On the main streets of Warsaw, traffic moved mostly in only one direction—toward Vilna. Convoys of civilians, most of them Jews, in trucks and cars, on bikes and in horse-drawn carts, made their way to the safe city, protected for now from the war. The refugees looked worried. They were leaving friends and family, all their property, unsure of what was in store for them.
The Stolowitzky car crawled along. Emil honked the horn in vain to clear the street. Three hours after they had left Warsaw, the Cadillac had managed only to leave the suburbs, as traffic was also moving slowly on the narrow village roads.
Two farmers came to the window of the car selling apples.
“I want an apple,” said Michael.
“Stop a moment,” Lydia instructed Emil. Reluctantly, the chauffeur stopped. Lydia opened her purse and searched for money. At that moment, one of the farmers pulled out a knife and pointed it at her.
“Give me the purse,” he growled.
Emil pressed the accelerator and tried to speed up, but the man clung to the window. One hand held the window door and the other went on waving the knife. Michael burst out crying.
Lydia clutched her purse to her chest. There was a loaded gun in it.
The knife came close to her face, scratching and threatening. Trembling with fear, Lydia pulled out the gun and pointed it at the man’s face. He let go of the door and yelled for his companion. The two of them approached the slow-moving car as those inside the car looked at the two of them with dread.
“Give me the gun!” ordered Emil.
Lydia gave it to him.
The two farmers were now hanging on both sides of the car. A second knife suddenly popped up in the hand of the other farmer.
Emil stopped. He pointed the gun coolly at one of the farmers. “No, no,” pleaded the man. But Emil pulled the trigger. He then shot the second farmer.
The two men collapsed in puddles of blood. None of the many refugees marching on the side of the road paid any attention to them.
Emil put the gun down next to him and went on driving as if nothing had happened. Lydia burst out crying.
“How could you be so cruel?” she shouted at Emil.
“This is war,” he grumbled. “In war, there is no pity. If you don’t kill, you get killed.”
On the side of the road, people walked along silently, carrying suitcases and bags stuffed with personal belongings. An elderly man with white hair was walking among then slowly, a small suitcase in his hand. He looked up at the car, his eyes met Lydia’s, and she recognized him immediately. He had worked as an accountant in her husband’s office in Warsaw for more than twenty years. He was a childless widower who devoted most of his time to work. Jacob Stolowitzky appreciated his devotion and personal honesty.
“Stop the car and take him,” Lydia called to Emil.
The chauffeur twisted his mouth reluctantly. “It will be crowded,” he warned.
“Take him!” ordered the woman.
Emil stopped next to the man.
“We’re going to Vilna,” said Lydia. “If you like, you can come with us.”
He smiled gladly. “Thank you,” he said, and squeezed into the seat next to Emil.
On the outskirts of Vilna, a big traffic jam snaked along the border patrol checkpoint. The car advanced slowly. Lydia looked at the city in the distance. She didn’t know Vilna, but she was sure she could get along there. She had enough money to support them for a while.
“I’ve got the address of an apartment to rent,” said the accountant, as if he had been reading her mind. “I thought of living there, but you need an apartment more than I do. I’ll get along somewhere else.”
He gave her a note with an address.
It was late afternoon when they crossed the checkpoint, and it had started raining. Passersby hurried on their way without even a glance at the procession of refugees from Warsaw. They were used to seeing such long lines every day since the war began.
The Cadillac drove through the narrow streets. Lydia asked Emil to take them to the apartment for rent. Emil drove for a while in silence and suddenly he turned into a deserted sidestreet and stopped.
“What is it?” Lydia was terrified.
Instead of answering, the chauffeur pulled out the gun and waved it at her.
“Get out of the car and leave everything here!” he lashed out.
Lydia froze in fear.
“What are you doing, Emil?” she cried. “Have you lost your mind?”
“You heard what I said,” he repeated coldly. “Now get out.”
