Read All but My Life: A Memoir Online
Authors: Gerda Weissmann Klein
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Historical, #Women, #History, #Holocaust
All but My Life: A Memoir (8 page)
“What did you answer?” Papa asked me.
“Nothing yet, Papa. I am supposed to give him my answer tomorrow and I am quite sure it will be ‘No.’”
And then I grew angry. I felt that Abek didn’t have the right to ask me what he did, he didn’t have the right to disturb my peace and that of my family. I dismissed the argument that tomorrow it might be too late, that he might be
sent away. I was aware only of my feeling, not of his, and I felt quite sorry for myself.
sent away. I was aware only of my feeling, not of his, and I felt quite sorry for myself.
I must have made a dramatic picture, sitting cross-legged in an outgrown nightgown in the mildewed basement of our home. There were Papa and Mama, too old for their years, looking at their child to whom love had just been offered, and one floor above us was the room where twenty-five years before Papa had offered Mama his love. Papa probably understood Abek best. He had been about to go to the front in the First World War when he had told Mama of his love. He didn’t want to marry then for fear that he might leave her a widow. But he too had wanted her word and something to come back to. Looking at Mama now, was he thinking of that winter night when he asked her and she, full of happiness, accepted? And was Mama thinking of that day too, remembering the happiness she had felt, and how the war hadn’t really mattered because she had known that she would be his wife?
Finally, I fell asleep. When I awoke at dawn, Mama and Papa were talking in whispers. Mama seemed to be taking Abek’s side but Papa was more critical and again and again the words
war
and
abnormal
entered the conversation. Then Papa said, “I am afraid she loves him.” Mama answered, “No, she doesn’t. If she did, she would be happy.”
war
and
abnormal
entered the conversation. Then Papa said, “I am afraid she loves him.” Mama answered, “No, she doesn’t. If she did, she would be happy.”
That afternoon Abek came. He looked pale and tired. I was very self-conscious and could not look into his eyes. Fortunately, Ilse appeared a few minutes later to tell us how the Germans had come for the piano. Much as I sympathized with her, for once I was glad not to have to carry the burden of conversation. After an awkward hour in which Abek and I both felt dejected and ill at ease, Ilse sensed that something was amiss and said that she had to go home. I arose to go with her. To my dismay, Abek insisted on accompanying us.
We walked with Ilse less than halfway when I decided to return home. There was no use, I had to face him. As soon as Ilse was out of earshot, Abek’s voice grew soft.
“I am sorry,” he said, and I winced–I had known he would
apologize. “I should not have said it yesterday”–his voice betrayed anxiety. “Have you got an answer?”
apologize. “I should not have said it yesterday”–his voice betrayed anxiety. “Have you got an answer?”
I could not bring myself to say “No.” I hated the idea of losing him completely. If only we could simply be friends …
“One does not change one’s feelings overnight,” I heard myself saying. “I would like to continue seeing you but I think it would be better if you didn’t mention love until after the war.”
He was biting his lip and there was suffering in his eyes as he nodded silently. I knew that I would not be carefree with him again.
It was getting dark as we approached our house. At our fence I looked wistfully toward my beloved garden, now covered by snow. The trees seemed grotesque, silhouetted against the darkening sky. Only the pines looked merry, spreading their branches like wings toward the heavens.
“How beautiful,” I breathed, enchanted with the picture.
“How beautiful,” Abek repeated. I was in his arms. I struggled to free myself. His lips brushed my cheek.
“Leave me alone!” I cried out.
Instantly his arms released me. “I am sorry,” he muttered and without another word he left.
That was more effective than anything else he could have done. I was sorry to see him go, afraid I might never see him again. By that one abrupt gesture he gained more of me than by all his devotion. He appeared mysterious, desirable.
As I reached the house, he returned. “I forgot to give you something.” His voice was steady and quiet. He pulled a small package out of his breast pocket.
“What is it?” I asked in surprise.
“A book I found that I thought you would like.”
“Thank you,” I said a bit too eagerly. “Good night.” I held out my hand to him. He gripped it.
“Good night,” he said. “I am sorry about before. I will try not to do it again.”
When I stood alone again, I wished he had not come back. I wished he were not sorry. Why hadn’t he taken me in his arms and kissed me, not caring about my protests?
