The Family Behind the Walls

9. Jordanna

NINE

JORDANNA

JULY 28TH, 1943 – HAMBURG, GERMANY

I’m trying to keep myself composed as we stand in line in front of the Gestapo who just forced us to go along with the other Jewish children even though we have no identification classifying us. We don’t know why we’re being sent away, which is almost worse than knowing. My body is shaking out of control. I grab Lilli’s hand and she squeezes back hard, her paper thin nails scratching the inside of my palms. We all cough and gasp, trying to breathe through the patches of drifting smoke. The inside of my mouth tastes like burnt paper and we all need water. We’ve been exposed to a lot of debris and I’m scared to think about how sick it could make us if we don’t leave this city soon. There were no fires in this square but by the thick ash falling over the roads and surrounding buildings, it’s hard to imagine we’re more than a street block away.

Papa used to tell us stories about his days in the trenches during the Great War. He would tell us there were some days he would wake up knowing there was only a fifty percent chance he’d survive the day. Other days, the percentage was less, but never more than fifty. His certainty of this topic confused me much of the time, but I think I understand better now.

“Papers,” the officer says again after the person in front of Max steps to the side.

“We ran from home too fast to take anything,” Max tells the man. “But we’re not Jewish—well, our father isn’t Jewish. So, we’re—” Papa is half Jewish, but he’s a practicing Jew. On paper, he’s considered Mischlinge—somewhere in the middle—maybe safe, maybe not. The rest of us are considered Jewish, plain and simple because of Mama having two Jewish parents. Maybe we could convince them we haven’t been raised as Jewish children, but it will be hard to prove either way without our papers.

My stomach pinches and cramps as I stare at the officer’s stern expression, his blue eyes glinting beneath the shadow of his cap, his lips sneering into an undecipherable intent. He either doesn’t believe us or doesn’t want to.

“Are these your siblings?” he cuts off Max’s rambling and points to the rest of us hiding in Max’s shadow.

“Yes,” Max says.

“Give me each of their names and birth years.”

The officer stands with a clipboard in one hand and a pencil in the other, the point pressed to the paper waiting for Max’s response.

“Max Bergmann, 1926.”

“The others,” the officer presses.

“Alfie Bergmann, 1927; Jordanna Bergmann, 1928; Lilli Bergmann, 1935.” It’s still startling to hear Alfie referred to as a Bergmann. We’ve never addressed him that way. Papa had his papers altered to have our last name replace his natural identity. He thought he’d be able to keep him safe when his parents had to leave. Without our papers, they can think what they want.

“What is your ethnicity?” the officer says, pointedly.

“Our father is a former German soldier and our mother, a nurse. I’m sure they’ve been helping where needed. We must find them,” Max is spitting out statements as if his words are our last chance to save ourselves.

“Ethnicity,” the officer demands again, continuing to ignore Max.

“German,” Max says without blinking an eyelash.

“Not your nationality, your ethnicity,” the officer says, his head tilting to the side.

“German,” Max says again.

“Your parents were born in Germany?”

“No, herr. They were born in Poland, but their region was occupied under the German Empire at the time.” The Gestapo holds his hand up to Max’s face.

“Enough. Take your family and wait over there,” he says, pointing over his shoulder and to the left where other children are waiting.

I take Alfie and Lilli by the hand and follow Max across the road.

“All I’ve done was buy us time,” Max utters as we near the other children.

“Time for what? To run?” I ask.

“What’s happening?” Lilli asks, tugging on my hand.

“Perhaps we should run,” Max says, running his hand down the side of his face, sweat pooling under his chin.

“Where will we go? They have our names now,” I press.

“Well, if they find us, then they will hopefully bring us to Mama or Papa. That’s what we need,” Max says.

“And if they don’t bring us to them?” I ask.

“It will be because they don’t have records on them, which means they won’t know anything more about us,” he hisses. “Surely the police can’t be as organized as they usually are, not with this unforeseen chaos of the city burning down.”

“You still gave them our names—and lied about us being Jewish,” I utter.

“I half lied. I forced them to put a question mark next to our names. It’s better than marking us with a ‘J’ for Jews right now.”

