Papa was puffing on his pipe. There was silence. He did not continue, but I sensed what was on his mind. I knew he had some regrets about not having become a physician after all.
Papa taught me a lot. Mathematics, chemistry, medicine-whatever he could draw from his vast store of knowledge. And so we spent long hours together.
Toward the end of March Papa and I were working in our basement kitchen–Mama had gone to visit an ill friend. We paused in our discussion to listen to the mailman pass our
front door and were about to resume when Mrs. Prozna, a neighbor, knocked at the door. She produced a gray envelope.
“Mr. Weissmann,” she said, “this letter really belongs to you. I don’t know why Arthur addressed it to me.” There was a second of stunned silence. Then Papa tore the envelope out of Mrs. Prozna’s hand, and there it was–Arthur’s handwriting!
Papa didn’t stop to open the envelope, he just kissed the startled woman’s hands. He couldn’t talk. Neither could I. Then Papa opened the letter and started to read. His hands trembled, his head shook, his eyes were so moist and heavy that he had to pause to wipe them. But what wonderful news! Both Arthur and David were safe in Russia. Even more miraculous, on their first night in Lwow, as they walked the streets looking for food and shelter, they had met Uncle Aaron, David’s father, who was believed dead! David’s father was already trying to bring Aunt Anna and Miriam to Russia.
Upon reading the letter we noticed that the first page was addressed to Mrs. Prozna. Arthur wrote that he didn’t know if we were still at home, and therefore was addressing the letter to her in the hope that she might be able to give it or send it to us.
Also in the letter was a message just for me, a few lines in which Arthur wrote, “I know that you are as brave as you promised me to be.” Those words, in my brother’s hand, seemed at that moment to compensate for all my grief and worries.
When Mama returned, she clutched the letter and stood at the window praying before reading it. Papa, Mama, and I sat together all that afternoon, rereading the letter again and again. For the first time in those many weeks we talked about what had constantly been on our minds–Arthur.
I felt a renewed impulse to tell my parents about my conversation with Peter. It was hard not to do so and receive credit for keeping the secret. But I felt, too, that I ought not to tell even now, for perhaps my parents would never trust me again.
ARTHUR’S LETTERS CAME FREQUENTLY THAT SPRING. THEY WERE something to look forward to although he always wrote with restraint, knowing well that many prying eyes would read his letters before they reached us. He was well and had found work in a chemical laboratory in Russian-occupied Lwow, which was about 350 kilometers from Bielitz. He told us that he would try to send us money, and sure enough, shortly afterward it came. Mama cried, but whether from happiness or sorrow I couldn’t tell.
I was hard at work on my studies and within two to three months was able to read and write German, having mastered the peculiarly angular script that had seemed so confusing at first.
Jews left Bielitz for the
Gouvernement
in ever-increasing numbers. Before the war, Bielitz had a population of about eight thousand Jews. By the spring of 1940 there were hardly more than three hundred, and among them almost no young people. Young men like Arthur had left with the transports and few girls remained as the months passed. Among my friends, there were only Ruth Singer, who lived with her widowed mother, Gretel and Herta Teichner, who also had only their mother and grandmother, Mary Reichman whom I seldom saw for she had to care for her ill father, Rita Schanzer, whose two brothers had gone with a transport, and Ilse Kleinzahler and Escia Bergmann. Rita’s father, an officer in the Polish army, was reported missing in action. Ilse was my closest friend. Of all these girls only Escia and I had both our parents with us.
Gradually our money dwindled to nothing. With food to
buy we found ourselves facing a grave problem. It was Mama who solved it. She had always done beautiful work with her hands; her knitting and embroidering had been admired by friends, relatives, and neighbors. Now she had an inspiration. Needlework was much in demand but yarn was scarce. We overcame that by unraveling old sweaters and shawls and working endless evenings by the flickering light of the oil lamp, and when oil became more tightly rationed, by candlelight.
We did some beautiful work. Having helped Arthur with his chemistry I knew how to dye wool and cotton. We made sweaters, dresses, and bonnets and let people know that we had lovely things to sell. Soon we had quite a reputation. We had more orders than we could fill. There was only one catch. People paid us between eight and ten marks for a sweater, a fair price when a pound of bread cost about twenty pfennigs. But now we could only buy bread on the black market, and for about thirty marks a loaf, so we had to knit three sweaters–a week’s work–in order to earn enough for one loaf.
Then Mama decided to ask people to pay us in food instead of in money. This was a wonderful improvement for us.
When a particular sweater had to be finished in a hurry our knitting needles clicked from morning until night and often till dawn. And as we worked, Papa would smoke his pipe and read aloud to us.
