A Lucky Child: A Memoir of Surviving Auschwitz as a Young Boy (16 page)

I also still remember the day I dunked one of Tamara’s braids — she sat in front of me — into the ink pot on my desk. She
gave me a terribly nasty look but said nothing to our Polish teacher. Instead, she reported me to the head counselor when
we returned to the orphanage. A few days later, I was made to appear before an honors tribunal composed of some older kids.
As punishment, the tribunal sentenced me to carry Tamara’s books to and from school for a period of two weeks and to perform
any other chores she cared to assign to me. That led to our becoming inseparable friends and, after a while, she even volunteered
to mend my socks.

Much of our free time in the orphanage was spent on sports. It soon became apparent that, despite the amputation of my two
toes, I could run very fast, and I gradually developed into a good soccer player. Since I could kick equally well with my
left or right foot, I was able to play a number of different positions. As a result, I was always among the first kids chosen
when the two best players of the orphanage selected their teams. In the orphanage I also learned to play table tennis, which
was a big sport there, and after a while I could beat many of those who had taught me the game. At some point during my stay
there, the orphanage created a boy scout team. Although we were still waiting for proper uniforms by the time I left, I very
much enjoyed the activities we performed as scouts.

In the evenings, particularly on weekdays and after the Sabbath services, Polish and Jewish books would be read aloud. At
times too, some of the kids would put on musical recitals. I remember that one of the older boys played the piano very well,
while others sang or performed some other musical instrument. I soon learned, to my great regret, that I lacked all musical
talent and could not even carry a tune.

From time to time, some of us older kids would be taken on excursions outside of Otwock or be allowed to travel as a group
by ourselves. Once we were given permission to take the train to Warsaw, a mere twenty kilometers from Otwock. The occasion
for our trip was the reopening of the main bridge over the Vistula River connecting Warsaw and its Praga suburb, which had
been destroyed during the war. We had been given money for our tickets, and when we reached the station, somebody suggested
that I buy the tickets, since I was the youngest and could claim that we were all under either ten or twelve, whichever the
cutoff age was. When I got to the ticket window, I made myself shorter than I was and got the reduced-price tickets. We spent
the extra money on candy and felt really proud of ourselves.

We grew vegetables in the garden behind the orphanage, and if we wished, we were assigned a small plot for individual cultivation.
We grew cucumbers, carrots, beans, cabbages, and tomatoes. I loved working in my little garden, particularly after one of
the kids showed me how to change the shape of a cucumber by putting the still-small plant into a bottle. After following his
instructions, I would faithfully inspect my bottled cucumber every morning to see what was happening to it. My experiment
did not turn out the way I had hoped because when I tried to get the ripe but deformed cucumber out of the bottle, I mutilated
it.

To one side of our building, near the garden, the beekeeper kept a row of beehives. Fascinated by what he was doing, I volunteered
to help him one day. He instructed me on what to do, and, after donning the protective net he handed me, I tried to operate
the bellows used to smoke out the bees so the beekeeper could remove the honey. As I struggled unsuccessfully to make the
bellows work, I began to get stung on my gloveless hands and decided to run despite the beekeeper’s warnings to stand still.
The beehives must have been located some twenty meters from the orphanage building, and as I tried to outrun the bees, whole
swarms began to follow me. With my protective net no longer in place, I was being stung all over my face and neck. I made
it to the building and slammed the door shut, leaving most but not all of the bees behind. The nurse I went to see later said
that I was very lucky, because had I been allergic to bee stings, I might well have died. As it was, I was in considerable
pain for a number of days with my swollen hands, face, and neck. I never again went near the beehives.

