“I SUPPOSE I SHOULD start out at the beginning and tell you how I came to know these children. I was born Lena Scheinman in the town of Chrzanów, Poland, southwest of Kraków, in the province of Silesia, in 1924. When I entered my teenage years—”
Catherine held up her hand. “Chrzanów. Is that anywhere near Zamosc?”
“No, that was Ben’s town. Although spelled Chrzanów, the town is pronounced Shah-nov. It’s on the other side of Poland, near the Czech border.”
Catherine looked at Liam. “I think we’ve been down this road before. Will this assignment involve us in something that happened during the Holocaust? Is that why you sought us out? Because of Ben Solomon? I mean, his case was certainly about the Holocaust, but it didn’t make us experts in the field of wartime Poland.”
Lena raised her eyebrows. “I came to you because of your talents and, I admit, also because of Ben. He was your greatest fan. And I was his. Maybe because we were both survivors, maybe because we both went through hell in wartime Poland—as I told you, there are similarities—Ben and I had a special bond. I sought you out because I must find out what happened to two children and I think you are the ones to help me.”
“I apologize for the way my question was framed. I just wanted you to know that if you need an expert on Poland or World War II, you could do a lot better than Liam and me. We were able to help Ben find and prosecute Otto Piatek, but Ben was the source of all wartime information.”
“I understand, but I know I’ve come to the right people and I beg you to hear me out.”
“Of course.” Catherine turned and picked up a yellow pad. “First, let’s get a little background. Are these two children related to you in some way?”
Lena shook her head. “No. They were Karolina’s. They’re twins.”
Liam leaned forward, his elbows on the table “What are their names, Lena?”
She shook her head again. “Today? I wouldn’t know. Many years ago they were Rachel and Leah.”
Catherine glanced at Liam and then back to Lena. “Who is Karolina?”
“She was my dear, dear friend. She saved my life, but in the end I could not save hers.” The memory made Lena pause. She blinked away a tear and brushed it aside with the back of her fingers. Finally, in a whispered tone she said, “I beg you to help me fulfill my promise. Please find Karolina’s two little girls.”
Catherine reached for a box of tissues and set it on the desk. “Where did Karolina live?”
Lena lowered her eyes. “In Chrzanów, near me. Many times with me.”
Catherine again glanced at Liam, but he only shrugged.
“I suppose these twins were born during World War II? In Poland?”
Lena nodded.
“Lena, that’s seventy years ago.”
“I know. That’s how long I’ve carried this burden. And soon, like my husband used to say, my membership card in the human race is due to expire. Two years ago, a month or two before Adele died, cancer took my husband from me. I lost my two dearest friends within sixty days. After their deaths, life had one purpose for me: my promise to Karolina.
“Over the years, my husband was very good with his business and his investments. Just before he died, he said, ‘Lena, we have the money, keep your promise to Karolina. Put your soul to rest.’ So, after a while I dove into it, made some inquiries, even flew back to Poland. But Chrzanów has changed. My inquiries went nowhere. I failed to generate any momentum. I really didn’t know where to start. I finally came to the conclusion that if I were going to succeed in finding these girls, I would need professional help.”
“And you came to us because of Ben?”
“As I said, Ben, Adele and I were very close. Ben told me that if I was ever going to seek out these children, I should come to you and Liam. He said you were a good listener, and if anybody could do it, you could do it. He constantly raved about you, Catherine. How patient and understanding you were.”
“I’m honored, thank you. Ben was also very special to me.”
“Where was the last place these children were seen?” Liam said.
“I wish I could give you the precise location or even the name of a town, but I can’t. I know the general region, at least the way it was in 1943, but it’s probably too imprecise.”
Liam shook his head. “I have to be honest with you, Lena. I don’t know if it’s possible to help you. I’m pretty good at locating people, but I need a starting point.” He counted on his fingers, “One, we don’t know their names. Two, we don’t know where they live. Three, we don’t know where they were last seen. Four, we don’t know what they presently look like and we don’t even know if they’re still alive. I’m afraid you’d be throwing your savings away on a wild-goose chase.”
Lena remained unfazed. Her countenance was resolute and she pointed her chin. “We’ll find them, I know we will. With your expert help.” She gave a sharp, definitive nod. “We’ll find them.”
“Maybe it would help if you tell us a little bit about Karolina and why you’re so invested in finding her children. Maybe after all these years they’re doing just fine and don’t need your assistance.”
“That’s not the point. There’s information they need to know and I need to tell them.”
Catherine picked up her pen. “Well, there’s information I need to know as well before I can agree to get involved. I’m not going to accept your money if I don’t have confidence that Liam and I can do something for you.”
“Understood and agreed.”
“All right, let’s get started. Tell me about Karolina. Everything you remember.”
“You’ll listen? Keep an open mind?”
Catherine smiled. “Yes, I will.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.” She took a sip of coffee, crossed her legs, smoothed her skirt and began. “I first met Karolina on the day she pushed my brother home from school.”
Catherine furrowed her brow. “Pushed him?”
“My brother was seven and needed a wheelchair. When Milosz was four, he was stricken with childhood polio. My father took him to a doctor in Kraków who attended to him night and day. Back in the thirties, Milosz was a miracle child—he beat the disease. But it left him with severely withered legs and an inability to walk. A disability, to be sure, but not one that ever minimized Milosz. He couldn’t play outside with the other boys, so the Muses compensated him with gifts of music, art and poetry.”
“At age seven?”
“Absolutely. He could delight you with his talents—he played the violin. I’m sorry you never got the chance to hear him play. Or see his drawings. Or hear him recite his poetry. Even at seven years old.”
Lena smiled at the memory. “Milosz could infect you with his joie de vivre. Though physically hampered, he never considered himself unlucky and a smile never left his face. He had nothing but kind words to say. Everyone adored him. Simply said, he loved life.