I stooped and scooped up a handful of the fresh snow and wiped my face with it. It was refreshing and felt good. Inside, I opened the gift. It was a thin volume of Chinese love poems. As I read the beautiful words I thought again of Abek–with annoyance.
SEVERAL WEEKS WENT BY AND THE YEAR 1941 WAS DRAWING TO a close. I still saw Abek almost daily, although for a while our meetings consisted chiefly of awkward silences. Then, gradually, I was able to laugh and joke with him once again, even though always aware that he wanted to marry me, that he interpreted each pleasant word or gesture as a sign that I might be changing my attitude.
In December I got a letter from a former classmate of mine, Erika. Erika, her parents, and little brother had fled Bielitz shortly before the Germans came and were living in a small town in the
Gouvernement
near the former Polish-Russian border. Erika and I looked very much alike and were often mistaken for one another. We had never been close friends, but now, in these tragic, lonely times, as I wrote to even casual acquaintances, I began to realize how much Erika and I had in common. Thinking back to our school days and how she used to rise to answer the teacher’s questions, I again saw her straight back, clad in the regulation navy serge, the short bob of her black hair, the dimples in her somewhat pale face. I knew her as Erika who flung her books over her shoulder; Erika who preferred milk hot rather than cold; Erika who had a daring wish to wear a red dress to school just once instead of that navy blue. That was all I knew of Erika. Yet she had thoughts so like mine, which were never spoken. Only now, when several hundred miles were between us, did she sit down in an alien room at a strange table to write these thoughts that I understood.
Gouvernement
near the former Polish-Russian border. Erika and I looked very much alike and were often mistaken for one another. We had never been close friends, but now, in these tragic, lonely times, as I wrote to even casual acquaintances, I began to realize how much Erika and I had in common. Thinking back to our school days and how she used to rise to answer the teacher’s questions, I again saw her straight back, clad in the regulation navy serge, the short bob of her black hair, the dimples in her somewhat pale face. I knew her as Erika who flung her books over her shoulder; Erika who preferred milk hot rather than cold; Erika who had a daring wish to wear a red dress to school just once instead of that navy blue. That was all I knew of Erika. Yet she had thoughts so like mine, which were never spoken. Only now, when several hundred miles were between us, did she sit down in an alien room at a strange table to write these thoughts that I understood.
Her letter was different from so many others. There was no longing for the school years in it, or for friends we both had lost. “I am in love. We want to get married. Henek is everything
I ever dreamed of and more, much more. My parents oppose, can you understand why? My own parents who always claim to love me and to want my happiness only.
His
parents understand how we feel. One never knows how many months or weeks we can have together. Why make it hard for us? I wish we could run away, but how? Where to? One needs identifications. But I am sure that in the end my parents will give their consent and I will be the happiest girl in the world.”
I ever dreamed of and more, much more. My parents oppose, can you understand why? My own parents who always claim to love me and to want my happiness only.
His
parents understand how we feel. One never knows how many months or weeks we can have together. Why make it hard for us? I wish we could run away, but how? Where to? One needs identifications. But I am sure that in the end my parents will give their consent and I will be the happiest girl in the world.”
I brooded over that letter, examining it in the light of my feelings toward Abek. Erika was in love, I decided. I was not.
I waited to hear more from Erika, hoping that her parents would understand her, and then I realized with shock that I, a mere seventeen, would have a married woman as a friend.
Abek seemed to depend more and more on me. I fully realized this shortly before Christmas when he told me that there was a good chance he might go home for the holidays. The guards took a week or so off and since most of them lived in Sosnowitz–Abek’s home town and that of most of the boys in camp–they might take the boys home. He was quite excited when he told me about the possibility.
“Oh, I am sure you will go,” I answered in my lighthearted manner.
The following day he came later than usual, explaining that he had had to pack for the trip. I told him how glad I was for him and asked when he had learned he would be going.
“You told me yesterday,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“What do you mean?” I demanded, bewildered.
“I believe in your intuition,” was his simple reply.
