Alicia, p.9
Alicia, page 9
“You are feeling better, I hope?” she said, looking anxiously at me. I had developed a mild case of tuberculosis and my lungs were weak.
“Thank you, dear Rachel, I’m much better. The fat is really helping me. My cough is almost all gone and the pain in my chest too. This is it, the last piece of fat I will need. Thank you again. I really must go home now.”
I found Herzl at home and immediately told him what I was planning to do. He thought it was a good idea and said he would get two of his good friends to come along with us.
Early the next morning the four of us were hiding in the bushes near the Black Bridge. I was going to perform an experiment. I cautioned the boys to stay in hiding no matter what happened. We did not wear our armbands, and it would be very dangerous for us if we were to be discovered by the police, or by anybody, for that matter. It was a cold morning, so I was shivering as we huddled together. I was also afraid of what I was going to do. My stomach was churning from hunger and fear.
Suddenly I heard the sound of an approaching sleigh. It was coming slowly up the hill. There were two people sitting on the driver’s seat. They had bundles inside the wagon, but not beets.
Some time passed before I heard the sound of the next sleigh. The farmer was urging his horses to pull, so I assumed that the sleigh must be carrying a heavy load. Then I saw that the sleigh was loaded with sugar beets. I waited until it passed us and then, stooping over, I ran after the sleigh. As quietly as I could, I pulled myself up into the back of the sleigh and kneeled down on the short boards. Holding the side of the wagon with one hand, I used my other to reach down inside. I grasped the leaves of a beet and pulled it out gently. I put the beet in my apron and then pulled out three more beets.
I waited for the right moment to get off. When the farmer called out to the horses to move on, I jumped. I landed on my behind and the beets spilled out of my apron and scattered around me. I looked around to make sure that no one had seen me, quickly picked up the beets, and ran to where the boys were hiding.
My heart was beating wildly, but I had four large beets. One for each of us. I should have been glad about the success of my experiment, but I wasn’t. As a matter of fact, I felt sudden anger and humiliation. I was angry with myself, with the farmer, and with the whole world. I was also very ashamed. I had violated the commandment that tells us not to steal.
Herzl sensed my change of mood and, putting his arm around my shoulder, said, “I know how you feel, Alicia. This is the first time in your life that you have stolen. ‘Thou shalt not steal’ is a commandment we were taught to respect, but what about the commandment which says clearly ‘Thou shalt not kill’? What about that one?” he said forcefully as tears gathered in his eyes.
I looked at my ten-year-old brother with gratitude. He understood what I was feeling deep inside me. At that moment I loved him with all my heart. I made up my mind not to subject him and his friends to the humiliation I had just experienced. I would have to find another way to get food for us.
One day I was sewing up a torn sleeve on Milek’s coat. The coat looked too large for him, and I wondered where he had gotten it.
“Milek, I hope you will forgive me for asking, but where did you get this coat? It is really a nice coat,” I added hurriedly. “I was just wondering.”
“Oh, that!” He laughed. “Bolek and I found a whole trunk filled with clothing in the attic of our house. Bolek took a jacket, and I took this coat. The rest were ladies’ things, and we left them in the trunk.”
Ladies’ things. Maybe some of them would fit Mrs. Eckerberg, or even Mama, I thought.
“Do you think I could have a look at those ladies’ things?” I asked Milek.
“We can go as soon as you have finished sewing up my coat.”
The ladies’ things turned out to be real treasures. Mama said they were fashions of the 1920s. She washed some of the dresses, repaired them, and gave them to Mrs. Eckerberg to wear. A few of the dresses were ripped apart, and we traded the fabric for potatoes. A lovely taffeta skirt was exchanged for eight potatoes. My mother made me a green pinafore trimmed with white silk, which covered my shabby dress. “Green for hope,” my mother said as she tied the ribbons in the back.