I don’t know what decision I would have made if I was the eldest, but I’m positive Max only wants to keep us safe. I’m also aware Papa was the only one of us to have immunity against Jewish laws because of his time in the German service, and we were under his umbrella. Without him, we’re no different than all the other Jewish people they’ve already deported from Germany. Our papers clearly define us as Jewish citizens. Just Jewish—not a mixed-race from a mixed-marriage like Max told the Gestapo. We have three Jewish grandparents, defining us as entirely Jewish per the Nuremberg Law. “The Reich has made it clear that they can find whatever information they desire. Even if they don’t, they will make their own assumptions,” I say.

“And as I said, the truth will point to Mama and Papa. That’s what we need.”

All I hear is there is no way out of whatever the Gestapo plan to do with us. “The truth? Alfie is not our brother, and we’re Jews. Our immunity has been based on Papa’s service to the German Army. None of it is enough to keep us safe now. That’s why you got rid of our papers, isn’t it?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Max asserts, exerting his words through a sharp whisper.

I don’t know if there is a better idea to be had.

Lilli is sitting on my feet as we stand here among the other silent children, waiting for our next direction. Alfie isn’t talking much, but keeps rubbing at his ears. He doesn’t even know what might happen right now since he can’t hear the commands.

A group of SS officers pile into the center of this small village, wherever we are, and huddle together for a private conversation.

One of them whistles and waves his hand toward someone around a corner, who we can’t see from where we’re standing.

Military vehicles pull forward through the center, alongside the SS.

“They’re going to take us somewhere else now,” I whisper to Max.

He doesn’t respond.

Two of the SS officers make their way toward the group of children we’re standing among. “Delinquent orphans!” one shouts. “Here.” He points to the ground next to his black boot.

Orphans? “We are not delinquents—we’ve done nothing wrong. We aren’t orphans either. They must have us mixed up for another family,” I tell Max.

“Then show me your papers?” the SS officer presses.

The crowd of children pushes forward, none of them questioning being classed as parentless. Quiet whimpers and sniffles linger between us all. Should we all be questioning what happened to our parents last night? Were some of these children orphans before yesterday?

“We don’t have them, but I believe there’s been a misunderstanding,” Max speaks up as we approach the SS officer, a tall man dressed in an ash-covered uniform. “My siblings and I aren’t orphans. Are we in the wrong place?”

The officer smiles, a condescending grin that burns me from the inside. “My comrades wouldn’t make such a mistake.”

The heat inside me dissipates into a chill, one physically impossible to feel in these temperatures.

Another whistle blows, signaling yet another direction to follow. “Single file line, move!”

“We’re not orphans,” I utter to Lilli, unsure what she’s thinking or hearing.

We’re nearly thrown into the back of a covered wagon, crammed in next to each other without a chance of moving a muscle. Lilli is on my lap and Alfie and Max are to each of my sides. “Where are we going?” Lilli asks, speaking into my ear.

“Away from the fires,” I tell her.

“What about Mama and Papa?”

“We’ll find them,” I say.

Everything coming out of my mouth is a lie and I don’t know when I should start telling her the truth because none of us can predict what’s ahead.

Alfie takes a turn at whispering Lilli’s first question. I turn to him and shrug, shaking my head so he understands I don’t know anything more than he does.

Three crowded transports, each more suffocating than the last and still no clue where we’re going. It must have been over twelve hours of traveling by now. We arrive at what seems late in the afternoon judging by the sun hovering over the horizon. Adults and children alike are split into lines that wind around a wooden gate topped with barbed wire. I glance up at the sign above us:

Wohngbiet Der

JUDEN

Betreten Verboten

Residential Area of

JEWS

Entry Forbidden

My heart pounds against my ribs. “What’s going to happen?” I whisper to Max.

He tilts his chin toward the sky and straightens his shoulders. “I don’t know.” Is this place similar to the Warsaw Ghetto, where they’ve been assigning Jews to laboring jobs just because they’re Jewish? Again, I wish I had never listened in on Mama and Papa’s conversation that night when I heard about the cattle cars taking Jews away. “I’ll tell them we need to find our parents and that we don’t belong here.”

