My Holocaust Story: Hanna Read online

  For David, and all extended family and descendents

  so they will always be aware of how lucky they are to

  be born in Australia.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1941

  1939

  1940

  1941

  1942

  1943

  Historical Notes

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1941

  We knew we were about to be killed. What we didn’t understand was why it hadn’t happened already. Where were these soldiers taking us?

  Huddled in the rear of the German truck, we lurched over rough roads.

  My brother Adam crouched on the floor. His eyes were closed. So were Mama’s and Papa’s. My little sister Ryzia kept up a constant grizzle.

  As I nestled in beside them, my eyes stayed open.

  Through a crack in the canvas, I could look outside as we sped to Otwock. The truck didn’t stop. Instead we drove through the town and out the other side, pulling up in a birch forest.

  It was so cold, the mist so thick, there was so much snow, I could just make out the silhouette of silvery tree-trunks against a dismal grey sky.

  The soldiers ordered us out of the truck. We were told to line up. I closed my eyes and waited.

  When nothing happened, I opened them again.

  An SS officer, a member of Adolf Hitler’s most loyal units, got out of the front cabin and strode towards us. He had the classic look of the German ideal Aryan: tall, slim, blond-haired, small-featured, pale blue eyes. His uniform was impeccable; the black belt around his tunic polished, his collar stiff, the silver insignia shining. Around his arm was the red armband bearing the symbol of the Nazis, the swastika. How I hated that crooked cross and what it represented.

  The officer’s ice-blue eyes regarded us as if we were rats, cockroaches or lice. In some way I couldn’t blame him. We were painfully thin. Our clothes were in tatters. We looked like just like the ‘degenerates’ the Nazis called us. In the time we were hidden on the farm, Mama’s hair had turned grey, and Papa’s hair and stubble were quite white.

  There would be no pity from that officer’s gaze. It finally settled on my father.

  He gave Papa the Nazi salute, keeping his right arm straight, raising it halfway, fingers pointed at the sky. ‘Romek Kaminsky?’ His voice was soft, but cold.

  Papa nodded.

  The officer looked through some papers and said in German, ‘I have orders to bring you to Warsaw, to the Ghetto.’

  Papa stared in astonishment before replying in the same language. ‘Why?’

  ‘It seems you are needed there.’

  We had left Warsaw two years ago. We had been hiding from the Nazis ever since in a farmhouse loft. Now it seemed as if it hadn’t done us the least bit of good.

  The truck drove into Warsaw, then through Aleje Jerozolimskie Street. I caught sight of ‘Kaminsky’s Emporium’, the business my family once owned. Though the building had survived the 1939 bombing raids, it looked terrible. All the store windows were covered by boards and every door bolted.

  The truck continued along Nowy Swiat Street. As we went past our old house Mama let out a faint cry. As if to taunt us, the buildings on either side were in ruins, yet our house was intact. The doorstep still edged onto the pavement. The brass doorhandle, that our housekeeper Elza used to polish so vigorously, still glittered.

  I pictured my room with its low ceiling, carved blue bedhead and quilted spread, my toys and books in their shelves in the wall opposite, the fringed rug on the polished wooden floor.

  Who had been sleeping in my room? What had happened to all the furniture, paintings, books, rugs, silver, and crockery we had left behind? What about Mama’s precious baby grand piano?

  Angry blood rushed to my head.

  Mama’s eyes filled with tears. She’d been so houseproud, so happy with our home and her life as Papa’s wife, someone loved and respected by all our relatives and friends.

  We drove right through the city heading for the northern suburbs. A high concrete wall topped with broken glass and barbed wire was in front of us. The small entrance to what was behind the wall was heavily guarded. The German sentries waved us through.

  We were in the ghetto. The streets were unbelievably crowded and everyone, it seemed, was Jewish. Everyone over the age of ten was branded with a blue Star of David either on a white armband or sewn onto their ragged clothing. Everyone was horribly thin, even thinner than we were, and their eyes were tired. Just like us, all these people had been forced by the Nazis to leave their homes and come here.