He presented me with another book before he left. I found his picture between the pages and an underlined sentence which read, “What the heart and even mind won’t do, time will settle if given a chance.” I tried to interpret the statement in various ways but it boiled down to the same thing. I showed it to Papa. “Well,” he said with a smile, “I am glad that at least you are giving yourself time.”
Abek was to stay away for a week, but on the fourth evening after he had left there was a knock on our door and
there he stood. Still standing in the doorway he whispered, “I could not stand it any longer. I had to come back.”
there he stood. Still standing in the doorway he whispered, “I could not stand it any longer. I had to come back.”
None of us offered a warm welcome.
“What about your parents?” Mama asked pointedly–we all knew only too well that each furlough might be the last that he would spend with his family.
“Your parents surely minded,” Papa said, looking sternly at Abek.
“No, not at all. They understand. They too love you, Gerda.”
I looked away, but in a flash I saw Papa’s glance meeting Mama’s bewildered look. Blood shot into my cheeks–Abek had never spoken of his feelings in front of my parents.
There was a meaningful silence which Mama interrupted with, “I’d better start supper.”
I stood at the window, trembling.
Abek took off his coat, then came toward me. “You did come to a decision?”
I did not answer.
“You love me, don’t you? When I was away, you knew you did.”
I still did not answer.
“That’s why I came back.” There was pain in his voice. The anticipation was gone.
“Abek, why must you do this?” Why must you do this to me?
After Abek left, I felt uneasiness in the silence. I knew Papa was angry. Years before, when I had been naughty during the day, I had waited for the after-supper hour, when Papa would discuss my offense. Punishment was never severe. To know that Papa was displeased was often enough. This evening, after dinner, Mama resumed her knitting. Papa filled his pipe and tried again and again to light it. The tobacco was poor and would not light. Papa emptied the bowl painstakingly and started to refill it, packing it not quite so firmly. Mama looked up from her knitting; questioningly she looked at Papa. He did not speak, not yet. The pipe was filled now. Papa tore a piece of paper into a long
shred, held it over the chimney of the kerosene lamp. The paper caught fire. The tobacco crackled. It caught. I waited. But Papa knows, I was saying to myself, Papa knows everything about Abek. Why is he angry with me now?
shred, held it over the chimney of the kerosene lamp. The paper caught fire. The tobacco crackled. It caught. I waited. But Papa knows, I was saying to myself, Papa knows everything about Abek. Why is he angry with me now?
Slowly the smoke puffed.
“I don’t like it,” Papa said.
That set me off. “I don’t like it either,” I broke out. “What should I do, Papa? What shall I do?”
“He is a nice boy.” It was like a justification from Papa.
Then I started to cry. Papa pulled me over toward him, his hand stroking my hair, his frayed sleeve brushing over my eyes.
“Papa, what did I do wrong? I want to see Abek, I told him that, but I don’t want to be bound, tied. Papa, am I wrong? Tell me, Papa.”
I don’t think Papa ever thought me wrong. After a while he said, “That still does not make it right for the boy.”
Christmas passed and 1942 began, terrifyingly cold, with lots of snow. I couldn’t recall so severe a winter. Early in the new year my mother’s uncle died. Papa went to the funeral. Mama stayed with the widow while a grave was hastily dug, a few quiet prayers said, a handful of earth thrown on a crude casket.
I was home alone, waiting for Papa and Mama, when a letter came. There was no return address on it. The handwriting looked like Erika’s. I was afraid to open it. Somehow I felt that this letter did not contain the happy news of her marriage. When I finally tore the envelope open, my fears were confirmed. In it were a few tattered pages from a child’s notebook, some of the letters big, as if written by a six-year-old, others tiny. Although there were no marks of tears, the letter seemed to vibrate with pain. Here is what I read.
It is dark outside. It is night. A deadly silence hangs over the house where two days ago there was so much life, so much dear life. I am sitting on the floor to catch the little light that is falling from the tavern across the street to a patch on the floor. It is a dull patch of bluish light and in it lies my paper. “They” are sitting
in the tavern–“they” the murderers. I am in the dark, alone in the dark, just as my heart and my soul will forever remain in the dark and the light of those criminals, the light of their crime illuminates the paper to let me write about their deeds.
in the tavern–“they” the murderers. I am in the dark, alone in the dark, just as my heart and my soul will forever remain in the dark and the light of those criminals, the light of their crime illuminates the paper to let me write about their deeds.
