Sheva's Promise Read online

  She said, “Hania, I think you have a fever.” But I wouldn’t give in. I claimed that it was cold in the house and I was still under the shock of leaving my family. Although I felt I could hardly stand on my legs, I assured her that I would get over it, and tried to keep on working as best I could.

  Meanwhile, the glazier came and installed windowpanes in the apartment, and it soon became warmer and more livable. At least now the heat from the stoves was not wasted. And in the evening a new acquaintance of the Krupkas came to visit, the woman from whom they rented a room temporarily. She was a tall, energetic Ukrainian woman. The superintendent helped move the furniture from place to place, while the woman stood by ready with her advice as to the arrangement of things.

  Little Janko dashed from room to room, and we constantly had to remind him to keep out of everyone’s way. There was so much commotion in the apartment that it hummed like a beehive. Throughout all this, I became aware that others were observing me—and apparently they were not pleased with what they saw. I must have looked as sick as I felt. But everyone was so busy that nothing was said, except once in a while Mrs. Krupka would ask, “Hania, what is the matter with you?”

  Still I pretended not to hear her anxious voice. I kept thinking: What a helper they acquired when they took me along with them! Sometimes I felt like I would fall in a faint, and to avoid this I kept drinking water and splashing the cold water on my face in an effort to stay conscious. When evening came I went to bed after supper. My body shook with the fever and I did not close my eyes all night.

  The following day I again tried to be a big hero, but when Mrs. Krupka found a thermometer among the things she was unpacking she came to me and said in a whisper, “Hania, I am certain that you have a fever.” When she placed her hand on my forehead she screamed, “God help us! Your head is hot as fire!” She insisted on taking my temperature. At first she could not believe her eyes, so she let her mother-in-law look at the thermometer. She also exclaimed in alarm, “Dear God, what a high temperature!”

  I felt near fainting. Now I realized the seriousness of my condition, yet I was not pleased when they insisted that I go to bed. Both women were wringing their hands, and as if in a dream I heard them saying, “What are we going to do?” The elder Mrs. Krupka went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of tea and some aspirin. By this time I was unable to hold the glass in my hands. I only groaned and moaned piteously, like a weak kitten. I heard the younger Mrs. Krupka weeping at my bedside, but I could see her only as through a fog. Then she sat on the edge of my sofa bed and gave me the tea by the spoonful, raising my pillow so that I could swallow the aspirin. But instead of tea I asked weakly, with a voice that was hardly audible, for water . . . water . . .

  In the meantime someone else had entered the room and I heard furniture being moved around. Each movement, each noise seemed to drill holes in my head. From time to time Janko looked in, but they always chased him away. When Mr. Krupka came home and heard this latest piece of news, he came into my room and stood with his wife at my bedside, looking uncertain as to what to do with me. Hanka Buczek had become a real problem for the Krupka family right from the very beginning of her stay.

  After they left me they must have discussed my illness at length, for afterwards whenever they passed my open door I could see their sad and worried faces. Of course, they had reason to be anxious. Neither the tea nor the aspirin helped me. I could hold no food or liquid in my stomach, and my temperature started rising higher and higher. I suffered agony, because I could not get even a little water to cool my burning lips.

  In the morning when they came to my room I noticed that they were very upset. Instead of getting better, I became worse. After a few days without showing any change, Mr. Krupka held a long conference with his wife and mother in the adjoining room. I could not hear too much, even though the door was open, but I knew they were talking about my sickness. I saw everything as though through a fog, for my eyesight was weakening more and more, and I felt that without food or sleep my heart would give way—it would stop beating any minute.

