Authors: Gerda Weissmann Klein

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Historical, #Women, #History, #Holocaust

All but My Life: A Memoir (6 page)

BOOK: All but My Life: A Memoir

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As I started to eat breakfast, I felt my lips and gums hurting me. Looking into a mirror, I saw a small cut inside my mouth. The glass had cut me without my realizing it. I am glad that the scar will be with me as long as I live.

That noon a letter came from Arthur that must have been
in the mail before the German attack. He sent another picture and enclosed a single dried rose. Nothing could have been more beautiful to Mama. She stuck it in a vase and looked at it often, touching it gently.

From that day on and for many days to come I placed all my hope in religion. I found a new source of strength. Night after night I said my prayers ten and twenty times. I tried to inflict punishment on myself. When my parents were asleep I would get out of bed, crouch on the floor, and sleep there, next to the cold, moist wall. Often I denied myself nourishment because I was sure Arthur was not eating. My lessons with Papa became irregular and I did not study. Papa did not insist; I was sure that his mind was not on teaching either. Periodically, I gave up my favorite pastime–reading. Often I would not hear when spoken to. For the first time in my life I felt I understood people who retire to convents and monasteries, who torture their bodies in humble poverty to attain eternal salvation. Papa tried to talk to me but usually I would burst into tears. After a while he gave up.

One day, at Ilse’s house, I met Ulla. Ulla was a girl in her middle twenties. She had black hair parted in the center, a prominent nose, and beautiful green eyes hidden behind thick glasses. To me Ulla was beautiful. She represented everything I ever wanted to be. Ulla’s father was a professor and she had studied in England. She had a Ph.D. in English literature. I was fascinated with her and asked her countless questions about England. Worship must have shown on my face. She seemed pleased, and asked: “Would you like me to give you English lessons?” Would I! Elated, I hurried home. Papa and Mama were glad to see me once again bubbling with excitement, although Papa was a bit worried about the possible danger connected with studying English, since it was forbidden by the Germans. “But, Papa, imagine the surprise Arthur will have when he gets home and I speak English to him”–Arthur had studied English for several years and spoke it quite well. There was a shadow of a smile on Papa’s lips. He patted my head. “All right,” he said.

With zest I threw myself into my studies. Twice a week I
went to Ulla’s, carrying a shopping bag with a few potatoes covering my English grammar.

One hot day in July I was on my way to Ulla’s, wearing a white dress, too short, too childish for my age, and pinned to it the star of David with the word JEW. My hair had grown long, and I wore it in braids. As I passed the municipal swimming pool I could hear the gay music of the small orchestra inside. Surrounded by exquisitely kept lawns and flower beds, it was the most modern and beautiful pool in Poland. How many happy days we had all spent there.

Through the gates I heard the playful voices of the bathers. I saw colorful beach balls thrown high in the air. I heard the delicious gurgle of fresh water. Feeling hot and sticky, I was full of envy and resentment at being denied all this. My long-sleeved dress and the potatoes seemed unusually burdensome.

Suddenly I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder and heard, “What do you want here?” barked at me.

It was a policeman.

“Nothing,” I murmured, “nothing,” and I began to move along.

His eyes fell on my shopping bag.

“What’s in there?” he asked.

“Just potatoes,” I replied.

He turned the bag upside down. The potatoes rolled into the gutter and out fell the book with its incriminating title.

“Ah, that’s it!” he exclaimed with obvious relish. “Come to the police station. Learning English will be the last pleasure of your life!”

I followed him meekly. What else could I do? I reproached myself bitterly, and felt a paralyzing fear, for I knew it was not uncommon to be condemned to death for violations of rules no worse than the one I had broken. My parents would probably be held responsible for what I had done.

In a few hours they would become worried waiting for me. Papa would pace the floor and Mama would finally run over to Ulla’s, only to learn that I had not been there. Then she would rush home, hoping that I had arrived in the meantime. Then she would hurry over to see Escia and ask if I had been
there, and she would continue her vigil until nightfall. I couldn’t think beyond that.

I wanted to plead with the policeman to let me go, but I couldn’t talk. There were tears in my eyes.

The music and the laughter of the bathers faded into the distance. The sun seemed to have ceased to shine. All of a sudden I felt cold, and I started to tremble.

When we got to the station house, the policeman took me into a room where an older man with a shiny bald head sat at a wide desk. The bald man had been writing, but he stopped and looked up when the policeman pointed to me, and with obvious pride described his discovery of my crime. When he finished the officer behind the desk barked at me, “Do you realize what you have done?”

I simply nodded.

He picked up my book and glanced through it. The passing minutes seemed an eternity.

The policeman sat down and smoked a cigarette, quite satisfied with himself.

The officer laid down my book. Then he looked at the policeman and said, “This is a terrible crime. It is almost espionage to learn English while we are at war with England. The punishment will be meted out accordingly.”

There was a lump in my throat. I wanted to say so many things, to plead, but I was unable to speak.

“I have to give it a few minutes’ thought,” he announced. Then, turning to the policeman, he thanked him for his good work and sent him back to his patrol.

As soon as the policeman left, the bald officer turned to me. His voice softened to a more human tone.

“Now run home as fast as you can,” he said, “and forget your English.”

For a moment I couldn’t believe my good fortune and I stood as though nailed to the floor.

“What are you waiting for?” he snapped.

I wanted to thank him, but words would not come. At that moment I did on impulse what I had been taught to do as a
child, when meeting a distinguished person. I curtsied. I curtsied low and ran out.

