The Magician’S Tale

By R. Brooke Jeffrey MD

It is the 1940s in the Lodz Ghetto in Poland as Michal Frankel, a Jew trapped by the Nazis, records in his journal his struggle to find meaning through his activities in the resistance and his love for Rachel. Meanwhile, his teenage brother, David, has escaped the ghetto and created another family hiding in the forest. With help from two former Polish soldiers and an orphaned girl, David somehow manages to survive.

Over thirty years later, David is a physician living in the United States who has realized his past may not be as easy to abandon as he once believed. After he returns to Europe to find traces of his lost family, he uncovers a secret German wartime operation that puts his life in danger. When he acquires a priceless heirloom from a defecting KGB agent, he learns it may be the key to accessing the archives and reuniting with those he once loved. But as his life comes full circle, now only time will tell if David will find a way to make his shocking war findings public for the world to see.

In this historical thriller, a Polish-American Jewish doctor returns to his tortuous past in Russia and Poland to search for his lost family and unwittingly uncovers a secret that changes everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532029714

R. Brooke Jeffrey MD

R. Brooke Jeffrey MD is a Professor of Radiology at Stanford University School of Medicine. He graduated from Princeton University with an AB degree in religion. The Magician’s Tale is his second novel.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 R. Brooke Jeffrey MD.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-2972-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-2971-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017912091

iUniverse rev. date: 08/22/2017

Contents

Part One:   This Moonlight Through the Trees

New York City, April 2, 1979

New York City, April 3, 1979

Underground Winter Camp, Nachim Forest, outside Lublin, Poland January 29, 1944

Part Two:   Covenant

Lodz Ghetto, Poland March 19, 1940

April 11, 1940

April 13, 1940

May 1, 1940

August 9, 1940

SS Headquarters, Great Town Hall, Lublin Poland, January 1, 1943

Lodz Ghetto, Poland, January 1, 1943

January 2, 1943

January 5, 1943

January 19, 1943

January 20, 1943

January 21, 1943

January 22, 1943

February 2, 1943

February 3, 1943

February 4, 1943

February 7, 1943

February 9, 1943

February 15, 1943

February 17, 1943

February 22, 1943

February 24, 1943

March 1, 1943

March 10, 1943

March 19, 1943

March 25, 1943

March 26, 1943

March 27, 1943

March 28, 1943

March 29, 1943

Department of War Archives, Moscow, November 13, 1979

Lodz Ghetto, Poland, March 31, 1943

April 3, 1943

April 9, 1943

April 11, 1943

April 13, 1943

April 15, 1943

April 18, 1943

April 19, 1943

April 21, 1943

April 24, 1943

April 25, 1943

April 29, 1943

Lodz, Poland 1935-1939

Lodz Ghetto May 3, 1943

Lodz Poland, 1941

Part Three:   Sands of Time

Moscow, December 5, 1979

Nachim Forest Poland, May 1, 1943

Lodz Ghetto, April 28, 1943

April 29, 1943

April 30, 1943

May 1, 1943

Moscow, November 19, 1980

Lodz Ghetto, May 4, 1943

May 5, 1943

May 6, 1943

May 7, 1943

May 8, 1943

May 9, 1943

May 12, 1943

May 13. 1944

May 13, 1944

Part Four:   Exodus

Overnight train from Moscow to Warsaw, November 22, 1980

May 12, 1943, Nachim Forest

Overnight train Moscow to Warsaw, November 22, 1980

Rochester, Minnesota November 15, 1980

Beaux Arts Hotel, Warsaw, November 25, 1980

SS Headquarters, Great Town Hall, Lublin Poland, February 11, 1943

Underground Winter Camp, Nachim Forest February 1, 1944

Beaux Arts Hotel, Warsaw, December 9, 1980

New York City, June 14, 1981

New York City, September 28, 1981

Underground Winter Camp, Nachim Forest, February 5, 1945

Part Five:   Nostos

New York City, September 29, 1981

Bridge over the Lublin Road near Nachim Forest, February 6, 1945

Displaced Persons Camp, Near Sopron Hungary, May 5, 1945

American Red Cross Transit Center, Salzburg, Austria June 19, 1945

Metropole Hotel Jerusalem, October 6, 1981

Port of Trieste, August 21, 1945

Zurich, Switzerland October 8, 1981

Bureau of Refugee Disposition, Jerusalem October 19, 1948

Zurich, Switzerland October 11, 1981

Cracow, Poland September 22, 1981

Island of Santorini, Greece, October 16, 1981

About the Author

Dedicated to my wife Stefanie whose love and support makes everything possible.

