THE POLSKI AFFAIR
A Novel
By
LEON H. GILDIN
Published by Diamond River Books at Smashwords
Copyright ©2009 Leon. H. Gildin
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The author and the publisher make no representation, expressed or implied, with regard to the accuracy of the information contained in this book. The material is provided for entertainment purposes and the references are intended to be supportive to the intent of the story. The author and the publisher are not responsible for any action taken based on the information provided in this book.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
The author wishes to express his gratitude to his friend, and former client, Abraham Shulman, for the extensive research done by Mr. Shulman as set forth in his book, THE CASE OF HOTEL POLSKI, written in 1982, published by Holocaust Publications, Inc., and distributed by Schocken Books, Inc.
This novel, The Polski Affair, confirms the existence and location of the Hotel Polski, however, the characters, the dialogue and the situations contained herein are fictitious, but have as their basis the research and the narratives contained in Mr. Shulman’s book.
I must now fast-forward some twenty five years and express my thanks, to my editor, Laura Orsini for her page by page devotion to the work. I am grateful to have found her, to have learned from her, and to have the opportunity to praise her and acknowledge her contribution to the finished product.
Leon H. Gildin
DEDICATION
I dedicate this book to my beloved wife, Gloria, who was the first one to read it in its very rough and primitive form. When she said to me, “You tell one helluva story”, I know that no matter how long it would take, I would find an editor, I would find a publisher, and the story would be told. I thank her for her faith, her patience, and her encouragement.
Leon H. Gildin
THE POLSKI AFFAIR
By
LEON H. GILDIN
CHAPTER I
When World War II ended in 1945, my home was in Tel Aviv. After the partition of Palestine in 1948, I was proud to become a citizen of Israel. Tel Aviv is a beautiful city, especially in the spring. What can be nicer than sitting on your terrace in the warm sun, overlooking the Mediterranean, drinking strong coffee, and reading the newspaper?
When I arrived in Palestine from Warsaw, Poland, I knew no Hebrew other than that contained in a prayer book. I spoke Yiddish, Polish, German, and a little Russian, but no conversational Hebrew. Since this was going to be my new home, my husband and I studied at an Ulpan, an intensive language course, and now, more than 25 years later, we both can read newspapers, novels and magazines in Hebrew.
It is true, as time passes, a life you could never have envisioned, a life you never thought you would have, can help ease the pain of the past. It doesn’t go away; it never goes away. You never forget, but you do find a way to live with it, and even this is something you never thought possible.
The Warsaw ghetto was destroyed in 1943, and although Warsaw was officially cleared of its Jewish inhabitants, many thousands of Jews continued to live in Warsaw. They were hidden in the local cemetery, and in basements and attics on the ‘Aryan” side. Some gambled with their lives because they possessed “Aryan” looks, and carried false papers, or no papers at all. These people lived in constant terror of being caught by Polish blackmailers called “shmaltzovniks”. If they were discovered, they were stripped of all remaining possessions and turned over to the Germans. Their fate was instant death.
My husband, Peter, my first husband, that is, and my two boys did not survive; they were murdered by the Nazis. Believe me, you don’t forget. I escaped and lived in the woods with the partisans, but that is a later story. When I returned to Warsaw in 1944, the partisan leader decided that I should go to live in the Jewish cemetery in order to learn, if I could, about the goings on at the Hotel Polski.
Those of us who existed in the cemetery never understood why the Nazis let us live. I guess the dead Jews buried a hundred years before frightened the Nazis more than the living ones. It still defies explanation, even today.
But just surviving in those days defied explanation. How could a person try to understand the way animals think? That’s what they were, animals. I don’t dignify them by calling them Germans, or “people of culture.” They were animals and may their children know the guilt of their parents to the tenth generation.
I never believed I could harbor such hatred. But enough of this bitterness. It’s a beautiful day. Let me get back to my newspaper.
When I read an announcement I never expect to read; when I see a name that I never expect to see, and my heart races, and my mind fills with forgotten images, I know it is a special day.
“Chaim, Chaim, come here; look what is in the paper. You will never believe it.”
Chaim is the man I have lived with since I arrived in Palestine. We have two children, Sholom and Tamar, both proud citizens of Israel. I call Chaim my husband, though we are not legally married. To us it makes no difference. Chaim’s name used to be Itzik. Don’t laugh. My name is Anna; it used to be Rosa.
“Chaim, this instant! Stop what you are doing and come see what is in the paper.”
Chaim, a good man, had been my neighbor in the cemetery. His wife and four children were packed into cattle cars and taken God-knows-where, may they be with God. He survived because he was outside of the ghetto the day they rounded up his family. Because he still had his strength, he was chosen to do forced labor for the Nazi animals. When he returned, his family was gone. That’s what you call luck; good and bad luck at the same time. Isn’t that some kind of a joke?
---o0o---
When the ghetto was destroyed, Chaim escaped and found his way into the cemetery. When we met there, we found our way into each other’s hearts. We had lost so many loved ones that each of us longed to find someone to whom we could relate, to whom we could cling, someone we understood, and who understood us. I know, every day, how fortunate I am to have found him.
