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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
The golden links
At the end of the summer Jacob’s family returned from the country; the children brown, bigger, more mischievous.
He, Moniek and Hershel found a job on Poznanska 13, a half-hour’s brisk walk, occasionally using the tram, or the omnibus, seldom paying the fare, boarding and jumping off in mid-speed, a challenge they could not resist.
The shop was on the ground floor, separated into three big rooms. The cutting department, alongside two lines of a dozen electric machines operated by women, a room for the pressers – at the far end the finishers.
Work started at 8 o’clock in the morning and ended at 5 p.m. It was very agreeable, lacking only the warmth, Yiddish songs and jokes, the "heimishkeit."
Once, at lunchtime, Jacob was approached by Hans the head presser, a handsome devil, a native of Silesia.
"Yakub," he said, pointing to the women operators. "Would you like to know who your friends are? Choose one, any one you wish, and you’ll be surprised."
"How could I be surprised, if you tell me beforehand?" Jacob replied. "And besides, I am not too keen on surprises. They seldom are to my benefit."
"Don’t be stubborn, come on, you have nothing to lose, and it will prove a point."
"Okay, Hans." He started a conversation with a buxom woman, but it quickly turned into a heated argument, then he said, loudly enough for all to hear, "Jadwiga, you are right. The guilt belongs to the Jews and cyclists."
"Why the cyclists?" asked the woman, staring at him.
"Why the Jews?" replied Hans.
"I see you are not surprised. How come?"
"Hans, you’ll never understand, never; and you know why? Because you are not one of us. Even as a little boy I was accused of heinous crimes, blamed for all wrongdoings – so you see, maybe it’s surprising to you, but not to me."
A lean, withdrawn, bespectacled man in his late twenties joined the finishers occasionally, humming a tune.
At lunchtime sharing with Jacob a cup of tea, a slice of cake, discussing things of mutual interest, mostly classical music – he related his life history, marriage, and eventual divorce; the loss of the only thing he cherished, his little daughter Rachel.
He presented Jacob with a pair of cuff-links. As the son of a jeweler, Jacob refused the gift, hinting at the value – Moniek, eager to buy them, offered two zlotys.
"For three zlotys, they are yours," Jacob said, but for some unexplained reason he reneged. Thus Jacob became the owner of two heavy cuff-link balls.
Soon, the season ended, a job too good to last.
Days, weeks passed. Autumn again ushered in the Holy Days. But for Jacob the thrill was gone. God and he slowly drifted apart. Music was his only consolation.
"Father, I have something to show you," Jacob said, handing him the cuff-links. "Tell me their value."
His father weighed them in his hands, and tested them with an acid solution. Finally, he said: "They are gold, 18 carat. Who do they belong to?"
"They are mine. I have had them for quite a while. I got them from a guy I worked with."
"Then take them back. He is the rightful owner. He must have paid a pretty zloty!"
"No, Father, he did not buy them."
"He did not buy them – did he steal them? I don’t want them in my house!" his father said angrily, throwing the cuff-links at Jacob.
"But Father, don’t say things like that. That man is not a thief. He is an honorable gentleman. He found them in a cleaning store where he worked. No one claimed them."
"Then take them back, tell him of their value. At least pay him, he sure can use the money."
"Yes, Father, you are right, he definitely can use it. I would have gladly done it, but the shop we worked at is closed, and I can’t locate him. But if it’ll make you feel any better, those cuff-links are not an outright gift. I paid him two zlotys, despite his refusal."
"Then my son, you got yourself a real bargain," Jacob’s father said, putting the cuff-links in a little box in the workbench drawer.
Two weeks later Jacob was given a wad of bills. "This is for the cuff-links. Winter is on the doorsteps, you need a coat, and this will be more than enough."
Thus Jacob became the owner of a beautiful light brown coat, a new pair of shoes, leather gloves, and a hat to match, his first fedora – all his very own.
In retrospect, if one may venture to add, that coat had a vital part in the course of future events.
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