announcements of deeper German penetrations into Russia. Far into the night our knitting needles would click in a desperate race against the ever-worsening food and fuel shortages, but nothing depressed us as much as the chilling thought that no army seemed capable of stemming the German advance. Somehow winter seemed to be our enemy. Fervently we hoped for an early spring. Spring would mean that we would no longer need to worry how to heat our cellar. There would be more vegetables, more food, the days would be longer, the fearful nights shorter. But had I known what else the spring of 1942 would mean, I would have prayed that winter should last forever.
On the morning of the nineteenth of April all Jews were ordered to prepare to move to the shabby, remote quarter of town near the railroad terminal. Here, where cattle and produce were unloaded, there were a few unoccupied, decrepit houses. In two short days they would become our ghetto.
Nobody said much. We all had expected it, but for Mama it was the hardest blow. She did not mind the cellar for it was ours in the house of her childhood–in the house where she had been born, and her mother and grandmother before her, where she had married, where her parents had died and her children were born. Now we had to leave it. Was it so hard to leave because we sensed that we would never return?
Very early on the morning we were to leave, long before the hour when we were allowed to go out, I ran down the street to say good-by to Niania. I crept up the creaking stairs and without knocking gently pushed the door. I knew it would be open. Niania was sitting at the window. Her long gray hair lay about her shoulders, the big shawl on which I had fallen asleep so many times was wrapped around her. She held her prayer book in one hand, her crucifix in the other. Without looking up, she continued to pray. I saw her in that early dawn like a figure in a beautiful, long-forgotten dream. At her feet was the little wooden stool on which I used to sit in childhood when she would tell me stories while
she sewed dresses for my dolls. Her window box was then full of flowers. She used to say, “Those flowers are for you when you grow up.” But Niania said nothing to me now. While she said her paternoster I looked about the room I had known so well. There was the green pillow cover I had crocheted when I was ten. In her cupboard were the gleaming cups I had sipped from so often. I knew them all–the one with the purple flowers, the fat one with the picture of Emperor Franz Josef, the one with the tiny crack that Niania would not pour anything hot into … .
In her wooden wardrobe dresses were hanging neatly. The brown one with tiny glass buttons. The black one, a bit shiny and frayed, that she still wore to church. There was the fine black silk dress covered with a sheet. Niania often said she would wear this one only three times. She had it made to wear at her granddaughter’s wedding, she would wear it when I got married, and then forever in her coffin. On her night-table there was a large Madonna in blue and gold with a flaming heart. She had brought it from a pilgrimage to Czestochowa.
Niania’s room was as orderly as ever; nothing had changed in it since I could remember. I couldn’t help but compare her comfortable room to our cellar home. I could picture our few pitiful bundles standing on the floor, several old blackened pots and pans, some mended clothes, a basket with a few dried peas, a loaf of bread, a little salt, a small jar of homemade jam, a little cocoa from before the war, the pot of chives under which the remains of our jewelry had been buried. Now Papa and Mama were tying the bundles in a sheet. That was all that remained from a beautiful home.
I despised Niania at that moment for her security. She could stay, but we had to go.
With a harsh voice I finally said, “I came to say good-by, Niania. We have to go, you know. I hope I will see you soon again.”
I wanted
On the morning of the nineteenth of April all Jews were ordered to prepare to move to the shabby, remote quarter of town near the railroad terminal. Here, where cattle and produce were unloaded, there were a few unoccupied, decrepit houses. In two short days they would become our ghetto.
Nobody said much. We all had expected it, but for Mama it was the hardest blow. She did not mind the cellar for it was ours in the house of her childhood–in the house where she had been born, and her mother and grandmother before her, where she had married, where her parents had died and her children were born. Now we had to leave it. Was it so hard to leave because we sensed that we would never return?
Very early on the morning we were to leave, long before the hour when we were allowed to go out, I ran down the street to say good-by to Niania. I crept up the creaking stairs and without knocking gently pushed the door. I knew it would be open. Niania was sitting at the window. Her long gray hair lay about her shoulders, the big shawl on which I had fallen asleep so many times was wrapped around her. She held her prayer book in one hand, her crucifix in the other. Without looking up, she continued to pray. I saw her in that early dawn like a figure in a beautiful, long-forgotten dream. At her feet was the little wooden stool on which I used to sit in childhood when she would tell me stories while
she sewed dresses for my dolls. Her window box was then full of flowers. She used to say, “Those flowers are for you when you grow up.” But Niania said nothing to me now. While she said her paternoster I looked about the room I had known so well. There was the green pillow cover I had crocheted when I was ten. In her cupboard were the gleaming cups I had sipped from so often. I knew them all–the one with the purple flowers, the fat one with the picture of Emperor Franz Josef, the one with the tiny crack that Niania would not pour anything hot into … .
In her wooden wardrobe dresses were hanging neatly. The brown one with tiny glass buttons. The black one, a bit shiny and frayed, that she still wore to church. There was the fine black silk dress covered with a sheet. Niania often said she would wear this one only three times. She had it made to wear at her granddaughter’s wedding, she would wear it when I got married, and then forever in her coffin. On her night-table there was a large Madonna in blue and gold with a flaming heart. She had brought it from a pilgrimage to Czestochowa.
Niania’s room was as orderly as ever; nothing had changed in it since I could remember. I couldn’t help but compare her comfortable room to our cellar home. I could picture our few pitiful bundles standing on the floor, several old blackened pots and pans, some mended clothes, a basket with a few dried peas, a loaf of bread, a little salt, a small jar of homemade jam, a little cocoa from before the war, the pot of chives under which the remains of our jewelry had been buried. Now Papa and Mama were tying the bundles in a sheet. That was all that remained from a beautiful home.
I despised Niania at that moment for her security. She could stay, but we had to go.
With a harsh voice I finally said, “I came to say good-by, Niania. We have to go, you know. I hope I will see you soon again.”
I wanted
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