“Anyway, because of Milosz’s disability, someone had to take him to and from school every day. Usually that person was Magda—she was our live-in nanny and housekeeper. Really, she was much more. She was part of our family and a great influence in my young life. She would take Milosz to and from the elementary school in his wheelchair—which Milosz referred to as his ‘Maserati.’”
“Was the school far?” Catherine said. “I’m trying to get a sense of your town.”
“Maybe seven, eight blocks. Nothing was too far in Chrzanów. There was a central market square and the town blossomed out from there. Cars were rare in Chrzanów. My family didn’t own a car, even though we were quite comfortable. Everybody walked. If you needed to go farther than a good walk, you took a horse and buggy. We had a carriage. It was a fancy buggy.
“In those days, Chrzanów had about twenty-five thousand residents. Forty percent of the town was Jewish and the remainder was Catholic. The immediate area around Chrzanów was hilly and thick with forests. Beyond the perimeter, the countryside was a patchwork of farms, lumber mills and mining operations, especially coal. Kraków, Poland’s second largest city, was forty-five kilometers to the east.
“My mother’s family owned a store on the edge of the main square that sold building materials and farm provisions. It had been in her family for years. My mother, Hannah Scheinman, worked in the store several days a week. My father, Jacob Scheinman, worked there as well. With both my parents working, Magda not only took care of the house, she took care of Milosz and me.
“The day I met Karolina, it was raining. Magda had gone out of town to visit her mother. My father was supposed to pick up Milosz, but he got tied up at the store and couldn’t break away. He asked the school’s headmistress to have someone help me bring Milosz home. Karolina was chosen.
“Our home was three blocks off the market square—a two-story, stone house with a gabled roof and a small attic. I mention the attic because it would soon become the centerpiece of my existence. When Karolina brought Milosz home, she hung around for a while. As young girls will do, we had a snack and gossiped away the afternoon. Soon my mother arrived and insisted that Karolina stay for dinner. I was twelve at the time. Milosz was seven. Karolina was thirteen.
“I had seen Karolina at school, but she was a year ahead of me. She was also very popular. Even then, as a young teen, she was exquisite and she grew more beautiful with each passing year. She was strong, athletic and vivacious. She had dark, curly hair and big expressive eyes. Coy, flirtatious, smart, bold and very sure of herself, the boys flocked to her.
“I didn’t know at the time, but her confidence was a charade, an appearance that she wore like an overcoat. Inside she was unhappy and insecure. Her father, Mariusz Neuman was a withdrawn, severe man, always worried about his business. He had little patience for Karolina’s gaiety. His business was struggling, especially in the 1930s. So, Karolina started spending a lot of time at our house.
“Karolina became an adjunct member of our family. We all loved her and she loved us, but I think she loved Milosz the most. She would sit and listen to him play even when he was just practicing his scales.” Lena shrugged. “Or perhaps it was my mother’s kreplach soup. Anyway, Karolina practically lived at our house.”
“Was Karolina Jewish as well?”
Lena nodded. “At the time, Karolina and I attended Chrzanów’s public school. Our new friendship opened a large social circle for me. She took me under her wing and brought me into the popular crowd. It was so easy being around Karolina. I grew to love the Chrzanów elementary school, but my time there came to an end in 1938, when I was ready for high school.
“Partly because I was a good student and partly because we were a privileged family, when I was fourteen my parents sent me to attend the Gymnasium in Kraków.”
“The gymnasium?” Liam said.
Lena smiled. “Although it was called the Gymnasium, it wasn’t a gym, it was a private secondary school where gen-ed courses were taught in Polish, and Jewish studies were taught in Hebrew.
“I didn’t want to go there. I wanted to stay in Chrzanów. That’s where all my friends were. I wanted to go to high school with Karolina. I protested, but I never had a chance in that battle. My Jewish studies were compulsory and my parents were able to enroll me in a prestigious high school, so that’s where I went.
“I’m sure you know, before the war, Poland had three million Jews, more than any other country in Europe. Ten percent of Poland’s population was Jewish, and my parents were observant—they took their religion seriously. Anyway, I would travel to and from Kraków every day on the train. The Chrzanów station was six blocks from my house. However, thanks to the Germans, I only attended for the one year.”
“One year?”
Lena shrugged. “The war.”
“So was life comfortable in Chrzanów before the war?”
Lena tipped her head from side to side. “For my family, yes. But not for all. My parents’ store was very profitable and served customers from the neighboring Silesian towns. And my father was a decorated war hero. He held the rank of captain—three stars—in the army of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. In World War I, he fought alongside German troops.”
“Alongside the Germans as a Jewish captain. How unusual,” Liam said.
“No, not unusual at all. No religious distinction was made during World War I. The Jews of Germany and the Austro-Hungarian Empire fought together in the armies of the Central Powers as enlisted men and as officers. One hundred thousand Jews fought in the German army, often holding high ranks, and twelve thousand lost their lives. The empire had always welcomed Jews, and Jewish society flourished. We were doctors, lawyers, judges, scientists. The same throughout Germany.
“After the First World War, my father enjoyed a certain status and prestige because of his rank and service. Everyone called him ‘The Captain.’ I wouldn’t say we were wealthy, but we were comfortable. Still, in the 1930s Poland suffered from the Depression, and Chrzanów’s economy suffered. Our store continued to sell provisions to the farmers, but oftentimes on credit, which we knew would never be repaid.
“Karolina’s family fared much worse during the Depression. Her father was a tailor. In the early 1930s his business did okay, probably because it was cheaper to have clothes repaired than to buy new ones. He was often so busy that Karolina would help him on Sundays and after school. She became a proficient seamstress as a teen. Come 1937, in the depth of the Depression, people had no money, even for repairs, and stopped going to the tailor. Karolina’s father had to close his shop. He went off to Warsaw, where his brother had a butcher shop, only returning once a month. Karolina and her mother stayed behind.
