One night, while we were outside, an inebriated Russian soldier grabbed Mama by the arm and made his intentions crystal clear.
“Go away. Leave me alone”, she screamed.
By now Mama had regained her strength and she managed to wriggle free from his grasp. We ran away and hid. He bellowed a few drunken curses, staggered a few steps and gave up the pursuit.
The next morning, when we went to collect our daily bread, we saw Mama’s assailant slumped outside a building, fast asleep, still clutching his bottle.
“We have to leave”, Mama said. “As soon as possible”.
Our chance came as the war in Europe entered its final stages. The Russians were in Berlin and advancing toward the Reichstag, and the American-led Allies were closing the vise from the west. Rumors that Adolf Hitler was dead buzzed around the camp as the International Red Cross turned up to register survivors and offer us assistance. Mama was relieved. She was handed a stamped document giving us free passage on Polish public transport.
“We’re going home”, she said, with a smile.
Spring was about to become summer. I had grown and needed to replace the dress and coat that I had been given almost a year earlier. There was still a vast array of garments to choose from. Mama took me back to the Kanada warehouse, and I picked a dark blue dress decorated with a white apron, a skirt with a white blouse and a warm jacket that fitted me perfectly. Thinking of the children who wore these before me made me feel bad, but I had no choice.
Our next stop was a storeroom containing thousands of suitcases. I wondered whether ours was somewhere in the pile. We took a small case and filled it almost to bursting point with food, mostly bread, cheese and jam taken from army rations. There was just enough space for my extra dress. All we possessed was that small suitcase and our memories. I was full of optimism because Mama promised we would meet her wonderful family.
“You will now know your background”, she said.
We were among the fortunate few to leave behind the Auschwitz motto, Arbeit Macht Frei. But work did not set us free.
We walked out of Birkenau, hand in hand, one morning in April 1945. Mama said one word.
“Remember”.
Chapter Sixteen. The Welcome
After leaving Birkenau, we had about 130 miles to travel by bus and train. We walked to the station in the nearest town, Oświęcim (that’s Polish for Auschwitz). People averted their eyes and gave us sideways glances as we passed by. They knew where we had come from. They knew what had been taking place on the other side of the barbed-wire fence. Just like us, they had smelled it.
After taking a series of crowded trains and buses, we arrived in Tomaszów Mazowiecki around dusk. We’d been away for almost two years. We weren’t really sure where to go. Mama didn’t know what to expect. Like a homing pigeon, she’d been drawn back to Tomaszów Mazowiecki. But where was home? My grandparents’ place? The big ghetto? The small ghetto?
Tomaszów was now occupied by Russian soldiers and some of the town had been damaged in fighting between the Germans and the Red Army. Mama had trouble finding her bearings. Then she recognized a woman she’d known before the war. Someone who’d been a friend. Mama picked up the pace to greet her. But when the woman approached, she hissed, “What are you doing back here? I thought Hitler killed you all”.
That was our welcome back to Tomaszów Mazowiecki.
Mama did not reply. She squeezed my hand. We crossed the street and walked away quickly. I was really shocked. I wanted to ask why the woman was so angry at us. But I knew Mama was upset and so I kept quiet.
We continued wandering aimlessly as the cold and darkness deepened, until Mama found a cellar with a door ajar. It smelled warm and clean, and we were too tired to go any farther. We had nowhere else to go. The cellar was used as storage for potatoes. We sat down on a pile of clean, folded burlap sacks and ate the remaining provisions we’d brought with us, until we fell asleep, exhausted.
When I awoke the next morning, Mama was already up and busy.
“Tola, we’re going to stay here for a while, until we find our family”, she said.
Mama had come to an arrangement with the owner of the house, who gave us blankets and boxes to use as tables. The cellar had an earthen floor. It was rudimentary, but it offered shelter from the elements. I quickly learned how to sprinkle water on the floor to keep the dust down. I’m not sure how Mama provided for us, but we didn’t go hungry.
Every day she took me for a long walk, pointing out the buildings where her family had lived before the war. Most of the apartments were now occupied by strangers and we never went inside. Mama was hurt by the reality that homes that had embraced her before the war were now off-limits.
One building where Mama had once lived with her siblings was now in ruins. We sat on the rubble as she told me all about her life at home before the war and before she met Papa. She was trying to make me appreciate that I was part of a big, loving family with a proud, distinguished history. Every day she bought me a jam doughnut and reconstructed the Pinkusewicz family tree. She told me about the festivals and holidays they had enjoyed and the many songs that were sung around the Sabbath table of her very observant family. By talking about them, she was trying to keep the flickering candle of hope alive. Yet there was a quiet desperation in her voice. The stories she was compelled to recount mostly served to accentuate her loneliness.
“Hopefully, some of them will return soon, and then you’ll meet your family”. Mama mouthed the words, although I’m not sure she believed what she was saying.
Together with the Red Cross, the now tiny Jewish community established a center where they registered all survivors returning to Tomaszów Mazowiecki and provided them with supplies and other assistance. Just 200 returned. Every morning Mama checked the list in the hope that some of her relatives might be alive. Every day she came back home shaking her head. As hope ebbed away, we stopped our daily walks, although Mama scrutinized the list every morning. As time passed, she became more and more despondent.
Mama wanted me to go to first grade at the local Polish school. But she gave up trying to persuade me. If she dared mention the word, I ran out of the cellar and disappeared.
However, the grim mood changed dramatically for the better when my father’s three sisters suddenly appeared in Tomaszów Mazowiecki. They had not been named on the Red Cross list, and everyone was surprised to see them. I was especially happy to be reacquainted with my wonderful aunt Helen, the widow of my uncle James. Like Mama and me, Helen and her sisters, Ita and Elka, were all tattooed. They had spent several months in other parts of Auschwitz, where they had worked as slave laborers for private German companies. As the Russians closed in, they were forced to join the Death March to Germany. Somehow, despite the cold and the violence, they’d all survived, found each other and decided to return to the town they regarded as home.
Mama’s spirits soared. The sisters’ arrival provided proof that some of Papa’s family had defied death. But where was he?
Aunt Ita was a gifted tailor, and she set about working immediately. The five of us moved into a tiny two-bedroom apartment. Ita created a workshop in the sitting room. She soon had a full order book, especially from Russian soldiers. Mama and my aunts helped as well. Although we were forced to share beds, nobody complained.