Read Online Treblinka Survivor: The Life and Death of Hershl Sperling by Mark S. Smith - Free Book Online

came. I walked to the town hall, a Stalinesque concrete block across the main square from the church. A few weeks earlier I had written asking for information about the Jews who once lived here. Either they could not translate my request into Polish or chose to ignore it. Now inside, in a large, hospital-like reception area, I spoke to a middle-aged woman behind a counter.
    ‘Do you speak English?’ I asked.
    ‘No,’ she said, an exasperated look on her face.
    ‘French?’ I asked, hopefully. It would have been too much to ask that her grandparents were coal miners from Lille as well.
    ‘A little English maybe,’ she said at last. ‘But slowly, please.’
    ‘I am an American,’ I told her. ‘I’m writing a book about a man who came from Klobuck and I was hoping to get some information. Is there someone who can help me?’
    ‘Ah, American,’ she said, seeming momentarily impressed. Perhaps the woman thought I was Steven Spielberg. She paused and added: ‘But I don’t understand.’
    ‘There must be someone in this building who speaks English,’ I said, waving my hand around in a gesture that was meant to encompass the entire edifice.
    ‘Wait, please,’ she picked up the telephone, and within a few minutes a tall, thin man in a grey suit appeared. He shook my hand limply and introduced himself as the mayor’s assistant. I will call him Pawel. I told him that I was an American, that I was writing a story about a man from Klobuck and that I was seeking information about him and his community. He nodded.
    ‘Please, follow me.’ Pawel walked with long strides, and I followed him through the maze of corridors, past personal offices and bigger areas that held what looked like old-fashioned typing pools, until we reached a room where three women sat at desks. Pawel introduced me in Polish and I shook their hands. ‘Now,’ said Pawel, ‘tell me again what you are looking for please.’
    I told him again that I was here seeking information about a man from Klobuck and Pawel translated my request into Polish. ‘What was this man’s name?’ Pawel asked.
    ‘Szperling,’ I said. Pawel shook his head. I added: ‘He was Jewish, and I’d like to know where he and all the other Jews lived. Can you show me where the shtetl was?’ Pawel jerked back his head abruptly.
    ‘There were never Jews here,’ he insisted, shaking his head. I could see a look of distaste darken across his face. This was ridiculous, and I laughed out loud.
    ‘Of course, there were Jews here,’ I said. ‘I’d like to see where the synagogue stood in Klobuck please.’
    Pawel thought for a moment. ‘Ah, synagoga ,’ he said at last. ‘ Zydzi .’ I understood him. Zydzi , one of my few words of Polish, meant ‘Jewish’. ‘ Synagoga , yes?’ He began speaking to the three women in Polish, then turned to me and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I can’t help you. In Krzepice, yes, there is a synagogue there, but nothing here. Go to Krzepice. It’s better.’

    Just then, however, one of the women touched my arm. She spoke in halting English. ‘Don’t listen to them. There were many Jews here before. Look.’ She pointed out the window across the square, to the right of the church. ‘Over there,’ she said, ‘all those houses were built by Jews. Very old houses, more than 100 years old. And there, next to the church was their synagogue, where they prayed.’
    I walked across the empty square to the place that had once been the shtetl of Klobuck. It was incredibly quiet. On the square, buildings that had once been Jewish homes were now shops. I saw a bookstore, a pharmacy and an art-supply shop. Behind them was the shtetl proper, and a narrow asphalt road winding down a hill. There was a lot of derelict land, where buildings had either collapsed or been torn down. In Hershl’s time this was a tightly packed community. There had been a tearoom and a hairdresser and Hassidic cobblers who sewed spatz and repaired boots.