Sheva's Promise Read online

  Klara soon left. Mamma and Rose were watching me gather up my last few belongings, only the most necessary things, and they helped me pack a valise. They were not able to hold back their tears, nor was I. We could not believe that at last the day would come when we had to say goodbye—maybe for forever. I looked over for the last time my albums, letters, photographs of my family and my young friends with whom I had spent so many happy and interesting years. I gave those treasures to Mamma for safekeeping, asking her to hide them well in case of robbery or raids. She said that she would put everything into a large metal box and hide it in the shelter. We did all this with the doors shut tight and locked; my escape was to be a deep secret.

  The following evening I took my valise to the attorney’s house, thanked them, and said goodbye. As for the feelings in my own house, I cannot attempt to describe them—one has to imagine. They might best be called our private Yom Kippur—a day of profound sorrow. It was a tragic parting, especially for my mother. Instead of living to see the day when both her daughters would be happily married, she saw one of them departing from home—without any certainty that she might not be killed during her escape—and the other, though she remained at home, certain to fall victim to the cruel persecutors of our people. Was it for this that our mother had raised us and sacrificed her life? All her plans, all her efforts, seemed only a waste.

  By a bitter irony, the appointed day of my departure, November 20, was also my birthday. I so wanted to stay with my family on this day, but it was impossible. . . . I had to part from my dear ones on my birthday. Mother had not been able to sleep at all or eat for the last several days; she seemed to be losing all interest in life. Rose wept openly, begging me, “Please, don’t go! Please. You will be caught. Who knows how they may punish you? Mamma will not live through this. It will be worse for her to have you go . . . worse than a bullet.”

  I joined her in sorrow, weeping bitter tears. I knew very well that what she said was true. I saw how our home would be empty without me—I had a vivid picture of it. It was I who had sustained their courage, their hope; it was I who helped them to go on. I had done whatever I could to protect them and to keep them safe from all dangers. Leaving meant taking away everything with me, almost their very lives. Though I would be physically away from home, however, my heart and soul would always remain with them. This too they knew very well.

  And yet there was no power that could keep me from leaving. I said, “Rose, please, now listen to me. Get ready to leave, too. You have your passport, you have some money. It will be much easier for Mamma to know that we at least could be saved; much easier than to be forced to witness her daughters’ deaths—or even worse, torture. Go, before it is too late!” But my sweet sister still refused to leave.

  At last Mamma couldn’t take any more of it and interrupted us. “Don’t talk about it anymore, please. Do what you must, though I feel I’d rather die than part with you.”

  I felt that my heart was breaking, too. My only consolation was the thought that if only I could succeed in reaching my destination, I would perhaps be able to help my loved ones. I went once again to the Aryan section and attempted to sell some of our few remaining possessions for goods with which I could provide Mamma and Rose for some time, at least. I was especially anxious to leave them enough food to last for as long as possible, because I knew that after I was gone they would not be able to provide for themselves as I had done, all the more so after the ghetto was closed. As we already knew, this would take place very soon.

  It was while returning to the ghetto one day that I found three children wandering around without anyone to look after them. They were lost from a transport of evacuees and had walked some twenty kilometers from the town of Bursztyn. There were two little boys, aged nine and four, and their sister, who was about seven—all ragged, dirty, cold, and hungry—going from door to door, begging. They told me that their parents had been killed and that they had no one left in the world. What could I do but bring them home with me? Knowing Rose’s fondness for strays, and counting on Mamma’s kind heart, I knew that they’d be welcome. They slept on an extra bed in the kitchen the first night. In the morning, we held a family council and decided that because I would be leaving in a few days, these children should stay and have my place. I realized, of course, that it would mean extra mouths to feed—but on the other hand, I felt that it would make the parting easier to some degree, if Mother and Rose had someone special to care for and to divert their thoughts from me. I never learned what became of them afterward . . .

