The Girl from Krakow (17 page)

Another worker at the
Fabrik
caught up with her. “Why did they send Erich down yesterday?” She shrugged. He made the obvious observations: “Perfectly fit. Probably top of the list. I don’t understand it.” Again Rita made no answer. He walked on past her.

The day crept along with glacial slowness. Rita surreptitiously watched both the main doors and Lydia’s office-loft all day. There was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. At least one German came through the main gate, pushed his way onto the loading dock, and simply took a Wehrmacht greatcoat from a consignment. With soldiers being earmarked for Eastern Front duty every day, this was not unusual. The coat had to be replaced, and they took the one Rita was finishing. At quitting time, six forty-five, Rita made herself the last to leave. As she turned out of the building to the main gate, a hand reached out and pulled her back in, meanwhile shutting the door. It was Lydia, who now led her out a side door and across the path to the house where Stefan and she had been entertained to tea three months before. Nothing was said till they were inside.

“Here.” Lydia handed her a Polish government identity card, complete with the passport photo Rita had given Erich a week before, neatly over-marked by the edge of a government rubber stamp. The second item was a birth certificate, and the third was a paper written in Ukrainian Cyrillic. Finally, there was a receipt from the railway left-luggage depot.

“We’ll need to put two fingerprints on the identity card.” She took Rita’s right hand and moved it over an inkpad on her desk, then deftly pressed two fingers on the space in the inkpad. “Wash your hands well. You can’t afford to smudge these documents. And it’s a giveaway if your fingers are inspected tonight.” She pointed to a small washbasin on a sideboard.

As Rita dried her hands, Lydia continued, “The Cyrillic document is your baptismal certificate. You are now Margarita Trushenko, Ukrainian Catholic with a
Volks-Deutsche
mother. That should help a little. Here is a catechism pamphlet from the local church. Memorize it.” Lydia handed her a little booklet. Rita put it in her coat pocket. “Most important, memorize every detail on the identity card—your birthday, your parents’ names, where you were born, where and when they were born. Everything, Rita. You’re Margarita Trushenko now. That fourth piece of paper is the receipt for your bag at the left-luggage. Pick it up at the station. Here is a ticket to Lemberg,
Panna
—Miss
Trushenko—one hundred zloty and some reichsmarks.”

Rita looked confused. She repeated, “Lemberg?”

“The Germans have changed Lvov’s name.” Lydia now rose from the desk and said, “Margarita”—Rita’s new name—“come into the kitchen and have a little supper. Your train doesn’t leave till nine o’clock.” Rita smiled at Lydia’s effort to instill the new identity. “Any questions?”

“Yes. Why are you doing this? Do you know anything about Erich?”

Lydia began warming a saucepan. “You know Erich was a dear friend of my brother’s.” There was no innuendo in her voice. “So he was close to my family for many years. He asked me to help get you these papers, and I couldn’t refuse him.”

Rita interrupted. “Why did he do that for me? Why did he let himself be sent to
 
.
 
.
 
.” She was unable to finish her sentence or even her thought.

“Well, he loved you
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
like a sister, he told me. And he felt that the fate of your child was his doing, his responsibility, because he pushed you so hard to give Stefan up.”

“But he was right to force me to do it. And besides, we can’t be sure Stefan isn’t still alive somewhere.” It was the first time she had given voice to the thought.

Lydia was surprised. “But the courier was taken by the Gestapo.”

“I had a letter from my father, written weeks after she was supposed to have delivered Stefan. It was a farewell letter smuggled out on the transit to Belzec.” She reflected for a moment. “There was no mention of Stefan in it at all. Not a word. Surely my father would have said something if he were with them.”

“So, a reason to hope. As to why Erich didn’t try to save himself—he is trying. But in a different way. Erich was sure that the rest of the ghetto would be cleared in the next few weeks. The extermination camp at Belzec is up and running at full capacity. This part of the
Generalgouvernement
has to be
Judenrein
by the end of ’42. He knew he didn’t have a chance with German papers, his looks
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
well, you know.” She was reticent about the obvious. “So, he spent the last few days making a strong bolt-cutter he could hide on his body. His idea was to cut his way through the barbed wire on the feeder hatch of the cattle car or break the hasp on a wagon door, jump, and take as many others with him as he could. Then make for the Pripet Marshes on the old Soviet border and join the partisans.”

She set out a dish before Rita, and put another one on a tray. “Now, if there are no more questions, I am going to take some soup to my mother. Have some supper; study your new identity. You know where the station is. Let yourself out the front door and turn off the light. Godspeed
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Margarita.” With a kiss that surprised Rita, she was moving up the stairs.

