A Chance Encounter

Chance is perhaps the pseudonym of God when He did not want to sign.

Anatole France: Le Jardin d’Épicure.

Who ever knew truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter?

Milton: Areopagitica.

Also by Anna Baum:

Procession: Stories from a Polish Past; 1990

A New Beginning and Other Stories; 1999

Available at www.lulu.com/annabaum

A Chance Encounter

And Other Stories of Polish Jewry

By

A n n a  B a u m

MT Press

To Lucy and Shraga.

Paula, and especially Jerry,

without whose help these books

would never have appeared.

Copyright © 1993 by Anna Baum

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

Contents

1.    Marian and His Family

2.    A Sunday Incident

3.    The Hasid

4.    A Premonition

5.    The Korczak Children’s Home

6.    The Killer

7.    Włada

8.    The Visit

9.    Mirra

10.Hela

11.The Bunker

12.A Vacation in Carlsbad

13.My Darling Sister

14.The Lady from Cracow

15.A Chance Encounter

1.Marian and His Family

I

_

It was very cold that mid‑December night in the first year of World War II, when my cousin Mina and I returned with bleeding feet and frost‑bitten toes to German‑occupied Łódź. The frozen city, already under curfew, greeted us with threatening darkness and hostile silence. We had come back for a few days only, in an attempt to persuade our immediate families, relatives, and a few close friends to leave behind everything they possessed and to set out at once, by any possible means, which meant mostly on foot, toward the then German‑Russian border.

Sometimes I wonder why I still dwell on those fateful events so much. However, it's my guess that a strong urge to tell, in my clumsy unprofessional way, about those who were so close to me and fell like leaves from a tree in a windy late autumn day, leaving neither grave nor headstone, prompts me to sit down and commit to paper everything I remember about them. And I have to hurry, before my memories get dimmer and then fade totally away.

One attaches little importance to certain events, whether major or trivial, at the time of their occurrence, but they are registered and stored away in our minds. Then there comes a time when these remembrances sort themselves out: the most important experiences come to the foreground and acquire their proper significance and perspective.

And so it is with the eventful days of December '39. I had left Łódź about six weeks earlier with a small group of friends, running away from the Germans. Thousands of teenagers like myself took to the road, heading east. We all hoped that the occupation wouldn't last long, and we believed that no great harm could befall the civilian population, especially women and children. When eventually I reached the Russian occupied zone, I thought that it would only be a short wait. But those who came from d two or three weeks after us had some shattering stories to tell. The German grip had tightened around the Jews of Łódź like an  iron ring. Day by day they were being driven out from their homes and squeezed into the most squalid dwellings in the poorest districts of town. There was already an acute shortage of food and fuel. This was just the beginning of the occupation. And although no one had yet heard of a ghetto, concentration, or death camps, the situation was tragic, and death by starvation seemed inevitable. But families could still not think of leaving. How could they, in the dead of winter, leave with small children or elderly parents? There was little or no transportation. How far could one walk with a family in freezing weather? Here, they  still had a roof over their heads, a bed to sleep in, and some things to exchange for bread. And everyone thought that the Germans would certainly be in need of cheap labour. So here we are, and perhaps we will manage, they said. And the vast majority decided to stay.

There were five of us when we first started our long journey back, but only cousin Mina and I reached the city. My friend Róża Zeliger turned back without any explanation before we reached the border, and two others were shot at the border crossing and we never knew which side fired. We came home emotionally exhausted, and thought that it would take ages to recuperate. But we were young, and time was short. The next morning we were ready to help our families to get ready. Then my cousin had to see her friends, and I too wanted to make my own rounds.

First of all, I had to see Sabba, my closest friend. Though her older sister, Rena, our intellectual and spiritual mentor, was bedridden with a temperature, Sabba assured me that they were ready to leave. However, other friends declined to leave, and  everyone had what seemed to be valid reasons. My friend Rosie El said that she would gladly join me, but, as an only daughter, she could not leave her mother and youngest brother, who had recently been diagnosed with tuberculosis in a knee. She just could not abandon them. And though time was pressing, I still wanted to see my friend Marian and his parents, the Strykowskis. I called them up, but no one answered. I called Bronia, Mrs. Strykowski's sister. After many rings, when I was ready to hang up, someone picked up the receiver and I heard a faint, distant, hoarse voice. It was Bronia. I did not recognize her at once. She murmured something, but it was difficult to understand what she was saying. She kept repeating my name again and again, but I could not make out her words. Then her husband, Tomasz Panski, came to the phone. We knew each other only vaguely, but he knew who I was, and said that Bronia was not well and she could not  understand where I was calling from, and from whom I had heard what had happened, because they had not spoken to anyone yet.

