In the Mouth of the Wolf (11 page)

All the cleaning women and kitchen workers wore big, robelike aprons over their clothes. Each worker had to supply her own. I didn't have an apron and couldn't afford to
buy one, but I did have a lovely dressing gown with black and paisley stripes that was just the right length. Since its sleeves were too wide to work in comfortably, I pinned them up and it was perfect. Every evening before I went home I hung my gown in the women's dressing room in the basement. Then one morning I came to work and it was gone! What was I going to do? How could I replace it? Things like that were impossible to buy! I was determined not to make an issue of it no matter how upset I really was. I was certain one of the other girls had stolen it. I was even fairly sure which one: a dark, slender young woman named Kazia, very pretty and intelligent, who began working in the kitchen right after I left. Originally she came from a fine family and had even attended business college. She was the only one of the civilian workers other than myself who could speak fluent German. She was witty and vivacious. Everyone liked her. But she was a whore.

We were both the same size, so it would have fit her. And though now she owned nothing, she did have a taste for nice clothes. I was sure she took it, but what could I do? In my position I didn't dare make trouble. And, anyway, what proof did I have?

So I said nothing and went about my job in my street clothes. I was working in Adrian's office when he came in and noticed I wasn't wearing my robe. “Did something happen to it?” he asked.

“I guess somebody stole it over the weekend,” I told him. “I hung it up in the dressing room when I went home, and this morning when I came to work it was gone.”

I really wanted to forget about it, but Adrian was furious.
“Donnerwetter!”
he began to shout. “I'll find out who stole it! I'll teach them a lesson they won't forget!” I pleaded with him not to make a fuss, but he insisted. “We
have all sorts of supplies lying around here. If they can get away with stealing your robe, soon they'll be stealing other things!”

He began an investigation immediately, storming downstairs to the kitchen shouting, “Who stole Wanda's robe? Just wait! I'll find out!” All the workers were questioned. Of course, nothing came of it. The robe was gone without a trace. But when Adrian was interrogating Kazia, she told him something—something I didn't find out about until much later.

There was a burglary at the battalion warehouse. Thieves broke in during the night and made off with a huge supply of bedsheets, pillowcases, and towels. Everybody was talking about it the next day. The investigators were certain it was an inside job. Nothing was forced or broken, so the culprits must have had access to a key and known when the guards went off duty. All civilian workers immediately came under suspicion. Adrian called everyone in for questioning, including myself. Only two people failed to provide good alibis. One was Stasiek the janitor. The other was Kazia. Both were locked up in basement cells while the officers decided what to do. Five days went by. No one knew if they would be shot or sent to a concentration camp. The other women begged me to plead with Adrian on Kazia's behalf. He would listen to me. I spoke German, and he was my friend. I promised to do what I could. I went down to the basement and spoke to Kazia through the bars. She gave me the details of her story, and I believed she was innocent. She might have taken my robe, but she wasn't a real criminal. I then went over to Adrian's office.

“Adrian, what do you want from Kazia?” I began to say. “She didn't steal anything. You know what a joker she
is. She likes to kid around.” I had a whole speech prepared, but he cut me off at once.

“I don't know why you're getting involved,” he scoffed. “Why should you care if she rots in jail? She's no friend of yours. Do you know what she said to me when I was trying to find your robe? She said you were Jewish! That's right. She looked me right in the eye and said, ‘You know, Wanda's a Jew!' And I told her if she ever opened her mouth about you again, she would get it from me!”

So that was it. Kazia figured out the truth and turned me in, but Adrian liked me too much to believe her. I took a deep breath to collect my thoughts. Then I said, “Well, you know what she's like. You know what she is.” And it ended there.

But after that I always carried my papers and some money sewn in a belt which I wore under my clothes just in case I had to leave in a hurry.

A Summer Interlude

 

 

      It was a warm, beautiful Friday afternoon in mid-July 1943. I had just picked up my pay at the barracks and was walking home along the Vistula River. Kraków is an interesting city, one of the oldest in Poland, the first capital of the Polish kings. Although it is smaller that Warsaw and some of the other large cities in Poland, it is filled with churches and buildings, many dating back to the Middle Ages. The Wawel Palace overlooks the Vistula. The Jagielonski University is the oldest in Poland, while from the top of the Marjacka Spire of the cathedral the bugle call known as the Hejnal is sounded every day at noon. Walking was always my favorite recreation, and Kraków is a grand city
to explore on foot. Now that the days were warm and sunny and the twilight did not come until late, I could indulge myself to the full.

On this particular day I was strolling past the Wawel Palace when just ahead I noticed a handsome young man walking arm-in-arm with a beautiful blonde woman. I looked again, this time more closely, and realized to my surprise that I knew him. No mistake about it—he was from Piotrków. He was fairly tall and had dark brown hair and pale blue eyes. He wore a mustache, which was unusual among men his age, and dressed in riding boots and jodhpurs, which were considered very chic. And now here he was, just as I remembered him, strolling through the middle of Kraków with a Polish beauty on his arm. My instincts told me to pass him by, to take care of my business and let him take care of his. But, on the other hand, it had been so long since I had talked to anyone from home that I was curious. I simply had to find out what he was up to.

