The Memoir

YEARS LATER WE WOULD REMEMBER
A Memoir – by Martin Kent
Chapters 1-9

“The past isn’t dead.
In fact, it isn’t even past.”
– William Faulkner
*
“What matters in life
is not what happens to you
but what you remember
and how you remember it.”
– Gabriel Garcia Marquez

CHAPTER 1

The train had been chasing an ominously red and grey autumn sunset across the Polish countryside for the last hour or so. As it rolled out of the Nisko station, a conductor walked through, from car to car, informing the mostly grim-faced travelers the next stop was Rozwadow-Stalowa Wola, and that it would be coming up in a few minutes. Ziuta Kunstler, a passenger, pursed her lips, took off her eyeglasses, and began cleaning them yet again with the crumpled up handkerchief she’d been fiddling with for hours; she stole a fleeting glance at the coarse, clenching hands of the girl sitting beside her, but Ziuta’s subterfuge was quickly detected.

“What are you looking at?” said the girl. “Haven’t you had enough time to look at me? We’ve been on this train for nearly 400 kilometres.”

“Yes, of course. I mean, no, I wasn’t looking at you. I was just….”

“We’ll be parting company soon enough. We’re getting off at the next stop.”

Like Ziuta, the girl was about 19 or 20 — but that was where their similarities ended; while Ziuta had a pleasant and refined appearance, Helga Paluch, her Ukrainian traveling companion, was a decidedly rough character. The cheap clothing she wore was tattered in places, especially at the hem of her woolen skirt and overcoat. Her eyes were so deeply set and small, their color was nearly indiscernible. Her dirty blonde hair was mostly hidden under a kerchief, as if to hide the fact that it was greasy and unkempt. As to her face, she seemed to resemble some kind of rodent. Ziuta, on the other hand, had bright blue eyes, full lips and wore her strawberry blonde hair in a beautiful, wavy pompadour, a popular style in 1940s Poland. Her dress and coat, with a fine fur collar, though certainly not new, were nonetheless of expensive quality. If it weren’t for the present circumstances in which Ziuta found herself, she would never associate with someone of Helga’s ilk.

But war changes everything.

Since the first rays of daylight Ziuta and Helga had been traveling from Rohatyn, on the eastern frontier of Poland, bordering the Ukraine. They had hardly spoken. Ziuta knew that in these dangerous times words could be fatal, so it was best to just keep quiet. Helga already knew too much.

This trip was not voluntary. Ziuta’s two older brothers, Salo and Muño, resistance fighters, had ordered her to make this journey, leaving them behind in the Jewish ghetto with her father, her older sister Clara and her youngest brother Kuba, still only a boy. Her big brothers had done all they could to cope with the Nazi occupation. Through unwavering resolve and wise preemptory tactics, they had saved the Kunstler family from two horrific massacres, in which the Nazis had gunned down thousands of the town’s Jewish inhabitants. After nearly all the Jews in Rohatyn had been slaughtered, Salo and Muño realized it was time to bet on the inevitable — that every last one of them would soon be killed, as well. They had commissioned and obtained a new identity card for their sister — who would henceforth be known as Ziuta Kentarska, a Catholic — and enlisted the help of the Ukrainian girl to escort her cross country. The family’s hope… their prayer… was that Ziuta — the clever one, who spoke six languages, and above all, perfect Polish, without a trace of a Jewish accent — would stay incognito, survive the war, and one day tell the world what had happened.

As the train slowed down on the approach to the Rozwadow-Stalowa Wola station, Ziuta was startled when Helga leaped out of her seat and headed for the baggage area. Ziuta quickly followed. Helga was already standing near Ziuta’s small suitcase.
“You don’t want anyone mistaking it for their own,” said Helga.
“Yes, of course,” said Ziuta, suddenly feeling her stomach juices churning. She hadn’t eaten for many hours.
When the train stopped, both girls reached for the suitcase, but Ziuta got to it first.
“Don’t you want my help?” said Helga, feigning cordiality.
“It’s all right. I can handle it,” said Ziuta, looking intently at Helga, trying to also get a handle on the shadow she intuitively felt spreading over her current situation.
The two girls got off the train and walked along the platform.
“Ok, put your bag down,” said Helga, in a tone that communicated this was an order, not a helpful suggestion. “We need to talk.”
Ziuta bristled, but did as she was told — then looked at Helga, now more suspiciously than ever.
“Where do we go from here? Where do your cousins live?” said Ziuta, trying to force Helga’s hand.
“My cousins?”
“The ones you told my brothers about. The ones I’ll be staying with.”
Helga laughed cruelly. “That was just a story.”
“Wh- what?!”
“You’re on your own from here.”
“What do you mean? You’re supposed to help me.”
“I got you here, didn’t I? Now hand over your money.”
“My money? My brothers paid you a lot of money for this.”
“Not enough.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious. Now come on!”
“No. I… can’t… how would I manage without money?”
“You’ll figure it out. You’re a Jew. Jews are so smart, right?”
“Shhh,” said Ziuta, looking around. “Please. No one must know.”
“All right,” said Helga, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Then give me the money and let’s just finish this.”
“This is… robbery. You’re robbing me?”
“What are you going to do? Call the police?”
Ziuta’s eyes darted; she looked back at Helga.
“You don’t want me to tell them I just caught a Jew,” hissed Helga.
Ziuta looked into Helga’s rat face. There wasn’t the slightest trace of compassion. Ziuta sighed, as she opened her purse, found her wallet and emptied it.
“This is all I have.”
Helga grabbed the few bills, counted them, and then looked up at Ziuta.
“Come on, Jew. This isn’t everything. Give me the money you have pinned to the inside of your clothing.”
“What money?”
“Think I’m stupid? You didn’t leave for a trip like this with just pocket change.”
Ziuta’s stomach tightened and now ached with hunger. She saw Helga’s thin lips silently forming the word “Jew.” Ziuta looked around yet again; realizing she was clearly trumped, she slowly reached under her skirt and unpinned the cloth packet holding all her money. Helga immediately grabbed it and stuffed it into her coat pocket.
“Now walk into the waiting room and don’t say a word. I’m warning you.”
By now Ziuta was trembling. She lurched down for her suitcase, but this time Helga was quicker.
“I’ll take this. It’s mine now,” said Helga, hoisting it up. Ziuta let out a gasp of air, along with any semblance of hope, as Helga walked away, down the platform, made a turn and then disappeared.
Ziuta’s legs wobbled as she made her way into the waiting room, nearly collapsing on the bench. As her mind raced through various worst-case scenarios, she began to cry. The few travelers at the ticket window looked at her briefly, then turned away. After three years of war, this was a time of overwhelming tragedy; one girl crying was of little consequence.
Her typically logical mind could not grapple with the limbo of her current situation. With no money, she couldn’t return to Rohatyn, even if she were foolish enough to embark on such a hopeless journey. What could she do now? Where could she go? How would she function? Ziuta’s body didn’t care — her increasingly gnawing hunger sent futile messages to a brain that was disoriented. With darkness beginning to overtake the town outside like a bottle of ink spilled into a fishbowl, Ziuta felt a sense of urgency; she got up and left the station, compelled to take some kind of action – though a specific plan eluded her. As she began to amble aimlessly along the squalid streets of this forbidding netherworld, some children, stealing the last few moments of playtime, took notice of this dazed wanderer and stared curiously at her. Suddenly, one of them uttered a pronouncement: “Jew.”
How could they know? Had Helga compounded her treachery and told them to look out for her?
The others nodded their heads and took turns saying the same thing. It soon became a chant: “Jew! Jew! Jew!” In a moment, some of their parents opened their doors and came outside to investigate the source of the commotion. Ziuta, wide-eyed, licking her lips, picked up the pace of her walk, desperate to get away. But the more distance she made from the children, the greater her realization that there was nowhere to go. Within minutes a carbon-colored Fiat sedan with two policemen pulled up beside her; she pretended not to notice.
“Get inside and come with us,” one of them ordered.
Ziuta turned to look. “Are you talking to me?” she said innocently, in her best Polish.
“Better behave yourself, miss.”
“What’s the trouble, officer?”
“We have a few questions. Let’s go.”
Ziuta could stall no longer. She climbed into the back seat of the car, which took off immediately. As the black vehicle roared down the dark streets of a town that had denied her the salvation she’d sought, she wondered why she’d had to travel so far to enter oblivion.

