By Stefan Ehrlich
(translated by Jan Czekajewski)
HOT SUMMER 1942 IN LVOV
IT was high summer of 1942 and the certainty of animpending “Akcja” (deportation to the gas chambers) washanging, heavy and palpable, in the air of the Lvov ghetto.My little sister and I were temporarily exempted because wewere engaged in landscaping the garden of the mansion of theGovernor of Galicia, SS-Brigadefuehrer Otto Waechter. However, my mother was scheduled to follow both mygrandmothers to the gas chambers of Belzec. My grandmothers,in their turn, had followed my father, who was killed justafter the Germans occupied Lvov and before the gas chamberswere even constructed at Belzec. When my grandmothers were killed, my mother received atemporary exemption as the homemaker for two workers employedby the Germans, but it was clear that this luxury could notbe extended much longer. Thus, I suggested to my mother thatwe try to obtain a set of Aryan papers - false identities -and try to save ourselves. Her reply was: "No, if we donothing illegal, the whole burden of guilt will fall on “Those Responsible” To this end we were to be sure to do nothing illegal or unethical so as not to obscure the guilt of “Those Responsible”. We had merely to await our demise. I recall clearly the day when death approached mymother. I had received a sure indication of its imminence.Every day, while walking to the Governor's mansion throughthe German quarters of Lvov, I passed by a sprawling high-school building where gendarmes [part of the German civilpolice, whose units were also termed”Schutzpolizei” (Protective Police) and Ordnungspolizei (Order Maintenance Police)were billeted. In the mornings, most of them werestill there. One day, in August 1942, the billet was empty.Only a few gendarmes were inside, sweeping the floor amongthe bunks. This peaceful sight was desperately, evenphysiologically, oppressive to me. Only the pressure of aheart attack, experienced many years later, could comparewith its burden. I said nothing to my little sister. I still saw no gendarmes in the billet when passing byin the evening on the way back to the ghetto. My anxietygrew as I approached the ghetto gate. In a previous “Akcje”(deportation to the gas chambers) against elderly people, asweep that had taken both my grandmothers, the gendarmes hadloaded their victims onto trucks at the gate, to transportthem to the railway terminal. Wooden stairs were placed atthe back of the truck. The old ladies lined up before thestairs and as they were stepping up, the gendarme would offereach lady his hand with a polite bow and help her to climb.Observing this scene I could not help recalling what mygrandmother had told me once about the unusually courteouspolice of Imperial Berlin. Noticing a lady who might requireassistance in boarding a streetcar, a policeman wouldapproach, give her his hand with a polite bow, and help herup. Now Berlin had come to us, to Lvov, complete with thepolite bow. But this time there were no trucks at the gate. I felta flicker of hope which was quenched as I entered the ghetto.The “Akcja” was going [?] on and this time the trucks had notbeen provided only because the homemakers for the workerswere relatively young and they were able to walk to thedistant railroad terminal. The gendarmes along withUkrainian police were guarding little groups of housewivesstanding on the sidewalk by the sidewall of the house. Morewomen were added to these groups as the gendarmes and thepolice led them out of the houses. Approaching home I noticed that my mother was notstanding by the wall. Hope flickered again. It burst into aflame as I entered the apartment. My mother was there. Shewas as collected as ever. She sat at the table with agendarme. They were sipping “Wisniak” ,home-made cherrybrandy, a bottle of which my mother had saved from mygrandmother's farm, and were immersed in friendlyconversation. My mother's behavior was so relaxed that I wassure that she had bribed the gendarme who would no doubtleave her behind; surely they were "watering the deal", asPoles say. When the bottle was drained, the gendarme rose to leave,as I expected, but my mother was going with him. There wasnothing in her behavior to indicate that she was going to herexecution. There was nothing tense in her smile and nothingartificial in the friendly tone of her conversation with thepoliceman. She behaved just as she did every day. Shelooked as if she were merely stepping out to see her genialvisitor off, to return in a moment. She was also as aware of us, her children, as shealways was. Seeing our shocked faces, my mother comforted uswith a few parting words: "Remember, I taught you how towork." And indeed we continued our landscaping work underthe direction of Mr Sommer, a former gardener at the Kaiser Wilhelm Gardens in Berlin. The Nazis expelled him to Poland,where he became the gardener of the Jewish Cemetery in Lvov.There the planting of rare and beautiful plants over graveshad replaced the erection of monuments, forbidden to those ofJewish religion. At this time the Jewish inmates of the Janowska Streetcamp in Lvov were busy removing gravestones, which wereground up for road construction, while we were transferringthe most valuable plants from the cemetery to the Governor'sgarden. The day after my mother went to her death, I sowedgrass on the new lawn and pressed the bed, while tears floweddown my cheeks. The Governor passed by and looked straightthrough me. The work at the Governor's mansion kept my littlesister and me alive until the end of 1942. Meanwhile, a new action against the ghetto approached.All was uncertainty. Speculations about whose IDs would behonored this time flew around. Mr Sommer realized that our end was approaching.Despite this, or maybe because of it, he shared with me hischerished secret for growing lush and fragrant cyclamens,hoping that maybe I would survive. We had landscaped themansion by December. Workers from the city parks came oneday to ascertain where the tools were and to assess whatremained to be done. They told us that they would maintainthe garden: we were no longer needed. Next morning, Jewish police knocked at our door, wantingto see our IDs. They looked at the blue seals and told usthat we had to go along with them. We went, my littlesister, her friend (the daughter of neighbors who shared ourapartment), and I. This girl had also worked in theGovernor's garden, upon my recommendation, and she had losther protection at the same time we did. The police led us from hallway to hallway, and left uswith one or two guards while the rest of them spread over thehouse. Our group grew very slowly and the policemen weregetting anxious. Clearly, they were below their quota.
Dr. Stefan Ehrlich died in August 2005 in Columbus, Ohio
