In the Mouth of the Wolf (18 page)

“Sie Jude!”
he shouted to the soldier, pointing his finger at me.
“Jude, Jude, Jude!”

He was trying to tell the soldier that I was Jewish, to arrest me. But as soon as I heard him trying to speak German, I realized that he probably didn't know more than those two words. His accent was so poor it was hard to understand what he was saying.
Jude
is pronounced “Yoo-duh,” not “Yew-deh,” the way he was saying it. I might have been in trouble, but I had one advantage. I spoke German. My accuser did not. I intended to play that card for all it was worth.

“What? What are you saying?” The soldier didn't understand him at all.

The man started waving his arms and yelling. “
Sie
…
nicht Wanda Gajda! Sie Yew-deb! Yew-deh, Yew-deh, Yew-deh! Zaporowska
…
Sie Yew-deh!
” He was trying to
tell him that I wasn't really Wanda Gajda, that I was a Jew who had come to get her friend Zaporowska, another Jew, out of the camp.

The German sighed and asked to see my passport. I handed it over without hesitation. He began reading out loud: “Wanda Regina Gajda…Aryan…Roman Catholic…Address…” He shrugged, folded the document, and handed it back “Does he think you're Jewish because your middle name is Regina?” He still had no idea what this was all about.

“Who knows?” I replied. “I'm not Jewish. I'm Polish. I'm employed by the Third SS Pioneer Training Battalion in Kraków. I work for the Kommandant, Colonel Roemer, as a nursemaid. I've lived with him and his wife for the last two years. If you don't believe me, here is his military telephone number. I'll wait here until the call goes through. You ask Colonel or Mrs. Roemer if I'm Jewish or not.” Then I started showing him my papers. I had reams of them by this time, all genuine. I showed him my work card, my identity card, my ration card, my residence permit, my passport, my baptismal certificate, my pass to enter the barracks. I even showed him my special pass to walk the dog after curfew. “I still don't understand why he thinks I'm Jewish,” I said when I finally finished showing him all my documents.

But that horrid little man kept yelling, “
Nein, nein! Sie Yew-deh! Yew-deh, Yew-deh, Yew-deh, Yew-deh!
”

Then I took out my special permit to get on the train. “Now look at this. Do you see what it says here? ‘The Pole, Wanda Gajda, has permission to travel…' It doesn't say ‘The Jew.' What more do you want from me? I've shown you all my papers. I've even given you a telephone number to call. Why don't you call? Whom do you believe? This
civilian who can hardly speak two words of German, or your own officers in the SS? Come on, now. Whom do you believe?”

The soldier held his head in his hands a moment, pondering the situation. “You certainly are right, I have no question about these documents. But could you please wait outside in the corridor a moment. I'd like a word with this fellow.”

I went outside. As I waited, I heard them arguing in the office but couldn't make out what they were saying. Suddenly another door opened, and an army captain entered the hallway. He was quite surprised to see me and took a step back.

“What in the world is such a lovely young lady doing here so late in the evening?”

I turned to him at once. “Sir, I'm having a problem. Can you help me?” Before he quite got over his surprise, I told him my entire story, closing with “…but then this one little man accused me of being Jewish. I know what he wants. He wants a bribe. If I don't pay him, he'll make trouble for me.”

“We'll see about that!” the captain exclaimed. “Please follow me.”

We went into the office. My papers were still spread over the desk. “What's going on here?” the captain asked in a very stem voice.

“This one says she's Jewish…” the soldier started saying, but the captain cut him off.

“Nonsense! Throw him out!”

The soldier grabbed the little man by the collar and booted him out the door. Then the captain invited me to sit down, apologizing profusely for all the trouble and embarrassment
I had been caused. He gathered up all my papers, folded them carefully, and handed them back. I was anxious to leave while everything was still in my favor, but at the same time I couldn't seem too eager to go. So I chatted awhile with the captain. He asked me about my job.

“Tell me, who is this Kommandant you work for?”

“Do you know Colonel Roemer? He commands the Third SS Pioneer Training Battalion.”

“Oh? I thought the Third was in Prague.”

If that question was loaded, it didn't work. I knew all about the SS. “No. The First is in Prague. The Third is in Kraków.” I also knew that the Regular Army was intensely jealous of the SS, which received better rations, better quarters, and all sorts of extras. So when the captain asked “What is it like to work for the SS? Is it as good as they say?” I knew exactly how to answer.

“It's better. The rations are terrific, and they also get R-6 cigarettes.”

“R-6? Really? I'd give a month's pay for an R-6 cigarette right now!”

I laughed. “Why didn't you say so?” I took out my cigarette box and gave him the whole pack. At first he wouldn't take it, but I insisted. “Go ahead. It's yours. After all, you did me a big favor.”