---o0o---
Before the war, Chaim, whose name was Itzik Grynshpan, was a manager of a large men’s clothing store. He was in charge of the buying and selling, with five salesmen under him. He was so well liked that many of the customers, the old-timers, insisted that only Chaim fit them and oversee their alterations. When he told me about his work and the name of the store, I laughed and told him that my Peter had bought his clothes there for many years. When I told him Peter’s name, he too, laughed. He knew Peter, told me his size, described him, and said that he, personally, had fitted him the last time he’d come in. Then we held each other and cried like children.
When we first arrived in Palestine, Itzik, who was now Chaim Adler, went to work for a British clothing importer, a chain that owned stores in a number of British protectorates. After the UN resolution, we became the State of Israel and the owners of the store wanted out. Chaim fought in the War of Independence, and when, thank God, he came home safely, the store owners made him an offer he could not refuse. He became the owner of the Tel Aviv store.
The business has thrived, and life has been good to us here in Israel. Our children both served in the Army, and, thank God, they both came home safely. Sholom is a university professor and so reminds me of my Peter, not in looks, but in character. He is to be married soon to a beautiful girl, and Chaim and I are overjoyed.
Tamar is married to Avram and Feygl’s son, Moshe, and lives on a kibbutz. She has two daughters. Yes, I am a grandmother. I wish they lived closer so we could see them more often, but we are always together on the holidays. Life has truly been good to us here in Israel.
“Nu, Anna, what is the news? Why all the excitement?” asked Chaim, coming onto the terrace.
“Chaim, it’s the Hotel Polski. I don’t know who is sponsoring it, but there is a reunion of all of the surviving “guests” who stayed there,” I told him excitedly.
Chaim sat down, read the announcement and laughed. “Guests! Whoever put that announcement in the paper has a strange sense of humor. Why would we go back there? Who would we know?”
“We would know each other,” I replied. “That is where our life began. Who knows who we might meet? Who knows who is still alive? Please, I want so much to go.”
“Corpses!” Chaim exploded. “That’s what the ad should have said. How dare they call us ‘guests’? We were dead people who didn’t have the sense to lie down. We lived in a cemetery, and that’s where we belonged. That’s where you and I met, not at the Hotel Polski. Why should I want to go back there? I don’t need the ghetto to remember my wife and children, and I don’t need the Hotel Polski...”
He never finished the sentence. His eyes filled with tears, and I rose from my chair taking his face in my hands, quietly kissing his forehead. “It is months away,” I said softly. “Let us just think about it.”
“In his own way, Chaim is right,” I thought to myself.
There is an old expression in Yiddish. “Two corpses are going to dance.” That is what we were...corpses who wouldn’t lie down. I would not let Chaim see my eyes were welling up with tears
I never knew his family, but I know Chaim’s wife and children must have been wonderful. Peter and my boys, they are gone, and I am here. I have Chaim; I have a new family; I have a new life. What did I do to deserve all this? Sometimes even I cannot believe what I did.
“Stop it, Anna,” I said to myself with gritted teeth. Then, I wondered, whether the announcement would appear in any newspapers in Germany? Would Googy have the nerve to show up? My God, what am I thinking?
But think about it, I did.
When we arrived in Palestine before the war ended, we were nine “couples,” some with children. After we arrived and had gotten settled, we would meet at various gatherings for newly arrived immigrants. We would hug and kiss one another, ask about the children, and promise each other that we would always stay in touch. But promises like that are short lived. Some of the couples broke up; others emigrated to the United States and Canada. Every now and then we would get a card from one of them, but just as our life went on, their lives went on, and before long, they were a memory.
Some of us did stay together, however, and some five years later we were introduced to a newly arrived couple with two boys who had come from a Displaced Persons camp in Europe. Their names were Avram and Feygl. Avram was about Chaim’s age and Feygl was a few years younger than I. She had a kind of bubbly personality, liked to chatter, and in conversation mentioned the Hotel Polski.
It turned out that they had both been at the Hotel Polski for no more than a week or two while Chaim and I were there. At that time they were Shloime and Rivka, but now they had new names. Just like Chaim and I. How they got to the Polski and what happened to them after they left is a story for another time. But we became fast friends, and even became family.
Feygl is my daughter’s mother-in-law. Sweet Feygl, she is the only one who knows my secrets. I must call her and ask her if she saw the announcement about the reunion.
“Yes, I saw it”, Feygl replied.
“I want so much to go”, I told her. “If the men won’t go, will you come with me?”
“But why are you so anxious to go?” asked Feygl. “Who do you think you will see there? And if you run into someone you know, what will you do, compare horror stories? Anna, I was there, too. Didn’t you have enough of that place? Whoever arranged this is sick to think any of us would have any interest in going back.”
“But that is where your life began,” I protested. “I want to take the children and the grandchildren. Let them know; let them learn who we are, where we came from.”
“I’ll ask the Prime Minister if he will let Eitan resign his commission and get out of the army so I can take him to a reunion,” she laughed. “Don’t forget, my boys were there,” Feygl replied. “Take it easy and think about it, Anna. Talk to Chaim; I will speak to Avram. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
I had told Chaim that we should think about it. Now, Feygl tells me that I should think about it. Among the other burdens I carry with me, the Hotel Polski lies like a stone upon my heart. What others think they know they never speak of and what I know I certainly never speak of. But think about it, that I do.
