Leo Melamed:
Eluding the Intruders
(pages 13 -
19)
I was in the barber shop waiting my turn.
The barber had sat me on the special children's bench so I would be high
enough. Then he wrapped the white smock around me and smiled. Suddenly there
was shouting in the street. "Lozt arop die shiuzen, der gast iz do . .
. Lozt arop die sbluzen der gast iz do." "Put down the grating,
the guest is here," a man was screaming as he ran by outside the shop's
window. "Put down the grating, the guest is here."
My mother grabbed my hand and pulled me out
of the chair. Quickly she put my coat on. The September air was chilly and our
hasty departure didn't give me time to button my coat. There were many others
in the street scurrying, slamming shutters, closing doors, pulling down window
shades, drawing curtains. The entire city was in a crouching lope.
"Gicber Leibl."
"Hurry Leibl," my mother urged, pulling my hand. I had never seen her
move so fast. Though she didn't say another word, I could sense her frenzy. But
I couldn't figure out if we were running to something or away from something.
It took us a while to get to our destination because we had moved out of our
own house to my father's building which was at the edge of the city. It was a
brick two-story structure, where he grew up and where his mother, my paternal
grandmother, and his sister Bobble, lived. My father made us move there
just before the bombing began, only days before he left Bialystok. He felt that
not only would the brick structure be safer during the bombing, but we would
also be together. There was safety in numbers, he had told my mother.
By the time we reached the building, my aunt
Bobble and both my grandmothers were already anxiously awaiting us. All
the windows and doors were tightly locked. My father had painted most of the
upstairs windows with black paint so no light would shine through during the
blackouts. Like everyone in Bialystok, we were hiding, too.
The Germans were marching into Bialystok.
And word of their arrival had spread throughout the city like an unchecked
virus. All of Bialystok had hunkered down under an omnipresent fear. The Poles
had been easily outgunned and outnumbered. It was hardly a contest, and now the
victors were claiming their spoils without any resistance from the Polish army.
Because of our location on the outskirts of
Bialystok, we were among the first to witness their arrival. One shutter was
ajar so that we could catch a glimpse of the arriving intruders. The tanks came
first. You could hear their thunderous roar long before you saw them. There
were countless numbers of them moving slowly into Bialystok like so many alien
robots. As they passed our building, they made a strange squealing and eerie
noise. Oddly, they were followed by five horsemen. I sat in wonderment peeking
through the shutter. They were in officer uniforms and one of them raised his
hand as if to give an order to the long convoy of trucks carrying thousands of
soldiers who were silent and grim.
We were being forced to look at the world in
a different way. There was still a semblance of humanity. But that didn't last
long. Immediately, there were orders. No one was to walk outside with their
hands in their pockets. No one was allowed to congregate on the streets. Six
o'clock curfew for everyone. Anyone violating the curfew would be summarily
shot.
Across the street from father's building was
a cemetery with neat rows of gravestones among tall trees. Some of the graves,
my aunt once told me, were as old as the trees. For the dead, it was the final
stop. For the living, it was a shortcut into town, a way of saving a good 10
minutes. During the day, it was a well-traveled route. After curfew, it was
mostly deserted, although on occasion I would sometimes spot some brave soul
hurriedly sneaking through the gravestones. Often after dinner, around dusk, I
would sit upstairs at the living room window and gaze outside through a
peephole I had secretly scratched in the painted window with a key. I had nothing
else to do but to watch and think. Things were turning ugly, and inhumanity
became the enemy.
It happened in front of my eyes. One
evening, my eye had caught a teenage girl turning quickly into the cemetery on
the way into town. It was near curfew time and she walked very fast. She held
down her head as if that would prevent her from being seen. Suddenly, I saw not
far behind her two German soldiers. When they caught up to her, they grabbed
her and threw her to the ground. They were laughing. One of them held her arms
down and placed his hand over her mouth, but not before she screamed out. The
other fell on top of her. Over the years, that vision flashed into my memory
off and on. I didn't understand what I had witnessed until sometime in my early
teens, but I could never forget the incident. It kept turning up - and still
does - like a recurring nightmare. I suppose I remembered the episode because
it was my first encounter with violence - I had heard the girl's scream. It was
the only time I ever witnessed a rape.
Not long after the German's arrival, we
moved back to our own house. Because the bombing had stopped there seemed no
reason to remain in the outskirts of the city. Besides, my mother feared that
our empty house would attract looters. It was good we returned because not much
later, they came to look for my father - just as he had anticipated. He was to
be taken as a hostage. In the event anyone disobeyed their orders, he would be
held responsible and shot. Once they entered our home, it made the war a personal
affair. I saw their boots, their black clicking-clacking boots, but I don't
remember seeing faces. Perhaps I was too afraid to look up. There was also the
sound of their stern and bellowing voices. Several of them milled about the
house, poking into drawers and closets. One began to shout when he saw my
father's clothes. Where was he, they demanded. They spoke in a language vaguely
resembling Yiddish. I had never heard that kind of shouting nor had I ever
heard anyone yell at my mother before. She tried to remain calm although I saw
tears welling in her eyes. Her fear was transmitted to me and I squeezed her
hand.