Joy and woe are woven fine

A clothing for the soul divine

William Blake

Part One

This Moonlight Through the Trees

New York City, April 2, 1979

In his dream he once again climbed the ancient oak at the forest’s edge in the pearl-gray moonlight. The boy knew instinctively where to reach for the subtle grooves worn into its familiar branches. Finally reaching the saddle of the oak’s wooden perch, he slept in its arms.

At dawn, a gentle breeze propelled the thick milky fog through the treetops in silent, rhythmic waves preventing the sunlight from reaching the forest floor and its dark, abandoned seabed. At twenty feet above the earth there was only a faint trace of the vinegary scent of the decaying autumn leaves. The boy took no notice of the chill, happily cocooned within a silvery, ethereal mist. He was proud to perform his sentry duty and it was little effort for him to fix his attention with Anton’s binoculars for hours at a time, sweeping his gaze over the darkened contours of the hidden landscape below.

At dawn, the conical white plumes hovering in the treetops began fading with the first rays of sunlight. The boy began to visualize the faint outline of the valley floor with its gray stone bridge over the swift black river. As the darkness receded a small dog at the tree trunk rose up and down barking in anticipation. But the boy paid no him no attention and kept his glasses fixed.

We’ll know soon enough. he responded to the pup.

Suddenly, jagged streaks of amber light cut through the mist violently rocking up and down like luminous sabers. Moments later came a faint reddish glow came from the officer’s staff car as it crossed the bridge. At the critical moment, the first, then the second German truck pivoted northward along the river road, heading away from their encampment.

The boy was startled for a moment, then elated at his good fortune.

As he descended the tree in the pale light he thought joyously, Another day for us alone in the forest. Another day to hear the magician’s tale.

New York City, April 3, 1979

The morning before the envelope arrived, Dr. David Frankel rose early and wrote in his diary:

Another night with little sleep. Pills are of no use. The epiphanies come now on a daily basis. Subtle associations with little flashes of memories. Their triggers can be any number of innocuous chance meetings or random observations. A young girl’s blond hair in the street. A tall man’s unkempt beard. A sudden snowfall clinging to the trees in park.

Yesterday, perhaps to distract myself from all of this unpleasantness, I went to an exhibition of Tibetan sand painting at the New School. I usually don’t have much interest in those kinds of things, but I forced myself to go over my lunch hour. I thought perhaps it would jolt me out of my depression. The meeting with the dean for the chair position couldn’t have gone any worse. I needed to clear my mind with a new experience.

I was expecting to find the sand painting in some remote private room. However, as soon as I entered the central foyer I was startled to find it right in front of me. For some reason there were only a few people standing around the entrance observing this extraordinary performance.

I saw four monks with shaved heads in burnt orange robes kneeling on the floor. They were intensely preoccupied in their work, chanting away as they poured colored sand from their hands. For some reason the falling sand captivated me. The shimmering tiny particles floating through the air seemed like little quanta of time. I wondered perhaps if that that flowing stream connected the monks to their ancestors and their ancient traditions. In any event, by some weird alchemy those disparate lines of sand slowly, over many minutes evolved into an extraordinarily complex and beautiful design. I marveled at the monk’s precision and skill. The warmth and intensity of the bright yellow, red, blue, and green colors of the mandala seemed to me in stark contrast to the nondescript gray marble floor.

I chatted with the docent in the atrium for a bit and she said that the monks would be working for several more hours to complete the mandala. It would be finished around four o’clock. I found their level of sustained level of concentration remarkable, yet there also seemed to be a kind of unmistakable joyousness about it. Perhaps it was the lack of stress that comes from little involvement in the modern world. No striving to be a dean, no tax forms, no messy divorces, and no obligations.

