Among the Reeds Page 5

  So I worked in the patisserie during the day, but went back to my own place across the street once we closed. One night while I was fast asleep in my tiny flat, my door opened. The sound woke me, and I sat up with a small scream. The building manager, the man who had “generously” rented me the apartment, was standing in my doorway. I could smell the schnapps on his breath. My heart started pounding. What are you doing here? I cried. He started walking toward my bed, looking at me in a way I instinctively knew was dangerous.

  I grabbed my pillow and held it tightly against my nightgown, trying to shield myself from this near-stranger who had invaded my room. My whole body started shaking. The man lunged at me. Screaming at the top of my lungs now, I kicked him in the stomach, my foot landing hard in his soft gut. He lurched away drunkenly, cursing, and I flew out of the room, down the stairs, out the front door, and across the street to Mama’s apartment. Pounding on the door, I woke the entire family, and kept them up for the rest of the night with my hysterical recounting of what had occurred. Mama was aghast. Melly, Melly, she kept saying, oy va voy, Melly. What will be the end of all this, Melly? Needless to say I moved back into the tiny family apartment that night and resumed my resentful bed-share with Inge.

  Looking back, I feel sorry for my mama. Her formerly comfortable life had evaporated. Her husband had gone mad and been shipped off to an institution, leaving her responsible for three children in a strange country. Her eldest daughter was resentful and moody, becoming ever more unruly without a father, wanting independence that was obviously unsuitable, and was already getting into trouble – imagine if that man had violated me! How was she to keep me safe?

  At the time, though, I had no insight into anyone else’s troubles, consumed as I was – as I guess all teenagers are – with my own unhappiness. I was aware of what was going on in the world, that is true. We all were very aware of the rising power of the Nazis in Germany. But that was so dreadful that I pushed it out of my mind whenever possible. That kind of problem was too overwhelming. No, my worries were more mundane. I brooded about my loss of a nice home, my lack of privacy, my annoying sister, my desire to break away from the family and lead a glamorous life.

  But I guess Mama was more distraught than I realized. And conversations were apparently going on, plans being made, that I knew nothing about. You see, that has been the story of my life.

  Shortly after that awful incident with the apartment manager, and I will never forget this day as long as I live – I was seventeen years old – Mama announced that we would be having a wedding soon.

  A wedding.

  She was very matter of fact about it. I was in the process of emptying out the pastry racks, wiping off the crumbs that had accumulated on the bottom shelves. I was only half listening to her.

  Oh, who is getting married? I responded.

  You are.

  A Wedding

  Belgium 1938

  Genek had been in Antwerp for a couple of years when he first saw the beautiful brunette on her bicycle. She was young, with long legs, creamy skin, and a dreamy look on her face. Something about her must have caught Genek’s fancy. He soon found himself going down to the street early in the morning when he knew she would be riding by, timing it so he could catch a glimpse of the girl on the bicycle loaded with pastries. One day he followed her, and found that she took the baked goods to a kosher patisserie run by her mother. Genek quickly became a frequent customer at the patisserie. The mother, Gertrude, must have reminded him of some of his aunts back in Poland, and the pastries temporarily assuaged his endless hunger. He learned that the girl’s name was Melly.

  He was in his mid−twenties by now, and Genek wanted a woman. He thought it was time he got a wife. He tried to flirt with the girl, but she seemed to look right though him, barely answering when he spoke to her. Under normal circumstances he might have hired a matchmaker, or had his father approach the girl’s father to discuss a possible match. But these were not normal times. He was alone in Belgium. And the girl’s father was away too, apparently. So Genek approached the mother.

  Gertrude rebuffed him. No, Melly was too young to be married, she told him, and her husband wasn’t there to make a match anyway. Her answer made him want the girl even more. Genek persisted. He told Gertrude he would be a good provider. His fur business was thriving. Wouldn’t the family want the young girl settled with a nice Jewish husband? Where was Mr. Offner? Could Genek appeal to him, perhaps?

  Eventually Gertrude explained that her husband was up in Holland, confined to a hospital, so there really was no point in discussing Melly at this time. Undaunted, Genek decided he would go up to Apeldoorn to make his case directly to Melly’s father. He took the train north, and met with Leopold in the fall of 1937, the two men sitting on a bench on the beautiful hospital grounds. Genek asked Leopold for Melly’s hand in marriage.

  But Leopold was not impressed with Genek. The man was a coarse Polack who did not speak German. Worse, he was barely knowledgeable in Jewish law. No, this furrier was not the man he had in mind for Melly. His daughter would wed an ultra-Orthodox man like himself, a rabbi maybe. Leopold had retreated further into his religious delusions by now; his entire life was consumed with religiosity. He told Genek no.

  So Genek returned to Antwerp without the answer he wanted, but determined nonetheless to win the beautiful girl’s hand. He continued frequenting the patisserie, chatting up the mother, and trying to catch the girl’s eye. Melly persisted with her aloof indifference. Genek’s ardor mounted.

