Gertruda's Oath: A Child, a Promise, and a Heroic Escape During World War II (27 page)

“That’s not important,” they replied. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you. You’ve got what it takes to do the job right.”

“I suggest you keep looking for somebody else,” said Ike. “I’ll take the command only if I have to.”

Isaac (Ike) Aaronovitch. At sea, July 1947
.

“A waste of time, Ike. There is no other choice.”

“Okay. I hope I won’t disappoint you.”

SS officer Reinhard Schreider had been imprisoned for six weeks on the American military base. He had been interrogated for hours and consistently claimed that he had served ultimately as an administrative officer in Berlin and had not been involved in any war crimes. His interrogators hadn’t been able to crack his story and they finally let him go without a trial.

Karl Rink, who went to Schreider’s house every week on his day off and always found the door locked, was surprised when one day Schreider opened the door to him, in light suspenders and a white undershirt. The two of them looked at each other for a long time. Schreider looked unchanged. The same broad, bony face, the same firm expression, the same evil look in his eyes.

“You’ve changed, Karl,” said Schreider. “Obviously you didn’t have an easy time of it in the war. Lucky you’re still alive.”

“Yes, I was lucky,” muttered Rink. “Can I talk with you a few minutes?”

“Please,” said Schreider, repressing his surprise. What, he wondered, did they have to talk about?

They went into the big living room that had once been full of antique furniture. On the walls were a few faded landscapes. The windows were closed and on the table was a bottle of wine. Cigarette smoke stood thick in the air.

“How can I help you?” asked the host.

“Something’s been bothering me, Schreider, for several years now.”

“What?”

“You remember our conversation after my wife disappeared?”

“No.” Schreider played innocent.

“I asked you then if you had any idea what had caused her disappearance.”

“That was a long time ago. You don’t expect me to remember every conversation I had.”

“You told me you had no idea what had happened to her.”

“Let’s assume I said so.”

“You lied.”

Schreider’s face flushed with anger.

“I want to know if you killed my wife,” Rink demanded.

“I didn’t kill her, Karl. If that’s why you came, you don’t have anything more to do here.”

He pointed to the door.

Karl Rink felt his rage burning in him. For years he had nursed a terrible frustration and loathed himself for not daring to resign and avoid serving the people who had murdered his wife. Now he stood before the man who was responsible for Mira’s murder. Schreider had avoided punishment at the hands of the Americans, thought Karl, but he won’t escape my punishment. He took the switchblade out of his pocket and released the blade before Schreider’s hostile eyes.

“Are you crazy?” shouted the SS officer.

“You have to pay for what you did,” Karl said slowly.

“What did I do?” Schreider shouted. “I was only obeying orders. And anyway, why do you care so much about that Jew?”

“I loved her, she was my wife, and you killed her.”

“She didn’t deserve to be the wife of an SS officer. You should have understood that yourself.”

“She wasn’t hurting anybody.”

Schreider looked hypnotized at the blade aimed at him.

“We wanted to allow you to devote yourself entirely to the SS. Your wife was stuck in you like a bone in your throat,” he said.

“What exactly did you do to her? I want to know.”

“She didn’t feel a thing, Karl. It took only a few seconds.”

Karl Rink attacked Schreider. He was shorter and not as strong as his former commander, but his rage gave him a superhuman force. Schreider struggled, but Rink managed to stick the blade in his throat. A burst of blood and a death rattle ended the commander’s life.

Afterward, Rink didn’t feel a thing. Not anger, not satisfaction. He knew only that he had settled an old account, an account that had to be closed. He turned around, went out the door and into the street. A sense of loneliness crept into him, but he comforted himself with the thought that at least he had managed to avenge his wife’s death and save his only daughter in time.

The DP camp was no more than a way station on a long road, a short period of time before the Holocaust survivors set out for the final destination. Almost everything they brought with them was left in well-packed suitcases and personal bundles. The inmates of the camp took out only their basic needs—essential clothing and toiletries.

Many questions, with no answers, popped up: What was in store for them there, in the new country? Would they locate family members? Would they find a place to live and a job? Would they and their children adapt to the people, the environment, the language that was strange to most of them? Would they ever forget the nightmares of the war?

They had too many idle hours and too few occupations. They listened to lectures about the Land of Israel, sang together, argued about politics. Like many other children in the camp, Michael learned Hebrew. The first sentence he could read in the new language was “I’m going to the Land of Israel.”

As the days passed, the tension increased. All attention was focused on the expected sailing, almost the only topic of conversation. Strange rumors circulated and each one raised or lowered the people’s mood. Once it was rumored that they would sail in a week, only to be told later that the ship needed more repairs, making it unclear when it could leave port. The camp administration did confirm the rumor that the number of applicants exceeded the number of places on the ship, and a special committee of the Haganah would decide who would go and who would stay. This information caused great fear among the old and the sick. Afraid they wouldn’t board the ship, many of the elderly declared that they were younger. Sick people and pregnant women went to German doctors in nearby villages and got false medical certificates from them in exchange for canned goods and cigarettes.

No one deluded himself that the trip to the Land of Israel would be easy or that the ship could dock in Palestine. Newspapers from Israel that reached the camp told of ships of illegal immigrants stopped by British destroyers before they got to Palestine, their passengers sent to transit camps in Cyprus. Gertruda shuddered when she remembered what the fortune-teller had predicted on the train to Vilna, about what was in store for her and Michael: a difficult sailing, a succession of blood and victims. She ordered herself to forget those things, but they came back into her mind every day, reinforcing her fears.

