The Takeaway Men Read online

  THE TAKEAWAY MEN

  Copyright © 2020 Meryl Ain

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint,

  A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC

  Phoenix, Arizona, USA, 85007

  www.gosparkpress.com

  Published 2020

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68463-047-9

  E-ISBN: 978-1-68463-048-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020901422

  Formatting by Kiran Spees

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For my grandparents and great-grandparents, who believed in the American Dream.

  And for my parents, who defended and saved freedom and democracy as members of The Greatest Generation.

  Until we are all free, we are none of us free.

  —Emma Lazarus

  PROLOGUE

  AUGUST, 1942

  KIELCE, POLAND

  WHEN THE TRUCK WITH THE painted Red Cross on its doors left Edyta off on the dirt road leading to her house, her neighborhood was already dark and quiet. Only the barking of a dog shattered the silence. The myriad silvery shining stars ignited the night sky like a pattern of delicate sequins and illuminated her path. Although she was exhausted and sweaty from her long day’s work, and her nurse’s uniform was damp and clung to her body, she could not help but reflect on the magnificence of God’s creation. But how was it possible, she pondered, that the barbaric Nazi destruction that was overrunning this corner of the earth—her town and her country—coexisted against the backdrop of God’s masterpiece?

  Earlier that day, she had smuggled three toddlers out of the Kielce Ghetto and into the safety of the Convent of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The mother superior there had now sent her home with a small basket of bread, cheese, and apples for the two Jewish adults she was hiding in the attic of her father’s house. She knew hiding Jews, especially in her own home, was a risky proposition and not within her comfort level. Her expertise was in rescuing small children, not grown-ups. But when she was asked to smuggle two adults from the ghetto, one of whom she had known since childhood, she’d had no other choice. She knew full well that her decision was not without peril, particularly because her father, a Polish policeman, supported the Nazis in their hatred of Jews.

  Despite her concerns, she convinced herself that this is what her late mother would have wanted her to do. Her mother had been a nurse, and Edyta’s choice of a helping profession was no accident. Her mother had always been kind and caring, and had had a good relationship with her neighbors, including the Jewish doctor for whom she worked. Sometimes, as a small child, Edyta would accompany her mother to the office, which was located in the large stone house where the doctor and his family lived. She would fetch bandages and cups of water for the patients. As she got older, she became her mother’s assistant, and was determined to become a nurse like her. The doctor had even offered to pay for her tuition at the nursing school in Radom when the time came.

  Edyta had been infatuated with the doctor’s son, Aron, ever since she could remember. He told her how he planned to become a physician too and go into practice with his father. As she got older, her crush on him grew. She had secretly dreamed of working beside him, and perhaps even marrying him one day.

  But before Aron had an opportunity to apply to medical school, Jews were barred from higher education and from the professions. Hitler’s invasion of Poland on September 1, 1939, and the ensuing chaos dashed Edyta’s dreams of attending nursing school. She was forced to stay home with her widowed father, who had taken to drinking excessively and spewing forth anti-Semitic vitriol.

  As she approached her street, she saw her small two-story house with its slanted roof and brown weather-beaten shingles. She was grateful for the cover of night because she could walk home without neighbors asking intrusive questions.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” she murmured as she crossed herself. But she was still nervous, thinking about her father. She became short of breath, and her heart started racing, as if she were being chased. The Jews had been in the attic for only a couple of days, and she was deathly afraid that her father would discover them.

  Calm down, she thought to herself. It is late; surely Tata is sleeping by now. But as she got closer to the cottage, her fear intensified.

  She opened the door gingerly, so as not to make a sound. As she looked around, she saw the telltale signs of a drinking binge—empty beer and liquor bottles were scattered on the floor and kitchen counter. And her father was awake. His eyes were glazed, and his clothes were disheveled. She could smell the honey and spices of the Krupnik on his breath. She could hear that he had been drinking for some time because he slurred his words as he screamed at her.

  “Where have you been? What are you doing in your late mother’s uniform? Up to no good, I’m sure. You belong in the gutter with the Zhids. I will kill the Christ Killers—and you too—before you get me killed.”

  He threw his drink at her, and the golden yellow liquid landed on her white uniform. The glass narrowly missed and shattered against the wall behind her, a shard lodging in her bare left leg. As it began to bleed, she ran upstairs to her room and locked the door.

  While her father had been prone to angry outbursts in the past, he had never physically attacked her like this. Was it the loss of her mother or the drink or the Nazi occupation that had turned him into a monster? Or had he always secretly hated the Jews, and Hitler’s invasion had just given him license to express it?

  One thing was certain. He was a policeman with a prejudice, a gun, and a temper. With the encouragement and approval of the Nazi government, he was in a position to potentially inflict great harm. She shuddered to think about the evil her father might do.

  She now knew for sure that neither she, nor the two Jews hiding in the attic, were safe from her father’s wrath.

