hanging cheeks creased in a broad smile and his fat belly heaving with every chuckle, he stood there carrying out the evacuation orders. Our world had suddenly caved in on us.
Luckily, Blimcia had her own apartment; disorganized and distraught, we quickly moved there. Papa was frantic about moving his store. From his prestigious, elegant store on Mickiewicza Street, which he had built so laboriously and with such pride, he relocated to a tiny, dilapidated store on Koscielecka Street at the other end of town. We were targeted for this displacement because it was inconceivable to the Germans that Jews should be allowed to remain in the Municipal Building complex.
Meanwhile, new ordinances were announced daily. Jews were not allowed to possess radios. Jews were to turn in all their valuables, including furs. There were quotas of gold and silver, which they were to submit to the authorities. Large sums of money were also requested of them. A daily contingent of males for hard labor was demanded. Hostages were taken from among the prominent Jewish citizens and members of the Jewish community council.
Food was scarce. The lines in front of the few bakeries that functioned were long and dangerous. One had to stand on line for hours to obtain a quarter loaf of bread. One quarter loaf could barely feed two or three people, and surely not the large families that huddled together. People lined up before dawn, since there was not enough to go around. The angry Poles claimed that the Jews were taking away their bread. They would start fights, pretending that a Jew pushed ahead of them in line. They would complain to the Germans, who would eagerly punish the Jews. The lines also yielded young Jewish males whom the Germans picked up for slave labor.
Sholek and I became our family's only lifeline with the outside world. We scavenged the city for food every day. We would stand on separate lines for bread, so as not to be recognized by Polish neighbors, who would readily report to the
Page 75
Germans that a brother and sister were bringing bread back to the same family. Sholek cleverly cut holes in his coat lining. After sliding each portion into his secret compartments, he quickly ran back to the end of the line to wait for another portion. I would follow suit. Together we were able to keep the family from starving. Sometimes, though, the Poles discovered our ruse and started a commotion. We'd have to run for our lives.
Blimcia's apartment near the Planty, at 1331 Slowackiego Street, belonged to Uren Hochbaum. Uren and Malcia Hochbaum had supplied fruits in Katowice for Papa to import. The apartment was situated in an elegant five-story building, one of the newest in Chrzanow. It was surrounded by a garden and bordered by a large park and the castle-like Lebenfeld house, a city landmark. Before the war the gates to the Lebenfeld's private park were always closed to the public. When the chestnuts were ripe on the trees, the servants would open the gates and let the neighborhood children go picking.
Now, in wartime, we had the early evening curfew to contend with. The fence between the Hochbaum house and the Lebenfeld park had been carefully cut to allow postcurfew passage and secret contact with the neighboring houses. The park offered a place to hide from German eyes and a haven for smuggling food and information.
March 17, 1940, was a blustery clear and cold day. Blimcia had not slept all night, and by five o'clock in the morning her pains were coming at regular intervals. She went quietly to the bathroom, not to wake anyone. But Mama, always the light sleeper at Goldzia's beck and call, heard Blimcia and went to her daughter's side. By the time the rest of the family had awakened, Blimcia's hair was in disarray, her forehead was covered with cold sweat, and she was sprawled exhausted on her bed. Mama cleared everybody from the room and spread some clean sheets on the bed. She sat next to Blimcia, wiping her brow and squeezing her hand
Luckily, Blimcia had her own apartment; disorganized and distraught, we quickly moved there. Papa was frantic about moving his store. From his prestigious, elegant store on Mickiewicza Street, which he had built so laboriously and with such pride, he relocated to a tiny, dilapidated store on Koscielecka Street at the other end of town. We were targeted for this displacement because it was inconceivable to the Germans that Jews should be allowed to remain in the Municipal Building complex.
Meanwhile, new ordinances were announced daily. Jews were not allowed to possess radios. Jews were to turn in all their valuables, including furs. There were quotas of gold and silver, which they were to submit to the authorities. Large sums of money were also requested of them. A daily contingent of males for hard labor was demanded. Hostages were taken from among the prominent Jewish citizens and members of the Jewish community council.
Food was scarce. The lines in front of the few bakeries that functioned were long and dangerous. One had to stand on line for hours to obtain a quarter loaf of bread. One quarter loaf could barely feed two or three people, and surely not the large families that huddled together. People lined up before dawn, since there was not enough to go around. The angry Poles claimed that the Jews were taking away their bread. They would start fights, pretending that a Jew pushed ahead of them in line. They would complain to the Germans, who would eagerly punish the Jews. The lines also yielded young Jewish males whom the Germans picked up for slave labor.
Sholek and I became our family's only lifeline with the outside world. We scavenged the city for food every day. We would stand on separate lines for bread, so as not to be recognized by Polish neighbors, who would readily report to the
Page 75
Germans that a brother and sister were bringing bread back to the same family. Sholek cleverly cut holes in his coat lining. After sliding each portion into his secret compartments, he quickly ran back to the end of the line to wait for another portion. I would follow suit. Together we were able to keep the family from starving. Sometimes, though, the Poles discovered our ruse and started a commotion. We'd have to run for our lives.
Blimcia's apartment near the Planty, at 1331 Slowackiego Street, belonged to Uren Hochbaum. Uren and Malcia Hochbaum had supplied fruits in Katowice for Papa to import. The apartment was situated in an elegant five-story building, one of the newest in Chrzanow. It was surrounded by a garden and bordered by a large park and the castle-like Lebenfeld house, a city landmark. Before the war the gates to the Lebenfeld's private park were always closed to the public. When the chestnuts were ripe on the trees, the servants would open the gates and let the neighborhood children go picking.
Now, in wartime, we had the early evening curfew to contend with. The fence between the Hochbaum house and the Lebenfeld park had been carefully cut to allow postcurfew passage and secret contact with the neighboring houses. The park offered a place to hide from German eyes and a haven for smuggling food and information.
March 17, 1940, was a blustery clear and cold day. Blimcia had not slept all night, and by five o'clock in the morning her pains were coming at regular intervals. She went quietly to the bathroom, not to wake anyone. But Mama, always the light sleeper at Goldzia's beck and call, heard Blimcia and went to her daughter's side. By the time the rest of the family had awakened, Blimcia's hair was in disarray, her forehead was covered with cold sweat, and she was sprawled exhausted on her bed. Mama cleared everybody from the room and spread some clean sheets on the bed. She sat next to Blimcia, wiping her brow and squeezing her hand
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