Alicia, p.34
Alicia, page 34
When I arrived there, I spoke with a woman who was selling fruit. She told me of a Jewish family named Sharf who lived on the second floor of an apartment building where her friend was the superintendent. She wrote the address on a piece of paper and gave me general directions to the house in the center of the city.
The Sharfs turned out to be very nice people. There were two brothers. The younger brother, Ben, was about thirty years old and newly married, but Herman, the older, was about forty and had lost his family. He was a sick man and stayed in bed most of the time. They received me very warmly, and Mrs. Sharf told me that I could stay with them as long as I wished if I was willing to help with cleaning the house and the daily shopping. Soon I felt like a member of the family.
The apartment was very large. It had eight rooms. I had a very lovely room with a bed and wardrobe, overlooking the busy street. I didn’t mind the noises of city life during the day, but I worried about what sounded like distant cannon fire during the night. When I questioned the older of the two brothers about it, he told me that the war was still going on, and that the Germans and the Russians were still fighting. In order not to dwell on this I kept very busy.
In addition to cleaning the house and shopping for food I liked to help Mrs. Sharf by doing all kinds of little chores for her brother-in-law, Herman, who was ill with tuberculosis. After I cleaned his room and changed his bed linen I would often stay in his room to talk if he wasn’t too tired. He told me that he had been born in Bielsko and had practiced law there before the war.
He told me that most of the Jews who had lived in Bielsko before the war had been killed by the Germans. Only a very few had survived and returned to the city.
One day I told him about my family and about my father, and why I had come to Bielsko. He listened with interest, but I could see that his face clouded when I mentioned the factory and Mr. Eckerberg. When I finished we sat silently for a long time. Then Mr. Sharf took my hand in his and looked at me thoughtfully.
“Alicia, you may as well know there isn’t a chance in the world for you to recover anything from your father’s former business. If I were you, I wouldn’t mention this to anyone. I can understand that you would like to see the place. Well, you can do that. As a matter of fact, I know exactly where it is. But before I tell you, you must promise not to talk to anyone you may meet near the factory. Do I have your promise?”
“I promise,” I said solemnly. “You are right, Mr. Sharf. We had the same problem in Buczacz. As a matter of fact, some people who went to claim their property were actually killed by the new owners.”
“So you know what is happening. You are a big girl and you will be careful.” He wrote the address on a piece of paper and gave it to me.
The same afternoon I went to see the factory. I stopped people along the way and asked directions. It took over an hour for me to find it. It was a tall building, part of a group of buildings. I could make out a faint printing ECKERBERG FABRICS on the side of the wall. I took a deep breath and started to cross the street. But, strangely, the closer I got, the more uneasy I became. Was it just that I would have to face more memories of my father bringing fabrics from this factory home to my mother? Or Father telling my mother and us about his business trip?
I stood facing the building, my heart pounding, my mouth dry. I had not expected the intense feeling of danger. It was like being back in the war again, when I couldn’t let anyone know I was Jewish because I would have been killed. I felt the same way now, because I couldn’t let anyone know that part of this factory had belonged to my family.
As I watched the factory I thought that I would wait until the war ended to put in a claim for the part that had belonged to my father. But then suddenly it didn’t seem to matter anymore; the money wasn’t important. I couldn’t reach out for my father this way. I would have to close this chapter of our family’s past. I turned around and walked away.
It was nice to return to the Sharfs, especially since after seeing the factory I was very sad. I went to talk with Herman, as I always did whenever I returned from my walks. I would describe the weather and tell him about life outside. He encouraged my daily walks, asking me to take a little walk for him too. He told me that Bielsko was a very interesting city, and he was right. Bielsko was really quite beautiful. There was a large park not far from where we lived and wide streets with lovely buildings. I walked aimlessly through the streets, looking about me and at the sky, listening to the birds and smelling the flowers. Sometimes I would go to the bank of the river to watch the clear blue water. I would sweep my hand against the current and feel the water’s cool freshness. Other times I would walk into the woods at the edge of the city and watch the birds as they pecked, looking for worms. It was spring and nature was in its full glory. I was learning to be free again.
But among the people on the streets I began to notice some children who didn’t seem to belong somehow. They were dressed poorly and were pitifully thin. This in itself was not too unusual, although most people in the streets seemed to have a purpose. They were going somewhere or doing something. These children walked hunched over, their faces to the ground, as though they didn’t want to be seen or to look directly at people. They seemed nervous and, if approached, would shy away in fear, as though expecting to be struck.
They had the bodies of small children but the faces of teenagers and, when you could see them, very old eyes. I felt, somehow, a kinship with those children and was waiting for a chance to talk with them.
The opportunity came one afternoon when I was resting on a bench at the edge of the woods. I was sitting and listening to the life around me, thinking about my three weeks in Bielsko. Then I heard someone crying: short, painful sobs. I recognized that kind of crying. It was filled with such pain and sorrow that I couldn’t remain sitting there but went to find out who it was. Behind some large bushes I found two teenage girls. It was hard to fix their exact ages from their physical appearance. When the girl who was crying saw me, she tried to stop, but her body could not stop shaking and deep moans continued to escape from within her. The older girl, who had been consoling her in what sounded like German or Yiddish, looked up at me angrily.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to interfere,” I said, “but can I help you?”