Did something happen? I asked. As there was no answer for quite some time, I explained why I had come back and that I wanted Marian to come along. As there was still no answer, I continued by saying that perhaps Marian wouldn't leave without his parents, aunt, and uncle, so we could make it all together. But you will have to be very quick. It would be best, though, if I could speak to Marian and his parents directly. When could I come over? I know, I said, that it is dangerous for men to go out, but could, at least, Bronia come over to her sister's place and we could talk things over?

I heard him murmur something to somebody, and as there was still no answer, I started to shout into the receiver: Did you hear me, can you hear me? I heard heavy breathing, and then in a barely audible voice, he said: Our Maryś is dead. And then I heard a deep sigh. I felt my heart thumping. Coming up to my throat. Almost choking me. My legs felt weak and I wanted to sit down. There was no chair. I leaned against the wall. Some moments later he said in a low, uneven voice: I've said these words for the first time. We are all in our house. Anna (Mrs. Strykowski)  is getting dressed. They are about to leave. They want to go home. It would do Anna a lot of good if you could go over and talk to her. Perhaps she'll tell you how it happened. It would do her a lot of good, he repeated.

I'll be there soon, I said. I'll call you later, and I  rang off.

II

__

The Strykowskis, the parents of my friend Marian, were different from the parents of our other friends. They were somehow more accessible to their son's circle, and in a way, they had become our friends too.

Mr. Strykowski was a tallish, narrowly built man with very thin, faded blond hair, light gray eyes, a longish ascetic face and long, dangling limbs. His clothes were neat, trim, well pressed, and worn thin. But he wore them with flair. By profession he was an accountant, but did not have a private office. The only amenity or semblance of an office was the telephone on his desk in their living‑dining room. I do not know how he made out in those economically difficult times, but I assume that it couldn't have been easy for him to make a decent living. However, we all knew that he was not too well off. But, true enough, he did have more free time on his hands and he would often drop in on his friends just to tell some of his entertaining anecdotes and funny jokes.

With some stuffy people he did not care much about, Mr. Strykowski could be most flamboyant, and would converse with them in a rather flippant tone of voice. And that's why some thought him to be frivolous and light‑headed. In reality, though, he was deeply reflective. I remember him leaning on some piece of furniture, or pacing from one corner of a room to another (I seldom, in fact, saw him in a sitting position), listening attentively to whatever was being said and laughing good heartedly. But those close to him knew that he judged everyone seriously. I sometimes noticed how he behaved with people of his own age: he seemed to be a detached and aloof observer of their foibles, and later turned those weaknesses and mannerisms into constantly new material for his quips and puns. His humorous and often satirical sayings were always direct, short, and lucid, and one usually could discern the goodness and humour behind his  words.

I believe that he was a diligent worker, but his profession allowed him a freedom of movement, and, footloose in town, more often than not he would drop into Strykowski's (no relation) elegant Office Supply store, on the `good side' of Piotrkowska Street, to try out a few newly coined witticisms on his friend Jacob, the chief clerk, a connoisseur and master of amusing sayings and anecdotes.

I remember him dropping in, on his way home, on a sweltering summer day. Downing a glass of cold water, he murmured in a most serious tone of voice: Such a day. I'm all wet. Couldn't find the galoshes this morning. When feeling low he would seem to be  totally absurd, giving an impression of emotional detachment from his predicaments. He would snap his thin, tapering fingers,  saying: Chaff, all chaff, all nonsense, all triviality. Although he was not politically inclined, he always made it clear that his sympathies lay with the intellectual left. And whenever Rena needed support for many of her causes she could always count on the Strykowskis' generosity.