There were still only a few onlookers and because I seemed to express more than a passing interest, the docent took me aside and took pains to emphasize that as much as the monks derived great satisfaction from creating the mandala, it was equally gratifying for them to destroy it. They rejoice, as she put it, in the transitory nature of existence, destroying the mandala a symbol of the monk’s detachment from all material objects, even objects of beauty.

I expressed my skepticism about that. She then politely challenged me to come back later that afternoon to see for myself. I decided I would and I paged the chief resident to cover the last few patients in my clinic.

I arrived at just at the very moment when the monks began violently kicking the sand like a gang of kids in the park, gleefully pummeling the mandala into a sparkling multicolored cloud. I was struck by their intense, childlike innocence.

After that I decided not to go back to the hospital for some reason. I walked the streets of the Village for several hours until dark, all the while thinking about the monks and their mandala. The intricacy and interrelatedness of its design was striking. It seemed a foreign concept with no relevance for me. I realized that at present I am incapable of seeing in my own life any clear pattern or connection in the myriad of events and memories that preoccupy me. But as I look back on all that has happened over the years it is equally impossible not to perceive some disparate fragments. Was there a mosaic of sorts that I was unable or afraid to appreciate? Perhaps. But would I feel the same joy the monks experienced at its unraveling?

There was something else that bothered me about the monks’ willful destruction of what they had created. It was only after I reflected a bit on a park bench that it came to me. The deliberate destruction of the sand painting was not simply a symbolic act of Buddhist metaphysics. After all, the unmistakable joy on their faces as they kicked the sand seemed to contradict their famous dictum that all life was suffering. No, it reflected something deeper.

Finally, I came to a realization. The destruction of their painstakingly crafted sand painting was a willful act of freedom. It released the monks from their past. The past that we in the West constantly try recreate with spectacularly limited success. The monks were actively destroying their past to get at the only thing really that matters, living in the present. It liberated them from that vast warehouse of pained memories and missed opportunities, of unrealized goals and of lives and loves unfulfilled. The monks had no doubt achieved a state of heightened awareness of the here and now through their willful detachment from the past.

My past, I’m afraid, might not prove so easy to abandon.

34418.png

At dusk, David walked back to his apartment building in the East Village and took the elevator to his sixth floor flat. As he entered he glanced at a large manila envelope on the hall table mixed in with the mail. The hall table held a special meaning for David as the place of honor for his one remaining family photograph. He stared at it for moment. Although faded and creased, he could clearly see his brother’s wavy, black hair and his broad, generous smile as he wrapped his arm around David’s shoulder. With his light hair and delicate features, David seemed an outlier even then.

David didn’t make much of the manila envelope at first, but as he retrieved the mail, there it was, positioned inconspicuously between the electric bill and a few holiday catalogues. In fact, he was somewhat surprised to see any mail at all on his hall table. As a rule, Marks kept his mail in a small alcove off the main entrance as his mailbox tended to overflow easily with his oversized medical journals. The only explanation was that Marks must have made a special trip to his apartment to deliver it.

Strange, he thought, he had not seen Marks at all in the foyer today. He turned out the light in hall, walked into the living room and sat down in a chair near the window. David held the envelope up to the ribbon street light though the blinds. He paused again before opening it. He felt a mixture of dread and curiosity.

The manila envelope had no return address and writing he did not recognize. David opened it carefully. Inside was a crumpled, yellowing postcard with a beautiful stamp. The stamp looked like the head of a Greek god. Staring at it brought him a sudden unexpected surge of joy. The front side of the postcard was a fading black and white aerial 1950s picture of an island he had never actually visited, but had traveled to in his mind many times. Even though blurred with age, the postcard seemed to capture the magical quality of light of the Aegean reflecting off a shimmering crescentic caldera.

The writing on the other side of the card was a simple ink drawing that brought him an equal measure of anxiety and pain. The intensity of his emotions startled him, bringing back all the fears that his constrained and respectable life had been crafted to avoid. Staring intently, he recognized the drawing as an exquisite representation of a beautiful old building with Romanesque arches. Just beneath the drawing of the building were the numbers: 10-11-29. His birthday.