I ran home as fast as I could. I experienced inexpressible joy on seeing my parents again, seeing again the basement room that we called home. But I couldn’t tell my parents what had happened. The next day I announced that I was fed up with English lessons and that I would start them again “after the war.”

They didn’t question me, for which I was grateful. They made no comment. Perhaps they were relieved at my decision, knowing the risk I had been running.

I have often thought about that officer, and wondered why he let me go. Was he really kind? Did he have a daughter my own age? I wish I knew. I met many hundreds of Germans in the years that followed, but only two, and he was the first, who behaved as though they were human!

After the all too brief weeks with Ulla I again fell into a state of apathy. I could not read, slept little, and cried a lot.

It was the beginning of September, 1941, almost two years to the day since the German motorcycles had sped through the streets of our town, when Ilse stormed excitedly into the house to tell me of a boys’ camp that had been formed by the SS. Ilse always had the news first, since she lived near the Kultusgemeinde, the Jewish Community Center, where all the news circulated. Ilse and her mother had visited the camp the previous day and she told me that there were thirty Jewish boys in it. “It really is not bad at all,” Ilse informed me. “You know, you think of a camp in terms of all the stories you hear.”

Ilse asked me to visit the camp with her the following day. I declined.

That evening Papa said to me, “I am surprised at you. Why don’t you want to go? Do you realize Arthur might be in a camp like that and how glad he would be if someone would visit him?”

That did it.

Together with her mother, Ilse and I went late the next afternoon to the camp. It was only a short distance from
Bielitz and could easily be reached from our house by a shortcut which led over meadows and several small brooks.

The camp–a converted factory–was a big square four-story building with a yard in the center. An old German guard stood at the entrance and when we told him what we wanted he let us in.

Mrs. Kleinzähler, Ilse’s mother, knew one of the boys and started talking to him. I felt quite lost. I walked over to a window, pretending to look out, but I was curious to see the boys. I had seen few Jewish boys since the transport had left.

Their room was big, one side of it occupied by a row of bunks. There were family photographs tacked to the wall over the bunks. An oblong table stood in the center of the room and a few of the boys were eating.

I felt so self-conscious, I did not know what to do with myself. Ilse stood in a far corner with her mother and I did not have the courage to cross the room. I felt that everyone would watch me.

Suddenly a tall man of perhaps thirty with a Red Cross band around his arm, either a doctor or male nurse, approached me, introduced himself, and asked whether I was from Bielitz. He told me that he had lived here for several years. We discovered that we had quite a number of friends in common.

As we talked I became uncomfortably conscious of a man watching me from a nearby bunk and intermittently writing. He would write a couple of lines, then look at me, write, then look again.

He was slim, wore a navy-blue shirt and gray slacks. He had a tan, lean face, a prominent nose, a cynical mouth, and a determined chin. When he looked up, his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses were steel gray, searching, and seemingly cold. His hair was dark and wavy. What struck me most forcibly were his fingers. They were long and nervous. I felt uneasy under his searching eyes.

The man to whom I was talking told me that antique furniture, paintings, and other valuables from the homes of Jews who had been liquidated were stored in the factory.
Here they were repaired and refinished, if necessary, and then sent to furnish the apartments of German officers.

“We have quite a collection of paintings,” he said. “Would you care to see them?”

“I would love to,” I replied.

We went up two flights. He opened a heavy door and we entered the storeroom. In the fading afternoon light I saw beautiful paintings, vases, inlaid tables, marble-topped consoles, Chinese curios, pianos, tapestries, treasures from many homes. They were covered with dust.

I fancied that I had seen some of the things before–in the houses of friends.

As I was admiring an inlaid table my companion was called away. I wandered alone among the furniture until I came to a corner of the room, where, behind a piano, I saw a life-size portrait of a beautiful girl holding a torch. Her hair was hanging about her shoulders, her eyes shone with a strange power of hope and conviction. She was so incredibly beautiful that I gasped. I had never seen hope, power, and determination thus expressed. The faint light coming through the dusty windows illuminated the canvas to perfection.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said a voice behind me.

“I wonder who put her there,” I said without turning around. I was carried away by my emotions.

“I did.” The voice was nearer now.

I turned around, and there he stood, the stranger with the penetrating gray eyes. I was annoyed that he was there, and yet pleased that he understood what I meant.

“What would you call her?” he asked.

“Hope,” I said without hesitation.

“Or Wisdom,” he added. “Come, I will show you something.”

He led me to the other end of the storeroom. In a corner stood an easel, a canvas on it with a half-finished painting.

“Do you paint?” I guessed.

“A little,” he answered. “Stand there, as you did in front of the picture,” he ordered.

I started to laugh.

He took my hand and pressed it firmly.

“You are going to sit for me,” he commanded with a determination that I disliked.

“No,” I said, just as determined, and started down the stairs. Ilse and her mother were ready to leave. We said our good-bys, and I turned to the imperious artist.

“I hope you can keep the picture in its hiding place for a long time.”

“Our picture,” he replied.

I felt like fighting with him, but restrained myself.

“I will take you home,” he said, turning to Mrs. Kleinzähler and Ilse. As we left the building he turned to me and said, “By the way, we were not properly introduced.”

His name was Abek Feigenblatt. I wanted to know more about him, yet I was afraid to ask. I was curiously disturbed, annoyed and yet pleased. He must be around thirty, I thought, practically an old man. Just then he asked how old I was.

“Sixteen,” I said, but corrected myself. “Almost seventeen.”

He smiled. “Well, I will see you soon,” he said.

BOOK: All but My Life: A Memoir

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