Gertruda's Oath: A Child, a Promise, and a Heroic Escape During World War II (17 page)

It was a warm, sunny Sunday. Families were strolling in the public parks, the churches were full, and at the side of the road, Jewish refugees were selling their last valuables. All at once, the siren and echoes of bombings broke the silence and sowed terror. The sky was covered with German bombers dropping bombs on the houses of the city, spraying the streets with machine-gun fire, spreading death and destruction. The shouts of the wounded went on echoing in the streets even after dark. The hospitals didn’t have enough room for so many wounded, and many of them lay abandoned in the streets. The planes returned to bomb again at night, when columns of German armored carriers were two days away from Vilna.

The heavy bombing terrified Gertruda and Michael. She dragged him to the cellar to hide among the thick stone walls. All the tenants of the upper floors of the house also hurried down there. The air in the cellar was stifling and compressed, there was no food or water, children wept bitterly, the elderly quietly choked.

When they learned of the impending German invasion, the Lithuanians burst into cheers of joy. Many of them had been working underground to undermine the Soviet authorities and enable a fast and effective German occupation. They sincerely believed that, in gratitude for their sympathy for the Germans, Berlin would grant Lithuania independent status. Right under the nose of the Soviet authorities, the Lithuanians planned to establish their own government institutions and were ready to welcome the German army and carry out every assignment, including the destruction of the Jews. Like the Germans, they, too, believed that the Jews were a misfortune
and an obstacle that had to be removed. In manifestos that saw the vision of an independent Lithuanian state as a miracle, the Lithuanians were called upon to kill Jews and confiscate their property. In fact, the Lithuanians murdered hundreds of Jews and robbed them even before the Germans arrived.

The Jews in Vilna followed the events with dread. In truth, there were even some Jews who wanted the Germans to come, convinced that the occupiers would impose order and restrain the Lithuanian lust for the destruction of the Jews. But most Jews of Vilna, both local residents and refugees, were sure that the burden of the German occupation would be harsh. In despair, they hesitated whether to stay or flee toward the Russian border to find shelter far from the reach of the Germans and Lithuanians. The former choice was easier but much more dangerous. The latter required packing up some clothes and vital items and fleeing, mostly without a penny, to the unknown. No possibility promised anything good; neither was better than the other.

Gertruda chose to flee to Russia. She told Dr. Berman of her decision. The doctor wished her luck and said that he and his wife had decided to stay. “We’ve got two children at home,” said the doctor sadly. “They wouldn’t survive the hard trip to Russia.”

Gertruda crammed everything she could into a small suitcase—clothes, two loaves of bread, a few apples, and a bottle of water—and left the apartment with Michael. She didn’t tell the landlady of her intentions, to make sure the apartment would still be hers if she had to return.

Gertruda and Michael hurried to the railroad station. Cars belonging to the Soviet authorities sped past them on their way to the Russian border. Now and then German bombers sallied forth from
the blue sky and swooped over Vilna and the columns of refugees. Cars burst into flames on the side of the road, and bodies lay wherever the bombs fell.

The railroad station in Vilna was full of people who crowded into long lines at the ticket counters. Elderly people fainted, children wept, and here and there fights broke out. Gertruda and Michael were crushed in one of the lines. After she bought tickets, Gertruda had only a few pennies left, but that didn’t worry her. The desire to get Michael out of the impending danger was her only consideration.

The train to the border town of Radoshkowitz left two hours late. In the compartments and the corridors, hundreds of people rode sitting and standing, more than the train could hold. Dozens were lying on the roofs of the cars, holding on to ledges to keep from falling. The locomotive could hardly pull the train and it often broke down. The train was attacked four times by German bombers. They hit some of the cars and killed dozens of people. The bodies of those killed were thrown to the sides of the track. The wounded were taken off at the intermediate stations, in the vain hope that they might receive medical treatment.