The girls exchanged glances but did not answer. I was just about to turn away, when the oldest looked up at me doubtfully, then said in Polish, “Yes, you can help us. Can you give us something to eat? We haven’t eaten anything for two days, since we came back to Bielsko. Just a piece of bread will be fine.”
God, I thought, how well I remembered my own pleas for just a piece of bread. It was hard to keep my voice from trembling.
“Yes, yes, you shall have food. But you must come with me.”
I had decided to take them to the Sharfs. There was enough space in the apartment, and I knew that Mrs. Sharf was a generous soul. I had no right to do this, but I had the feeling that she would have asked them to come if she were with me.
When we reached the apartment, Eta Sharf took one look at the girls and, without saying a word, led them to seats at the kitchen table and brought out food. After they had eaten, she took their clothes to be washed. The girls had baths and fell asleep together in one of the bedrooms.
These were my first two orphans and my first real contact with the reality of what had happened to the Jews in German concentration camps. Up to this time I had only heard rumors. To me, reality was the murder of my people in their homes, in prison courtyards, and in front of mass graves in the meadows of Poland. I hadn’t thought much, or known much about the German camps. I knew people were taken away in trains; I was on one such train. But where did they go? To what fate? I could only guess.
Now here were two children who had been in a concentration camp. Herman Sharf had also been liberated from such a camp. Until I brought the children to his home, he had never mentioned this. But when he saw the children, perhaps to help me understand them, he told me about the camps and what Hitler and his SS men had done to the Jewish people there. He told me what had happened in other parts of Poland and all over Europe wherever the Germans and their collaborators had been in power—what might still be happening in the lands under Nazi occupation. He had not talked about these things earlier, but now he could not stop.
I sat near his bed, and as I listened, each sentence fell upon my heart and soul like a searing iron. I started crying because my young heart couldn’t accept more anguish and pain.
I was very careful not to ask the two girls, Stefa and Bronin, any questions, but I now knew enough to understand that the other strange children I had seen on the streets were Jewish orphans who had survived the concentration camps, and that they were in great need of food and shelter. They needed to belong to someone. They had been freed, but there was no one to look after them. The Russians were otherwise occupied, and the Poles didn’t care.
The following day Stefa, Bronin, and I started looking for those other children. We walked city streets, went near the river and into the forest. Within a week we had collected another eight children. We brought them to the Sharfs, who didn’t say a word when their door opened and they saw new arrivals. The empty rooms began filling up quickly and, with all the eaters, Ben Sharf was very busy getting more food, and his wife and several orphans were constantly busy in the kitchen. Suddenly we were a big family. It occurred to me that I couldn’t continue imposing on the Sharfs’ generosity indefinitely; yet I had no money of my own. I started thinking. Maybe if I opened an orphanage I could get help from the city officials. I talked to Herman Sharf about my idea, and he looked at me strangely.
“Alicia, do you know what you are undertaking? These aren’t ordinary children. Do you realize what the nights will be like for you? I can hear you now as you get up to quiet them when they have nightmares. It has been only one week, and look at the dark circles under your eyes! Are you sure you want to get involved in all this, you, a young girl and an orphan yourself?”
I understood what he was saying. I remembered the responsibilities I had assumed as breadwinner for my mother, brother, and others during the war, but I had already promised myself that I would do everything I could to help those orphans.
“I have to, Mr. Sharf. I can’t let them just wander in the streets, not after all they have lived through. I understand how they must feel; I felt like that for years during the war, and I still feel homeless and orphaned right now.
“We can’t stay here, because then we are limited by the size of this apartment and the limits of your generosity—and surely there must be limits. Yet I am certain that there must be more homeless orphans in this city. First we have to find a larger place to live, and then I will try to get help from the authorities. Do you know a home or an apartment that formerly belonged to Jewish people and was later taken over by Germans? The Germans would have left when the Russians occupied the city. Can you think of a house like that, please, Mr. Sharf?”
“Well, as I can see that you are a determined girl, I will ask Ben. He may know of a house you can use.”
The following morning Herman Sharf gave me the address of a large apartment in Biala, which was part of Bielsko. It had six rooms and a kitchen and had belonged to a former colleague of his who perished in the concentration camps with his whole family. There was only a maid acting as caretaker there now. Herman told me that I was a very smart girl to think of such a house, and that his brother had promised that he would help us as much as possible. The orphanage seemed to him to be a good idea after all. He was, however, worried, or, rather, skeptical about the possibility that we could get help from the Polish officials, but said it was worth trying.
The next day I put on a new dress that Mrs. Sharf had given me, fixed up my hair as best as I could, pinning it up to make myself look older than almost fifteen, and went to the Bielsko city hall. I asked to speak to the man in charge of welfare, especially orphanages, and was shown to a waiting room where a few other people were sitting awaiting their turn. As I sat I rehearsed my little speech.