*****

CHAPTER 2

I heard soft sobbing. Was it the TV? I was a little boy of nine with fiery red hair, a face full of freckles, and inquisitive blue-green eyes that peered out of brand new horn-rimmed, tortoise shell eyeglasses. I had been relaxing in my room, enjoying the arch satire of the October 1960 edition of Mad magazine, when my curiosity compelled me to get up and follow the sound. I walked past the kitchen, into the living room, and from there saw my mother Ziuta stretched out on her bed. Moving in closer, I discerned she was reading a strange-looking document and crying. It upset me to see her like this. As usual, my father was at work. And my much older brother was out somewhere – anywhere — keeping his distance from the family. So it was just she and I in our house in Jackson Heights, Queens.
“What’s the matter, Mom?”
“Notting. It’s okay.”
“But…”
“I really don’t vant to talk about it.”
I couldn’t know it at the time, but the images flashing through my mother’s head were nothing short of horrific: people running hysterically for their lives. Beatings. Fires. Massacres.
I couldn’t contain my curiosity; I began asking questions again. “What are you reading, Mom?”
She hesitated, then sighed. “It’s my story. What happened to me.”
“What do you mean, your story? What’s your story?”
“It happened… just like it was predicted in my dream.”
“What dream? When did you have a dream?”
“When I was nine, I had a dream. A very powerful voice spoke: ‘A terrible ting will happen to da Jews… and den it did. It really did.”
“Mom, what happened to the Jews? What happened to you?”
“Its all in here,” she said, holding up an onion skin document of an indeterminate number of pages; it was written in a foreign language, with a different alphabet.
“Is that Hebrew?” I asked.
“No, it’s Yiddish. Da same letters, only it’s a different language.” My mother struggled with her English pronunciation, especially her v’s and w’s and the t-h sound. “Like what ve speak at Chocha Betka’s house.” That was what we called our cousin Betty Weitz.
“Why is your story written in Yiddish and not English?”
“A man at a Jewish organization in New York interviewed me after we came to America. He didn’t speak Polish, and I didn’t speak English. So ve talked in Yiddish. Dats how Jews talk. Den it was transcribed,” she said, putting the transcript into a brown manila envelope and back in the drawer of her night table.
“Why did he interview you?”
“Dey wanted to interview everyone. Dey wanted to hear all da stories. So da vorld would know.”
“But don’t you want me to know your story, Mom? I’m your son. We’re supposed to be a family.”
“No. It’s too terrible. It’s about da war. Vat the Germans did to us.”
“Mom, I wanna know what happened. Can’t you translate it for me?”
“Never,” she answered with finality.
“Never?”
“Well… I suppose you can have it translated after my dett… when I’m gone,” she said flatly.
She turned away from me, put her hands under her head, and curled up in a fetal position, and just stared out the window. I didn’t say another word. There was nothing left to say.
I turned and headed back to my room. Back to my Mad magazine. I just stared at Alfred E. Neuman, the idiot cover boy, who comprehended nothing. I suddenly felt a kinship.

The story couldn’t be told until after her death? Oh my God! What horrors were slithering around inside that harmless-looking plain brown envelope? I thought about what she had said for the rest of the day. And the next 40 years of my life.

*****

CHAPTER 3

That memory of my childhood chills me, despite the heat of late June 2001. Like a pitcher who doesn’t like the signal his catcher is giving, I shake it off and focus on matters at hand. I am once again walking through Los Angeles International Airport, excitedly taking in the distinct, intoxicating, aromatic blend of jet fumes, Starbucks and Cinnabon. I am about to take flight, embark on another journey, to make yet another documentary. Though my subject matter usually varies, this one stands out for a number of reasons. I will not be traveling to some exotic location like Jerusalem, Sao Paulo or Nashville (yes, to a Jew from New York, Nashville is absolutely exotic). There will be no meet-up with a professional video crew. This time I’m a one-man band. Loaded down like a pack mule, I’m carrying a video camera, audio equipment, tripod, cables, tapes, lenses, filters, batteries – plus my personal belongings. I will be the director, writer, producer, camera operator, audio technician, gofer and whatever else the situation calls for. My fellow travelers have no empathy. I endure harsh looks every time I bump into one of them, or drop something, forcing them to walk around me.
I have spent a lifetime denying this trip. I feared it. Loathed it. Secretly hungered for it. And yet, now, I really don’t know what to expect. I am wide open to being swept along to wherever the journey will take me. I am like a satellite dish, spinning around madly, ardently seeking a coherent signal. This search has been going on for my entire life.

