enlist the eager cooperation offered by the local population. The Jew-hatred that simmered in the Chrzanow population surfaced. They willingly helped the Germans identify and persecute the Jews. From the first day of occupation until the expulsion of the last Jew from Chrzanow, the Polish people presented the same threat to the Jews as the Germans did.
In the predawn hours, when Jews were on their way to synagogue, they'd be accosted and sent to dig trenches, clean the streets, and perform other kinds of labor.
Life became abnormal and uncertain, but life went on. The store was open, and even though there were no daily shipments of fresh fruit from Katowice and no Polish Chrabinas to patronize it, people still had to eat. Papa found other sources and was now selling more vegetables, along with staple groceries or whatever he could find.
One sunny morning bright and early a fat German marched
Page 70
into the store. He grabbed Papa by his long distinguished-looking beard and asked, "Abraham, what is your name?" The Germans called all Jewish males Abraham and all Jewish women Sarah.
"Stapler," Papa answered shakily.
"I like you, Stapler," the German said. "My name is Schindler, Commandant Schindler. Remember that. I would like you to pack up some of these chocolates for me."
Papa understood the hint. The beard had to go, and Schindler could be bribed.
Papa hadn't been going out into the street for a while; even in the store he was extremely on his guard. Whenever he noticed a German approaching the store, he would quickly hide in the apartment. Schindler had caught him by surprise. The Germans would mercilessly tear out Jews' beards. The Chassidic Jews, pious people that they were, would rather hide than shave their beards. Some Jews could be seen with kerchiefs tied around their faces, hiding their beards. The Germans, wielding clubs or whips, would pull off the cloth disguises, relishing in cutting or ripping out the beard to the agonized cries of pain from their victim.
Only after Commandant Schindler's warning did Papa reluctantly cut his beard, losing his sense of dignity with the falling clumps of hair. He felt humiliated, reduced from a God-fearing Jew to an ordinary man. A short, trimmed beard did not conform with Schindler's standards, so, after a second warning from the commandant and pleading from the family, Papa finally gave up. His clean-shaven face was listless. He looked like an old man, every wrinkle showing.
Poland surrendered, and the Germans occupied the country. The defeated Polish soldiers were either coming home from the battlefield or sending home messages from prisoner-of-war camps. There was nothing at all from Shlamek, as if he were swallowed up by the earth. Several Chrzanower soldiers returned, some of them Jewish, but no one knew what had happened to him. No one had yet come home from the prison compound at Oswiecim, so that going there was the only way to find out if Shlamek were there.
Page 71
It was a risky trip, and it was brave Vrumek who undertook the perilous journey. Avoiding the watchful eyes of the Germans, he rode to Oswiecim on his bicycle. The camp in Oswiecim was heavily guarded. For hours he circled the camp, trying to make contact with the prisoners, endangering his own life: if caught he would have been arrested for spying. He eventually came close enough to speak to the prisoners. He asked questions, but there were no answers.
Vrumek dreaded coming home to his brokenhearted parents with no news of Shlamek. So he lied. He told us that Shlamek had been seen in a hospital in the town of Sanok. We eagerly grasped at this proffered straw of hope.
One morning I woke up and promptly ran to Mama, happily telling her about the dream I just had. In my dream I saw Shlamek. He could not hoist me onto his shoulders the way he used to because he was ill. Both his legs were heavily bandaged, and he could not walk. But he smiled at me and assured me that he was getting better, that he
In the predawn hours, when Jews were on their way to synagogue, they'd be accosted and sent to dig trenches, clean the streets, and perform other kinds of labor.
Life became abnormal and uncertain, but life went on. The store was open, and even though there were no daily shipments of fresh fruit from Katowice and no Polish Chrabinas to patronize it, people still had to eat. Papa found other sources and was now selling more vegetables, along with staple groceries or whatever he could find.
One sunny morning bright and early a fat German marched
Page 70
into the store. He grabbed Papa by his long distinguished-looking beard and asked, "Abraham, what is your name?" The Germans called all Jewish males Abraham and all Jewish women Sarah.
"Stapler," Papa answered shakily.
"I like you, Stapler," the German said. "My name is Schindler, Commandant Schindler. Remember that. I would like you to pack up some of these chocolates for me."
Papa understood the hint. The beard had to go, and Schindler could be bribed.
Papa hadn't been going out into the street for a while; even in the store he was extremely on his guard. Whenever he noticed a German approaching the store, he would quickly hide in the apartment. Schindler had caught him by surprise. The Germans would mercilessly tear out Jews' beards. The Chassidic Jews, pious people that they were, would rather hide than shave their beards. Some Jews could be seen with kerchiefs tied around their faces, hiding their beards. The Germans, wielding clubs or whips, would pull off the cloth disguises, relishing in cutting or ripping out the beard to the agonized cries of pain from their victim.
Only after Commandant Schindler's warning did Papa reluctantly cut his beard, losing his sense of dignity with the falling clumps of hair. He felt humiliated, reduced from a God-fearing Jew to an ordinary man. A short, trimmed beard did not conform with Schindler's standards, so, after a second warning from the commandant and pleading from the family, Papa finally gave up. His clean-shaven face was listless. He looked like an old man, every wrinkle showing.
Poland surrendered, and the Germans occupied the country. The defeated Polish soldiers were either coming home from the battlefield or sending home messages from prisoner-of-war camps. There was nothing at all from Shlamek, as if he were swallowed up by the earth. Several Chrzanower soldiers returned, some of them Jewish, but no one knew what had happened to him. No one had yet come home from the prison compound at Oswiecim, so that going there was the only way to find out if Shlamek were there.
Page 71
It was a risky trip, and it was brave Vrumek who undertook the perilous journey. Avoiding the watchful eyes of the Germans, he rode to Oswiecim on his bicycle. The camp in Oswiecim was heavily guarded. For hours he circled the camp, trying to make contact with the prisoners, endangering his own life: if caught he would have been arrested for spying. He eventually came close enough to speak to the prisoners. He asked questions, but there were no answers.
Vrumek dreaded coming home to his brokenhearted parents with no news of Shlamek. So he lied. He told us that Shlamek had been seen in a hospital in the town of Sanok. We eagerly grasped at this proffered straw of hope.
One morning I woke up and promptly ran to Mama, happily telling her about the dream I just had. In my dream I saw Shlamek. He could not hoist me onto his shoulders the way he used to because he was ill. Both his legs were heavily bandaged, and he could not walk. But he smiled at me and assured me that he was getting better, that he
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