Michael shrieked in panic and Gertruda clutched him to her breast.
“Get out!” shouted Emil. Lydia had never heard him raise his voice or seen him scowl as now.
They stayed in the car, hoping he’d change his mind.
But Emil started shouting again. “Get out!” he cried. “You’re wasting my time.”
The accountant in the front seat attacked Emil and tried to get the gun away from him. A shot was heard and the man was pushed back and slumped on the seat. A big bloodstain spread over his suit. Emil opened the door and kicked the man out. The old man lay dead on the street.
Emil’s eyes were crazy. He pointed the gun at his passengers. “The next bullet is for anyone who doesn’t get out!” he roared.
Lydia clutched her purse with her money and jewelry. Her face was as white as a ghost.
“How dare you do this to us,” she called out in a broken voice. “We always treated you so well, like a member of the family. We didn’t listen to the police when they suggested we fire you after the kidnapping attempt on Michael.”
Emil laughed. “You made a mistake,” he said.
“The police were right. The two kidnappers were friends of mine. All we tried to do was get a little money out of you. Too bad we didn’t succeed.”
“Bastard!” cried Lydia.
“Enough!” shouted Emil and grabbed the purse out of her hands.
“At least leave us a little money,” she pleaded. “Don’t let us starve to death.”
He shoved her out of the car. Gertruda and Michael followed. Emil turned the wheel and drove off.
They stood stunned in the darkening alley. Lydia leaned on the wall of a house. Her knees buckled as her world collapsed around her. Gertruda hugged Michael, whose body was shaking with weeping and dread.
“Why did he do that to us?” sobbed the child. “We loved him so much.”
“He went crazy,” said Gertruda softly. “Don’t be afraid. He’ll change his mind and come back to us.”
Lydia wrapped herself in her fur coat, the only valuable object she had left. A cold wind whipped her face.
“What shall we do?” she asked desperately.
“First of all, we have to find someplace to live,” Gertruda recovered.
“But we don’t have any money.”
“I’ve got a little bit,” said the nanny. “I hid a few zlotys in my stockings. Emil probably didn’t imagine I had any money.”
Lydia hugged her. “You’re our guardian angel,” she said.
They went back to the main street. The note with the address was lost. Gertruda knocked on doors and asked people if they had a room for rent. Some people didn’t even open the door. Others answered an impatient no. Two or three mentioned enormous sums for wretched holes.
It was night by the time an old woman was finally willing to rent them rooms in her house, at Mala Stefanska 6.
The landlady was a small, vigorous woman, with a hard face and disheveled silver hair. With her hands on her hips, her eyes and voice piercing, she yelled out to the women and child: “I hope you’re not Jews.”
“We’re not,” answered Gertruda.
“Where are you from?”
“Warsaw.”
“Why did you come to Vilna?”
“Food got very expensive because of the war, I didn’t have any work, we had no money left. We thought it would be better for us here.”
She said that her husband was a soldier in the Polish army and had fallen in battle. The woman questioned her about her husband to make sure she was telling the truth, set a rent, and demanded payment for a month in advance.
“I don’t have all the money now,” said Gertruda. “But I’ve got enough to pay you a portion. I hope I can start working soon and then I’ll pay you the whole sum.”
“What’s your profession?”
“I’m a teacher, but I’m healthy and am willing to do anything. I can be a nanny, a secretary. I know a few languages.”
The woman grimaced. “I don’t believe anybody’s interested in a teacher, a nanny, or a secretary these days.”
“And who’s that woman?” She pointed at Lydia, who had shriveled in a panic behind Gertruda’s back.
“That’s my cousin.”
The woman grumbled under her breath.
“You have to remember one thing,” she roared. “Anybody who lives in my house has to act modestly. You can’t entertain men here or come back home late at night. I want you to promise me that the child won’t make any noise. Clear?”
“Thank you,” said Gertruda, and she gave the woman the rent money.