Papa kept close account of our expenses. Watching him work with his crippled arm, I remembered how he had used to sit at his ebony desk checking monthly accounts. How straight he had always sat, how handsome he had looked! Above his desk had hung the picture of “The Black Madonna” by Dorné. We had the painting still; rolled and well wrapped, it was hidden under Papa’s bed against the day when we might have to sell it for food. And here sat Papa, pale and sallow, at a kitchen table, in a frayed old suit, with pots and pans hanging close over his head since there were no cupboards to put them in.
I could not contain my fears.
“Papa,” I asked, regretting it as soon as I had spoken. “Papa, how much money do we have? How long can it last?”
He looked at me. “Don’t you worry.” He smiled, and somehow it was as it had been before, and I was relieved.
Our work provided us with food and there was always a tomorrow to look forward to which might bring liberation–or a letter from Arthur, or spring.
That May eighth I was sixteen. What a lovely sunny morning it was! The buttercups were out, and there were violets down in the moist part of the garden near the pond, along with lilies-of-the-valley. On the afternoon of my birthday a warm, scented rain, so typical of May, fell. But best of all, a letter from Arthur arrived: a letter meant for my birthday came exactly on the day! His picture was enclosed. It showed him wearing a new suit. He looked older, more mature, but also strange, and it was not only the little mustache he wore that made him look different. I was so happy, I kissed the picture and danced with it. Then I went out to the garden and threw myself on the wet grass and cried and cried. I didn’t know why I was crying, except that it wasn’t from happiness. It wasn’t so much the war, it wasn’t my parents, it wasn’t even Arthur being away, or the situation we found ourselves in. Those tears were for myself. I felt deprived of my share of life. In the awakening of spring I felt a great longing for laughter and for dancing. I felt cheated, and I was crying because I felt sorry for myself. I felt restless and dreadfully alone.
A few days later a sign was put up in our garden–ONLY GERMANS ALLOWED.
Not being able to go into our garden was very cruel, especially to Papa, who in the summer, when his heart bothered him most, needed the fresh air and a chance to walk in the open without fearing arrest. I found a substitute. I visited my friend Escia. Escia’s parents supervised the cemetery. When the war came, they had moved into a couple of rooms adjoining the chapel. I went to visit her as often as I could and we used to stroll through the cemetery. We tended some of the graves, especially those of soldiers and children. I had known so many, how old they had been, where they had come from, something
of their lives. Escia and I spent many undisturbed hours amid beautiful flowers. The dead became our friends.
And so, shut off from a world of reality which was a time of triumph for our enemy, we lived in fear and in hope. Fear was a monotonous part of our daily life. The progress of the war seemed of secondary importance. I simply could not accept the countless Allied reverses as reality. Only vaguely did I feel that they had to be, that the Germans must reach a peak before inevitably going downhill. When the Wehrmacht marched victoriously into Denmark and Norway Papa sadly shook his head. “Can nobody stop them?” he asked.
“It will be as it was with Napoleon,” Mama remarked, resting the knitting in her lap. Then both fell silent.
I looked from Papa to Mama. They are getting old, I thought. They don’t seem to understand that all this is strategy, that everything is planned to seal Hitler’s doom. To this idea I clung, and it gave me hope in the hours when I should have despaired.
When German troops were reported in Paris, when France fell, we were stunned. Papa sat reading without turning the page, his eyes fixed into emptiness, his lips quivering under the graying mustache. “Papa,” I whispered, cuddling closer to him, afraid. “Papa, it will be over soon, won’t it, Papa?” The pale fingers of his healthy hand touched my forehead and traveled down my cheek in the old caress. His eyes were unseeing, filmy. He whispered huskily, “With God’s help it will.”
The room was oppressively hot for Mama had shut the windows to cut off the sound of the jubilant voices emanating from our neighbors’ radios. We sat in silence into the night, not bothering to light the lamp.
There was only one ironic consolation in the German victories. For the time being they were too busy to bother us much.
The summer wore on. Arthur’s letters came frequently and seemed the only reality in our gray existence. He was working in a factory that made preserves, thus putting to use his training in chemistry, and we reasoned happily that he could not
possibly be hungry in such a place. There were several letters from Aunt Anna too. She was in the
Gouvernement
but had as yet been unable to move on to her destination, the town of her birth. It was not as easy as she had thought to get a travel permit from the Russian authorities.
In September we got a long-awaited message from Mr. Pipersberg. The news was indirect. We gathered from it that he was hiding under an assumed name in the
Gouvernement.