  Then Mrs. Krupka came into my room, sat down on the edge of my bed, and, crying, said, “Hania, Hania, only God knows what we should do! I pray constantly, but I see your health remains the same. We’d be willing to take you to the hospital, but sometimes you are delirious. When you are half-asleep you talk aloud in Yiddish and Polish, calling to your mother and Rose, and crying out to the Gestapo not to kill them. You even relive the akcjas. My husband would gladly call a physician, but he fears that you may babble something. That would be your—and our—end . . .” Mrs. Krupka fell on her knees at my bedside, and, weeping, prayed to God that He should help and give the right advice, because now it was up to Him. I understood and tears started welling up in my eyes, but I was too weak to cry. Thus days and nights went on, and there was no change.

  The elder Mrs. Krupka suggested that cupping would be sure to help me. They would reduce my fever. But the problem was: who would set the cups? A barber, they thought, could do the cupping, but it would have to be someone who would not guess that I was Jewish. Finally, they decided to get the Jewish barber from the ghetto. Mr. Krupka already had made some acquaintances among the people in the Brody ghetto, though I don’t know how he managed to do it, and the following day they engaged a barber who did cupping. As the ghetto in Brody was not sealed off, the man could leave—especially as his errand had to do with Mr. Krupka, who had contacts with the higher authorities and would be responsible for him. No doubt the barber was promised food supplies in return for his services.

  When the Jewish barber came, I had to sit up in bed for the cupping operation, but I was so weak that Mrs. Krupka had to hold me up. The skin on my whole body was covered with a rash and was so rough and splotchy that I looked leprous. He set about forty cups, small cups of blown glass placed on the body to create a partial vacuum, thus drawing blood to the spot. There are two types: dry cupping, and cupping with incisions to make the blood run freely. Each time the barber hit the cups, I groaned aloud. He had to try a few times, for I was nothing but skin and bones.

  After a while I felt him take the cups away. My back felt like a huge, red wound. I tried to let myself down on the bed, but I could only lie on my side. I heard Mrs. Krupka say to the barber that she would give him bread and other food if he’d follow her into the kitchen. He sounded very grateful. She paid him too, and he left.

  My condition did not improve despite the cupping. In the evening Mr. Krupka talked a long time with his wife and mother in the other room. I heard Janko putting in his endless questions from time to time, until they sent him to bed with a last warning not to go near my room.

  When Mr. Krupka came home for dinner the next day, I noticed that they ate hardly anything—for the food that they brought into the dining room went back to the kitchen. They were very upset and worried. Later, the same barber returned, this time to apply leeches. When he started to apply the leeches to my head behind my ears, both women looked on—even Janko watched, his eyes popping with curiosity, incessantly asking questions. The senior Mrs. Krupka said, “Now Hania will get well. She will be able soon to take Janko for a walk, or go sledding with him.” Stroking the child’s head, she tried to comfort him.

  But after a couple of days it was evident that even the leeching did not help. I kept constantly talking in my delirium, both in Yiddish and in Polish, so they tried to prevent anybody from coming to see me. In my dreamy thoughts I prayed to God and to my mother. I asked my mother to help me get well. I recalled her last words, “If you survive, remember what has happened to us. Don’t ever forget, Sheva!” So, I begged my mother to help me now. Mrs. Krupka tended me tenderly, as though I were her own sister. Many times she got up in the middle of the night; she prayed at my bedside and shed many tears. My illness was too protracted and until now nothing had helped. Three weeks passed by, and when they saw that I was dying, they decided to call two doctors in for a consultation. The two came—one was
from Brody and the other originally from Berlin—they talked in German, not knowing that I understood the language. When Mr. Krupka asked the doctors, in German, what decision they had reached, they said, “She has typhus. If her fever does not drop during the night, she will surely die tomorrow. Already she is like a skeleton, and she wouldn’t be able to resist any longer.”

  I heard their words as in a dream, but when the meaning penetrated my consciousness, I screamed in Ukrainian: “Help me! I don’t want to die! I want to live!” And then I fainted.

  I remained in that state for some time, but when I opened my eyes I saw them all standing around my bed, looking very worried. My whole body was wet with vinegar and water, with which they had tried to bring me around again. My mind was confused; I looked from one to the other, wondering what had happened, forgetting who these people were and why they were standing around me.

