In the Mouth of the Wolf (3 page)

 

We rode all day and all night, arriving in Ostrowiec before dawn the next morning. Asking directions to Mayer's uncle's house, we learned to our annoyance that the station was not really in Ostrowiec at all, but several kilometers outside of town. We had a long walk ahead of us. Benek decided he was hungry and went to get a roll and a cup of coffee at the kiosk. He asked if I wanted anything, but I shook my head. I was eager to get started.

When he came back, we set out, Benek walking several paces ahead of me so that anyone watching us would think we were two strangers who happened to come in on the train together. As we rounded a bend in the road we saw a group of laborers approaching, carrying their picks and shovels. As soon as they noticed us, they cried, “Hey! Turn around! Don't go to the city! They're rounding up all you Jews! Go back while you can!”

How did they know? Did the strain of our journey show in our faces? Was it because we were too well dressed or because other Jews had come in from that same station, seeking shelter with their relatives in town? Regardless of
the reason, they did know, and they were warning us that our supposed haven in Ostrowiec had become a death trap. We clearly had to go back, but where?

We returned to the station. In spite of our desperate circumstances, Benek was still hungry. I sent him off to get breakfast while I sat down to think of a plan. Our only chance was to go back to Warsaw the way we came. I knew the address of a woman there who was active in the Polish underground. Her name was Irena Adamowicz. Our youth group had contacted her several times in the past. Perhaps she would help us now, or at least put us in contact with someone who could. On our own, running from one town to the next, we had no chance at all.

Benek returned, bringing me a roll. I told him to find out when the next train left for Warsaw. He came back with bad news. There was only one train a day. It left at midnight, and the number of places aboard was restricted. First priority went to people with an official traveler's permit. Getting one was out of the question. The only way for us to get on board was to wait in line and hope there would be some places left.

I looked at my watch. It wasn't quite noon and already the line was starting to form. Benek took a place toward the front, while I found one five people behind him. We had hours to wait, but each second seemed like the tolling of a death knell. What would we do if someone got suspicious? Our only documents were our false papers. We had no ration books, no work cards, we knew nobody in the town. In fact, we knew nothing about the place at all. If someone asked “What are you doing in Ostrowiec?” we were lost. That was why I didn't want to eat or drink. I didn't want to sit down or go to the bathroom. I didn't want to talk to anyone.
I wanted one thing and one thing only—to be on the train to Warsaw and gone!

At about three o'clock a gang of teenagers came swaggering through the station. “
Lobuzy!
” I thought when I saw them. Hoodlums. Of the whole Polish population, delinquents like these were absolutely the worst: thoroughly vicious and completely without pity. Finding a runaway Jew, taking everything he had, then turning him over to the police was a game for them—an amusing way to spend an afternoon. Down the line they came, pushing, making remarks, looking for trouble. When they came to me, they stopped. I stood staring straight ahead while the whole gang looked me over. I knew why I attracted their attention. I looked too good. My clothes were too stylish for this little town. “What's this
panienka
doing here?” I could imagine them wondering. “Maybe she's a Jew on the run?” They gathered around me, glaring, looking me over. One stuck his nose right in my face. My mouth was dry and my heart raced, but I knew that if I showed the slightest fear I was finished. So I glared right back, hoping my face wouldn't betray the tension I really felt. They muttered a few curses and moved on. Only then did I let out my breath. But as for Benek, the railway man in Piotrków was right. They didn't give him a second look.

 

By six-thirty the line waiting for the Warsaw train was very long. The pushing and shoving grew unbearable. Benek and I held our places at the head of the line, but we had to fight hard to keep them. At seven o'clock the ticket window opened. The crowd began to move. I saw Benek buy his ticket. One problem solved. But there were still five people to go before I got mine. As I stood in line waiting
my turn, a man in a railway uniform came over. “I'd like a word with you,” he said.

“What do you want?” I replied, still keeping my eye on the ticket window.

“Where are you going?”

“To Warsaw. Is it your business?”

“It might be. You think you're going to get a ticket?” “Of course I'm going to get a ticket. I've been on this line since morning.”

He sneered. “That doesn't mean a thing. If you really want a ticket, you better be able to pay for one.”

I got the message. He suspected I was Jewish, desperate to leave town and willing to pay him a hefty bribe if he'd get a ticket to Warsaw for me. And if I wasn't so willing…well, he just might call a policeman. It was blackmail all right, but he wasn't a good blackmailer. He didn't have the ticket in his hand, and I wasn't going to fork over my money just to see him disappear. Furthermore, I didn't really have that much money, and what little I did have Benek and I were going to need when we got to Warsaw. Besides, I was far enough ahead in line to get a ticket without help from anyone.