III

_

Mrs. Strykowski was almost as tall as her husband, with a lovely figure, rather broad shouldered and good looking. I never saw her wearing make‑up, not even lipstick. Her movements were slow, systematic, and she spoke in a hesitant, low voice. She was rather shy, submissive, and reserved, sometimes to the point of silence, and at times she seemed remote and detached. She and her sister were very close with Rena. It must be said that Rena had an unusual personality, and people were drawn to her like bees to a honey pot. I believe that the three of them subscribed to the same library and read the same books, because they endlessly discussed them, and I was under the impression that Mrs. Strykowski had a rare ability and willingness to suffer with the  characters she was reading about. However, she did not only read books. She kept her house clean and neat with very little outside help, and she helped with her husband's professional work. One could often see her at the desk, bent over the ledgers or large accounting sheets.

Nearby there lived the Panskis: Mrs. Strykowski's younger and only sister, Bronia, and her husband. Bronia was a blonde with brown eyes, considerably shorter than her sister, and had a tendency to gain weight. She had been an ailing woman for several years before the war, and had undergone surgery twice. Her husband, Mr. Panski, came from a well‑to‑do family and, if I am not mistaken, he was in the publishing business.

Financially he was better off than his brother‑in‑law. He was a highly cultured and busy man: his occupation allowed him little free time. Not tall but strong of build, he was more on the stout side. The Panskis had no children, but they considered Marian to be their own son and treated him accordingly. Both families took part in his upbringing, and I was aware that they shared the cost of his education in private schools.

Marian, or Maryś, as he was called at home and among his closest friends, was not particularly tall. Though masculine in build and looks, he resembled his mother, but his bone structure was rather heavy and solid. However, he inherited his father's quick mind and sharp humour, and he even surpassed him in  inventing jokes and anecdotes. he was a good student, because he was interested in everything and wanted to find out everything by himself, and he was an exemplary son and nephew. It never bothered him that he practically had two mothers: he grew up with them, calling his aunt and uncle by their first names. He was brought up in a cultured and entertaining milieu, and though indifferent to music, he developed an insatiable intellectual curiosity. Although he was somewhat younger than some of my friends and myself, he knew many things we did not know. He instinctively knew how to segregate and store his knowledge and to come up with the correct and necessary information at the right time. There hardly was a thing that he wouldn't know something about. He also had an accurate eye and a direct hand. His caricatures were not only funny, but had deep meaning as  well. He was not an athlete himself, but liked to say that "mens sana in corpore sano." But above all he was a good and cheerful friend, always in excellent spirits.

IV

__

It did not take me long and I was at the Strykowskis' door, but no one answered my ring. Apparently I had made it faster than they had. My legs were nimble then. In a minute or two I heard them coming up. I leaned on the rail and looked down: first I saw Mrs. Strykowski, her husband trudging behind her. I was taken aback. Had I not been expecting to see her I would not have recognized her. She looked twice her age. Her ash‑blond, lightly wavy hair had turned steely gray since I had last seen her only a few weeks previously, and was now in a noticeable disarray. There were dark blue crescents under her eyes, deep hollows under her cheekbones, and her skin hung down in folds. A fearful, questioning expression was on her face, and she kept turning her head fearfully in all directions, as if expecting a blow from behind. It struck me that her overall appearance was that of an apparition from a different world. Over her familiar black winter coat, she wore a heavy plaid peasant shawl, and as soon as her husband opened the door, she pointed to the shawl, saying: That's to cover my arm band with the yellow star, that everlasting shame to civilization.

Mrs. Strykowski, had she had the courage and stamina, could have avoided wearing the yellow star. I presume that if they had thought it through at the beginning of the war, all five of them could have gone into hiding. They were sufficiently integrated in appearance, linguistically, and socially, to conveniently pass as Gentiles. But to do this, they would have had to go to another city or place where no one knew them, and they would have had to be financially self‑reliant. I doubt that the Strykowskis had any ready cash. The Panskis probably did. However, be that as it may, the notion about hiding did not occur to them.

Mr. Strykowski busied himself with the coats and shawl and started to pace around the room. He straightened the chairs, tugged at the tablecloth, absentmindedly pulled out some drawers from his desk, and then said to me: You'll forgive me, and went into the adjoining room.

I took Mrs. Strykowski's hand and held it. We stood and looked at each other for a while. Sit down, sit down, she said, and we sat down at the table. She sat motionless, as if collecting her thoughts, and I waited for her to speak. After some time, she said in a low broken voice: "You probably have already heard that we left a week, or perhaps ten days, after you did. We took very little in our knapsacks: we left everything, and just locked up our homes. It took us quite a long time to reach Skierniewice. We had a ride to Żyrardów in a freight train, and we made the long way to Siedlce by hiring peasant carts from village to village. Although it was the end of November, the weather was still gentle and mild, and we didn't suffer much, but the long autumn nights fell early, and if we couldn't reach a village ahead of time to arrange to sleep in someone's barn, we were very miserable, especially Bronia, being in such poor health.