Something had permanently changed. After the
Gestapo left our house, there was always the fear that they would return.
Dinner that night was eaten in total silence. From then on, everyone seemed to
whisper. There was little conversation between my mother and grandmother.
Their apprehension permeated my being. How
foolish of me to wait for sword fighters. There was hardly any fighting at all.
Where were all the Bialystok fighters, I wondered. Had they left with my
father? When would they return? Would I see my father again? Where was he? My
mother said everything would be all right and that my father would be in
contact. But the alarm in her eyes belied her words. I was afraid.
Although my mother began working at school
again, she would not let me leave the house. I stayed inside every day with my Babba.
Sometimes a friend would come over and we played soldier. Rumors and stories
circulated among the children about relatives and neighbors who had been taken
away for work somewhere by the invaders. Myron, the grocer, was dragged
out of his store and had both of his hands broken because two German soldiers
accused him of overcharging for bread. Rochl Wiseberg was taken away
and never heard from again. The Goldberg's house was set on fire and
burned to the ground.
Two more weeks had passed, and by now all
over Poland synagogues were going up in flames. Senseless violence against Jews
had become habitual and commonplace. And though there was an overwhelming
dreariness on the streets, the situation in Bialystok had not yet erupted into
the insanity of the Holocaust. One reason was because Bialystok had become part
of the prewar tinkering between Hitler and Stalin. Teutonic Knights, Prussians,
Germans, Russians, and Poles; it made no difference who dominated. They all did
so with a heavy hand as far as the Jews were concerned. There would be little
sympathy generated from the locals for whatever plight the Jews faced. In 1934,
for example, the Polish government denounced a promise made in 1919 to
guarantee civil and political equality to its minorities. At the time, Jews
represented about 10 percent of the total Polish population. Pogroms became more
frequent. Jews trying to get into universities and professional schools faced a
strict quota system. Such discriminatory regulations and restrictive practices
became an economic noose that had tightened even more in 1935 with the death
of Poland's premier, Marshal Pilsudski, the old revolutionary and diehard
socialist. By 1938, a torrent of anti-Semitic legislation swept the country
that included even withdrawing citizenship from Polish Jews living abroad.
All its promises to respect the rights of minorities
were scrapped. Anti-Semitism was a ready-made lightning rod to divert
revolution. But the Jews persisted with their religious, educational, and
cultural institutions. They even managed to organize politically. And in the
late 1930s, Jews shifted their support in municipal elections from the Zionist
parties to the socialist-minded "Bund," which in the elections of
1938 and 1939, claimed sweeping victories in many large cities including
Bialystok. That's how my father won his seat on the city council. He was a
Bundist who abhorred the Bolsheviks not much less than the Nazis. For him,
Communism was as bitter a pill as Fascism. By whatever name, totalitarian
states stole a person's mind, my father would say. For him there could be no
compromise of intellectual freedom.
As a child, I did not have a grasp of what
anti-Semitism was all about. I knew that we were moderately comfortable and my
parents were respected teachers and that there was a parallel world in which
the gentiles spoke no Yiddish. There were rules that people played by, but the
political leaders kept changing them, my father would explain to me. My mother
agreed. Sometimes there would be heated discussions between my father, my
mother, and their friends about the inevitability of war and how Poland would
be the first target.
History, geography, and politics were some
of my father's favorite topics. He knew quite a lot and kept me informed about
everything. My parents always explained what was happening around us.
Children, my father said, should understand history and political matters
because they kept repeating themselves. Children must always be aware of what
is happening around them so that they are prepared. One is never too young to
learn, he stated. But it was my mother who did most of the teaching. We were
close, because it was easy to be close to her. She was not only smart and
insightful, she had the sixth sense one hears about. She knew my questions
before I could ask them, and always provided the answer. Later in life, no matter
how. hard I tried to keep it from her, she always knew when I had a bad day
trading the market.
Thus, even as a kid, I knew there was
something about history and politics that aroused passion in grown people.
Although I was by nature quite shy, I was comfortable around adults and I had
learned to listen to them closely. Though I might not always understand what
they were saying, by the time I was six, my ear was tuned to pick up on the
emotional ebbs and flows of their conversations. The decibels in their voices
would rise whenever the topic was politics. Later, my parents would explain.
If, however, there was any lesson to be
learned, it was never to ignore politics, even at a tender age. I and my
schoolmates were removed from all of it, until Nazi madness became a child's
war, too. Like our parents caught up in war-ravaged Europe, we also found
ourselves coping with the rules of chance and probability and distorted codes
of conduct. The world had unwittingly taken Hitler's bait and was paying the
price; Jews were methodically being annihilated man by man, woman by woman,
child by child.
