From Place to Place: The Journey of Survival of a Teenager During the Holocaust

By Bernardo Szwarcbart

About the Book
Maurice is a young Jewish boy who miraculously survives the German persecution in his escape from Nazi occupied Belgium all the way to his arrival in Brazil after World War II. This unlikely survival is filled with many perils. It is based on the amazing life of the author’s father and based on research on the Holocaust, stories his father told him, and some creative liberties where there was a lack of information in a few instances.
Anti-semitism and Holocaust denial are becoming an increasingly common problem in the world today. This book yearns to show that racism and persecution should not win, that there is hope even in the darkest times and toughest challenges, and that the total annihilation of the Jewish people, and the other peoples targeted by Nazi genocide, should never be attempted again.
About the Author
Bernardo Szwarcbart developed a passion for reading and writing from his parents. As a Human Resources professional he wrote articles for magazines and also had an HR blog. Along the years, Bernardo became passionate about the multiple tales related to Holocaust survivors - his father one of them. He realized that as generations of survivors are disappearing, there was a need to continue to recount the stories so that the Holocaust is not forgotten, nor repeated.
Bernardo loves reading, hiking, music of all genres, and, of course, writing. He is married with one son, and lives near Atlanta, Georgia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Nov 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798890276100

Book preview

Prologue

Maurice had been terrified from the moment they had arrived at the train station in Genoa. The German soldiers escorting him and his family, along with other refugees, were laughing and cursing, harassing passengers who were just getting ready for their train rides. Notably annoyed with such, the lieutenant was bullying the two soldiers under his command. He clearly did not want to be there. He despised Italy, the Italians, and everything about them.

Take them to platform 1, he barked. Keep them together in a group, don’t mix them with other travelers. I must check if the pass they carry is valid and do the count. If this is not right, I am sure I can put them in a train to a different destination.

"Ya vol mein kommandant," they shouted back, and laughed to themselves.

Everyone was taken to a corner. A soldier lit a cigarette, sat down on the platform, legs dangling down the tracks. His shining boots and impeccable uniform did not give the impression of war, other than the sub-machine gun he carried. He looked up and shared a sly smile with the other soldier who just faced the group with disgust.

Leah was holding Philippe’s hand; Charles was behind her. Maurice was in front. All refugees followed the gestures by the soldiers.

No one could understand what they were saying.

Except.

Maurice was paying attention to every word the Germans were saying. Having learned Yiddish as a child, he could grasp some of the German being spoken and followed as close to the soldiers as possible to situate himself, but if anyone realized that it would be their end. He was watching the group, a combination of displaced Italian families and some lone prospects. A mother held a two-month-old baby. A father held hands with a five-year-old girl. A couple was speaking nervously. Everyone else was just in quiet anticipation.

The lieutenant returned with his chart. The soldier who was sitting immediately stood up in attention.

Wolfgang, line them up for count. Now! he yelled.

He seemed to be an expert in counting. But not.

"Ya vol mein kommandant." the soldier replied and started pushing the refugees into position.

They lined parallel to the train track, keeping the families together. The Szwarcbart’s were positioned in the middle of the group. Maurice, having survived the horrible crossing of the Alps, having found a hiding place in a forest while hundreds were being captured, and unaware if his parents would still be there when he returned to a barn, had his instincts heightened and would not miss anything. Anything.

The lieutenant would start the count. "Gut, we have eighteen people to transport to Florenz. Let’s see. There must be eighteen untermenschen here." And, he walked along the line formed by private Wolfgang and his companion, who followed the lieutenant like trained dogs.

"Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, … siebzhen."

Siebzhen?

Seventeen? the lieutenant yelled. Seventeen? If before he was annoyed, now he was furious. Seventeen? Wolfgang, count them again, I have no patience for this anymore! he yelled, after counting them twice. He ran out of patience in thirty seconds.

"Ya vol mein kommandant! Wolfgang replied and started the count. When he finished, he said, Siebzhen, mein kommandant, das tut mir leid."

Seventeen indeed.

The lieutenant, out of control now, replied, Don’t be stupid to be sorry. I will count one more time, and it better be eighteen, or there will be seventeen additional passengers on the next convoy to Poland. A very different train, by the way.