  “You fainted,” Mrs. Krupka said. “Maybe that was good—maybe a miracle will happen.”

  Something like a miracle did happen. My desire to live was so strong that after I regained consciousness my temperature dropped suddenly. And after a few days, it was completely normal. And so, after four long weeks of nearly hopeless illness, I began to believe that I would be well again. Though I had to remain in bed for still some time, there was a definite improvement. I was brought my meals, and waited on, so that I could hardly believe that such good people still existed in such an evil world, in such harrowing times. And now I was able to leave my bed, though I could not stand up for long. And slowly, weakness was replaced by a new strength, new hope.

  As I regained my health more completely, I tried to be of service to the Krupka family, to show them my gratitude. We were now three “housekeepers” under the same roof, but for the really heavy work—laundering, washing of the windows and floors—a woman came in by the day. For the time being, Janko was mainly under his grandmother’s care. I could tell from the elderly lady’s expression that she admired her son and daughter-in-law for shielding me. Oftentimes, when they weren’t at home, she would ask me, discreetly, whether—when I regained my complete health, and if the war continued—I would be satisfied with such a menial life. She’d also question me pointedly as to whether I fully realized what danger threatened her children.

  “I know, I know,” I assured her. “I can read the headlines, and I listen to the radio, so I know . . .” I sighed and did not want to say too much on this subject. Sometimes I felt like a parasite, utterly superfluous—in a word, expendable. With all my strength I tried to recover; I forced myself to eat, for it was most important to get well. In the event that I’d have to plan another escape, I must have health and energy. I told myself, Sheva, don’t give up! Don’t lose courage! Hold on . . . Someday you will reach your life’s goal, freedom!

  Though my morale was good, physically I had been weakened by the attack of typhus. It left me with running sores on my legs. The same sores that Hugo Goldberg had once helped to heal now returned and spread to my hands. At first, it was only a rash between the fingers, but day after day it got worse and the pus flowed freely from the open sores. One morning I awoke to find my legs were glued to the sheet because of the matter running from the loosened scabs—a green, watery fluid. My pajamas stuck to my body—I looked like a leper. I was afraid of what Mrs. Krupka would say when she saw me like this. I could cover my legs—but my hands? How could I do any work with my hands in such a state? My fingers stuck together and hurt terribly. But in my misery I had to stifle my lamentations, for it seemed even God did not want to hear them. The whole world had turned its back on us, outcasts and lepers . . .

  While the others slept, I stole quietly out of bed and took an old sheet from the closet. This would do as a bandage for my legs. On top of that I put on heavy winter stockings and returned to bed. Now, at least, they would not see in what condition my legs were, but what could I do about my hands? Should I say I spilled boiling water over them? Perhaps they would not notice the rash that spread between my fingers? If my mother knew, she would immediately make a poultice, she would call a doctor—if this were in normal times. And not only my mother, but my grandmother, and Uncle Hirsch, and the whole family would be gathered at my bedside, trying to help in some way. But these were not normal times and I was far from home. I must help myself as best I could and just hope that I could keep it a secret.

  When it grew light, I pulled the sheet off the bed and hid it, then I went to the kitchen. Mrs. Krupka was astonished to see me up early and already dressed. “It must be a holiday today,” she said.

  “Yes,” I replied. “You know the old saying: God blesses the early riser and makes him wiser. I think it’s time I got hold of myself and started being useful to you.”

  “But you’ve put on such warm stockings, Hania,” she said. “Do you feel cold? You’re not going out anywhere.”

  “No, but I still feel a chill. These stockings help keep my feet warm—and when the feet are warm, Mamma used to say, the whole body is warm.” Thank heaven, she did not notice the rash on my hands. I helped prepare breakfast, and after we had eaten, I cleared the table. I dreaded putting my hands in the dishpan. Perhaps if I went out of the kitchen, the elder Mrs. Krupka would wash the dishes . . . So, when the head of the house went out, I asked if I could start cleaning the apartment.

