Clara's War (19 page)

The women instinctively, solemnly gathered on one side of the bunker, all clutching their prayer books. My father, prayer book in hand, stood bent over, his skinny, long, stork-like legs and his back hunched over like a flamingo's neck. He kept checking his watch. Zygush and I were at the tiny window, looking out at the dying light of the day. A sliver of light from the setting sun reflected off the window of our house across the street.

Professor Steckel looked at his watch then cleared his throat. It was important to start at the exact moment of one hour before sundown. This had been our tradition for thousands of years. The German papers kindly published times of sunrise and sunset for military purposes. But Herr Doktor Professor Steckel was his usual impatient self. ‘Mr Beck went to a great deal of trouble to find out the exact time of sunset today.'

Sunset is sunset, but my father didn't want to use the time announced in a German-controlled newspaper. Of course, he hadn't bothered to tell Steckel he would be using the Talmudic agricultural method, which calculates sunset the moment when the sun goes down over the horizon. The horizon in this case was our house on the other side of the street.

‘I'm aware of that, Professor Steckel…I'm sure it will be just another moment.'

I was staring out of the vent through a veil of flowers and greenery. The last rays of the sun hit the house and then dropped down and faded. I climbed down and nodded at my father, who turned to us. I could see the sorrow hiding behind his little smile.

Our rabbi always started the service with a little story, something to humanize the grandeur and solemnity of the event. Even though we were a few Jews in a bunker in the dirt, I felt as holy as I did when there were so many Jews at the Sobieski Schul we couldn't all fit in. We Jews had been praying in hiding, in caves, in cellars, for our entire history, so the setting didn't feel inappropriate.

My father cleared his throat. ‘Before we begin, I'm reminded of a little question our beloved rabbi used to ask his students.'

My father had undoubtedly been thinking about how to start the service for months. If he had not become a merchant he would have certainly become a rabbi like his brother. Everybody said so. He knew the Torah and Talmud backwards and forwards and spent hours of his free time reading late into the night. I knew what he was going to say and couldn't help smiling. He asked: ‘Why is the Day of Atonement called, in Hebrew, a day like Purim?'

He looked around the bunker. Of course, there were no hands raised to answer.

‘No answers? So I'll tell you. On both days it is customary for us Jews to masquerade. On Purim, Jews masquerade and adorn themselves in the costumes of non-Jews. On Yom Kippur, we Jews masquerade as pious Jews.'

He looked around for his words to sink in, looked at everybody, but made a point not to look at the Steckels, and then he began to chant almost in a whisper. I knew the words were coming from his heart even before they reach his voice: the opening prayer of the
Kol Nidre
.

‘
Kol Nidre, Vi Et Areh, Vi Char Ra Me
…'

The entire prayer goes: ‘All vows, obligations, oaths or anathemas, pledges of all names, which we have vowed, sworn, devoted or bound ourselves to, from this day of atonement, until the next day of atonement (whose arrival we hope for in happiness), we repent, beforehand, of them all, they shall all be deemed absolved, forgiven, annulled, void and made of no effect; they shall not be binding, nor have any power; the vows shall not be reckoned as vows, the obligations shall not be obligatory, nor the oaths considered as oaths.'

When I was little I didn't understand this prayer. How could the most holy prayer of our religion absolve of us all sins in advance? It was just crazy. Sometimes I would listen to the discussions about this. Some of the men would say this prayer was a reason for so much anti-Semitism because it allowed the gentiles to think it was all right for Jews to break their promises and agreements in every way possible and their God said it was okay. My father explained that this prayer is between man and God, not between man and man, and it demonstrated the great and overwhelming sense of God's understanding of human frailty and His capacity for compassion and forgiveness. My father said we started the service with the
Kol Nidre
to inspire us to be more like God. He told
me that the prayer was written in the early Middle Ages when under threats and torture many Jews had to give up their religion or convert. Since we Jews take our vows so seriously, God doesn't want us to feel bound by vows that would cost our lives. I had never thought so much about the meaning of
Kol Nidre
before tonight.

As we beseeched God to forgive our sins and write us in the book of life for the coming year, I thought about the meaning of the words in our prayers. When you're 13 years old and the worst thing that has ever happened to you is getting the measles or a broken arm from ice-skating, you think you'll live for ever. Now I didn't know if we would live another day. And I couldn't stop thinking about Mania. I was angry at God. I didn't know how our God could exist and allow all this to happen to us, his supposed chosen people. The murder and suffering and grief were enormous, more than I or we could bear. It was too much for the human heart to take. I knew my mother's heart was about to explode, but it continued to beat, as did mine and those of the others. I didn't know how such a thing was possible. I didn't know how I could be so furious with God and yet find so much consolation in our prayers.