  JULY, 1947

  OUTSIDE MUNICH, GERMANY, IN THE AMERICAN ZONE OF OCCUPATION

  “LET’S SIT RIGHT HERE, DYTA, under this tree,” Aron said to his wife, who was out of breath and clearly struggling to match his brisk pace. Aron was always impatient, and in a hurry, and often he simply forgot that his petite, pregnant wife couldn’t match the long strides of his six-foot two-inch frame.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll keep up with you.”

  She spoke in Polish, the language she found most comfortable.

  Although his gruff and somber exterior matched his crotchety personality, he knew enough not to take his wife’s words at face value. She would do or say anything to accommodate him. And he was not going to push her now, especially when she was three days into her ninth month, and she looked like she had swallowed a giant watermelon.

  Yes, Blessed be the Name of God, he thought. It was as if they were literally recreating life in this waiting space, with its wooden barracks and sprawling green fields.

  A former summer camp for Hitler Youth, they and other displaced Jews from throughout Europe lived in stone and wooden barracks in a treed, pastoral setting. Educational and religious life flourished in the Warteplatz Displaced Persons Camp, along with schools, synagogues, and adult education programs. There were classes that taught Hebrew and English to prepare the survivors for new lives in Israel or the United States. Dyta, especially, was a conscientious Englis
h student, hopefully preparing for a new life in America. She and Aron, like most of the survivors, had had enough of the graveyard that Europe had become for Jewish life. They wanted to leave the cursed soil. Staying in Europe was out of the question.

  The crown jewel of the DP camp was a five hundred-bed hospital, provided by the American Joint Distribution Committee. It was staffed by Hungarian and Jewish doctors and American and Jewish nurses. And this was where Aron and Dyta intended for their baby to be born.

  There was even a Yiddish newspaper, written and published each Friday by the residents, which Aron read religiously. Against all logic, he still scoured the weekly edition for news of friends and relatives who might miraculously be alive. After Aron helped Dyta sit down on the grass, he seated himself and picked up the latest edition of the newspaper, Undzer Hofenung

  Although it revolted him in a raw and aching way, he also read and reread the horrific accounts of the survivors that were published each week. He kept his own experiences bottled up. But he was drawn to these narratives of others—addicted to them. They validated his melancholy, his frustration, and his anger. Like the dots in a pointillist painting, each word, each sentence, each paragraph was necessary to construct the whole picture. But unlike the pastel blues and greens in an idyllic Seurat landscape, the words of the survivors were black and bloody, painting a punishing picture of a world gone mad. These accounts he read to himself.

  But the joyous news of the many simchas—weddings and births—he shared with his wife by reading them aloud. They occurred so frequently that it was as if the survivors were in a hurry to resume normal living in order to compensate for the years they had lost.

  Their own wedding had been chronicled in Undzer Hofenung, along with the six other couples married by Rabbi Judah Zuckerman in a joint ceremony that day at Warteplatz. Each couple had been given two tickets for new clothes. Since the end of the war, these joint weddings took place on a regular basis among the shattered remnant eager to start new lives. And while very few children had survived the Holocaust, by 1947 more than three hundred had been born at the camp. As shattered and broken and traumatized as the survivors were, they were resilient enough to move on with their lives.

  While the DPs sought dignity and normalcy, some chose to speak and write about their experience as part of their recovery. Many others, like Aron, found no purpose or comfort in sharing the unspeakable, and remained silent.

  Aron knew full well that each and every Jew who perished, as well as those who survived, had a story. For him, his weekly pre-Sabbath reading ritual prepared him for a day of rest and reflection. As he read the account of Miriam Wolkowicz, a fellow Pole, his wife could see at once that he was being transported back to his haunted place.

  Miriam wrote about her arrival at the Plaszow forced labor camp in 1942, when she and her whole family and several thousand other residents of the Krakow ghetto were marched there.

  “When we arrived, the first thing we saw was three men hanging. The Gestapo barked ‘Mach schnell, mach schnell!’ at the marchers. Children and the elderly were forbidden to enter the premises, and they were shot on the spot. But some people had smuggled children into the camp anyway. There were inspections by the Gestapo, and they soon discovered the hidden children. They announced they were setting up a nursery for them. My sister, Marta, was relieved that her children would be cared for there, even though she had disobeyed orders by hiding them. But in a few days, we were standing for roll call and the music was blaring. We saw from a distance an open truck with children. Marta was standing next to me with her twin girls, who were five years old. The Gestapo was looking for more children. The girls screamed to Marta, “Mama, the takeaway men are coming, they’re going to take us away!” And they scooped up my little nieces, and the truck—loaded with children—drove off, and we never saw them again.”

  Aron’s dark chocolate eyes always had a somber look to them, but as he read silently, his agony became almost palpable. It seemed to his wife as if three thousand years of Jewish suffering were contained in his sorrowful, otherworldly expression.

  She had seen that expression far too often. In the long run, she was determined to heal him. For now, she would distract him.

  “What do you think we should name the baby?”

  Without hesitation, Aron replied, “I want to name the baby after my siblings of blessed memory, Yosef, if it’s a boy, and Hannah, if it’s a girl.”

