Gertruda's Oath: A Child, a Promise, and a Heroic Escape During World War II (2 page)

The elderly marquis stirred uneasily in his chair, nervously pulled his well-tended mustache, and labored to hide his revulsion at his meeting with the man waiting in the next room. Never had it occurred to him that he of all people, offspring of a noble Polish family, only ruler of the fate of hundreds of tenant farmers, owner
of lands and precious art, would wind up in such an embarrassing and offensive situation that would roil his peace of mind and stir melancholy thoughts about the order of the world that had been turned on its head.

In the family of Marquis Roswadovsky, honor and position were supreme values, the core of life. Roswadovsky was sure of what his ancestors would have done if a Jew had dared to set foot in their house. None of them would have hesitated to throw him out and might even have thrashed the man who had the nerve to stand up to them and take advantage of their distress.

Never had members of the Roswadovsky family met Jews like the man now waiting in the vestibule. In Baranowicz in eastern Poland, where the family owned many estates, the Jews would be filled with dread and awe whenever the marquis’s carriage passed by. They all knelt down and didn’t dare raise their eyes to him. Where did those days vanish to, how did his authority fade? Could the floor of his splendid house in Warsaw, one of the many glorious family houses scattered throughout Poland, be defiled by the shoes of one of the Jews of his city, who came not to plead for his favors, but because the marquis himself summoned him urgently to help get him out of trouble?

Moshe Stolowitzky was the sort of Jew Marquis Roswadovsky didn’t know. He was extraordinarily rich, very powerful and influential; not many men in Poland could boast of his great wealth. He had inherited a great deal of his wealth from his father, a resourceful businessman who had made the bulk of his money before World War I, producing and selling sleepers for railroad tracks, polishing millstones for flour mills, operating a tavern in Baranowicz where he lived, and trading successfully in real estate. When Baranowicz passed from the Poles to the Russians during World War I, many of its residents fled to Warsaw. Moshe Stolowitzky managed to save
most of his fortune. Marquis Roswadovsky wasn’t so lucky. In the dead of night, he escaped from the city, leaving behind quite a bit of his wealth, and found shelter in his magnificent house in Warsaw. But his money soon ran out, his debts mounted, and he had to settle them without delay. The only way to satisfy his creditors was hard and painful—he had to sell houses and plots of land. Buyers came and went. Some wanted to take advantage of the marquis’s difficulty and offered unreasonably low prices. Others offered a little more but not enough. Until Moshe Stolowitzky came and finally made a decent offer.

The servant returned to the marquis a few minutes later.

“Mr. Stolowitzky’s in a hurry,” he said. “He claims he can’t wait.”

The marquis grumbled aloud. “He’s got some nerve, that Jew,” he growled.

The servant was silent, waiting for instructions.

“Fine, show him in.” The marquis swallowed his revulsion.

A few minutes later, Moshe Stolowitzky stood in the doorway, looking directly at the marquis. He came to do business from a position of strength. He had no time for small talk or pleasant manners.

Reluctantly, the marquis entered into a business discussion with his guest, who conducted hard and uncompromising negotiations. In the next hour, Roswadovsky sold him buildings and lots in Baranowicz and also transferred to him ownership of the house in Warsaw. As always, when he was in desperate need of money, it outweighed honor, position, and every other consideration. With a heavy heart, the Polish marquis swallowed his offense and signed the bill of sale.

It was very hard for him to part from his property, particularly the beautiful house in Warsaw. It was a big mansion, furnished with ostentatious splendor, full of rare art, his pride and joy. In that house, Roswadovsky employed an army of servants, and there was a pantry stuffed with delicacies and a cellar of fine wines. At stately dinners, he entertained the Polish elite and wealthy businessmen, and it was painful to give all that up to prevent a scandalous bankruptcy.

His young mistress, a black-haired beauty, daughter of one of his tenant farmers, who lived in the mansion in Warsaw and made his visits there even more pleasurable, wept bitter tears when she had to pack her things and return home. The marquis stood helplessly at her side.

“What will happen to me now? What will happen to us?” she sobbed.

The marquis stroked her head and a tear gleamed in the corner of his eye. He had no answer.

Moshe Stolowitzky left the marquis’s house with the feeling that he had made an excellent deal. He was known as an experienced merchant. His crafty mind and audacity paved his way to the offices of senior government officials, and he soon became
the
contractor for railroad tracks. The hundreds of workers he hired laid railroad tracks throughout Poland and then stretched rails for trains over Russia as well. Anti-Semitic manifestations didn’t bother him because Jew haters didn’t dare touch him. He was a welcome guest in the homes of heads of state and they were glad to be entertained in his own house.

The marquis requested a week to move out of his house in Warsaw. After the last moving van left the place for good, Moshe Stolowitzky moved in there with his wife, Hava, and their little son, Jacob.

Moshe Stolowitzky wasn’t only a rich man, he was also a proud Jew. He regularly read the Yiddish newspaper,
Dos Yidishe Tageblat
, he and his wife attended the Jewish theater, Wikt, established by the actor Zigmund Turkow, invested in the Yiddish film
Yiddl mitn fiddl
, which became a hit among Jews throughout the world, contributed to yeshivas and Jewish schools, and supported Jewish writers and poets. Every Friday baskets of Sabbath food were sent on his behalf to the poor of the city, and in his mansion, as was customary among major Jewish philanthropists, a box of cash was set up for grants to the needy who knocked on his door every single day.

His only son, Jacob, was destined to follow in his footsteps. Moshe hired teachers who taught him Hebrew and general sciences, bought him a subscription to the Hebrew children’s newspaper
Olam Katan (Small World)
, and was happy when the boy read stories about Hasids—pious Jews—and the holy places in the Land of Israel.