“When her father left, Karolina’s mother began to drink. Those times that I stopped by Karolina’s, her mother was always in some state of inebriation. Her speech was slurred, her balance unsteady. It was an embarrassment to Karolina and because of that, I rarely visited.
“Karolina had a dog, a white French poodle with pink paws that she loved with all her heart. She got it when she was in the eighth grade. Karolina and I were coming home from school one day and we passed a yard where a boy was giving away puppies. ‘My mom won’t let me keep them all,’ he said, pointing to a box with nine little white dogs. ‘If you want one, you could have one.’ At first, Karolina’s father wouldn’t let her keep it, but seeing her so disheartened, he relented, providing she took care of it and worked to buy the dog food.
“Because it was a French poodle, Karolina named her Madeleine. With her father and mother essentially in absentia, Madeleine was Karolina’s anchor. In her almost daily visits to our home, Madeleine would tag along. At first my parents weren’t thrilled, but Milosz loved that dog, and Madeleine loved Milosz. He would sit on the floor and play with Madeleine and giggle so hard it would make all of us laugh. Milosz even taught her tricks. So, Madeleine became another member of our family.
“My father had three brothers. One lived in Warsaw, one in Kraków and one in Berlin. They were all successful. My father traveled to Berlin quite often on business or to spend time with his oldest brother. He took me there twice. I don’t remember much about Berlin except my Uncle Samuel had a very large house with a beautiful garden.
“I do remember in 1933 my father returned from Berlin to tell us that the Hitlerites were burning Jewish books in bonfires. I was only eight years old and I asked him, ‘Why would they burn Jewish books? If they didn’t like them they didn’t have to read them.’ He told me that was a very good point.
“As Germany descended into abomination, he traveled less and less to Berlin, and only when absolutely necessary for business. Two years later, in December 1935, he told us that Uncle Samuel was moving to America. The Nuremberg Laws had stripped Jews of their professional licenses and my uncle was a respected pediatrician and a professor at the medical school. The Nuremberg Laws forbid him from treating anyone but Jewish children and prohibited him from teaching at the school. He wisely decided it was time to leave and he left for New York.
“Finally, in 1938, my father made his last trip to Berlin. It was two weeks before Kristallnacht. About that time we started to feel tensions forming in Chrzanów’s once-tolerant society. Nazi propaganda filtered into Poland and anti-Semitism was gaining a foothold throughout the country. When commuting to the Gymnasium, I remember people on the train pointing at us, holding their noses and chanting, ‘I smell garlic.’
“Because Chrzanów was close to the German and Czechoslovakian borders, refugees fleeing Silesia and parts of Germany would come through Chrzanów on their way east, wheeling their worldly belongings in carts and wagons. Before the war began, Jews were free to emigrate from Germany under the condition that they leave most of their belongings behind and pay a stiff emigration tax. From these refugees we would hear about Germany’s persecution.
“As the war approached and the German rhetoric heightened, our town became keenly aware of the impending storm clouds. Polish troops were bivouacked in our area. In fact, they were stationed in the redbrick army barracks at the fort in Oświęcim, twenty kilometers down the road. I don’t have to tell you, those were the very same barracks that would later hold thousands of Jewish prisoners when the name was changed to Auschwitz. My father was no fool. He anticipated the worst. It was time for us to leave.
“I remember the night in December 1938 when my father sat the family down at the dining room table and said, ‘Hannah, the Nazis are coming, make no mistake. They took over Austria in March, they annexed half of Czechoslovakia in September and they’ll be here whenever they feel like it. There’ll be no stopping them. And they’ve made their intentions for our people well known. Last month, on Kristallnacht, the Nazis destroyed a thousand synagogues and thousands of Jewish businesses throughout Germany, Austria, East Prussia and the Sudetenland. Thirty thousand Jews were arrested and most of them were sent to the Buchenwald prison. Germany will only release them if they can prove they have the means to emigrate.
“‘They want us out of Europe, Hannah. Not just Germany, but all of Europe. All of us. Men like me, respected Jewish officers in the German army who served their country with distinction, have been stripped of our rank and even citizenship. We need to face facts. We can’t stay here in Chrzanów. I’m going to make the arrangements.’”
“Did your mother object?”
Lena smiled. “She protested gently. Times were different then. He was the head of the family. If the father made plans, then the family followed. My mother’s family had lived in the region for generations. They’d founded the provisions store eighty years earlier. It was hard for her to leave. How could she ever live somewhere else?
“‘Where do we go?’ she said. ‘America, like Samuel? He ended up in Chicago. They have gangsters there, Jacob. Al Capone. I don’t think I’d like that. It’s too dangerous for the children.’
“My father chuckled. ‘Al Capone’s in jail.’
“‘It’s still too dangerous in Chicago. They have other gangsters.’
“‘I’m not thinking about Chicago, Hannah. I want to move us to Paris. They have a very solid Jewish community, two hundred fifty thousand. I know prominent people there. There’s a grocery store I can buy, I’ve contacted the owner. We can sell the house and the provisions store and use the money to move to France.’
“I was distraught, of course. Devastated was more like it. Fifteen years old, and like my mother, Poland was all I knew. I certainly didn’t want to live in Paris. Or Chicago. I didn’t speak a word of French or English. German was my second language. It was taught in all the schools.
“Most of all, I didn’t want to leave Karolina or any of my friends. By then, Karolina and I had become very close. I’d be lost without her. With Karolina, I was part of a larger, more dynamic group. Our crowd was so much fun, and I was included because of Karolina. We were the best of friends. Inseparable. I’d be a nobody in Paris.