CHAPTER II
My maiden name was Rosa Herzog and I lived a good life in a Jewish suburb of Warsaw. My marriage to Peter Feurmann, a college professor, was a happy one, and our children, who were good students, brought us much pride. I don’t mean to boast, but I was considered quite good looking at the time, and on more than one occasion received invitations I would never accept from men I thought were our friends.
But since everything in life is fortuitous, I am thankful for my good looks, yet ashamed of some of my choices. The things you are forced to do that end up saving your life can be unimaginable.
In September, 1940, after the Germans had occupied Warsaw for a little more than a month, they outlined an area that would later become “the ghetto.” The Polish residents of the area were told to move out, a high wall was built, and in November 1940, the ghetto was sealed. Shortly thereafter, my husband, my children and I were forced to move there.
Peter had lost his position at the university immediately after the Germans occupied Poland, but he continued to tutor some of his students. However, it had to be done quietly, and with as few people knowing about it as possible. In time, Peter became very depressed, and after we entered the ghetto, he tried to earn a living doing odd jobs.
At about the same time that our family was pushed into the ghetto, our good friends Yossi, Clara and their boys were forced out of their large, impressive home on the outskirts of Warsaw. Yossi had been a well-respected lawyer, but his license to practice had been revoked almost immediately after the Nazis invasion. Their children were close in age to ours, and when the families got together, it was guaranteed that both the children and the adults would have a good time.
I ran into Yossi on the street shortly after our internment and learned that he had been given a custodian’s apartment in the basement of a large apartment house some two blocks away from where Peter, the children and I were living. We visited him on one occasion and told him how lucky he was. The apartment had a tiny kitchen and two other small rooms. The children took one room and the adults took the other. They were lucky because they, at least, lived alone, as a family, with no outsiders.
A couple of months after getting settled in the ghetto, I again ran into Yossi, I thought by chance. He said to me, “Rosa, I have been looking for you. I would like you and Peter to come to my apartment this evening at about eight. There is somebody who wants to meet you.”
“Meet me?” I questioned. “Why would anyone want to meet me?’
“Don’t ask,” replied Yossi. “Just come. We still have enough hot water to make a glass of tea. Eight o’clock don’t be late.”
At this point, Peter was more fearful than I. He had been a scholar, and his loss of scholarship left him with nothing. When I told him about meeting Yossi and the invitation to his place, Peter did not want to go. He was frightened and suspicious. “Nothing good can come of this,” was his reply. “Why would anyone want to meet you? I am sure it is a trap.”
“Come on, Peter,” I said. “Would Yossi do such a thing to us? He said we would have a glass of tea with him. I wish I had a piece of cake to bring. Don’t be so worried.”
When I told the children where we were going, they wanted to come and play with Yossi’s children, but I told them it was too late and the meeting was for adults only. We kissed the children good night, and at that moment wondered if perhaps Peter was right. Why would anyone want to meet me? We rarely went out at night. My God, if I were arrested, I might never see the children again. What would become of them? Who would care for them?
Peter brought me out of this haze by asking if I was ready. At eight o’clock, we were at Yossi’s door.
We received big hugs and kisses from Yossi and Clara, and from the children who came out of their room to greet us. Sitting quietly in the corner of the front room was a little man, poorly dressed, with a big cap on his head, who was smiling and obviously enjoying the expressions of love and good feeling. When the children went back to their room and closed their door, Yossi took Peter and me over to his guest, who rose and was introduced to us as Dovid HaMelech.
“David the King, King David,” said Peter. “I never thought I would meet you here in the Warsaw ghetto.”
“Why not?” replied Dovid. “It is at times like this that we hope for the Messiah. And when he comes, will not King David be with him?”
At that point, I said, “We could certainly use the Messiah at this time, and King David could certainly accompany him. But the question is, why would the Messiah or King David want to meet Rosa Feurmann?’
There was silence. Clara was pouring tea, and there were some crackers and jam on the table. She invited everyone to sit. When Dovid sat down, he lit a cigarette and shook his head.
“I see that Rosa Feurmann is a no-nonsense lady. I like that. Now let me tell you not only what I know, but why I wanted to meet you. Am I correct in saying that you were a chemistry teacher in the Gymnasium and have a degree in chemistry?’
“If I were not in Yossi and Clara’s home, and if I did not believe that you heard that information from them, I would assume you were a Gestapo agent. What does my background matter to you, a complete stranger?” I replied suspiciously.
“To the point,” responded Dovid with a smile. “One thing you may be sure of, a Gestapo agent I am not. May name is Dovid, and I am the king because I am the leader of the largest partisan unit that operates in the woods outside of Warsaw. We, the Jews who have survived, the Jews who will not die, need your knowledge and your expertise. We want you to teach us how to make bombs so that we can destroy the rail lines out of Warsaw, and hopefully slow down the coming deportation. Yes, deportation to the death camps. They, the Germans tell us we are being taken to labor camps. But that is a lie. It will start slowly but swell like a flood. The ghetto was only the first step in rounding up the Jews. We need your specific knowledge. Will you help us?”