  ‘What has happened to them, Papa?’ I whispered.

  Papa took my hand. ‘The ghetto is full of infection. Because of the cramped conditions, they’re hard to avoid.’

  ‘What sort of illness?’ Adam asked.

  ‘Tuberculosis, a sickness of the lungs, is spread by coughing and sneezing. It will be everywhere here. Typhus too. It’s carried by lice that burrow into your clothes and hair.’

  Mama held Ryzia closer. ‘Are there no medicines to cure them?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re expensive, and almost impossible to get inside the ghetto.’ Papa sighed. ‘We must try not to brush against other people.’

  I think Papa believed we’d be dead before we had time to get sick. But in that case, why did the Nazis bother bringing us here? Why hadn’t they shot us in the forest?

  The truck lurched to a halt, flinging us against its canvas sides.

  We heard the front door open.

  The canvas at the back of the vehicle was pulled aside. Once my eyes adjusted to the light, I made out the shape of the tall SS officer.

  ‘Raus! Out!’ he yelled.

  Frozen, lips chapped and sore, stiff from sitting in a cramped position for too long and bruised from being thrown around each time the truck cornered, we clambered onto the road.

  I didn’t dare glance at Papa. I was so frightened, the butterflies in my stomach refused to lie down. But I refused to show that officer how scared I was. I took a deep breath and tried to stand as if about to tackle a difficult vault in a gymnastic routine.

  The officer pulled a sheet of paper out of an upper pocket. Handing it to Papa, he said, ‘Romek Kaminsky, you have been ordered to attend the Jewish Council as a translator.’

  Papa’s chin dropped. ‘You mean—you brought me here to work?’

  ‘A decree was issued last year establishing this ghetto. You are needed to process the Jews sent here.’ The officer gave my father such a disdainful look, Papa took an involuntary step back.

  ‘But … but where are we to live?’ Mama blurted.

  ‘That is not my concern. The only command I’ve been given is to bring you here.’ He gave the Nazi salute, and with a ‘Heil Hitler’, climbed back into the truck.

  We stood there trembling. Partly from shock. Mostly with relief. We couldn’t believe it. We were still alive.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Mama’s voice was barely audible.

  Papa was reading the official piece of paper the SS officer had handed him. He said, ‘Let’s find this Jewish Council and see what they can do for us.’

  He stopped a passer-by to ask him where to find it.

  ‘You mean the Jewish Council of Elders?’ the man answered, sarcastically. He spoke in Yiddish, the historical language of European Jews. ‘The Germans call it the Judenrat. However, I’m not sure if that council helps or hinders our people.’ He pointed to an imposing building a little further down the street. ‘Try the second floor.’ Tipping his hat to Mama, he continued down the street.

&
nbsp; Papa, ever cautious, said, ‘This could be a trap. Best if I go there alone. Wait for me outside the building.’

  We squatted on the filthy pavement, and leant against the wall.

  As we sat there, I glanced up and saw three small boys head towards us. They weren’t wearing stars, which meant they were less than ten years old. Every Jew older than ten was required by law to wear one. They were grubby and thin, their hair such a vermicelli tangle, their faces so pale, their eyes so shadowed, they made us look half normal.

  The tallest looked directly at me. ‘You. Girl. Whatcha doing here?’

  I cleared my throat, swallowed hard and managed, ‘We just came.’

  ‘What’s your names?’

  I stared at him suspiciously, before asking, ‘Why do you want to know?’

  He stared back unabashed. ‘Just do!’

  It probably wouldn’t make any difference to tell him. ‘I’m Hanna. That’s my mama, Adam, my brother, and my little sister Ryzia. She’s three.’

  ‘How come you’re wearing an armband?’ He made this sound like an accusation. ‘You don’t look old enough.’

  ‘Well, I am,’ I said wearily. ‘I’m twelve.’

  His mouth curled in disbelief. ‘You’re real short. I reckon you’re only eight or nine.’