We didn't talk much after the evening service was done. I went to bed, holding the children close. The little ones didn't have to fast and we had some bread for them. Fasting for the rest of us was nothing. It was a way of life. Never has fasting been so easy for me.

 

It was hard for me to pay attention to the service the next day. I was filled with dread at the thought of the upcoming Yizkor service, where we would commemorate all those who had died the year before. I knew the service almost by heart. We supplicated ourselves in every way to God's power and forgiveness. The
words resonated with new meaning and a new force, humbling me, frightening me. One of the most powerful prayers was a simple enumeration of any and all kinds of sins which man might possibly commit against himself, his family, his fellow man and ultimately God. We beat our chests as we enunciated each prayer.

‘…nothing is hidden from You. You search our innermost thoughts and our hearts…And so may it be Your will to have mercy on us and forgive us our sins, grant us atonement…

‘For the sin we have committed before You of hard-heartedness…of immorality…a gathering of lewdness…by deceiving a fellow man…by insincere confession…by eating or drinking…by committing usury…by casting out the yoke of heaven…with proud looks…by a grudging eye…knowing or unknowing…by causeless hatred…For all these, God of pardon, pardon us, forgive us, atone for us…I am dust in my life…may it be my will, Lord my God and God of my fathers, that I shall sin no more and the sins which I have committed before You, erase them in Your abounding mercies…' We were asking for forgiveness for our sins, but what about the sins of the Fascists and the Nazis and the SS and the Gestapo and the Ukrainians and Tilzer and Schitling? When did they atone? And what for? Did they even think they were sinning in this upside-down world?

My father turned around. It was now time for the Yizkor service. It was and is our custom that those with parents still among the living leave for this part of the service. Mr Melman sent me, Igo and Klarunia into the passageway near the latrines. We were the only ones who had parents living. Zygush and Zosia waited in the main part of the bunker, watching while I and the others crawled into the passageway.

My father waited until everyone was in the passageway and then chanted the opening prayer of the Yizkor service:
God, What is Man…?
I have always thought it was one of our most
beautiful. I knew from my father that our prayers were not only the work of rabbis but that many had been written by rabbi/poets in Spain in the Middle Ages.

I was listening to the prayer and thinking about Mania and looking at little Zygush. I could see in his face that he was slowly realizing that his mother, Uchka, was dead. Zygush was smart enough to know that my father would never have made a mistake about such a thing. He started to cry softly. He simply looked at his little sister, who knew the words and recited them without knowing what they really meant. He took Zosia's tiny hand and held it, then brought it to his lips
and kissed it. She smiled at her older brother, but she didn't understand that he was crying because he knew that their mother was dead.

Everyone was now looking at Zygush, realizing our horrible mistake and the burden we had put on his shoulders. The bunker had become holier than any synagogue.

My father also knew, but continued: ‘May the all merciful Father who dwells in the supernal heights, in His profound compassion, remember with mercy the pious, the upright and the perfect ones.' We gave the response: ‘He who makes peace in His heavens, may He make peace for us and for all Israel. Amen. Next year in Jerusalem.'

The families hugged and embraced each other, drying their tears. I crawled to Zygush and Zosia and embraced them. I saw my mother, standing alone as my father closed and gathered the prayer books. I saw Mania's name on my mother's lips. I went to my mother and we embraced, locked to one another, afraid of ever letting go.

 

There was a knock on the hatch. Patrontasch opened it and we saw Mrs and Mr Beck framed in the hatchway above us, our two angels in the heaven of their bedroom. They handed down the trays with the post-fast meals. The Melmans, Steckels, the Patrontasches, all had trays with the small roasted chickens. Zygush and Zosia watched the food go by. My mother couldn't help herself. She looked at the food and the children with bitterness in her heart, although I knew the Melmans and the Patrontasches would share on this day.

Then Julia, arthritis and all, climbed down into the bunker. She turned and reached for two potholders and brought down a big pot of chicken soup, filled with noodles and pirogies. ‘Mr and Mrs Schwarz, this is for you.'

For once, my mother was almost speechless. All she could get out was: ‘But we—'

Beck smiled. ‘Don't but us…'

And Julia blushed and said with a huge smile, ‘I even got you a rooster. I remembered the custom. I knew you needed a rooster.'