“One afternoon, my father took me for a soda. Just the two of us. ‘I know this is going to be hard on you, Lena. And it will be even harder for Milosz. But I have to do what’s best for us, and staying in Chrzanów is too dangerous. I found a lovely apartment for us in Paris—in the 12th Arrondissement, just south of the Jardin du Luxembourg. I promise you will find it enchanting. I found a store for sale that we can buy. In time, if things get better in Chrzanów, we can always return. But you may grow fond of Paris.’
“‘What about Magda?’ I said.
“He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to leave Magda here. Truth is, I can barely afford to keep her as it is, but I haven’t had the heart to let her go.’
“‘What about Karolina?’
“‘I’m sorry, but you’ll make new friends and maybe someday Karolina can visit.’ That was totally unacceptable to me and I ran home to my room. He came up a few minutes later and sat on my bed. ‘I’m sorry to make you sad, but I have to do what’s best for all of us. Please try to understand.’
“‘Can Karolina come and live with us in Paris?’
“‘Well, I doubt her parents would approve.’
“‘They don’t care. Her father is mean to her and lives in Warsaw most of the time. Her mother is drunk all the time. What if they say it’s okay?’
“To my surprise, he nodded his head. ‘If her parents will give her permission, I’ll take her with us. Don’t say anything yet. Before we can leave Chrzanów, I have to sell the store and the house. It could take a while. When I get an offer, and I know for certain that we’ll be going, then you can tell Karolina and see if her parents will let her come along.’ I hugged him to death. What a great father.
“There weren’t many who could afford to buy a house and a store during the Depression. Our store was quite profitable and thus pricey for a small-town business. But by February 1939, my father had obtained a signed contract from a Warsaw investment group and we were packing to move.”
“And Karolina?”
“Of course I had already spilled the news to Karolina right after my father and I had our talk, but she hadn’t asked her parents yet. She went home that night and asked her mother, who, shockingly, approved. But when her father came home that weekend, he put his foot down. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘It’s all crap, this war hysteria. Just a bunch of German blowhards. The Scheinmans are Polish. They’re not going to like those stuck-up Parisians, Karolina. They’ll be back soon. Things will be better then.’
“Karolina was heartbroken. We were heartbroken. She was part of our family. My mother called us the Two Ls—Lena and Lina. I was losing my best friend. Karolina kept begging her father. All around us, our social circles were disintegrating. Families were making plans to move. Some just packed up and headed east to Ukraine or Romania. Some went south to Slovakia. Every day another one of our friends would say good-bye. But Karolina’s father wouldn’t change his mind.
“Of course, as he pointed out, not every family was moving. Some were in denial and foolishly believed in Poland’s military defenses or the alliances with Britain and France. Some had no money and no way to leave. Karolina’s father had decided his family would stay in Chrzanów. He was saving his money in Warsaw and he intended to come back and reopen his tailor shop.
“I cried. Milosz cried. I didn’t know who he’d miss more: Karolina or Madeleine. But Karolina and I made a secret pact. As soon as I was settled in Paris, she was going to run away, take a train and join us. I was going to send her the money. Milosz overheard us and threatened to tell our parents if she didn’t promise to bring Madeleine, but I don’t think that thought ever entered her mind. She wouldn’t go anywhere without her dog.”
“But your family never did move to Paris, did they?”
Lena slowly shook her head. “Sadly, no. The buyers, the Warsaw consortium, couldn’t raise the money. Because of the Depression and the impending threats from Germany, the bank wouldn’t consummate the loan. The buyers begged us for time to raise the money and pleaded with my father not to sell to someone else. But there was no one else. It was now June 1939. My father couldn’t move without the sale proceeds. So we waited. And hoped.
“On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland. Seventy thousand Poles were killed and almost seven hundred thousand were taken into custody. At six A.M., Stukas strafed the nearby railroad station. We heard radio broadcasts of German bombings and we knew that our plans to move were off the table. In retrospect, it probably wouldn’t have mattered if we had moved to Paris. Hitler invaded France the following May, and Paris fell on June fourteenth. I doubt our fate would have been much different in Paris. Anyway, three days later, on September fourth, German trucks rolled into Chrzanów and soldiers occupied our town without a fight.
“The Nazis settled in like the deep winter snow and just as cold. And they never left. Their numbers seemed to increase every day. The SS and Gestapo didn’t arrive until a little later, but the German army was bad enough. The first thing they did was to take prisoners. Men only. They arrested Jews and non-Jews alike.
“Soldiers came into the store in the late afternoon and pulled my father out from behind the register. The more prominent you were, the more likely you’d be taken. If you hesitated, they shot you. One older man named Chaim, who was hard of hearing, failed to immediately follow a command to halt and was shot dead in the middle of the street.
“The Germans locked the Jewish men in the synagogue and the Catholic men in the church. The overflow was locked in the city administration building. They roughed people up and interrogated them, but there were no mass executions. They just kept everyone prisoner overnight. The next day they announced their new rules and let all the prisoners go home. The message was clear: we are in charge and we can do whatever we want. Don’t buck the order. Follow the rules. Then you will live.
“The Nazis set up their command post at city hall and demanded a census. I’m certain you heard the same story from Ben. They wrote down the names of everyone in town, every member of the family, and where they lived. At that time they didn’t ask if you were Jewish, or a Communist, or a Roma. That all came later. Their immediate goal was to drive home a point—they were superior, we were inferior and they had a license to be cruel. They could and did act without constraint—legal, moral or otherwise.