Exhausted by the day and disquieted by the postcard, David slumped back into the leather chair in his study. He first tried to read, but could not. After an hour he drifted off into a shallow sleep. David awoke to the shrill repetitive bleating of a Con Edison truck from the street below. He got up, leaned over his desk and peered through the blinds and as the truck slowly backed up toward an open manhole cover. At that moment the lights went out all over the west side of the city, a progressive wave of darkness flowing from 95th Street all the way down to his block on 88th.

David decided to stay in his chair to wait it out. At first the blackout was a comfort, an excuse not to bother with the scholarly paperwork that routinely filled his evenings. But the moments dragged on, the inconvenience become increasingly unnerving. He could not prevent his mind from going over the implications of the postcard again and again.

But then a single light shone through from a building across the street. The light cast thin, jagged shadows onto the canyon-like street below. An old trick Anton taught him came to mind. He could only break the fear of the darkness by telling himself he was truly not afraid.

But was that true? It had been a long time since he had said something truthful to himself or anyone else for that matter. He had a curious thought, If someone years from now were to observe this scene of me here, sitting motionless in the dark in this small room. What would they think? Would they conclude that I had been frozen in time, fixed and snared in a vast black emptiness like a wasp preserved for eternity in pre-Cambrian amber? But I know, in fact, nothing could be further from the truth. The truth is that there is nothing fixed about my present life, and most assuredly not my past, and my responsibility to the past.

For some reason his mind turned to Marks, the one constant fixture he could point to who had long been there before him and would likely remain long after his departure. Yet although they exchanged pleasantries every day as he hailed him a cab, David reflected on the fact that he knew so little about Marks’ life. A home in Queens. Was it two or three grown children? Wasn’t one of them a prison guard?

His mind wandered until through the past and alighted on an episode from his childhood. His brother Michal was standing before his graduating class to accept the school prizes for Literature and History. How proud he was to leap up cheer at his older brother’s triumphs. Yet it was he who survived and not his brother. Try as he might, there were no triumphs in his life he could point to.

Then he remembered the curious comment Marks had made to him the last time he had brought a large bundle of journals and mail to his apartment when he had been away in California for a conference. When David shook his head in disgust at the large amount of work, Marks had replied, No, it’s a good thing, doc.

And why is that Marks?

It makes you feel less alone.

Underground Winter Camp, Nachim Forest, outside Lublin, Poland January 29, 1944

The hour before sunset was always his most difficult time of day. To keep his fingers warm Anton tapped on the metal case to the rhythm of a vaguely remembered dancehall tune. White strands of his breath circled the kerosene lamp in the dim light. They had to wait for darkness when the German reconnaissance planes would be gone before they could build a fire to warm their underground hideout and cook the soup. It had not snowed in over a week and it had not been possible to restock their supplies by visiting the farms on the forest’s edge for fear their footprints would be tracked by the roving bands of Ukrainian troops. They were low on food and entombed in a small, frozen redoubt, but as Anton looked out at his comrades, he marveled at the cheerful domestic scene. Josef and David were locked in combat over the chessboard as young Anna played fetch with the puppy using a balled up sock. Yet Anton knew the papers in the metal case propped between his knees were the real reason they must endure and survive. Many of his friends and fellow officers had died to obtain these documents and their preservation was more important than any temporary deprivation.

The crackling of the kindling jolted Anton from his reverie. There would soon be time to worry about supplies and trips to the farms. For now, he needed to concentrate on gathering the tools of his trade and recalling his tricks from the vaudeville circuit. After the meal he was due to perform. A carrot would suddenly appear from behind Anna’s ear or an onion from underneath David’s cap. But those tricks he knew by heart. No, what he needed to flesh out in his mind was the much anticipated nightly ritual of the bedtime story, a story of heroes and mighty deeds, a quest worthy of a brave young boy and girl. A quest perhaps worthy of them all.

With the soup bowls cleaned and put away and the fire tamped down, David and Anna drew around the stove to hear the story. Anton put on his cape fashioned from a threadbare blanket and donned his pointed magician’s cap made from old newspapers. He then raised his magic wand of a thin, wooden stick like an orchestral conductor. On cue, the puppy curled into Anna’s lap. And then Anton began:

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago in a kingdom by the sea, there was a magnificent castle perched high on a mountain overlooking all the lands. And in this castle lived the families of the little boy, his friend the little girl and their little dog. But one night a ferocious storm rose up from out of the sea with enormous thunder and rain. Its fierce winds blew out all the candles in the castle. The families brought the little girl and boy down to the great hall with its huge fireplace. They brought blankets and pillows for them to sleep by the warmth of the fire.