The landlady led the tenants to the second floor and opened one of the doors. The apartment had two big rooms, furnished with old pieces. Attached to the ancient stove was a sooty chimney pipe that went through the wall over a dusty window. With gnarled hands, the woman kindled pieces of wood in the stove and the cold in the room quickly dissipated.
“You’re lucky,” she said. “In Vilna there aren’t any apartments left to rent.”
Michael disappeared into the other room and returned with a shout of joy, holding a toy car.
“That’s my grandson’s,” said the landlady.
“Can I play with the car?” asked Michael anxiously.
“Yes, but don’t break it.”
“Is there something to eat?” asked Michael. “I’m really hungry.”
Gertruda asked the old woman if she could sell them dinner.
“I’ve only got soup,” grumbled the landlady.
“Fine. We’ll have soup.”
The old woman brought a pot of potato soup and three plates and held out a hand for money.
They were hungry and devoured the meal. Afterward Gertruda made up the bed for Lydia and Michael. “I’ll sleep on the chair,” she said.
The night was cold and there were no more sticks for heating. Lydia and Michael slept in their clothes, wrapped in coats. Gertruda shivered with cold on her chair. In the morning, she bought tea and a few slices of bread from the old woman.
“Try to find the Geller family, our neighbors from Warsaw. They also fled to Vilna,” said Lydia. “They can probably help us.”
“I’ll look for them,” Gertruda promised.
She went to the city but quickly understood that the chances of locating the diamond dealer’s family were very slim. Thousands of refugees had come to Vilna and filled every empty apartment. Convoys of refugees continued to flow into the city nonstop. The railroad station was teeming with families who couldn’t find a place to rent. Many people were lying on the chilly floor with bundles of belongings, in despair.
For hours Gertruda wandered the streets, went into shops and restaurants, and asked for work without any luck. She sat down on a bench and considered her next step. There weren’t many possibilities. She needed work desperately and didn’t dare think what would happen if her money ran out before she found something.
Suddenly, she heard a car, looked up, and saw the Stolowitzky’s white Cadillac passing by. Her heart skipped a beat. For a moment she wondered what to do, and then she leaped up and ran after it. Traffic was heavy and the Cadillac moved slowly. Gertruda soon caught up with the car. She didn’t know what would happen when she met Emil, but she believed she could persuade him, tell him how miserable Lydia was, and convince him to give back at least part of the loot.
Her heart pounding, Gertruda approached the car. “Emil!” she called to the man behind the wheel. He turned his eyes to her. It wasn’t Emil.
“Excuse me,” she said, surprised. “This is our car.”
The man was about forty years old, ruddy, with a fur hat on his head.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growled. “I bought it this morning.”
“From whom?”
“Don’t bother me,” he grumbled. “It’s none of your business.”
He closed the window in her face and turned his head away.
So, she thought, Emil sold the car and is probably living the good life now with the money he got for it and with what he stole. She decided to keep the meeting with the new owner of the Cadillac to herself. She didn’t want Lydia to become even more depressed.
In the evening, after more vain efforts to find work, Gertruda returned to the house on Mala Stefanska. She was approaching the door when a young man came out of the adjacent house. Their eyes met and her mouth dropped open in amazement. She immediately recognized the doctor who had taken such good care of Michael after the accident on the trolley tracks.
“Dr. Berman!” she called. “What a coincidence.”
“You’re living here, too?” The doctor was amazed.
Gertruda told him what had happened to them and he shook his head with grief.
“The war turns men into monsters,” he said. “How will you get along?”
“I have no idea.”
“If there’s anything I can do for you?”
“At the moment, no. Thank you, anyway.”
He said that he and his family had come to Vilna a week before.
“The city is flooded with refugees,” he said. “People take whatever work they can find for pennies.”
“How long will this last?” asked Gertruda anxiously.
“God knows. How is Michael?”
“He’s fine, just a little scared.”