Finally I was called in. My heart was pounding and I realized that I wasn’t at all happy about going to a Polish official for help. But I had no choice, so I put on a happy face as I entered the office. The Polish official sat in a huge leather chair behind an ornately carved desk. He asked me to sit, pointing at a chair in front of his desk. The man was middle-aged, with graying hair. He had the kind of face one couldn’t read.
“What is your name, miss?” he asked.
“Alicia,” I said.
“Are you from Bielsko, miss?”
“No, sir. I am from Buczacz originally. I have been in your city a little over two weeks.”
“Ah.” He folded his hands across his stomach, leaning back in the huge chair.
“And what can I do for you today?” he inquired.
I took a deep breath and began my little speech.
“You see, sir, we are a small group of Jewish orphans who—”
“What!” He slammed his hand down on the desk so fiercely that I jumped. His face changed abruptly and became red and ugly. His eyes narrowed into little slits.
“You Jews still survived?” he cried. “You cursed Jews survived?”
For the briefest moment this reaction immobilized me entirely. I sat in my chair, my mouth open, staring at the ugly face, not quite believing what I had just heard. But I didn’t stay that way for long. In an instant, rage surged through me like a forest fire. I leapt from my chair, came around his desk, and, swinging my right hand back, smacked him in the face with all my strength.
“You mad Polish dog,” I cried, and ran out of the room and into the street as though I were being chased by the devil himself. I was crying bitterly in frustration and anger and didn’t care whether anyone saw me or heard me. I was furious and I was scared. How could I have been so stupid as to forget how much the Poles hated us; even now he might be sending the police after me and they might shoot me down on the street. But I was glad I had slapped him, and I would do it again. He deserved even worse treatment from me!
I finally stopped running and leaned against a building. My sobs had stopped too, but the tears were still rolling silently down my face. I looked around to see if there was a policeman coming after me, but I couldn’t see any. Directly across from me, parked against the curb, was a Russian truck. There were two men there, a driver and another, who I could tell by his uniform and all the medals was an officer. He was standing outside the truck, one foot on the running board, eating from a tin. They were watching me.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” the officer asked. He put down the tin and came over to me, reaching out to wipe the tears from my cheeks with a handkerchief he pulled out of his breast pocket.
“What is the matter, dievushka” he asked softly. I burst into tears all over again. He led me to the truck. I sat down on the running board and because he was kind to me I sobbed out my story. I could see his face cloud up with fury. For a moment I regretted involving him in my problem, but he had seemed so sympathetic and I had to talk to someone. We sat silently for a moment and then he handed me a tin of meat loaf and urged me to eat, saying that it was from America and very tasty. I took a couple of bites just to be polite, but I could hardly swallow because I was still very angry.
“Let’s see how your problem can be solved,” he said. “Come with me to the back of the truck.
“Here are some sacks of clothing and all kinds of things you can use.” He pointed inside the truck. Next, he unbuttoned the pocket in the front of his shirt and took out a bundle of Polish zlotys and handed them to me. “This will help, for the time being.”
I was so astonished by his generosity that I couldn’t move. “Here, take it,” he urged, and he pushed the money into my hand. “You don’t need those Polish dogs. My friends and I, we will help you. We all have good Jewish hearts.” He smiled. “Some of my friends are Polish Jews serving in the Russian army, crazy fellows but good soldiers. I am a Russian Jew from Leningrad. We will adopt you. Don’t worry. My name is Mesha. What are you called?”
I wanted to say Anusha, just to please him, but instead I said Ala, short for Alicia. “You can call me Ala. And thank you very much, Officer Mesha, the Jew from Leningrad. God bless you for your kindness to us.” I said the last words in Hebrew, but he didn’t understand.
“Where would you like to go now, Ala?” he asked.
It occurred to me that it would be a good idea to see the apartment Mr. Sharf told me about. I had the address with me, so we traveled to Biala. I had no difficulty finding it, and when we rang the bell an older woman who looked like a maid opened the door. Mesha told her that we were moving into the apartment, and that we knew the former owners, who were Jews. She nodded her head. She apparently had been expecting someone to come and live there, because she was ready to leave within half an hour. Mesha gave her some money, and she gave us the key to the apartment.
The apartment was all I could have hoped for. It had five bedrooms, a large living room, and a large kitchen-dining room. I could see traces on the doorpost where a mezuzah had once been placed. I thought about the Jewish family who had once lived there, and I felt a deep sorrow. I looked around the apartment. The Germans who had lived there during the occupation had not had time to remove all the lovely china, crystal, and carpets. The beds and the bedding were all in very good condition, and I thought how nice it would be for the orphans to live in this house. There was indoor plumbing in the bathroom—a toilet, a sink, and a tub—but there were no pipes leading to the tub; it had to be filled by hand. In the kitchen there was another faucet which delivered only cold water. But none of these small problems took away from my joy. What pleased me most was the huge stove in the kitchen. Not only did it have a large griddle area, an oven, and plenty of storage for firewood, but there was a tank built into the back of the stove to store water which was heated whenever the stove was in use. It couldn’t have been more perfect.