I grew up in a house of secrets. Walls. Black holes. I witnessed painful feelings that were alternately repressed — or suddenly, explosively — released. While my parents tried to shield me from the details of the horrors they’d experienced in Nazi-occupied Poland during the 1930s and ‘40s, they couldn’t protect me from them… from the fallout. No one goes through something like that and leaves it behind. Misery, grief and pain are such clever hitchhikers. I never managed to get comfortable sitting in the backseat of the family car, next to that stone-faced Gestapo guard pointing his gun at me.
Inside my black hole, I found myself picking through a box – one that contained a giant jigsaw puzzle. Many of the pieces were not exactly missing; some were faded, or frayed, and hard to discern; others were locked away – on purpose. The curious child growing up in the stimulating kaleidoscope of New York City became a curious adult. I was determined to explore the world — to dig into the past — to investigate the present. I carved out a satisfying career as a journalist, an occasional university instructor and a Los Angeles-based Emmy Award-winning documentary filmmaker — sharing my passions, telling other people’s stories. My subject range included war, assassinations, kidnappings, disasters, persecution, the energy crisis – topics and issues that weren’t exactly pleasant, but nonetheless mattered to me.
Then, in 1999, my life took an irrevocable turn. After the 1993 release of Steven Spielberg’s Schindler’s List, based on Thomas Keneally’s 1982 book (originally entitled Schindler’s Ark), Hearst Entertainment hired me to write, produce and direct an A&E Biography of Oskar Schindler, the Nazi who’d turned against his own and saved over 1,300 Jews. Was this by coincidence? Nothing happens by coincidence. This was my gateway to the dark days of the Holocaust. In the process of making this film, I interviewed survivors, author Keneally, world-renowned Holocaust historian Dr. Michael Berenbaum; I did all the necessary research and legwork, and looked at reel after reel of horrific film footage.
On a visit to San Francisco, where my parents’ had relocated from New York, I told my mother about this project. Her reaction wasn’t quite what I’d expected. “Oh, Oskar Schindler? Yes, I knew all about him. You remember my friend Sally Huppert? She was one of the people he saved.”
I was shocked… and upset. I considered the irony that one of the greatest stories of the 20th century had been right under my nose for all those years.
“Mom,” I said, “do you realize how many dinners with the Spielbergs I’ve missed? What other stories haven’t you told me about? Isn’t it finally time for you and Dad to tell me what happened back in Poland?”
My mother took some time to consider what I had said, and the fact that I had been adequately inoculated by all my work on the Schindler documentary. One morning she phoned me and said, “Ok, I’ve thought about it. I’m appointing you family historian.” We had had a historian in our family. A big one. The late Dr. Philip Friedman, widely considered the father of Holocaust history, was our cousin. Could I walk in his giant footsteps?
I spent a year doing background research and recording and transcribing interviews with my parents. The story was revealed gradually. Like some sacred, mystical text, it required study, meditation and a pilgrimage. I felt compelled to make a trip to Poland, a place I’d never thought I’d visit; I needed to experience total immersion in this process. But by the time I felt I was ready, my mother was too fragile to make the trip. It wasn’t just her health that kept her from going back to Poland. “It’s like opening a closet with ghosts,” she said.
I considered the story of Odysseus instructive: the journey itself would be only half the battle I’d face. Homer taught us that what ultimately mattered most to that ancient Greek wanderer was his third act — how well he folded his experiences into the life he faced once he returned. Could an ancient superhero who’d knocked off the Cyclops and had sex with Calypso come home and be okay with having to take out the garbage? I understood that this was going to be an odyssey like none other I’d undertaken. And that I, too, would come back changed. The repercussions and echoes of this experience would be something I couldn’t possibly anticipate; like everything else in life, it would probably encompass a mysterious spectrum.
On this voyage of discovery, I am traveling with Jack, (whose Polish name is Olek) my 78-year-old father, a man I hardly know. Our relationship, up till now, has been confounding, maddening, uncomfortable. We’ve never really given each other what the other one truly needed. Now we are on our way to spend nearly a month together in Poland, a place whose mere mention would upset me when I was a child. Blind in one eye, with limited vision in the other, and an occasional fiery temper, my father is a Cyclops of sorts. He is returning to a place that compelled him and my mother – for so many years — to deliberately imbibe on the lotus of forgetfulness.
The audience for the documentary I am about to make is a niche within a niche. This film is for my two sons, Spencer and Dylan, their unborn children and generations to come.
But the journey is for me.
All my life I’d stepped lightly around the void, the gaping black hole — trying my best not to fall in – and now I’m finally about to confront it, head on. I fully intend to seek out and meet the demons and ghosts in Poland… and at last unlock the secrets and learn how this family had come to be – to understand what had happened to make my father, my mother, my brother — and ultimately myself — the strange, tormented creatures we have become. I’m willing to put myself through this, because of that famous quote from the New Testament, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John, 8:32)
God, I hope so.
Just before we departed for the airport, I’d asked my mother to tell me how she felt about us going back to Poland, a place she’d left over half a century earlier, never to return.
“I appreciate you are writing about dis,” she said. “And your grandfadder, Yosef Kunstler, would be happy too, because…” She suddenly broke off. Covered her mouth. Her face contorted. Tears began streaming from her widening eyes. She choked up. “Dat’s enough,” she said, waving her hand in front of her face, gasping for air, suffocating from and trying to push away the ghosts that only she could see. “I can’t. I’m sorry … ” A moment later she forced back her sobbing and continued. “…because he always wanted someone to remember — what dey went troo. And you’ll remember.”

Yeah. As if remembering my bizarre childhood weren’t enough.