This find gave me the idea that all Herzl’s friends should look in their attics for old clothing. Soon I was busy washing old clothes and hanging them out to dry in the attic. Since all my washing was done without soap, some things could not be saved, but those that came out relatively clean were traded for food. Among the old things, I found a nice shirt for Milek. I washed and mended it. Actually this shirt was to be in exchange for a favor I was going to ask him. I wanted him to help Bella build a bunker.
I found Milek at Rachel’s house. He was spending a lot of time there. Rachel and Milek were the same age, and I was a little jealous of the attention he was giving her. But both Rachel and Milek were my best friends, and I felt ashamed to feel anything but love for them.
I waited until Milek finished his soup and then asked him to go for a walk with me. I said I needed advice. I gave him the shirt and told him I wished him to wear it in good health.
I could feel that Milek was annoyed with me.
“Well, what is it you have to tell me that couldn’t wait a little longer?” Then more gently, “What is it, Alicia?”
“It is about Rachel and her family,” I said. “I am very worried about them. Winter is coming and they don’t have a bunker. Rachel will not be able to run over the Bashte and hide when the Germans come again to kill us. What will happen to them, please tell me?” I asked in a pleading voice. Tears had gathered in my eyes and started running down my face.
Milek stopped and looked at me. He took out a handkerchief and wiped my face, which made me cry even more.
“You are right to be concerned, Alicia. Rachel is too ill to run now and stay outside for long periods of time, especially in this weather. I heard Bella talk about this with Beniek.
“They are all worried, and so am I,” Milek continued. “They decided to build an extra wall somewhere in the house. I don’t know where, but if they need my help, they know they can count on me. I love them too, you know. I really love them,” he repeated again.
I was so relieved to hear this news that without thinking I kissed Milek on his cheek. For a moment we just stood looking at each other. Then I blushed and wished that the earth would swallow me.
One morning as I looked out the window I saw the ground covered with freshly fallen snow. I loved the snow, and I remembered how much fun we used to have, my brothers and I, skiing and sliding down the hills on our sleigh. And now … I pushed the sad thoughts away. I was going to visit Rachel this morning and bring her a snowball. In the meantime I went back to bed to snuggle into the warmth of my blanket.
I must have dozed off, when I thought I heard someone calling my name and tapping on the window. I came fully awake and immediately felt the familiar sensation of fear. I jumped out of bed and looked out through the window. Rachel was standing outside. Now I was really frightened. What could have brought Rachel here? She rarely came to my home, and never so early in the morning. I didn’t even put on my coat but quickly opened the front door and pulled Rachel into our room.
She was out of breath and coughing; I was trembling from cold and fright. Then Rachel smiled at me.
“Alicia, forgive me; I can see I frightened you, but I had to come and tell. I couldn’t wait for you to come to us. I have some wonderful news for you. You’ll never believe it, but it is true. America is at war with the Germans and with Japan, and the Russians are getting help from America, and they, too, are able to fight the Germans. We are going to be saved!”
“Mama, did you hear the news Rachel brought us? Do you think that the Americans or the Russians might get here in time to …?”
A shadow crossed over Mother’s face. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, but it lasted long enough to bring us back to reality. We will have to try to live through each day as it comes, I thought. There was some hope now, but not enough to quiet my constant fear.
I turned to my mother and said, “Mama, I will go home with Rachel now. Bella is going to be very angry with her. Maybe we can get back without Bella noticing. I will also go and see Beniek and find out a little more about the news. There is hope now, dearest Mama.” And so saying I bent down and kissed her. I threw my pillow at Herzl as I was leaving the room and heard him laugh.
Hope! What a wonderful word for a child in the ghetto. A spark of light in the darkness. How I wished it would grow! But I knew that for us, rescue might come too late.
All of my nightmares became reality one late afternoon in December 1942, about four o’clock. I had just returned from pumping water for our tiny household. I had set the water buckets down in their usual place in the hall and pushed the front door shut, when suddenly there was a heavy knock. I still had my gloves on, and my heavy shawl was wrapped high around my head, covering my nose and mouth against the bitter outside cold.