  “Do you feel strong enough to do that?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Today you ate with a better appetite.”

  “Oh, I must . . . I must get back to health!”

  “You see?” Mrs. Krupka beamed happily. “Now you’re talking sensibly. I told you there’s no use worrying. You must think positively and keep your eyes open if you want to survive.”

  Together with Mrs. Krupka I put the bedrooms in order, then we moved on to the other rooms—and when we returned to the kitchen, the dishes were already washed and dried. This time it had worked out all right. I helped pare the potatoes for dinner and set the table. I spent what free time was left playing with Janko. The child grew very attached to me; we spent almost every evening together, for his parents and grandmother often went to visit friends or to the cinema. They were always being invited to social gatherings.

  Janko on such occasions soon went to sleep, and I sat alone until late. Every rustling noise outside made me shiver with fright. Back in the ghetto at Rohatyn they must know that I had escaped. Possibly even in the Aryan sector there might be rumors about me, for it was known that the Krupka family moved to Brody at about the same time—and people knew that I used to visit them often. My escape and their move were timed too closely to be merely coincidental. Anyone who could add two and two together could come up with the answer to my disappearance.

  So here I was, with two sets of forged identification papers, in a Christian home, surrounded by plenty and enjoying their care and protection, yet with dreadful thoughts poisoning my mind. I was still afraid.

  The Ukrainian Orthodox holidays, celebrated in early January, were looming ahead. The Krupkas were planning a big feast for Christmas Eve. Mr. Krupka was a government employee and, as director-manager of several stores and warehouses, had many contacts among the municipal authorities: the German gendarmerie, the Gestapo, the Ukrainian police, and various high officials. He needed their friendship to obtain various passes to go to other towns for transport of materials of all kinds. In those days it was useful to have contacts and backing at every move, and hence Mr. Krupka fostered ties of friendship with those who could help him remain in his important post.

  A few days before Christmas, we started to bake various cakes, babkas, and tortes. Mrs. Krupka was always a wonderful pastry chef. We were all busy with the preparations, blanching almonds, grinding nuts and poppy seeds, beating egg whites, creaming cocoa and sugar. Even Janko helped. He had his fingers in everything, literally.

  In the meantime the letter carrier brought a letter from Mr. Krupka’s sister Olga, who lived at Rohatyn, telling them that she would arrive for the holidays. That
gave even more impetus to the preparations. For several days the cleaning woman came to set the house in order, polish the floors, and shake out the tapestries. I was still too weak to do this heavy work, but I helped as best I could.

  There was now the problem of what to do about me during the holidays. Some of the Germans who were invited to come had also lived in Rohatyn prior to their transfer here, and we could not be sure that they would not recognize me. It would have seemed suspicious if the Krupkas sent me to stay with their friends. They would have wondered why I couldn’t mix with the guests, or even help serve at the table. These friends who hailed from Brody knew only that I was a governess for Janko; why should it be necessary for me to be out of the house on Christmas Eve? It would seem strange.

  One evening when Janko was already in bed and Mr. Krupka had gone to some meeting, we three sat down to talk things over. I suggested that I could stay in the storeroom during that time, but Mrs. Krupka objected to the idea.

  “Have you forgotten already how sick you were? Do you want to freeze to death there? Or do you want the rats to chew you up?”

  So, we decided that I’d stay in their bedroom—and if anyone happened to look in, they would say that I had a fever and that I couldn’t get up. They hoped that this ruse would work. There was no alternative.

  I was feeling better each day, except for the sores on my legs and hands. The bandages I made out of the old sheet still stuck to my legs and stockings, and every time I changed them I had to tear them away from the sores—they bled and hurt, but what could I do? When healing set in, my skin itched so that I wanted to scratch it raw. How long could I keep this condition a secret?