*****

CHAPTER 4

After my father and I board the 747 bound for Frankfurt — where we will need to change planes for Warsaw – we struggle a bit to get settled into the middle seats of the economy section. He squirms around, trying to get comfortable.
“Howya feeling, Dad? Everything all right?”
“Yes, fine. Everything’s fine, Martin. But you know, I think I’ll take off my shoes to get more comfortable.”
“Yeah, great idea, Dad. It’s gonna be a long flight.”
A silence grows, like an expanding toy balloon between us. It needs to pop. “Big plane, huh?” I ask dumbly.
“Yeah, huge.”
Good enough.
We are distracted by all the hustle and bustle of our fellow passengers getting situated. Finally, the jet begins to taxi along the runway. Within minutes of takeoff, my father is asleep.
When the flight attendant on our 747 jumbo jet finally rolls up to me with her cart, I am tempted to get something alcoholic, something to calm me down. But I resist the urge. Though I can’t control the unrelenting memories of growing up confused, upset, alienated, a drink isn’t really going to change anything. And now, the last thing in the world I want is conflict. I look at my father, who’s already fallen asleep. If he wakes up and sees me knocking back a drink, he’ll surely release a negative comment. Hell with it. I order some awful airline coffee.
I have been planning this trip for two years, with my original nuclear family. First, my much older brother Joseph dropped out, with the simple explanation that he had re-evaluated and did not want to put himself through the emotional distress that would most likely develop. He had been born in 1943, in Nazi-occupied Poland. (His original name was Yosef.)
“Come on, Joe, you promised,” I pleaded. “This needs to be a family experience.”
“No. But you obviously need this. So you go.” I didn’t push it. Once Joe made up his mind about something, nothing and no one could convince him to alter his position.
“It would be too painful for me,” he would later elaborate, “to be at that place which caused so much pain to my parents. That pain and that secretiveness was what my whole experience was growing up. It isn’t something positive. It isn’t something I want to embrace. In fact, my whole experience has been to reject it and avoid it.”
Then my Cyclops father got off a bus, didn’t see some construction debris on the sidewalk and tripped and fell, injuring his shoulder; he required surgery and a year of rehabilitation. When he was finally getting better, I realized my mother Ziuta (who officially went by the name Roza in America) would not be coming along.
The trip seemed to have fallen apart.
“Go with your father,” she urged.
“My father? He’s nearly blind. What could he see? What could he show me?”
“He’ll show you. Don’t worry.”
I was worried. But this was my only choice. So I agreed.

In an entire lifetime, my experiences with him had been so limited. Who is this guy sleeping next to me? Who is this Jack Kent? This refugee from Poland, once known as Olek Glazewski? How the hell would I survive nearly a month with him?

*****

CHAPTER 5

While growing up, I often wondered how my father felt about me. According to my mother, he didn’t show up at the hospital the day I was born. That seemed odd. He also didn’t attend my high school graduation. It was an important milestone in my life. And I’d earned a scholarship to a good college. But I forgave him. My mother took me to Manhattan’s elegant, exclusive Russian Tea Room afterwards and treated me like an adult. Her angel. Her Martinchu. We ate blinis with caviar and sour cream. She even let me sneak a sip or two of her vodka. It had a black olive resting on the bottom; I thought that was so exotic and cool. We had a great time. And I forgot about my father.
He worked as a banquet captain in the hotel catering business, and he was hardly ever around. He worked long hours, mostly at night, in glamorous hotels in Manhattan. Came home when I was asleep. Slept late. Left before I came home from school. My father never owned a pair of jeans. In fact, on most occasions, when I did run into him, he was usually wearing a crisp white shirt and a tie. At work he wore a tuxedo. With his 1940s-leading-man-movie-star good looks, he was a dashing figure.
Whenever my Dad was questioned about his absence from important family events, he always had the same answer. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. But I have my reasons.” When pressed to explain those reasons, he claimed he was expressing his love of the family “by putting bread on the table.”
When I had a cold, he would rise to the occasion and give me a vigorous rubdown on my chest and back, with Vicks analgesic ointment. It made me realize, kind of to my surprise — as I lay there, flopping around like a rag doll under his hands — how much strength there was underneath the mild-mannered, Clark Kent exterior. Was there a Superman behind those high-powered eyeglasses? During a summer when our family vacationed at a bungalow colony in upstate New York, a little girl I played with, nicknamed my father Mr. Superman, once she’d learned our last name was Kent. I thought that was really funny. And completely off the mark.
I longed for father-son activities. But there were none: no ball games; he had no interest in sports, as he’d never been exposed to them: “Waste of time.” No concerts: “You can hear music for free on the radio.” No fishing. No auto shows. No movies. With one exception. One time, on a rare occasion when my dad was home on a Saturday night and my mom was out with Sally Huppert (probably talking about Oskar Schindler), he actually took me to the movies. I was in high school at the time. The film was called Succubus. The poster outside the theatre made it look like a horror movie, perhaps a vampire film. Scary setup. Scary music. A bit cheesy, but this was a dollar movie theatre, the only one he would consider, so I didn’t have great expectations. Or a clue of what was in store. In the film, the demon would take the shape of a beautiful woman, enter a man’s bedroom at night. Uh oh. He’s gonna get it!
Boy did he ever. First, the woman began kissing him. Get out you fool! She’s really a demon! Huh? Then she moved on from just kissing him, to removing her clothes, exposing her breasts, and giving him… Holy moly! It’s porno! This was just too weird for me. I was sitting there watching a raunchy sex scene with my dad. It wasn’t hardcore porno. But you knew clearly enough what was happening. Suddenly, just as the guy onscreen was about to climax, the she-devil interrupted his pleasure and apparently – by his excruciating expression and screams – bit it off, and then slashed him to pieces. Whew! At least we’d moved on to some good-old-fashioned violence. When the next bedroom scene was about to begin, I elbowed my father.
“Do you wanna leave, dad?” I asked.
“Yeah… but I don’t think they’ll give us our money back.”
“Probably not.”
“Well… let’s go. This is pretty disgusting. And stupid.”
As it turned out, the man at the box office was just as embarrassed as we were and promptly gave us a refund on the tickets. We walked home in near silence. Except for: “Hmm, I certainly didn’t think it would be that,” he said.
“Who coulda figured?” I added. Neither one of us told Mom about it.

We pretended it never happened. Our one father-son recreational experience, and we both tacitly decided to dump it down the toilet — where it probably belonged.