Except, we do, don’t we? “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I argue under my breath. “Haven’t you heard what they do if you question their decisions. We’re together and whatever this place is, we’ll be able to collect our thoughts and come up with a way to find Mama and Papa.”

Max’s shoulders don’t relax. The sharp crack of a gunshot splits the air. Screams follow. A body hits the gravel, and blood oozes around a man’s head, the puddle trickling toward us.

I flinch, shoving Lilli to my other side, ensuring she doesn’t witness what’s happened. She fights to move back, wanting to see what the commotion is about. “What was that?” she asks.

“A warning shot for us to be quiet,” I lie, and yet, it’s the most honest I’ve been with her in days. She doesn’t believe me. Her face goes pale in the glow of the orange streetlights above us, and her small hand grips mine tighter, her palm wet with sweat.

The line moves forward and we’re face-to face with an SS officer. Acidic bile burns up to my throat, my stomach threatening to purge despite being empty.

“Papers!”

“Don’t say a word,” Max utters.

“Papers!” the officer shouts at us again.

“We were taken from a bunker during the air raids and fires in Hamburg. We don’t have our papers.”

“Surname and address,” he demands.

“Bergmann, Kana—uh—gege-nd, stra?e twelve of Hamburg,” Max replies, stumbling over his words. Because that’s not our correct address. The officer searches through a list he has grasped in his hand, scraping the tip of his pencil down a column.

“Who sent you?”

“I’m unsure. German police. We were mistakenly separated from our parents,” Max continues.

“Are you Jews?”

“Are we what?” Max repeats.

“Bergmann,” he mumbles and shakes his head. The officer grinds his jaw back and forth, his stare jolting from side to side with a look of indecision. My heart thumps so hard I’m afraid it can be seen through my nightgown. He should have lied about our last name too, but I can’t expect him to think that fast when I wouldn’t have been able to do better. “How many are with you?”

“Three others, my siblings. We’re looking for our?—”

“And you’re the eldest?” the officer continues, not allowing Max to speak.

“Yes.”

“Date of birth?”

“The second of September 1925.”

The officer signals something to another guard, his pen scratching on the clipboard. “Not a child.”

“Transport him East,” the other guard shouts.

The officer huffs and mutters something unintelligible then looks over his shoulder before shaking his head once more. He takes a long look at the four of us as if trying to decide what to do with us. “Up the stairs and over the bridge—deportation orders will be given once we acquire your proper identification,” the officer tells Max, pointing to the stone stairwell behind him.

“Come along,” Max tells us, stepping forward.

“Not the others, just you. Go,” the officer snaps at him.

“I can’t leave my siblings. I’m all they have,” Max cries out.

He’s shoved forward by someone passing by, separating him from us and the officer. He told us not to say anything, but I can’t just stand here in silence.

“We must go with our brother,” I speak up.

“Of course,” the officer says, standing to the side to let the three of us by. But as I step forward with Lilli in hand, someone grabs hold of my arm and pulls in the opposite direction.

“No, that’s my brother. We’re together,” I cry out.

“You three are Jewish Polish orphans, yes?” the SS officer who’s grabbed my arm says.

“No, no, we’re not!” I squeak, trying to sound believable despite the truth they’re shouting.

“And you lie,” he says, clucking his tongue. “Do you know what we do with lying children?” They don’t know we’re lying. They’re trying to scare us. It’s working.

“They aren’t orphans. Our parents are alive! Don’t take them. I’m responsible for them,” Max argues, shouting from the stairwell now.

The sound of a rifle loading shudders through me, and I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but I imagine it’s being pointed at Max. “No, don’t hurt him!” I shout.

“You three are Jewish Polish children without a proper guardian,” the officer states affirmatively.

“No, and we were born in Germany,” Lilli argues, and I want to clap a hand over her mouth.

“Where are you taking them?” Max continues to yell from a line of others pushing their way up the same steps he’s climbing. He’s pushing his luck too far. Something’s going to happen to him.

Tears blur my vision as I mouth the word, “Stop!” to him. I’m unsure if he can even spot me in the growing crowd.

Another officer barrels up the stairs, pushing others to the side until he reaches Max, then shoves the heel of his hand against his shoulder, screaming at him. I watch him fall but I don’t know if he gets back up.

