Gertruda's Oath: A Child, a Promise, and a Heroic Escape During World War II (16 page)

When he recovered, he thanked her warmly for all she had done for him. Until now, in Paris, he felt solitary and alone, depressed. Anna was the only beam of light in his life.

“Why are you so good to me?” he asked.

“Because I can’t bear to see people suffering.”

He told her about his family, how he couldn’t get in touch with his wife and son, his fear that they had been killed, the collapse of his business. She tried to cheer him up: “Maybe your wife and son are somehow still alive.”

“I don’t think so,” he sighed. “They’re not used to harsh conditions. They won’t hold out in the war.”

“I wish I could help you more,” she said.

He looked at her affectionately. “You’ve done so much for me,” he said. “I’m glad I met you.”

She gave him a long look. He was a Jew and she was a Catholic, and he was many years older than she, but that didn’t matter to her. For her, he was much more attractive and interesting than most of the men she knew. She felt that her affection for him would turn into a strong love.

“I’m glad I met you, too,” she said and blushed.

She told him that she was born in the Italian town of Pontrepoli, a few miles from the French border. Her father had died when she was a child and her mother worked in an institution for disabled people. A relative, the owner of the French restaurant, suggested she come to Paris to work for him as a waitress.

She spent her free time with Jacob, and he found himself thinking of her a great deal in the long nights. More than anything else, he needed a close and understanding soul, human warmth, and
Anna was at hand, full of goodwill and endless devotion. The bond with her became important, encouraging, vital.

“Don’t tell anyone you’re a Jew,” Gertruda warned Michael.

The two of them were sitting in front of the fireplace, where a few pieces of wood the landlady sold her were burning. In another hour, the fire would die out and it would be cold again. Very cold.

“I won’t tell anybody,” the child promised.

“Everybody has to know I’m your mother.”

“So what shall I call you? Mother?”

She hesitated. Michael had only one mother. Gertruda was the replacement, not the real mother.

“No, don’t call me Mother.”

“So, I’ll call you Mamusha.”

A wave of warmth washed over Gertruda’s body. Mamusha was the perfect name. An affectionate name children gave their beloved mothers.

“Yes, call me Mamusha.”

His mother had died, his father was gone, he was separated from his home, and Michael fell into the biggest breakdown of his young life. He withdrew into a long silence and often burst into tears. He had to have the only living soul left to him in the world, her caressing hand, her soft words, her vitality. Gertruda worked fewer hours so she could devote herself to his care. Every day, she took him with her when she went to pray in church and walked with him in the streets of Vilna so he could get some fresh air. The weather was usually rainy and cold and the city didn’t welcome refugees. Under one umbrella, the two of them walked in the crowded streets and inhaled the cooking smells from the restaurants. Gertruda was extremely careful with her few remaining pennies. In the farmers’ market she bought only what was cheap: potatoes, cabbage, beets, and stale bread. She cooked a lot of soup. She couldn’t afford to buy meat.

Michael and Gertruda. Vilna, 1942
.

Bad news came from Poland. The Germans had just taken over the whole country. Gertruda felt some relief when she assumed they wouldn’t dare violate their alliance with the Russians and invade Vilna, too.

Rent and food expenses ate up almost all her savings. For whole nights she lay awake, considering how to earn some money. Michael was losing weight and had no appetite. She was afraid he would get sick.

Dr. Berman showed up as an unexpected savior. Life in Vilna
was good for him. He was well known as a specialist in lung diseases and the number of his patients was constantly increasing. One evening, he knocked on their door and made downtrodden Gertruda an offer she couldn’t refuse.

“I need a secretary to schedule my appointments,” he said. “I’ll pay you generously. What do you say?”

She jumped at the chance and the next day she started working in his clinic in his apartment next door. That day, Dr. Berman gave her an advance on her salary and she bought food for herself and the boy.

Dr. Berman opened the doors of his home to them. Yanek, the doctor’s oldest son, was the same age as Michael, and they played together most days. Esther, the doctor’s wife, often invited them to share their dinner.

The winter, meanwhile, was harsh and desperate. Heavy snow covered Vilna and the cold invaded their small apartment. They sat in the double bed, hugging each other to keep warm. They drank dozens of cups of boiling tea to fight the chill and waited eagerly for a miracle to get them out of the situation they had fallen into.

Every night, before she fell asleep, Gertruda Babilinska would leaf through her Polish passport and her worries grew worse. Only her name appeared on the passport. Michael appeared in his mother’s, which had been stolen by Emil. Gertruda was sure there were hard times ahead for the two of them. She didn’t know if she’d stay in Vilna, she didn’t know where the winds of war would blow, but she did know that if she didn’t find a way to put Michael on her passport, as her son, as her flesh and blood, she couldn’t really protect
him. She had to find a way, at any cost, to hide his Jewishness and attach him to her officially. Adding his name to her passport would be the only proof that Michael was her son. But without documents to prove the child was hers, it wouldn’t be easy.

One morning, she left the house determined to find a professional counterfeiter who could help her. Black market speculators stood on every street corner. She asked a few of them if they could find someone who could make changes to her passport. One elderly speculator told her: “What you want, lady, costs a lot.” When she heard the sum, she left, feeling helpless.

On her way home to Michael, she stopped at the Ostra Brama Church across from the house, went inside, knelt at the altar, and prayed for someone to help her. When she stood up, she saw the priest Andras Gedovsky standing in front of her.