Do you know what happened? No, you don’t know. Yesterday, yes, it was yesterday, early in the morning we heard a lot of noise–screams and crying and begging for mercy. They were the cries of Jewish people in the streets. Quickly my father and I ran down the back stairs to hide in the basement, while Mother went to get the baby out of his crib. He was sleepily rubbing his eyes. He was so small, he did not know that you had to be watchful even in your sleep, that night and day you must be on guard, quickly go and hide. Maybe he was dreaming of toys he never had. Maybe my mother did not wake him fast enough. I imagine how he stood, rubbing his baby eyes, when the murderers entered in their gray uniforms and took them both, my mother and the baby. He was not dressed because his little suit is still lying there on the chair. The pants of his pajamas are still lying there. He must have kicked them off and gone half naked. From the cellar we heard screams.
Why does the world go on when things like this happen? We heard distant screams for hours and hours. Only when night fell was it quiet. We hoped and we prayed that Mama and the child had found refuge somewhere.
After it had been dark for hours we crawled out of the cellar. The house was empty. Empty was our flat, empty the flats of all our friends and that of the boy I loved. Where are they? We went to the street. We went to all the homes. We met a few ghostlike people who were swaying as if coming from another world. In one house we found an old man dressed in his garment of white in which to stand before God on the Day of Judgment. He was saying the prayer for the dead. We begged him to tell us what happened. He looked at us wild-eyed, pointed with his finger to heaven, and continued to pray. Like a sacred figure about to enter heaven he stood there alone, around him a world of sin and unspeakable crime. Finally, we met a young man who told us the tragic tale. Old people, young people, and children all had been taken to the market place. There they had undressed and lain naked on the stones, face down, and the murderers on horses and brandishing guns trampled on that screaming human pavement. Many were killed by the horseshoes, the whips left bloody traces. After the initial thirst of the sadists was satisfied, those who remained alive had to march naked outside the town. They had to dig their own grave and stand on the rim until a hail of bullets killed them. Strangers embraced as they went to sleep forever.
We went there. What were laws now, forbidding Jews to leave
the city limits? But nobody caught us or cared. The moon was shining. We saw a great square grave, half-open yet, a mountain of naked bodies in it. Many we recognized. We found my mother. She was all bloody. We did not find my little brother. I found Henek, the one I loved more than life, who was to be my husband. I kissed his dead face. Not one tear did I shed in that grave. Only my heart died. Do you know what? If they would come tomorrow and kill my father I would not care. I would not cry. I would be glad for him. I wish they would kill me. From now on I will walk wherever it is not permitted. I want them to catch me. I want them to kill me because I don’t care. There is only one thing that could stir within me. I want a gun. I want a knife. I want to kill, just kill. I have no feeling. It won’t be a crime. Maybe it won’t even give me satisfaction, but I want to kill.
the city limits? But nobody caught us or cared. The moon was shining. We saw a great square grave, half-open yet, a mountain of naked bodies in it. Many we recognized. We found my mother. She was all bloody. We did not find my little brother. I found Henek, the one I loved more than life, who was to be my husband. I kissed his dead face. Not one tear did I shed in that grave. Only my heart died. Do you know what? If they would come tomorrow and kill my father I would not care. I would not cry. I would be glad for him. I wish they would kill me. From now on I will walk wherever it is not permitted. I want them to catch me. I want them to kill me because I don’t care. There is only one thing that could stir within me. I want a gun. I want a knife. I want to kill, just kill. I have no feeling. It won’t be a crime. Maybe it won’t even give me satisfaction, but I want to kill.
What are we waiting for? My father’s hair is snowy white. He hasn’t spoken, or eaten, or slept, or cried. He is watching me while I write this. He is like an animal. I don’t think he knows me. My little brother’s clothes are there. I can’t touch them. There is a brooch on my dress, a little heart that Henek gave me. There are no hearts. All hearts are dead. How does one bury a heart? I am writing something to you. It’s good to tell it, but who are you? Are you alive? Didn’t they murder you yet? Too bad if you too have died–then you would not get this letter from a girl named Erika who has a dead heart.
I never heard from Erika again.
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