open, unfolded the ladder, and climbed up to search the attic.
Noike held his breath. His mother, sister, aunts, and grandmother were hiding in the second attic above the kitchen, which was accessible via a concealed trapdoor in the kitchen ceiling. The women had also taken steps to mask their age and beauty. Tears had streamed down Blima’s face when her mother cut off her long, blonde hair a few days earlier. Pesel understood Blima’s grief: as a teenager in Maciejow during the First World War, she was harassed by German soldiers when she walked through town. She never imagined that her daughter would have the same experience; she never imagined that she would find herself, at the age of thirty-six, covering her hair in a babushka and impersonating an old woman.
“Did you find somebody?” The soldier, still pressing his gun against Noike’s forehead, called up to the attic with impatience.
“Nisht,” the other replied, climbing back down the ladder.
The two soldiers conversed in rapid German, too fast for Noike to understand, then barked their next order: “Take us to the garden.” The Ukrainian girls must have given the soldiers some clues since few homes had gardens large enough to provide cover for one person, let alone five. Although the gun had been pulled away from from Noike’s forehead, he could still feel the cold metal.
Noike led them to the back door that opened onto the garden. Walking through the house he thought of his family—his “sisters”—crouched above them. If someone coughed, sneezed, or shifted, the officers would hear them and it would be over for everyone. The soldiers walked into the vast garden, which was brimming over with lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes, and even tobacco. Noike shut the door behind them as it started to rain.
Noike pressed his ear against the door and listened as the soldiers weaved through the rows of vegetables, stomping on the lettuce and other vegetables in their path. After a brief silence he heard them leave the garden, walk along the side of the house, then head towards the street in the front of the house, off to raid another Jewish family. Their footsteps grew quieter; then at last there was silence.
Although he could breathe again, Noike’s teeth were chattering like a machine gun. Herschel helped him back into bed and held him until he fell asleep.
ABOUT A WEEK LATER WORD SPREAD THAT THE RAIDS were officially over and the Einsatzgruppen had moved on to another town. The aktion had been a success from the German perspective: 1,500 Jews had been killed—a full third of the local Jewish population. Those who survived the raids emerged from their hiding places in cellars, barns, attics, fields, and the woods. They found the streets scattered with bits and pieces of fabric, torn from their family, friends, and neighbors as they tried to escape from their attackers.
When Noike and his family returned home, a longtime neighbor was waiting near the front door with a small bundle. Pesel looked down at the bundle and immediately understood: it was the crocheted shawl that had belonged to her mother, Beila, who had worn it nearly every day.
Beila had refused to leave the house when the rest of the family went into hiding; she had grown senile in recent years and would not listen to reason. “Nobody is going to force me to run from my home,” she had said repeatedly, shaking her head. Her shawl was found near the sidewalk, amid the other personal effects that littered the street, their owners long gone. Beila had raised her family in that house; she was the first one killed.
Noike had never experienced the death of someone close to him, let alone lost someone in such a brutal fashion. He could not comprehend why the Germans would kill someone as harmless as his grandmother. He imagined the Germans dragging her away and wished he could have been there to protect her, as he did his “sisters.” He pictured himself standing in the doorway, steadfastly convincing the soldiers that no one was in the house except for him.
Pesel changed into black clothing and covered the mirrors according to Jewish tradition. She gathered her children to say the mourner’s kaddish, a prayer honoring the dead, and thought of her mother’s good deeds, praying that no one else would meet the same fate. Kaddishes were being said all over town; most women no longer had sons, husbands, or uncles. Hundreds of women had also been murdered, leaving many small children wandering the streets and nearby fields without parents. The Judenrat collected furniture and other household items from the abandoned houses and created an orphanage. Adult survivors took turns helping to feed, bathe, and comfort the little ones.
WINTER CAME AND LIFE WENT BACK TO NORMAL, although to the Jews of Maciejow, “normal” became a relative term. One afternoon soon after the first snow, Noike was heading to a neighbor’s house when he noticed an old rebbe, a teacher of Hebrew and the Bible, walking on the edge of the road. A group of German soldiers pulled up in a horse-drawn sleigh, the customary way to travel in winter. One soldier dismounted the sleigh and pushed the old man into the snow, causing his hat to tumble to the ground. Then the soldier made him pick it up, fill it with snow, and put it back on his head. All of the soldiers laughed as the snow dripped down his face, into his shirt collar. After taunting him a little more, the soldier got back on the sled and they drove away.
Many ethnic Ukrainians were quick to take full advantage of their neighbors’ weakened positions. For years Herschel had begged his mother for skis. Knowing she could not afford them, he started putting aside his own money and somehow managed to save enough to buy them that winter. The skis were made of cheap wood and fitted with leather ankle straps; no special shoes were required. On one of his first outings, a ski trip with friends, he returned home empty-handed.
“Where are your skis?” Noike asked, trailing Hershel as he stormed off to their bedroom. He had hoped Herschel might loan them to him one day.
“Now Jews can’t have skis!” Herschel fumed as he paced the room.
He had been skiing with a group of Jewish boys on the outskirts of town when a couple of Ukrainian farm boys came upon them. “Jews aren’t allowed to own skis,” one of the boys had said. “Give them to us or we’ll call the Gestapo,” another leered, knowing the Gestapo would punish even young Jews for the smallest violations.
Noike felt sorry for his brother; Herschel had wanted those skis so badly.
Later that winter German soldiers came to their house, this time demanding that his mother hand over all of her fur coats. Their countrymen were fighting in the harsh Russian winter and freezing to death; trains filled with wounded and frostbitten German soldiers had been passing through Maciejow in recent weeks. Noike watched with anger as his mother went to the hallway closet and returned with a dusty box containing her late husband’s fur coats; she had kept all of them. She kept almost all of his things for years after he died, until the Germans came and started taking everything away.
5
HAVING SECOND THOUGHTS
Florida, February 2006
A few days into my Florida visit, I woke to an unusually quiet house. I assumed that my parents were immersed in the morning newspaper but no one was in the kitchen. Eager to make the most of my time with my father, I started setting up the video camera and reviewing the questions I had prepared the night before.
“I don’t know why, but I didn’t sleep well last night,” my father said as he walked into the kitchen. “I think I’m going to lie down for a few minutes.”
“All right, well, I
