APRIL 1942
SEVERAL MONTHS PASSED, and we seemed to forget about the conversation with Marishka’s mother. I was far too busy thinking about other things. First of all, I had to concentrate on my schoolwork. Then, each day after school, I had to go straight home to help Mamma on the farm. Feeding the cows and cleaning and raking the barn were now my responsibilities. All my spare time was taken up with these chores. I understood how important it was to make sure the cows were well taken care of. For now, we were still able to earn money by selling milk to the kosher dairy, where it was prepared under the watchful eye of the rabbi and according to strict religious rules. But we didn’t know how long this would last.
The fields were left untended. It was impossible for us to manage all the land on our own. But Mamma kept a small garden that provided us with fresh vegetables. Each night I fell into bed exhausted. It felt like only minutes before Mamma was shaking me awake the next morning, when everything would begin again.
One day, as I was helping Mamma clean the house, there was a quiet knock at the back door. I ran to answer it, first checking out the window to see who was there. A man and woman stood huddled together, two young children at their sides. The man glanced nervously over his shoulder as the woman tapped on the door. I opened it, thinking at first that they were drifters looking for a handout. Gypsies often travelled through the region, selling housewares, scraps of material and even homemade herbal remedies. In the past, we had usually given them food as well as buying their wares. But as soon as the door was open, I realized that these were not gypsies. They were shabbily dressed and looked as if they hadn’t slept in days.
“We saw the mezuzah on your door.” The man spoke softly, and pointed to the religious emblem fixed to our doorpost. His Slovak was interspersed with Polish words I struggled to understand. “We are also Jews. Will you give us something to eat? We’ve been travelling a long time and the children are so hungry.” He looked down at the boy and girl beside him, their tired eyes wide with hope.
Mamma appeared at my side, quickly ushered the family into our kitchen and sat them down. As we shared with them what little food we had, their story unfolded. They had come from Poland, hiding in barns by day and travelling through the woods by night. They were heading west, to Ukraine, where other family members lived.
“What are things like now in Poland?” asked Mamma. She had cousins there and had not had a letter from them in many months.
“They’re not good,” the man replied through a mouthful of bread and cheese. “The Jews who are left have been moved to ghettos — sections of the cities restricted only to Jews. There is little food there, and conditions are terrible. People live there like prisoners in their own towns.
“The Nazis are everywhere. You can’t escape them. Each day, trucks appear in the streets. The soldiers go house to house, rounding up Jewish families and moving them to the train stations. Resistance is impossible. And what’s worse, the local people stand on the sidewalks and watch, and do nothing. Some even shout encouragement to the Nazis.”
“Where are the trains taking them?” I asked. The man glanced at his wife before responding. “We’re told they’re being relocated to other parts of the country where they’ll be able to build new homes for themselves. But we know it’s not true. Some of them are going to work camps — if they’re lucky. But there are also stories of Jews ending up in other camps, where they’re simply murdered. We were lucky to get out. You’d be best to leave as well. Who knows how long it will be before the same thing happens here?”
Silence hung in the air. The family quickly finished eating and, as darkness fell, they went on their way. Before they left, Mamma stuffed some extra vegetables and rolls into the woman’s backpack.
“For the children,” she whispered, as the stranger hugged her.
For days I thought about the family and the man’s ominous warning. Marishka’s mother had already told us about factories and work camps. But this was the first I’d heard about death camps. The thought filled me with fear, but also disbelief. Surely our people weren’t being sent away to die! Mamma said nothing to me after the family’s visit, and I couldn’t bring myself to question her.
Marishka and I walked to school together everyday. Somehow it felt safer to walk with a friend. One morning, about a week after this family had stopped at our house, we were on our way to school as usual. To pass the time we played a game, pretending we were moving to a new country and could only take ten things from all of our belongings. I said I would take my doll, of course, as well as my picture album with the photographs of all our relatives. Marishka said she could never leave behind her locket, and the teddy bear she had been given as an infant. Its one eye was gone and her mother had patched the bear in many places over the years, but it was a treasured keepsake.
Our conversation stopped abruptly as we reached the school and realized that something was very wrong. The gate, which was usually wide open, was closed. A big metal chain with a heavy lock was wrapped around the fence. Inside, the playground and building were deserted. There were no teachers in sight.
Marishka and I approached the gate cautiously. Several of our friends were already there, gathered around a big sign hung over the fence. We joined the others and read the announcement:
JEWS ARE FORBIDDEN TO ATTEND SCHOOL
THE BUILDING IS HEREBY CLOSED.