“We live on the second floor of number 8. My wife and I will be glad if you all come to dinner. It won’t be a royal feast, but you won’t go away hungry, I promise.”
For the first time since he had joined the Nazi Party, Karl Rink wasn’t so sure, wasn’t devoted so blindly to the party, or to the belief that only Hitler could lead Germany on the right path. Although he was proud to serve the party with all his might and didn’t hesitate to carry out the orders of his superiors in the destruction of Communists and members of other opposition groups, he had private reservations about SS methods, which seemed too extreme for him. Every single day he tried to find Mira, asked everybody he knew for whatever information they might have. In his heart he suspected that the SS had had a major role in his wife’s disappearance, but his companions and commanders kept lying as he struggled to find out what had happened to her. He asked to see lists of detainees and victims to be sure his wife’s name didn’t appear. Those who made the lists claimed they were forbidden to show them to anyone.
Helpless, Karl Rink returned to his empty house every evening and had a hard time deciding what to do. If he resigned from the SS, he knew he would be sent to the front immediately and his life would be in great danger. If he didn’t resign, he would have to carry out orders that went against his grain. From any angle, he seemed to be at a dead end.
In his long sleepless nights in the empty apartment, he missed his wife and daughter and was sorry he hadn’t taken Helga’s advice to leave Germany with their small family before it was too late. With a heavy heart, he returned to SS headquarters every morning and reluctantly carried out orders he was given, wanting to believe the war would end soon, along with the nightmare that haunted him.
One evening, Karl Rink was summoned to a special meeting in Reinhard Schreider’s apartment in eastern Berlin. The commander lived alone in a luxury apartment on the ground floor in the quarter populated by many Nazi supporters. Karl Rink attended the meeting along with a group of officers about to join the German forces in Poland. All those present knew that the missions in Poland were only the beginning. If they carried them out well, they would be promoted to functions in the European countries conquered by the Nazis.
The meeting in Schreider’s apartment seemed like a social event. Expensive wines and rare delicacies were served and the guests chatted animatedly until they were joined by a balding man of about forty with a swarthy face, in an SS officer’s uniform.
“Gentlemen, I am honored to introduce you to Hans Frank,” said Schreider.
The guest’s name was familiar to everyone in the room. Frank had served in the German army in World War I, was one of the founders of the Nazi Party, served as minister without portfolio in Hitler’s government, and was known as a die-hard anti-Semite.
“Today,” added Schreider, “Hans Frank was appointed General-gouverneur in Poland. You will all soon serve under his command.”
Frank spoke briefly. He said that he intended to impose law and order in Poland and mainly to take care of the Jews.
At those words, Karl Rink’s mind wondered painfully why he hadn’t resisted getting involved with the occupation force of Poland while there was still time. He looked at Hans Frank and knew he would support any and all kinds of torture of the Jews of Poland, and like all his colleagues, Karl would have to carry out the General-gouverneur’s orders. He could have found some pretext to stay in Berlin and devote his free time to searching for Mira. He wondered what had moved him to be silent when he was told of his impending departure for Poland: Was he afraid of being an exception again, as on Kristallnacht? Was he trying to demonstrate his devotion to the SS?
Frank thanked the guests for their attention, made a toast, and wished them luck. Six years later, the war crimes court in Nuremberg would condemn Frank to death by hanging after he was found guilty of sending tens of thousands of Jews to the death camps.
A few days passed and before they set out, Schreider said good-bye to his officers who were assigned to Poland. He shook Karl’s hand and wished him luck.
“Can I make a personal request?” asked Karl.
“As long as it’s brief,” said Schreider. “I’m very busy.”
“I want to know the truth about my wife.”
“Listen, Rink. You’re wasting your valuable time. Your Jewess must have run away from you. I always claimed that you can’t rely on the Jews. Say thank you that she’s not there.”
“I loved her, sir,” said Karl.
“The SS is your only love, all of ours,” Schreider replied, scolding him.