By then it was ten-thirty and time to go. I thanked the captain for his help, shook hands, and walked very slowly out the door and through the main gate. My face was nonchalant, but my heart was pounding.

It was dark and very late, and I still had no place to stay. Earlier Renia had told me that Franka had taken an apartment in Częstochowa, but that was the last place I wanted to go. Tonight was no time to be near anyone Jewish. I walked
slowly back toward the city, wondering what to do. On the way I passed a woman with two small children. I stopped and explained my problem.

“I just came from visiting my friend in the camp. My train leaves at four-thirty, and I know I won't be able to get to the station before curfew. Could I sit up in your house for a few hours? I'd be glad to pay.”

She told me not to bother; I could sit in her kitchen for free. We went to her house, had some tea, and talked. Then the woman went to bed while I sat up thinking about what to do. I realized that there was no point in going back to the camp. The messenger was coming with the papers in the morning, and the captain had promised to take care of Renia's release personally. Time was getting short, and I had to be back in Kraków by the thirtieth to help Mrs. Roemer. When morning came, instead of returning to the camp, I continued to the railway station to catch the next train home. I expected Renia to follow shortly.

But Renia never did come to Kraków. After I left that night, the captain came by to talk to her.

“You know, your friend Wanda is charming,” he said. “I enjoyed talking with her very much. She's very nice.” Renia didn't want to appear too nervous, so she merely asked, “Could you send her back here for a while? I haven't seen her in so long. We have a lot to talk about, and we didn't get a chance to finish.”

“I'm afraid I can't,” he apologized. “You see, she's gone. I imagine she's probably on her way back to Kraków by now.” That was all Renia needed to hear. At least she knew I wasn't under arrest.

 

The next day something was missing—stolen, most likely—and no one was let out. Renia had to wait until the
day after, when the messenger from headquarters showed up with the order for her release. The officer on duty was going through her file, examining her papers, when he suddenly said, “I see you're going to go to work for the SS. I hope you realize that the Army could use some qualified people, too. In fact, I could give you a job right now. We need another cook in the officers' mess. But I guess you think the SS is classier than the Army.”

Renia thought it over. This was a good offer. In exchange for a little work cleaning and cooking for the officers, she'd have food and housing, and wouldn't have to face the dangers of the long railway trip to Kraków. She remembered what I told her about life on the outside. She decided to accept.

Two weeks later the Russians crossed the Vistula, the Germans were in full retreat, and she was free.

By then so was I.

An End…and a Beginning

 

 

      Finally it came. In January the Russians crossed the Vistula. They drove straight for Kraków. The Germans couldn't hold them back. Colonel Roemer came and went at all hours. Sometimes we didn't see him for days, but the telephone, hooked up to the military line, rang constantly. Whenever I picked up the receiver, there was an officer on the other end of the line demanding to speak to Colonel Roemer. The message was always urgent. Meanwhile the
Krakauer Zeitung
was still prattling about “straightening out the lines,” except now, in order to straighten them, it was necessary to evacuate Kraków. Mrs. Roemer and Klaus
were leaving for Magdeburg again. This time I knew they wouldn't be back.

“Wanda, we will not leave you behind for the communists,” Mrs. Roemer promised me just before she got on the train. She had her husband swear to take me with him when the time came. Meantime, I was to remain behind in the apartment and look after the furniture.

 

What furniture it was! Colonel Roemer was a brutal man, but he had exquisite taste. That furniture was his most valued possession. I can almost believe he fought the war for it. It came from a special SS warehouse filled with valuables stolen from Jewish homes. High-ranking officers with apartments to furnish could help themselves. The Roemers' bedroom and living-room suites were inlaid with intricate parqueted patterns and covered with rare veneers. A sumptuous Oriental rug and a graceful sofa highlighted the living room. But it was the dining-room set that was Colonel Roemer's special pride. The three-hundred-year-old ebony table and chairs were elaborately carved with different mythological scenes. The buffet was ten feet long and just as magnificent. But the wine cabinet was the prize, covered from top to bottom with carved grape vines framing episodes from the life of Bacchus.

Like all other senior officers, Colonel Roemer made plans to haul his loot back to Germany. I was a part of that booty because a Fräulein Wanda was as rare a find as the dining-room furniture. I suppose I should have been flattered, but I was far from happy about it. I didn't want to go to Germany. That was the last place I wanted to be. When the Russians came to Kraków—and by now it was obvious they would be there soon—I wanted to be there to meet them.