At this point, Peter stood up. His face was flushed, and his hands were shaking. “She will not help you. How can you have the nerve to ask a mother to endanger not only her own life, but that of her children? If she is captured, we will all be killed. If someone makes a mistake, she could blow herself up. And where do you think she can find the necessary ingredients to make a bomb? Go to Gestapo headquarters and ask for them? You may be Dovid HaMelech, but you are asking too much.”
I had to calm Peter down, so I took him by the hand, made him sit down, and said, “Peter, darling Peter, you raise some excellent issues. Let us hear how Dovid responds.”
“Peter,” said Dovid, “I will be brutally honest with you. I want nothing more than that you and your family survives. But I can all but guarantee that will not happen if we don’t have the cooperation of people like Rosa. Yossi will teach her how to get out of Warsaw by use of the sewers and other tunnels under the city. He, or someone from our group, will always accompany her. She will never be in possession of any chemicals or explosives. They will be at what we call our “lab”, and if after two or three visits she has taught us well, she will have our thanks and our gratitude, and be done.”
Turning to me, he went on. “Yossi will be your contact here in the ghetto. Please talk it over among yourselves and let me have your answer by tomorrow. Yossi knows how to reach me. I must leave now. There are others I must see.”
Peter rose and grudgingly shook Dovid’s hand. Yossi and Clara gave Dovid a big hug, and he then turned to me saying, “I hope you are with us.” Taking a raggedy coat that hung on a rack near the door, Dovid draped it over his shoulders like a cape, turned, waved, and was gone.
We all took our seats and looked at one another. No one spoke. Finally, Peter said, “Rosa, I will not let you do this. You must listen to me.”
I did not answer. I looked at Yossi and shrugged as if to say “What should I do?”
Speaking quietly, Yossi said, “I do not like to get in between a husband and wife, and especially not between two of my best and oldest friends. But times have changed. Things are not as they used to be. We are talking about survival. How can anyone refuse to help when people like Dovid and those close to him survive only from day to day? One false step and they are gone. Rosa, they need your knowledge and expertise. I will be with you every step of the way. Peter, trust me. I can promise you that on occasion, there will be an extra loaf of bread, some sugar or some marmalade. Maybe even a chicken. Trust me, Peter, I will try not to let anything happen to Rosa.”
And so it was that I became a member of the partisans. Yossi taught me all about the sewers and the tunnels under the city. These were passageways that no one but city workers knew. They were smelly and filthy, but I got out and back to the ghetto every time I was called upon. I had never made a bomb, but I knew enough about the chemical composition that I could teach others to assemble one. I don’t know where they got the materials I requested, but they always appeared. I never asked and, truth be told, I never really wanted to know.
Life in the ghetto was not only sad, it was frightening. The life of a Jew meant nothing to the Germans. You could be shot for what they deemed to be an infraction of the rules, or dragged away to Gestapo headquarters and never heard from again.
I, on the other hand, was able to move about with somewhat greater freedom. My contacts on the outside gave me some hope, and as Yossi had promised an extra loaf of bread, on occasion. The chicken I never saw. The children went to whatever school there was in the ghetto and tried to make new friends. It was difficult to explain what became of their friends when, suddenly, one or another might disappear. Although the times were difficult, we tried to maintain some atmosphere of normalcy and family togetherness.
From Yossi I learned that at least two of my bombs had been successful. The resulting toll upon the Jews in the ghetto, however, was horrendous. Upon the repair of the tracks, the deportations increased and I actually heard from others who did not know that I was in any way involved, that they wished the partisans would stop their activities. Life in the ghetto was preferable to death by deportation.
Conditions continued to deteriorate; deportation and death were constant. I was fortunate never to be caught on my trips out of the ghetto, but after one of those trips I returned to find that Peter and the children had been put aboard a transport to the East. At that point, all my hopes and good fortune dissolved, and I was overcome by despair.
I rushed around to friends and neighbors. Perhaps it had been a mistake? Perhaps they were just visiting? I ran to Yossi’s apartment. It was vacant. I learned from others in the building that he was arrested by the Gestapo, but no one knew what became of Clara and the children. I was hysterical.
“My Peter, my babies, where are you? I should have been with you.” I never got over the feelings of desperation and guilt, wondering why I survived and they didn’t.
I refuse to believe that my work with the partisans could have been responsible for the roundup in which Peter and my boys were taken to a death camp. But in all honesty, the idea gnaws away at me. Was I responsible for the murder of my own family?
But survive I did, and I knew I must leave the ghetto at once, never to return. I escaped through the sewers and the tunnels and lived in the woods outside of Warsaw with the partisans until the ghetto was destroyed.
CHAPTER III
The final battle for the Warsaw ghetto started in April, 1943. The Jewish defenders fought heroically but were ultimately no match for the German army. The battle ended and the ghetto was destroyed by the end of April of that year.