The conversation was over.
When he left Schreider’s office, Karl Rink met his friend, Kurt Baumer, the commander’s third in command. Baumer gave Karl passes for the train to Poland and to appear at German headquarters.
“I’ve got the impression,” said Karl sadly, “that the truth about my wife’s fate is being hidden from me.”
Baumer gave him a long look.
“Let me give you some advice,” he said. “Forget the whole thing. Nothing good will come of your attempts to find out where your wife is.”
Karl sensed that Baumer knew a lot more than he was willing to reveal. Nevertheless, he understood that he couldn’t get any real information from his friend about Mira’s fate.
They parted from each other with a sad handshake.
At dawn, Gertruda opened her eyes. The wooden logs she had bought with a portion of her last pennies had turned into gray ashes. The fire had gone out and she was shivering with cold. Lydia and Michael were sleeping on the bed, wrapped in their coats. Gertruda quietly went into the small kitchen, which contained a few pots, dishes, and an old aluminum kettle. The pantry was empty. She filled the kettle with tap water and put it on the electric hot plate in hopes that the steam would dissipate the chill in the apartment, if only a little bit.
She counted the few coins she had left and headed for the grocery store.
A heavyset man blocked her way in the staircase.
“You’re the new tenant?” he asked.
“Who are you?”
“The landlady’s brother.”
He moved closer to Gertruda and she could smell alcohol on his breath.
“Is there anything you need?” he asked. With a shudder of horror, she saw that his eyes were scanning her body.
“Not at the moment.”
“You need money? I can give you some.”
“No need,” she said. “I plan to start working. I’ll have money.”
He smiled. “I’m always around,” he said. “I’ll drop in to visit you from time to time to see if you’re all right.”
“Thank you, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“I’m sure it will be,” he laughed. “Wait and see.”
He moved aside and let her pass.
A convoy of refugees was going down the main street on horse-drawn wooden carts. Wrapped in blankets, the newcomers sat among their belongings. The face of a sad child emerged from a colorful blanket. Gertruda averted her eyes and went into the grocery store. The selection was small and the prices were dreadfully high. She bought tea and sugar, a loaf of bread, and a little butter, and calculated that, at those prices, her money would run out sooner than she had thought.
By the time she got back to the apartment, Lydia and Michael were awake. She made them tea and a slice of bread and butter. Lydia thanked her, and Michael asked if he could have another slice.
“What will happen?” Lydia asked anxiously.
“Don’t worry,” Gertruda said, trying to calm her. “We’ve got a place to sleep and a little bit more money for food. Many refugees don’t have even that.”
Lydia sighed. “But the money will run out, and what will happen then?”
“I promise you we’ll find a solution.”
She didn’t know how she could say such a thing. But she firmly intended to make every effort to ease Lydia and Michael’s suffering.
Refugees she met suggested to Gertruda that she ask for help from the Jewish aid institutions in the city. She stood in line for hours and received a coat and a jacket for Michael and a pass for the soup kitchen. Lydia refused to go there, but hunger got the better of her. She had no choice and joined Gertruda and Michael for lunch at the soup kitchen. The room was packed with hungry refugees and there was barely room for the three of them. On the simple wooden table, they were served turbid soup and steamed vegetables. Michael ate eagerly, but Lydia couldn’t put a thing in her mouth. The sharp transition from life in the mansion to the despondent atmosphere of the soup kitchen was hard for her. She looked at her neighbors at the table. Most of them wore tattered clothes, their hair was disheveled, and they were noisy. She dropped her eyes and murmured, “I can’t stay here, I feel terrible.”
They returned home and Lydia collapsed on her bed, weeping and desperate.
“Find me Jacob,” she asked Gertruda. “Make every effort to locate him. Only he can get us out of here.”
Getruda didn’t know what to do. In Lydia’s purse, stolen by Emil, were all her personal documents and the phone numbers to contact Jacob Stolowitzky. Gertruda didn’t know where to turn, but she tried to comfort Lydia.