  And then one day in February, a miracle. Gertrude pulled him into a corner of the bakery and asked if he was still serious about Melly. Barely believing his ears, Genek assured her he was, most definitely. He had only the most honorable of intentions. He wanted to marry the girl. As soon as possible.

  Too happy to ask questions, Genek must have been curious, nonetheless, about what had made the mother change her mind. But better not to look a gift horse in the mouth, he decided. The girl was ripe and beautiful, and soon she would be his.

  Gertrude had seized on the only plan she could think of to keep her rebellious daughter safe. Did she have reservations about marrying her eldest off to a man the girl barely knew, and obviously cared nothing for? Undoubtedly. But better a suboptimal marriage to a Jewish man who wanted her and would keep her safe than a difficult teen running wild, bringing shame onto the entire family. She herself had married a man her parents had picked; it had not been perfect, but she had survived. Melly would too.

  So I will tell Melly, Gertrude continued to Genek. It is settled.

  And so Melly was informed. There would be a wedding soon. Whose? Yours.

  She was just seventeen years old. There would be no further discussion on the subject.

  Four months later, on June 30, 1939, Genek and Melly stood under the chuppah in Antwerp and were pronounced man and wife by the rabbi. Invitations had gone out, and those who could attend the wedding were there. Genek’s family was not in attendance; they were all back in Galicia. Some of Gertrude’s brothers and sisters had made it out of Germany, and they were at the wedding – Uncle Herman with his wife and young son; Tante Sarah too. It is unclear whether Melly’s father Leopold ever consented to the marriage; at any rate, still hospitalized in Holland, he did not attend the wedding. Young Nathan had a great time – skipping from table to table, snatching and downing glass after glass of abandoned champagne, eventually falling asleep under one of the tablecloths. Inge watched quietly, as was her way.

  Genek peered at his beautiful bride, breathlessly anticipating the moment when he could finally be alone with her. Melly, her face a study in despair, refused to smile as the photographer snapped away. Her wedding pictures show the most unhappy bride.

  Melly

  Married Life

  What can I tell you? I was married at seventeen to a peasant, a brute. The man had no class. He didn’t know the difference between good food and bad – he ate anything! My new husband was always hungry, and I
hated seeing the way he shoveled everything into his mouth. He could make a chicken disappear in two minutes. He even ate the neck, bones and all. And he put jam on his herring, can you imagine? When I tried to dispose of kitchen scraps he stopped me. He would rather eat old food than let me get rid of it. It’s better to throw in than to throw out, he would cackle, patting his belly. Oh, he loved that joke. He thought he was clever. Another favorite joke – Melly, if you eat garlic every day for a hundred years, you will live a long time! Oh my God, if I had a penny for every time I heard those two jokes, I’d be a wealthy woman, believe me.

  The man was strong as an ox; he didn’t believe in getting sick. Once, I remember, his back hurt. Instead of resting, Genek threw himself down the stairs. Seriously. That was his way of dealing with discomfort.

  He was all about the body – his physical strength, his ravenous appetite, his impatience with weakness. I was a creature of the mind. I felt very alone with Genek. He spoke to me in Yiddish. I answered tersely in German. We had so little in common: not even a language.

  And he was on me constantly. In those days women were expected to submit to their husband’s sexual advances. A woman’s desires were not considered. I tried to escape him, but we lived in such cramped quarters, it was useless. Within a month I was pregnant. My girlhood, such as it was, was really over.

  Genek had no patience with the fatigue and nausea I experienced early in the pregnancy. He didn’t believe in weakness – he wanted me to snap out of it. As if I wanted to feel sick and tired! We had some terrible fights. When he wasn’t home I allowed myself to cry, but in front of him I kept up a stony front. I would not allow him to think I was soft and hurting. I cleaned, I shopped, I cooked, I pretended I felt well, and I tried my best to avoid him. But of course that was impossible.

  We had moved into our own small apartment. Genek continued with his fur business, creating a small atelier in one room of our flat. He expected me to help with sewing and such. I did it, but I hated it, hated everything about it, the dead animal pelts, the smell, the nastiness of the entire business. But what could I do? We needed the money, we had to pay rent, buy food. My husband was a furrier; I became his assistant.

  One thing I will give him credit for: Genek was thrilled about my pregnancy. To be honest, I was not. I was appalled to be pregnant at seventeen. But Genek wanted a son so badly. He went around whistling and muttering endearments to the unborn child, calling him bubbeleh, having imaginary conversations with the baby. And eventually, though it took a few months, I too started thinking of the swelling in my belly as an actual baby. I was full of wonder as my middle expanded, as my breasts grew, and as I felt the first flutter of kicks in my womb.

  But what a time to be bringing a child into the world. Hitler had already invaded Poland and Czechoslovakia. The Nazis clearly wanted to control all of Europe, and they were viciously and virulently anti-Semitic. We heard bone-chilling stories about atrocities happening to Jews in Poland. Genek was distraught with worry about his family. I felt for him about this, I really did. For the moment we were safe, but would that safety last? Would Belgium remain a sanctuary for us? As my pregnancy advanced the stories got worse. I concentrated on my unborn child, and prayed that he would be healthy.

