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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
A chance meeting
Saturday was the quietest day of the week. Everything was shut tight, the streets peaceful on this last day of summer. The door to Jacob’s room was open, a distant sun glimpsed into the cubicle, a gentle breeze ventilating it. The little electric stove was aglow, the tea perking.
In the doorway stood a tall blonde girl like a young doe, her nostrils probing, smelling food, her eyes wandering.
"Are you Herr Neuman?" she inquired, revealing a deep cleavage, a short skirt and long legs.
"No, I am not," Jacob replied. "Can I help you?"
"I am afraid not. I am supposed to be his maid, take care of his apartment," she said, ready to leave.
"You have walked five flights of stairs, so, not to be a total loss, will you have tea with me?" said Jacob.
She didn’t need much persuasion; she sat down in the only available chair, helping herself to tea and cookies.
"Is it too drafty for you?" Jacob asked, vaguely. "Shall I close the door, or the window?"
"The door will do."
"What’s your name?" Jacob asked, his voice quivering a bit, as he undressed her with his eyes.
"Gertrude," she answered between bites.
"Did anybody ever tell you that you are beautiful?"
"You are the first one today," she said, smiling, adjusting her skirt, exposing creamy white thighs.
She was a juicy peach Jacob longed to bite into. You have a chance now, a voice kept urging him on, she is practically inviting you. … Go ahead!
But how could he? It was so long since he had been in a situation like this. He had to hide his shaking hands. If he could only relax.
It was she who took the first step, whether by design or by chance, Jacob never knew. She stood up, and squeezed past Jacob to the window, her nipples brushing his chest.
That did it. He eased her agile body onto the bed, and before he knew he came to a climax.
After calming down, Jacob gingerly unbuttoned her blouse, removed her bra, unzipped her skirt, and helped her slide out of her white panties.
She was beautiful. Her breasts like small oranges cut in half, dark nipples pointing upwards, a flat smooth belly, narrow waist outlined her hips. For a long moment satiating his eyes, his anxiety responding, Jacob caressed her hair, her long neck, and she like a wild, hungry feline, slid her tongue into his throat as her fingernails dug into his back. Her fingers dancing, led him toward her opening – her legs like a vise embracing, finally releasing in a tumultuous climax.
Thus she became his maid, washed the few cups and dishes, dusted the two old chairs, the table for two – but mostly took care of the massive bed, and of Jacob.
Every day after work Jacob hastened to pick up the mail. One day there were two letters, but not from Leon. One was from the Swiss Red Cross, the other from Sweden, replies to his inquiries about Malkele – both disappointing.
Unable to locate her by mail, he decided to keep up the vigilance; he boarded the early morning train to Landsberg, a former prison near Munich, where Hitler wrote "Mein Kampf," converted now into one of the larger D.P. camps in the American Zone. He shared a compartment with a young lady.
"You are a restless young man," she said, looking him over. "I wonder if Landsberg might offer you more than this place. It’s the same camp, only bigger – unless you left a girlfriend or a wife there."
"Sorry, you are wrong on both counts. I am attempting to locate my younger sister – hopefully alive."
"Oh," she apologized, "forgive me for barging into your private affairs, but I cannot help it, I am a female. I hope you will find her in the very best of health."
"Why are you going there?" he countered. "A beautiful woman like you, and unescorted; you certainly are not looking for a man, there are more than enough here to choose from."
"No, I am visiting a dear friend from Warsaw, the only survivor from a big family – the fate of her younger brother unknown since the time he escaped to Russia."
"That is a coincidence," Jacob said. "I am from Warsaw also. I was there not long ago in the house where I grew up, occupied by strangers, not daring to reveal myself. In Praga, I got news of my older brother’s survival of the war, tracing him all the way to Stuttgart, four days after his departure to America.
"But I am thankful for that, and hope to see him soon. So you see, we cannot afford to give up, that is one of the few luxuries left to us. There are still repatriates on the Polish-Czech border waiting for an opportunity to cross.