To survive took wits - and luck. And time.
But by September 1939, the fate of Europe's Polish Jews had been compressed
into a matter of days. When the Poles refused to give up the port of Gdansk,
Germany invaded, touching off the war. The Germans attacked from the west.
Seventeen days later, Russia sent its troops in from the east. Two days later,
the German and Russian armies met near Brest Litovsk, and Poland was pulled
apart like a piece of taffy. The partition sent Jews scurrying in every
direction; some 300,000 of them fled into Soviet occupied Poland that now
included Bialystok.
In just weeks, Bialystok had moved from the
hands of the Poles to the hands of the Germans to the hands of the Russians.
Bialystokers were wringing their hands in frustration. The town elders, who
long ruled Bialystok, were now emblems of Tolstoy's view of history in which
the most powerful generals often have less freedom than the foot soldiers,
becoming prisoners of the events and forces they have sought to strenuously
manipulate.
After the acrid smoke had lifted and chunks
of stone and brick lay scattered, after the whir and whine of incoming
barrages, after the clatter of machine-gunfire, after the whop, whop of mortars
in the countryside, a strange calm settled upon Bialystok. It was as if the old
city had paused to gasp for breath. Perhaps a last breath. The day had arrived
when Bialystok was to change hands.
My mother took me to witness the strange
ceremony. We were among thousands who had lined Bialystok's major boulevard
bisected by a carefully manicured grassy parkway with a rainbow of flowers. It
was an historic event: the German troops goose-stepping down one side of the
avenue on their way out of the city, and a little later, the Russians troops
marching up the other side as they triumphantly entered the city. Although
there was clearly a festive mood, the crowds stood silently watching the Nazis
leave. No one publicly dared to display any pleasure at seeing that hated enemy
depart. Later, when the Russians soldiers appeared, the crowd broke loudly
into cheers and, suddenly, red flags appeared everywhere to welcome the incoming
"liberators." Looking back on that scene, it is easy to understand
that the Bialystokers were welcoming what they perceived as the lesser of two
evils; two of the most repressive and cruelest regimes in history had been
shoved down Bialystok's gullet. The Poles seemed to be saying the odds favored
the Russians as far as their chances for survival. After all, the Russians had
been to Poland before. They were a better choice than the Germans. The
prospect, however, left a queasy feeling in one's stomach.
Even the Bialystok elite who had fled with
my father, showed their confidence in the new conquerors. Bringing up the rear
of the Soviet troops marched the returning councilmen and other prominent
citizens to the relief and delight of their families and friends. But not my
father. Only he and one other close friend were not part of the returning
entourage, much to the sorrow of my mother. Why had he failed to return with
the others? Did he not miss his wife and child? Had something terrible befallen
him? Why did all the others know to return with the Russian army, but not my
father?
What had happened to him, no one knew. Those
who returned told my mother that he was a stubborn fool, that his
anti-communist views had clouded his good senses, that his refusal to return
with them sentenced him to a life of hiding and fear. They said these things,
until they learned of their mistake.
How strangely things turn out. Even before
the week was out, all those who had followed the Russians back into Bialystok
were rounded up by the GPU - the precursor to the dreaded KGB - and summarily
arrested to be sent off to Siberia. We never heard from them again. The
Russians, it seemed, no different than the Nazis before them, wanted no part of
the hierarchy of Bialystok. In effect, by returning to Bialystok, the
councilmen and others were turning themselves in. Now it was painfully clear.
My father was right not to trust the Bolsheviks. He could not return to Bialystok.
In effect, for him to remain in Poland meant either a Nazi firing squad or a
Siberian outpost. He was now truly a man without a country.
They came to look for him just as did the
Germans. These were not soldiers, nor did they wear boots. They were in plain
clothes, but the stern language was the same. My mother could speak to them
because she knew Russian fluently. No, she didn't know where my father was or
when he would return. Yes, she would advise them as soon as she heard from him.
Fat chance!
Of course, we did not hear from him and had
no idea of his whereabouts. He seemed to have vanished from the earth. Had he
gone underground to become a partisan, my mother wondered? Was he safe? Had
something befallen him?
"Why do you always fear the worst?" my aunt Bobble would say.
"You need not worry," she said to my mother. Father was too smart,
too shrewd, she insisted, to be caught. After all, hadn't he avoided the fate
of his fellow councilmen?
It didn't help. "What about those who
returned?" my mother pointed out to Bobble, "They were smart
men, too." My mother always
thought the worst. To her, disaster lurked around every corner. Especially for
Jews.
What were the chances of a fugitive Jew escaping two enemies bent on destroying him? And where do you run in a world at war? Obviously, what my father needed if he were still alive was time, time to figure things out. To come up with a plan. Even Stalin had bought himself some time with the non-aggression pact. And Hitler also bought time by not having to open a second front by facing the Russians in the east.
If only my father
would contact us. Once again, I found myself waiting and afraid
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Last Updated
October 30th, 2003