The battle for Kraków raged. Toward the east the sound of heavy artillery rumbled in the distance like summer thunder. Each day the battle lines drew closer and closer to the city as the German Army fell back. Colonel Roemer was constantly in the field. He came home only to rest, bathe, and change his clothes before leaving for his office again. He once held a staff meeting in the apartment. From the faces of the officers present I knew that the situation must be very grave. Roemer himself looked physically and emotionally exhausted. Before he left he called me aside and told me to have my bags packed. Should it become necessary for him and his staff to evacuate Kraków, he had left orders that I was to be taken with them. As he promised his wife, he was not going to leave me behind for the Russians.

That night the Russians shelled the city. Everyone in the apartment house ran for shelter in the basement. I was nearly out the door when the telephone rang. I was about to go back to pick it up when an inner voice warned me not to answer. Colonel Roemer had promised to take me back to Germany with him. I knew that call had something to do with that. I left the phone ringing as I hurried downstairs to the cellar.

I found all the neighbors down there, some on the verge of panic, others calm, listening to the shells exploding in the distance. Suddenly we heard voices and an urgent pounding on the front door. The janitress was about to go up to see who it was, but I begged her to stay downstairs. “Don't open it!” I pleaded. “Those are soldiers sent to get me. Colonel Roemer wants to take me back to Germany with him, but I don't want to go.” She stayed where she was. The pounding on the door continued for what seemed like hours. Then it stopped.

We spent that night huddled in the cellar as shellfire rattled the walls of the apartment house above us. All night long we heard the tramp of marching boots, the rumble of tanks and heavy vehicles.

Morning came to us in silence. The world was absolutely still. Quietly we crept up from the cellar and peered out into the street. The only German in sight was a soldier sprawled on the pavement, killed by a piece of shrapnel. One by one we stepped outside, then slowly, carefully ventured a little farther up the block. Could it be true? Were they really gone? After five long, bitter years, were we finally free?

Others were emerging from the cellars now, cautiously at first, then boldly, joyfully as they realized there was nothing to fear. Groups of young people darted here and there gathering abandoned weapons, then running off to join in the sporadic shooting still continuing in other parts of the city.

“Let's go downtown and see what's happening,” a girl said to me. I never saw her before, but now there were no strangers. Off we went. We arrived downtown to find hundreds of people milling about in the streets in joyous confusion. We joined the throng. Suddenly shots rang out. Everyone scattered. We ended up in a convent basement with a crowd of other thrill seekers waiting for the gunfire to subside. It went on all night.

By morning we were tired of sitting in basements. Shooting or not, we poured out into the streets. The whole population of Kraków was converging on the downtown area. Crowds smashed in the windows of liquor stores and began passing out bottles of champagne. Soon geysers of champagne were raining down in torrents. Everyone had an open bottle in his hand. We sang and cheered and
laughed and danced. Fighting was still going on. A single shell could have blown us all to bits, but no one cared. It was over now. The bitter years of slavery and death were at an end.

The next day the Red Army entered the city. Enormous tanks came rumbling up the streets with young soldiers riding on top waving flags and rifles and shouting in Polish and Russian, “Hurrah for victory! Hurrah for Stalin! Russians and Poles, brothers forever!” And Poles, who normally despise Russians and hate communists, were there by the thousands cheering them, kissing them, carrying them on their shoulders. And I was there too, right in the middle of the crowd, screaming, laughing, shouting with the rest. “Hurrah for freedom! Hurrah for the Soviet Union! Hurrah for the Red Army!” Years of bottled-up tension and fear came pouring out in an avalanche of hysterical emotion. Total joy! Total freedom! The world was beautiful.

It didn't last. When I dragged myself wearily home after screaming my voice out for hours, I found the neighbors waiting for me. I never had much to do with the people in the neighborhood before, but they knew that I worked for Colonel Roemer and that I made frequent visits to the barracks. Now that the Germans were gone, they wanted first pick of the loot.

“You know where the supply rooms are,” they said. “We can't waste time looking around. We want you to lead us to them.”

I cared nothing for the battalion's property, but the glittering, eager look in their eyes disgusted me. Like a flock of vultures, each had come with his box or sack to pick the bones clean. But I didn't have a choice. I wasn't about to refuse a mob.

I led them to the supply stores and showed them where
the cigarettes and the boots and the uniforms and the liquor were kept. The doors were locked, but someone found the keys. Word spread through the neighborhood like a brush fire, and within minutes a huge mob had gathered to fight for the booty.

I wanted no part of looting. I left and returned home. On the way I ran into an old woman who lived downstairs. “Wanda?” she said, surprised to see me coming back empty-handed. “Didn't you get anything?”

I realized that I ought to go back and pick up something just for appearance's sake. I returned and managed to come away with several boxes of cigarettes. In the first tumultuous days of liberation these turned out to be my working capital.

 

Colonel Roemer was gone, but his presence hung over the apartment like a dark cloud. His furniture was all in place. His collection of rare wines and brandies still lined the liquor cabinet. His pistols rested in well-oiled holsters, while from its customary hook in the hallway his black leather coat waited like a hobgoblin for its master's return.

