It was the height of summer. Scorching heat. Katznelson was a river, a dreamy Nile. At midday we passed by its banks to check the other side. Was Levertov there? Would he call us? Say yes? No? We walked back and forth. We passed by Mr. and Mrs. Tsanz, Uncle Mendel. From the mud Gershon Klima appeared like a frog. On the fence was Moshe, sitting alone, a captain. By his side an empty space waited for a dog named Brandy to be born, to be adopted, to sit down and keep watch. Menachem, the neighborhood kid, called to us to play with him. He said we could build a tree house in the eucalyptus. He looked at Effi, his thick thighs a pale pink color. Girls were allowed too, he stressed. We got rid of him. On the banks of Katznelson we sat among the reeds of hibiscus, Turk’s cap, and orange honeysuckle, waiting for a signal from the other bank.
Finally it came. “Yes. But I will decide what to tell you.”
Our hearts trembled: Levertov said yes. The kaleidoscope overturned. But one spot still remained inside, calling us. We had to. We would give him Feiga’s Formacil. We would steal it and give it to him. Within the kaleidoscope was one dot of fear named Kurt Franz, Doll. We could hear him calling: I will not leave you, children, I am the Shoah, I am the elucidation, I am the explanation that will not help you comprehend, but without me you have no chance of understanding your family. Your mother, Effi. Your mother, Amir. Grandpa Shalom. And Grandpa Yosef. Do you think he doesn’t have a story of his own? You steal the Formacil from Feiga and give it to Levertov. If he tells you what he saw, you’ll know who I was. Untersturmführer Kurt Franz, Doll, Commandant of Treblinka. In the library you read that I was a very cruel Nazi and that my nickname was Doll because I was handsome and my face was like a young boy’s. Did they mention that I was tall? That I loved to be seen riding horses? But Levertov will tell you, he’ll tell everything. Ask Levertov. Steal the Formacil.
Levertov gave us a precise description. We wrote down Hebrew characters, Latin characters, color, size and shape. We memorized F-O-R-M-A-C–I-L from one pill, a refugee from an old packet that Levertov found in his cabinet. We had to remove the Formacil without Grandpa Yosef noticing. He was used to whole packets of pills disappearing occasionally, because Feiga would sometimes secretly throw things out the window, acting on some logic known only to her. She would throw things out and then complain, where is the napkin? Where is the pill? Where is the soup spoon? When we were guests of Grandpa Yosef, we took over his chore of collecting the objects (until Brandy came into our lives and spent her morning walks gently picking up what she found with her teeth and bringing it to Grandpa Yosef). In order to barter with Levertov, we had to make the pills completely disappear, something that would explain why we could not find anything under the poinciana tree. We considered a few methods of deceit and finally adopted Effi’s idea. To add to Grandpa Yosef’s perplexity, we hid a slingshot among Feiga’s things. He would find it and wonder in astonishment, could it be? And would vainly expand his search all the way to the edge of the hibiscus at 6-B Katznelson.
When we finally got hold of the Formacil, we went to see Levertov. He panicked. “No! Not here! All I need is for…” He rolled his eyes as he scanned the paths along Katznelson to see if anyone was giving us unwanted looks. He greedily snatched the Formacil and forbade us to come to his home. He gave us a meeting place, a real one like in the movies, in the neighborhood across the way, next to the drapery store, a bench, a tree, next to a payphone, where we could talk.
Effi snatched the Formacil back from Levertov. “You’ll get it there,” she announced, staring at him with Grandpa-Lolek-eyes.
And that was how we found him, waiting on the bench with restless eyes. We sat down full of questions and excitement, our souls practically bursting out of our shirts. Levertov demanded the Formacil. Effi handed it over. He gave it a long look to make sure everything was in order. He checked the expiration date and made sure the pack was sealed. He mumbled something nervously and shoved the bag into the pocket furthest from us. Then he breathed heavily. “I’ll tell you, but I’m deciding what to tell and how far to go.”
We nodded, prepared for anything. Our questions were clambering over one another to get out. But we remained silent, a spot in the kaleidoscope spreading large as an ink-stain.
“I was in Treblinka only two weeks before we escaped. They bought weapons from the Ukrainian guards and we killed the Ukrainians. Fools! Then like heroes we hid in the woods. Until the war was over, in the woods. But first, before Treblinka, I was a Jew from Radom. Then I got married and moved to Siedlce. I have many stories to tell about how they slaughtered the people in the ghetto, how I escaped alone to the partisans, and how they tried to kill me too, the goyim, anti-semites. I hid in a village with good people but in the end they informed on me and they took me to a camp. Then Treblinka. I arrived in a train car. When they opened the doors I was almost dead. I don’t want to talk about what went on next to me. It shouldn’t be told. Outside was a little station with a clock and a schedule for other stations. Everything neat and orderly, even a small shop. So we’d think the suffering was over, that now was no time for problems. If we had known where we were, we wouldn’t have done everything they told us so well. I was strong, not like today how you see me now, an old man without strength. I was well-built, with good muscles, and they chose me for the work group. Everyone who came with me, one-two to the gas, but me, they took me aside to work. God help us, what hard work. Right after the gas with what was left, we had to do what the SS told us. All sorts of things. Whatever they said. And anyone who couldn’t, who didn’t work well — gone. One-two.”
“What about Doll? He killed children, right?”
“I didn’t see everything. That man, Lalka, whom you call Doll, there were things he liked. There were things that made him angry. Children who slowed things down, yes. And naked women, it angered him if they didn’t go in quickly. If in the middle of the gassing the engine broke with people stuck inside, and outside another load was waiting, then he would go wild. Then the whole Lager would be afraid. That he liked, to punish. To beat with fists and with a whip. But he had a huge dog. I remember he was beautiful, his name was Barry, and together with the dog, or sometimes just the dog, they punished prisoners. God help me for telling this, but the dog would finish people off. Eat them. Yes, I mean he ate them. And especially he was trained to bite there, nu, you know, in the pants, where the thingamajig is, to tear it. And it was better if the dog finished off the prisoner completely, otherwise he would suffer. And all this we had to see in front of our eyes at the roll-calls, everything there happened during roll-call so that everyone would see, and we thought how we would be next, always we thought about the dog, that it would be us if we made a mistake. One day a Jew went berserk by the gas and attacked an SS man. Commandant Stangl ordered Doll to have a roll-call and kill one out of ten. But he killed one out of ten and then kept killing, slowly but surely. Time, he had plenty. We stood there wetting our pants, really and truly, and he kept pulling people out, sometimes to kill, sometimes to whip them and leave them alive. When it would end we did not know. We were happy every time it wasn’t us. That they took someone else out, for the dog, or for a bullet in the head, or just lashings, as usual. That was every evening, the lashings. All day he walked around, and for little things he would say how many lashings he would give that evening. He would have a roll-call, and everyone who was getting a punishment had to come, say he needed to be lashed, and say exactly how many lashings. No one lied, it wasn’t worth it. And the men had to count the lashes themselves. Even if they were almost dying from the beatings, they had to count out loud. And if they lost count, they would start from scratch. Some did not get up from those lashings, better to get a bullet in the head…”