With a pencil tucked above her ear and black-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of her bird-like nose, she stares at the notepad gripped within her hand. She’s a lanky woman with narrow pointy shoulders who tracks inventory with razor sharp precision. Nothing distracts her. “There’s—there are a couple of…men looking for you.” Her voice is clipped.
I follow him, wondering what Mrs. Fischer is silently warning us about.
Papa turns around the corner of the brick wall first then shoves a hand behind him, into my chest, holding me back.My heart clobbers in my ribcage, knowing he would only do that for one reason.If a German officer is present.
“What can I do for you?” my father says, asserting his tone in a way I’m not sure he should if he’s facing the people we live in fear of…
“Looking for the owner of the factory,” a man replies, his German accent thick and sharp, telling.
I lean my back against the brick wall, seeking the bit of coolness the stone holds on to in the heat, and stare up at the exposed rafters and steam valves.The Reich has been seizing power of all Jewish-owned business across Poland for nearly a year and a half.My father said we had a good chance of being left alone for a while, being a small district between larger polish counties and just above the border of Slovakia. He was right, but he never said we would be left alone indefinitely.
“I’m the owner,” my father says.
“Do you have the ownership papers?”
A cold chill skates down the inside of my body, coating my lungs with what feels like razor blades.
“Of course,” my father says, his confidence wavering.
Their heavy footsteps descending the stairs and tapering toward the front of the factory, leave me cold with shock. I step toward the railings that overlook the bottom floor, watchingFather open the reception desk drawer, retrieve a stack of papers, then drop them onto the desktop before one of the two officers in dark uniforms with swastika arm bands snatches them up.
The volume of the machinery from just a short walk behind me seems to grow louder and louder, making it harder to hear what’s happening just around the corner.The minutes drag, my pulse throbbing through every vein within me.
Footsteps click and clack again, just a single set this time as Papa returns up the stairwell, his cheeks dark red, his eyes bulging, mouth snarling.
“What—what happened?”
“The SS confiscated the factory—it’s Jewish property,” my father utters, a full explanation in just a few words. “There was no negotiation.” His chin lifting as he struggles to swallow.“They took our vehicle, too.”
The sound of the machines grows quiet as if someone shut them all off. “But?—”
“We’ll continue to work, guide from beneath, maintain some civility for the time being. Without pay.”
There’s nothing for me to say. It happened so fast. Nothing I say will help. “They’ll let us be in our home for now, so long as I cooperate. Most other Jews won’t be so fortunate. They’re being sent to a ghetto.”
This is temporary. But how temporary? How long before we join them in the ghetto?
“What about all the others here?”
“They’ll remain in their positions, but under SS management and decision on what type of labor they’ll enforce. They should all run while they can. If they can. I’m going to tell them so.”
The walk home is quiet, leaving us with just the whispers from drifting tree branches, birds chirping, a dog barking in the distance. The world could fool me into thinking everything is allright, but then I notice the curtains twitch along a front window of a lone cottage we pass. And the dog that’s always running free in overgrown grass by the next cottage isn’t outside. Not even his bowl of water that’s always set beneath the tall oak tree.
“We need to remain calm for your mother and sister. If they know we’re concerned, they’ll be frantic, and then the baby will sense the tension too.”
“It’s not safe here. They’ve made their way to our town. It won’t be long before they pillage their way through. That’s what has happened everywhere else, isn’t it?”
“There’s nowhere for us to go, Stefan. Not with a baby. Not even without a baby.”
“Slovakia isn’t German occupied, and they aren’t deporting Jews,” I argue.
“Stefan,” Papa says, a groan of exhaustion carrying my name. “Slovakia is a Nazi-aligned state in support of antisemitism and Hitler’s beliefs.”
We’re stuck, waiting until the Reich decides they’ve had enough of us.
The trek up the hill to our home is steeper, somehow. My legs ache more than usual, and the nerves in my back are pinching. Our front door opens before we reach the stoop. Rosalie, our now live-in nursemaid, stands with her hand wrapped around the edge of the door and stares between the two of us. Mama and Papa asked her to stay longer after Benjamin was born, just so Mama could recover at a slow pace.I certainly don’t mind.
“What’s happened? It’s only three in the afternoon. Where’s the car?”
