I Will Plant You a Lilac Tree
Read I Will Plant You a Lilac Tree Online
Authors: Laura Hillman
To my husband, Bernhard Hillman, of blessed memory
In loving memory of my parents,
Martin and Karoline Wolff,
and my brothers, Wolfgang and Selly,
who were murdered by the Nazis.
May their memory live on forever
.
I would like to thank Professor Elliot Fried of Long Beach State University for going far beyond what was expected when teaching me the craft of writing.
To my young friend Megan Stidham and her mother, Kelly Stidham, who were the sparks that led to publication of my book, I am forever indebted to them.
To my grandsons, Aryeh and Joshua, who cheered me on to keep writing.
To the many friends who read parts of the manuscript, advised me, reassured me, and didn't let me give up.
To my friend, Larry Mendelson, who went out of his way to help.
To my editor, Robert O. Warren, for his consistent support, good sense, and good taste.
My heartfelt thanks goes out to all of you.
“We are going to Brünnlitz, to Oskar Schindler's camp!”
I recall the shouts of joy that filled the barrack at Plaszow. But the terrible place where I now stand is not that hoped-for refuge. It is Auschwitz.
This place is different than any of the other camps I had been in. I watch prisoners pass before an SS man in a black uniform. He holds a leather whip in his white-gloved hand, waving it left and right, as if brushing flies away. His thin lips crimp into a smile while his eyes dart from one prisoner to another.
Not a word is said. The line to the left soon
swells with elderly people and small children. A girl walking alongside me explains what it means: “People in the left line are doomed to die.”
We have been deceived. Brünnlitz is far away. I already know some things about Auschwitz. It cannot get any worse than this. I wait for the shooting to start, but nothing happens. Only children crying and mothers wailing, running after the young ones in the left line.
We, the three hundred women who were supposed to go to Brünnlitz, stand apart from the others. It is my hope that there is a mistake and that soon we will be loaded back on the train to go to our real destination. The music still plays, one waltz after another. I break into tears.
“There is no need to cry.” The girl next to me is emphatic. “Oskar Schindler will get us out of here. You don't know him as well as we do. He will do anything for us.”
“I wish I could believe you,” I answer through my tears. “How can he get us out of
this
place?”
Since Hitler had come to power, it was dangerous for Jews to walk on public streets. In spite of the risk we walked along a tree-lined avenue in a suburb of Berlin, the ever-present yellow Stars of David sewn to our jackets.
Every now and then we stopped to admire spring flowers sprouting just above the ground. I especially admired the crocuses and daffodils, which reminded me of home. Irma, the tallest of us, was more interested in finding something to eat than looking at flowers, while Kaethe, the plump redhead, wanted adventure more than anything else.
This particular day Kaethe had come up
with an idea. She knew of an ice-cream parlor where one could get a cone without a ration card.
“We've been cooped up at school too long,” she said. “All we do is study. It drives me crazy! We should have more fun.”
I shook my head. “Fun, is that all you can think about? Terrible things are happening to Jews. We should not even be on this street. They might take us away on one of those transports.”
Kaethe paid little attention to what I had to say. She wanted ice cream. But there was still the matter of the yellow stars sewn to our clothes. No shopkeeper would serve us if he knew who we were. To Kaethe it was a minor problem. She showed us that by draping a shawl over the star it would be completely hidden. Not wanting to spoil her fun, I gave in.
Something else was troubling me that day. It had been over a month since I'd last heard from Mama and Papa. It wasn't like them to not write. Dear God, what if they had been deported?
But for now I put aside my fears. Kaethe was right: What could possibly happen if we covered up the star?
We had not gone very far when two boys in the uniform of the Hitler Youth came around a corner. They were younger than we were, barely teens themselves. We tried hurrying past them, but the taller boy held up a hand and said, “We have not seen you around here before. Where are you from?”
Before we could answer, he invited us to come to a parade that night. To assure us how special this parade was, he added, “The Führer himself will be there!”
I felt my legs buckling under me from fear. “See what you got us into,” I whispered angrily. “What should we do now?”
“Start giggling, Hannelore,” Kaethe said. “Pretend you are a moron. You too, Irma.”
The second boy looked closely at our shawls. “Why are you wearing those silly things?” he asked.
Before I could think of an answer, he pulled at my shawl, exposing the yellow star.
“Look at this!” he shouted. “
Jews
, hiding their identity. You filthy swine, we will teach you a lesson you'll never forget! Let's take them to Gestapo headquarters,” he told his companion. “They will get what is coming to them, and we will get a medal for bringing them in.”
His fist struck me in the face and bloodied my nose. I ignored the pain and bleeding. The word
Gestapo
frightened me more than my injuries.
The boy held on to my arm. He was hurting me, but I didn't let on how painful it was. When he loosened his grip just a little, I pulled free and shouted to my friends, “Run,
run
!”