We arrived in Siedlce when the pale sunlight was already dying. None of us had ever seen such big crowds in and around a train station. We were told the trains were still running as far as the new German‑Russian border. And that was where we wanted to go. As dusk turned to night rapidly, and there was no place to sit down, even on the bare floor, we decided that we should look for a village in which to spend the night. Tomasz (Mr. Panski) was eager to find a place on account of Bronia.

I knew that Mrs. Strykowski always considered her brother‑in‑law a notch above everyone else, and I assume that she respected his wishes.

"We started out on a dirt road toward a village named Glazy. The first stars had already appeared in the darkening sky when a woman returning to town asked us where we were heading so late. We told her, and she, not taking much time, said that she couldn't allow us to walk all by ourselves in the dark. She told us that she and her family lived not far away and we could spend the night with them.

"Tomasz did not much like her ingratiating manner, but we followed her anyway. She brought us to a large one‑room apartment. Her husband, a tall, bearded man in Orthodox garb, was sitting at the table, and by the light of a kerosene lamp was fussing over an old, rusty looking clock. The woman told her husband, in Yiddish, where she had met us, and that she had invited us for the night. He said that they couldn't offer much, but we were welcome. The woman started to fish out from the inside of her jacket and from deeply hidden pockets some bread, dried beans, cereal, a few potatoes and even two eggs. She said that since the beginning of the war she went every day to the neighbouring villages, collecting old and long forgotten broken down clocks. After her husband repaired them, she took them back to the peasants, bringing home whatever they could offer.

"She put on a large linen apron, tied it around her waist, and with the help of her twelve year old daughter prepared a soup that we all ate with slices of wholesome bread. There were twin beds for the parents and the baby boy, and a daybed for the two girls. They offered the daybed for Bronia, and though she protested vehemently, we both lied down on it, and the men, for the first time since we had left home, prepared themselves for a good night's sleep on some blankets on the floor.

"Suddenly, we heard several single shots from somewhere. In the murky light I saw the woman sliding out of bed and stealthily, with feline steps, walking to the window. Groping at her chest, she put her ear to the window pane. It seemed that she was waiting for something: she moved her lips automatically murmuring something, as if praying. And then the ra‑ta‑ta of automatic rifles tore the silence. To me it seemed that it lasted an eternity. The woman went back to bed, and I could hear her  soft sobbing. No one uttered a word.

"The next morning we rose after dawn. The children were still asleep. The men shaved themselves in front of a small, clouded mirror speckled with tarnish. We were dubious about going back to the station, fearing the unfathomable crowds, but we had to leave. The woman would accept neither thanks nor money. However, Tomasz told us later that he managed to put some money under the pillow on the daybed. Before leaving we had to promise her that, if we wouldn't be able to leave that day, we would come back to them at nightfall. `Under no circumstances can you stay the night out there,' she said. We promised.

"When day had broken, we started out toward the station. It was unusually cold and windy. Dark clouds were moving rapidly, like the dead leaves under our feet. We noticed that there were considerably fewer people than the previous night. It appeared that more than half the crowd was gone. We wondered if there had  been any trains during the night. Then a girl came up and told us that the previous evening at about ten o'clock two German soldiers came into the station, asking if there were any Jews. No one answered. The Germans started to beat those closest to them. A commotion broke out. Then they ordered all the Jews to stand up. Not many did. Some hooligans materialized from somewhere and started to point out Jews to the soldiers. More soldiers arrived and they started to beat with the butts of their rifles those who were standing, screaming `Jude raus, Jude raus.' They rounded up all those people and led them into the dark. After some time the automatic rifles were heard. And no one from that crowd came back to the station. `I did not stand up,' she said, `and I believe there were more girls who sat in the dark corners or pretended to be asleep. They could not be identified in the dim station light. I spoke to a young Pole who works here,' she continued, `and he told me that the same scenario is repeated every night, and that I should not stay the night here. The Germans themselves could not distinguish Jews from non‑Jews, but, more often than not, the local