––––––––
The hiss of steam and the screech of locomotive wheels disturbed me and I was at once alert, aware it was daylight once more and we were entering a station.
I wiped the condensation from the window to establish our whereabouts and jumped to my feet as realisation dawned. If hung with Nazi swastikas, still the signs announcing Warsaw’s central station were unmistakable.
I shook Elone gently to wake her from her slumber before moving across to perform the same task upon Nicolae.
I knew it was necessary for us to alight at this station and board a second train to complete our journey to Krakow. This much a guard had confirmed to me during the course of the night, when he had come to inspect our tickets.
Fortunately, Izabella and Wojciech had prepared us for just such an eventuality and, with the little ones asleep at my side, I evidently passed for a competent teenager conducting my charges across the countryside. My Polish, if imperfect, aroused no suspicion. The guard was officious and did not try to engage me in conversation beyond the predicted and practiced exchange.
Now, alighting onto the cold platform of Warsaw Central Station, I felt the first hint of fear as the desperate nature of our situation dawned. We were alone, in the capital of a foreign country, surrounded by hurrying Poles and Germans, many of whom wore the hated Gestapo emblem.
I drew Nicolae and Elone to my side and looked about the station for information indicating where we would board the train for Krakow, but nothing was obvious.
Nicolae indicated his need for a toilet and we manoeuvred our way around the station in the hope of finding such a facility. But as we moved from our own train my blood ran cold as I saw a line of cattle trucks on a siding across the way.
The children saw them too and I felt their grips tighten against my palms. Nicolae fell silent, his needs forgotten. Elone tugged at my arm drawing us in the opposite direction and I let her lead the way without objection, searching for comforting words, but none came.
We were half way across the station, fighting our way through the crowd, when loud whistles blew and at once the crowds melted away, people vanishing quickly through exits or moving to the station’s borders.
Not realizing what was happening we were slow to respond, and found ourselves suddenly alone in the centre of the station.
Bewildered.
Frightened.
A Polish guard shouted, “You children! Where are your parents?”
In confusion I responded in my native tongue, stopping myself instantly, cursing my carelessness.
Fortunately we were too far distant for the guard to hear, and as he shouted his demand a second time, Elone responded in Polish, “We have lost them in the crowd. One minute they were here with us, now they are gone.”
Her quick-witted response saved us from further attention, for the guard gestured angrily for us to clear the concourse, shouting “To one side, now! Do you want to catch the plague from the filthy Jews?”
I grabbed Nicolae’s and Elone’s hands and bustled them to the side, blending with the waiting crowd before Elone could respond further. “Don’t be offended, Elone,” I muttered beneath my breath. “He only speaks so because the Nazis are here.”
But somehow I knew this ill-feeling to the Jews ran deeper, and I feared that, far from being a help, Elone’s command of language and her quick mind might well prove a liability.
As we turned back to watch, long lines of Jews began to file patiently into the station, occupying the concourse with their usual quiet dignity.
I watched with numbed mind as Germans and Poles alike jeered as they filed through, SS guards on either side happy to encourage the abuse, and as the announcement was made for them to chalk their names on their luggage, which would follow them on to Treblinka, memories of Bucharest assailed my mind.
Elone’s hand gripped mine tightly. I knew Treblinka was not the place where Mama and we had been bound, but surmised it must be a camp of similar purpose, and looked on with mixed emotions, aware the Jews would be transported in horrific conditions, but jealous too that they would, if they survived the journey, have the chance of a new life on arrival.
I could feel Elone quake, fearful memories etched into her mind, and pushed the children to the back of the crowd, asking in Polish, “Toilet? Where is the toilet, please?”
At first we were ignored, but then someone pointed to a block some metres distant and I guided my charges into its sanctuary, determined they should not be further reminded of the events that marked the last moments we had seen our respective parents alive.
I ushered the children into a feculent cubicle, urging them to make use of the opportunity, for I honestly could not say when another might arise.
Overcome with curiosity I hauled myself onto a ledge and peered through a tiny window affording a view of the station.
As I watched the last Jews crammed into the cattle wagons and the doors closed on them I became alarmed, for now station workers with hand carts began loading the chalk-labelled luggage, only to transport their cargo not on to the waiting train but into a warehouse adjacent to the toilet block we now hid in.
If my Polish was poor, still I was convinced the Jews had been informed, just as we all had back in Bucharest, that their luggage would follow in the final carriage. Yet as the locomotive built up steam and prepared to depart with its cargo of despair, it became obvious to me that the Jews’ belongings were not destined to join them.
I could not help but wonder what would these people do when they arrived at Treblinka without their baggage? Without even clothes to change into?
Curiosity compelled me to investigate further. I spoke quietly to Elone, asking her to stay with Nicolae in the toilet block until I returned. I was, I told her, going to find out where we should wait for our train.
I saw the information board proclaiming the time and platform from which our train to Krakow would depart and checking the clock was thankful we had not long to wait.
Perhaps I should have stopped here and returned to my charges, having satisfied my legitimate mission, but the fate of the Jews’ luggage strained at my mind, for I owed it to Elone to learn more.
I found myself dallying nonchalantly at the side of the warehouse, looking for a window from where I might gain the insight I needed. There were some splintered wooden pallets, below a high window, down a siding barely visible from the main concourse and I made my way there unnoticed and clambered up to the grime-laden glass, hesitantly peering in.
Though it seemed like seconds, the station clock would confirm I spent nearly fifteen minutes at that window, precariously balanced on the pallets, staring, disbelieving, at the activities revealed.