Thirty-Two

 

NO JEW WAS surprised when we were ordered to move. We had two days to prepare our belongings. Our ghetto would be divided into two sections: A and B.

Our biggest fear (they were always getting bigger) was that we would be separated. Ghetto A was the largest in territory and population. It was designated for Jews who were considered useful like specialists, workers, the physically strong, and the wealthiest who could afford bribes. This would be the best place to be, we thought. We had sold everything valuable and hidden money for an emergency. This seemed to qualify.

There was a chain of command for bribing. My mother found her lowly contact who would pass on the request. Pooling my mother’s, Perl’s, and my grandmother’s money, she also bargained for Khane’s family, by now amounting to two teenage boys, Efraim and Mordechai. Khane’s oldest son, Reuven, had been conscripted into the Red Army and was stationed somewhere in “God forsake’s land” as my grandmother called it. Khane was sickly with tuberculosis and couldn’t work, and my grandmother was sixty-eight and had severe arthritis.

The contact took the money without giving assurances, predicting it would be difficult for my grandmother and Khane. We hugged our relatives and vowed to find each other once we were assigned accommodations.

We worried about my father’s brothers, their families, and my grandparents, Ruth and Morris. Morris had been a skilled laborer, Ruth was a strong, healthy woman, and my uncles were influential, so we also prayed for our reunion with them in Ghetto A.

I was also crazy with concern about Gittel, begging my mother to say she was our other sister. Her parents had lost their book-dealing business in 1939 and had exhausted their savings. They hocked everything of value. Although once a good businessman, Gittel’s father had few practical skills that he could demonstrate and he was thin and stooped. Her mother was a talented pianist, but hadn’t played in years. Gittel’s brother was five. I didn’t think her family had much of a chance for Ghetto A. My mother couldn’t take on another child, and, even if she had agreed, Gittel’s parents wanted their children with them.

Still, I prayed. Funny that I keep saying “I prayed.” I admit to being one of those people who only pray when they need something, so let it be. During this time, I prayed constantly, I tapped surfaces, I repeated words, I flung salt over my shoulder. Desperation makes you cling to anything.

 

This is what we heard: Ghetto A was in the southern part of Kobrin; a two meter-high wooden fence separated the ghetto houses from the adjoining streets. Ghetto B was in the western side of Kobrin, on the right bank of the river. There was no fence. This was not good.

I rehearsed packing my essentials so many times, you would think I would have known what to take. I wore my coat. I had a small leather travel bag. I selected a sweater, underwear, skirt, blouse, socks, two of my most treasured books (and the thinnest), a notebook, a shawl. But there was one thing that nagged at me. Should I or shouldn’t I take Miriam? I dared not ask anyone in my family because I knew the answer. I wrapped her in my shawl and placed her underneath my clothes. I couldn’t close the bag. Something had to go. I spent at least an hour rearranging, discarding, repacking. Finally, I gave up my shawl and wrapped Miriam in my sweater. It was a tight fit.

Whatever my mother bribed didn’t work. We all got Ghetto B. The Germans led us to a long street with rundown two-story buildings. Walking ahead of us was a bent and red-bearded man with dingy talis fringes hanging down from his tattered black coat. He turned around and poked my arm. “Have you seen my Hinde?” he implored. I shook my head. I heard his cries for Hinde as the Germans slapped him aside and shoved us into a brick building with exposed bags of trash piled in a heap. They pried open the front door and led us up a narrow staircase stinking of diarrhea and vomit. After pushing us inside a room, they slammed the door and I heard them rumble down the stairs. It was quiet. Then I heard another “Hinde” and a gunshot. I scrunched my shoulders and put my hands over my ears, and mumbled, “Poor Hinde.”

In the apartment, we had one small room. There were two other rooms occupied by Jews. I wondered who had lived here before and where they went. Were they non-Jews? Did they go to our house? The ghetto rule stipulated five to six people per room. With Perl, we were five and hoped no stranger would be added.

Our room had no furniture. Anything of value had already been taken. There was no water. Luckily, we each had an apple and a piece of bread, which we didn’t dare eat. 

My mother asked us to remove anything soft from our bags. All of us donated a sweater and a coat. My mother and Perl also gave a wool scarf and a towel. In a short time, we improvised a sleeping area that took up all the space. It was Shabbes evening, our first night in the ghetto.