Some months later, the partisans, who still operated out of the woods on the outskirts of Warsaw, heard rumors of strange goings-on at the Hotel Polski. The hotel was located at Dluga 29, just outside the ghetto. The hotel’s location turned out to be fortuitous in that it was an insignificant hotel with an undistinguished dining room. Had it been located just a few blocks over, it would have been destroyed with the rest of the ghetto. Because it was on the Aryan side, it became a house of death for some, and a house of life for others.
The rumors that reached the partisans were unbelievable and made no sense. It was decided that I should go back to Warsaw to learn what I could. Since there was no place I could present myself openly, Dovid decided that the Jewish cemetery, on the other side of the ghetto from the Hotel Polski, would be the safest place for me to live and to avoid capture. The Jews living in the cemetery with whom the partisans had contact would become my contact.
Before the ghetto was destroyed, the Germans knew the partisans used the sewers and the tunnels as a way to get in and out of the city. So not only did the partisans have to be careful about the direction they were taking, because the sewers and the tunnels were terribly confusing, but they also had to be on the look-out for the German patrols who were constantly trying to flush them out of the sewers. Once the ghetto was destroyed, there were still occasional German patrols sent to try and find any Jews who might have survived, however, by virtue of the destruction, many of the sewers and tunnels had also been destroyed by the bombing and shelling of the ghetto.
So, back I went through the sewers and tunnels under the city. To me, this time was different. The cemetery was on the opposite side of the ghetto from where I had been forced to live. The partisans supplied me with a new map, went over the details with me on two separate occasions, and showed me which tunnels and which passageways were open and which were closed. The difference was that now I had to navigate my way through by myself.
One of Dovid’s men took me to the edge of town, went over the map with me for the third time, and wished me the best of luck. I knew who to contact in the cemetery once I got there, but now I was on my own. About half way through on my way to the cemetery, I heard voices and other noises. I had been assured that the Germans no longer patrolled the sewers, so I had no idea what I was hearing. I was frightened and my heart was pounding. Was I going to be captured and killed in the sewers of Warsaw after having survived this long?
I had no alternative. I had to go the way the map was drawn. I knew of no alternate route, so, I continued on in the direction of the sounds. According to the map, I was getting close to the boundary of where the ghetto had been. The cemetery could not be far.
Moving slowly through the stink of the sewer, I saw what looked like flickering firelight, and getting even closer, in the shadow of the flickering light, I saw four people huddled in blankets, talking Yiddish. My God, Jews were now living in the sewer.
Needless to say, they were startled when I called to them out of the darkness. I reassured them that I was a Jew and was trying to find my way out of the sewer into the cemetery. They were hesitant and distrustful at first, but I sat and talked with them, told of the family I had lost in the ghetto, and they were ultimately convinced that I meant them no harm. It was from these people that I learned that when the weather became too wet or too cold, the people from the cemetery had nowhere else to go other than the sewer. One tragedy heaped upon another.
Living outdoors with the partisans and eating meagerly had caused me to lose weight, but I could hardly believe the sight before me when I finally arrived at the cemetery. The people were completely emaciated – living corpses. But they were Jews, and they were alive. And, as Jews before them had done for two thousand years, they would do what was necessary to stay alive.
I met Itzik on my first night in the cemetery. A group of us huddled around a small fire, shared whatever food there was and talked of our earlier life of those who were no longer here, and people who had not known one another before held each other and wept.
As others drifted off to sleep, Itzik and I stayed together. We talked and cried. We too, ultimately, drifted off to sleep and we became inseparable for the next two weeks.
The rumor heard by the partisans was that if Jews presented themselves at the gates of the Hotel Polski, they would be allowed in, fed, housed, and given a number of as yet unknown benefits. At the same time, if the very same Jew was to appear in the street, he would be shot on sight. Not only was it absurd, it was absolutely unbelievable. Jews from all over Warsaw were being driven through the gates in the false backs of wardrobes or hidden in pickle barrels. Even caskets were suddenly appearing in the yard of the hotel with a live Jew inside. Despite their modes of transport, they brought with them whatever cash or jewelry they possessed, anticipating that funds would be needed to pay for the hotel stay or for other possible necessaries.
I was shocked to learn that when I got to the cemetery these rumors had already spread like wildfire among those living in the cemetery. This made things more complicated. I would now need a plan not only to get out of the cemetery over to the Hotel Polski, but one getting me back with the information I learned as a result of my having been there.
Rather than pretend to be a Jew seeking asylum, I decided to pretend to be a Polish maid who worked at the hotel. Although I was not blonde, I had blue eyes and I could pass as a Gentile. I spoke perfect Polish, and if I could succeed in my efforts to gain admission, I could then move around and learn more about what was actually happening. I also felt that, as a Polish maid, I would be freer to leave and return to the cemetery. Itzik and some others agreed that if I did not return in four days, it would mean that it would be safe for them to come to the hotel. The idea of a warm bed and a hot meal was enough of an incentive. Getting out of the cemetery and being treated, if only for one day, like a human being, was worth the risk.
Those willing to take the risk would have to work out how to get to the hotel without being caught in the streets. Of course, my not returning in four days could also have meant that I was dead or in prison, but the others had begun to look to me as some kind of leader. If after four days it was safe, then that was the plan and they agreed to follow it.