*****

CHAPTER 6

No one ever expected great things from Olek Glazewski. He was the youngest in a Roman Catholic family that traced its roots back nearly 900 years to an era when the founding ancestors were of titled nobility. In the little Polish town of Miscowice, where the family farm spread out for kilometers in all directions, the village itself was named after the Miscowskis, Olek’s mother Sylvestra’s side of the family. With a history of heroism, sacrifice and generations of land ownership, there was a proud family heritage. So after bandits robbed the farm of its cash one harvest time and murdered Sylvestra’s first husband when he tried to defend the family, she was desperate for a new man – someone worthy enough to step in as her partner – maintaining the land, raising the crops and her four children. The sole suitor who came along was Antoni Glazewski – an elegant man with a college education, but hardly a zloty to his name. To compound matters, he had no background or interest in farming. So when he married Sylvestra, he was looked upon as an opportunist. As a result, for Olek, one of two boys from that unpromising union, even the bloodline didn’t guarantee membership in Sylvestra’s exalted lineage.
Her brother, Colonel Miscowska, a celebrated national war hero who’d chased the Russians out of Poland during World War I, was the patriarch of the family. One day, he paid a rare visit to the farm – to bail the Glazewskis out after Antoni had made some bad business deals jeopardizing the estate. Olek attempted to pay his respects, but the Colonel wouldn’t even let him kiss his hand, a normal custom during that time and place. Olek, stung and humiliated, would never forget that incident.
Olek, as the second runt, in the second litter, along with his older brother Yeshu, had to jockey for position in that family. For the siblings from Sylvestra’s first marriage felt they had sole rights to the family legacy. Olek was treated a bit like a male Cinderella; while he paid great attention to how the farm was run, he was brushed off to the sidelines, often given the tasks no one else wanted to do. As Antoni was hardly a role model, Olek looked up to Yeshu, three years his senior, who fully acted the part of an alpha dog. Yeshu encouraged his younger brother to join the boy scouts, where he learned to camp out and hone his survival skills. Olek learned much from his older brother, who was the unit leader. But when Yeshu left home to make his mark in the Polish navy, Olek was left behind. He lost himself in a world of geography books, Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe, dreaming of adventures of his own. His ultimate fantasy was to get to America, any way he could.
As a teen in high school, Olek ran away from home one time with another boy, headed on a train for G’dynia, a Polish seaport city on the Black Sea. The plan was to join the merchant marines. Their scheme was thwarted when a policeman spotted the school-uniformed boys loitering at midnight at the train station; he knew they were up to no good and escorted them home. But the desire to bust loose continued to build. Olek was a boy desperately wanting to prove himself a man.
His life changed, as did everyone’s in Poland, when World War II broke out. By 1942, after a number of failed business ventures that continually rocked their marriage, Sylvestra finally kicked Antoni out, and Olek went with him. Sylvestra was kind enough to give Antoni some money, and with it, he bought a café in Stalowa Wola, a town the Germans had commandeered because of its munitions factory. But Antoni’s self-aggrandizement was soon evident: his job was to entertain the patrons, offering a good story and one of his specially imported Gauloises French cigarettes — and to supervise his son, who did the actual work. Olek, now 19, finally had the responsibility he’d been craving; he spent his days acquiring and organizing the food and supplies, managing the preparation of meals, service and staff.
The only thing missing was some adventure. And perhaps some pastry.

*****

CHAPTER 7

When the flight attendants begin approaching our aisle with the food and beverage cart, I wake my father up.
“Ok, Dad, time for the first of a series of mediocre meals.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, suppressing a yawn. “Remember Alan King?” He chuckled. “Every time he was on the Ed Sullivan Show, he was always making jokes about how bad airline food was.”
“That’s right,” I say. “One airline sued him for defamation. But the case was thrown out in court because the judge had actually flown on the same airline and wound up agreeing with King about how bad it really was.”
“Yeah, ha ha!”
“Well, one thing’s for sure. It can’t be as bad as Betty Weitz’s cooking.”
“Ohhh,” he groans. “Yes, I remember.”
This is good. We are having a normal conversation. A bit of nostalgia. Some humor. Maybe this trip won’t be so bad.
“Good afternoon,” says the flight attendant, who finally gets to us. She is a nice-looking woman in her mid thirties, with a sexy, cooing, slightly German accent. This is Lufthansa, after all. “We have beef, chicken, or pasta today. Which would you like?”
My dad looks at me, with a question mark on his face. I shrug my shoulders.
“It won’t matter,” I whisper.
“Ok, I’ll try the chicken.”
His choice isn’t a big surprise. My dad always tried to eat low-fat, low-calorie food. On a number of occasions he revealed that he hoped to live to a hundred. That was something that always made me wonder. Why would he want to live so long? From my way of thinking, he was living a miserable, non-eventful life. He and my mom haven’t been doing well for decades. They bicker all the time. They constantly blame each other if something doesn’t go right. My mother seems to be perpetually pissed off at him. And vice versa. It was hard to know who started any particular quarrel.
Their relationship wasn’t always like that. Just the opposite, in fact. As a kid, I never heard a cross word or raised voice between them, speaking wooshy-vooshy-puhchuhbooshy Polish to one another. They were affectionate. Respectful of one another. They were a great team. My dad brought home his paycheck; he had no hobbies or personal interests, like sports or photography — so everything went into the family budget. And my mom stretched every dollar. There was no co-CEO situation here. She was most definitely the one who ran our home. It was always immaculate. Meals were on time and delicious. Everything worked. From time to time she’d reward herself, and go out and buy herself clothing. Or jewelry. Quality brands, at quality stores — but always on sale. My father didn’t complain. Her elegant attire made her look like a queen; he seemed happy and appreciative.
Everything changed when my father lost his vision. When his lights went out. At age 55, he suddenly suffered detached retinas and became legally blind. No one ever really knew what had caused it. But the blame game kicked in. My mom thought that he might have hurt himself: by picking up something really heavy; or that he might have damaged his eyes by using his binoculars too much – stealing looks at pretty girls at the beach — when they’d vacationed at Cape Cod one summer. My father felt my mother had talked him into an operation that an ocular surgeon had recommended; it unfortunately left him completely blind in one eye. All these theories were preposterous. The reality was that back in Poland an eye doctor had told him when he was young that his eyes were so bad, that he would probably wind up blind some day. Now that the physician’s prognosis had come true, Jack could no longer see well enough to drive or read, or recognize people unless they came right up to him. So, in his mid-50s, he had become permanently disabled and was forced to retire. It had made him bitter.
Suddenly, my dad, home all the time, began to focus on how my mom ran the house and the kitchen, something she’d done on her own for decades. He attempted to micromanage her and she pushed back. As the years wore on, it didn’t help that my mother had become forgetful, began to misplace things, and then, out of a paranoia that was born during the Holocaust, would constantly accuse my father of stealing from her. My brother and I, when visiting them at their home and observing their battles, frequently urged them to separate. But as abrasive as their relationship had become, they would close ranks and just stare at us as if were nuts.

Halfway through forcing down my so-so airline meal, I attempt to initiate another conversation. “How are you and mom doing these days?” I ask.
“Ehh. The same. You know how it is.”
I do. I realize it was a mistake to go down this path, and I quickly drop it.
“I can’t help thinking that if Mom had come along, she would have been a big help,” I say. “Her memories are so strong. It would have been great to hear what she has to say about everything.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’ll do the best I can to help you put the story together.”
“I know you will,” I say, hoping my dad can live up to his promise.

But I still wish things had turned out differently, so that my mother could have come along. Despite her lingering emotional baggage, she always did her best to find ways to give our dysfunctional family a little balance.

