Gertruda's Oath: A Child, a Promise, and a Heroic Escape During World War II (33 page)

He wrote:

Gertruda waited impatiently for Geller’s updated report. And indeed, after a long time, another letter came:

Gertruda was shocked. She read the letter over and over and decided to hide the contents from Michael so as not to cause him more pain.

After his discharge from the Israeli army, Michael worked at various jobs to save money and locate his father’s wealth. For that purpose, he traveled to Zurich, arrived there in mid-June 1958, and went straight to the posh offices of the Credit Bank, where an elderly official greeted Michael with a generous smile and asked him to take a seat.

“How can I help you?”

“My father had an account at this bank,” said Michael.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“He died in the war and I’m his heir.”

Michael took out an order of inheritance issued by a court in Israel after Jacob Stolowitzky’s name was found in a list of those killed in Auschwitz and after Gertruda presented Lydia’s death certificate. The official read the order carefully and looked at the visitor.

“You said your father, Jacob Stolowitzky has an account in our bank? Do you have a document confirming that?”

“No,” said Michael. “I only know that my mother said my father had an account here.”

“Let me check,” said the official.

He left the room and returned a short time later.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I checked everywhere and we don’t have any account in your father’s name. Maybe he deposited the money in another bank.”

Michael looked at him in amazement.

“He did deposit money in other banks, too,” he said. “But my mother remembered only your bank. She said Father deposited a lot of money with you before the war … before he died in a concentration camp.”

The official’s face remained frozen. The young man facing him wasn’t the only one who had searched for inheritances of family members killed in the war. War orphans and bereaved spouses frequently came to the bank, sure they would leave there very rich. They were usually aided by batteries of lawyers, but few of them located the accounts their relatives had opened before the war.

“One of the possibilities, of course, is that before his death, your father closed the account and took the money,” said the official.

Michael sat still. It couldn’t be, he thought; there must be some mistake. His mother did tell Gertruda explicitly that the money was in this bank. She was fully aware at the time and left no doubt that she knew exactly what she was talking about. If his father did indeed close the account and take out the money, he must have had a good reason for it. How could it be that his mother didn’t know that the account was closed? And if the money was taken out without her knowing it, who was it transferred to? Who did he enrich and why?

The official looked at him sympathetically.

“Mr. Stolowitzky” he said, “as I told you, we have no listing of
an account in your father’s name. But I really want to believe you that the money was deposited with us. If your father didn’t take out the money and close the account, the only possibility is that your father had a secret numbered account with us.”

“Meaning?”

“Many people deposited their money in unnamed accounts and used some number, sometimes a series of letters that meant something only to the depositor. Money can be withdrawn from the account only by someone who knows the secret number. Do you know your father’s code number?”

Of course he didn’t. His mother probably didn’t know it either when she told Gertruda on her deathbed about that bank.

“What should I do?” Michael asked with increasing despair.

“Your father was apparently a rich man. Many rich people who deposited their money here hired a local lawyer or accountant to take care of their affairs. Your father may also have had somebody like that. Try to find him and get the information from him.”

A spark of hope was kindled in Michael’s eyes.

“How can I find that man?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, I can’t help you with that.”

“So, what should I do?”

“Try to get proof,” the official advised him. “That’s the only thing you can do. Without proof of the existence of the account, we can’t help you.”

Michael stumbled out of the bank. He sat down on a bench in the street and felt like a little boy who had lost his way and was wandering in a thick forest, not knowing where to turn. If he had the
money, he might have hired a lawyer to fight for him. In his situation, with his little bit of money running out, he could rely only on himself.

His task seemed complicated, almost impossible. Where would he get proof of the existence of the account? Who would know about that account except for his father and mother, who were no longer alive? Nevertheless, he was determined to do whatever he could to get the money, and he didn’t intend to return to Israel empty-handed.

At last he came up with an idea that didn’t seem promising, but was his only option. He went to the Polish consulate in Zurich, presented his birth certificate, and requested a visa.

The clerk who distributed visas asked the purpose of his trip to Poland.

“I’m looking for details to help me retrieve my father’s inheritance,” he said.

“Do you know anybody in Poland?” asked the clerk.

“My father had a lot of friends there—businessmen he worked with, people who worked for him. Maybe one of them will help me.”

“There’s almost no chance you’ll succeed,” said the clerk. “Many of them are probably dead.”

He gave Michael a visa for a week. “Good luck,” he said.

Michael arrived at the railroad station in Warsaw after an exhausting trip and looked around in surprise. Instead of the bustling city teeming with life, shops, and cafés, he saw dull gray houses, meager display windows of dark shops, few vehicles, and enormous pictures of Lenin on street corners. Warsaw was dreary and unwelcoming.

In the railroad station lavatory, he washed his face and shaved. He asked for the address of the synagogue, where he hoped to find a Jew who would rent him a room.

A handful of elderly Jews were praying in the synagogue on Tlomackie Street. Michael waited patiently until they finished their prayers and asked if he could rent a room from one of them. One of the old men asked where he came from. His reply sparked much interest. Only rarely did Israelis get permission to enter Poland, and the worshippers of the synagogue took advantage of the opportunity to ask a lot of questions about Israel. He asked them if they knew his father’s name. The synagogue treasurer replied excitedly: “Of course. Jacob Stolowitzky paid for the repairs to our synagogue in 1938.” Michael asked to meet with the people who had worked with his father and the treasurer promised to find out for him. He also offered Michael a room in his home for free.

