Chapter 14 Stefan
FOURTEEN
STEFAN
SANOK, POLAND
Father pauses in front of the shuttle loom, the machine groaning to a quick stop. “Mister Silberg, good morning,” the operator says, standing to grab Father’s hand.
“Good morning, Lou. How is your wife feeling today?” Father asks, never allowing a detail about an employee to slip his mind.
Lou presses his hand to his heart. “Oh, much better. Much. Please, please extend my deepest gratitude to your lovely wife for the chicken broth.”
“Of course. I’m relieved to hear she’s better. Take care of yourself too, my good man.”
Lou smiles and bows his head before stepping back into position behind the machine.
The wheels spin again as the threads weave into a tight, concise pattern.
The sound of the hiss and pluck of the loom is nearly lost beneath the ensemble of sewing machines and presses all operating in production inside Silberg Textiles—the factory my grandfather built from the ground up in the heart of Sanok’s Jewish community.
Another glance at his watch. He’s been checking the time between every inspection as if counting down to something he won’t mention.
“I’m sure the delivery is just delayed. It will be here. It always is,” I reassure Father. We’re missing our weekly shipment of fabric, and some machinists didn’t show up today.
My brow twitches. Father’s quiet concern, the steam in the air, the smell of oil and grease—it’s all familiar. Yet, something shifts inside me, vague but clear. Something is wrong.
“I heard it too,” a worker whispers.
“How long before they come for us?” the other worker says.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Papa addresses the two middle-aged men, both red-cheeked with some stains of grease streaked along their flesh.
Both wear matching cuffed trousers with yellowing linen shirts tucked in at their waists.
They stand on opposite sides of the press, one maneuvering the lever and the other setting the fabric.
“I couldn’t help but overhear the last part of your conversation. ”
“We shouldn’t have been chatting at all, Mister Silberg. Apologies,” the one maneuvering the lever says.
“I don’t mind if you talk. So long as no one gets a hand caught between the metal plates,” Papa says, dropping his hands into his pocket. He’s not the strictest factory owner. He says that’s why he has devoted specialists.
“Of course, Mister Silberg. Neither of us would want that to happen,” the fabric setter follows, his voice pinched with nerves.
“Now, what is it you were talking about?” Papa asks again, forcing a quiet laugh to ease their obvious discomfort.
The two men stare at each other for a long moment. Too long of a moment.
Mrs. Fischer, Papa’s lead receptionist, rushes up the nearest stairwell with urgency. “Mister Silberg,” she says, halting the conversation with the two men.
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, watching Father 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 all right, 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?”
I fall into the background as Papa places his hand on Rosalie’s shoulder rather than answering her question. “Miriam, are you down here?” he calls out to Mama.
She and Eloise hurry around the corner with Benjamin tucked into a blanket within the cradle of Mama’s arms. “What is it? Why are you home at this hour?” Eloise clutches the fabric of her dress, crinkling it into tight fists as she studies Papa’s eyes, waiting for an answer.
Mama knows why before Papa can answer her. All the pink in her cheeks drains at once.
“They took it,” Papa says. “The factory is theirs now. The car, too.”
Mama’s eyes widen and she pulls Benjamin in closer to her chest. My vision shrinks to a peephole. The floor sinks beneath my feet, and my next breath is warm, short, and stuck in my throat. A stab of cold breaks through my skin, then a shock of heat. Cold again. Then heat.
Limbs tingle. Lips go numb.
“Stefan!” Rosalie shouts. “Ste—fffaahn.”
I could swear my heart stops pumping blood.
Mumbles circle my head as a chattering sound drops into singular syllables—words without meanings. Darkness blinds me, sound becomes mute, and my skin is numb.
A twisted rag wedges between my teeth.
Hands guide me to the ground.
My muscles become rigid and black spots clash against the world around me.
Then nothing.
Voices return before a hint of light.
“Onto your side. Good.” Her voice, so calm. So sweet. “It will pass.” She’s an angel.
“This shouldn’t be happening. He has medicine,” Mama cries out.
Medicine?
Med-med-i-cine.
“It’s over. Less than a minute, and he’s recovering. He’s all right.” That voice. It’s so beautiful. “I’ll take care of him. Why don’t the rest of you have a seat in the family room.”
Lips touch my cheek. Rose. Vanilla.
“You’re beau—beauti—”
“Shh. Take my hand and squeeze as hard as you can. Let’s sit you up against the wall.”
The black spots have almost entirely faded, but my vision is still a blur.
A hand curls around mine. I can see it. I think. Rosalie’s hand.
I try to squeeze but I can’t. I can’t feel my hands.
“You’re safe. Everything is all right,” she whispers.
But even through the blur, I can see the truth in her downcast eyes as she stares up at the clock on the wall.