One stormy winter night, Moshe Stolowitzky sat in the first row in the Novoschi auditorium where about three thousand Jews gathered to listen to a talk by Ze’ev Jabotinsky The short, bespectacled Zionist leader with a serious face called on them to ascend to the Land of Israel before Europe tossed them out. Moshe Stolowitzky admired Jabotinsky and read his writings devotedly, but he thought Jabotinsky exaggerated when he talked about the danger lurking for the Jews of Europe. Stolowitzky and his family, like most of their friends, saw Poland as their homeland and were grateful for the wealth they had amassed there. They felt good and comfortable and naturally it didn’t occur to them that bad times were in store for them as Jabotinsky’s gloomy predictions had foretold.

Stolowitzky family mansion. Warsaw
.

Before long reality proved to Moshe Stolowitzky that he was living in a fool’s paradise. One Friday evening, the Jewish millionaire was relaxing in his velvet easy chair, facing the Ark of the Covenant in the Tlomackie Synagogue, the biggest and oldest synagogue of Warsaw. For a long time he listened with pleasure to the chanting of the well-known cantor Moshe Koussevitzky, and when it was over, he left the synagogue with a group of worshippers. His carriage was standing nearby and at home his family and a traditional Sabbath meal awaited him. Stolowitzky didn’t get far. A group of
anti-Semitic youths surrounded the group of worshippers, threw rocks, and shouted curses at them. The Jews stopped in their tracks, stunned. Most of them had witnessed anti-Semitic persecutions in the past, but never ones so brutal. Only when the attackers tried to snatch their prayer shawl bags did the victims recover and assault the youths. A brawl developed, lasting until the police came and restored order.

In his private carriage, Moshe Stolowitzky bruised, his clothes torn, returned home. The event itself didn’t worry him too much. He preferred to believe that isolated anti-Semitic incidents didn’t indicate a dangerous trend. He was concerned mainly that his wife would take things more seriously than he, and so he told her only that he had fallen and bruised himself on his way out of the synagogue. She called a doctor, who bandaged him and ordered him to stay in bed for two days.

When he returned to the synagogue a week later, the rabbi mounted the pulpit when prayers had ended. His arm had been broken in the attack and was in a sling.

“I have decided to leave Poland and move with my family to Jerusalem,” he called out in a clear and emotional voice. “Poland is a trap for every Jew. Take your things and leave here before it’s too late.”

Moshe Stolowitzky wished the rabbi good luck and returned home. He told his wife about the panic that had gripped the rabbi and about his decision to leave Poland.

“Maybe he’s right,” she responded pensively.

“Nonsense!” He raised his voice. “There’s no reason to panic.”

June 28, 1924, was a hot, sunny day, and hundreds of Warsaw residents were strolling on the paths through the green lawns along the river. That afternoon, Jacob Stolowitzky introduced his parents to his fiancée, Lydia. He was twenty-two years old, and his bride-to-be was twenty, a handsome girl, thin, the daughter of a Jewish army officer from Krakow, studying political science in Warsaw. They had met at a party at the home of mutual friends and it was love at first sight.

Hava and Moshe Stolowitzky greeted their son’s fiancée in the ballroom of their mansion and spoke with Lydia about her family and her studies. They liked her very much and didn’t care that her parents weren’t as rich as they were. She was Jewish and their son loved her and that was what mattered. At the festive dinner they made for Lydia and her parents, the guests toasted the young couple and they set the date for their wedding.

Three months later, the wedding ceremony gave the elite of Warsaw an unforgettable experience. Members of the government, senior officials, tycoons, artists, and intellectuals poured into the mansion and blessed the happy family. Dozens of servants passed among the guests offering abundant delicacies and champagne and an orchestra played until the last guest withdrew.

The young couple left for a honeymoon in Switzerland and when they returned to Warsaw, a surprise awaited them. Moshe Stolowitzky suggested they live in his splendid mansion and set a big wing aside for them.

Jacob and Lydia settled down comfortably in the spacious
house. Lydia ordered furniture from Italy and supervised the crew of servants of their wing—a housekeeper, a cook, two cleaning women, and a chauffeur. Jacob was integrated into the management of his father’s business, which flourished more than ever. He traveled a great deal throughout Europe, signing contracts with various states and amassing a great deal of wealth.

The two of them badly wanted a child. Lydia dreamed he would grow up to be a doctor. His father wanted his son to be a businessman like him, who would someday inherit the family empire. Although they couldn’t agree, both of them had every reason to believe that their child’s future, like their own, would be a bed of roses.

They were wrong.

Karl Rink expected much more from life than he got. He was a twenty-four-year-old bachelor with blue eyes and short hair who worked as a junior accountant for the chemical firm A. G. Farben in Berlin. His salary was barely enough to pay his rent and buy food. His office was small and dark and his work was boring. He dreamed of a different career, more lucrative and more interesting, which would guarantee him real success. Now and then he even went looking for such a job, but the only work he was offered was in accounting and that wasn’t enough. He learned very quickly that for every good job that opened up, many people, more talented than he, jumped on the opportunity. Unfortunately for him, the chances of finding another position were growing dim.

The only refuge from his tedious routine was sport. Bicycle racing was the only area where Rink showed real talent. He belonged
to the company sport club, trained on the weekend in all weather, riding on mountain paths, and he won trophies that were displayed on a shelf in his small apartment. Above them, in a glass frame, was a local newspaper article reporting on his victory in the district competition of bicycle riders.

On September 12, 1924, he hurried to finish work earlier than usual and returned to his one-room apartment in a dreary working-class neighborhood in west Berlin. He put on a dark suit and a tie, picked up his parents at their house in a distant suburb, and they all took a trolley to city hall, where Mira, her parents, and a handful of friends were waiting for him.