“The Germans posted lists of their new rules all over town. All stores were required to stay open every day, even on the Sabbath. No one was permitted to leave town without a permit. Permits were not issued. A curfew was established at sundown for all residents. Anyone out after curfew was subject to summary execution. All radios were to be turned in immediately. Anyone caught with a radio would be executed. Our radio was a large console model. We carried it to the curb, and they came by and demolished it with a sledgehammer. Then we cleaned up the mess. On September fourteenth, Erev Rosh Hashanah, uniformed soldiers surrounded the synagogues and ordered them shut.
“Ration coupon cards were issued to Jews and non-Jews alike. Of course, that didn’t mean there was food to buy. From the moment the Germans rolled into town, there was a severe food shortage—they took it all. They cleaned out the shelves at the markets and the bakeries. They requisitioned most of the production of the surrounding farms. Lines for food formed early at the butcher shop, the bakery, the grocery store. A long wait at the butcher, if successful, might yield six ounces of some portion of a cow or maybe nothing.
“Polish signs on public buildings were taken down and replaced with German signs. Street names were changed from Polish to German and renamed for German heroes or replaced by the German phonetic name. In 1941, they changed the name of our town from Chrzanów to Krenau.
“Those were the written rules. The unwritten rules were driven home by experience. Get off the sidewalk if you see a German coming. You better not be in his way, even if it means stepping into a puddle. If a man walks in public with a yarmulke on, a Nazi is sure to take it off and force the man use it to polish his jackboots. And don’t make eye contact. It’s considered provocative. For girls, we know to go out in groups or not at all. Even in the hot weather, girls are smart to cover up.
“The city became red and black with Nazi flags. They were hung from all the city buildings. Swastikas were everywhere. And so were the Germans. On every block, at every corner. I know that Ben must have told you all about the horrors of life during the occupation.”
Catherine nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid he did.”
“The Germans levied a tax upon the Jews. The professed purpose was to pay for the German administration of our town. After all, how could the Nazis be expected to pay for their own conquest? Obviously, the real object was to impoverish the Jews. To that end, Jewish men were conscripted and ordered to go door-to-door to collect the taxes in paper bags. Woe be to the family that did not pay.
“Within months Germany annexed Chrzanów and the Polish towns to our west—Chełmek, Trzebinia, Libi�
ż. We were now located inside Germany and were no longer part of the Republic of Poland, but of course we were not German citizens. We were Jews and Jews cannot be citizens. Krenau was now a German town. Poles in our town who could prove some German origin or ethnicity, the Volksdeutsche, could become Germanized, and thus privileged.
“I’m sorry to say that many of the Volksdeutsche took to it like a duck to water. They immediately became superior to us and would enthusiastically shoot their arms up in a Seig Heil salute to the German soldiers. The Volksdeutsche strived to ingratiate themselves and would point out Jews to the Gestapo. They would gleefully run to report any infraction of the rules. I remember Mrs. Czeskowicz, an unassertive, spineless widow who became Germanized, running full speed to find a German soldier to report little Tomas Resky for walking through the park.”
Catherine wrinkled her brow in a confused look.
“He was a Jewish boy and Jews were prohibited from using public parks. Mrs. Czeskowicz caught him cutting through the park on his way home and turned him in. He was only twelve, but that didn’t stop the Nazis from giving him a beating. And Mrs. Czeskowicz stayed to watch.
“Our currency, Polish zlotys, was officially abolished and could no longer be used in any stores. The new currency was the German mark. We were allowed to exchange zlotys for German marks—two zlotys would get you one mark, though it was counterproductive to make the exchange, because you would be telling the Germans that you had money and they’d come and get it.
“I was fifteen in 1939. For my friends and me, we viewed the occupation through a teenager’s eyes—how did it affect our lives? How much were our social and educational lives disrupted? As I already told you, the first thing that happened to me was the change in my education—the Gymnasium was closed. Not that it would have mattered if it stayed open—taking the train to Kraków was out of the question. Passage on the trains was forbidden without a passport.
“My father immediately enrolled me in the Chrzanów public high school. To tell you the truth, at the time, it didn’t seem so bad. I was reunited with Karolina and most of my friends. My social group was back in business. Unfortunately, that only lasted until October 30, 1939. That was the day all secondary schools in Poland were closed. Our high school was requisitioned by the Germans to serve as an arms depot. All of the maps, equipment, books—the entire library of over six thousand volumes—were destroyed by the Germans.
“The grade schools were still open, but after they took the Jewish census, all Jewish students were barred from attending. Jews in Chrzanów were identified and issued white armbands with blue stars to wear on our left arms. How did they know who were Jews? Because, as I mentioned, there were Poles who, in an attempt to curry the favor of the Germans, would take them around town, pointing and yelling ‘Jude.’
“Germans issued new regulations for Polish education. Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler, who you may remember as the architect of the Holocaust, set the new rules. Since the non-Jewish Poles were destined to become subservient slave labor for the Germans in the General Government, there was no need to waste time and money educating them. Himmler said Poles should learn only simple arithmetic, up to five hundred, and the writing of one’s name. He said, ‘I don’t think reading is necessary.’
“I remember the winter morning they closed the grade school to the Jewish children. I had taken Milosz to school and when we arrived, we saw German soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder at the schoolhouse door, their rifles pointed at the children. They had lists of the students. One of the soldiers with a clipboard addressed us. ‘What is your name?’
“‘Milosz Scheinman,’ I responded. He looked at his list and checked off his name. ‘Take him home. He is a Jew. He is terminated from the school. Do not bring him back or your parents will be arrested.’
“In response to the school closures, our Jewish community established classes at the synagogue, but that didn’t last either. Harassment of students coming to and from school was so pervasive, the classes had to be abandoned. So, Karolina and I ended up studying at home with books my father obtained. My mother was a tough teacher. She made sure we kept regular school hours and did our homework.