1

The Summons

Mr. Schwaartzbart

The voice sounded like a drum beat over everyone’s ears in the waiting room, a baritone resounding through the naked walls of a waiting room that resembled a hospital corridor with its light green colors. The only decoration items were the few scattered plants and a Belgian flag, eminent and imposing.

Mauricio stood up for duty, as it was his style. Ready for it, always alert, let’s do it. His eyes darted around the small waiting room as he walked swiftly pass the other men and the few women waiting for their appointments at the Belgian consulate.

Mauricio followed the Vice-Consul through the door and through a narrow corridor, that was not really well lit, and actually quite plain, with a few additional photographs of picturesque Belgian countryside, in addition to a couple of pictures of Brussels, the country’s capital, as he passed by other doors that were shut and uninviting.

The summon from the Belgian government was direct and dry: Please report to the Belgian Consulate in São Paulo, on August 27, 1965. Please ensure you bring your passport or any other type of photo ID. No explanation, no directions, no reason given to him. But he did not shy away from his duty to report to the government of his native country, although he had never been considered a Belgian citizen for some shady reason. Mauricio was waiting for his naturalization in Brazil. He would retire his foreigner identity card and proudly show his national ID card, something he would finally acquire that would eventually relieve him from his stateless status.

But not just yet.

The Vice-Consul walked fast, but Mauricio kept his regular pace. Unintentionally slower than the Vice-Consul, Mauricio kept the official waiting as he entered his office. The Vice-Consul seemed annoyed, not really pleased to hold such a meeting, but had all data and pertinent information on Mauricio and was ready for the interview. As Mauricio respectfully waited, standing at the threshold, the Vice-Consul could not hold his impatience and rushed him in with less formality now.

Mauricio offered his hand. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir, I am Mauricio Szwarcbart.

The Vice-Consul acknowledged the extended hand and shook it lamely, as if afraid of potential contamination.

Please sit down, Mr. Schwaartzbart, he said again, amused with his own exaggerated pronunciation.

Mauricio sat down in the less than comfortable chair he was given. The Vice-Consul walked around the perfectly organized metal desk, caressing the corners of the inexpensive top that held neatly arranged small piles of official papers. In the center there was a manila folder with indiscriminate pages it seemed. Szwarcbart, not Schwaartzbart, was carefully handwritten on the front of the folder, with perfectly drawn letters, typical of official documents.

Mauricio observed everything with his witty eyes behind thick lenses, held by thick brown frames. He looked at the walls and recognized a few places of his lost childhood, as if the pictures on the walls could reflect a past that had haunted him for years. Behind the Vice-Consul’s desk stood hanging a large picture of King Leopold, and his successor King Baudouin.

Mauricio nervously fixed his tie, a little loose in the necklace as he liked to wear it. He decided on an old suit, a plain shirt and his well-worn shoes. He touched his front suit pocket to ensure he had not forgotten the mezuzah, the small scroll with the shemah¹ printed on it. He shifted in his seat, partly due to the old chair cushion, part for becoming quite uncomfortable with the situation he was in. He fixed his glasses again on the bridge of his straight nose and waited.

The Vice-Consul’s office felt like a prison; it had only one window overlooking a square, and cheap shades rolled up. It felt more than claustrophobic in there. The walls seemed to close in, such as those horror movies where someone may be squashed alive by the moving brick and mortar. The Vice-Consul sat at the desk in a comfortable looking executive chair. He reclined slightly enough to be able to look down at his inconvenient visitor. The scene resembled Charles Chaplin’s The Dictator, where Adolph Hitler and Benito Mussolini performed such humorous exchange of seats, one after the other, trying to humiliate their counterpart in closed chambers by having the other sitting on the ottoman while the other sat in a comfortable chaise-lounge.

But this time there was no exchange of seats.

From his vantage position, the Vice-Consul would emphatically look down at Mauricio, and made sure Mauricio understood that.

I am glad you could come to this meeting, Mr. Schwaartzbart, he continued, quite insincerely, Our country needs your help at this crucial moment in history. My name is Marko Van Der Vorsch, I am the Vice-Consul, representing our Belgian nation and King Baudouin.