The German soldier checking documents at the platform barrier actually said
Danke
when she handed him the
Ausweis
, and again
Danke
after she had opened her case for inspection.
If you knew the truth, you’d sooner shoot me down than be
korrekt, she thought. There was a vacuum of fear sucking at her intestines, giving her the sort of cramps she had lived with through the first weeks of the occupation. It was starting again—the dread, the feeling someone was playing Russian roulette with your life. She knew it would be constant again for days or weeks. She decided to sit as near to the soldier on the quay as possible. A soldier offered protection. Rita—or rather Margarita Trushenko,
Volks-Deutsche—
needed it, waiting for the Lemberg train in a vast and empty train station at night. She took out her catechism booklet and tried to study it. Perhaps memories of gymnasium and the Dominican sisters would distract her from the raging angst.

At 20:48 the express came in—from Lemberg, Warsaw, Dresden, Berlin—full of officers and men on their way to join the Wehrmacht
divisions in the Donbas, still cutting through whole Soviet army groups. Fixed on her catechism, Rita did not notice the two Germans in civilian dress descending from the first-class carriage.

The German sentry did. He came to completely respectful attention as he examined their papers: one was an
Oberst
—a captain. The other was Friedrich von Richter, major general,
SS-RSHA
—Reich Security Main Headquarters—evidently traveling out of uniform. Of course, neither the sentry nor anyone else in Karpatyn that night could know that Richter wasn’t SS at all, but
Abwehr
, military intelligence and an officer in the first section, responsible for code security.

“Herr
Generalmajor,
” said the sentry, “there is no car awaiting you here.”

“We were not expected. Get on the telephone to Leideritz. Tell him to send a car immediately.” Evidently Leideritz wasn’t expecting to see him, but Richter was expecting to see Leideritz. That was clear to the sentry at the station.

Twenty-five minutes later, Peter Leideritz was standing to attention in first-class uniform as Richter and his adjutant strode into his building and led the way to his office.
How
, wondered Leideritz,
does this officer know where my office is? He’s never been here before.

Richter sat down, at Leideritz’s desk, no less. His adjutant stood behind. He did not invite Leideritz to sit. “We are looking for someone, a Jew in your jurisdiction. Name of Klein, Erich Klein.”

“May I ask why,
Generalmajor
?”

“Of course not.” Richter glared. “Just tell me where he is. In the ghetto, on a work detail, where?”

Leideritz turned and called out to the clerks, who had all by this time assembled in the outer office. “Schmitz, bring the registers of workers with authorizations.” He held out his hand. It was only a matter of seconds before they were delivered. He began to work through the list, glad to see it had already been alphabetized. “Joachim, Junkers, Kalfuss
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Klepfiz
 
.
 
.
 
.” He looked again. “Sorry,
Generalmajor
, no Klein.”

Richter glared for a moment, then was all business again. “Account for him if he is not here. Where is he? Did you let him escape?”

Turning again to the outer office, Leideritz shouted, “Schmitz, list of Jews transported to Belzec.” The list was in his hands only a moment after he had demanded it. It was a massive sheaf of onionskin sheets, organized by dates. Leideritz began from the most recent transport, the one from which he knew there had been escapes. Running his finger down the list, he breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, here it is. He was sent to Belzec four days ago. Probably already dead.” Could this SS major general discover the truth—that he might have been among those who escaped from one of the cattle wagons? Not unless he cross-checked lists at Belzec. Leideritz would have to hope that there was no need or time for such formalities before marching Jews to the gas chambers.

Richter broke through his calculations. “Close the door. Sit down,
Untersturmführer
.”

Leideritz did so, visibly relieved.

“So, let me tell you why this is important. We are pursuing an intelligence matter and need to be certain that this Klein did not have classified information.”
How much more to say
, Richter considered—
that he was a mathematician before the war in Warsaw? No, too close to cryptography. Don’t make him that important.
Richter continued, “He may have seen scientific papers about industrial processes that are now secret.” It seemed enough to satisfy this Leideritz. It wouldn’t do to make someone else more curious than necessary.

“Well, he’s dead now. Case closed,
jawohl?
”

“Not quite.” Richter cleared his throat. “Even if he’s dead, we’ll need to know about people he might have communicated with, lived with, worked with, who are still alive.”

Another chance for Leideritz to show his efficiency and initiative. He rose, opened the door, and for the fourth time shouted, “Schmitz, Jewish quarter housing assignments and work assignments,
sofort—
immediately."

Within a few minutes, smiling broadly, Leideritz had what the
Generalmajor
wanted. “So
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Erich Klein, work assignment, Terakowski Textile
Fabrik
,
residence assignment
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
ghetto A, housed with Kaltenbrunner, deceased; Stefan Guildenstern, infant, missing, presumed deceased; Rita Guildenstern, nee Feuerstahl.” He switched back to the work lists. “She works at Terakowski
Fabrik
. So,
Generalmajor
, only one person to track down.”