his fatherâs pressure wore Blum down. Against his wishes, he agreed. It took a month, but Blum delivered the tract that was bound and wrapped like a sausage into the hands of a Jewish refugee agency in Stockholm. His motherâs side had a cousin who lived in Chicago who put up the money for his transit to the United States, and so Blum, barely twenty, without speaking a word of English, but with a year and a half of avoiding the Germans, made the journey across the Atlantic.
English came quickly, watching the cinema, taught by his cousins; he had a skill for languages. The following year he was accepted by Northwestern University, where he went for a year and picked up his old subjects. Then news arrived that in retaliation for the shooting of a Gestapo officer, the Germans came into the ghetto and marched everyone from Blumâs familyâs building into the square, his father, mother, and sister among them, and shot them. His cousins the Herzlichs as well. Forty for one, they called it. Forty lives, worthless Jewish ones, for every German. The smuggled-out letter that reached them spoke of his fatherâs bloody body hung up with several of the other men for days, unburied, putrefying in the public square, as a reminder to anyone else who harbored the same idea. Isidor Blum had been a gentle man whose only love in life, besides his family, was helping to choose the perfect hat for each head, Germans and Austrians among them. And poor Leisa, whom everyone said would one day play with the Polish National Orchestra. She didnât even know about politics. All she knew was Mozart, and her scales. Blum was inconsolable at the thought of her. He would miss her most of all.
All he could think of was that if he had remained there, he would never have let them go outside. He would have seen the trucks pull up and found a way: the narrow passage out of their old building he had used after curfew a hundred times: through the basement, to the alley that led to the shirt factory next door and then out onto Lwowska Street. Or onto the roof, if the Germans were already in the building, and across to 10 Herzl, then down the fire stairs to the alley. If he was there, he would have warned them never to go out into that square. He had seen firsthand how the Germans dealt with retaliation.
After the news, life at the university no longer meant anything to him. He was in a strange place, studying subjects that meant nothing to him, in a new tongue. Everyone he loved was gone. After Pearl Harbor, all the students were signing up anyway, so Blum did too, hoping to be the first to march back into Poland, to proudly rid his country of the hated szkopy , German swine. But because of his language skills, he was placed in intelligence. It was a great honor, he was told again. This is the best way to serve.
A year later, he was still there.
There was an outfit that was being assembled: young soldiers, mostly Jews of German descent, who were being trained in intelligence at Fort Ritchie in western Maryland, who would go ashore as part of the invasion (which everyone knew was coming) and aid in the interrogation of German prisoners and establish contact with local partisans. Blum had already put in for a transfer with his superior officer. Here he was just sitting in a basement, using skills he had mastered as a child. Stamping and translating papers and transferring them upstairs. There at least he could put his life on the line for his family. The feeling had never stopped haunting him for a day: that he was the one who had left, while all those he loved had remained behind and died. He ached to do something that really mattered before the war came to an end. Otherwise he would see the images of his dead family in his mindâs eye for the rest of his life. He asked and pushed until he made himself a nuisance. He was told his file was being looked at. He should know any day.
But that morning ⦠He put the photos of the
English came quickly, watching the cinema, taught by his cousins; he had a skill for languages. The following year he was accepted by Northwestern University, where he went for a year and picked up his old subjects. Then news arrived that in retaliation for the shooting of a Gestapo officer, the Germans came into the ghetto and marched everyone from Blumâs familyâs building into the square, his father, mother, and sister among them, and shot them. His cousins the Herzlichs as well. Forty for one, they called it. Forty lives, worthless Jewish ones, for every German. The smuggled-out letter that reached them spoke of his fatherâs bloody body hung up with several of the other men for days, unburied, putrefying in the public square, as a reminder to anyone else who harbored the same idea. Isidor Blum had been a gentle man whose only love in life, besides his family, was helping to choose the perfect hat for each head, Germans and Austrians among them. And poor Leisa, whom everyone said would one day play with the Polish National Orchestra. She didnât even know about politics. All she knew was Mozart, and her scales. Blum was inconsolable at the thought of her. He would miss her most of all.
All he could think of was that if he had remained there, he would never have let them go outside. He would have seen the trucks pull up and found a way: the narrow passage out of their old building he had used after curfew a hundred times: through the basement, to the alley that led to the shirt factory next door and then out onto Lwowska Street. Or onto the roof, if the Germans were already in the building, and across to 10 Herzl, then down the fire stairs to the alley. If he was there, he would have warned them never to go out into that square. He had seen firsthand how the Germans dealt with retaliation.
After the news, life at the university no longer meant anything to him. He was in a strange place, studying subjects that meant nothing to him, in a new tongue. Everyone he loved was gone. After Pearl Harbor, all the students were signing up anyway, so Blum did too, hoping to be the first to march back into Poland, to proudly rid his country of the hated szkopy , German swine. But because of his language skills, he was placed in intelligence. It was a great honor, he was told again. This is the best way to serve.
A year later, he was still there.
There was an outfit that was being assembled: young soldiers, mostly Jews of German descent, who were being trained in intelligence at Fort Ritchie in western Maryland, who would go ashore as part of the invasion (which everyone knew was coming) and aid in the interrogation of German prisoners and establish contact with local partisans. Blum had already put in for a transfer with his superior officer. Here he was just sitting in a basement, using skills he had mastered as a child. Stamping and translating papers and transferring them upstairs. There at least he could put his life on the line for his family. The feeling had never stopped haunting him for a day: that he was the one who had left, while all those he loved had remained behind and died. He ached to do something that really mattered before the war came to an end. Otherwise he would see the images of his dead family in his mindâs eye for the rest of his life. He asked and pushed until he made himself a nuisance. He was told his file was being looked at. He should know any day.
But that morning ⦠He put the photos of the
Similar Books