"Come to think of it, I met a guy in Wierzchoniow, taking his sweet time; a blond fellow, a neighbor of mine from the Twarda 15, searching for his sister and her child. Rothman is his name." But before Jacob could continue, she turned white.
"What is it?" He stood up, approaching her.
"Is he blond, his name Nathan?" she whispered. "Is he?"
"Yes, yes! He is a heck of a fellow, a handsome blond devil. His reason for not crossing the border at the same time I did was a girl."
"It is him!" she cried, her voice animated. "You have found her brother. Oh, dear God, you have found her brother!
"Please! Oh, please, come with me, tell her. You will have the greatest ‘Mitzveh.’ You’ll bring her back to life. Please! Come with me."
Bad Freiheim was a fairly new development, one-family bungalows fenced in, its fresh paint glowing in the sun, multicolor roses in bloom, narrow sidewalks, sprinklers watering manicured grass.
At one of the houses they stopped, greeted by a young maid, the afternoon sun casting a shadow on a large room.
A woman half-covered rested in a brown mahogany bed, her disheveled sandy gray hair at her side, her sunken face, half-closed eyes staring aimlessly.
"How good to see you, my dear. I did not hear you come in," she whispered. "What a nice surprise. I did not expect you until next week." Then she noticed Jacob.
"Who is that man?" she asked, startled, her long hands stirring, attempting to hide them. "Is he with you?"
"Yes," her friend replied.
"Then why didn’t you let me know in advance," the sickly woman complained. "I feel so embarrassed."
"I could not, because I did not know myself. I met this gentleman on the train only a few hours ago and insisted that he should come along, and he graciously accepted.
"Please, promise me you won’t get excited. He has something to tell you – news you’ll be happy to hear."
"What news?"
"He saw Nathan."
She got up from the chair, and gestured for Jacob to take her place, then said, "Tell her yourself."
For a moment the woman’s face turned ashen, a lone tear squeezing through the corner of her eye, and like a blind person she grasped Jacob’s hand, her long fingers testing, then muttering, "Tell me, tell me."
"Yes, I saw him, talked to him," Jacob said, relating to her how handsome, exuberant he was, delineating their close resemblance, and she sobbing quietly, his hands to her lips, whispering, "Thank you, thank you."
Her friend and the maid wiped their tears. Jacob, too, had to restrain himself not to cry.
When he left, she was transformed. Her white face gained a rosy color, her blue eyes radiating.
Soon after, Jacob was in Landsberg. Scores of barracks, young people like bees buzzing.
He saw most of his friends from Russia. Chantche, reunited with her boyfriend – Rivkele pretended not to see him. He met old acquaintances in Fehrenwald, another D.P. camp, inquired about his sister but without success.
Jacob had to make one more stop, Dachau, one of the nearby concentration camps transformed into a museum.
Yes, Mr. Berger’s description of man’s iniquity was true, shockingly traumatic; the hanging tree, cages of wild dogs, crematoriums, and gas chambers were still in full view.
Upon his return the train stopped in Ulm, the city of Albert Einstein’s birth, sharing a compartment with well-dressed men, apparently high-ranking, conscience-stricken Jews, pensively remorseful.
Back in his room, although without personal success, he nevertheless was thankful that the trip was not altogether a failure. Yet he was unable to relax, unhappy with the twist of fate. The sudden acquired freedom was not enough. Even the pleasures of the flesh like an opiate did not last – an obscure, artificial happiness, an illusion.
How true was the saying that "Pleasure can come from illusion, but happiness only from reality." Yet reality was far from happiness; illusion predominated.
Jacob had too much time on his hands. At least Shumacher was busy; besides working in the camp shop, he and a partner were custom tailoring. Gershon, chasing Germans, wheeling, dealing, made it a full-time job. Eddy, the flamboyant, mercurial boy, frequented the dance halls, always with another girl on his arm. His latest conquest was a ravishing platinum blonde, catering to his needs. Simon the shoemaker created the latest models of boots, and Adek, his next door neighbor, was always preparing another supply of doughnuts.
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