I Will Plant You a Lilac Tree (11 page)

“And we will run barefoot through the meadows,” I added. “Just think of all the buttercups and other wildflowers we can gather along the way.”

For that brief moment I allowed my heart to swell with joy.

Selly was released from the infirmary after one week. As much as Dr. Mosbach wanted to keep him, he simply couldn't.

“Long-term illness is not tolerated here,” he said. “Twice they asked about him. He must leave immediately.”

Selly had to go back to work the next day. I looked for him every evening and shared my food with him whenever I could, but he was too ill. Food alone could not save him. I didn't know where to turn or what to do. Day after day I feared for his safety, for it was well known that Feix didn't spare anyone who was not robust enough to work. Prisoners who failed to
meet his standards were led into the forest, never to be seen again.

A coworker told me one morning that she had just seen another group of prisoners being led into the forest. A group of
Musselmen
, she called them—emaciated prisoners who could no longer work. I was scared that Selly might be among them.

Leaving my work site at the great risk of being punished, I ran into the square, where Feix was holding court. Never before had I possessed the courage to go near him. Trying to make my voice as steady as I possibly could, I addressed him.

“Herr Untersturmführer, allow me to talk to you. My brother has mistakenly been taken away. He is a young boy; he can work.”

“And who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Hannelore Wolff.”

“You speak proper German. Where are you from?”

“Ostfriesland, Herr Untersturmführer.”

“And your brother's name?”

“Selly Wolff.”

Turning to one of his aides, Feix shouted, “Find Selly Wolff. Bring him here.”

I stood waiting, hoping Feix would not notice how frightened I was, how much my body shook with fear.

The aide appeared a short time later with Selly in tow. His eyes bulging with fright, dressed in tattered clothes, and pitifully thin, he looked indeed like a
Musselman
.

Now Feix would see I had lied to him. There was no telling what he would do. Perhaps he would kill us both, make an example of us by hanging us.

Then an amazing thing happened. Feix ordered his aide to take Selly to the infirmary with instructions that he be given double rations. For the first time in a long while I believed that God might still be watching over us.

Later that day, after work, I went to see Selly
in the infirmary. “What did you say to Feix?” he asked. “Many people had already been shot. Had the aide come a few minutes later, I would have faced the same fate.”

“I told him you were young and could work. I think he was surprised to hear me speak German. I don't know why he did it. We both know he is a madman. Why does he do these terrible things to human beings day after day?”

Selly had nothing to fear from the daily inspections of SS men. They didn't even bother to look at him, and there was no talk of releasing him from the infirmary. But the truth was that Selly was extremely ill. I continued to visit him every evening. And every evening I noticed rapid changes—the rattling breath, the pleading for water. I understood the seriousness of the situation and begged one of the hospital workers to let me stay on a night that Selly was especially bad and kept calling for me to please give him more water.

“Why would I risk my job when anyone
can see he is not going to make it?” the aide asked.

“That's why I am pleading with you. Let him have the comfort of having me here. I will give you my bread portion for a week. Please, let me stay, just this once!”

“Who needs your bread?” he shouted angrily. “Get away from here before you get me into trouble.”

Walking away, I could still hear Selly's cries for water.

The next morning my dear brother was dead.

•   •   •

Life in Budzyn got even tougher. There was a shortage of food and our rations were cut further. The already watery soup had fewer turnips and beets in it. The guards turned more sullen and were less forgiving of minor offenses. Even the weather turned against us: It was bitter cold.

I noticed a change in Dick Hillman as well. He seemed preoccupied, withdrawn.

“You are absent even when you're with me,” I said.

He did not deny it. After a brief silence he told me that Jews all over Europe were being rounded up, and that was of great concern.

“So many people arrive here every day,” he added. “Soon Budzyn will not hold all of us.”

He is preparing me for what is to come
, I thought with alarm.
What if we are sent to different camps? What if I never see him again?

“If it is any consolation,” he continued, trying to make me feel better, “the war is not going well for the Germans. But it's not over yet. Have you noticed that the younger guards here have been replaced with older ones? All the young soldiers are being sent to the Russian front.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“It's . . . it's something I can't share with you. Hannelore, please don't ask again.”

By the time news of the heavy fighting between Germany and Russia reached us, Feix had already left. We presumed he had been shipped to the Russian front. We soon had a new commandant. His name was Joseph Liebholt. He was tough but not as crazy and irrational as Feix had been. The speech he delivered on his first day let us know what to expect.

“Only working people are entitled to food. Freeloaders are not tolerated. Saboteurs will be shot on the spot. Should you at any time entertain the idea of escape, you will regret it. Your fellow inmates will pay with
their
lives for it.”

But from the first Liebholt gave preferential treatment to the Polish prisoners of war, installing them in better positions. While Dick remained in the kitchen, others were installed as
Blockältestes
—or overseers. As far as I knew, all the prisoners of war at Budzyn were Jewish.

The harsh winter of 1943 came to an end, and it was spring again. Fella worked at a construction site where members of the German Wehrmacht—ordinary soldiers—guarded the inmates. These soldiers had been returned from the Russian front to trade places with young SS men who could fight with more vigor.

“You'll be surprised how much friendlier these people are,” Fella told me one day. “I wish the Ukrainian
Kapos
would go away, though.”

Then Fella produced a piece of chocolate a German soldier had given her. She had saved it for me.

“It tastes heavenly,” I said after finishing it off quickly, “but promise not to bring chocolate into
camp again. It's too dangerous. What if they'd had one of the random searches at the gate? How would you explain a piece of chocolate?”

“You worry too much, Hannelore. Why would they search me? I look harmless.”

