, I know everything already,” I said. “I was talking to Rose.”

  Mother told me that she had been to see the Obman and the chief of police, but they could do nothing. The Sonderdienst (the Nazi Special Services) demanded girls to be sent to work in a camp beyond Rohatyn, and the girls had to be delivered, or else the Jewish community would face another akcja. That was the answer they gave her.

  I had heard about that camp—Belzec; it was the place where they burned our people in gas ovens. Mother went on to say, “And as for us, the Judenrat decided that since you and Rose both have escaped alive from the last akcja, one of you must go. Rose is so terribly miserable about this, that I am afraid she will not reach the camp; she will die on the way.” We knew that to be sent to Belzec meant death, though as yet no one from Rohatyn or the vicinity had been taken to any camp.

  “I realize that,” I said. “If Rose has to go, she won’t survive.” I told Mamma to turn around—we would both try to talk to the chief of police. And so we went back upstairs. It was not easy to gain entrance to his office, but somehow we did. I gave my name to the policeman at the door, and he told us to wait. We stood there for a rather long time, but at last we were admitted inside. Though I tried to speak calmly and convincingly, it was all for nothing. Finally, I decided to offer myself in place of Rose; hearing that, my mother began to weep again.

  “What difference will that make?” she protested. “Whether you or Rose have to go, it will be the same to me.” I pressed my mother’s hand to make her understand that I had something in mind.

  The police chief gave his consent, and we were led downstair
s. When the cell door was opened, Rose smiled hopefully, guessing she was going to be released. But when I entered the cell and told her to go, she hesitated. “Please, go home!” I repeated firmly.

  “Mamma,” Rose wailed, turning her puzzled eyes from me to Mother. “Where is she going? Why are you looking so pale?”

  I pushed Rose through the door, and the policeman locked it behind her. Now the iron gratings separated us, and I realized that I was in prison. I still did not know whether I had made a wise decision, but the desperate idea was born of the conviction that Rose would have collapsed under the trial. I was made of tougher stuff; I could endure. Mother and Rose took a sad farewell, standing before the iron gate as long as they were permitted. At last, they had to leave.

  For some time I remained motionless at that forbidding door, wondering what to do next. Whom should I notify of my predicament? I knew a few members of the Judenrat. They always treated me with great respect. How could I get in touch with them? I could have asked Mamma to go to them, but I did not want to involve her further. Better she and Rose should go home and eat and rest.