|
|||||||||
A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
A room of his own
The Rheinsburgstrasse is located on the city’s outskirts, hills overlooking this metropolis; five-story houses lined up on both sides of the unspoiled cobblestones, surrounded by trees, peaceful alleys. The former dwellers evicted, their belongings confiscated – transformed into a displaced persons camp, a black market prevailing. Basements transformed into stores stocked with American goods. Butchers slaughtered a cow in the dark of the night, a rabbi supervising.
Little restaurants, coffee houses mushroomed, catering to the new environment, including Germans. They, the prospective customers, benefited the most.
Jacob was reminded of the Russian bazaar, with one basic exception: The Germans had expensive trinkets to barter.
The daughter of a Nazi exchanged her pure Arian body, giving of herself accordingly, the more coffee, cigarettes, the more love, affection, a commodity she did not lack.
Hungry for sex, she benefited in every way, becoming a permanent ornament, a fixture in a Jewish man’s household, often culminating in love.
These were times transcending all expectations, a true contradiction of human behavior. Yesterday – deadly enemies, today – allies.
Laws of nature could not be altered. The everlasting drive for happiness broke all barriers.
The residents of the D.P. camp, like many others, lived by rules answerable only to themselves, and to a lesser degree to the occupying forces.
Occasionally the spirited M.P.s let themselves be known in advance, raiding the camp, causing people to disperse, their merchandise to vanish.
One morning a man came into the store, Jacob staring at him, his face quite familiar. Suddenly, he knew it. This man had been in apprenticeship to Jacob’s father, years ago.
"Are you Shmuel Lederman, from Radom?" Jacob asked.
"Yes," he replied, his narrowing eyes scrutinizing, then he shouted: "You are Yankele, Fishel the watchmaker’s boy!" pumping his hand, hugging him.
One of the camp’s leaders, he was responsible for Jacob gaining permanent residency, where others failed, receiving an identification card, and his own quarters. It was nothing to brag about, an attic room, but it was his sanctuary, and he could come and go as he pleased.
"I have a letter from your brother," said Mandelewitz, handing Jacob the air-mail letter and snapshots of Laibl and his wife, reassuring Jacob that a package was on its way, but there was nothing in the letter about the family, only reemphasizing the possibility of Malkele’s survival asking Jacob to search for her.
Jacob joined the tailor shop, sponsored by U.N.R.R.A. In his spare time he studied English, tutored by a young lady, at times paying more attention to her legs than to the book.
Frequently he attended a symphony concert, a recital, an opera – every Sunday a soccer game, never failing to have the best seat – a cigarette or two doing the trick.
He took long walks, made new friends, among others, Shumacher and Gershon, repatriates from the Soviet Union, but no Jewish women. Simply, there were too few, greatly outnumbered by men.
"What are you doing in this park, on the bench with a book, squeezing it? Wouldn’t you rather squeeze a girl?" said Gershon upon spotting a man and hastily walking toward him, reappearing shortly afterward with a golden bracelet.
"See," he said, "this is worth more than I paid for it, but more than he did, my dear Jacob. He killed for it. Moreover, he has much more of that stuff stashed away – believe me," he said in earnest, attempting to justify his behavior.
"Tell me, how come I have never seen you doing business with a ‘Kraut’ or walking with a Fraulein beside you? Are you that rich?"
"No, Gershon, I am not rich, but I am comparatively free, not hungry, a great improvement over the recent past.
"In the Soviet Union, I would have been considered a vagrant, a parasite. So as long as I have enough food, a roof over my head, and friends, I consider myself fortunate. As for your dealings with the Germans, you have nothing to apologize for.
"I don’t deal with them, simply because I have no desire for money. It has lost its luster, its magnet. As for the Frauleins, I must admit, that is a horse of a different color.
"For them I have a great desire, more than you think. But somehow I cannot see myself with them in public – in my room, in bed, yes; in the open, no.
"It may sound hypocritical, prudish, which I am not. I yearn for a woman. But to walk hand in hand with one on the street not having any true sentiment, I would feel awkward.
"On the other hand, in the privacy of my room if a pretty one would appear and be willing, I can assure you, I won’t chase her away."
"You know, Jake, I like the way you phrase it, you are a clever fellow. It’s your luck that I am not stupid either.
"I know exactly how you feel. Remember, I was there too, part of my fingers are still numb from the Siberian days.
"But to return to the matter at hand, I can’t help it, I must deal with them, and if by any chance a young Fraulein comes along I combine business with pleasure.
"I have no brother to send me packages. I had one, he almost survived, almost – only days before the end of the war he was murdered by the Nazis. He is buried in Vaihingen, not far from here."
"Okay, Gershon, I believe we won’t have any problems understanding one another. For whatever it’s worth, one thing is in our favor – we are healthy, still young enough to roll with the punches, swim down that gigantic river called life.
"You see, I am a newcomer to this place, and probably I will adjust to this kind of life. Personally, Gershon, I would like to begin a new page, get married, perpetuate my father’s name, and leave this cursed land. But I am sorry to say, so few girls are left, most of them are taken and the rest unapproachable."
"Ha, ha, you are not only smart, but observant," his pal said, laughing. "You have found that out already, it didn’t take long at all.
"Let me tell you about our girls, bless their hearts. They are in a situation, though not of their making, but unfortunately for us, because most men who survived the war are from Russia, we outnumber them, and by far.
"They feel like peacocks, proud, snobbish and arrogant. They walk pompously in their high boots, golden ‘shtoppers’ on their wrists – like a rare diamond setting a high price for themselves, a luxury most of us cannot afford.
"Maybe out there are rich fellows who can, but not I. I am working on it, meanwhile, to coin a phrase, ‘If there are no Jewish girls, then dance with shikses.’"
After sundown, Jacob’s room became a gathering place, an influx of young men, a kaleidoscope of ideas, thoughts from the subconscious openly revealed.
All participated in discussions of the worldly and the latest local news, and in sometimes heated arguments. The pungent aroma of coffee and cigarette smoke filled the garret.
 |