One day two of my friends found a handgun in the forest, and they told me about it because, as they put it, I knew “how to
handle guns.” They had buried the gun near a tree and wanted me to look at it in order to see whether it worked. The three
of us went into the forest, and my friends dug out the gun. I inspected it with all the apparent expertise I could muster
for their benefit. It was quite dirty and even rusty in places, and I wondered whether it would work. What to do? Here we
faced a real dilemma, for there was only one bullet in the magazine: if we tested the gun to see whether it worked, we would
end up with a gun but no ammunition; if we decided to save our only bullet, however, we would always wonder whether the gun
worked. Eventually, our curiosity got the better of us, and we convinced ourselves that at some future time we would be able
to acquire the needed ammunition. Since I had bragged to all willing to listen that I had lots of experience shooting guns,
my friends decided that I should be the one to try it out. I was not happy about this decision because I had been told by
those who gave me my little gun in the Polish army that a dirty, rusty gun might explode when used. When it appeared that
I had no choice but to demonstrate my expertise with guns, I asked my friends to stand some distance behind me as I proceeded
to aim the gun at a big tree a few meters away. I pulled the trigger, and the gun went off with a big bang, emitting a great
deal of smoke. But I was still standing, gun in hand and uninjured. We decided to rebury the gun after wrapping it in some
cloth. We had planned to come back a few days later with bicycle oil or butter to clean the gun. In the meantime, though,
Polish government placards appeared all over town, some of them nailed to trees near the orphanage, calling on the population
to turn in all weapons. My two friends and I debated what to do with our buried gun and decided to leave it where it was.
It is probably still there.

The mail for the orphanage had to be picked up at the Otwock post office in town. This chore was usually assigned to one or
two of the older kids. They hated it, however, because to get to the post office they had to pass a nearby Catholic orphanage,
where the Polish kids would bombard them with stones or try to beat them up while hurling anti-Semitic curses at them. Our
kids therefore tried to avoid the Catholic orphanage by taking elaborate detours through the forest, although even then they
might sometimes be set upon. Not long after I arrived at the orphanage, it was decided that because I did not look Jewish
and could easily pass for a Pole, I should be given the job of picking up the mail. For a time, I passed the Polish orphanage
without any problems. But once the Polish kids figured out that I came from the Jewish orphanage, I was no longer immune to
their attacks. Although I could not escape their anti-Semitic catcalls, I usually managed to outrun the Polish kids. The worst
part of my job as mailman, though, was that there never was any mail for me.

During my stay at the orphanage, its administration was in the hands of the Jewish Bund, a leftist socialist political party
that among other things believed that Jews should help build a socialist Polish state rather than emigrate to Palestine to
help create a Jewish state. Those who ran the orphanage therefore made no effort to encourage emigration to Palestine or to
engage in activities preparing us for it. This situation did not go unnoticed by some Zionist groups in Poland and prompted
one of them — a Zionist youth organization known as Hashomer Hatzair — to infiltrate the orphanage in order to secretly promote
emigration to Palestine. That is how a young woman by the name of Lola ended up at our orphanage. By the time I arrived at
Otwock, she had become either the head counselor or the counselor for my group. While I am not sure what her precise position
was, I know that I adored her, as did all of my friends.

After I had already been in the orphanage for some time, Lola invited me to go for a walk with her. As we left the orphanage
grounds, she asked me whether I had ever thought of going to Palestine or whether I planned to stay in Poland. I must admit
that I had never given the matter any thought, as I expected that my parents, whenever I found them, would make such decisions
for me. Nevertheless, I had heard my father speak of Palestine and of the need for us Jews to have our own country someday.
With his words in my mind, I told Lola, “I would love to live in Palestine because there I would not have to worry about being
called a dirty Jew or have Polish kids throw stones at me.” “If you are sure that you really want to live in Palestine,” Lola
said, “then I will let you in on a very important secret. But you must promise not to tell anyone.”

After I promised her that the secret would forever be safe with me, Lola told me that some of the older kids, both girls and
boys, had already let her know that they wished to live in Palestine and that she, in turn, would help them get there. She
had drawn up a list with the names of these children, and if I was really sure that I wanted to move to Palestine, she would
add my name to the list. Of course, I told her that I was more than sure. Lola then explained how the scheme would work. Starting
soon, one child at a time would sneak out of the orphanage and be picked up by some people from Hashomer Hatzair. That child
would then be taken to a temporary kibbutz in Poland, where arrangements would be made for him or her to be smuggled out of
Poland to Palestine via either Italy or France. This process would be repeated every few weeks.