Vilna was 125 miles from the Russian border, a trip that took no more than four hours in normal times. But the trainload of refugees took close to forty hours to cover the distance. Michael suffered in silence all along the way. He munched on dry bread, drank a little water, and hid under the bench. When the German planes dropped their bombs, he clutched Gertruda’s hand.

The train finally stopped at the Radoshkowitz station, where many Jews were standing on the platform, waiting to return to Vilna. Gertruda didn’t understand why, but there was no time for
questions. Exhausted and hungry, but with a spark of hope in their eyes, the travelers ran to the border station. They hoped their share of torments would cease, at least for the time being.

Gertruda and Michael ran with all the rest and arrived panting at the Russian position. Armed soldiers stopped them and asked them for entrance permits to Russia. Because the bombing of Vilna had started on a Sunday, most of the passengers couldn’t get hold of the necessary documents since the visa offices were closed. They pleaded with the border guards to let them cross into Russian territory, but the soldiers firmly refused and suggested they return to where they had come from.

No one was in a hurry to return. Stunned families gathered at the border station. People wept and begged the border guards. Others offered the last of their money and jewelry, but the soldiers were adamant. Only now did Gertruda understand why the platforms of the railroad station were full of Jews wanting to go back to Vilna. None of them had a permit to enter Russia.

Gertruda turned around without a word and started walking to the railroad station, holding Michael’s hand. She had no money left for a ticket, but most of the others weren’t any better off. They packed the train to Vilna and hoped they wouldn’t be thrown off before they got to their destination. Their faces were sad and their eyes were tearful. They knew that every minute of the trip brought them closer to the hell they had wanted to flee.

In Gertruda’s compartment was a young woman carrying a baby. She pleaded with the passengers to give her a little food, but no one paid any attention to her. Gertruda took out a few slices of bread and gave them to the mother. The woman grabbed the bread and devoured it. A few minutes later, she came to Gertruda and whispered in her ear. “You did a great mitzvah,” she said. “I don’t have anything to pay you for the bread, but I do have something else for
you.” She said she had made a living in Vilna by reading palms. “Give me your palm,” she said. “I’ll tell you your future, for free.” Gertruda gave her her hand and looked curiously at the woman as she examined it.

“The dangers haven’t passed,” she said. “You’ll have to be very careful.”

“And the child?”

“I see him with you all the time. He’s very tied to you. If you leave him, he won’t stay alive.”

“When will we finally have peace?”

“After a long time. The war will end and you’ll be free to do what you want. I see a gigantic ship you’ll board with the child, but the voyage will be hard. I also see a lot of blood, violence, dead people.”

“A ship? Where will it take us?”

“To a place where you can build a new life. But a curse lies on that ship. Something bad will happen to it.”

“I don’t know what ship you’re talking about.”

“Neither do I, but someday you’ll know.”

“You suggest that I don’t board the ship?”

“Your fate will make the two of you board that cursed ship and there’s nothing in the world you can do to prevent it.”

The train moved.

“Where are we going?” asked Michael when clouds of black smoke from the locomotive came through the open window.

“Back home, to Vilna,” Gertruda answered.

“I don’t want to,” he decreed. His sharp senses warned him what was waiting for them for them in Vilna.

She stroked his head lovingly.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll take care of you.”

A taste of bitter insipidity had filled Karl Rink’s mouth ever since he had come to Warsaw. He was tormented by pangs of conscience for not continuing to search for his wife, and his regrets for Mira and Helga gave him no rest. He was sorry he hadn’t followed his daughter’s advice to flee from Germany with his family when that had been an option. Every week, he wrote a letter to his wife and sent it to their apartment in Berlin, hoping she would be there and could answer. He never got a reply.

Work in SS headquarters in Warsaw was as dreary as all routine office work. Karl collected orders to limit the movements of the Jews, sent people to post them on the walls of houses and on announcement boards, transmitted them to all the Jewish institutions and organizations that were still operating. Under his direction, gangs of soldiers were sent to make sure the posted orders were carried out. Jews who didn’t wear identifying armbands or didn’t mark their businesses with a Star of David were immediately arrested and sent to forced labor camps. Jews who were caught on trains after they were forbidden to travel on them were also arrested. Step by step, the property of the Jews also began to be confiscated.