One day a boy who had worked at the barracks appeared at the door. “What do you want?” I asked. He told me he had come for Colonel Roemer's furniture. He was going to take it for himself.

“You go to hell!” I shouted. “I worked here, not you. If this stuff belongs to anyone, it belongs to me!” Eventually he gave up and left, but I knew that wasn't the end of it. The vultures were gathering. He'd be back.

Sure enough, he showed up again a few days later, but this time he had a Russian officer with him. The Russian had taken an apartment nearby and was going to furnish it with Colonel Roemer's furniture. By now I realized there was no
point in fighting the inevitable. Hadn't the Germans furnished their homes with loot? The Russians were only doing the same. To the victor belong the spoils. But at the same time I saw no reason why I should allow them to take everything. I was entitled to my share, too. So we worked out a compromise. They took the larger pieces while I kept the smaller ones, which were really all I needed to furnish a place of my own.

After we arranged the deal, the Russian strolled through the apartment opening drawers and closets, examining whatever struck his fancy. Before he left he noticed the black leather coat hanging in the hallway. He took it with him on his way out. Then, with the quiet clicking of the latch and the fading echo of footsteps down the hall, the last vestige of the Colonel Roemer passed from my life forever.

 

Only one task remained. I had to go back to Piotrków. I had to return to the city of my childhood: to my house, to my courtyard, to my street. It was the only way of putting a seal on my past. I had to see it once more to know that it was really gone.

And so I went back to Piotrków, to the Judengasse, the old Jewish section of the city. As I walked through the empty cobbled streets, I remembered what they were like ages ago, before the war. I remembered the perpetual crowds that filled the shops, the courtyards, the market stalls, the tiny one-room synagogues. The whole district pulsed with life. Now these same streets were deserted. The only sound was the echo of my footsteps…that and the sigh of the wind.

In the courtyards mountainous heaps of trash lay piled like debris in the wake of a natural disaster. Everywhere I looked I could see die ragged remnants of clothing and
bedding intermingled with fragments of furniture. So much dirt, sand, and garbage had been tossed on top of the rubbish heaps that they were now as high as small hills. At the very top of one, precariously but impudently perched, I glimpsed a broken white chamber pot.

I walked on, past the boarded-up stores, the abandoned apartments. It was like walking through a graveyard. Heaps of dirt and rags were all that remained of a vibrant, living community.

I came to the courtyard where the poorhouse, the
Bays Lekhem
, stood. I remembered how the volunteers used to make their rounds through the courtyards on Saturdays, carrying their big laundry baskets, crying “
Bays Lekhem! Bays Lekhem!
” My mother and the other women would always throw down an extra challah or, at the very least, a piece of bread so the poor would have something for their sabbath meal. Now an old Polish woman was sitting in front of the building holding a little boy on her knees. His only garment was a shirt that barely reached his navel. He wriggled as the woman searched his head for lice.

It was all so quiet. The very silence brought to mind a poem I once read called “Silence in Europe.”

 

It's quiet in Europe now
.

We don't have those noisy Jews around anymore
…

 

I had seen enough. I was ready to leave. But there were still two places to visit. One was Mayer's house. I found the building where the Zarnowieckis used to have their store. I opened the door, and a little bell rang—the same little bell I remembered. The fixtures in the store were the same, too, though they had been moved from their original places. The shelves were bare. I had no idea what the people
were selling. A Polish woman came out from the back and asked what I wanted. I asked if she had a comb. No, she didn't have one. I stole a quick glance into the back room as she left, but there was nothing to see. I went out and walked around back to the courtyard, but there was nothing there either. I continued on to my house.

Eleven steps led up to our door. The tenth step was loose. It had been loose for as long as I could remember. As I climbed those steps now, I stopped on the tenth one. It still wasn't fixed. How strange, I thought. So many changes—in the world…in me—but these steps hadn't changed at all. The tenth step was still loose.

I knocked at the door. A woman opened it. Quickly I planted my foot inside the door so she couldn't shut it before I was ready. I had to see my home once more. I had to see the rooms where my family lived, the little house where I grew up. But all was gone. Everything had changed. The floor wasn't red. The furniture wasn't the same. Nothing was as I remembered it. Then I turned to the woman and realized to my shock that I knew her. Her husband was a railroad engineer. She was a friend of my parents'. But she didn't recognize me, and I kept my identity to myself. I asked if Tony lived there, but she told me no, there was no one there by that name. I heard her lock the door behind me as I walked down the stairs. As I turned into the courtyard for the last time, I looked back to see if my mother's crocheted curtains still hung in the window. If they did, I was prepared to go back and pay any price for them just to have something from my mother's hands. But the curtains were gone.