“Take them to Little Auschwitz—we have three Polish orphans without proof of race, said to be Mischlinges. Mark them to be screened for Germanization,” he says to a nearby officer, waiting for direction.

I try to spot Max on the bridge despite the crowd bulging between us. All I see is an officer spit at him and scream in his face before shoving him once again, harder this time. The sight tears my heart in half as the three of us are dragged to another line surrounded by children.

“Max,” Lilli cries quietly. “I want Max.”

I try my hardest to force a smile, but my lips tremble as I try to calm Lilli. “Shh, shh. You’ll see him again soon,” I tell her.

“You said that about Mama and Papa too. Are you going to leave me next?”

Her words are daggers. “I won’t leave you.” What if they pull us apart? I can’t leave Lilli. I won’t.

Again, we’re brought to another group of children waiting in a line. So-called orphans too, I assume. I’ve lost track of how many lines we’ve had to stand in today—all of them spinning us around in dizzying circles to make sure we have no clue where we are.

Alfie keeps looking behind us, looking for Max. I need to come up with a way to tell him he can’t be with us. I take a hold of his arm and intertwine it with mine. “Where is he?” Alfie asks, peering down at me.

I drop my gaze and shake my head before pointing up to the bridge he had to cross.

Alfie takes in a shuddered breath and wraps his arm around me. “I’ve got you, and Lilli. Max will find us.”

He presses my head to the side of his chest where I feel his heart racing, a pounding hammer. His attempt to comfort me is something I’ve only dreamed of before today, but I’m too numb and terrified to feel the warmth of his embrace.

Every second we stand still feels like an eternity and all we’re doing is waiting for whatever we’ll face next. Hour after hour passes and I can only wonder if people even notice us when they walk by. Children are whining, crying with hunger, and most looking for someone who isn’t here. Lilli hears them, sees them and her grip tightens even more. There’s no warning when an officer shouts at us to start walking, keeping us in a tight line where we step on each other’s tired heels and/or trip from being stepped on. The walk is endless, the barbed wire gate goes on and on, never ending. We turn one corner and find the same gates, same barbed wire, to our left, lining another road. “I can’t walk anymore,” Lilli groans.

“You must,” I tell her. “You have to be the strong girl I know you are. There’s no choice. I can do it, and you can too.”

Lilli yanks my hand and grumbles—a visible reaction Alfie must notice as he takes her other hand. He holds his finger up to his lips as if he can hear the noises she’s making. The two of us hold her tightly between us, walking into the night that may never become day.

Children begin to fall, and struggle to pick themselves back up. I can barely keep myself upright, but Alfie and I seem to be on the older side of the group we’re with and try to help anyone who falls before us, draining our strength. It’s been over an entire day since we’ve had water or food. Our bodies are running on nothing.

The streetlights become less frequent, the dark taking a toll on our footings and spatial awareness until two high posted lamps blur in the distance.

I want to hope that’s where we’re going, but I don’t think any one of us is hoping to go anywhere with these officers. I just don’t want to walk any further. I can’t. I might fall onto one of those children and there won’t be anyone to help me up except Alfie, who could so easily fall over too. And Lilli, she’d be alone to fend for herself. I can’t let that happen. We pass train tracks, making me wonder why we’ve been walking all this way.

The wooden barriers to our left become solid walls, reaching high above our heads without barbed wire, an inkling of hope. Beneath the two overhead lights are matching wooden gates, shorter than the walls.

“Once you walk through these gates you will go to registration. Stay in order, in the line you are already in,” the SS officer shouts, ensuring we all hear.

Is this Little Auschwitz? If we don’t know where we are, no one will ever be able to find us.

The only clue to our whereabouts is an arc of words over the gates that reads:

Polenjugendverwahrlager der Sicherheitspolizei in Litzmannstadt

Preventive Camp of the Security Police for Polish Youth in ?ód?

A street sign below informs us of the exact location: Przemys?owa Street. My heart sinks as the Polish words make it clear we’re no longer in Germany. I don’t know what they mean by “preventative,” and I have no idea if I’ll ever find Max again.