Karl Rink finished work in the evening and then returned to his apartment. He avoided going to the nightclubs and concerts that were reserved for German officers. He didn’t spend much time with his colleagues. In his nightmares, he saw them snatching and murdering his wife, while his hands were tied and he shouted with pain and despair.

•   •   •

On the night of Yom Kippur, German radio announced that all Jews had to move to the ghetto in Warsaw within five weeks. There was no room to hide or flee to avoid the evil decree. The Jews knew that not carrying out the order of the occupying authorities would be punished by death. The ghetto was the only possibility to stay alive. Tens of thousands of Jews started gathering up their belongings and loading on handcarts and on their backs every item they could carry. The area of the ghetto was small and the crowding was unbearable. Six or seven people, sometimes even more, lived in every room. Anyone who couldn’t find a place to live had to stay in the street.

When the Jews moved to the ghetto, Karl Rink’s job, for all intents and purposes, was done. He walked around idly, loathed the SS officers, the haughty men who filled the offices of the headquarters, and hoped he would soon be returned to Berlin. But his superiors had another plan. A few months after the Jews of Warsaw were concentrated in the ghetto, Karl was transferred to Vilna, which had been occupied by the German army. “There are a lot of Jews there,” he was told. “We have to make order among them, as in Warsaw.”

Gertruda and Michael’s trip back to Vilna was filled with torments and empty of hope. The train was crowded; the passengers were hungry and tired, and most of them didn’t have enough money to buy dry bread at the stations where they stopped. The trip was mainly at night, for fear of German bombers. No one could sleep; sick people groaned in pain; some even died. Gertruda and Michael, under the bench, on the iron floor of the train, had to lie for hours without moving, pressed against other people. Their bodies
hurt, their bellies rumbled with hunger, and their mouths were dry with thirst.

The train reached the Vilna railroad station in the afternoon. Hundreds of passengers burst out, dragging their meager belongings. The swastika banner was already flying over the station. German army tanks and motorcycles filled the street. Groups of armed soldiers strode proudly under the hot summer sun.

Two trucks parked across from the station and a group of armed Lithuanians with white armbands blocked the way of the travelers who had just arrived on the train. They demanded documents.

Gertruda took out the letter written by Father Gedovsky and gave it to the heavyset man wearing a Lithuanian army uniform, with a rifle slung over his shoulder. The man scanned the document stating explicitly that Gertruda Babilinska and her son were Catholics. The Lithuanian looked at her suspiciously.

“That’s your son?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Where’s your father?” The Lithuanian bent down to Michael.

“Died in the war,” answered the child. That was exactly what Gertruda had taught him to say to anyone who asked.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Radoshkowitz,” replied Gertruda.

“From the Russian border?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you go there?”

“My parents are in Russia,” she lied. “I wanted to join them.”

“Why did you come back here?”

“Because I didn’t have permission to enter Russia.”

He examined her with a long look.

“You’re a Russian spy,” he said bluntly. “All Poles are Russian spies.”

The Lithuanian hostility for the Poles was infamous. The Lithuanians did all they could to slander them to the Germans. After the destruction of the Jews, the Lithuanians planned to expel the Poles as well. In independent Lithuania, within the German Reich, there wouldn’t be room for either.

“That’s not so!” Gertruda defended herself. “I’m not a spy!”

“I’ll have to arrest you,” growled the Lithuanian.

She turned pale. Arrest meant torture, which could be the end of her and of Michael. She had only a split second to find a way to dodge the danger.

Her lips twisted into a seductive smile. “Do you mind if we talk about it at my house?” she asked.

His eyes flashed. “Where do you live?”

She gave him a wrong address.

“Come to me after your shift,” she winked. “We can talk quietly. We’ll have some cognac.”

“I’ll come this evening,” he said. “Don’t leave the house. Wait for me.”