*****

CHAPTER 8

One New York City Christmas Eve, when I was nine years old, our entire neighborhood of brick homes, ordinarily drab and dreary, was spruced up like an ugly, aging hooker wearing too much makeup. Jackson Heights, Queens, was decorated with glowing plastic angels, Santas, sleighs and reindeer, and cheap but colorful Christmas lights. Under the influence of northeastern winter weather patterns, it was one of those seemingly magical times when it was actually snowing. Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow! It wasn’t exactly Norman Rockwell, but if you squinted a little and cut the place a break, the old neighborhood looked pretty good. Of course, in the back of my mind, I realized that eventually I would have to shovel up all that lovely snow. And get into plenty of lopsided snowball fights fending off the three anti-Semitic Hevessy brothers from the house next door; they’d been instructed by their frequently inebriated father to go beat up “that f#&@! little Jew kid” since the day we’d moved in. The Christmas cards we’d received from the insurance company, the dentist and the mailman angling for a tip promised Peace on Earth. But I was still waiting.
Inside our home, by the looks of things, you would never know it was Christmas or Hanukah. No Christmas tree. No Santa Claus. Not even a Hanukah menorah lit up with candles. We never really celebrated the holidays in ways other families did. Because we just weren’t like other families. Something seemed different this year, though. It got me wondering. My mom had bought a short string of red and green lights she’d found in the Christmas section of H.S. Kresge, the five and dime store in the neighborhood. She’d strung the lights around a three-foot tall plastic plant in the living room.
“Mom, what’s this all about?”
“Vellllll… it’s a Hanukah bush.”
A what? It seemed so silly to me. Not really Hanukah. Not really Christmas. Were we actually going to take a stab at participating in the holidays?
Maybe. On this particular Christmas Eve, I began to perceive a change in the air. Literally. I was in my room, trying to distract myself from my feelings of holiday alienation, reading Invasion of the Body Snatchers, without a clue that it was a metaphor for the mindless conformity of the 1950s. What did I know or care about mindless conformity? I absolutely wanted to conform. I wanted to be like everyone else. Gradually, I noticed that our house was filled with the smell of fresh donuts. I got up and walked into the kitchen, where I witnessed an incredible sight. What I saw was indeed something like a Norman Rockwell painting. My mother, in her frilly apron, was making homemade jelly donuts. She had this frenetic production line going – squeezing, caressing and slapping a mound of dough, rolling it, cutting it, spooning in the jelly, dropping doughy mounds like bombs into the heated oil, then retrieving them with a big slotted metal spoon when they were a perfect golden brown, laying them out on paper towels, and wiggling a strainer with her wrist, dusting them ever so lightly with powdered sugar. This was an awful lot of work, but she was no Lucille Ball overwhelmed by an out-of-control assembly line. She gracefully managed to make it look so easy, like so much fun. I was transfixed. Even though the process kept repeating, I sat down on a stool in a cramped corner between the sink and a Formica-topped cabinet to observe and enjoy this culinary performance.
When the table in the adjacent dining room was finally covered with plates full of these succulent wonders, Mom nonchalantly tossed a white sweater over her shoulders.
“Come on, Martinchu. You’re coming along. I need your help.”
“Where are we going? Won’t you be cold, Mom?”
“Enough wit the questions. Just come.”
My mom — in a dress, a little sweater and backless slippers, looking like a queen going out for a quick, incognito trip to meet her subjects — took me outside to deliver all the donuts. We paid visits to the tenants in our triplex home; this was her way of thanking them for being our renters. We also went to a select group of neighbors: the Kitsoses, the Barbellas, and even the dreaded go-beat-up-that-Jew-kid Hevessys! To all of them, she delivered her best wishes for the season. We vish you a merry Christmas! I knew what an absolute sweetheart my mother could be most of the time. But I was always amazed by her generosity, her drive to share her joy and bounty with other people.
In between visits to the neighbors, out on the street, I posed a question: “Mom, why are you giving them all away? You worked so hard.”
“Vy am I doing it?!” She stopped and turned toward me, her eyes wide open, her face animated. “Do you realize how good America has been to us? Do you realize ve came here wit notting, after losing everyting, and America took us in vit open arms? And now we haf a varm, comfortable, safe life. Ve have a roof over our heads, food on da table, cloading on our bodies – we have everyting we tought ve would never have – and no one is ever again going to come and take it avay.”
So heartfelt. So beautiful. So eloquently spoken.
I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about.
How could I? Every time I asked her to explain what had really happened back in Poland, she would shut down, sometimes tearing up, always saying it was too awful to talk about. As I thought about what she’d said, it began to sink in. I knew she loved America – and the Hevessys and the Kitsoses and Barbellas were all Americans. So I guessed she felt she owed something to them, as representatives of this country.
The whole time we were out there, delivering the donuts, my mouth was watering; I was watching these true Americans (even though I, myself had been born in this country), as they took a bite almost the very moment they received them, commenting on how wonderful they were. It was painful; they were partaking of a culinary satisfaction that was agonizingly delayed for me. I experienced a tangle of emotions – proud of my mother and her talent, loving her for her generosity and ability to bestow not just sweets, but joy itself. I also experienced pangs of envy, as I stood in their doorways, peeking into their living rooms, seeing Christmas tree after Christmas tree, laden with twinkling lights and ornaments, towering over mounds of brightly wrapped gifts.
After our mission of gratitude had been completed, we came back home and it was finally my turn to indulge in the exceptional dessert that had had me swooning for what felt like hours. Yet once I sank my teeth into the donuts, washing them down with a glass of milk, the experience lasted mere minutes, even though I forced myself to chew and swallow as slowly as possible. How did they taste? Like heaven. Like something you’d be served in heaven. Yet all that waiting. All that anticipation. And now it was over. There were a few left, but they were for my dad — and my brother, if and when he ever showed up.
“Mom? Are you going to make any more?”
“You have got to be kidding,” she chuckled. “I’m pooped! I just wanna put my feet up and vatch some TV.”
“Oh.”
“Didn’t you haf enuf? Dey’re so rich!”
“They were delicious. You’re the world’s greatest cook, Mom.”
“Tank you, honey. You alvays say dat.”
“Because it’s true!”
“Well I’ll make some more next Christmas. I promise.”
Next Christmas?! She said it like it was next week!
“I’ll make some kluskies von of dese days. Soon.”
Kluskies! These were her plum dumplings. These were no mere dessert treats. Before there was sex in my life, there were kluskies. Voluptuous, doughy mounds, dripping with a gooey butter sauce, sweetened with sugar and cinnamon. Inside, a sweet and sour treasure of fleshy fruit that you would discover, lick and swallow as slowly and lovingly as possible. Mmm. She had found a way to quell my disappointment and make me happy with anticipation. My mother was very good at that. But then she tempered it. She was quite adept at that, too.
“If you’re a nice boy.”
Yes, of course. What she meant was if I was an angel. And not a devil. Because if I were a devil, she would curse the day I was born, gulp down a Valium, and then plop on her La-Z-Boy and read a woman’s magazine, sighing the whole time. No kluskies for me. But tonight, for the time being, I had come up aces on the gambling tables of 88th street, Jackson Heights. I was a good boy who’d kept her company, witnessed her in all her glory, as everyone told her how wonderful she is.
I kissed my mother with my powdered lips, leaving a sugary impression of love on her cheek, thanked her, and went to bed. I marveled at the way she had found a bridge – a pastry path – to honor Hanukah, by cooking something in oil, commemorating that ancient urn of oil that had miraculously burned for eight days, and simultaneously brought Christmas into our lives. She had also used her donuts as a peace offering: she had countered the Hevessys’ anti-Semitism – not with opposing snowballs — but with love. That was a lesson.
Now, still hungry for more donuts, I also hungered for more Christmas.