In the big dining hall of the DP camp, Yossi Hamburger, a twenty-nine-year-old native of Jerusalem appointed to command the ship alongside Ike Aaronovitch, introduced himself to the illegal immigrants and said: “The time of departure is approaching. It may happen this week.”

A roar of satisfaction went through the audience.

“You must know that it won’t be a pleasurable cruise,” added Hamburger. “It will be very crowded on the ship; it will be hot and stifling in the hold. Children, pregnant women, and older people will suffer especially. Diseases may also break out. But that’s not all. Right now, we’re not sure if we’ll get to Palestine. The British will try everything to keep you out of the Land of Israel. Previously, they have exiled illegal immigrants to transit camps in Cyprus. They may want to do that again this time.”

“We’ll resist!” shouted someone in the audience. “They won’t exile us!”

“That won’t be so easy. We have to defend against them, but carefully. The British have weapons and we don’t, and if they want to, they can easily take over the ship.”

“So what’s the point of this sailing?” asked a pregnant woman.

“First of all,” said Hamburger, “we believe there is a chance to break through the British blockade and take you to the Land of Israel. There have been illegal immigrant ships that have succeeded. Moreover, we want to stir world opinion, pressure the British government to let the refugees from the Holocaust immigrate to Palestine. Never have we brought so many immigrants all at once and this has to arouse great interest in the world press and will mobilize public opinion for our struggle. Nevertheless, I must tell you now that anyone who doesn’t want to sail can stay in the camp for the time being. Anyone who wants to stay here, raise your hand.”

Nobody did.

“Then,” he smiled, “all I can do is wish you bon voyage.”

The refugees slowly scattered and Gertruda returned to her hut, thoughtful, once again remembering the words of the fortuneteller: “There’s a curse on that ship. I see a lot of blood, violence, dead people.” She still saw the possibility of not sailing, waiting until they could go straight and sure to the Land of Israel. But she knew she couldn’t. She had been looking forward to that trip more than anything else. At long last, she had to find a real home for Michael.

The next day, the camp residents were told that all passengers had to give up most of their belongings, that they were allowed to take only twenty-two pounds of personal objects. The DP camp seethed and stormed when the order was given. No matter how worthless they were, objects were an integral part of life. People
were closely bound to the things they or their loved ones had and it was hard to leave them. Many of the Holocaust survivors carried their own keepsakes and those of their families who had been killed in the camps: clothes, eating utensils, secret journals. Ever since their liberation, they had amassed more things that were dear to them. Many of them also feverishly hoarded food, afraid they would once again suffer from hunger. They protested loudly to the camp administration, pleaded and explained, but the decision stood: there was room on the ship only for passengers, not cargo.

Like the others, Gertruda also received the order with a heavy heart. She had many objects that she had collected. Michael had precious personal mementos, too. She wanted to keep kitchen utensils and other household objects she could use in the new country. She also had books she had collected over the years, but she had to abandon almost everything. Michael took his parents’ photo album and the New Testament given to him as a farewell gift by Father Gedovsky.

The eyes of the camp administrators were red from lack of sleep; their faces were pale from overwork. They worked day and night to finish the list of candidates for the ship and discovered that their fear had come true: there weren’t enough places on the ship for all those who wanted to sail. The inevitable conclusion was that at least a few dozen refugees would have to stay behind.

Deciding who would go and who would stay was excruciating. The Israelis who had been sent to manage the camp and get its occupants to the Land of Israel were members of political movements and had clear priorities. Representatives of Ha-Shomer Ha-Tza’ir
wanted to bring those who would establish the new kibbutzim; the He-Chalutz movement preferred its people, as did the other movements whose representatives now determined who could board the ship.

Passengers who might be left behind were taken off the list: single men and women, parents of newborn infants—and Gertruda, who, unlike all the other prospective passengers, wasn’t Jewish. She was called for an interview and entered the room where the members of the administration were seated at a long wooden table.

They scanned her documents.

“I understand that you’re not a Jew,” said one of them.

“I’m Catholic.”

“And the child you’re with is a Jew, correct?”

“Correct.”

“We’ve read your personal file and we, of course, are very appreciative of the fact that you protected the child during the war. We have no doubt that he is still alive because of you.”

“Without me, he would have nobody in the world,” she added. “His parents are dead.”

“We know,” said one of the members of the administration, a young man in a shabby leather jacket. “Do you have a family?”

“Yes. My parents live in Starogard.”

“Why don’t you go back to them?

“Because I promised Michael’s dying mother to take him to the Land of Israel. She wanted him to grow up there as a Jew,” she said.

“We’ll take him to the Land of Israel,” he said. “You can count on us.”

Now she suddenly understood what he meant. He didn’t want her to sail.

“I went through all the hardships of the war with that child,” she
said emotionally. “I saved him from certain death. I risked my life for him every day and every hour. You have no right to prevent me from keeping my promise to his mother.”

They looked at her uneasily.

“Understand,” said one of them, “we don’t have room on the ship for all those who want to immigrate to Palestine. Many people will have to stay in Europe. We have to give priority to Jews who see their future in the Land of Israel, and so we can’t, unfortunately, allow you to go. Michael can of course sail.”