“Did they have a horse or cows too?” I asked.
“They had an old mare named Sheyn that I’m sure had been pretty at one time.”
“Did you ever ride her?” I asked.
Dolik shook his head. “She was too old. I did feed her carrots, though.”
He also told me stories about his bubbe, who was an expert mushroom hunter. “I loved going into the woods with her,” he said. “What I loved even more was eating the fried mushrooms when we got back.”
We had a silent agreement to talk only of happier times. It took our minds off the fact that we were living in the midst of death.
One day in early October, Uncle Ivan visited after dark. He sipped his tea in silence and regarded us all as we sat around the kitchen table. “Kataryna, I have some news,” he said finally. “Nathan and Maria came to us in the forest when they escaped. They stayed with us for a few days and I gave them some lessons in survival and living on the run. They left for Lviv, hoping to blend in with the crowd and find work. I had Maria memorize the address of a woman she could leave a message with.”
Mama could not seem to find her voice, so I asked, “Have you heard anything from the woman?”
“Finally, yes,” said Uncle Ivan. “One of our couriers met with her in Lviv just a few days ago. Maria had left this with her.” He reached into his pocket, drew out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Mama.
She unfolded the paper and a twenty-zloty banknote fluttered onto her lap. Mama read the letter:
Mama, don’t worry. Assigned to the Huber farm near Thaur in Austria. I’ve heard it’s not a bad place. N sends love to father. Will write when we can. Love M.
Mama rested her head in her arms and wept with relief. “I wish she’d come home so I could watch over her, but at least now I know she got out of the war zone alive.”
I was so relieved to hear that Maria was safe, but like Mama, I would worry until I saw her with my own eyes.
“Thank God they got out of this area safely,” said Mr. Segal.
“That’s why I came here as soon as I heard,” said Uncle Ivan, standing up. “But I must be on my way.” He enveloped Mama in a firm hug. “Stay safe, sister,” he said. And then he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Holy Days
The Commandant had a nasty way of timing Aktions to Jewish holy days, but the next trains to Belzec left on October 30th, which was not a holy day. Again, Mama and I went to the square to witness who was taken, and again Doctor Mina was spared.
The next Aktion was during Chanukah in December. The ghetto was emptied of all of its remaining inhabitants. The police tore down walls and set fire to buildings, ensuring that every single soul still remaining in the ghetto was taken. The Judenrat was not spared. Doctor Mina was also not spared.
She was thin and haggard, but she walked to the train with her head held high. Her eyes searched the crowd, and when she saw me I nodded slightly, hoping to let her know that her sons were safe. She nodded back ever so slightly — enough for me to see, but imperceptible to the police who were nudging her forward.
I stood and watched as the train doors were closed and bolted from the outside. As it chugged past me, my knees gave out and I fell to the ground. Anger, helplessness, sorrow, frustration… a wave of emotions washed over me. Doctor Mina had devoted her life to helping others. Why did she have to die?
Strong hands gripped mine and pulled me to my feet. “You’d best be getting home, Fräulein Krystia,” said a familiar voice. I looked up. The blacksmith, Herr Zimmer.
“Thank you,” I said, brushing the dirt off my clothing. Then I ran back home.
Leon knew as soon as he saw my face that his mother had been taken to Belzec. “Are we… Are we the only Jews left in Viteretz?” he asked.
“There may be others hidden too,” said Mama. “But I’m afraid there can’t be many still alive.”
Leon sat down heavily on a kitchen chair and cradled his head in his arms. His entire body shook with his silent weeping. Dolik sat beside his brother, but he was silent too. He stared straight ahead with a pale face; his eyes were dry. I got out a piece of paper and pencils, then sat down with them, but kept my silence.
There were no words that could possibly bring comfort to Dolik or Leon on such a horrible day. I sketched an outline of Dolik, and beside him, Leon. On one side of the boys I drew Mr. Kitai, and on the other, I outlined Doctor Mina. Behind them, I drew the house that they’d lived in for so long.
Dolik noticed what I was doing and he tugged the paper over and took the pencil from my hand. Wordlessly, he continued to add more detail. We passed it back and forth in silence for hours.
After Doctor Mina was taken to Belzec, the five of us continued to share dinner each evening, and we’d talk in whispers and pass the time playing Remi and drawing portraits on paper, but the shadow of death was never too far away.
One evening, just after our friends had come up from under the floor, there was a knock on the door.
“Hide in the bedroom,” whispered Mama.
They darted out of the kitchen and softly closed the bedroom door behind them. I looked frantically around and noticed that the stove was slightly askew, so I quickly pushed it back into place as Mama opened the door. Just then I realized that there were five places set on the table. It was too late to hide the three extra plates.
Herr Zimmer stepped in, holding an empty mug.
“Frau Fediuk,” he said, with a slight bow to Mama, “I’m sorry for bothering you in the evening like this, but could you spare a mug of milk?”
“Certainly,” said Mama, taking his mug. As she walked to the counter to fill it up, I stood in front of the kitchen table, hoping to block Herr Zimmer’s view of the place settings.
As Mama handed the mug back, I saw that her hands were shaking.
He took the mug from her and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” said Mama. “We are neighbours, after all.”
“Indeed,” he said. “It is our duty to watch out for our neighbours.” He bowed again and backed out the door.
After he was gone, Mama collapsed onto a chair. “Do you think he saw the plates?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
But if he did, nothing came of it. The next weeks were some of the happiest times of my life.
And then in March 1943, our world fell apart.
Mama was at the pump getting water and I was at home peeling potatoes for supper. The door burst open and Commandant Hermann himself stepped in, his Luger drawn. Behind him was an armed policeman.
“You have a Jew hidden here!” he said to me. “Give him up now and I won’t punish you.”
“I don’t have a Jew here,” I told him in what I hoped was a sincere-sounding voice. It wasn’t a lie: we had three, not one. But as I said the words, even to me they weren’t convincing.
“Officer Weber, check that room,” said the Commandant, jerking his head towards the bedroom.
From the open door I watched the policeman rip apart our feather mattresses, pillows and comforters, then flip our beds onto their sides to look underneath. He came out of the bedroom, leaving destruction behind him, trailing a cloud of feathers. “There is no one back there, Herr Commandant,” he said.
“Then go outside and check the shed, the outhouse and the root cellar.”
Officer Weber hurried to obey as the Commandant planted his black leather boots on the dirt floor and glared at me with cold blue eyes. A vein in his forehead throbbed. He removed one leather glove and shook it in front of my face. “Tell me now where this Jew is!”