I answered him with all the brass I could muster, “What do you mean? How do you know I'm able to pay? Did you count my money?” Since he wanted to conduct this conversation in whispers, I raised my voice loud enough for the whole station to hear. “I don't know what you're talking about! I don't have any money. All I have are fifty zlotys. And even if I had a million, why should I pay you anything? I'm going to get a ticket for sure. I'm one of the first on line!”

“Keep your voice down!” he hissed. “Don't you see I'm trying to do you a favor? You think you're so smart?
You won't get a ticket. If you expect to be on that train, you better be willing to pay.”

That did it. “Listen here, you crook!” I started yelling. “I'm not from Ostrowiec; I'm from Piotrków. I have to get back home. If you're so hungry for a bribe, why don't you ask the people from Ostrowiec to pay?” I knew my rights. Out-of-town passengers had first priority in buying tickets on restricted trains.

The railway man rolled his eyes. This confrontation was more than he bargained for. He must have guessed wrong. Since when do Jews act like this? Instead of a meek, frightened girl, here was a loud-mouthed young woman calling him a crook in front of the whole station! He turned around and scurried out the door like a frightened cockroach while I laughed and thought of my father's words: “Never show fear to your enemies, because if they think you are afraid of them, they are absolutely merciless. Instead, attack your attacker. Always do the unexpected.” Once again he was right. For the second time I owed him my life.

“One way to Warsaw, please,” I said, stepping up to the ticket window.

“You're not from Ostrowiec, are you?” the ticket man asked.

“No,” I said, showing my passport. “Piotrków.”

Sure enough, I got my ticket.

The Shop in Rudniki

 

 

      We arrived in Warsaw shortly before noon the next day and asked directions to Miss Adamowicz's address. It turned out to be in one of the city's most exclusive neighborhoods. The streets and houses were beautifully kept, but what impressed us most was not so much the elegant air as the serene quiet that hovered over the district. Coming as we did from the clattering tumult of the trains and the total chaos of the railway terminals, such stillness struck us as positively eerie, as if we had somehow wandered into a secret cul-de-sac where the turmoil of daily events was as inconsequential as an afternoon sun shower.

We located the address and went inside. We found
ourselves in a beautiful lobby decorated with ceramic tiles and bunches of oleanders arranged in ceramic pots. We looked up the name “Adamowicz” in the tenants' register. The apartment was on the second floor. As we walked up, I remembered a line from Hermann Hesse's novel
Steppen-wolf
, a book I had read years before. Entering a house, Steppenwolf is struck by what he describes as its “middle-class smell.” As Benek and I climbed those graceful stairs to Miss Adamowicz's apartment, I suddenly realized what Hesse meant. Like Steppenwolf, tormented, driven, terrified by his own surging emotions, I, too, marveled at the fate that had led me to this oddly tranquil place that seemed light-years away from the terror that lurked outside its doors.

We rang. The doorbell tinkled with a silvery chime. An old woman with aristocratic features answered. “Yes?” she said tentatively, standing in the doorway. “What can I do for you?”

“Is Miss Adamowicz in?” we asked. She invited us to come inside. We found ourselves in a beautifully furnished foyer that was as large as an average living room.

“What do you want with Miss Adamowicz?”

“It's about my brother,” I replied. “He's having problems at home. I was hoping Miss Adamowicz would know what to do.” Miss Adamowicz was a social worker who specialized in counseling delinquent boys. An active member of the Polish Resistance, she used her contacts with the Scouts and other youth organizations to deliver messages and food to the Warsaw ghetto. All our correspondence with the ghetto underground went through her. I had no idea how much the woman we were talking to knew about these activities, but I was determined not to reveal any more than I absolutely had to.

“Miss Adamowicz is gone, and she won't be back for a while,” I was told. “She's visiting the orphanage. If you hurry, you might be able to catch her. I'll write the address down for you.” As the woman went to get a pencil and a piece of paper, I asked if I might use the bathroom. “It's just down die hall,” she said, pointing the way.

The bathroom, ten feet square, was a palace of gleaming white tile and marble. As I shut the door, I realized that nearly two days had passed since I last went to the toilet. With all my energy focused on staying alive, I hadn't paid any attention at all to my physical needs. I sat down with shuddering relief. When I finished, I turned on the faucet to wash my hands and a flood of deliciously hot water came gushing out. I splashed some on my face. It felt so good I decided I was not leaving that room until I had had a bath. Stripping off my clothes and using plenty of hot water, I scrubbed with Miss Adamowicz's fine perfumed soap and dried myself off with her luxurious towels.