 

VERY SOON, WE adapted to the rules. I shouldn’t say adapted because that implies ease. It wasn’t easy. We were obedient puppets. We didn’t question because there were no answers that made sense. The less conspicuous you were, the better.

We lined up for rations. Each family received some potatoes and/or a little bread.

We were forbidden to leave the ghetto unless we were part of a work detail. Rivke and I stayed home while my mother, Perl, and Drora went to work. They got up at five a.m. and marched in lines under police surveillance for ten miles in the cold and dark. Usually, the work involved digging trenches. As winter set in, many workers, worn out and improperly dressed, froze on the way and died.

Even if we had been allowed to leave the ghetto on our own, we would have been seen. We had sewn a yellow circle onto our garments on the back of the shoulder (and on the chest) that could be seen from afar. The Germans called it Schandenflek, spot of shame. We were branded.

 

When the ghetto was set up, the Germans had selected several prominent Jews to serve as our liaison. The Judenrat or Jewish Council, headed by a rich merchant named Angelovich, was supposedly established as our governmental body. It really was our source of news and a mouthpiece for German orders. The Judenrat had its own police, armed with clubs. They supervised the lines of workers when they went beyond the ghetto boundaries. We went to their “office” to complain about food and work, to beg for favors, to barter with the Nazis.

We regularly checked the lists of Jews. According to the Judenrat records, Gittel and her family, and Khane and my grandparents, were also on the lists for Ghetto B. It took a long time to find their whereabouts. Grandma Elke had been separated from Khane’s family, and she, like my grandparents, Morris and Ruth, was placed with strangers. Thank God we had located my father’s brothers and their families, who lived in a building a few streets away. We weren’t certain what happened to Khane’s sons as they weren’t on any list; we assumed that they were taken somewhere for work as they were fit and healthy. Gittel and her family were missing.

Work duties became diversified as the Germans needed skilled labor. Our stores now were owned by Christians. Artels were created where Jews could work under the supervision of Christians. Luckily my mother, Perl, and Drora were transferred to a large artel of five hundred workers. They were hoping to obtain their skilled worker’s certificates, which would give them a chance to transfer to Ghetto A.

On occasion, the Germans herded Rivke and me outside the ghetto with other older children to work at one of the smaller artels. We were lucky because many children over twelve were plucked from their families and transported to labor camps. Rivke was thirteen but looked my age and nobody checked the ghetto name list. We were also lucky that we were placed in one of the better artels; some were headed by sadistic monsters. When we walked there, we had to keep our heads down, but the signs were everywhere: “Kill the Jews.” “Jews are Communists.” “Jews are the troublemakers of the world.” Onlookers often shouted these slogans.

 

ON A BITTERLY cold December day, my mother noticed a pile near me, wrapped in newspapers that I had found in the garbage outside.

“What is that?” she asked.

From her tone, I was afraid to answer. Instead, I unwrapped the paper.

“You brought your doll?” My mother’s voice was flat. Her face was sweaty and red even though it was frigid in the room.

I stood still, feeling like I was getting shorter by the minute.

“You brought your doll when we are starving and freezing to death? You could have packed potatoes or another sweater.” She made a fist and raised it toward my face.

I started to shake. I thought my mother was going to kill me. I never saw her this angry.

Perl gripped my mother’s arm and pushed it down.

“Sheyne, no,” she said, “leave the child alone.”

My mother dropped on the floor. She didn’t move. I thought she had frozen in that position.

“Mama?” Rivke asked.

“Let her be,” Perl said.

We all busied ourselves, with what I don’t know since we had no space to do anything in private. We folded our clothes, pushed them aside, rearranged our belongings, small that they were. Rivke picked up a book and started to read aloud. Perl shook her head. She made it clear that no sound should be uttered.

Sometimes we all need quiet even if we couldn’t have peace.

We moved to the other end of the room with our backs to my mother. I didn’t have to look at her to know she was crying.

 

A few weeks later, Drora didn’t come home the usual time. That day, she had a different work assigment than my mother and Perl. She had been sent on a road-building detail. When it was an hour after we expected her, my mother began to pace the square room. We had one window and crowded around it, leaping when we thought we noticed Drora, only to see another girl who looked like her from afar.

