The May Beetles Read online

  One soldier by the name of Fritz was especially well mannered and kind. He spoke to us in a genial way and showed us respect. His consideration went so far as to worry about what would become of us when he and the other soldiers moved on, as they would within another day. The Russians were on the east bank of the Vistula, which was not far away. ‘I’ll find a place where you can stay,’ Fritz said. ‘Leave it to me.’

  And he did indeed find lodgings for us. How pleased he was! He said he’d duped an old German-Polish couple into accommodating us. It was the duty of soldiers at that time to find lodgings for refugees they came across, and those householders who had space were obliged to accept anyone sent their way. Fritz delightedly told us that he’d given this old couple a choice between finding room for a mother and father with seven children and four horses, or for a mother with three daughters. ‘You see how I made the choice easy for them?’ he said. ‘They looked at me sourly, not pleased that they had to shelter anyone at all, but they said, “We’ll take the mother and her daughters.” So now they will welcome you as the lesser of two evils!’

  Fritz took us to our new hosts and introduced us. The couple were also looking after an uncle in his eighties, and they kept a younger man, a Ukrainian, as a sort of servant. Outdoors, three cows were stabled; indoors, the larder was full.

  Subterfuge was necessary, of course. Our family name was a problem. The Poles of the household would find Keimovits suspect as a surname, as well as awkward to pronounce. After some consultation between ourselves, we came up with a new family name: Fleischmann, the name of one of our German SS guards. We also adopted Christian given names: I would be Margareta, Erna would become Sonya, while Marta would remain as Marta. Mother would simply be Frau Fleischmann. We didn’t bother with a family back story, and it never came up in conversation.

  We all thrived on the food we enjoyed at the home of our host family, but it was particularly important for Marta. Her chilblains did not heal completely, but at least they caused her less pain. Still, we were living in a virulently anti-Semitic household. When members of our host family started talking about ‘verfluchte Juden’ (‘cursed Jews’), we kept quiet. According to our hosts, it was the verfluchte Juden who came each day in their aeroplanes to bomb the countryside, and the verfluchte Juden who had made this war that had cost so many lives and caused so much hardship. The heroic German people had done all that they could to rid Europe of the verfluchte Juden, but not enough, apparently. The vilest of all was the old uncle, who ranted in this way constantly; our tasks were always accompanied by his Jew-hating speeches.

  People came to the house every now and again – mostly neighbours stopping by for a few minutes to gossip. Some regarded us with suspicion. One of these visitors, a Polish woman, gave my mother a searching look and said in a low voice, ‘I’ve seen a few runaways like you.’ My mother did not reply, but I’d overheard and a chill crept over my body. The members of our host family didn’t grasp what the Polish woman meant by ‘runaways’ and made no issue out of it. If they’d understood, they would probably have searched for an SS squad to take us away.

  German soldiers came to the house too, the remnants of an army scattered by defeat at the Vistula. They told us their story, initially one of success in halting the Russian advance, but then of facing a reinforced attack, and ultimately of defeat, retreat and disarray. I thought of the many trenches we’d dug in the freezing weather, designed to halt this advance, and now those trenches were in the captured territory of the Red Army. The soldiers who came to the house begged for food, as we had, and they were ragged, as we were. But they were more demoralised than us. We had survived so much and were seasoned by suffering. The German army was just in the early stages of the demoralisation it would endure over the next three months.

  These ragged soldiers did not seem to suspect that we were escaped Jews. I doubt they would have cared, such was the state they were in. We sat with them at the kitchen table and watched them eat, and listened to their tales of battles and bloodshed. My mother spoke German to them. I would break slices of bread in half and give one part to a soldier, eating the other half myself. I didn’t hate these poor, humiliated boys, and I listened to them with sympathy. I knew how it felt to be desperately hungry and defeated.