I followed him for a few blocks. He finally said goodbye to his girlfriend. I saw my moment and quickly ran up to him.

“Do you have a second? Can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” He looked at me oddly. “Do I know you?”

“You may. Tell me, did you ever live in Piotrków?”

The sudden flash of fear in his eyes told me I had the right man. Now I had to give him a sign, some assurance he could trust me.

“You used to live on Szewska Street, didn't you?” I continued. “That's where I know you from. I had a girlfriend who lived on that street. Number Eight.” Szewska Street was in the heart of the ghetto. Anyone with friends there had to be Jewish.

He caught on immediately. I could see his eyes brighten.

“Well, what do you know? There's someone else here from Piotrków. What a coincidence. We really ought to get together sometime and talk.”

“I'd like that, too,” I answered. “It's been so long since I've seen anyone from the old neighborhood.”

We made a date to get together on Monday after I got off work. He was waiting for me on the corner, just as we arranged. We went walking down the boulevard together, no particular destination in mind, using the passing crowd as our cover as we spoke together in low voices. Here at last was a chance for me to take off the mask that by now seemed riveted to my face. Here was another human being to whom I could talk without hiding behind a façade, without worrying that the least slip of tone or inflection might give me away. He felt the same way. But even so, it took a while before he could bring himself to trust me. I asked how he was getting by. He told me he was involved in smuggling—exactly what, he didn't say. Then he asked me the same question.

“I'm working for the SS,” I replied, and showed him my work card to prove it was true. He still found it hard to believe and pressed me to tell him more. But I had been around long enough to know better. The less people know about you, the better—even your friends. I thought he'd naturally understand that too, but he still persisted.

“Wouldn't it be easier for me to meet you at work?” “Not on your life! Don't even think of doing it! It's nothing personal. I don't care one way or another. But I know the girls I work with better than you do. If they see you waiting for me, they're going to want to know who
you are, where you live, how long we've been seeing each other, and why I don't introduce you to them. Don't you see? However innocently it starts, one thing leads to another and the whole business can easily get out of hand. It's trouble, and what do we need it for?”

He said he understood. But a few days later, when I came out the front gate, there he was in front of the barracks waiting for me. Not only that. He was flirting with the waitress from the officers' canteen! I was furious. What was he trying to do? Kill us both?

“Hi!” he said as I walked by. “I was waiting for you.” “Hi yourself,” I said very angrily as I walked past. “What do you mean by coming here? You promised not to do it. How did you ever find the address?”

“Easy,” he laughed. “I saw it when you showed me your work card.”

“Very clever. Maybe you ought to work for the police because you're playing right into their hands. There's one rule I've always followed since I ran away from the ghetto, and you ought to follow it, too. Don't let the people at work know where you live, and don't let the people you live with know where you work. Understand? Mixing the two is just asking for trouble.”

He apologized and promised not to show up at the barracks again. But I was beginning to have doubts about him. I already knew that he was apt to be reckless and that he wasn't very good at keeping promises. I considered ending the relationship right then, but in spite of my reservations I was so eager for a friend—a Jewish friend—that I was willing to give him another chance. I hoped he'd do better, because I needed someone desperately. The worst part of passing under false papers was that I was utterly alone. There was no one to turn to, no one to trust. I walked
through a world of enemies with a deadly sword hanging over my head. For that reason, even a few moments of conversation with someone who shared my plight, who understood my hidden nightmares and sudden gut-wrenching chills, could make the terrors of my daily life that much easier to bear. For now, at least, I knew I was not the only Jew left alive. There was another with me, close by, a friend to whom I could turn. That simple knowledge meant a lot to me. I could not pass it by. But, I realized sadly, I might have to if he did something stupid again. I decided to wait and see.

We met on various street corners during the next few weeks. Our conversations seldom lasted more than an hour or two, but each time I learned a little more about him. Coincidences! He was living on Kurniki Street in the same building I lived in when I first came to Kraków. And guess who his landlady was? Mrs. Mokryjowa's sister, who lived with her mother in the apartment upstairs! As soon as I learned that, I knew we had to have a long talk.

“I know that building very well. I used to live there myself. Please—and I mean this very seriously—never ever tell anyone there that you know me. There is no reason why they have to know. To tell them is just asking for trouble.”

He still couldn't understand why I was making a fuss, so I told him, “Some time ago a gentile gave me some excellent advice which I always follow. I'll share it with you. One Jew can blend in. Two are always suspect.”

I wasn't sure whether the Mokryjowas suspected the truth about either of us. But the fact was that when my friend talked fast, he didn't pronounce the
cz
sound correctly. It came out slightly harder than a native speaking Polish would say it. Normally it wouldn't be noticed, but if
people suspected he might be Jewish and decided to listen carefully, they couldn't help hearing it. One tiny slip like that was all it took to give a person away. That's why I didn't want anyone to know we were friends. If one of us went down, why drag the other down, too? He promised to do better in the future. I strongly hoped that he would.