I was nearly finished when the old woman began pounding on the door. “Is everything all right? What are you doing in there? Why are you taking so long?”

“One minute, please,” I replied through the locked door. “I'll be out soon, as soon as I finish washing.” I rinsed the last of the soap from my face. I felt wonderfully refreshed. Now I was ready to take on the world.

The old woman looked annoyed when I finally emerged from the bathroom. She handed me the address of the orphanage and showed us the door. I thanked her and left quickly, which suited us both. Then Benek and I set off to find Miss Adamowicz.

It took us a while to locate the orphanage, only to find we were too late. Miss Adamowicz had just gone back to her office. She was leaving town for several days on business,
we were told, but if we hurried we might still be able to catch her. We hopped on a tram and after an agonizingly slow ride arrived in front of the old courthouse building. Miss Adamowicz's office was on the top floor. We tore up the rickety stairs and found a door marked “
JUVENILE PROGRAMS—BOYS
.”

I knocked.

“Come in,” a voice answered. Benek and I entered.

A man was sitting at one of two desks in the room. The other was empty. He asked if he could help us.

“We came to see Miss Adamowicz,” I said.

“Miss Adamowicz is out of the office right now, but if you'd like to wait outside, I'm sure she'll be able to see you in a few minutes.”

We went out and sat down on a bench. After what seemed like hours, the door opened and the same man told us to come in. Miss Adamowicz was waiting at her desk: a prim, slender woman in her mid-thirties with short brownish blonde hair. Her voice was very proper and businesslike.

“What can I do for you?”

“Oh, Miss Irena,” I started to say, “our family is in terrible trouble.” This was an underground code phrase meaning that the town we had just come from was
Judenrein
—“Jew-free,” that is, all the Jews had been deported—and now we had nowhere to go. As soon as I said those terrible words, the seething emotions of the last two days came pouring out in great, heart-rending sobs. Miss Adamowicz sat me down in the chair next to her desk and gave me a handkerchief.

“Go ahead. Cry,” she said. “Don't hold anything back. Let the tears flow.”

It was a while before I was composed enough to continue.
I explained that Benek and I had come to Warsaw without any idea of where to go or what to do. Could she help us? Miss Adamowicz wrote a telephone number down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. She didn't have to explain further. It was the secret number of the Jewish underground inside the ghetto. I was to call that number and get in touch with them. It was all the help she could give me.

We thanked her and left. Around the corner from the courthouse we found a small dairy store. Benek sat down and had a glass of milk and a roll while I went to dial the number. I heard the phone ringing at the other end, and then a voice.

“Yes?”

I suddenly realized I didn't know any of the passwords. All I had was the phone number. Then I remembered a young man in the Warsaw underground who used to come to our city to deliver illegal newspapers. We called him Wyga.

“Is Wyga there?” I asked. “Can I speak to Wyga? I just came from Piotrków, and the family is in big trouble.”

There was a pause at the other end. Then another voice came on. “What's your name?”

“Ruszka Guterman.”

“What are you wearing?”

“A gray coat with a sealskin collar. Oh, and a crocheted hat. It covers my ears.”

“Good. Do you know the tram station on the Aleje Ujazdowskie?”

“Yes.”

“Be there tomorrow at eleven o'clock. Someone will contact you.” The line went dead.

I hung up the phone and joined Benek at the table. He
ordered another roll and two glasses of milk while I explained the situation. Now all we had to do was find a place to stay for the night. Hopefully the hotel situation in Warsaw was better than that in Piotrków.

It wasn't. Up and down the streets we walked, stopping at every hotel, asking if a room was available. The answer was always the same: “No.” Finally we came to the Hotel Polski, the largest, most elegant hotel in Warsaw. While Benek waited outside, I went in and asked if there were any rooms. There was one: a double room with two beds. The price was astronomical and I really only wanted a single, but since I was having no luck anywhere else, I decided to take it. I registered, paid in advance, and left my suitcase in the room. Then I went back outside, met Benek, and started looking for a room for him.

We walked for hours. It began to get dark. It seemed there wasn't another room in all of Warsaw. We finally decided there was no point in looking further and went back to my hotel.

“This is my cousin,” I explained to the desk clerk. “We've been walking all over the city, and we can't find a room for him. Since I have two beds in my room, will it be all right if he stays there with me tonight?”

