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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
Mr. Erder
Eventually, Jacob’s life of leisure ended; it was time to secure his future (tachliss). His father walked him across the street to the top floor of a five-story apartment house, to a room with eight windows and a balcony facing the Twarda and Panska – two boys pedaling old sewing machines, two more pressing, others sewing by hand, the boy staring where his future was to be decided, and did not like it.
He was approached by a little man shaking hands with him, saying, "My name is Erder, Levi Erder. From now on you will work for me. You’ll call me ‘Master,’ and you’ll be ‘Yakub.’ "
One of the boys was glad to see Jacob – his replacement.
Jacob had to take care of the stove, clean the heavy irons, run errands, deliver finished garments to the stores, sweep the shop (luckily the rest of the house was taken care of by a maid), swallow mouthfuls of dust, and separate the woollen scraps from the dirt, which belonged to him.
Every month (sometimes twice) a bedraggled, bearded, sly, squinty-eyed individual, with a sack on his shoulders and an improvised scale, bought the scrap.
For a while Jacob was rich, but eventually he gave the money to his mother – his reward an allowance to the cinema.
He did his work satisfactorily, and was rewarded with a beautiful beige suit, just in time for Passover.
One Saturday afternoon, a couple of boys and Jacob were called over to the reading of the Torah. Gathered under a huge, faded tallis, each effortlessly recited the traditional blessings, witnessed by the congregation, when the roar of "Mazel-Tov!" filled the shul. Women from the partitioned side were tossing candy, nuts and chocolate.
That was Jacob’s Bar-Mitzvah, the end of childhood, when a boy of thirteen becomes a man – and if that should signify anything, it was long overdue – he was no child anymore.
Many months passed. He learned the art of sewing, and in the process punctured his knees and fingers, a painful way of mastering the thimble and needle, for his efforts receiving a salary of two zlotys a week, advancing quickly to five.
A new boy took over his chores, as Jacob slowly climbed up the ladder of uncertainty.
Another child – an unwelcome addition to the already full complement – joined his family, all of the siblings resenting her, Zysyl in particular. She, dreaming of her man, instead got a sister, almost twenty years her junior.
But God blessed the family with a little angel, a cooing doll, seldom crying, always smiling, her big dark eyes assuring that she would not be a burden to anyone. This unwarranted addition became a joy, the center of attention. Even Zysyl made up to her, showing off with Esther’l.
Laibl mastered the trade of watchmaking. Meanwhile, Jacob admired Mr. Erder’s untiring energy as he prepared work for half a score of workers, enough to last a day and more. One moment cutting cloth, marking, shaping; the next at the machine sewing. Long after the help left he was pressing, steaming the finished garments, putting in sixteen hours a day of exhaustive labor. Always supervising, arguing, and screaming.
Mr. Erder took a liking to Jacob, invited him to dinner, his pretty wife and young daughter waiting. Afterwards, he said: "Yakubchik, I want to tell you a secret.
"I am leaving Poland, for Australia, and when I get settled, my wife and daughter will join me, and I want you to come along. Boys like you have no future here, they are wasted, and you deserve much better. So, what do you say, Yakubchik, do you agree to my proposition?"
For a moment Jacob was speechless. Then he replied, "Mr. Erder, I am honored you choose me and I thank you. True, I am aware of my limitations here. I also know that with your guidance my future would be secure anyplace – but it is not up to me. I am barely fifteen years old, and this is a very important step. If you don’t mind, I’ll ask my parents, let them help me decide."
"Oh, yes, yes," Mr. Erder said. "By all means. I would not think otherwise, but meanwhile, let it remain a secret, ha?" He lit an ersatz cigarette, and bid Jacob good night.
Jacob’s mother, like a hen jealously watching over the young, sat on her little stool, a potato in one hand, in the other a scrubbing knife, emptying the peelings in the waste basket, and before long the iron pot was full.
"Momeshyi," Jacob said, marveling at her agility. "I want to discuss with you something of great importance; but you are so busy you did not even notice me."
"Yes, my Yankele," she said apologetically. "True, I am late with supper – there was the customer I helped select a chain for his pocket watch – but if you think that I didn’t notice you, you’re wrong. I saw you the instant you came in.
"Now my son, tell me what is on your mind," she said, placing a kiss on his forehead and putting the pot on the stove.
Jacob related the conversation with Mr. Erder. She placed a frying pan on the next burner, a large onion in her hand, tears streaming down her face.
"Mama, don’t cry, I am not going yet. Do you remember last summer when I spent a month in Kazimierz with Shomer Hatzair? Though I had a most rewarding time, I wanted to come home. … But this is not the same! It is an opportunity not only for me, but for all of us. It’s a chance of a lifetime. So don’t cry."
"I am not crying," she protested. "The onion made me do it, don’t you see?"
"Yes! Oh, yes! I see, the onion did it, even before you began to peel it. You are not a good liar, my good mama.
"Now Momeshyi, listen to me, please. Take a good look around. You’re confined in a dark hole, with a cold floor, mildewed walls, more mindful of others than of yourself, working day and night.
"My heart is breaking to see Father hunched over the workbench, struggling, worrying. … Is this living?
"Now, what about us? What does the future promise? You don’t want your children to struggle forever as you do. Is there anything good here? No! It’s time for a change.
"So why don’t you give me a chance? I can do it. I am a big boy and want to do my share, take care of you. You deserve it, oh, how much," he said, passionately trying to reason with her.
"You have healthy, vigorous sons. Must they be tailors, shoemakers or watchmakers? Wouldn’t you prefer a doctor, a lawyer or engineer?
"Mama, you have five boys and four girls. If one will leave, it would even out. It is not that bad. You will not miss him. And besides, I promise to write every single day, and in no time we will all be together again.
"So for you, and father and the children’s sake, say yes. Let me go!"
There was a disturbing, pervasive silence, the children not knowing what to make of it. An occasional sniffle cut the air. Then she faced Jacob and said:
"You claim I would not miss you, but you are so wrong, my dear Yankele. A mother can have twenty children, but as long as they are home they are not missed. She loves them all – mostly the one who is sick, or who is away, and you want to go to the remotest corner of the world? Oy, Goteniu!"
There was nothing to add. With that the conversation ended. His mother had nothing to worry about. Six months later, Mr. Erder left, never to send papers for his family, nor for Jacob, returning within one year.
(A handful of years later, Mr. Erder, his wife, daughter, and millions of others perished in the gas chambers and cremoratoriums. Not only their dreams and hopes, but their bodies and souls, went up in smoke).
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