  Considering the months we’d spent in arduous physical labour, I was fairly lucky to have escaped injury. Indeed, we had all avoided broken bones and serious cuts. We didn’t avoid blisters and bruises, but those we could tolerate. One day I was sent out to fetch wood for the fire, and I slipped and fell heavily on the icy ground. I broke my fall with my hands, gashing my left wrist badly. I went inside holding my wrist and showed the wound to my mother. I recalled a girl I knew in one of the camps telling me of an injury her father suffered when his hand went through a pane of glass, cutting him so deeply that his nerves were severed; he had lost all sensation in his fingers from that time on. I was sure I would be left restricted in the same way. The wound was bathed and wrapped in a makeshift bandage, but it required expert attention. We were told that there was a German field hospital within walking distance.

  My mother and I set off for the field hospital in the late afternoon. We knew that we were taking our lives in our hands, but our experiences as runaways had made us daring rather than fearful. Aircraft roared overhead as we walked through the snow; whenever we heard them thundering in for a strafing run, my mother and I hid in a ditch.

  The field hospital was essentially for German battle casualties, of course, but the medical staff were prepared to treat the locals – more willingly if you were an ethnic German. And for the purposes of our visit, we were ethnic Germans. Mother did all the talking. ‘My daughter has done herself some harm, as you can see. An unfortunate fall while running from the aeroplanes!’ The doctor may or may not have believed her; he had enough to do without worrying about the veracity of tales brought to him by civilians. He called in a colleague, who administered a general anaesthetic, and I dissolved into blissful unconsciousness.

  My mother sat by me while the doctor stitched me up. Her great anxiety, as she told me later, was that I would wake up and blurt out something in Hungarian. When I did come to, I said, in perfect German, ‘Wo bin ich?’ (‘Where am I?’) My whole arm, from my fingers to my shoulder, was bandaged, as if I were indeed a casualty of the battlefield.

  The irony of our situation at this time did not escape me. The Germans, after herding us into a death camp, and then forcing us to trudge like beasts all over the north of Poland, had now become our benefactors. It was the Germans who had fed us in their field kitchen when we were starving, it was Fritz who had found us our lodgings, and it was a German doctor who had ministered to my wound.

  It was late in the evening when we left the field hospital and began our journey back to the farmhouse. The snow had ceased falling and the sky was clear. Overhead, countless stars glittered. My mother and I said little to each other. Once again, my mother’s daring and wherewithal had found a solution to a problem. While she lived, she would make sure we lived.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Fleischmanns of Poland

  My impression as a wandering former captive of the Germans was that the ethnic Germans of Poland had welcomed the Nazis as liberators, while a significant number of Poles, too, were happier with a German occupation than with the prospect of a Russian invasion. The ethnic German family who had been compelled to lodge us were amongst those who wanted to get out of Poland before the Russians arrived, and within days of my return from the field hospital, the husband and wife packed their bags and announced their departure. The old uncle and the young Ukrainian fellow were the only ones to stay behind.

  They sternly advised us to evacuate as well, but since they were ultimately heading for Germany, we could not go with them. As an excuse, my mother said that my bandaged arm would never stand up to the rigour of the journey. The family was in too great a hurry to argue the point, and so it was agreed that we, the Fleischmanns, would remain
behind in the house, milk the cows, care for the vile uncle and make whatever sort of deal with the Russians we could. One day, the family might return, and if that happened, we would hand back the keys to the house.

  Thus we became the occupants of a farm in Poland, with three cows, various other beasts, a Ukrainian servant and a larder still fairly well stocked. The Fleischmanns were a lucky family. We still had the uncle on our hands, but by this time his diatribes were no more than background noise to us. We fed him and made sure he was comfortable, but we’d become inured to his ranting.

  The house was directly in the path of the German retreat, and soldiers continued to come knocking at our door. We fed them; they were meek enough in defeat. One soldier I recall in particular. He was about twenty-five and had barely eaten for weeks, but he paused between mouthfuls of soup to ask me: ‘Do you know that hunger is painful? It is actually painful.’ And, having asked me, he returned to the soup.

