The Woman from Hamburg (7 page)

In Sobibor there were workshops producing things for the Germans. At three thirty in the afternoon the tailors informed one of the SS that his new uniform was ready to be measured. The SS man undressed and set aside his belt with his revolver. The tailors killed him with an ax and scissors. They placed his body in a closet, covered the blood on the floor with rags, and invited the next SS man to come in. At the same time, the shoemakers were announcing that boots were ready, and the carpenters, that there was beautiful furniture to inspect. Almost all the SS who were on duty died. This played out in silence and lasted an hour and a half. At five o’clock several hundred prisoners formed a column. Peczerski shouted in Russian, “
Za rodinu, za Stalina, vpered!
”—“For the Fatherland, for Stalin, forward!” The people ran toward the woods. Many of them
died immediately in the minefield. Tojwełe’s jacket got caught on the fence and for a moment he couldn’t extricate himself. When he started running again the field was already free of mines. The Americans made a television film called
Escape from Sobibor
. Blatt was a consultant. He was played by a young American actor. The actor got caught on the fence, just like Tojwełe, and, as the script dictated, he was unable to extricate himself. It seemed to Blatt that this was taking too long. He was terrified. Time was passing, and he was not escaping from Sobibor. When the actor set off across the field, Blatt started running with him. The shot had long since been completed, but Blatt kept running. They found him several hours later, covered with scratches, his eyeglasses broken, hiding in the woods.

Karl Frenzel was an SS man who survived. He had no desire for a new uniform, boots, or furniture. After the war he was given seven life sentences. In 1984 he won the right to a new trial. The trial took place in the Hague. Blatt was a witness for the prosecution. He remembered Frenzel perfectly. When his parents, his brother, and he emerged from the freight train in Sobibor, Frenzel was conducting the selection personally and sending people to the gas chamber. A day earlier, when they were still at home, Tojwełe had drunk up all the milk that was supposed to last for several days. His mother had said, “Don’t drink so much; leave some for tomorrow.” The day after that they were standing on the ramp in Sobibor. “You see,” he told his mother, “and you wanted to save some milk for today.” Those were the
last words he said to his mother. He can still hear them fifty years later. He had intended to discuss this with a psychiatrist, but it’s hard to explain certain things to American doctors. Frenzel directed women with children to go to the left, and then walked over to the men with a whip in his hand. “Tailors step forward!” he shouted. Tojwełe was short, thin, fourteen years old, and he was not a tailor. He didn’t have a chance during the selection. He looked at Frenzel’s back. He said, “I want to live.” He repeated this several times. He spoke in a whisper, but Frenzel turned around. “
Komm raus, du kleine
,” he called out in Tojwełe’s direction, and ordered him to join the men who were staying there. Blatt testified about this at the trial in the Hague.

Frenzel was at liberty during his trial. During a break he asked Blatt if he could talk with him. They met in a hotel room.

“Do you remember me?” Blatt asked.

“No,” Frenzel said. “You were so young then.”

Blatt asked why Frenzel wanted to talk with him.

“To apologize to you,” said Frenzel. It turned out that he wanted to apologize for the 250,000 Jews who were gassed in Sobibor.

Blatt was a witness for the prosecution in a couple of other cases. Among them was the case of the Gestapo chief in
Izbica, Kurt Engels. The one who had placed the crown of thorns on Blatt’s father’s head. Tojwełe used to clean his motorcycle for him. It was a magnificent machine, with a sidecar and two gleaming fenders on either side. Each fender had a skull carved into it. Engels insisted that the skulls be polished to a shine. Tojwełe cleaned them for hours on end. It was an excellent job because when he was cleaning the motorcycle no German would bother him, even during a round-up. Engels had one other Jewish boy, Mojszełe, working for him. He was from Vienna. He took care of the garden. Engels would talk with him about caring for the flowers. He was fond of him. You’re a fine boy, he used to say. You’ll be the last to die and I’ll personally shoot you so that you won’t suffer. Blatt testified during the investigation that the Gestapo officer had kept his word. After the war, Kurt Engels opened a café in Hamburg. It was called Café Engels. It was the favorite gathering place of the local Jews. The Jewish community of Hamburg used to hold their celebrations in one of its rooms. He was unmasked in the 1960s. Blatt gave sworn testimony during the investigation. At the end, he was shown fifteen men and the prosecutor asked which one was the accused. Engels smiled. He still has a gold tooth, said Blatt. When he placed that crown of thorns on my father, he laughed with that gold tooth.