I am not sure how we managed to get away from those boys. Perhaps they decided they had better things to do than torment girls, even Jewish girls. Somehow we reached the gate to our school and ran inside. To make us feel better,
Kaethe brought out a bar of chocolate her parents had sent. Before long things returned to normal. We changed clothes and talked about the young teacher who had come to lecture us on the poems of Rainer Maria Rilke, my favorite poet.
Kaethe began teasing me. “He had eyes only for you, Hannelore. The way you recited âThe Lute,' that was special. He stared at your lips throughout the entire poem.”
Irma laughed. My face turned beet red. Yes, I did have a crush on the teacher. If only Kaethe wouldn't tease me about it so much.
“I wish I had your dreamy eyes,” Kaethe continued. “Maybe then boys would look at me, too.”
It was time to go down to the study hall. The room was crowded, which usually didn't bother me, but today I found it hard to concentrate. The encounter with the two Hitler Youth had troubled me more than I would admit to anyone. I decided I would be better able to concentrate on my studies in our room and returned there.
Before long I was completely absorbed in my work. Then a girl entered.
“Mail,” she said in a singsong voice, placing letters on the table.
I looked through the stack, picking up the one letter addressed to me. Thank God, a letter from Mama! Hastily, I tore open the envelope and began to read:
Dearest Hannelore
,
I am sorry I didn't write to you sooner, but I have been terribly worried. Six weeks ago your papa was taken to Buchenwald, a concentration camp near Weimar. He was on his way home from work, riding his bicycle, when the Gestapo stopped him and took him to their headquarters. The next day, when I inquired about where he was and asked if I could bring him a change of clothes, I was told he had already left the city and wouldn't need the clothes. You can imagine how concerned
and upset I have been since. Day after day I prayed for his safe return
.
Yesterday the postman brought a letter and a small box postmarked “Buchenwald.” The letter said the following: “Martin Wolff died of unknown causes on March 14, 1942. Urn contains his ashes.”
Hannelore, your papa is dead
.
Nausea overwhelmed me, and I barely made it to the bathroom down the hall.
“They murdered him!”
I cried. “
They murdered Papa!
Why doesn't someone stop this killing? Dear God,
doesn't anyone care
?”
Sweat and tears streamed down my face. The room began to whirl.
“They murdered Papa!”
I shrieked again. “How can they get away with this?”
I sobbed and sobbed as I staggered back to my room and fell on the bed. The next thing I remember was someone leaning over me.
“You left the study hall,” Kaethe said, “so I
came up toâHannelore, what's wrong? What happened?”
“Here.” I handed her the letter. “I told you I was worried about my parents, but you made light of it and called me names!”
I began crying again. After finishing the letter, Kaethe also cried, and she held me for a few moments as the sobs threatened to shatter my body.
Finally I stopped sobbing. Kaethe remained sitting next to me. I began to talk, telling my friend why I believed Mama and Papa had not left Germany before it was too late. “Papa made himself believe he would be safe. After all, he served in the war in 1918, where he was wounded and decorated. On the night the Nazis burned our synagogue, Papa came home; all the other men were sent to Buchenwald.”
I could never forget that horrible night.
It was November 9, 1938. The Germans called it
Kristallnacht
âthe night of broken glassâbecause not only did they burn our
synagogue, they broke the windows in Jewish-owned businesses. I told Kaethe what it was like when Nazis in brown shirts and black boots stormed through our front door, ordering us out.
“You can't imagine the kind of foul language they used,” I said, “while we stood to watch the synagogue burn. It was awful.” Afterward we could no longer go to school; it too had been burned. Besides, from then on Jewish children all over Germany were not allowed to attend public schools. Papa found a Jewish school in Cologne for Wolfgang and Selly, my younger brothers, eleven and twelve at the time. The boys had to live in an orphanage there in order to attend. Thank God he didn't have to worry about Rosel and Hildegard, my older sisters. Both had left home a few years ago to work as mother's helpers for a Jewish family in the city of Fulda. In 1939 Rosel was able to leave for England. Hildegard went to Palestine in 1940. A year later we received a letter from the
Red Cross, telling us Hildegard was living in Jerusalem. Papa and Mama were happy about that, and wished all their children could leave, but that was not possible now. Soon after Papa had taken care of the boys, he showed me a picture of Dr. Frenkel's Boarding School for Jewish Girls in a suburb of Berlin. He assured me I would be happy there.
“It . . . was the last time I saw him,” I told Kaethe. “I wrote every week telling him how much the garden here reminded me of our garden at home in Aurich. But I missed the small forest behind our house, the one with the brook running through it. It wasn't really a brookâjust a trickle of waterâbut we called it that. Wolfgang, Selly, and I played our favorite games there, games about the war made up from the stories Papa told us. We would pretend to be shot, and then, when confronted by a Russian bayonet, we would recite the prayer: âHear, O Israel . . .'”