  The retreating soldiers became fewer as the days passed. We rose in the morning to milk the cows, and we waited for whatever was fated to come our way that day. It wasn’t possible to fashion a sensible plan in the turmoil of the battlefield; having a place to live and food to eat was the best situation we could expect for the time being.

  Just before dusk one day a group of six German soldiers came to the door asking for food. My mother showed them in and served them the hearty soup she kept on the stove for such arrivals. They were grateful, and the most senior of them advised us to evacuate and escape the approaching Russians. ‘We are the last German soldiers you will see,’ he said. ‘The very last. After us, the Russians. I don’t have to tell you what you should fear. You know. If the Americans were coming, you would have nothing to fear. But the Russians – be warned.’ The soldiers departed and we were left with our fears. My mother remembered the reputation of the Russian soldiers in the Great War.

  In the early days of March 1945, after we had been at the farmhouse about a month, the first signs of the approaching spring appeared. The ice and snow began to thaw, and the days were a little longer. The clouds that had brought the winter snow disappeared from the sky, and now and again the sun provided a little warmth. My wound was healing steadily; when the dressing was changed, there was no sign of infection taking hold.

  Because I was an invalid, I had a single bed to myself, while Mother, Erna and Marta shared a double bed in the same room. One night I had a very vivid dream. The setting was an amphitheatre, huge, with tiered seating to accommodate thousands of devout Jews. The men were at prayer but I was standing in their midst, and what I was most aware of was their complete ignorance of my presence. I struggled to draw attention to myself, waving my arms about: ‘Look at me, can you not see me?’ The faces of the men in their prayer shawls were impassive, their gaze fixed on something distant. I was anxious and afraid, horribly disappointed that my efforts to draw some response all failed. I awoke bereft, and felt troubled in my soul.

  That was a night of events. My dream was soon followed by the sound of strange voices in the house. We sat up in bed, and a minute later three soldiers entered our bedroom, their faces illuminated by lanterns. We stared at them in fright. They were not German soldiers; they were Russians.

  The soldiers gazed at us, giving no hint by their expression what they were thinking. They had our Ukrainian with them. One soldier spoke rapidly to our man; he appeared to be telling him to lead the way into the next room. Was this to check if there were German soldiers hiding there? The soldier returned from the neighbouring room carrying a pile of papers that I immediately recognised as patterns for women’s garments. He stood in the middle of the room and, rather melodramatically, tore them to pieces. His expression was one of accusation, and it occurred to me that he must have believed that these carefully drawn and detailed patterns were maps.

  One of the soldiers stepped closer to my single bed and lifted the blanket that was covering me. I was terrified. At that moment the sound of a pistol shot echoed in the room, then loud, angry cries. It wasn’t immediately possible to work out what had happened, but after a while it became clear that the soldier standing at the door had accidentally shot himself. He’d been holding the handle and trigger of a pistol in his back pocket, ready to draw it if he needed to, and had somehow jerked the trigger and shot his own backside. The wounded soldier cried out and hopped about in pain while his two comrades tried to help him. They finally succeeded in supporting him and took him away.

  This first encounter with the Red Army left us shaken, and we remained in bed for the rest of the night. At six, my mother dressed and went to milk the cows, but Erna and Marta and I stayed where we were. We were very concerned that what the German soldiers had said about the Russian soldiers would prove true.

  As if to confirm our fears, a soldier came into the bedroom, studied us one at a time, then told Marta to dress and follow him. Erna threw back her covers and leapt from bed to find our mother and tell her that Marta was in danger. The soldier hastened after her, leaving Marta behind. I got out of bed too, and Marta and I also ran in search of our mother. As we reached the kitchen, a sixteen-year-old Polish girl who came each morning to fetch milk for her family arrived. She was a very pretty girl, and the soldier changed his preference from Marta to her. He told the girl to follow him, and she had no choice but to do as she was told. Marta, trembling and terrified a minute earlier, wept with relief.