  On November 18, Mr. Kowalski arrived from Lvov. He came to the ghetto and told Hugo to be ready to leave the following day. We trusted him. Kowalski, the young son of a Polish treasury official, was considered quite smart; he had many contacts, which enabled him to smuggle people out of the town. The most important thing was for Hugo to reach Lvov without running into inspections on the way. It was dangerous, because the train from Rohatyn to Lvov made several stops, and at each station as well as in the train itself the authorities—Gestapo and Ukrainian police—made checks of personal documents. They were always looking for Jews.

  As arranged, the next day Kowalski came to our house, and we three went in the direction of the railway station. It was not wise to be seen together lest someone suspect us of going away, and so I said goodbye to them in front of the courthouse. Hugo promised that as soon as he reached Lvov he would write to the Krupka family at Brody and that I’d find his letter waiting for me there. Saying goodbye, he added, “Happy birthday, Sheva, and many more which I want to share with you. Wait for me until I return after the war.”

  I did not have time to ponder his words, because things were happening so fast. The next day I too would leave.

  All night long I cried, my pillow wet with tears. It was so hard to part from those with whom I lived all my life. It was hard to say farewell to the beautiful years of my youth. Not many people I had known were still alive, but at least the streets of the town were there to remind me of them or of something we had mutually known. I had happy moments to remember in my native town; joyful, dear moments. And how could I say farewell to my dear mother, whose whole life was devoted to her children? My sister, too, who had cared more for me than she had for herself. Oh, that I could fall asleep and wake up several days older, when that dreadful moment of parting would already be in the past!

  Monday, November 20—my birthday! I was to leave at midnight. It was a long, dreary day. I’ll never be able to erase it from my memory. Mamma made some pancakes for me from a coarse, dark flour, because she had no bread. She wanted me to have something to take along on my way. She stood by the kitchen stove, weeping. Sometimes a complaint escaped from her heart: “Why is God punishing me thus?” We put our arms around each other and wept together, we three. The little children, the waifs we had taken in, stood in a corner, watching us fearfully. They knew what tears meant.

  Dusk was falling. Only a few more hours and I’d be gone. I went from corner to corner, trying to imprint everything on my memory—each piece of furniture, everything—in my mind forever. And when I turned around, I saw the pale, tear-stained face of Rose, and my mother’s suffering eyes, and I could not say a word.

  Mamma kept looking at me, repeating that she could not believe that such a great change could occur in our lives. She talked, we listened. She recounted how, as a young widow after our father was killed in World War I—I was three months old, my sister four years—she had managed to run our shoe store by herself. Later, we used to stop in on our way from school; she’d close the shop at noon to give us lunch. She told us how proud she was at the school conferences with our teachers, hearing that we had done well, and how she had always tried to give us everything. She wanted us not to feel too keenly the loss of our father. How happy she was to see us develop into lovely young ladies! Then, she began to dream of making good matches for us; when we’d be happily married, she could rest and take pleasure in the knowledge that she had brought us up pr
operly, unaided. Life would be peaceful, and full of joy.

  But then, breaking off her reverie and assuming a practical manner, Mamma gave me a package containing the pancakes. She also gave me another package, rather heavy, and said, “Take this, dear Shevele. This will be a souvenir from me and your father.”

  With shaking fingers I opened the second package. There was my father’s gold watch, Mamma’s gold necklace, a watch on a solid gold chain, and the rings and the necklace and earrings set with pear-shaped diamonds that she used to put on for the big holidays. Slowly, she removed from her hand the wedding ring and added it to the items in the package. I could not control my tears then. I thrust the valuables back into her hands; I did not want to deprive her of these costly things that held so many precious memories. But Mamma argued that the war was far from ended and that I would certainly need the gold to get me out of many a tight spot in my wanderings.

  “You will be able to sell some of these things,” she insisted. “We won’t need anything here. Here it will fall into the hands of the Gestapo, and their wives will wear my jewelry. Why should we give them our jewelry in addition to all else?”