We knew that there were people who obtained “Aryan” papers and hid with farmers in villages. Papa was happier that day than I had seen him in a long time. We did not know that this was to be the last message from Mr. Pipersberg. That same fall, letters ceased to come from Aunt Anna as well.
It was a year now since the war had started. Who would have thought that it would last a whole year? Although the hours stretched endlessly on bleak afternoons, from twilight into long, long evenings of monotonous sameness, somehow the weeks seemed short as they melted into months and seasons.
The new year was approaching. It had been a victorious year for the Germans. Their rations were doubled and as an added holiday bonus they also got coffee, tea, chocolate, and fruit. Thus they celebrated the conquests that had made them masters of Europe. On New Year’s Eve I asked my parents if I could stay up until midnight to see the new year come in. I had never before stayed up for the beginning of a year and I wanted “to see the year of our liberation from its very first minute,” as I put it to Papa and Mama. Much to my surprise, Papa and Mama agreed instantly. We sat around the table idly, neither Mama nor I knitting. It seemed luxurious just to sit and have the wick in the kerosene lamp turned up higher than usual, throwing the circle of light wider while the lamp consumed precious fuel. I felt rich and somehow grown up. “It’s midnight!” Papa announced presently, and the words which followed were drowned out by the pealing of church bells in the frosty night. I felt a mounting excitement, I had witnessed a moment of history. The year of 1940 was gone. The new year was certain to bring the end of the
war. “Mama,” I said, “I wish I were a year older. Next year at this time, we will celebrate with Arthur. We will have a big party.” “The biggest party ever,” Mama said, smiling. And for the first time in my life I was able to bid Mama and Papa “Good night” and “Good morning” all at the same time.
The winter continued cold and stormy. I rarely saw my friends and eagerly looked toward spring. Spring came late, at first hesitantly, then rich and lush, and within us, under the gray layers of fear, anticipation turned into almost certain knowledge that something was bound to happen soon, that the war would come to a speedy end.
Then it came, early on a Saturday morning. Through our open windows, from every direction we heard radios blasting the now familiar fanfares which always preceded announcements of victory. We heard voices charged with excitement without being able to catch the words; we thought we could make out Goebbels’ hoarse exhortations. Something big had happened, we all felt it. That afternoon, Use came and told us what it was. Neutrality with Russia had been violated; German troops had crossed the frontier. Upstairs, the radio was still booming announcements of victory after victory. The part of Poland that had been occupied by Russia–where Arthur was–was rapidly falling under the German heel. Again there would be murder and persecution.
I tried to motion Ilse to silence. I did not want her to go into more details in front of my parents, but then I realized that they must find out sooner or later. They stayed numb and speechless. Arthur was in Lwow–or Lemberg, as the Germans now called it. Would we ever hear from him again?
It was that night, or perhaps several nights later, that I awoke with a positive feeling that something was awry. Every nerve alert, I jumped out of bed and lit a candle. It was in the early hours, perhaps about 3 A.M. Instinctively I looked over toward Mama and Papa. One glance, and I saw that Papa and Mama were lying in their beds, lifeless!
Without hesitation I got vinegar and started brushing their
temples. I repeated over and over, without alarm, without fear, “Papa, Mama … .”
Mama’s eyelids finally flickered.
“Was I ill?” she murmured in astonishment.
I could hear that Papa’s breathing was growing slower and weaker. Terror seized me but I remembered the pills that Dr. Reach had given him. I quickly found the bottle, but I could not get the cork out. After a few moments of fruitless fumbling, in sheer desperation I bit off the top of glass, took out two small pills, and tried to push them into Papa’s mouth. His teeth were clamped tight. I screamed, and somehow forced them into his mouth. Mama was asleep again. After a few seconds Papa opened his eyes. He coughed and turned over. I managed to make him swallow some water and he fell asleep. His breathing became stronger, more steady. Now I trembled, releasing my fright and excitement. I could not return to bed. Standing at the small cellar window, I watched the dawn.
There was nothing I could do. Nothing. The only physician who was allowed to treat Jews, Dr. Reach, himself a Jew, lived a twenty minutes’ walk away. I could not go out because of the curfew; the streets were patrolled. There were no phones for Jews. As I waited, my thoughts wandered to Arthur. I missed him at that hour more than ever. I needed his strength.
I went back to bed, and mercifully sleep came.
I woke late, Mama calling me for breakfast. Papa was up as always. I tried to remember, wondering if I had had a nightmare. Looking at Papa, I knew that I hadn’t. His face was drawn and he had an unhealthy pallor. He had suffered a heart attack in the night, before I wakened, and when Mama woke, her strength had failed her and she fainted. Looking back now over the many years, I wish they had died together that night, peacefully, in their beds, but together … .