  I was too exhausted to bother with this cheeky brat. ‘I can’t help being short,’ I snapped. ‘You’re not so big yourself.’

  ‘Where you from?’ he fired back.

  How much should I tell them? But what could they do to us that hadn’t happened already?

  I said, ‘We were living on a farm outside Otwock.’ I thought of Elza and Anya, who had hidden us since the war began in 1939.

  ‘So if you were on a farm, how come you’re here?’

  ‘A neighbour dobbed us in. The people that hid us were shot.’ Tears started to build in the corner of my eyes. Before they could fall, I glared up at him. ‘So, who are you?’

  ‘Me, I’m Karol.’ He pointed a filthy finger at his friends. ‘Those two, Jacob and Moshe. We’re a gang.’

  I sniffed in disbelief. Before the war Adam and his best friend Alex always talked about being a gang. As if this boy suspected I wasn’t taking him seriously, he said, ‘We trade with the Poles and sell back to the Jews, sometimes the other way round.’

  I didn’t get to hear more, because just then Papa came out of the building, cheeks flushed with excitement. ‘Come,’ he told Mama. ‘We have been lucky. They have given me work! So I will earn a few zlotys. Best of all, we have somewhere to live.’

  I got to my feet and helped Mama onto hers. She looked so spent, I took Ryzia from her, and the little one snuggled into my shoulder. When I next looked around, Karol and his friends had vanished into the crowd.

  We set off through the streets, passing bundles of rags on the pavement. Only they weren’t rags, they were people curled up in balls, or leaning against walls.

  Many held out a hand begging for food. Why didn’t they have food? Didn’t they have any money? Wasn’t there any food to buy? A little girl, she could have been no more than three years old, looked at us with giant eyes. ‘Please,’ she murmured. I felt terrible for her but there was nothing I could do.

  Papa led us around the corner along a number of streets until we arrived at Zelazna Street. Here, he kept going until we arrived at a triple-storey house. Maybe once the building had been handsome, but now the facade was cracked, the glass in the windows wore crazy zigzag lines, and the concrete steps leading to the front door seemed ready to collapse.

  Papa said, ‘We are fortunate. The ghetto is so crowded, it’s almost impossible to find somewhere to live. Many people have to survive on the streets. But because I am now employed as a translator, we can use two rooms on the second floor. They have even given me money so we can buy food.’

  Papa took a key out of his pocket and opened the front door. We walked into a narrow passage. Immediately, we were hit by the stink of boiled cabbage, damp and urine. It felt even colder inside than out.

  In the corridor a door opened. A woman peered out. Her face was old and wrinkled but her hair was thick and black. It took me a moment to realise she was wearing a sheitel, a wig. That told me she was an Orthodox Jew. Papa handed her a piece of paper. She read it through very slowly, grunted and gave him a grudging smile. ‘Up there,’ she told him. ‘First floor, praise HaShem … praise God. Your rooms are at the front.’ She went back inside slamming the door behind her.

  The rooms were empty, apart from a chamber pot. The floorboards were as bare as the dirty walls.

  Papa picked up the chamber pot and placed it in the passage.

  I never thought I could miss our cramped hiding space in the farm loft. But I did.

  Mama settled Ryzia on the floor, and lay down next to her, curling her body round the toddler in an attempt to share warmth and comfort.

  Papa stared through the murky glass in the window. ‘I’ll see if I can find us food and blankets.’

  I struggled onto my feet. ‘Can I come? I’ll help carry them.’

  Papa considered it. ‘Yes, Hanna, you’re to come with me. Adam, you’re to stay here and look after Mama and Ryzia.’

  Adam nodded at Papa and holding his left arm up from the elbow, he waggled his right fist across it. He was playing his imaginary violin, something he did all the time.

  Back on the street, I said, ‘Papa, where do we go?’

  ‘I’m told there’s a market close by. Tomorrow I will return to buy furniture. I have enough money to make us more comfortable.’

  I followed him. We went down Zielna Street and then made several turns, all the time forced to dodge people flocking along the pavements. All the Jews, a third of the original population of Warsaw, had been sent to this tiny area in the city. Others had been sent here from the provinces.