“I promise to try,” she said.
In the evening, Lydia’s condition grew worse. She felt like she was choking and she had chest pains. Gertruda called Dr. Berman, and he suggested taking her to the hospital immediately.
“Your heart is in bad shape,” he said. “You need medical care day and night.”
She refused firmly.
“I want to be with my child,” she said. “Without him, my life isn’t a life.”
The next morning, after nursing Lydia all night, Gertruda went to look for work. She went in and out of stores, restaurants, workshops, but even if there was a job, no one wanted to hire an inexperienced worker. Only in the hot and crowded railroad station buffet did they finally agree to hire her as a dishwasher.
“We can’t pay you any money,” said the owner. “But we will give you food you can take home.”
It wasn’t what she’d hoped for, but it would help. She rolled up her sleeves and washed dishes until nightfall. In a pot she borrowed from the buffet owner, she carried a hot meal to the rented apartment. She filled the plates and ate with Lydia and Michael. Her thoughts returned to the house on Ujazdowska Avenue, where recently feasts had been served, but it seemed so long ago …
Only uniformed men were in the special train from Berlin to Warsaw. Karl Rink sat in the car reserved for SS officers. His companions were excited about their expected sojourn in Warsaw, with Polish girls and the opportunities to steal money from the Jews. He refrained from joining the conversations.
At the Warsaw railroad station, they were picked up by an SS car and driven through the streets of the city, which had been heavily damaged by the German attack. Many houses had collapsed and smoke was still rising from the ruins. In the streets, mostly German soldiers were to be seen.
They drove to SS headquarters, where they were given their assignments. Karl Rink was appointed staff officer responsible for distributing orders limiting the Jews’ freedom. A young officer, who introduced himself as his deputy, led Karl to his office. On his desk, he found a first draft of edicts that Hans Frank was about to impose on the Jews of Poland, ordering every Jew to wear a band with a yellow star of David on his right arm, every Jewish shop or business to show a Star of David. Kosher slaughtering was forbidden, and every Jew had to submit a detailed report of his property.
After settling into the new office, Karl Rink was taken to the apartment he was assigned. It was next to a large house abandoned in panic by its inhabitants when the Germans entered Warsaw. Most of the furniture was left in the three-room apartment. Family pictures hung on the walls: men in tailored clothes, some of them with well-tended beards, women in elegant dresses, and children in suits. There were also wedding pictures of a couple, a group picture in front of a synagogue, and framed academic degrees. Some of them were documents of the Jewish teachers’ college. Rink also surveyed the library, which included a few books in Polish, but mostly holy books and books in Hebrew.
“I’ll send somebody to get rid of those Jewish things,” said Karl’s escort.
“No need. Leave everything for the time being. It doesn’t bother me.”
He wanted the apartment to have a Jewish character, to remind him of his wife and daughter.
The telephone froze in the hands of attorney Joachim Turner. “That’s awful,” he exclaimed.
At the other end of the line, Jacob Stolowitzky’s voice from Paris was shaking. Turner was his loyal friend and confidante. He took care of transferring money to banks in Switzerland, and was authorized to withdraw any sum his friend instructed. In the unexpected phone call he received in his office in Zurich, Turner heard for the first time about Stolowitzky’s wife and son stranded in occupied Poland.
“Help me,” pleaded Jacob Stolowitzky. “Promise the Germans any sum they want to let Lydia and Michael leave there and join me.”
“Any sum?”
“Any sum you find proper.”
Turner was the attorney for several well-known businessmen in Zurich. Even before the war, he had negotiated on their behalf with German firms that supplied large quantities of coal to the Swiss. He was sure the Germans now needed every penny to move their war machinery and would be likely to accept Stolowitzky’s millions in exchange for getting his wife and son out of Warsaw.
“I’ll take care of it immediately,” Turner promised.
