Last Stork Summer (6 page)

I loved picking wildflowers and pressing them. Grandmother taught me how to place them on the sheets of paper so they would dry in an attractive shape. My grandfather made me a flower press out of some thin, wood boards and a leather strap. I used layers of paper between the boards to soak up any moisture. After the flowers were pressed and dry, I glued them
carefully in a book that had paper pages separated by wax sheets. I could spend hours looking for flowers to press; I rarely tired of it. Grandma would help identify them and tell me how they could be used.

Basil would keep himself busy by chasing small rodents while I picked flowers. Squirrels chattered at him as he ran from tree to tree. It almost sounded as if they were laughing at him. The memory of Basil chasing a squirrel from one tree to another brought a smile to my face because I knew he wouldn’t know what to do with one if he did catch it. He was so gentle; even to the point of entering the chicken coop with me to sit calmly and watch as I collected eggs, he never upset the hens.

In some measure, with farm work I had the chance to be outside, to breathe fresh, clear air; it wasn’t as free as wandering through the forest back home, but at least I was outside. The hardest part about being here, aside from missing my family and home so desperately, was being close to the trees and yet so forbidden to walk through them, touching, smelling, and looking at the abundance of life. I longed to see the woodpeckers, bitterns and warblers, as well as the squirrels and other small animals who made the forest their home. Looking out at the marsh I would see the older storks standing and preening the heads of the younger birds. Those days with Basil by my side, watching the storks and walking on our land, returned to me regularly in my dreams at night. Those dreams gave me strength. They reminded me that the Germans could take everything away, except the most important thing – my thoughts and dreams; I would go to my grave before letting them take those from me.

Young chicks are covered with white down and have black bills; their legs and bills slowly turn red as they mature
.

Finally, after two days that seemed unreasonably long, I wasn’t called for factory work. I took a deep breath of the crisp, daylight sky. It smelled so wet and earthy. I’d asked the other girls at night after returning from the fields if they’d seen any storks, but they just shook their heads
no
. They were so tired from working outside all day long and couldn’t understand why I would rather be outside than inside a warm factory – even if it was noisy, at least it was warm, they reasoned. I was certain the storks would be here soon. The trees were showing all the signs. I was hopeful I’d see them today while working outside.

The joy and happiness I felt about being outside was not something I could explain to them. I only knew that when I first came to this camp I missed the big things; my family, my home, my church, and my community. With the passing of days and years, I still missed the big things, but began to miss more and more of the little things. It was like the memories broke down and opened up, and I could remember very small specific things: like the way our kitchen smelled in the morning when I woke up, or how snow coated the trees in our yard in the winter. I recalled the way church smelled upon entering; like burning candles, polished wood, and incense, as well as the way my first breath of fresh air felt when I left school at the end of the day.

I realized that those “big things” were made up of the dozens of little things that gave them meaning, life, and substance. Working on the farm only made those memories more distinct in my mind. I could pretend that I was home on my own farm. I
think the Germans thought they were the only ones benefiting from my labor. Little did they know how much I appreciated the special memories that working outside afforded me.

In a strange way, I knew that life couldn’t go on like this forever. Even though we were children, we were starting to see the breakdown of the German war machine. The Polish underground was active and involved in undermining the Nazis at every opportunity they found.

Rocks with notes attached would find their way to our feet when we were standing out in the yard. It was the most astonishing thing to be surrounded by inmates, barbed wire, guards on duty and almost be hit by a flying rock with a note. Berta received many of these “rocks” and would cautiously share their contents with the older inmates. Messages were never shared with the new inmates because trust hadn’t been established yet.

It was like having the most wonderful secret. We just needed to make sure and keep the secret to ourselves. I had a running commentary playing in my head, updating any new information I received.

“The Germans are weakening daily in their efforts to control the world. The front is closing in with the help of the Polish underground. The Soviets have turned on the Nazis and soon they will rush back to Germany with their tail between their legs, proving once again that Poland is the stronger country.”

Anna brightened when I whispered parts of the commentary, a slight smile gracing her face. Our lives here were nothing more than mere routine, colorless tasks. Sometimes, I wondered if the Nazis couldn’t starve and work us to death, they would challenge our hope of survival by enforcing monotonous routines. I had to find ways to entertain myself and Anna – even turning a war report into a commentary helped relieve the boredom some.