Once in my tiny bedroom, I closed the door, quickly undressed and got into my flannel pajamas. I reached onto a shelf above my Formica-topped student desk, which was covered with stacks of Mad magazine, Superman and Batman comic books, and grabbed my cheap little Japanese transistor radio, a plastic device about the size of a pack of cigarettes. In the age of tube radios, which had to warm up, this was the “new technology” of the day. By removing just two little screws – which I did almost as soon as I bought it — I could see the tiny transistors and green circuit board inside that enabled it to begin working the instant you rolled the little serrated wheel and clicked it on. I plugged in the monophonic earphone and burrowed under the covers.
Now I could close my eyes and listen to my favorite New York deejay, Cousin Brucie, on KABC. “More music on 77 W-A-B-Cee-ee-eee!” the singers would intone, as if they were being squeezed. Every night, from seven to nine p.m., this guy captured me, as well as a giant youth audience, with his fast, raspy, engaging, reverb-effected AM Radio banter. “Hi everybody! Brucie here! Just flew back over somewhere or other, just came home from the coast. Nice to be back. We love ya! Hee hee!” This was before the rise of FM radio jocks, who slowed things down with smooth, mellow, sonorous delivery. Brucie talked so frenetically and was so creative and entertaining, one never knew if he was going to intro a song or slide right into a commercial. Glued to the radio, his delighted fans were an easy target for media sales reps selling radio spots to New York and New Jersey businesses, concert promoters and even drag strip races. Brucie made everything – whether it was a record or a product – sound like something you couldn’t live without. He was that convincing. And tonight he was about to sell me on a dream.
As it was the night before Christmas, his talk was dedicated to the holiday. First, he was a bit general, gabbing about the snowfall, how it was affecting traffic and visibility, giving a bit of a weather forecast. Then he segued into reporting on the activities of Santa Claus, as if it were a newscast. He indicated various sightings, as if he’d gotten his data directly from the U.S. Air Force. After every song, and every commercial, he’d come back with another update. “Santa has been tracked leaving the Boston area, and is now speeding along in a southerly flight path, heading directly towards New York City.”
It sounded so plausible, so real. What was going on? I kept expecting him to break out of this and admit it was all a joke. “Just havin’ some fun cousins! Hee hee!” But he never did. He just kept at it, as if he were running down the flight path of a private plane with a celebrity passenger headed for New York.
I lay awake in my tiny room, pondering the big questions of life. Was Christmas real? Was Santa real? I lived in a family with so many incongruities, secrets and mysteries — that I really didn’t have a definite belief system. So, as Cousin Brucie’s reports unfolded further, I allowed myself to fall under the spell he was weaving. I wondered. Maybe… I pulled the earphone out of my ear, got out of bed, bent down to reach the floor and picked up one of the nasty, ugly, sweaty argyle socks I’d been wearing all day. I wished I had a fireplace to hang it on. But I didn’t, so I would have to improvise. I extracted a paper clip from my desk drawer, bent it a bit, and positioned it to hang my sock on one of the handles of my top dresser drawer. Maybe Santa would come. Maybe he’d understand that this was meant for him. Maybe he wouldn’t hold it against me that I was Jewish. Or maybe he wouldn’t even know. We didn’t have a mezuzah posted on our front doorway.
The next morning I got up to investigate my makeshift Christmas stocking. As soon as I got out of bed with my bare feet, I felt the chill of the floor and the room. As a cost-saving measure, my father didn’t allow us to run the radiators at night, since he figured we were all bundled up and warm under the covers. My room was pretty nippy. Frosty the Snowman!
I looked at the sock hanging on my dresser. It seemed pretty much the same as it was the night before. Only the sweat in my sock was a bit frozen, so it looked a bit stiff. Like it could get up and walk away. Clearly, there were no bulges. No toys inside. But hold on just a red-nosed reindeer second! Maybe Santa had figured out a way to hide his handiwork. This was a guy who could operate a flying sleigh and come down a chimney. So maybe… I slowly picked up the sock. It felt cold and stiff. I squeezed it. I reached into the top. I turned it inside out. Nothing, of course. Fooey!
I wasn’t just stung by disappointment; I felt so stupid. I was an idiot! How ridiculous of me to think that I could participate in and be embraced by this wonderful, crazy, magical holiday that everyone in America seemed to enjoy so much. What was I thinking? I looked at my desk, at that picture of Alfred E. Neuman again. Was I really so much smarter than him?