I had enough on my conscience as it was. If I was going to be the cause of someone else’s death, I hoped I would be dead first and never know what I had done. I just couldn’t bear it.
I listened to all the rumors and discussed my plan with Itzik and some of the others. Although I had little faith in what I was doing, I knew it was time for me to go. Itzik and I held each other in a long embrace, knowing that we might never see each other again should I be caught. We refused to express it and spoke with confidence to one another as I headed out of the cemetery.
I was given a maid’s uniform by one of the other women in the cemetery; however, the uniform was small and quite tight across my bosom, so I decided that two open buttons might speed my entrance into the hotel. But this time it was not going to be through the sewers. The German patrols had stopped.
The ghetto was a ghost town. The devastation was unbelievable. Not a single building had been left standing. The streets were covered with rubble from the shelling. There were no Jews to be seen, although every few blocks someone would appear to fly across the street and vanish into the destruction. Where were they going? Who was still alive? But since there were no Jews other than the ghosts that would appear and vanish, there were no Germans. Nevertheless, I crossed the ghetto behind walls and over rubble in an attempt to keep hidden. It took a good half hour, and during that time I thought about the risk I was taking. After all, someone must know who the maids are. What would happen if the Germans questioned me? I had no papers. I could be arrested within five minutes after arriving. I realized that it wasn’t much of a plan, but others were depending on me, and it was all we had.
My confidence returned as I made my way out of the ghetto. I found Dluga 29 and waited for the moment when no one appeared to be entering or leaving. The Polish guard out front looked me over pretty well, but when I spoke to him in Polish and told him I was reporting for work, he gave me a big wink and didn’t ask for my papers. To my relief, he appeared to be more interested in the two open buttons at the top of my uniform. He let me in without a moment’s hesitation. It was almost too easy, and I began to think, “What do I do now?”
The lobby of the hotel was small and extremely busy. I heard laughter and shouting, and saw a Jew arguing with a Gestapo officer who was sitting at a table in the lobby with papers in front of him. How could a Jew have the nerve to argue with a Gestapo officer, I wondered? Wasn’t the Jew risking his life?
But, no, the officer answered him in a civil manner, and the Jew, obviously satisfied, simply walked away as the next group of people approached. At times it was a single man or woman who would enter into discussion with the Gestapo officer. At other times it was a group of two or even four people, and in some instances they even had children with them.
People sat on the steps leading up to the rooms. People were going up and some were coming down, some carried valises and others were dressed in their very best; some even dared to wear jewelry.
To my amazement, Jews were being served a meal in the dining room; by their dress, they appeared to be orthodox. I later learned that the kitchen was kosher. My head was spinning - this was madness! I could not believe what I was seeing, nor did I have a plan how I could get word to anyone on the outside about what was taking place here. And if I could get word to them, what would I tell them? I certainly didn’t understand it.
I decided to make myself as invisible as possible and just observe, hoping an opportunity would appear so I could get a message to the cemetery, and they, in turn, to the Resistance leaders who had sent me to this madhouse.
I found a broom and a dust pan and walked around as if I were sweeping up after the guests. During the first two days, various Nazi officers appeared and called out people’s names. Some groups looked overjoyed that they had been called; others screamed with fright. Nothing made sense. What was going on?
Then the one thing I never expected happened. I looked up and saw George and Krista, one of the few Gentile couples who had been my neighbors in the old neighborhood. They were lovely people, but what were they doing here? Why were they talking to the Gestapo officer? Suddenly, the couple turned from the table where they were standing and looked directly at me. I put my finger to my lips as if to say, “Don’t say a word, don’t even recognize me.” I walked away, but they caught up to me as I was heading for the kitchen.
“Rosa, is it you? Why are you here dressed as a maid?” Krista asked. “Is Peter here, and the children?” The question had never been put to me so directly.
“Peter and the children are dead,” I replied. “I am trying to stay alive. Having you recognize me and speak to me does not increase my chances.”
These people had been good neighbors. Perhaps they had brought in some people they’d hidden in their basement? I wondered what they were doing here. Dare I ask?
Summoning up my courage, I decided to speak honestly. “Why are you here?” I asked. “Did you bring some Jews you were hiding? Otherwise, why do you not run from this place?”
“I cannot live in this city any longer,” George answered. “This is not my Warsaw. If I tell them we are Jews, they will provide us with exit visas to South America. I have money and I will pay them whatever they ask.”
The words “exit visas” suddenly made sense. Everybody, George and Krista, all the other guests are trying to buy their way out. That is what they are negotiating.
“I cannot believe what I am hearing,” I answered. “At this time in your life, in the life of Poland, in the life of Warsaw, now you want to pretend to be Jewish? How can you trust the Nazis? How do you know they won’t take your money and kill you, as they have all the other Jews? You, at least, can live in the Aryan section and survive.”
“Oh, Rosa, I know what they have done,” Krista responded. “But, do you know who is here? I understand that the head of a Jewish agency is here and is working with the Nazis distributing the visas. The Red Cross knows of this plan, and we have heard that they, too, are helping. This is a real chance for us to get out. One cannot give up hope.”