The clerk sighed. “It's your room, Miss. You can do as you please. But you seem like a nice girl, so I'll be frank. The police raid these hotels all the time. If they find a man in your room—even if he really is your cousin—they'll give you a yellow book.” When a girl was issued a yellow book, it meant she was officially registered as a prostitute—not the sort of thing I wanted on my record. But what were we to do? Benek couldn't spend the night in the street.

We decided to try again to find another room. This time we were lucky. Shortly before six we came upon a
small, shabby hotel. “I'd like a room for my cousin,” I said to the clerk.

“Sorry. There are no rooms available.”

“Well, in that case do you have a spare closet? Could you take out the mops and brooms and let him sleep on the floor? Is there a chair where he could sit up for the night? We'll gladly pay whatever you want, but I must find a place for him. Curfew is at eight and the Germans will throw him in jail if they catch him out on the street. Please, I'm desperate! Can't you help me?”

He frowned. “Well, I did have a man who checked out this morning and wasn't sure if he'd be back. He asked me to hold a room for him until six. It's almost six now. If he's not back by then, I guess I can let your cousin have it.” We spent an agonizing few minutes in the lobby wondering if the man would show up. But six o'clock came without any sign of him, so the clerk gave my brother the room. That crisis solved, we went out to find something to eat. We found a small grocery store and bought radishes, salami, and bread. These we brought back to Benek's hotel. Then we sat down to our own little feast. How we cried, Benek and I, for sorrow and yet for joy. In spite of all the odds, all the dangers, we were still alive, still free, and still very much together.

 

The next day we waited by the tramway station on the Aleje Ujazdowskie, but no one met us. For an hour we walked back and forth, studying every stranger's face, hoping he or she might be the one to make contact—but nothing happened. Finally we gave up. I went back to the Hotel Polski and dialed the number Miss Adamowicz had given me. When someone answered, I explained again that I was from Piotrków, that the family was in big trouble, and that
I had made an appointment to meet someone on the Aleje Ujazdowskie but no one showed up. I was told to go back to the same place at the same time tomorrow. This time, they assured me, someone would be there. Someone was—a woman who played as much a part in the history of the Warsaw ghetto as Mordecai Anielewicz. Her name was Tosia Altman.

I was annoyed. Why hadn't anyone met me the day before? I was at the right place, and they knew what I was wearing. Tosia explained. It was because I mentioned Wyga. Wyga had been picked up by the Gestapo, the German secret police, and interrogated for several days. Then they let him go. Rumor had it that Wyga was now working for the police. Therefore, when I called and asked to speak to him, the group immediately suspected a trap. They checked their records to see if a Ruszka Guterman had indeed been one of the youth leaders in Piotrków and watched me the whole first day to see if I was who I said I was, if I was being followed, if I was with anyone else besides my brother. Only when they were satisfied that my story was genuine did they finally make contact.

We had a lot to talk about. Tosia suggested going back to my hotel but changed her mind when she found it was the Polski. Instead we went for a long walk. She gave me this advice:

“The first thing you both must do is find jobs. Once you have jobs, you can apply for working papers, rations, and residence permits. Get in touch with me again when you find work, and we'll take it from there.”

So Benek and I bought a newspaper and began going through the want ads. I barely turned the first page when I found a job for him. In a small town on the outskirts of Warsaw a man was looking for a well-mannered, clean-cut
boy (nonsmoker preferred) to be a barber's apprentice. Room, board, and clothing were provided in addition to a small monthly stipend. I knew we wouldn't find anything better.

“Well, Benek,” I said, “once upon a time your name was Benek Guterman, and you were supposed to go to the gymnasium [secondary school]. But now your name is Tadeusz Stempien, and you're going to learn to cut hair.” And that was exactly what happened. He applied for the job, was accepted, and went off the next day with 450 zlotys and his sister's blessing to learn the barbering trade.

Soon afterward I found a position for myself. A couple who made leather uppers for shoes was advertising for a sewing-machine operator willing to help out with household chores. This was a perfect job for me. My father's business was manufacturing shoe uppers, and I knew how to operate a sewing machine. As for household chores, how hard could that be? I jotted down the address and went over the next day.

A short, heavy-set woman interviewed me. She explained that the shoe business was booming. Her husband had just opened another shop in Rudniki, a small town about an hour's train ride from Warsaw. Their daughter had gone to assist him while she remained in town to run the original store. What they needed was a jack-of-all-trades willing to help out in the new place by cleaning, cooking, and washing clothes, and able to pitch in with some of the leatherwork. The woman said she'd like to give me the job, but before making a final decision, she wanted me to spend a few days with her and do the laundry. That would prove if I was a good worker or not.