Other than the rocks, there were a few ways we received information. The most common was when new groups of children arrived. We had an organized way of finding out what new
children might know about the war, and life outside the camp. We would ask them specific questions. If they answered in a particular way we’d know if they had information for us. We never knew when or how new information would arrive, but it kept us connected to the war effort on the outside.

All the Germans ever told us was how efficient they were in achieving their victories. Their strict routines were starting to become unpredictable though, and small groups of soldiers were standing around camp having discussions about the end of the war. We would listen to their comments to gage the war’s progress. We were aware of how they tried to keep the truth from us, but it was clear from their grim faces that not all of them believed the propaganda they spoke about.

Nazi authority over the Polish people was going to end; it was simply a matter of time. That thought filled me with enough hope to resolutely choose life every day. It was only because of that choice that I could endure the most dismal situations, day after day. The simple truth was, the soldiers didn’t see our humanity, but that fact didn’t mean I was unaware of it. Had they been persuaded into believing that the hatred they implemented for the sake of their leader was really going to lead to a pure race?

I kept hoping that maybe a small realization was starting to awaken in them. Like a seedling’s first fragile leaves, growing bigger in time, awareness might be starting to creep into their minds, softening their hearts, just a bit. I wondered what they thought about their “Führer” now. They did like to put on a good show, make everything look smart, even if the foundation was starting to crumble.

The beautification project was getting close to being finished – at least on the outside. It reminded me of the Bible’s words about whitewashing a tomb to make it appear clean and bright, but the inside was still filled with death and decay. The German commander was determined to show the delegation that we
were a model school. Would the visitors look beyond the whitewashing?

We still needed to learn songs and receive our jobs for the stork festival. I wondered about the music and the food for the festival. I kept thinking about the pickles and the
pirogues
– unleavened dough filled with mashed potatoes, cabbage, onions and meat. They were delicious, but took quite a bit of time to make. I watched my grandmother and mama make them many times. My grandmother grew the cucumbers that my mama turned into the best pickles. They were some of my favorite foods. I also wondered where they would find the musicians. I was sure they had a plan for everything. Even though it was all a hoax to trick the Red Cross delegates, it was still exciting to smell the food, hear the singing and see something other than the dreary camp we found ourselves entombed in. My senses were starved for some kind of normal display of life, even if it was only for a short time and just pretend.

Stacks of fresh straw mattresses were piled outside each barrack. We weren’t allowed to touch them and I suppose the Germans would only put them in our bunks for the day of the Red Cross visit. Our bodies would never come in contact with them. Knowing the Germans, they would remove them quickly from the bunk-beds after the visiting delegates left the camp.

One area of camp life was definitely improving for us specifically – the food. For the past two days we actually received food three times during the day instead of only twice. There were sausages, potatoes and other vegetables in our soup, and it was in a thick milky broth instead of water. We also got milk every morning and night. It had been years since I’d tasted milk, and I’d truly forgotten how delicious it was. I wondered how they would hide our skinny, skeleton-like bodies, but at least for a week or so we would have more food. Some of the children were looking for places to hide some of their food. They didn’t trust that the Germans would continue to feed us like this after the Red Cross
visit. I knew better than to hide food in my bunk. If the guards found it, I would receive a beating.

All of the normal food was having an unanticipated reaction on the digestive systems of the children who had been here the longest, including me. It seems the richness was too much for our starved bodies and stomachs. It was torture to be so hungry, and then immediately after eating, to find that we had to quickly run for the outhouse. The food was coming back up for many of us, as our shrunken stomachs refused to make room for unaccustomed food. Anna began to worry about me, but I assured her that I’d be fine after the representatives’ visit. I was confident that once we resumed our old eating habits my stomach would return to normal.

Anna, as well as some of the newer, younger children had started going to classes in the new camp school. The older inmates still worked in the factories and fields. The sign above the Litzmannstadt Labor Camp had been changed to “Litzmannstadt School.” I tried to gently warn Anna that the classroom situation was probably only temporary. She seemed to understand her part in the deception the Nazis were staging for the representatives. I hoped she wasn’t thinking about speaking with any of the delegates, and filling them in on the details of the real conditions that existed in this miserable place. I could see how she would be tempted to do that, but such a bold move would only jeopardize her safety and possibly her life.