“She also enforced the curfew hours, which, of all the restrictions, were the toughest for me because it meant alienation from my friends. She was insistent. ‘The Germans would like nothing better than to arrest and abuse young girls. Stay off the streets unless absolutely necessary, and never after curfew.’ But we were teenagers and when did teenagers ever listen to their parents?
“As the days grew shorter, the opportunities to socialize became fewer and more difficult for us. Curfew would begin as early as four-thirty. One evening, just after I had turned fifteen, I snuck out the back door, met Karolina and went to Freda’s house. There we joined all our friends in her basement for a wild party. There was music from a phonograph, lots of boys and even beer.” Lena bit her bottom lip in a mischievous gesture. “That was a bad mistake on my part. When I came home, my mother was furious.
“‘Where have you been? Are you crazy? Do you know that people are being shot for violating curfew?’
“Because I was emboldened by a glass or two of beer, when my mother scolded me, I shrugged my shoulders and smiled with an air of disobedience, which enraged my mother. She hauled off and slapped me across my face as hard as she could. The only time in my life. And she grounded me for a month. No going out, and Karolina could not come over. Except for dinner and chores, I had to stay in my room. She ultimately relented on Karolina because she felt sorry for her, but she kept us apart for the month.
“In the spring of 1940, I came downstairs to see my father and some other men talking in our living room. They said something about a large prison camp being built just southwest of town. One of the men said the Nazis were requisitioning workers to expand the former Polish army camp at Oświęcim. By then, the name had been changed to Auschwitz, which is the German pronunciation for Oświęcim.
“When the men left, I asked my father about it. He thought deeply for a few moments, and then said, ‘You’re old enough and you’ll know soon enough. Come with me.’ He took me into his study and shut the door.
“‘Lena, what I’m about to tell you is private information, just between you and me, not to be repeated to anyone. Do we agree?’
“I nodded calmly, but his demeanor was frightening me.
“‘Those men who met with me, do you know them?’
“I shook my head. ‘Only Mr. Osteen, the math teacher.’
“‘Good,’ he said. ‘Forget they were ever here. Do not tell anyone that I met with those men. There may be more meetings in our home, or I may have to leave to go to meetings, and you are never to tell anyone about any of it. Do you understand? Do I have your promise?’
“I nodded. ‘I promise.’ On the one hand I was scared, but on the other hand I was proud to be taken into my father’s confidence. ‘I heard someone talk about working at a prison camp at Oświęcim,’ I confessed in a whisper.
“My father cursed under his breath. ‘Lena, if you haven’t already, you will see German soldiers grabbing men from our town, supposedly for work details. They send them away for a day, sometimes several days. We know that some of them are sent to Oświęcim where the Germans are building a very large prisoner-of-war camp to house thousands of Poles.’
“‘Will they take you for work detail?’
“‘I hope not, but who knows? They might. Most of the men come home at night.’
“‘But not all?’
“‘Not all.’
“‘Why were you and the other men talking about it?’
“He smiled and patted me on the head. ‘You know more than you should. Now remember, this is our secret. Not a word to anyone.’”
“So your dad knew about Auschwitz from the beginning?” Catherine said.
“Well, the prison at Auschwitz was never a secret. People would work at the camp and come back to Chrzanów. They would talk about what they had done. At that time, Auschwitz didn’t have gas chambers, crematoriums or mass extermination sites, it was a barbed-wire-encircled prison camp. In June 1940, the camp became operational. It housed Polish prisoners of war—soldiers, dissidents and the intelligentsia—who were transported from other jails and prisons that were overflowing. They were kept in cellblocks. Block 11 was a notorious building used by the Gestapo for torture.
“Actually, from the onset, Auschwitz was a place of abuse and summary executions. It was enlarged the following March to hold thirty thousand prisoners. I didn’t know in 1940 why my father and the others were meeting to discuss Auschwitz, although I had my suspicions. I only surmised that my father was part of an informal resistance group.
“Later that year, the Germans began to requisition houses all over town. They gave notice, usually not more than a few days, that the Reich was taking possession of the house. Families were forced to vacate and relocate to other living quarters. The house was then handed over to Wehrmacht officers, SS, Gestapo or Polish collaborators. We knew it wouldn’t be long until they expropriated our home as well. It was one of the nicer ones in town and centrally located.”
“Where were displaced people supposed to go?” Catherine asked. “Had the Germans established alternative quarters for Chrzanów? A Jewish ghetto?”
“Hmph. What did the Germans care? Nothing had been established as of that time. There was a ghetto, but it was de facto. Chrzanów’s displaced Jews started to congregate in the northeast section. The buildings were old—both commercial and residential—many were vacant, and rooms were available for small amounts of money. Or no money. Squatting became an accepted form of tenancy. So the northeast area became the unofficial Chrzanów ghetto. Later, it became the designated, mandatory Jewish ghetto. But, for whatever reason, our house wasn’t taken until several months later.
“Almost every day I’d see a family pushing a cart or a wagon up the residential streets toward the ghetto. The carts were overloaded with as many of their belongings as they could fit in or on the cart, usually bundled up in blankets and sheets and tied together. Clothes, shoes, bedding, pots and pans. Children would walk alongside the carts with suitcases. They took whatever they could, because they knew they could not return to their home. Sometimes they took pieces of furniture and piled them on top of the cart, but more often, if the Germans were requisitioning a home, they’d require the owners to leave their furnishings behind.
“As 1941 began, the Germans really tightened the vise. They declared that most of the stores were Für Juden verboten, off-limits to Jews. Our store was forfeited to a German owner, though my father was appointed to run it for a small stipend. Jewish ration cards were no longer valid to purchase clothes.