My mother embraced Julia and then Beck and then we were all embracing each other. Zygush was crying now, for he did allow himself tears of joy. My mother immediately started pulling out the best pieces of meat to put in the children's bowls. Nobody was talking now as they ate in satisfied silence, grateful for just a few minutes.

I couldn't help thinking about Mania. Her presence in the room was stronger than ever. I remembered the last Yom Kippur before the occupation. The night before the night of Yom Kippur, we were gathered in our backyard as was our tradition. My family, all my aunts and uncles and cousins, more than 20 of us. Uchka called for Zygush, who was in the walnut tree, and he flew down like a little monkey and ran to where Mama had gathered all the children in a circle. We put our arms round each other. My father had a live rooster in his hands. He held it by the feet and swung it around the heads of the children and he started to pray. ‘May You bless and protect these children and may their sins all be taken on by this rooster which we sacrifice in Your name.' When the prayer was ended, he would give the rooster to Mama, who would take it to the
schochet
, ritual slaughterer.

The electric light flickered, went out, flickered, came on again…then went out. We were left in darkness.

November 1943 to New Year 1944

W
e were sleeping more and more. The Nazis had started rationing the electricity and thrown the entire town into the dark. We now only had light for a few hours in the evening or a few hours in the morning. We never knew when. There was little for us to do in the dark and cold, so we slept to keep warm.
Zygush always kept a book within reach and the moment the light came on he would grab it. Since he had learned to read Zygush would spend hours with his books. He would quietly read to himself, or else, in a soft and tiny voice, to Zosia, his mouth only a breath away from hers. Even in the dim light, I could see the spark in her eyes when her big brother read to her. I loved that they loved books like I did.

Since we would only be in the bunker for a ‘few weeks', I had only brought a few of my precious books with me. I don't know why. Maybe I thought it would be unlucky. Here I was in the bunker alone, and on my shelves in our house were my beauties. Historical novels were my favourites. Big fat novels with stories that went on for ever. Dumas, Dickens, Hugo. I read everything they wrote. And when I think of some of the titles:
Les Miserables
,
Bleak House
,
Great Expectations
,
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
,
The Man in the Iron Mask
…And the plots!
The Count of Monte Cristo
,
A Tale of Two Cities
,
David Copperfield
…Prisons, dungeons, wars, revolutions, false imprisonment, traitors, murderous corrupt power-hungry leaders, betrayal, greed, heroes, impersonations, phony trials, torture! When I was reading them, in the fright of my most gruesome nightmares I never imagined my life would resemble these books in any way. I also loved the Warsaw stories of IB Singer, but I was considered too young to read IJ Peretz, even though there was a portrait of him, done completely with tiny letters, on the wall of our living room.

I also loved the Polish historical-novel writer Henryk Sienkiewicz, who wrote such titles as
With Fire and Sword
,
The Deluge
and
Fire in the Steppe.
Sienkiewicz, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature, also wrote
Quo Vadis,
which had spawned three movies and an opera. But you must remember, I was only a young teenage girl, and I always found the time for the new
Kurzmahler book. In her stories, orphan girls always turned into princesses and the only endings were happy ones.

Now my reading depended on whatever Mr Beck could scavenge from the hundreds and hundreds of books abandoned in the streets, looted from the homes of deported and murdered Jews. These books apparently held little interest for the German troops or the Poles and Ukrainians. Even if we had the money, Beck couldn't buy even one book without raising suspicions. He had a reputation for many things, none of them having anything to do with books. I was grateful for anything; I could hardly ask him to get on his hands and knees and browse through the ashes for my favourite writers. There was a book, I can't remember the title, which Artek, Lola and all the grown-ups were passing around like dessert. I wanted to read it, but my mother said it was risqué and inappropriate for someone of my age. ‘Salka,' Artek said. ‘It's a book! Who knows if any of us get out of here? And you don't want her to read a book because it might be bad for her?' We had to laugh.

Zygush wasn't the only puppet in this child's closet. As soon as the door opened and light shone in, we all came alive. Cleaning. Peeling potatoes. Boiling water. Washing our faces. Rolling up our pallets. Slicing the stale bread, which at least was easy to cut. If the light stayed on for a while, I would teach the children their lessons, or even now and then we would share a few moments of play, of making dolls. If only the Fascists knew that Jews were darning their socks! Thank God Lola was here to teach us all these things. We tried to make money any way we could, but with no electricity, we were making even less than before.