  On April 23, 1940, I gave birth. My son was a big baby, and the delivery was very difficult. But he was so beautiful. I fell in love completely and forever. Feeling his little hand curl around my finger, gazing into his wide eyes, smelling his scalp, and feeling him nuzzle into my body elicited feelings of such magnitude that they rocked me to my core. I felt fierce. This child was mine and I would do anything to protect him. On that day I ceased being a moody teenager and became a mother. Never again would my needs come first; now my darling son was all that mattered.

  Genek was as ecstatic as me. He too adored the bubbeleh. We named the baby Alfred Izzak, but we called him Bobby, the bubbeleh we had been waiting for, and he brought us both such immense joy. Genek and I did not see eye to eye on many things. But about our son we agreed wholeheartedly: he was beautiful, precious, the best thing either of us had ever created.

  Our joy was short-lived. Just three weeks after Bobby’s birth, on May 10, 1940, Hitler invaded Belgium. The Belgian army was completely overpowered; they didn’t stand a chance against the German forces. Within weeks Belgium surrendered to the Germans, and Nazi tanks rolled into the streets of Antwerp. Much of the Belgian government fled to England, where they established a government in exile. King Leopold and Queen Elizabeth, the sovereigns, remained in Belgium but were essentially powerless. Belgium was under occupation.

  Once again I heard the terrifying sound of Nazi boots marching past my window. I was eighteen years old, recovering from childbirth, married to a virtual stranger, and again living in the shadow of terror. Only now I had a newborn baby to protect.

  The arrival of the Nazis sparked complete pandemonium. All we could think about, like everyone around us, was how to escape. The streets were thronged with panicked Belgians trying to flee the country. By foot, by car, by horse, by wagon, by train – any way possible – everyone wanted to get to France, still free, or even better to England.

  The Jewish population was especially panicked. Most of the Jews in Antwerp at that time were not native Belgians; like us, most had fled Germany and Eastern Europe ahead of Hitler. Having the Germans invade Belgium was the most terrifying thing imaginable. The Nazi invasion of our adopted country brought home the realization that we were no longer safe. The enemy was here. Once again we had to run.

  Our family – my mother and siblings, Genek, me, and little Bobby – joined the throngs streaming toward the train station. People were carrying suitcases and bundles, bags of food, children. Everyone was pushing, trying to get ahead, hoping to flee to safety. It was obvious that there wouldn’t be enough trains to carry all these people. I clutched Bobby to my chest and followed Genek’s back as he plowed through the crowded streets and into the melee that was the train station.

  Somehow we managed to board a train heading for the city of Ostend, Belgium’s port on the North Sea. Our hope was to catch a ship from there to England. Like everyone else, we were desperate to get out of Belgium, and if we could put the English Channel between us and the Nazi invaders, so much the better. The train was terribly crowded. The five of us and the baby squeezed into a tiny compartment, little Bobby suspended in a sling between two poles, swaying as the train chugged slowly out of Antwerp.

  What do I remember about that train ride? It seemed we were stopped more than we were moving. I think we could have made better time if we had been walking, though I was grateful we were not. Every few minutes the brakes came on. Every time the train stopped there was a collective groan. I remember the crush of humanity, the heat of all those bodies crowded together, the fear. I swear I could smell the fear. And the planes. German planes descended out of the sky without warning, buzzing down like crazed hornets, dropping bombs onto the Belgian countryside. I watched the plumes of smoke rise into the spring air. So this was war. I expected a bomb to hit our train any minute.

  We were on that train, stopping and going, for maybe two days. Ostend is only about seventy miles west of Antwerp, so you see how slowly we were moving. We had a little food, not much. During longer stops Nathan hopped down and ran around trying to buy some provisions, and to find some milk for Bobby. My milk supply was already dwindling, and I was in anguish when the baby cried with hunger. Of course there wasn’t much food to buy: everyone was panicking, hoarding and hiding what they had. But Nathan was resourceful: he managed to get some milk for the baby, and some bread and cheese for the rest of us.

  Needless to say, we didn’t get to Ostend in time to catch that ship. By the time we arrived it had left port. There would be no escaping to England for us. Instead we joined the desperate masses trying to get to France. We got on another train heading for the French city of Lille, about sixty miles south of Ostend. Again we endured overcrowding and hunger, worrying about wheth
er the French would allow us in, or whether we would be turned back at the border. Again I suspended little Bobby in his sling, watching anxiously as he swayed to and fro, praying I would have enough milk to feed him.

  There was such chaos everywhere, everyone trying to get out of Belgium. You can’t imagine the stream of refugees we were part of. We were lucky to be on a train; I saw so many people walking toward the French border as we went by, so many desperate families on foot. And the Germans kept bombing them. When people saw the planes approach they threw themselves into ditches or sprinted for the woods. The lucky ones picked themselves back up after the planes departed; the bodies of the unlucky ones lay in the dusty roads.

  How could my child have been born into such a nightmare? Little did I know, but much worse was yet to come.

  German Occupation

  Belgium 1940-1941