After the confrontation, Blatt went to take a look at the Café Engels. He introduced himself to the owner’s wife.
Did he personally kill anyone? she asked. Did he murder children?

The next day, the prosecutor questioned both of them, Engels and Blatt. A clerk came in; Mrs. Engels was requesting a moment to talk with her husband. She walked over to her husband, took off her wedding ring, handed it to him without a word, and left the room.

The next morning the prosecutor phoned him. Kurt Engels had poisoned himself in his cell and Blatt wouldn’t have to come to a hearing.

All night they walked through the woods. In the morning, Peczerski took their weapons and the nine strongest people. He said they would go and scout the area and he ordered the others to wait. He left them one rifle; Staszek Szmajzner had it. He had studied to be a jeweler in the ghetto, brought his tools along to Sobibor, and made signet rings with beautiful monograms for the SS. He got hold of the rifle during the uprising. He was an excellent shot; he killed several of the guards. Peczerski asked him to stay with the people in the woods.

Peczerski did not come back. Blatt saw him forty years later, in Rostov on the Don. Why did you leave us? he asked. As an officer, I had a duty to go to the front and
continue the fight, Peczerski replied. He had found a group of Soviet partisans. He fought till the war ended. After the war, he was sent to prison. People from Sobibor sent him invitations, but he could not get a passport and never traveled abroad. He was living with his wife in a communal apartment, in a multifamily house. They occupied one room. A large tapestry, which he himself had embroidered, hung above the bed. It depicted a dog. A sheet was hanging in a corner, behind it a wash basin and toiletry articles. Our rebellion was an historic event, and you are one of the heroes of that war, said Blatt. Did they award you any decorations? Aleksander Peczerski opened the door to the hallway, looked around, shut the door, and whispered, Jews aren’t given decorations. Why did you take a look outside? asked Blatt. After all, your neighbor is a friendly woman. It’s always best to check, Peczerski whispered.

When it became apparent that Peczerski would not return, they split up into small groups. Each one set out in a different direction. Tojwełe, together with Fredek Kostman and Szmul Wajcen, set off through the woods in the direction of Izbica. The next evening they noticed a village. A light was burning in one of the windows, in the fourth house on the right. A family was seated at the kitchen table—a tall, very thin man with pale hair; a short, heavy-set
woman; a girl Tojwełe’s age; and a somewhat older boy. A holy image hung above them. In it, too, people were seated at a table, but they were all men. They wore white robes, and each one had a golden halo. The halo was largest over the one who sat in the center, his index finger raised. My father, Leon Blatt, was a Legionnaire, said Tojwełe. All those people in the painting were Jews, said Szmul. Every last one of them. We have something for you to remember us by, said Fredek, and placed on the table a handful of jewels that he had taken from the sorting room in Sobibor.

The farmer, Marcin B., made a hiding place for them in the barn. In the evening he would bring them a pot of food. They could hear his slow, heavy steps in the distance. He would stand still in the middle of the barn, check to see if any strangers were there, and approach the hiding place. He’d remove the straw and bend back the nail; only he knew which nail could be bent. He would take out a board; only he knew which board was not nailed down. He’d place the large, cast iron pot on the threshold. One of the boys would stick out his hand and drag the pot inside. The farmer would put the board back in place, bend the nail back, and straighten the straw. They sat in darkness. Fredek and Szmul talked in a whisper, and Tojwełe listened. Tojwełe was small, red-haired, and freckled. True, before the war he used to smear himself with Halina brand anti-freckle cream that he’d stolen from his mother, but without results. The other boys were two years older than
he was; they came from big cities and they didn’t have freckles. They talked eagerly about the cars that they would buy after the war. Fredek was going to buy a Panhard, and Szmul, a Buick. This was the first time Tojwełe had ever heard those names. He interjected that he would buy an Opel, the same kind that Captain Lind owned. An Opel! The boys burst out laughing disparagingly and began reminiscing about railroad stations. Some of them were approached through long, dark tunnels, and thundering trains passed overhead. Did you ever see a tunnel? Tojwełe had to confess that there wasn’t a single tunnel in Izbica. Half a year passed. Marcin B. told them it was spring already and the apple tree was in bloom. It grew near the barn, next to their hiding place. There will be a lot of apples, Marcin B. said. He asked where they had gotten such nice sweaters and a leather jacket. From Sobibor, from the sorting room. They lent him the jacket and a sweater. He went off to church on Sunday, wearing them. On Monday, several men came to see him. They screamed, Where are you hiding the Jews? We want leather jackets, too. They probed the straw in the barn with sticks, but they didn’t find anything. Maybe their sticks were too short. You heard them, Marcin B. said that evening. Go away from here; I’m afraid. They asked him to buy them a gun, and then they’d go into the forest. They’ll catch you, he said, they’ll ask where you got the gun and you’ll betray me. We won’t betray you; please buy one. You’ll definitely betray me; go away, I’m afraid.