I opened the door and saw a Ukrainian policeman. He held a pencil and a small notebook, and seemed to be checking things off some sort of list. “Frieda Jurman?” he asked.
I swallowed hard, and a wave of sickness swept over me. “Yes,” I said.
He made a check in his little book. “Come with me.”
And so I went. I said nothing, fearing he would realize that my voice was too high and childlike to belong to a woman. It may seem strange that he thought me an adult, but I was tall for a twelve-year-old, about five feet six inches, and the coat and shawl disguised my body well. The thing I most feared had happened. They had come for my mother. I wanted to get away from our house as soon as possible, so I walked quickly in the direction the policeman indicated.
He brought me directly to the police station, where I was put into a cell with many others. It was a bare cell. The people were sitting on the stone floor all huddled together. I found a corner and sat down, pulling my legs up and encircling them with my arms. I put my head down and closed my eyes. I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to cry or think about what was going to happen to all of us. Instead, I was trying to listen to what the women near me were saying. They were talking about a street action they were caught in. This was odd, because the policeman had come into our house to ask for my mother by name. Street actions were something new. We were now being picked up at random in the streets. What new horrors would that bring to the ghetto, I wondered.
Dawn was just breaking, when a prison guard came and unlocked the door to our cell. “Everybody line up and go upstairs into the waiting room,” he called out. The people who had remained awake were heavy with fatigue. I, like some others, had taken the opportunity to get some sleep; I knew I would need to be alert later.
As the line moved, I could see that the people were stooping and writing their names on a yellow ledger in front of a policeman seated behind a table. I blinked hard when I realized that I knew the policeman. I felt ill inside.
This man, who was helping murder my people, was the father of my childhood friend, Olga. As I came nearer, I watched him silently. He did not look much at the people who approached him, but kept his eyes on the ledger.
When it was my turn I stepped up, took the pencil, and wrote “Alicia Jurman” on the yellow paper. I did not sign my mother’s name, as I feared Olga’s father would recognize me, realize what had happened, and send for my mother. His eyes widened as he recognized the name. “Alicia”—he looked at me—“what are you doing here?”
I straightened my shoulders. “I was taken here like the others,” I said. He seemed baffled; clearly there had been a mistake. All of the others were adults; they had not meant to include children in this action.
Olga’s father looked around to see if any of the other policemen had noticed his outburst, then motioned for me to come closer.
“Look,” he said, “the Germans will be here soon to take you away. When they get here, I want you to get down on your knees and beg for your life.”
He searched my face for a nod or some other sign of acknowledgment, but I only stared back. His words “beg for your life” were still ringing in my ears. He looked uncomfortable under my gaze. “All right,” he said. “Move on.”
I took my place with the others. I still couldn’t believe that Olga’s father could be part of this. I still remembered when he had told his daughter how fortunate she was to have me help her with her homework and how glad he was that we were friends. Friends, I thought bitterly, and hatred began to settle into my heart. Will he accompany the Germans and help them shoot us? Will his bullet find its target in my heart or head?
It wasn’t long before the Germans came. I could see by their uniforms that they were not the usual SS men, known to us as Hitler’s most brutal killers, or even the Wehrmacht (army). They were the local German police.
As one of them explained that we were to be loaded into sleighs for a journey to another city, I watched Olga’s father. Our eyes met. I could almost hear his thoughts. Say it! Do it now! I looked back at the German. He was winding down his talk; time was running out. Olga’s father looked at the German, then at me again. Beg for your life, his eyes commanded me.
But I would not. Never! Never! I was frightened but angry at him, at the Germans, at the whole world. I wanted desperately to live, but I didn’t think for a moment that going down on my knees before a heartless German murderer would save my life. If they released me, would they look for my mother again? Call it what you will, anger, dignity, courage, or just hatred, I couldn’t beg, and the moment passed.