“Food became scarce, not because we couldn’t afford it—my father had stashed away a bit of cash and jewelry—but because it simply wasn’t available. Each month, the Nazis issued the family a Lebbensmittelkarte. Food card. The card was divided into sections. Each coupon was dated and designated with what you could buy on that day. For example, in the month of November there were fifteen bread coupons. You could stand in line for bread every other day. If the bakery still had bread. There were only four coupons on the card for meat. Only four for marmalade. Only four days on which you could buy sugar, if you got there early and if the store still had it in stock. So if the store was out of sugar, you had to wait until next week, when the next coupon would be valid.
“Our food cards bore a Jewish star in the middle and read ‘Für Juden.’ They had to be signed by the family and were not transferable. If a card was lost, there was no replacement.
“At first, Magda would go to the stores and stand in line for our rations, but soon the Germans forbid her from working for us or from standing in line with our card. Since Christians were not allowed to work for Jews, Magda had to leave our house. It broke our hearts and hers as well. She was like a second mother to us.
“As difficult as the Germans had made our lives, another crushing, heartbreaking event occurred that November. I was home reading when Karolina burst into the house in a state of hysteria. ‘Madeleine,’ she wailed. ‘They want to take my Madeleine.’ My mother nodded. She had heard the news. Jews were ordered to turn in all pets. We were given two days.
“Karolina was inconsolable. She sat with Madeleine, hugging her and kissing her. ‘I won’t give them Madeleine. I’ll run away. They’re not going to take my dog. She’s my baby.’ My mother put her comforting arms around her. She knew that in Karolina’s world, with a drunken mother and an absent father, the love of that dog was all she had.
“‘You can’t run away, there’s no place to go,’ my mother said gently. ‘Let me talk to the Captain. Maybe he’ll have an idea.’ Karolina nodded and sat rocking with her dog, sobbing continuously until my father came home.
“He pulled up a chair, leaned over with his elbows on his knees and listened. He knew how important Madeleine was to Karolina. And to Milosz. He also knew there were times to make a stand and times to give in.
“‘Let me talk to a couple of farmers,’ he said. ‘They might take Madeleine for a while until the Germans leave. Would that be all right?’ Karolina threw her arms around my father’s neck, thanking him profusely.
“But he couldn’t do it. None of the families wanted to risk violating a Nazi order just to save a dog. Sadly, he told Karolina that he’d had no success. She’d have to give up Madeleine. He said he’d accompany her to the town square the next day.
“She stood defiantly. Her eyes were wide with anger. I’d never seen her like that. ‘I will not give my dog to the Nazis. She’s my dog. She’s a sweet little dog, she never hurt anybody. Why do they want to take her? I won’t let them. They can’t have her. I’m going to disobey that evil order. They can kill me if they want to, and we’ll die together.’
“My father shook his head. ‘I can’t let you do that. You’re too precious to us.’
“‘But they’ll kill Madeleine. For no reason.’
“‘Yes, I’m afraid they will,’ he answered softly. ‘We’ve had to give up many of our beloved possessions. But they’re possessions. Remember this—our lives are more valuable than any possession. We must preserve our lives and the lives of our family. They can have our possessions, they cannot have our lives. We can give up a radio, a fur coat, even a beloved pet, as long as we protect our family. And you, Karolina, are family to us.’
“‘I won’t let them. I’ll take her to the country, to the edge of town, to wherever I can and let her loose.’
“Again, my father shook his head. ‘She won’t survive on her own. She’s domesticated. She’ll just lie down and wait for you to come back and feed her. It might be more merciful to give her to the Germans.’
“Karolina stomped her foot. ‘You don’t know that. She might survive. Someone might find her and love her. She could find things to eat. Maybe a bird, maybe a mouse. I’d just as soon throw her in a field as let the Nazis kill her.’
“In a surprise move, my father said, ‘You’re right. Someone might find her. But you can’t be the one to take her, she’ll just follow you home. I’ll take her.’
“‘Really? You wouldn’t lie to me?’
“My father took her in his arms and said, ‘Karolina, I would never lie to you. I’ll take Madeleine to the edge of town tonight, into the country as far as I can, and we’ll let God take care of her from there.’
“And that’s what happened. That night, my father put the leash on Madeleine, and Karolina said good-bye to her.
“‘You find a nice family,’ she said, kneeling on the floor, hugging Madeleine, Madeleine licking her face. ‘Another family will love you and treat you well. You’re tough, Madeleine, you’ll make it. After the Germans leave, I’ll find you, wherever you are. I’ll come back and find you, I promise.’ With that, my father left the house and did not return for several hours.
“Karolina wailed from the bottom of her soul. My mother rocked with her. We all wept with her. Taking a pet from a child could serve no purpose other than to impose heartless cruelty. Little did we know of the cruelty that was to come.
“New rules came down every day and more restrictions were imposed. Still, we survived. We adapted. We would wait it out. We held tight to the belief that soon the world would crush the Germans and they would leave. But that all changed for us in 1941.
“Throughout the occupation, my father had been outwardly compliant with the German standing orders, while secretly continuing to meet with his resistance group. It was dangerous to be a dissident. It was a standing invitation to an execution. Any talk of insubordination was punishable by death, and rewards were given to Polish informants. Yet, Polish partisans were passionate people. Do not think all Jews were lambs to the slaughter. There were cells—covert meetings in basements where plans to disrupt the Germans were discussed. My father was a respected army officer and his contributions were valued.
“In Chrzanów, however, the web of secrecy was too porous. Ultimately, the Germans, with their slinking intelligence units and frightened collaborators, uncovered groups of dissenters and the Nazis quickly apprehended them, one by one. Many times they were taken to the town square and publicly hanged from wooden gallows. Other times they were sent away to unknown destinations. My father had friends in town, Jews and non-Jews alike. And so, when his time came, he received a warning note—the Nazis were on their way to pick him up.