The modest apartment was near the synagogue. The treasurer’s wife gave the guest their own bedroom and she and her husband moved to the living room, which also served as a dining room. At the meager dinner, Michael told them he intended to explore his rights to the family mansion.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” said the treasurer sadly. “The house has probably been confiscated by the government, like other abandoned Jewish houses. The Poles claim that every government office was blown up in the war and documents of ownership of many buildings were lost. If you don’t have a document to prove your rights, you have almost no chance of getting the house or money for it.”

This was another obstacle on the way to realizing his father’s legacy, another reason to give up. Michael’s heart was filled with deep grief when he thought that the pursuit of his father’s money was getting away from him.

The next morning, he took the trolley to Ujazdowska Avenue 9. The mansion surrounded by the river hadn’t changed very much, except for the Polish flag in the doorway and the pair of armed
guards standing there. Through the windows, people could be seen bent over desks. Michael asked one of the guards what the building was used for. “That’s the Ministry of Agriculture,” the guard replied indifferently.

There was no point going in. Michael wandered around the building, peeped into nearby Chopin Park, and roamed the streets until he returned to the home of the synagogue treasurer.

The man’s wife tried to comfort him. “My husband went to look for people who knew your father,” she said. “He’ll be back this evening.” A few hours later, the treasurer did come home with an elderly man. He introduced Michael to him and the man hugged him emotionally.

“I remember you when you were little,” he exclaimed. He said that he had survived Auschwitz and returned to Warsaw alone after his whole family had been killed there. He looked sad when he heard the bitter fate of Jacob Stolowitzky and his wife. “I was a clerk for your father’s accountant,” he told Michael.

“Father deposited enormous sums of money in banks in Switzerland. I was at one of them. They say they don’t have any account in the name of Jacob Stolowitzky.”

“The money has to be there,” said the man. “I remember that every month money was transferred to your father’s representative in Zurich who was supposed to deposit it in the bank.”

“Do you remember who my father’s representative was?” asked Michael hopefully.

The old man’s eyes lit up.

“Of course,” he said. “His name was Turner, Wolfgang Joachim Turner.”

“Do you happen to know his address?”

“Unfortunately, no,” replied the man.

The next day, Michael took the train back to Zurich.

Finding his father’s Swiss representative was easier than Michael had imagined. In the Zurich telephone book, there was only one Wolfgang Joachim Turner, with his profession—attorney—listed next to his name. Michael excitedly copied the address, in the heart of the city’s business district.

He had no trouble finding the office building. A sign in the vestibule indicated that the office of attorney Turner was on the third floor. Michael took the elevator up and knocked on the door with Turner’s name. There was no answer. For a long time he wandered around aimlessly in the empty corridor. He imagined that the attorney was away from the office at some legal discussion or meeting. He had nothing else to do, so he went on waiting.

The day passed and the attorney didn’t appear. Michael wandered around the city aimlessly, went to bed early, and the next day he returned to the office of the lawyer who had represented his father.

The door was closed this time, too. Michael waited patiently.

In the afternoon, someone came out of the next room and looked at him inquisitively.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for attorney Turner.”

“I’m sorry,” said the man. “Mr. Turner died a week ago.”

Michael turned pale. He hadn’t considered that possibility.

“On the fourth floor is an attorney who is taking care of Mr. Turner’s cases,” said the man. “You can go to him.”

Michael knocked on the attorney’s door. He told him briefly the
reason that he had come to Zurich and asked if Turner had passed on his father’s file to him.

“I have no idea,” replied the attorney. “I suggest you talk to Turner’s widow. Maybe she can help you.”

The big house with tiled roofs was on top of a hill overlooking the town of Thalwil on the western side of Lake Zurich. Sunbeams flooded the leaves of the apple trees in the yard, the cultivated flower beds, and the shining paved path leading to the door. The name Turner was on the door and Michael rang the bell.

An older woman, standing straight, her hair pulled back, opened the door. She wore a black dress and looked at him in wonder.

“Mrs. Turner?” asked Michael.

“That’s me. Who are you?”

He told her and she stood still in the door for a long minute, stunned and speechless.

“Forgive me,” she said when she caught her breath. “I thought you were …”

“No, I’m not dead.” He read her mind.

“Thank God,” she smiled. “Come in.”

He followed her into the elegant living room. She sat him in a deep armchair and sat down next to him.

“We knew that your father was sent to Auschwitz and died there,” she said. “We thought you had also been killed in the war.”

Michael gave her a brief account of his life since they had fled from Warsaw. She nodded in sympathy.

“I knew your parents,” she said. “They visited us a few times, two charming and wonderful people. Your father never talked about
his money even though he was very rich. My husband wasn’t only your father’s attorney. He was also one of his good friends.”

Michael told her about his attempt to get his inheritance and the difficulties involved.

“I know my husband handled your father’s money,” she said. “He transferred money to him whenever he needed it. Only your father and my husband knew the secret numbers of the bank accounts. I’ll try to find out if my husband wrote them down somewhere.”

She left the room and returned soon after with an overflowing file of documents labeled
STOLOWITZKY
.

“Everything should be here,” she said.

She leafed through the documents slowly and carefully. Soon after, she pulled a notebook out of the file and showed it to her visitor.

“Here, in my husband’s handwriting, are the sums your father deposited and the money my husband withdrew for him.”