How I looked forward to our walks together. From time to time we talked about ourselves, our families and friends, and how we came to be where we were now. We never discussed how we escaped from the ghetto or whom we left behind. Those memories were still too raw, too terrifying. Once upon a time we lived in Piotrków; now we were here. We ignored those blank spaces in our lives.

He came from a religious Hasidic family but shed his beard and earlocks when he grew older. Instead of studying to be a rabbi, he went to a trade school and learned to weave. Lódź, his hometown, was a large manufacturing city with the biggest textile industry in Poland, though most of the factories there were one-room workshops. He set up his loom in his parents' house and made a living weaving small items—socks and things like that—on consignment. Shortly before the war broke out he got married, and when the Germans expelled the Jews from Lódź, he came to Piotrków with his wife and parents.

Interestingly enough, as close as we were, I never knew his name. I have no idea what his Jewish name was because back home he was just a face I'd pass on the street. In Kraków we used our false passport names, and what his was I have long since forgotten. Let's call him Jasek because he looked very much like another boy I used to know by that name.

I looked forward to the times we spent together. There
were always small rowboats, canoes, and little kayaks tied up along the riverbank that people could rent for a small fee. That was what we often did. With our small boat far, far out in the middle of the river, we would sit for hours talking—really talking—pouring our souls out to each other without having to worry about being overheard. Jasek had a remarkable knowledge of Hebrew and Yiddish literature. He could go on for hours reciting Bialik and Peretz. It was extremely moving to listen to him. To this day I can hear his voice pouring out Bialik's “In the City of Slaughter,” the famous poem written to commemorate the Kishenev pogroms of 1903.

 

Great is the sorrow and great is the shame

And which of the two is greater?

Answer thou, o son of Man
…

 

How those words struck like daggers into our hearts, for we were living not only in a city but in a world of slaughter.

Out on the river we would sit together through those warm summer afternoons, or else we picked our way along the bank, feeding the ducks, gathering wildflowers, looking for all the world like a pair of lovers. And any passerby who saw us must surely have thought that that was what we were—lovers. But we weren't. The words Jasek whispered in my ear weren't lovers' phrases. It was “In the City of Slaughter,” or Peretz's stories, or the songs and legends of the Hasidic rabbis which he knew from his schooldays.

Don't misunderstand. Ours was a friendship—a Jewish friendship—and as such it was very important to each of us. But Jasek was not my boyfriend, and I was not his girlfriend. I drew that line at the beginning of our relationship,
telling him all about Mayer and my feelings for him. I made it clear that I had no desire to get involved with anyone else. Besides, love affairs were a luxury I couldn't afford. Keeping alive from day to day was hard enough without romantic entanglements.

However, Jasek's views on that subject were completely different. He was an extremely handsome man, a ladykiller, and he took advantage of it. Polish women went crazy over him. The combination of dark hair and blue eyes was irresistible. Once he realized I was not going to be another conquest, he started telling me all about his different affairs. It was impossible to keep track of them all. He picked up one girl on the street, another in the park, another on the tramway—all in a single day. I wasn't impressed. After all, what was the point?

“I'm sorry, Jasek,” I said after hearing the details of his latest liaison. “You may be older than me, but you don't understand anything about life at all. Can't you see that you're playing a dangerous game? You don't know these women like I do. I live and work with them. They talk. They talk about everything. How long will it take before one gets jealous? Don't you see? It's so easy for real trouble to start, and what do you need it for? Do you have to keep running around after women all the time? Don't you understand that we have only one duty to ourselves, one duty to the Jewish people, and that is to survive?”

He couldn't see it that way. He'd pick up a woman on the street or take up with some lonely spinster, moving from one to another like a monkey swinging from tree to tree. Many times I found his hedonism repulsive. “Hey!” I once blurted out, “what about your wife? Maybe she's dead, but you don't know for sure. Maybe she's not. Don't you ever think about her or wonder if you'll find her again?
What if you do? How will you face her after the way you've been living?”

He laughed in my face. “You don't have to worry about my wife. She'll take me back.” I had nothing to say after that. It was a way of looking at life and treating people that was completely alien to anything I knew, and it made me uncomfortable. “Watch out, Jasek—you're playing with fire,” was all I could say. But he wouldn't listen.

One special Sunday in August we went on a picnic. The women at work had told me about a certain park located just outside the city. It was beautiful, they said. I had never been there, and neither had Jasek, so we planned a special trip to see what it was like.

The park was huge. Little brooks and streams flowed through the forests and meadows. There were no benches or tables, but everyone brought picnic baskets and spread blankets on the grass. It seemed as if all Piotrków were there. Groups of people were everywhere, singing, dancing, or just lying on the grass by the streams, enjoying the sound of flowing water and the brilliant sunshine.

We found a spot for ourselves away from the crowds. Lying back on our blanket, we could see the peaks of the Tatras, the highest mountains in Poland, forming a jagged edge along the horizon. The sight of those mountains brought back memories of when I was young, when I and all my friends spent a whole summer camping in the Tatras. I began telling Jasek about those times, about my experiences outdoors, how we had camped and hiked and slept out in the woods under the stars. He wanted to hear all about it because his childhood had been completely different.