Finally the German finished. The doors opened, and the people were being pushed outside. Suddenly Olga’s father stood up and came over to me. Swiftly he swung his open hand at me. The blow caught me on the cheek, throwing my head to one side. Then his hand swung back, connecting against my other cheek. The force of his slap threw me off my feet, onto the crowd of people. Hands reached out to catch me, and I was quickly steadied.
Olga’s father stood in the middle of the room, his body stiff, his eyes glaring at me. Then something seemed to break inside him. He turned and went back to the table, where he sat down. He folded his hands in front of him and studied them. He did not look up again as we left the room.
A blast of bitter cold air hit us as we stepped into the street. It must have been four or five in the morning, and the sky had taken on the eerie hue it often had when it had shaken off the night but not yet accepted the day.
At least now I knew we weren’t going to be shot immediately, a fate we in Buczacz had come to expect for anyone caught in an action. Had that been the case, they would have taken us to the Fador, or the Bashte. But we had turned in the opposite direction and were now a long way from those places.
Soon we drove past the ghetto. I craned my neck, straining to see our little house just beyond the hill. But I couldn’t see it. I thought of my mother. Would she be asleep, or would she be pacing the floor, sick with panic and grief at having lost her fourth child in so short a time? If only she had known how much I loved her. Would it have comforted her or pained her even more, since she was helpless to save me? Tears that I had held back for a long time were finally streaming down my face.
Then we were crossing the Black Bridge at the edge of the city. And suddenly we were in the country, traveling into the misty morning.
Two Ukrainian policemen were assigned to each sleigh. One faced the horses and one faced us, holding a machine gun in his lap. Maybe if I waited until this man’s back was turned, I could leap into the snow and run for cover. It wouldn’t be so hard. I could roll into the ditch on the side of the road.
But what might happen then? Bunio had been killed because one of the other slave laborers had escaped. They might line up nine people from the sleigh and shoot them on the spot. They might even kill all sixty. Or they might simply find some unfortunate person to take my place. No, I just couldn’t take that chance.
Our journey wore on and on. Six o’clock came, then seven, then eight. I could almost tell the time by the rising sun.
In the next village we passed children bearing knapsacks on their way to school. Their faces were partially hidden under shawls and hats, but I could catch glimpses of noses and cheeks red with the cold. As they stopped to let us pass, they looked from the policemen to us with puzzled eyes, not understanding but sensing—the way children often do—that something was wrong with the huddled people on the sleighs.
The sun rose higher; it was midday. I could see the outline of a city in the distance. It was a big city, much bigger than Buczacz. I had a terrible feeling as we headed toward it.
There was something familiar about that place. I had the feeling that I had been there before; a memory was fighting to break through to my consciousness. Did I really recognize that sign? Or did I just think so? I had seen the building before, hadn’t I? But had I really? The streets were crowded, and sleighs had to pull to one side to let us pass. People in the streets were shouting things at us, cupping their hands around their mouths, or shaking their fists. “Cursed Jews! Christ killers!” Some spat in our direction.
It was around noon. We had been traveling about eight hours, when the sleighs arrived at a huge compound. They stopped while massive gates were pulled open and then continued through. As we pulled up before a large stone building, I saw that we were in a prison yard.
“It is the Chortkov prison,” I heard one man tell another. “They have brought us to Chortkov.”
We were quiet. Everyone knew that this was the city where the Gestapo was headquartered, and the central base for murdering actions in ghettos, including Buczacz. Chortkov had distinct memories for me. It was in this city that I was blessed by the Chortkov rabbi, and it also was in this very prison that my brother Moshe died during the Russian occupation.
“Get out of the sleighs!” The order broke through my reminiscences and jerked me back to the present. Suddenly there were SS men everywhere, barking orders and insults. People were getting off the sleighs. Those who weren’t fast enough were pulled or pushed to the ground. Rifle stocks and long sticks seemed to fly through the air as the Nazis beat and jabbed us. Arms were lifted to shield faces and bodies from blows. All around me were cries of pain. More SS men appeared. They were wearing ski boots and carrying ski poles; I had the impression that they had stumbled onto our reception and decided to join their friends.