  How many soldiers intended to use the house, and for how long they would stay, we didn’t know. But what we did know was that we were all in danger. We couldn’t expect to be saved every day by a clumsy soldier shooting himself, or by the sudden arrival of a pretty Polish girl. But to leave the house and take our chances in a region that would soon be swarming with Russian troops was foolhardy. Later that day, our mother gathered us in the kitchen and told us her plan. ‘I will take you, Erna, and you, Marta, and hide you in the hayshed,’ she began. ‘I’ll bring you food. Baba, you will stay here in the house with me. With your bandaged arm, none of the soldiers will want you.’

  We agreed, but I doubt if any of us thought this a particularly brilliant plan. Surely the soldiers would sooner or later notice Mother going to the hayshed with food. And she herself, even at forty-four, was an attractive woman.

  My mother concealed Erna and Marta in the hayshed. But as she was returning, a Russian soldier noticed her and his suspicions were aroused. He went to the shed to investigate and found my sisters. My mother and Erna and Marta all became frantic, pleading with the soldier to let them be. And the soldier was sympathetic: he made calming motions with his hands and led them to understand that he would do nothing against them.

  From the kitchen I could hear the commotion, but of course I didn’t know what was unfolding. It sounded awful, though, and I was distressed. In this state I suddenly found myself attempting to fend off another soldier, this one a crazy drunk, my bandaged arm not the least impediment to him. My struggles slowed him, though. He freed one arm and grasped his rifle, putting the muzzle to my forehead. He was shouting at me and I was shouting at him; neither of us knew what the other was saying, but at the same time we did. I was shrieking for help but also crying out a Jewish prayer, Shema Yisrael; as a child, I’d heard that this is the prayer of the dying. I wanted to be heard by God.

  At this moment, my mother and sisters and the other Russian soldier burst into the kitchen. The soldier who had shown my mother and sisters such kindness now rushed at his comrade, quickly overpowering him, and seized the rifle. Then he took his comrade away, signalling to us to calm ourselves.

  Within a few hours, more soldiers arrived. One took a particular interest in me and learned my name. I tried to keep my eyes averted, but whenever I looked up his gaze was on me. That night he came to our bedroom and leaned over me, whispering in broken German: ‘Margareta, Margareta, let me get into bed with you … please, Margareta – four years of war, four years, and I have not been with a girl … I beg of you, Margareta, please …’ I was sile
nt. I don’t know that I was even breathing. I pulled the blanket over my head and squeezed my eyes shut. The soldier’s pleading went on and on, and I felt him pawing at the blanket. I thought: ‘God save me, God save me.’ And He did. The soldier gave up his importuning and stole away. But the sickness of dread stayed with me for hours, all through that sleepless night.

  The soldiers packed up and departed, on their way to Germany. More soldiers would come to the house, I was certain. The memory of that drunken soldier became fixed in my mind. I had always been able to rely on my nerves, but I couldn’t keep my nerve now. I was a wreck. I clawed at the walls with my fingers, and I clamped my hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming. When I could bear it no longer, I told my mother what had happened. I had wanted to spare her the story of the Russian soldier but it became too much for me. I just had to share my pain.

  The old man was in bed; the Ukrainian was about his chores. The danger we faced now seemed as great as any we’d known. We had been saved by a soldier who knew the difference between right and wrong, and then by the power of my prayers. But we would not always be so fortunate.

  ‘The cellar,’ Mother said.

  We knew of the existence of this cellar; we’d looked down into it a few times in the days before our host family had departed. Mother cleared the living room floor of rugs and lifted the trapdoor to the cellar. An odour of mildew wafted up from the darkness. We had to overcome our strong feeling of repugnance, but Erna, Marta and I climbed down the ladder into the gloom. But better the gloom than falling into the hands of another drunken soldier. We could at least be thankful that it was now early April, and the weather was a little milder.