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As if the incident had never happened, officers now began addressing each group in their own language, an Iron Guard lieutenant standing before a small crowd of perhaps two hundred Romanians, dictating instructions for the next phase of our journey.
I focused my attention on his words, anxious that we should not contravene a directive and reap the wrath of the Gestapo.
“The trains will shortly be arriving to escort you to Krakow, from where you will be transferred to your respective camps for resettlement,” the lieutenant informed us. “Keep your documents safely with you, as these confirm your final destination. I regret the journey will not be pleasant, for space is limited and the distance long. We expect your quiet and orderly cooperation at this difficult time. Women and children will be separated from the men for the journey.”
The lieutenant raised his hand to quell the murmur of objection.
“Quiet! You will be separated, women and children in one train, men in another. This is for your own convenience, to avoid the need to share the limited toilet facilities, nothing more. The sooner you arrive at the camp the sooner you will be reunited with your families. Warm showers, clean clothing and hot soup will await you on arrival.”
A murmur of relief ran through the crowd at this news. Someone demanded, “Just how long will the journey take?”
The Iron Guard officer shrugged nonchalantly. “No questions, please. In a moment you will be provided with chalk. Please mark your luggage clearly with your names. Your luggage, too, will be carried separately, to make your journey more comfortable. Once labelled it will be collected here, and returned to you on arrival at your destination.”
Station workers appeared before us and handed out misshapen stumps of chalk. I took a piece and inscribed our family name, Pasculata, with meticulous care on the side of our trunk. As I did so Mama knelt beside me saying, “Anca, please. My diary. I must have it by my side.”
I knew how important Mama’s diary was to her and quickly raised the lid, retrieving the precious journal for her with seconds to spare before a station worker gripped the jute handle and began to drag the case away.
“One moment!” I shouted, and locked the trunk lid securely, fearful that our few possessions might be lost during transit. Bad enough that our luggage should leave our side at all, for it was all we had. As if echoing my own fears I heard an angry voice behind me remonstrate with the Iron Guard officer.
“What if it is lost?” a man of ruddy complexion angrily demanded, one foot planted firmly on his valise. “It contains all my family’s belongings. Personal items of sentimental value. I prefer to carry my trunk with me.”
The Iron Guard lieutenant turned on the man, hurling abuse in a raised voice, warning him to remove his foot from the trunk. His words were impolite and I shall not repeat here other than a summary of the exchange, for the man behind me was not lightly deterred. He angrily challenged the officer’s authority.
As he did so I felt Mama’s hand on my arm, drawing me to the back of the crowd, putting distance between us and the two antagonists. I followed meekly, mesmerized by the argument raging just a few metres away.
“You are a traitor,” I heard the man declare, his voice laden with venom. “You wear the uniform of our country yet perform the deeds of these... These animals.”
“Do not try my patience, old man,” the officer warned, looking anxiously about him. “I follow orders, nothing more.”
“Orders? They are the orders of the devil!”
The lieutenant looked bewildered. “Be quiet, you fool, and do as I say.” He glanced round to see the eyes of the Gestapo on him. He lowered his voice. “Do you not understand, old man? I have no choice in this, any more than you do.”
The defiant older man raised his voice still louder. “I understand entirely. You are a traitor. You throw in your hand with these evil swine to protect your own cowardly hide.”
“Quiet!” screamed the lieutenant. He cast another glance at the Gestapo officer, now standing with his arms folding, watching the exchange.
“I do not take orders from you, or them,” the man declared.
The lieutenant angrily drew a pistol from his holster. “Silence, old man, or I will shoot.”
As the officer brandished the weapon the station fell silent once more. Mama pulled me back, Nicolae thrust even further beneath her coat. She urged me in loud whispers to look away, but I could not.
The sentiments being voiced, even the words used, were strangely familiar and I realized these phrases, of treachery and cowardice, were just those I had heard Papa use in his argument with the Iron Guard in Medgidia, outside our home. A week later Papa was dead, executed by firing squad, his crime to challenge the authority of the Iron Guard and their Nazi leaders. I wanted to go to this man, to calm him, to warn him, to let him know of Papa’s fate, but fear rooted me to the spot.
The man stood defiant against the officer even as those around him moved away, distancing themselves for their own safety, the attention of the entire station by now directed on this exchange. The man’s wife begged him to back down. Their daughter, only a little younger than I, was crying hysterically, and the woman tried to comfort her while at the same time pleading with her husband.
“Gheorghe, please, no! For God’s sake, no! Do as they say. The trunk is unimportant. It is of no consequence.”
If the man called Gheorghe heard his wife he paid no heed, but stood firm against the Iron Guard lieutenant. Two men placed themselves around the woman and daughter and slowly edged them away. The woman struggled against them, the girl screaming.
Now the man called Gheorghe and the Iron Guard officer stood face to face, one arrogant, armed with a pistol, the other defenceless yet bravely, foolishly defiant. The Gestapo officer strode across and confronted the two. The lieutenant turned, raising his arm and stamped his feet in the Nazi salute.
The defiant Gheorghe spat angrily into the dust at his feet. “I am ashamed to call you my fellow countryman.”
The Gestapo officer ignored him. “You have a problem, Herr Lieutenant?” he asked in broken Romanian.
“This person will not allow his trunk to be placed with the others,” the Iron Guard officer reported, still hesitantly pointing his gun at the man before him.
The Nazi looked at the defiant Gheorghe contemptuously. He turned back to the Iron Guard officer and shrugged indifferently.
“Then shoot him.”
At this order a gasp ran through our group and the man’s wife screamed out, pleading to her husband to apologise and do as bid. Mama was tugging at me, urging me to look away, but I could not. It were as if my eyes were drawn, like magnets, towards the unfolding drama.
“He will not shoot,” Gheorghe stated with quiet confidence. “We are both Romanians. He will not shoot one of his own countrymen, traitor though he may be.”
The lieutenant’s face paled, sweat breaking out across his forehead, the hand holding the pistol shaking visibly.
The Gestapo officer smiled. “This is your chance to prove him wrong, Herr Lieutenant. Shoot him. Now. On my authority.” He raised his voice. “Do it.”
The Iron Guard officer stood motionless, his face demonstrating the transition of emotion from arrogance to fear. Suddenly the Gestapo officer drew his own pistol and pressed it to the head of the Iron Guard officer.
“Kill him, Herr Lieutenant, or I kill you.”