When I got up and walked through the hallway to the dining room, my mother and father were at the table, each sipping a cup of coffee and talking to one another in wooshy-vooshy-puhchuhbooshy Polish. My mom immediately got up and made me breakfast — eggs, toast, bacon – another confusing contradiction! – the All American way to start your day. The bonus was that she had saved a few jelly donuts for me to enjoy for dessert. She had hidden away a secret stash! What an odd thing to do. But I wasn’t about to question her little quirk. An unexpected delight, it tasted even better than the night before. This time, I cut it into tiny pieces, and slowed down my bites even more, once again savoring them, to make this delicious moment last as long as possible. When I was finished, Mom addressed my father and me.
“OK, let’s all go into da living room and open up our Christmas presents.”
Could I be living out the plot of The Body Snatchers? Was this really my mom, or had an alien pod replaced her, red curl after red curl? Christmas presents? We’d never done this before. This was crazy. But… I was certainly willing to go along with this scenario and see how it played out.
My mother, father and I went into the living room, which was almost exclusively the domain of special guests, and sat down on the hard, gold, speckled sofa and opened presents. My brother, as usual, wasn’t around. My father got a tie. My mother opened a box containing a bottle of Chanel No. 5 perfume, bath oil and bubble bath. She informed my father with a wink that this was a gift that he had bought for her. “Oh, yeah,” he said, laughing sheepishly.
Then it was my turn. I began to tear through the wrapping paper of a big box.
My father said, “Hey, slow down. Don’t destroy that nice paper. Maybe we can use it again.”
I took a deep breath and obeyed. But then, a moment later, my gift was revealed: electric trains! While they were a budget brand and not Lionel, which I’d been wanting for the longest time, it didn’t matter. I was so happy I finally had trains, like all the other kids in the neighborhood. Still, I couldn’t contain my curiosity. What was happening to the Kent family?
“Mom, why are we celebrating Christmas? Aren’t we supposed to be Jewish?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Velllll…. Not exactly.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
A long silence. Then…
“Dad’s not Jewish.”
Now I was really shocked. “He isn’t? What is he?”
“He’s Catholic.”
I looked at my father. He seemed to have a lost expression on his face, one that belied his leading-man good looks. He fidgeted, crossed his legs and looked away. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. My first inclination was to capitalize on this and beg to have a real Christmas celebration from now on. We’d get a tree! I’d get to hang up a real stocking and get real stocking stuffers. But then I thought, what about Mom? She’s Jewish. Would she really go for that?
They’d kept this secret from me for nine years! How many more secrets were there? When would I get on the inside of all this? Who are these people? Really!
Finally, I came up with something. “Merry Christmas, Dad.”
“Merry Christmas to you, Martin,” he said, smiling tentatively, as if relieved that I had accepted him.
A silence hung in the air, reindeers hovering, Santa stroking his whiskers, trying to decide what the hell to do with this weird family. I finally got up, cradling my box of trains and announced: “Thank you very much,” I said, giving both of them a kiss. “I’m gonna set up my trains now.”
“Good idea,” said my mother, relieved. “Have fun, Martinchu!”

While the revelation of my father’s true religion set my mind off and running, raising a million questions — wondering how such a strange marital union had occurred — I at least finally understood why the holidays were always such a weird time in our home. But for the time being, I put my questions aside and focused on my new trains. I was just nine, after all. *****

CHAPTER 9

“I told you, my name is Ziuta Kentarska. Just like it says on my card.”
“Yes, but Kentarska is just such a Polish name,” said the police officer who’d sat in the front passenger seat on the ride to the station. Like a wolf, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce, he kept circling Ziuta, who was seated on a wooden chair in the middle of his office. The officer who’d driven was seated next to a beat up desk, watching quietly. “You don’t look Polish to me one bit,” he continued. “No. You look Jewish.
“And I told you I’m not Jewish.” By now, Ziuta had collected herself, and was focused on one simple goal – getting out of the police station.
“I think those children were on to something. Children are innocent. They say what’s on their mind. They don’t have filters, like adults.”
He stared at Ziuta. She stared right back at him. The silence was broken by two sharp knocks at the door.
“Yes?” said the policeman who’d been talking to Ziuta.
The door opened and another officer poked his head in the room. “Sergeant Tyko, sorry to interrupt, but an officer from the German police would like to see the girl. Commandant Hyer.”
“Yes, of course,” said Tyko, straightening his tie. “Send him right in.”
Ziuta also reacted to the news, sitting up and adjusting her skirt. She looked out the window, but saw only darkness. She wiped a tiny white bit of foam off the corners of her mouth.
When the Gestapo entered the room, Ziuta stood up and looked him straight in the eye.
“Is this the girl?” said Hyer, in Polish, with a German accent.
“Yes, Herr Commandant,” said Tyko, reaching to shake his hand. The German did not reciprocate.
“What is your name, miss?”
“Ziuta Kentarska, Herr Commandant.”
“Let me see the card,” said the Gestapo to the Polish policeman, who handed it to him immediately. The German walked it over to the desk and examined it under the light. There was absolute silence in the room as he spent some time with the document, looking at both sides, and even holding it up to the light. Finally, after about a minute that felt like it had stretched into an hour, he uttered his pronouncement: “Seems authentic enough. What are you doing here?” he asked, turning to look at Ziuta, studying her face.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said in perfect German, “but if you prefer, we can speak in your native language. I enjoyed studying it in school.”
The German flashed a brief smile. “Very nice,” he said, now switching to German. “So… your purpose here in Stalowa Wola?”
Ziuta returned his cordiality with a Mona Lisa smile. “I was supposed to meet my boyfriend here. But… so far, he’s let me down,” she said, continuing in German.
“Ha! Love. Hard to come by in wartime. Good luck with that.”
Ziuta looked deeply into the Gestapo’s eyes. Was he buying her story?
“Tell me… what is the fellow’s name?”
“Erik,” she said, recalling the name of her father’s farm foreman, a Ukrainian. Her mind raced, as she tried to remember his last name.
“Erik what?”
“Erik Yaroslav,” she said, grabbing another name stored in her memory.
“I see,” he said, pausing, still locked on her gaze. “Nice boy?”
“I thought so. I’m not so sure now.”
“Well, we’ll be sure to keep an eye out for him,” he said, switching back to Polish.
He turned to Officer Tyko. “She’s not Jewish. She doesn’t look it, or sound it. You’ve wasted my time. We already took care of all the Jews in this town, eh?”
“Whatever you say, Herr Commandant.”
“You’re free to go, young lady.”
“Thank you, Herr Commandant.” Ziuta walked over to a chair, where her overcoat was draped, picked it up and proceeded to leave the office.
“And miss,” said the Gestapo, “let us know where you are staying… so we can notify you if your boyfriend turns up.”
“Of course. Good night gentlemen,” she said, this time in perfect Polish, and walked out the door, closing it behind her.
“We’ll watch her, of course,” said the German to the Polish officers.

Once out on the street, Ziuta walked briskly for about ten minutes until she arrived at a shabby building she’d noticed on the way to the station, which had a small sign with just one word: “ROOMS.” She knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again, this time harder. On the other side, she could hear a woman’s voice growing louder. “Just a minute! People coming at all hours these days! Hold on now!”

******

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