  A car wearing the Nazi flag drove past almost running over several men. Though they jumped aside just in time, their bodies moved heavily and slowly.

  ‘That car must belong to Jozef Szerynski,’ Papa said, ‘a Jew who has turned against us. He’s in charge of the Jewish Police Force.’

  ‘A Jewish police force.’ My eyebrows shot up. ‘Why do we need that?’

  ‘Given the conditions we have been left with, I suppose the Germans are hoping we’ll kill each other and save them the trouble.’

  ‘Do they have to wear uniforms?’

  ‘No, but they have their own armband, to identify them. They also carry a rubber club attached to their belts and are given a bigger food ration. Seems,’ Papa dryly added, ‘they have total permission to order us around.’

  By then we had arrived at the market. Everywhere I looked, people were selling and buying food, clothing, furniture, paintings, crockery, silverware and goodness knows what else. It seemed as if anything and everything was for sale.

  Papa bought a small loaf of rye bread, a wedge of cheese, a pickled herring, a jar of fat, a small quantity of black sump oil, and sweets that tasted like sugar but turned out to be mostly molasses and saccharin.

  We also needed blankets. We only had the clothes we wore and though it was early spring, there was still snow on the ground and it was desperately cold.

  Papa strode towards a man holding up a blanket. I galloped after him.

  Papa examined the blankets before looking at the man selling them. He gave an astonished cry. ‘Isaac?’

  Pan Isaac, an old friend of Papa’s, had once been a respected and wealthy banker. He took a few moments to recognise my father, they had both changed so much.

  ‘Romek, my friend …’ Tears dripped into Isaac’s beard. ‘That we have come to this.’

  ‘Yes,’ Papa said with a sigh. He remained silent a moment, as if he knew no words that could express what he was feeling. Then he remembered why we were here. ‘How much do you want for those blankets?’

  ‘My friend, what can you give me? My wife and children, we have no food. Nothing to eat … nothing. I am selling what little we have
left.’

  ‘I can give you all I have,’ said Papa emptying his pockets.

  ‘That’s too much,’ Pan Isaac protested. ‘You must keep these zlotys for another day.’

  But Papa pressed the money into his old friend’s hand saying, ‘I am to be employed by the Jewish Council and they will pay me enough to keep us alive.’

  Isaac embraced Papa and both men wept.

  I watched the men silently crying. I remembered Papa and Pan Isaac together, as the men they used to be, two years previously, the day the war began …

  1939

  Our building edged onto a busy street. It was one of Warsaw’s historic thoroughfares, full of shops, restaurants and fine houses. In the rattle of passing cars, trams, horses and carts, no-one heard me come in. I was upset about missing my regular gymnastic class because of a sore throat and blocked nose. I had never missed a class before.

  Passing the door to Papa’s study, I heard the unmistakeable sound of an argument. I recognised my father’s voice, and that of his friend, Pan Isaac. I knew Zaida, my grandfather, was home too, because his ebony-handled umbrella was in the hallstand and he never went out without it.

  ‘You think,’ Papa was shouting, ‘that we are safe?’

  My father wasn’t usually home on a Tuesday afternoon. For several generations our family had been the proud owners of Kaminskys’ Emporium in the heart of the city and Papa spent long days there. He claimed that we mightn’t own the biggest clothing store in Warsaw, but it was certainly the best.

  Pan Isaac said something that I couldn’t hear, other than the word ‘Kristallnacht’. I froze. Kristallnacht, ‘crystal night’—the night of the broken glass—was the name given to the night in November last year when Jewish people and their businesses, hospitals, schools and synagogues were attacked in Germany and Austria. It wasn’t only Nazi soldiers that did it. Ordinary people had joined in too. Even though Mama and Papa had tried to prevent me and Adam hearing too much about it on the radio, or seeing photographs in the newspapers, I knew enough for the word to send shivers through me.

  I knelt close to the keyhole and listened more carefully.