“It was early afternoon. March 12, 1941—the precise date has been permanently etched in my memory. My father rushed into the house, pulled me aside and said, ‘I’ve been told the Germans will be here later today. They’re coming here to question me. They may take me down to headquarters and then let me go. In a worst-case scenario, they may not let me come home. I could be sent to a prison camp. You should be prepared for that.’
“‘Why?’ I said. Suddenly I was shaking, my lips were quivering, my eyes were starting to fill. ‘Why would they take you?’
“‘Rumor? Innuendo? A traitor among us? I don’t believe they have any evidence of wrongdoing, but that’s never stopped the Nazis. I don’t think they’ll bother the rest of our family, but they might. They may want to take us all in for questioning. Just remember, you don’t know anything and you never saw anybody.’
“‘Daddy,’ I cried.
“‘Lena, they may just be coming to tell us that we have to move from our house. They’re telling people all over Chrzanów. I don’t know. No one knows. That’s why everyone’s constantly afraid, because they’re unpredictable. Like a coiled snake.’
“He put his hands on my shoulders. ‘They might just want to relocate our family. But I can’t be sure. It could be worse.’ He handed me an envelope full of money. ‘You’re young and strong and healthy. When they come, I don’t want you anywhere near us. Go upstairs into the attic and shut the trapdoor. Do not use the ladder. Do not make a sound. If they’re here to take the family, you stay up there. Even if they shout. Do not come down until you’re sure it’s safe. Maybe late at night. Maybe not even until tomorrow.
“‘They know who’s in our family and they might search for you. When it’s safe to come down, go directly to the Tarnowskis’ farm, out Slaska Street, west of town. About ten kilometers. I’ve made arrangements with the Tarnowskis. They’ll take you in and hide you.’”
“So, your father thought the whole family might be arrested and sent to a camp?” Catherine said.
“Or worse. But by 1941, it was also possible for me to get sent to a labor camp, independent of my father’s activities. By then, the Nazis had been demanding young men and women to send to slave labor camps. There were whole industries staffed by Jewish slave labor. Being seventeen, I was old enough to be chosen.
“Demands for Jewish workers were generally filled through the Judenrat. We were required to check the board every day. If the Judenrat posted your name for work, you had to appear at the given time and place, most often the town square, first thing in the morning. If you didn’t show up, the Nazis would search for you. If they found you, they’d kill you. Then they’d take five other members of your family. If they didn’t find you, they’d grab twenty other people at random. There was no mercy. No pleading.
“A few weeks before, the Nazis had rolled through town, screaming through their megaphones, ‘Alle Juden auf den Marktplatz. Schnell. Macht schnell.’ Thousands of us, men, women and children, gathered in the rain in the market square. In the middle, wooden gallows had been constructed. Four Jewish men stood on stools, yarmulkes on their heads, ropes around their necks, their hands tied behind their backs, waiting to die. They softly chanted the Shema, which was fine with the Nazis. People that chanted the Shema died, and everyone should know that it doesn’t matter what you chant, you will still die. They stood that way for two hours. Then an SS commandant strode to the center and raised his megaphone.
“‘These men have been tried and convicted of willfully violating the law.’ He turned to the men and pointed. ‘This one gave money to a Polish woman to buy him fruit in blatant violation of the ration laws. Verboten! This one was found listening to a radio hidden in his basement. Verboten! This one was convicted of plotting insurrection against the Reich. This one refused to report for work.’
“Then he turned to face the crowd. ‘Do not think our rules are mere suggestions. They are mandatory! They are to be obeyed without question. We told you violations would be dealt with harshly. Now you will all witness what happens when you choose to violate the law.’ He raised his arm and walked away. One by one, the stools were kicked out from under the prisoners.”
“And you saw it happen?” Liam said.
Lena nodded. “That, I did. And heard it. And felt it.”
“How awful,” Catherine said, and placed her hand over her mouth.
“Seven more were hung in the same fashion in 1942. Although I have not seen it, a monument to the seven martyrs has now been erected in Chrzanów.
“When my father gave me my instructions to hide in the attic and go to the Tarnowskis, I protested and I cried. I didn’t want my family going anywhere without me. I didn’t know the Tarnowskis. I’d seen them in town, but only on occasion. Mr. Tarnowski was a gruff old man. He frightened me. They were not Jewish, nor did they have any young children. I knew that the store had carried their account for months when they couldn’t pay. I could well imagine that this was their way of paying my father for their overdue loan, but I was wrong. I later learned that it wasn’t a monetary obligation to them. They were Righteous Gentiles, and they made that offer to my father out of the goodness of their hearts.
“‘What about Milosz?’ I said to my father. ‘Will he stay with me in the attic?’
“He shook his head. ‘No.’
“‘I can take care of him,’ I protested. ‘He can hide with me.’ My father brushed away a tear, cupped my face and kissed me on the forehead. ‘My angel, always looking out for your little brother. But Milosz cannot climb up into the attic and he cannot make his way to the Tarnowskis. He will stay with your mother.’
“‘I can lift him into the attic, I can push his Maserati to the Tarnowskis. I’m strong. We can make it, I promise.’
“My father’s eyes glistened and he hugged me so firmly I thought he’d squeeze the air out of me. ‘I am so blessed to have such a wonderful family. Milosz cannot make it in or out of the attic, and you cannot push his Maserati into the countryside. It would only mean that the two of you would be caught.’
“He smiled so gently. ‘It may be that the Germans only want to talk to me. They may not disturb your mother or Milosz. But if they do, if they decide to take them somewhere, I have made arrangements for you to be safe. Hide. Then go to the Tarnowskis, and may God be with you.’
“No sooner had he finished his sentence than we heard the squeal of tires outside the house. ‘Go!’ he commanded, and I scrambled into the attic.”