‘But what about the little dog?’ asked David.

Oh, he came along too. He was always right there. Right by their side. And in the morning when the dawn broke the skies were clear and the sun was shining and the storm had passed. But as the boy and girl and their little dog woke up they realized that their families all had all vanished and were gone. The three of them looked everywhere, all over the castle with its many rooms, but there was no one to be found. So they thought to themselves, our families must be out on a walk somewhere or making a trip to the village. So let’s make some porridge by the fire.

Just then an enormous black raven with big black wings almost the size of Josef came flying in from a huge open window and flew around the great hall. He then gracefully landed on the mantle of the great fireplace. The children were startled at first, but then girl became very brave.

‘Good morning, Mr. Raven,’ said the little girl.

‘Good morning to you, young lady.’

‘Would you care for some porridge, Mr. Raven? The little girl asked. ‘It’s quite delicious.’

‘Oh, how awfully kind of you to offer, but alas, I have just dined on a crate full of bananas, so I’m afraid I must decline.’

‘Bananas?’ said the girl. ‘That’s a rather curious breakfast for a raven, even if you are a giant raven.’

‘Well, yes I suppose it is, but this time of year is the season for bananas and with all the long distances I must travel, well, in my line of work bananas are quite the thing.’

‘And just what is your line of work, if I might ask?’ said the boy.

‘Well, I am employed by the kingdom to fly all around and see if anybody needs any help.’

‘Needs any help?’ said the boy.

‘Exactly.’

‘I see,’ said the girl. ‘Well, if it’s not too inconvenient, I wonder could you help us with something, To find our families, that is. You see, ever since the frightful storm last night our families, well, they seem to be missing.’

‘Missing family is it? Oh, a common problem these days. Yes, finding missing families is just the sort of thing my employer would want me to do.’

‘Then you’ll help us find them?’

‘Of course, eventually, my dear. But to be clear, you’ll have to wait your turn, you see. With that ferocious storm there are many families that have gone missing I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, but you are exactly the one to help us Mr. Raven!’ said the girl. ‘With your beautiful big, long wings you could carry us and we could all fly around the castle grounds and all the lands to look for them. It would only take a few minutes for you to fly us around the entire kingdom.’

"The raven looked down at his long, shiny black wings, ‘Well, now that you mention it, they are quite remarkable, aren’t they? Yes, really quite something, if I do say so myself. Well, I suppose if it would only take a few minutes. Well, then what’s the harm? I’m ahead of schedule anyway. So hop on my wings and we’ll fly around the kingdom and see if we can find your families.’

‘And the then the boy and girl hopped on the raven’s huge outstretched wings and prepared to fly around the kingdom.’

‘But what about the little dog? Did he go too?’ asked the girl.

‘Of course! Of course!’ said the raven. The little dog sat perched right behind the raven’s neck holding on very tightly with his little paws. And off they went, flying all around and up and down the entire kingdom. But alas, to no avail. The families were nowhere to be seen, so the raven flew right back to the castle and deposited them all back in the great hall."

‘Well, thank you Mr. Raven for trying to help us,’ the boy said.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more useful,’ said the raven, ‘but you know in complex matters such as this it is often very helpful to consult a higher source. A consultant, you see.’

‘A consultant?’ Said the girl. ‘And who would that be?’

‘None other than the Wise Counselor on the island of Santorini. He alone can advise you on such matters.’

‘The island of Santorini?’ said the boy. ‘That seems very far away from here. Mr. Raven. Could you please fly us there now so we could talk to this very wise man?’

‘Oh, no.’ Said the raven. ‘I’m afraid you cannot go there just now.’

‘But when?’ Said the boy.

‘When your heart is brave and true, it will take you there.’

‘I see,’ said the little boy. ‘But please Mr. Raven, how will we know?’

‘And just then the raven took flight, flapping his enormous wings and his voice echoed throughout the great hall, ‘That is what you both must learn! In due time that is what I’m sure you both will learn!

David raised his hand in earnest, But Mr. Raven, sir how will we know for certain?