A couple of days passed. In the evening they heard the farmer sending his children to their grandparents’ for the night and calling the dog into the kitchen. Later, he came to the barn. He bent back the nail, removed the board. Fredek crept out to get the pot. They saw a bright light and heard a crash. Fredek curled up and his legs began thrashing. Someone’s hands shoved Fredek to the side. They saw the chubby face of a boy they didn’t know and another light. Tojwełe felt a sting in his jaw. He touched his cheek; it was wet. He, too, was shoved aside by someone’s hands. When he opened his eyes, in addition to the darkness he saw Uncle Jankiel. He was sitting beside him on the straw, tiny and hunchbacked as always. Aha, Tojwełe thought, I am seeing Uncle Jankiel. When someone’s dying, he sees his own childhood, so I’m dying now. You know, said Uncle Jankiel, a person’s hair and fingernails keep growing for three days after he dies. He can hear, but he cannot speak. I know, said Tojwełe, you already told me. I am no longer alive; I can still hear and my fingernails are growing. He heard voices and crashing sounds, one after the other. Make sure he’s dead, or he’ll start moaning when morning comes. That was the farmer’s wife talking; who knows, maybe she was talking about him, about Tojwełe. Mister, please let me live; I’ll be your servant for the rest of my life. That was Szmul talking. The men didn’t want Szmul to be their servant, because there was another bang and Szmul fell silent. He’s already getting stiff. That was Marcin B. talking, undoubtedly about
Tojwełe, because he touched his hand. Here it is! That was an unknown voice, maybe belonging to the boy with the round face. He must have found something. Probably their bag of gold, because suddenly they all jumped up and ran to the kitchen. Are you alive? That was Szmul. No, Tojwełe whispered. He wanted to tell him about the hair and fingernails, but Szmul had begun crawling to the door. He got up on his knees and crawled after him. Szmul turned toward the trees. Tojwełe had the impression that he was still following him, but when he came to, he was sitting under a tree, at the edge of the woods. He got up and walked straight ahead.

The Wieprz River flows through that district.

The river divided the world into two parts: the good and the bad. The bad part of the world was on the right side and that’s where Przylesie was located. On the left side of the river were the good villages: Janów, Mchy, and Ostrzyca.

In the good villages, many people were saved—Staszek Szmajzner, the tailor Dawid Berend, the saddler Stefan Akerman, the meat sellers Chana and Szmul, the grain dealer Gdali from Piaski, the windmill owner Bajła Szarf, and the children of Rab, the miller, Estera and Idełe.

The miller’s children were saved by Stefan Marcyniuk.

Twenty years before, he had escaped from a Bolshevik prison in the heart of Russia; in Poland, he settled down in the attic of a Jewish-owned mill. “If I had a sack of flour,” he said, “I would bake bread, sell it, and I’d have a couple of groschen.” The miller gave him a sack of flour, and Marcyniuk baked bread. He earned his couple of groschen, and in later years he was one of the richest farmers in the entire region.

The miller and his wife died in the ghetto; their daughter, Estera, was sent to Sobibor. On the day before her planned escape, Estera’s mother appeared to her in a dream. She came into the barracks and stood over her bunk.

“Tomorrow, we’re running away from here,” Estera whispered. “Do you know about this?” Her mother nodded her head. “I’m afraid,” Estera complained. “I don’t know where to go; they’ll surely kill everyone.”

“Come with me,” her mother said, and taking her daughter by the hand, she led her to the exit. They left the barracks and passed the camp gate. No one shot at them.