That very day he went to the German embassy in Bern and saw the ambassador himself. The German was interested in the proposition.
“How much money are we talking about?” he asked.
“Ten million dollars,” Turner threw out.
The ambassador blurted out an exclamation of surprise. He wanted details and the attorney gave him the names and address.
“I’ll check it out immediately,” said the German.
The attractive proposal was sent through diplomatic channels at once. Orders went out from Berlin to the occupying authorities in Poland to locate Lydia and her son, guarantee their safety, and await further orders. Stolowitzky phoned Turner every day to see if he had new information, and when there was none, Stolowitzky was deeply disappointed.
After a week, Turner was summoned to the German embassy in Bern.
“We did the best we could,” said the ambassador. “Our people tried to find the woman and child, but it turns out they are no longer at the address you gave me. The building itself was empty when our forces entered Warsaw. It is now German headquarters. We also investigated the tenants in the area and nobody knows what happened to them.”
“Do you have lists of Jews who were arrested or killed?”
“We don’t yet have orderly lists. If we do have more information, I’ll let you know, of course, without delay.”
Stolowitzky was stunned. Until that moment, he had clung to the hope that his money would induce the Germans to find a way to locate Lydia and Michael and send them out of Poland.
“What do you suggest I do?” he asked the Swiss attorney. “Pray,” replied Turner.
Overnight, Vilna, teeming with Jewish life, prayer houses, synagogues, and well-known rabbis, became a shelter for refugees streaming there from all over Poland. Law and order collapsed. Robberies, rapes, and murders took place every single day and the police simply could not handle every case.
The refugees packed the city. They were everywhere, seeking housing and work, humiliated by anti-Semites and exploitative employers. They stood in long lines at foreign consulates and pleaded for entry visas to countries far away from the front. Only those with contacts and sharp elbows managed to get the precious permission. Lydia sank into a deep depression, lying in bed for whole days and praying that the nightmare would end and that her husband would come back.
Michael couldn’t understand the sudden change in his life, the passage from the mansion to the miserable room, his mother’s helplessness. He didn’t know what war was, but he did understand that something awful had happened, that bad people made them leave the house. He was silent a lot, played with cards that Gertruda had cut out for him from cardboard boxes and drawn on, and was upset when Gertruda wasn’t with him. She herself was out of the house from early morning to nightfall. He waited for her eagerly, for the food she brought and the stories she told him every night at bedtime.
• • •
Lydia’s health quickly deteriorated. A woman who had been full of life, gaiety, and vigor turned into a desperate broken vessel. She suffered pains and had a hard time standing up. For a few days Lydia lay sick in bed, until one night Gertruda awoke in panic at the sound of the sick woman’s groans. When she went to her, she discovered that Lydia was unconscious, and Gertruda called Dr. Berman. “She should have been taken to the hospital long ago,” he said.
In the old Jewish hospital building, on Zavalna Street, a few nurses were dozing at the reception desk. A dim light cast gloomy shadows on the walls and the patients’ groans seeped out of the rooms. Gertruda asked the nurses to call for help and they sent for a doctor from one of the nearby rooms. The elderly man put on a shabby lab coat and his fatigue could be seen on his face. He told two orderlies to get a stretcher, and they rushed to the apartment where the sick woman was lying. Dr. Berman was there. The elderly doctor examined her carefully and consulted in secret with Berman. “I hope we’re not too late,” he said.
Carried on a stretcher in the dark empty streets of Vilna, covered with a thin blanket that kept dropping off and exposing her body to the chill of the night, Lydia Stolowitzky was taken to the Jewish hospital. Dr. Berman accompanied her and tried to ease her pain as much as he could, but there was little he could do. He did manage to get her into a room that was less crowded.
“I’m afraid her heart won’t hold out,” he whispered to Gertruda.