  “But, Mamma—” I protested, still unconvinced. “You can sell these things and get some food. Or you can hide them away until after the war. You’ll be able to enjoy them again yourself, someday.”

  Mamma shook her head. “I always thought you were so marvelously smart, Sheva, but you can’t seem to understand that we won’t need these things here. You have the world before you, if you attain your goal and survive the war. You will be able to make use of them. Just one thing I ask of you: do not forget what happened to us and to all our people.” She began to cry again, softly. “Oh, why did I have to live to see this hour?” Then my mother lifted up her hands in blessing, and prayed: “Oh, God, protect and watch over my child. Let her survive. Let her be allowed to tell the world how we have been persecuted without just cause . . . And Laizor, my dear husband, please . . . I did as much as I could . . . Now, if you are close to God, help her, because it is not up to me or to any of us. You remember—this is the day she was born—and now this is the day I have to lose her!”

  I felt that if I listened to Mamma any longer, I would waver—perhaps I would crack up and never be able to go. I could not hesitate any longer. I put on my high felt boots, a brown sport coat, and a heavy, woolen hood. It was time to leave. As solemn and as moving as this moment was—the most tragic moment in my life—I knew that everything had to be done quickly. There was so much more that I wanted to say, had to say, but the words choked up in my throat. I kissed my sister and reminded her to flee before it was too late. Then I kissed and hugged my mother. Weeping bitterly, she repeated, “Don’t ever forget . . .” Those were her last words to me.

  Very quietly, so that no one should hear me, I left the house to keep my midnight appointment. Once outside, I began to walk straight ahead, looking around more than once to see Mamma and Rose silhouetted against the window. They waved to me until at last we could see each other no longer.

  Now I would begin a new life as a Gentile girl. Though the real Hanka Buczek, whose birth certificate was in my pocket, was very much alive in the nearby village of Ruby, for all official purposes I was—indeed, had to be—Hanka, a servant girl. Sheva Weiler had ceased to exist in Rohatyn.

  There remained only her footprints in the snow . . .

  5

  A Counterfeit Life

  NOW I BEGAN TO RUN FASTER AND FASTER. I had a long way to go. Already I had passed the ghetto and was near the post office. I looked around to see if anyone was near, but the street was empty and still. My heart began to pound wildly. I could hardly believe that I had actually taken this step . . . Now I was near the monastery, where we had agreed to meet. In the distance I saw a truck—it was waiting for me. A wave of relief flooded my heart and I hastened in that direction.

  Mr. Krupka stood alongside the truck. In front, next to the driver, was Krupka’s mother, and in the truck was a pile of furniture. He helped me onto the truck and told me to hide inside a wardrobe. That would be safer, in the event of an inspection on the road.

  No one said much. I was unhappily thinking about the last moments before my departure. The Krupkas were filled with apprehension; they were risking their lives for me. The truck had to go slowly through the heavy snowdrifts that had frozen into an icy armor plate. Sometimes I could hear dogs barking. It made me shiver, remembering the growling dogs in our house, when we lay hidden in our underground shelter. I wondered if I should regard myself as a heroine or as a coward. Maybe I did a heroic thing when I dared to escape, not knowing what the next day, even the next moment, would bring. But because I feared death, I suppose I was a coward . . .

  The long minutes passed. From time to time I looked out of my hiding place in the wardrobe. The bare outlines of trees cast shadows on the road. The low huts were weighed down under their snowy coverlets. Nature seemed so deceptively clean and innocent.