The raven circled back and perched himself on the fireplace mantle once again. ‘Well, young man,’ said Mr. Raven, ‘How do we know anything that’s truly important? How you know when you are happy or sad or in love? You see, you just feel it inside.’

The little girl then felt something rise up in her from deep inside and it lifted her up as she said, ‘Mr. Raven, I know that my heart is brave and true! I know it!’

‘Oh, is that so?’ said the Raven. ‘Well, then you must visit the Great Counselor on the island of Santorini without delay. Now that you are ready, I’m quite sure he will help you find your family.’

‘Please, please, Mr. Raven could you take us there?’ said the little girl.

‘Well, the island is really quite far from here. And, of course, I have many other boys and girls I have to visit on my travels today here in the kingdom.’

‘Oh, but your beautiful wings are so very strong,’ said the little boy. ‘I’ll bet with your beautiful, strong wings you could fly is there in no time at all!’

Mr. Raven looked down at his long, shiny black wings and fluffed its feathers with his beak. ‘Well, now that you mention it, they are quite astonishing, aren’t they? And I have been known to win quite a few flying races in my time. Well, then I suppose we can fly there. Just as long as I am back by lunch time!’

And off they went. Flying over the mountains and forests and over all the kingdoms of Europe. The boy on one wing the girl on another and the little dog with his little paws wrapped tightly around Mr. Raven’s neck. And then they came to the deep blue sea of the Aegean and the lovely island of Santorini. And Mr. Raven set them down at the sandy seashore and they looked up to see a beautiful white palace on the hillside.

‘Look up the hillside,’ said Mr. Raven. ‘There is the home of the Great Counselor.’

‘Will you fly us up there, Mr. Raven? It looks like a very steep walk from here on the seashore.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t.’ said Mr. Raven. ‘The three of you must go up there on your own. I must be off and return to the kingdom, but you’re in very good hands now.’

"And so the little boy and girl and their little dog walked slowly up the long and winding dusty path to reach the top of the hill and the palace of the Great Counselor. The little dog seemed a bit tired walking up the hill so the little girl picked him up in his arms for the last few yards. And finally there he was, the great man with a long white beard and big bushy mustache. He was just sitting on his porch reading the newspaper. As the three of them approached the Great Counselor put down his reading glasses and his newspaper and said, ‘So here you are at last! I’ve been expecting you!’

‘You have?’ said the little girl.

‘Oh, yes my very great friend the Raven is always on the lookout for little boys and girls, and their dog, of course, whose hearts are brave and true.’

‘That’s such wonderful news!’ said the little girl. ‘Then you will help us find our family?’

‘Of course,’ said the great Counselor. Then the great man stood up and extended his great big arms around the little boy and around the girl still holding the little dog in her arms. And he embraced all three of them holding them very tight.

And do you know what the Great Counselor said next? said Anton.

No, please tell us, please! clamored David and Anna.

Well young man and young lady, it appears that you have already found your family, said the Great Counselor.

Part Two

Covenant

Lodz Ghetto, Poland March 19, 1940

Michal Frankel wrote is his journal:

This is my third attempt to write anything down, even the smallest fragment of a sentence. How ironic it is for me, the perpetual graduate student of modern literature. There was once a time when I could easily manufacture a twenty-page essay on short notice. Yet, now I am overwhelmed with despair at the prospect of writing a single coherent phrase that makes sense of this experience. On Monday, German trucks went throughout the city with loudspeakers blaring the news that one hundred and fifty thousand Jews were given 48 hours’ notice to the to leave their homes, take only what they could carry and move across town into a designated ghetto. We were being resettled into a two-mile area within the factory district where perhaps twenty thousand Poles once lived.

I cannot even remotely capture the chaos and anxiety of that day, let alone the strangeness of it all. As we walked along, I overheard an old man saying that this mass movement was like the Jews’ flight from Egypt. I wanted to stop him and point out the irony that Moses was actually bringing the Jews to freedom. We, on the other hand, were being forced back into captivity. But I was too respectful and too scared to say anything. Irony is now a luxury I cannot afford.

On that day the streets were clotted with a gray mass of slow moving humanity. I saw passing along side of me in the streets every conceivable mode of transportation from wagons to