“Is everything all right, Mrs. Babilinska?”

“Not really,” she said. She didn’t dare tell him about the Jewish child.

“Can I be of some help?” he asked.

She chose her words carefully. “My husband was a Polish army officer who was killed in the war. I fled here with my son and didn’t have time to take my passport. I’m afraid to walk around without it.”

“The child who comes to church with you is your son?”

She nodded. Ever since she had started introducing Michael as her son, she had made sure he came to church with her every Sunday.

“Yes, Father. He’s my child.”

“A lovely child. What’s his name?”

“Michael.”

The priest sighed. “This war is causing so much suffering for so many people,” he said. “Come with me. I’ll try to help you.”

With high hopes, she accompanied him to his office. He sat
down at his desk, asked for her personal details, and wrote on church stationery:

Gertruda thanked the priest excitedly, put the document in her purse and returned home.

The idea of getting married wasn’t his. It was Anna’s.

She said, “France isn’t a safe place for us. The French are afraid the Germans will invade them, and a lot of Jews are fleeing from here. We should go to my mother in Italy.”

She suggested they get married. As the husband of an Italian citizen, said Anna, Jacob Stolowitzky wouldn’t have any trouble crossing the Italian border with her. In May 1940, Italy was not yet involved in the war. Until the war was over, she added, Jacob could live with her in the family house in the small town of Pontrepoli.

“And what will happen if my wife is still alive?” he asked.

“If that happens,” she promised, “I’ll annul our marriage immediately.”

On the morning of May 9, 1940, Anna and Jacob appeared at the city hall of Paris and were married in a civil ceremony. There were no family members, friends, or acquaintances present and twenty
minutes after they entered city hall, they rushed out to catch the train to Genoa. Neither of them knew that the very next day the German army would cross the border and make its way to Paris, facing only slight and ineffective resistance from the French army.

Because of the fear that many refugees from France would flood into Italy, the Italian border control was stricter than ever. Border guards checked Jacob and Anna’s marriage certificate and let the two of them cross the border without incident. From the railroad station in Genoa, they took a taxi to the small town where her family house was.

Anna’s mother, a plump woman with a stern face, looked harshly at Jacob when she met him there for the first time. She wasn’t happy that he was a Jew or that there was such a big age difference between him and Anna, but she held her tongue. After all, Anna was her only daughter. She had raised her alone for many years and didn’t want to create a rift between them now.

The family house was at the edge of the town, amid apple and pear orchards, separated from the other houses. A narrow dirt path led from the street to the one-story structure where the couple lived in a quiet side room, overlooking a broad square. The windows could be left open all day without fear that any stranger could peep inside.

Anna’s marriage stirred only passing interest in the town. Anna told her friends that she had met her husband in Paris, where he had various business dealings. She said that her husband had a chronic disease that kept him indoors most of the time. The townspeople soon got used to seeing her alone, buying fruit and vegetables in the farmers’ market and meat at the butcher. Every Sunday she went to church with her mother and together they attended family events of friends and neighbors. Jacob generally stayed home
and only at night did he go out for a short stroll in the deserted lanes.

Anna wanted children. Girls her age in the town who were blessed with several offspring often asked her why she didn’t get pregnant and she had no answer. She pleaded with her husband to bring children into the world, but he wanted to wait until the war was over. Only then, he said, could he plan the new chapter of his life without worry.

One evening, on her way home from the clinic, a stocky and familiar man blocked Gertruda’s way in the staircase.

“Where are you hurrying?” asked Denka, the landlady’s brother.

“My child is waiting for me,” she answered quickly and tried to get around the man, but he didn’t let her.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

She had to obey.

His clumsy hand moved forward and tried to stroke her head, but she quickly dodged him.

“Let me go,” she pleaded.

“Wait a minute. I wanted to offer you a good deal,” he said.

She pretended she believed him. “What deal?”

“There are people who will pay you a lot of money for information you can give them.”

She knew he was spying for the Russians. Everybody knew.

“You know that Jewish doctor, Berman, if I’m not mistaken.” She shuddered. How did he find out about her relations with the doctor? Was he watching her when she worked in Dr. Berman’s clinic? “All you’ve got to do is tell me if he says anything against the Russian
government, if he’s got friends who get together secretly, if you see them with weapons.”

“I didn’t see or hear anything,” she answered quickly.

“You can hear and see, if you want to. With the right information you can go far, maybe even get a regular salary. What do you say?”

“I’ll think it over,” she concluded to get away from him.

His lips twisted into a grin.

“Your cooperation can also bring us closer together,” he said. “I know you and I can have a very good time together.”

“Let me go, please.”

He clutched her body. His lips sought hers, but she averted her face.

Somebody entered the staircase and Denka let go of her at once.

“Good evening, Mrs. Babilinska,” he said obsequiously. “It was nice talking to you.”

She hurried up to her apartment with a feeling that she hadn’t seen the last of that loathsome man.

The Molotov-Ribbentrop nonaggression pact soon proved to be worthless. The break between Stalin and Hitler was inevitable, and on June 22, 1941, when the colorful flowers were blooming in the fields of Lithuania, the German army attacked the Russian lines and made their way to Vilna.

At eleven o’clock that morning, on Radio Moscow, the Soviet foreign minister announced in a furious voice that the Germans had violated the nonaggression agreement and were advancing toward
Vilna. The sirens of Vilna immediately began wailing and the thunder of air raids was heard in the suburbs.