It all sounded terribly exciting. I immediately volunteered to be among the first kids to run away. But Lola explained that
I had to be the last to leave the orphanage because I was “famous.” What she meant was that since the orphanage administration
had publicized my background and presence in the home, my disappearance would most certainly lead to investigations and jeopardize
the entire operation. In the meantime, though, she promised that my name would be placed on the list and that it would be
sent to the appropriate offices in Palestine. This way I could be sure that I would not be left behind. I was thrilled at
the prospect of living in Palestine, and, though I was sorry that I would have to wait my turn, I accepted that what Lola
told me made good sense.

Some months passed after that conversation with Lola without my hearing anything more about our secret. Then one morning,
when I had given up all hope of ever moving to Palestine, the director of the orphanage called me to her office. Because we
were usually asked to see the director only if we were guilty of some serious disciplinary transgression, I was sure that
she had learned of the Hashomer Hatzair scheme and would interrogate me about it. On my way to her office, I worried about
what I would say and decided that I would rather lie than risk revealing Lola’s plans, which might get her fired. I certainly
did not want to lose Lola.

A big smile greeted me when I entered the director’s office.
She is trying to trick me,
I thought,
and get me to talk.
After asking me to sit down, the director began to question me about my parents. Did I remember my mother’s name? “Gerda,”
I said. “What did you call her?” she asked next, and I replied, “Mutti.” “Do you know where she was born?” I answered that
she was born in Göttingen. There were more questions, some also about my father and when I had last seen my parents, and so
on. I answered as best I could, still wondering what this was all about. Then the director asked me whether I would recognize
my mother if I saw her. “Of course!” I said, and now I was totally confused. “What is this woman driving at?” I wondered and
was sure that she would eventually get to the real reason for my being in her office.

Instead, the director pointed to a letter on her desk. “I have great news for you: Your mother is alive! This is a letter
from her,” she exclaimed enthusiastically. As soon as I saw the letter, all the excitement and happiness I felt at the news
the director had just conveyed vanished. It was written in Polish, and I knew that my mother could not write Polish. The handwriting
was also not hers. I knew that right away because, even before I knew how to read properly, my father used to make fun of
my mother’s handwriting by saying that it looked as if a chicken had walked over a piece of paper after stepping into a pot
of ink. I knew that the letter the director handed me had not been written by my mother.

I felt like crying but did not want to let the director see how disappointed I was. I told her that the letter did not come
from my mother and that it was probably written by someone who wanted to adopt me by pretending to be my mother. It was not
uncommon for Jewish camp survivors, particularly those who had lost their own children, to come to the orphanage and offer
to adopt us. Different Jewish organizations also encouraged adoptions in their publications. We older kids took special pride
in refusing to be adopted, and since I for one was sure that my parents were alive and would soon find me, I had an even better
reason to remain in the orphanage. The director tried to console me by suggesting that I might be mistaken about the letter.
It could have been written in Polish for my mother by someone else, she suggested. After all, the letter was not addressed
to me, she said, but to the orphanage, and my mother may have felt that a letter in German would not even be read. None of
that convinced me, but as I ran out of her office in tears, I heard her say that she was not giving up yet and that I should
not either.

Weeks passed. I tried to put the letter out of my mind but did not succeed. Because I was sure that the letter had not come
from my mother, I began to wonder why, if my parents were alive, they had not yet found me, more than a year after the end
of the war. Once I asked myself that question, I was forced to think the unthinkable: if so many other people were murdered,
wasn’t it possible that my parents had also died? No, that I was not willing to admit. It simply could not be true! Gradually,
though, I began to have doubts and wondered whether maybe only one of them had survived. At this stage, I wondered whether,
if only one of them made it, it would have been my mother or my father. I knew that my mother had had some health problems
in the ghetto — I learned later that she suffered from a thyroid condition — and I also knew how good my father was at outsmarting
the Germans. Those reflections convinced me that if only one of them had survived, it would have to have been my father. But
if he survived, I thought, he would certainly have found me by now. In the past, before the letter, I had been able to avoid
thinking about the fate of my parents by refusing to admit to myself that they might both be dead. Now it gradually dawned
on me that I was probably all alone in the world and that there was not much I could do about it, other than go to Palestine.
Suddenly, that prospect looked even more appealing.