We needed a diversion. The Christmas holiday had just passed. Under the Russians, all religious observations had stopped. Our one change for the better since the German invasion was that we could reclaim our traditions. Rivke sang “Stille Nacht” with the original lyrics in German. She had a lovely, light soprano voice and had been in a choral group years before.

My mother sank to her knees. I thought she was going to pray. Instead, she folded her arms on the floor and bent her head into them. She began to rock, I thought to the rhythm of Rivke’s soft emotional interpretation. As quickly as she had gone on her knees, my mother jumped and stood. Her face was drawn and ashen. Her eyes were sunken and when she looked at Rivke, her eyeballs appeared to pop out. Her once golden hair was bland and matted. If I had seen her in my Olden Days, I would have thought her a crazy woman living on the streets.

She came up to Rivke and said something so low that we couldn’t understand her. Rivke continued singing.

Louder, my mother said, “Didn’t you hear me? I said stop, stop that singing.”

Rivke stared at my mother with closed lips. “What? What?” she asked with excited trepidation. “Did you see Drora coming?” Rivke had been so captivated by her own singing, with her eyes closed in an angelic pose, that she hadn’t seen my mother on the floor rocking.

“No, Rivke!” My mother was screaming now. “I haven’t seen your sister. I can’t believe you can be so insensitive.”

“What did she do?” I asked, afraid that Rivke, who ironically was the most sensitive of us all, would start crying.

“What did she do?” my mother repeated. “She only sang a song about Christ. As if we don’t have enough problems caused by Christians. Do we have to go about singing their songs?”

I didn’t recognize my mother anymore. She didn’t have an ounce of joy in her. It was as if all her waning energy was absorbed in fear and anger. Not that we were going around singing and dancing. We were still children, at least chronologically; we were desperate to find something to keep our minds off Drora.

“Is a Chanukah song okay?” I asked.

My mother didn’t answer.

Immediately, we sang in Hebrew, “Ma’oz tsur Yeshu’ati / lekha na’eh leshabe’ah,” the first lines of the Chanukah song, “Ma’oz Tzur” or “Rock of Ages.”

“Stop,” my mother yelled, her nostrils flared.

Without hesitation, we obeyed. I was again bewildered. I understood about the Christmas song, but not about the Chanukah one. Years later, it became clear. My father had sung that song; it had been one of his favorites.

 

The next day, my mother and Perl left for work. Drora was due back at the artel. They claimed that Drora was sick, but the commandant said he expected Drora the following day or else.

Late that night, Drora slipped in the door. Those of us who had been dozing were startled. Faint light came in from the window but we knew it was Drora. She lay down on our “bedding” as if she had never left.

“Where were you?” my mother whispered with relief and reproach in her voice.

“You don’t need to know,” she said, sounding exhausted and defeated.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, don’t worry. Just go to sleep . . . everyone.”

“Go to sleep,” my mother repeated. “Go to sleep. As if I could get any sleep waiting for you coming back from who knows where.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

I waited for my mother to repeat, “didn’t mean to worry you,” but she was quiet.

Sleep must have overtaken me because what seemed like a minute later, my mother was rushing Drora to wake up and get ready for work. It was still fairly dark so I couldn’t see much. By daylight, I saw a little package on the floor between my shoes. I opened it and there were three potatoes and a hunk of cheese.

When they returned to our room after work, I was alarmed by my sister’s appearance. She had a deep cut on the side of her eye and scratches on her cheeks and arms. I didn’t see her legs, but she had a slight limp. I knew better than to ask her anything.

Word got around in the ghetto. Inside, we had little else to do but to talk. Drora had been with the partisans. How she had escaped to join them and why she came back, I didn’t know. I could live with that uncertainty, but what really got to me was the sense that she could disappear again at any time and not come back.

We still couldn’t locate Gittel and her family. We heard that the Nazis removed certain young people from the ghetto and placed them in special barbed-wire camps to prevent rebellion. They transported others to faraway slave labor camps. Rumors also circulated that they took some Jews to the forest and shot them. I couldn’t bear to dwell on the possibilities.

Finally, we saw Gittel’s family, the Auerbachs, her parents and her brother, on a list of murdered victims. Gittel’s name was not there. I only prayed that Gittel, my oldest friend, had been among those sent elsewhere to work or escaped, though she would have wanted to die with her family.