  “I understand,” she said as she tried to hide her disappointment, but then could not contain herself. “But my mother is gone too.”

  She saw the look of disdain that momentarily flickered on his face and her heart sank. She quickly caught herself.

  “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Your brother and sister deserve to have a name. They were such sweet, beautiful, innocent children.”

  That is what Aron loved so much about his Dyta. She was as soothing as an aloe plant, as flexible as a rubber band. She had even risked her own life for him.

  “No, that’s okay,” he said. “Were it not for your mother, I would not have you—and I would be dead.”

  Suddenly, Dyta felt a huge rush of warm water bursting forth from her, soaking her underwear and her dress as it traveled down her legs onto the grass.

  “Aron, I think my water has broken,” she said.

  “But it’s too early; maybe it’s just pressure on your bladder.”

  “No, I know what pressure on my bladder feels like; I think my labor has begun.”

  “But you’re not due for another month.”

  “Tell that to the baby.”

  “Should we go to the hospital now? I want to make sure we get you to the hospital on time. I want a Hungarian doctor to deliver our baby.”

  “Why wouldn’t you want a Jewish doctor?”

  “They’re out of practice. People here say you’re better off with a Hungarian doctor. I want a doctor with recent experience.”

  Two hours later, instead of lighting Sabbath candles that evening, Dyta found herself in active labor in the camp’s hospital. While Aron waited in the reception area, a Hungarian, Dr. Nagy, assisted by a Jewish-American nurse named Ruth, delivered a five- pound, three-ounce baby girl at 8:15 p.m.

  And at 8:26 p.m., a second girl weighed in at six pounds, one ounce.

  Dr. Nagy went out to the waiting room where Aron sat alone.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Lubinski, you are the father of two beautiful baby girls—and two big ones at that! Twins delivered almost a month early are rarely this big.”

  “Two? What do you mean two?”

  “Your wife has given you twin daughters. Would you like to see them?”

  Aron was speechless. His life had been in jeopardy so many times in the past few years. He had lost his entire family. He thought of Miriam’s piece in the newspaper about the twins taken away in the open truck. And now, there was new life. Not just one, but two new lives—and they were his.

  Unlike death, new life has a pleasant smell. Moments later, Aron inhaled the fresh, milky, intoxicating fragrance of newborn babies as he marveled at his perfect twin daughters sleeping peacefully in the nursery.

  Under his breath, he recited the Shecheyianu prayer.

  Praised art Thou, Oh Lord, Our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has kept us in life and preserved us and enabled us to reach this joyous occasion.

  The next morning, which was the Sabbath, Aron went to the camp synagogue, as was his custom. Services were held in a large room that was also used for plays and concerts. A portable ark, which held the Torah, was at the front of the room. The same Rabbi Zuckerman who had officiated at Aron’s wedding called him to the Torah and the babies were given Hebrew names: Hannah Yosefa and Bracha Haya, the daughters of Aron. Hannah Yosefa was named for Aron’s sister and brother. And Bracha Haya was given a name that means Blessed Life in Hebrew. That’s what he wanted for both his baby daughters—a blessed life.

  This was the first set of twins that had been
born at the camp. The entire congregation joined their voices in singing “Siman Tov u Mazel Tov!” There were few dry eyes; the thought that two future Jewish mothers had come from their midst made it a very special Sabbath indeed.

  But just then a thought occurred to Aron, one he immediately pushed aside. He would not let that concern interfere with his joy on this day. But as the grandson of a rabbi growing up in an Orthodox family, he knew what Jewish law said about his situation.

  After services, he followed the scent of gefilte fish, challah, and sweet red wine as he headed to the Kiddush in the back of the room. Once again, a sea of people fell all over him, congratulating him on the twins. The pangs of guilt he had experienced when his babies were named were now pushed aside. But Aron also feared that one day they would come back to haunt him.

  Ruth, the American military nurse who had helped deliver the babies, greeted him as he entered an adjoining room.

  “Again, a double mazel tov,” she said, giving him a big bear hug. “You know, it’s actually a triple mazel tov—your twins were born on a very special day—July Fourth.”

  “What’s July Fourth?” Aaron inquired.

  “It’s America’s Independence Day—a wonderful family day, and now you and your wife are starting a perfect Jewish family,” she said. “I have to go now. We’ll schmooze more tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for everything, Ruth. We’ll see you tomorrow. Good Shabbos.”

  When Aron returned to the hospital to visit his wife and baby daughters that afternoon, Dyta was sitting up in bed, wearing a drab gray hospital gown, and looking exhausted. He pulled over a chair right next to the bed and reported what had happened in shul. He shared the great joy that was expressed by the congregation. He mentioned July Fourth. But he omitted the pangs of guilt. She was pure and innocent; she had no idea that he had committed a sin.

  Ruth was a warm, caring, person. She was also an accomplished nurse, not only perky, but professionally proficient and dedicated to the DPs. But there were those who accused her of being a yenta. They whispered that she was not a person who understood the importance of boundaries. But that never stopped Ruth from getting involved in other people’s lives.