We were always on the brink of starvation, yet somehow we managed to get by. Every decent thing we owned had been sold long ago. My very last dress had brought us 200 zloty and 5 kilograms of flour. Beck had sold some of Papa's underwear for 110
zloty and given us 120. God bless him. But now there was truly nothing left for us to sell.

Papa was not a forgetful man. He remembered every birthday of everyone in our big family. He knew the Talmud and Torah by heart. He was the holder of our collective memory. Mama had been rummaging through the very back of our makeshift shelves recessed into the wall in a last attempt to find something when she stumbled upon a large package in twine. None of us knew what it was. We had wrapped everything in newspaper in a futile attempt to keep the mould at bay. When my Mama held up Papa's beautiful charcoal grey coat, she shook her head in surprise. ‘Oy, my
aiver butelt
husband!'

Mama had had the coat made right before the war. The wool was imported from England, had an Afghan lambskin collar and was worth a fortune. Now it brought us only 600 zloty. But it was enough to eat for a week. Even Mama, who had been breaking down, with constant headaches from worry and grief, started to look like her old self again. Every time she'd look at Papa for the next few days, she'd just shake her head and smile. At least we were safe. While we hungered, or sat crouched in the dark, others were being killed or deported.

The news from the outside world hadn't been good. In fact, there was no news at all. For what seemed like weeks, nothing was happening. At last the BBC announced that the Russians had taken Zhitomir and Kiev. It was the first significant Russian advance in months. Mr Patrontasch took out his map and marked the new front. But only a few days later, the Nazis took back both cities. When Mr Patrontasch erased the advance on his map, I felt like he was erasing our hope as well. They fought on the Eastern Front. They fought on the Western Front. They conferred in Moscow. They conferred in London. But it was all moving with the pace of a tortoise.

We had been in this tiny hole for one entire year, surviving by the generosity of the Becks and sheer luck, almost in equal measure. Despite the fact that time seemed to stand still in the bunker, a whole year had gone by. On 22 November, the anniversary of the first
akcja
, we lit three candles in memory of the Jews murdered. If we had lit a candle for each person who had died, our bunker would have shined brighter than the brightest star. It was almost unfathomable to think back to when we had first arrived. Back then we had thought we would be stuck in this hole for a couple of weeks at most, but now with the game of chess Russia and Nazi Germany were playing it could go on for ever. Out of nowhere Beck had said that he thought we might be in here until next November. Another year! I couldn't imagine it. I don't think Beck understood how much we depended on his every word for our sense of what was real and what was imagined. I didn't think it would be possible for us to hold out for another year. There were so many close calls, and Beck's drinking caused him to be very unreliable, and now Julia and Ala seemed to be torn between saving us and protecting themselves from further hurt and humiliation.

Over the past several weeks, the two of them had moved in and out half a dozen times. Julia didn't even knock on the trapdoor to announce her plans any more. And when she was at home, she would leave her suitcase at the door as a reminder to Beck. Beck was now having regular ‘dinners' at the sister-in-law's house. A couple of weeks ago Beck had told us that this sister-in-law was romancing a Ukrainian policeman. As she had known about us since last Christmas, their pillow talk could spell disaster. But Beck had told us not to worry. ‘I'll talk her out of it. She's a reasonable woman.' And he had gone off to her house just outside of town. Now it was clear that he was doing more than just talking. Was this Beck's way of keeping her quiet?
We didn't even know this woman's given name and Julia didn't tell us. She only referred to her as the ‘sister-in-law'. Not referring to your sister-in-law by name was as good as a slap across the face. It was that big an insult, and was all that Julia could do in revenge. Julia didn't let us see how hurt she was. Until he straightened himself out, she would only come home at night when Beck was at work. She would have left him altogether if it wasn't for us.

We were horrified for Julia, but there was nothing to do. Our lives were in his hands. We couldn't risk his anger, even though this new affair was endangering Julia and Ala as much as us. There was no understanding Beck. Anyone who would dare to hide 18 Jews had to be crazy, defiant, arrogant and confident. I couldn't even be angry with him. None of us could. We'd just sit in silence and deal with this one added threat to our survival and go on.