“May God bless both of you,” I replied. “I hope you know what you are doing. This is a dangerous game you are playing.” I embraced them and walked away. I saw them once more, but we never spoke again. They hung around the hotel for two more days, but from what I learned, they never did get their visas, despite whatever payment they might have made. It was simply too late for them to change their story and claim to be Gentiles.
They had come in claiming to be Jews without papers, and, as such, they were rounded up with all the others who had no papers. When their names were called, I saw the fear on their faces. I later learned that they were taken to Pawiak prison in the center of the ghetto and a short ride from the Hotel, and were executed as people of no value to the Third Reich.
During my stay at the Hotel Polski, I learned of many Gentile families who came to the hotel to attempt to buy their way out of Poland by pretending to be Jewish. To the best of my knowledge, none were successful. This was not the time to decide that being a Jew was the way to survive.
CHAPTER IV
Four days passed, then five days, and there was no sign of Itzik. Others who had been in the cemetery came to the hotel. How they got there, I do not know, but I recognized them. They did not know me, and I chose not to speak to them. I still felt that the fewer people I talked to, the safer I was, so I never asked about Itzik.
I understood that trying to negotiate for a visa or an exit permit was vital if one wanted to save oneself and their family. Since Jews presented no particular danger to the Germans, they could be shot or deported just as easily as issued an exit permit. It continued to make no sense. What were the Germans accomplishing by selling visas? Was it about the money or was this, in reality, simply another way of rounding up those Jews who were still alive in Warsaw?
There was, however, one Jew at the hotel who seemed to be knowledgeable about what was going on and who was constantly in touch with the Gestapo. He must be the Jewish organizational representative my neighbor had described. Because his wife and two children were with him, I decided to reveal myself to him and see what he could tell me about what was going on.
The opportunity presented itself on my sixth day at the Hotel Polski. I watched as the Jew walked out the back entrance of the hotel, sat on the steps alone, and put his head despairingly in his hands. At that moment, no one else was close enough to hear us. Nevertheless, I spoke softly because I did not want to frighten him, telling him my name, and explaining why I was at the hotel. I then asked him, assuming he was someone who clearly knew what was going on, if he could explain to me what was happening at the hotel.
His answer shocked me. “Firstly, my name is Berel Rabinowitz and I am here because this entire operation was thrown out of the Hotel Royal. Do you know the Hotel Royal?” he asked bitterly.
“Of course,” I replied. “It is one of the better hotels in Warsaw. But what were you doing there?”
“The Nazis told Jewish collaborators, of whom there are many, to spread the word that the Gestapo had obtained visas from foreign consulates for entry into neutral countries. For a price, one could get out of Warsaw. The Hotel Royal had no guards and was open to whoever wished to enter. The first to arrive were Jewish citizens of other countries, with their passports. They were promised safe passage out of Poland to a transfer camp for foreign internees in Vittel, in the south of France. Their passage did take place, but not exactly as promised.”
I was fascinated. “What happened?” I asked, fearing the worst.
“The refugees were released close enough to their destination, and soon the word got out that a trainload of Jews had been taken in first class style to France. That brought a flood of Jews out of hiding. They flocked to the Royal, and what happened next was inevitable. The hotel was an upper-class hotel for foreign visitors and German officials. Do you think they would tolerate being under the same roof with Jews?”
“No,” I agreed. “So what happened then?”
“The entire operation was ordered by the Nazis to move to the Hotel Polski, and that is why I am here.”
I sat quietly looking down at the steps and slowly shaking my head, trying to digest what I had just learned and when I looked up, I saw a truck drive into the yard where we were sitting. The driver emerged, unloaded some crates onto the ground, and started to open one of the crates. I wondered why he opened it so cautiously, and was amazed to see, as the crate was dismantled, that it contained human cargo. Men emerged from the crate, and I realized, to my amazement, that the first was a man whom I recognized from the cemetery, and the second to step out of the crate was Itzik! My heart leaped and I wanted to rush to greet him, but I forced myself to hold my feelings in check.
When Itzik saw me, he gave a big smile and walked toward me. As soon as he was within whispering distance, I told him to find a place to rest in the lobby and we would speak later. He just nodded and went in. I was so excited to know that he was safe and, if not safe, at least alive.
“How much does the underground know about all of this?” I asked Berel, my newfound source of information.
“I don’t know,” he replied, “nor do I know if they wish to be involved or how they can help. I have no idea as to how you can inform them, and I would not leave the hotel if I were you. If you are caught and the Germans discover you are a member of the underground, you will jeopardize the lives of everyone in the hotel.”
His words were prophetic. I was never able to get back to the cemetery; I was never able to report on what was going on at the Hotel Polski, and I was literally a prisoner there for the next number of months.
“I gather that the gentleman who just arrived is a friend?” Berel continued.
“Yes,” I replied. “We met in the cemetery, and I have become very fond of him. He is a good man, and anything that I can do to help him, I will. But tell me”, I continued, “Why are the Nazis engaged in this entire process? There is no logic to it.”