  It was a very long night. I wanted to sleep so badly, but could not. The cold kept me awake. I sat huddled and shivering in the wardrobe. Everything that happened seemed fantastic, unreal. I held on to one saving thought: the hope that someday I would be able to return and find someone here alive. I recalled the words of my aunt’s little grandson, who had been only five: “Why did they take away my Mama and Granny and Grandpa and Chaimek? Why don’t they let us live in peace? I’m hungry—why can’t I eat?” Now I began to ask similarly childish questions: Why do I have to sit in this freezing weather, in a wardrobe on a truck, going to an unpredictable fate? I visualized my mother and Rosie lying awake in bed; or perhaps they were sitting huddled near the stove, brokenhearted, unable to accept the thought of losing me. But these questions that tormented me had only one answer: Because you are Jewish! Hitler hates the Jews.

  This, then, was the start of my first journey as a homeless wanderer. Occasionally the truck was stopped by Gestapo guards who wanted to see the papers of the driver and the passengers. When I heard the guards I closed the door to the wardrobe, and my heart contracted with fear. But I can imagine how Mr. Krupka and his mother must have felt, nervous and tense at each such inspection. However, we kept on going. It was lucky for me that the guards did not inspect the furniture on the truck! All night long we rattled through Lvov and other, smaller towns. It was almost daybreak when we reached Brody.

  The apartment assigned to the Krupka family was located upstairs in a house facing the marketplace; below it was a restaurant. They occupied three rooms and a kitchen. We were glad that we had made the trip without any serious incidents, but after a night spent in a cramped position on the truck I could hardly get down and walk. When I entered the cold and empty apartment, I was seized with a strange fear. I must have been running a temperature, for I was shaking with the chills. It was so quiet here, as in a graveyard. There was no furniture; the windows had some broken panes. It was cold and damp, not having been heated for a long time. No doubt a Jewish family had lived here once; now the place was filled with ghosts.

  But this was no time for sentiment. We had to start getting the rooms in order. Soon after our arrival, Mrs. Krupka came with their little boy, Janko. She prepared breakfast for us and it warmed us, giving us the energy to tackle necessary chores. I ate but little. I felt sore all over and my head ached terribly, but I said nothing.

  It all seemed like a strange dream. I had to get used to my new name, Hanka Buczek. They called me Hania. Yes, “Hania” was here and she mechanically responded, but Sheva remained in Rohatyn . . .

  The first night I slept alone in the apartment; indeed, in the whole house. The Krupkas went to sleep at their friends’ house. I’m not ashamed to admit I was afraid. In every corner I saw the unforgettable scenes projected by memory and imagination—the shootings, the beatings, the tortures. Though I desperately wanted to sleep, these visions gave me no rest. Lying there on a cot, fear gripping my heart, I covered my head with a shawl. Even though I nearl
y suffocated, I was afraid to remove it. I imagined I heard cries and weeping in the corners of the rooms. I could see the Gestapo herding the former unfortunate occupants of this house out of their quarters. Oh, how I wished I could find rest in my mother’s arms. But Mamma was far away, and all I had was the small packet she had given me. This I pressed close, for I felt it was my hope to get Mamma and Rose out of the ghetto, too. Even in misfortune, a human being has to have hope to give him courage. My God, I thought, if You have not turned away Your face from us completely, if You have not forgotten us, help me—so I shall not die of fear! My body was on fire, yet chills shook me. I began to feel the pangs of hunger, but the idea of food repelled me. Though the broken windowpanes were stuffed with rags, an icy wind whistled through the rooms. My head hurt terribly. Vaguely, I remembered the pancakes that Mamma had given me—they must be here somewhere, for I hadn’t touched them on the road. I thought I’d eat one now, if only because it had been the last meal prepared for me by my mother. But I was afraid to get out of the cot.

  I could hardly wait for the dawn. I got up and dressed. The wood had to be brought in from the storeroom, and the coal from the cellar. Today, years later, I wonder where I got the courage to go down into the cellar in that empty house . . . But I knew that I had to start fires in all the stoves to heat the apartment. I had to heat water for washing the floors. I did all this and never knew I was running a high temperature, but I felt my knees giving way under me and there was a humming in my brain. When someone spoke to me I heard but faintly. I did not want to complain, but finally Mrs. Krupka realized that something was wrong with me.