The next day, on her way to the railroad station buffet, Gertruda stopped in church and said a prayer for the sick woman. It didn’t help. In the middle of the night, Lydia suffered a serious heart attack. She lay helpless in bed, often unconscious for hours.
Gertruda sat at her bed. Dr. Berman and Michael insisted on staying with her in the hospital. Michael slept on the cold floor, wrapped in a thin blanket given to him by one of the nurses. Close to dawn, Lydia suddenly woke up.
“Michael,” she muttered.
Gertruda woke up the child.
“Your mother wants you,” she told him.
Michael went to his mother. She raised a weak hand and stroked his face.
“My child,” she whispered. “My beloved child … don’t ever forget me.”
“All right, Mother,” he said in a sleepy voice.
Lydia beckoned to Gertruda.
“I have to tell you something,” she said into her ear.
“Yes, madam.”
“I’m about to die, my dear.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Gertruda begged her. “Rest. It will pass.”
The sick woman shook her head.
“It won’t pass, Gertruda. I want you to promise me something.”
“Whatever you want.”
“I don’t know what happened to my husband … I don’t know if he’s alive or if he’ll ever come back. Michael is all I have left. He’s the most precious thing in the world to me. I want to die knowing that at least he will remain alive. Swear to me that you’ll take care of him.”
“I’ll take care of him as if he were my own son.”
“No one must know he’s a Jew … teach Michael to be careful… one word too many or one hasty act would lead to a great catastrophe.”
“I know, madam.”
“I’ve got distant relatives in Palestine. When the war is over take him to them.”
“I don’t have any money to leave you,” sighed the sick woman. “Take my fur coat. It will help you get through the winter.”
With a great effort, she raised her weak hand.
“Take off my wedding ring,” she said.
Gertruda obeyed.
“Wear it now. From now on, you’ll be Michael’s mother.”
Gertruda’s heart pounded as she put the ring on her finger. More than any other moment on that sad night, that act indicated the end of the real mother’s role and the beginning of the nanny’s motherhood. Lydia stroked Gertruda’s hand.
“You’re Michael’s angel,” added Lydia in a dying voice. “He loves you and you love him. I want you to know that my heart is thankful for everything you have done and will do for him.”
“It’s I who thank you for the great privilege you’ve granted me.”
“And one more thing,” Lydia spoke with what remained of her strength. “In the banks in Switzerland there is a lot of money my husband deposited. A lot of money … and gold … take the money. It will help Michael and you to build a new life.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Write down … there are millions in the Banque Credit in Zurich … there are also millions in …”
She didn’t go on. Her head slumped and her eyes closed. A deep silence fell in the room. Dr. Berman bowed his head and Gertruda said a silent prayer. Michael looked at them in fear.
“Please,” Gertruda asked God, “help me keep my oath.”
She had no doubt she would do everything to keep her promise to the dying woman. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, that the weeks and months ahead would place countless obstacles in her way, that it would be hard, if not impossible, to snatch the child delivered to her care out of the claws of the cruel fate in store for him.
Lydia Stolowitzky died that night and her death certificate was given to Gertruda.
For a tiny sum, a Vilna carter took the dead woman to be buried in the cemetery. A gloomy bearded man dug the grave and lowered her body into it wrapped in a tattered shroud. Ever since the war had begun, he had dug many graves like this for refugees who couldn’t stand the hardships in the new city. The number of deaths increased from one day to the next, and only seldom did the family members of the dead have any money to pay for the burial. Anyone who did have money was buried in the local Jewish community cemetery. Paupers were buried far away from there, in simple graves with wooden signs with handwritten names. Lydia Stolowitzky, one of the richest women in Warsaw, was buried in a pauper’s grave.
The gravedigger said the kaddish, the memorial prayer for the dead, and instructed Michael to repeat after him. The child blurted out the foreign words in his thin, tearful voice. Gertruda hugged him and wept.
They walked home to save carfare. The two of them knew that from now on, the bonds between them would be so thick that only death could undo them.