Adding to the problem was Ala's new boyfriend, the Nazi pilot. Adolph had been flying fighter planes on the Russian front for over two years. Beck had immediately told us that he was a good man and had confided in Beck that he despised Hitler. But even someone who despised Hitler could betray us. But Ala was in love and so Adolph came to the house often. He would come in the afternoon, sometimes unannounced, spreading panic in the bunker. Or he would come for dinner, bearing flowers and little gifts, staying late and sometimes even staying over. Beck liked him, so he would even come when Julia and Ala were away at Julia's sister's house. Our narrow window of freedoms had been slammed shut. We couldn't move, cook, talk, or even go the bathroom when Adolph was here. The card table was in the Beck's bedroom, right above where our pails were. Adolph and Ala would play cards, chat and listen to music for hours and hours. They'd dance right over our heads. Or if it wasn't them,
Beck would be entertaining his card buddies or others in there. It seemed like there were people upstairs more often than not in the evenings. While these visits might help defy the rumours and accusations that the Becks were harbouring Jews, it sentenced us to long stretches of silence in which we could not move or speak. Even my own breathing had become shallow. Our lives were miserable. Finally Patrontasch asked Beck to move the card table to the living room so that we could at least relieve ourselves without fear of being overheard.

 

While the progress between the Russians and the Allies seemed hopelessly stalled, the news from our little town was more than grim. It seemed like every day, either Beck or Julia was forced to be the unfortunate messenger of bad news. I mourned the growing list of lost friends.

When Beck returned from the Janowska work camp in Lvov, where he would go and gather news for us from stolen conversations at the barbed-wire fence, he had to announce the final extermination of the inmates there. We had already known that Hermann had perished during the summer, but there was no more protecting Lola from the truth. She had lost everyone now. When Julia returned from Zaleszcryki, a nearby town, she said that partisans had been hanged like Christmas ornaments from the trees. They had deported old Mrs Twordyewicz. She was stooped over, practically blind and deaf, just a wisp of a woman. Not to mention that she had converted to Catholicism as a little girl and had gone to mass every day of her life. But they deported her just the same. Another friend of ours, Misko Segal, had been found and murdered. Sometimes the details were hazy. They had found another Jew in hiding. His name might have been Springer. Beck wasn't sure. It hardly seemed to matter what his name was. Beck had announced that the man had at
least had the time to hang himself and cheat the Nazis of the pleasure of killing him. Would we be brought to that? It seemed inconceivable that that idea would be a solace at such a time. But so much of what we were hearing and living seemed inconceivable. Beck was most shook up by what happened to Mr Chachkes, a well-known lawyer in Zolkiew. Beck had heard that he and his sister-in-law had been captured in a small village outside of town. Beck didn't know Chachkes at all, but he and Julia were both frantic because the police had found papers on Chachkes that incriminated the peasants who had hidden them. Both Jews and their saviours had been taken away in chains to Lvov.

There had been a new round of rumours that the Becks might be harbouring Jews. Beck's boss at the alcohol depot, Meyer, apparently thought Beck was leading a life ‘too rich' and ‘too good' for his salary. He informed none other than SS Obersturmführer Von Pappen, the SS officer who organized the deportations and liquidations in Zolkiew, of his concerns. Even two of Beck's diehard Polish card buddies, Eisenbard and Dr Lucynski, who didn't mind playing with Krueger, Schmidt and the other Nazis, were terrified of Von Pappen and no longer dared to come over to play cards. Eisenbard had told Beck he had heard his house was ‘unclean'. If Beck's best friend was saying that, what would the rest of the town be thinking?

Beck was right to be worried. The man was ruthless. It was common knowledge that Von Pappen had had a talented Jewish carpenter working for him by the name of Hiam Schott. Von Pappen liked him and had protected him. There had been orders that no one was to bother Schott. So he had been spared the deportations and the
akcja
. When Schott had cut part of a finger off, Von Pappen had personally driven him to the hospital to have the wound taken care of. But as they walked out
of the hospital together, Von Pappen had nonchalantly pulled out his side arm and shot Mr Schott in the head. God knew what would happen if Von Pappen or any other quisling found out that Beck once stole his Christmas carp to celebrate with the Jews he was hiding downstairs!

Beck had already just been sent to Von Pappen because his rifle had been stolen. This was enough of an offence for Beck to be shot or hanged. Beck had fallen asleep on the job and the rifle had been stolen by a Ukrainian Blue Coat. Beck had had the
chutzpah
to inform Von Pappen that he had been pretending to be asleep. He had claimed that all the Ukrainians were thieving bastards and that he had wanted to catch one of them in the act. Von Pappen had said he would have to think about what measures to take and had sent Beck home.