The Nazi commander was famous for making an example out of a child who had misbehaved in some way. Public beating or sending the offender to another camp was usually the way he handled such defiance. Both types of punishment had lasting effects on those of us who were forced to witness it. The Nazis took such perverse pleasure in their ability to torture children. I could close my eyes during such times, but was forbidden to cover my ears. Hearing those sounds was agony for the children forced to bear witness to the brutality. A mass of fear and disgust
packed the hearts of the children, filling the juveniles in attendance with resolve to survive. It was proof that sometimes, fear and anger can be a good motivator.

I was very curious about what they did all day in school. I asked Anna about her time in the classroom.

“What’s it like, Anna? Is it like a real school?”

She shrugged, then said, “I can’t speak their language, but I do understand most of it.”

“So what do you do?”

“I watch the other children and do whatever I see them do. It seems kind of dull, but I like it better than working in the kitchen or factory. Some of the kids told me the math questions were dumb.”

“What do you mean, Anna?”

“I don’t know, you should ask Berta.”

“Ok, if I get a chance, I will.”

“You have a good day and don’t get in any trouble today, ok?”

“Ok, Ewa, I won’t. I’ll see you tonight.” Anna headed off to school.

I wondered how long the school would continue after the Red Cross visit. I was confident it would end immediately after the delegates left. I was bothered by Anna’s remark about the math questions. What could she have meant by that remark? Was this school another deliberate attempt of the Nazis to Germanize the children? We’d already lost that battle, that’s why we were here.

I needed to calm myself down; we had no rights, or claims to anything here. Even if it was only temporary, at least Anna got a break from the mindless, difficult labor inflicted upon us. I cautioned myself to focus on what I needed to do this morning, which was to get my work assignment for the day.

I was hopeful that I would get another chance to look for the storks while working outside. I must be working on straw shoes today. Then suddenly, I realized I’d been daydreaming again. Everyone was walking away and assembling into their work
groups but I hadn’t heard my name called for any group. I hoped that didn’t mean I was on camp clean-up. I couldn’t bear the feelings I got when cleaning around the sick children shivering in their bunks, burning up with fever, too sick to eat or make it outside before losing the contents of their stomachs. Camp life was too harsh for many of the children; homesick, starved, cold, lonely, so many succumbed to illness. It was a known fact that if you went to the camp doctor you probably wouldn’t come back, so most kids tried to avoid appearing ill. I always forced myself to attend roll call and receive a job assignment, no matter how ill I felt. Now, I had Anna to consider as well as myself.

Then I saw the young soldier I’d spoken with the day I’d gotten Anna out of the barracks and away from the dog. He approached me with his dog and an older man. I searched my brain for some kind of explanation.
Was I in trouble? Would I be the next example of public discipline? What could this possibly mean?
I reminded myself to breathe and stay calm even though my legs were betraying me and starting to shake.

“Ewa, right?”

I nodded my head.

“We have a special job for you today.”

“Something we think you deserve, and will be very good at performing.”

Experience had taught me that changes in a place like this were usually bad. This was a change I hadn’t anticipated. I was familiar with the different jobs we did here. I’d been doing them for years. Perhaps this had to do with the beautification program though.

I didn’t know what to think. I was slightly relieved about the “special job” they had for me, even though my heart sank with disappointment because once again this meant I’d have to wait at least one more day before looking for the storks. I found myself being silently escorted by two large, uniformed men. They walked with ram rod stiffness, spotless uniforms, and boots
shining to perfection; one in front of me and one behind me, taking long steps making it difficult for me to keep up with them. I hoped we weren’t going very far because I didn’t know how long I could continue this pace. I was used to traveling to job sites in groups of children; guards slowing slightly to accommodate the steps of smaller feet in the group. The fact that I was by myself, being escorted by two soldiers made me feel uneasy, but it was too late. If I tried to escape I’d be shot. The fear I felt was like a shiny necklace hanging around my neck for all to see. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to arrive at our destination.

Circling slowly, climbing higher, white wings gleaming in the sun
.

Floating, gliding on the airstreams, storks and Poland, home as one
.

The storks make their long migration from southern Africa back to Poland. Along the way, they stop in Sudan in northern Africa. The availability of locusts in Africa provides them the nourishment they need for their winter survival and spring departure. The journey takes them between 20 and 30 days. During their arduous migration, they avoid the Black Sea and the Mediterranean Sea by crossing the Bosporus Strait in Istanbul, Turkey. They are reluctant to fly across large bodies of water because they like to glide, and thermal air currents are not found over water.