He thought this over and then replied, “You ask for logic from people who confine us to a ghetto, shoot us for no reason, bury us in mass graves, and deport us to gas chambers? In truth, the logic escapes me. I have no answers. I don’t even know what I am doing here.” He stood up, offered his hand to help me up and said, “I think we should go inside. We have been talking long enough.”
When I walked in, I saw Itzik sitting on one of the two shabby couches in the lobby. He sat with his head back and his eyes closed, clearly grateful to have found a seat. The couches only accommodated three people each and were separated by an old table with a lamp and an ashtray. Directly across from the couches was the check-in desk, and the Gestapo officer had set up a card table in front of the desk where he and Berel sat when interviewing people. The lobby was in its usual state of confusion, in that there were people who were talking to the German officer while others were talking privately with Berel. Others were sitting on the steps waiting to be assigned a room, and had to keep getting up while others passed them to walk up and down the stairs. There was no way I could sit beside Itzik and have a quiet conversation. So I went to him, knelt before him, and touched his hand. He jerked upright, but when he saw it was me, he smiled and said, “I’m so glad to see you. I have been very worried about you.”
“I, too, was worried when you didn’t show up. There are others from the cemetery here. I recognized them but didn’t ask about you. I didn’t know who to trust,” I admitted. “But now that you are here, let us find a place where we can talk so I can tell you what I know.”
Itzik got up from the couch and followed me as I went around to the rear of the lobby where there was a small telephone room with two booths that could provide a caller some privacy. The room was empty, so we went in, gave each other a quick hug, and sat down on the two hardback chairs.
“What is going on?” Itzik asked. “I see you are still wearing your maid’s uniform. Since you never returned to the cemetery, I assume you have never left the hotel, nor ever made contact with the partisans.”
“As to what is going on,” I replied, “It defies description.” I then told him what I had learned while I was at the hotel. “As far as the maid’s uniform goes, no one has bothered me while I have been here, but I have done very little maid’s work. I still do not understand this business about selling the visas and exit permits. I see people come and go, but I have no idea where they are headed.
Shaking my head, I continued, “And no, I have never left the hotel, nor have I made contact with anyone. I don’t know what I would tell them if I did speak with them. Now let me tell you what you must do. Do you have your false papers?”
“Of course,” he replied, unsure where I was going with this.
“Then you must go to the desk and register as a hotel guest.” I instructed him. “That will give you more status. Whatever will happen from that point on, at least we will be together. Now, we had better get out of this room. I do not want the Gestapo to see us sitting in here too long, or they will suspect we are plotting something.”
I turned to him, finally unable to stop myself. “Oh, Itzik,” I said, hugging him again, “I am so happy to see you.”
We left the telephone room and went to the desk. By this time it was not crowded, and Itzik did not have to wait long to register. The authorities examined his papers, registered him as a guest of the hotel, and told him he would be sharing a room with three other men. I stood nearby and pretended I was dusting the end of the desk, thrilled that Itzik would finally have a real bed to sleep in.
CHAPTER V
When one hungers for a shred of hope, the one thing that can satisfy that hunger is a good rumor. “Did you hear the latest?” “Do you think it can be true?” “Oh, my God, if that is so...”
This particular rumor was that the endlessly benevolent United States of America had passed a law proclaiming that every Polish Jew was, from this day forward, an American citizen and should thus be afforded protection.
“If this is true, then we are saved.” If only Dvoira could have lived to see it, Shloime Katz thought to himself.
Shloime had survived the destruction of the Warsaw ghetto by living with his wife, in hiding, on the Aryan side of Warsaw. He was a fine craftsman and worked for a boss who was willing to risk hiding him and his wife in the basement of the shop where they both worked.
On more than one occasion, Shloime had hidden behind a false wall in the basement when Nazi officers came into the shop for gifts to send back to their wives and girlfriends. He got a kick out of the thought that these aristocratic ladies, may they roast in hell, would be wearing a piece of jewelry crafted by a first-class Jewish artist.
Dvoira’s parents were imprisoned in the ghetto. At the beginning of the Occupation, she was able, with false papers, to go back and forth and bring them food and other delicacies she could buy on the Aryan side. Shloime’s boss paid him a fair wage for his work, but nowhere near what he would have earned if he had owned his own shop. At least with his salary, he could live better than those in the ghetto.
Their children, two boys, were also in hiding in the Aryan section of Warsaw. Although the parents saw the children on occasion, the fact that the children were getting no schooling and could not visit with other children made life difficult for both the children and the parents.
Dvoira and Shloime would visit the children separately because the people hiding them did not want more than one person to visit at a time. Too many visitors might attract unwanted attention. The children looked forward to their parents’ visits. They knew that the visits often included gifts of books, games and even new clothes, and there was always a little slice of cake or chocolates to add sweetness to their difficult life.
Dvoira and Shloime often worried that the children might become ill. It was impossible to get medicine without a prescription, and one could not get a prescription without a doctor’s visit — a rare occurrence. Too many people would have to know too many things, and that would endanger not only the children but those who cared for them. The people who chose to hide a Jewish child were considered “blessed,” since they were in as much danger as the child.