Then it occurred to me that Fella had not been entirely honest. Why would a German soldier give her chocolate?

“Are you flirting with these men?”

Fella laughed her deep, carefree laugh. “Hannelore, you know me better than anyone in this world. It's so much fun to flirt. It almost makes me feel like a normal person. These men are starved for affection. They have just come from the Russian front and haven't been around women for a long time. There is one soldier, the one who gave me the chocolate. I like him best. He is handsome . . . blond hair, blue eyes. He is not afraid to talk to—”

“You are out of your mind talking to a German soldier!” I interrupted her heatedly. “No good can come of that.”

“He told me how much it upsets him having to guard us. He wanted me to know how he deplores what's going on here.”

“And that makes it all right for you to flirt with him? Wake up, Fella. Better yet, promise you will stop talking to him.”

•   •   •

Aside from the usual hardships of not having enough to eat and standing for hours at the place of assembly before and after a long day's work, the camp remained as before. Yet there was an underlying quiet, like one that often precedes a storm. Dick seemed even more preoccupied than usual. He was always in a rush to get away. One evening I held him back.

“Please, tell me what's going on. I get the feeling you don't love me anymore.”

“Of course I love you, Hannelore. My own feelings have nothing to do with this. But there are things I can't share with you right now. You'll have to accept that.”

When he didn't come to our meeting place
the next night, I was alarmed. I shuddered to think what would happen if he belonged to an underground movement and were found out. The commandant would have him hanged.

I remembered only too well the hangings of five young men who allegedly belonged to such a movement. It happened only days after my arrival in Budzyn. These young men were hung upside down to prolong their agony. I tried to forget the scene, but it wasn't easy.

Night after night I waited for Dick. No one had seen him. I turned to Fella, who was well connected and found out things few people knew.

“You've got to help me!” I pleaded.

But in the ensuing days I had the feeling that Fella, too, was avoiding me.

“Tell me what you know,” I said. “Don't you realize that not knowing is torture?”

“I warned you about falling in love. If you didn't love him so much, you wouldn't have to worry now.”

“Worry about
what
?”

“He is being held for . . . questioning.”

“What about? What did he do?”

“He has connections to the partisans on the outside. Someone found out and has been blackmailing him for some time. In the end the man turned Dick in. And since Untersturmführer Liebholt is in Berlin, there is nothing to be done. Liebholt will not allow anyone's interference in Budzyn matters. We'll have to wait and see.”

“They'll beat him to death first!” I cried.

“He is a brave man, Hannelore. He was aware of the risk.”

I began to pray, asking God to take care of not myself, but the man I loved so deeply. Dick himself was no longer a religious man. He told me that once he was a believer. He had been raised in an Orthodox house, had studied with a rebbe for many years. But that was then, he said. He found it meaningless now. He often wondered how much faith I had in God.

“I can't prove to you that there is a God, I
just know,” I had told him. “All this suffering has to have a reason.”

Three days passed without any news about Dick. On the third evening I walked along Lagerstrasse hoping to hear something about his whereabouts. One of the prisoners who shared his barrack came up behind me and said, “Keep walking. Good news: Hillman is free. It happened a few hours ago, after Liebholt came back.”

“Thank God he is alive!”

“They roughed him up. He is in bad shape, but we'll get him back on his feet.”

“Look at you, you're wasting away,” Fella told me one night. “Soon you'll be a
Musselman
. So Dick refuses to see you. He must have good reason.”

“If only I knew why,” I said.

“Can't you forget about him for one evening? I looked forward to sharing this good food, but with you acting so miserable, all the pleasure is gone. Just look at this: cheese, salami, and bread. Eat! You'll feel better.”

•   •   •

I never missed my nightly walk along Lagerstrasse, no matter how tired and depressed I was. Finally I saw Dick. His head was bandaged, his eyes bloodshot and swollen.

“My God, what did they do to you?” I cried.

“Keep walking,” he ordered. “Pretend you don't know who I am. We'll be leaving Budzyn soon. The camp is being liquidated. I thought you should know.” He sounded grim, despondent.

Before I had a chance to say anything else, he was gone.

Back in my barrack I discovered Fella had not returned yet. This was the third time this week that my bunkmate had stayed out after curfew. Much later, after everyone was asleep, she appeared.

“You're late again,” I snapped, upset with my friend for taking unnecessary risks.

Fella was not her usual self. As soon as she reached the top bunk, she began to cry.

“I am in love with the German soldier, and he is in love with me,” she told me. “What am I going to do?”

“You think you're in love because he gives you food and he treats you nice. But he is a
German
! Don't you see how impossible the situation is? Fella, please think about the danger you're putting yourself in!”

•   •   •

Ever since Dick had told me that we would leave Budzyn soon, I carried all I owned with me. The tin cup, a comb, and, of course, my most precious possession: the few pictures from home. What I worried about was not knowing whether I would ever see Dick again.

Then, one afternoon, we were told to line up at the place of assembly. That meant only one thing to me: The time had come—we were leaving Budzyn, just as Dick had predicted. As usual, we stood in lines of five waiting to be counted. The
Blockälteste
walked up and down, counting and recounting. Something wasn't right. Suddenly I knew what it was. Fella was not here! Fella had always stayed close by me at the place of assembly. Where could she be? This was too important an order to ignore.

Afternoon turned to evening, and still we
waited. Searchlights circled overhead and SS men guided sniffing dogs around on leashes. Then Liebholt appeared, unkempt and unshaven, his eyes flashing with anger. The drama of the evening was heightened by his shrill voice.

“Damn you, Jew pigs! What made you think you could corrupt a German soldier and get away with it?”