For several minutes we stood there as the news sank in. No more school! At first Marishka and I just looked at each other, not knowing what to do. I tugged hesitantly on the chain, perhaps hoping that if I pulled hard enough it might open in my hand. Our books, pencils and other belongings were inside. How could we get them back? What were we going to do all day if we couldn’t go to school?
At any other time in our lives we would have been delighted that school was closed. But not now. Now we knew something serious had happened. This was yet one more rule separating us from everyone else. Our lives were being taken away, little by little, and we were becoming more and more frightened as each new law was passed.
The students began to move away, saying little to one another. Marishka and I joined arms, holding onto each other for comfort. We turned slowly from the building and began to walk home.
“Do you think we’ll ever see Mr. Reich again?” I asked sadly.
“Oh, I’m sure we will,” replied Marishka, though she didn’t sound convinced.
We walked on in silence. Finally Marishka turned to me. “Let’s look on the bright side,” she said. “No more homework!”
I smiled a little and said. “And no more awful spelling tests!”
“No more long walks to school in the cold and rain!” she continued.
“And no more boring lectures!” Our pace quickened as we tried to cheer each other up.
“I’m going to sleep in every morning from now on,” declared Marishka.
“Oh, no!” I groaned. “I’m going to have to work even harder on the farm. My back aches just thinking about it.”
We were rounding a street corner and were so deeply involved in our conversation that we almost walked straight into the soldier who blocked our path. My heart nearly stopped as I looked up into his glowering face.
“Jews! Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” he barked, glaring at us.
“I… I’m sorry, sir,” I stammered. “We … we didn’t see … we … we didn’t mean …”
“What are you mumbling? Are you too stupid to answer a simple question?” He moved closer to us. Marishka and I were paralyzed with fear. My eyes moved from his shiny black boots up the length of his brown uniform and rested on his face. I gasped, realizing that I recognized him. His name was Ivan, and he was a friend of Nina’s brother. He had been at Nina’s house many times when I’d played there. He was quite young, only a few years older than me. But now, dressed in this uniform, he was like a different person.
“Did you hear me, Jew? Maybe I need to teach you a lesson about respect.” He reached to his side and began to pull out a wooden stick swinging from his black belt. Marishka and I whimpered. What was he going to do? Was he going to beat us? Would he arrest us? I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands as Marishka’s fingers dug deeper into my arm.
“Ivan,” a girl’s voice chimed from across the street. “Ivan, how are you?”
My eyes opened a crack and I looked up. Ivan’s arm was poised above my head, the stick swinging dangerously close to my face, but his face was turned towards the voice that had called him. I followed his gaze across the street and was astonished to see Nina waving and running towards us.
“Ivan, I haven’t seen you for ages. I thought you were still away at school.” Nina’s face was flushed as she stopped in front of us. She didn’t look once at Marishka and me, but kept her eyes focused on Ivan. “You look so much older in that uniform!” she gushed. Carefully she took his arm holding the stick and pulled it towards her.
“Nina? Nina! It’s good to see you,” said Ivan, momentarily distracted. “Where is your brother? Is he back from training yet?”
“Yes, yes, and he’s been asking about you,” Nina continued. Quietly but deliberately she moved to put herself between us and Ivan. “In fact, I think he may be at home now. Why don’t you come with me? I’m out of school early because I have a doctor’s appointment. If you come home with me, I’m sure my mother would love to feed you a big lunch.” Nina chattered quickly, without pausing. Her voice was high and bright as she turned Ivan away from us.
“Aw, Nina. I’d love to come but I have these Jews to deal with.” He pulled his arm from hers and turned to face us once more.
“Oh, why bother with them?” Nina asked, taking his arm again. “Come on. My mother was cooking this morning and the desserts should be ready by now. If we hurry they’ll still be warm. When was the last time you had pancakes stuffed with your choice of cheese, jam, or poppy-seed and honey?”
Ivan laughed and puffed out his chest. “I sure remember your mother’s delicious food. And that really thick cream she used to make. Does she still make that?”
He turned again to snarl at Marishka and me. “You two, get out of here. And next time I catch you I won’t let you off so easy.”
I didn’t know it then, but that would be the last time I ever saw Nina. In that moment our lives were separated for good. As Nina and Ivan reached the next corner, I saw her turn slightly, and our eyes met and said it all. I looked at her with gratitude and relief. She looked at me with friendship and pity.
Marishka tugged urgently on my arm and we ran in the opposite direction. We didn’t stop running until we reached my home.