Mauricio hesitated to respond, but eventually let go a, It is my pleasure, Mr. Van Der Vorsch. How can I be of help?

This time Mauricio made sure that the Vice-Consul received a perfect Flemish pronunciation of his name as well.

Leaning closer to the desk, he said Thank you, Mr. Schwaartzbart. Let me go through some formalities first, if you allow me to. He did not need any authorization.

He opened the manila folder and pulled all sheets from it, placing them neatly on top of the file with the perfect handwriting. He observed the papers for a moment as if admiring them, looked at Mauricio again, cleared his throat, and started quite slowly now, as if he would announce the solution for world peace.

My records, Mr. Schwaartzbart, indicate that you were born in 1927, is that right? the Vice-Consul asked with his heavy accent.

Yes, well, I guess... Mauricio mumbled. He looked at the enclosing walls, getting closer and closer.

King Leopold was looking at him with his ominous look.

When were you born, Mauricio? When were you born? King Leopold screamed at him, Tell me now, Morisie, when were you born?

I guess so, I mean, I think that was the year; it seems that records are a bit confusing, he managed to say with a weaker voice now.

Mauricio was already bewildered with this investigation, and the interview had barely started. When was it? he asked himself, a tiny bead of sweat forming on his forehead. 1927 or 1930, I don’t know, and who can tell me that now? he wondered. It seems that 1927 was the year, so be it, he thought to himself.

Mauricio confirmed the date, and the Vice-Consul made a quick check with a meticulously sharpened pencil and threw a fierce look at his paper. Mr. Schwaartzbart, you were born on August 12, correct?

The question lifted Maurice to a higher dimension, and, as if in a trance, took him to a different place, a different time.

---

¹ Shemah: a prayer that every Jew recognize the existence of one single God.

2

Antwerp

Everybody was ready to leave. The three bags were sitting by the door for a few days now. Tateh had still to go back to the small grocery store he owned. The small store that sat at an inconspicuous corner of the humble neighborhood brought them enough means for their food and the children’s school - this part with significant discounts from the Tachkemonischool, the Jewish conservative school not too far away. They had not set the departure date yet, but were ready, nonetheless. Everyone was nervous and anxious. Sleep would be disturbed and irregular. But Tateh had still some affairs to resolve in the next few days, so advancing the escape was not an option.

Until now.

He walked briskly to the store, opened the door, and started the daily chores, while a few customers would still come by for some groceries.

While organizing the pantry, a stranger entered the store. The man introduced himself as Leibo Domberg, but did not say more. He was dressed in an overcoat and somehow looked familiar. He entered the store and pretended to be looking at the merchandise until a customer left. Domberg was quite straightforward in his conversation. Remarkably blunt, he advised Tateh to sell his business and leave.

Chiel, collect all the money you can and leave, Domberg said, looking straight in his eyes. The Germans will invade Belgium in a few days, so you should get out now. Domberg continued.

Tateh tried to reason, but Domberg was firm.

Leave while you can. Go north or south, but don’t stay here any longer. I can assure you that right now it will be much easier than when they invade. Leave today if you can.

I’ve been trying to sell the store, it is impossible! Tateh told him. To transfer the deed is extremely difficult given the current affairs, and the obscene government fees make it impossible!

The Germans are next door, there is no way you will escape if you delay this. Forget the store, it may not be worth much, anyway. You’d rather leave now! Domberg said.

While Tateh tried to reason with him again, he walked around the counter. Domberg left the store just the way he had entered, as if vanishing into thin air, as a new customer had arrived. Tateh walked quickly towards the door, looked hard to see that man again, but he had disappeared among the pedestrians.

Tateh was confused. He had been confident that the Germans would be beaten and fast, that the French and English would prevail and by then they would be able to return to their home in case they had to leave temporarily.

But the stark warning was too direct, too assertive, not one he could ignore. He looked at the store and decided to speak to Laja, his wife, upon returning at the end of the day. Maybe they should consider an earlier departure. It was May, and the weather was getting better, warmer. But a few days would not be so much trouble, he contemplated.

Time passed slowly on that day. Few customers still dared to go to a Kosher¹ store - it brought too much attention to them. Some customers were still loyal, but that loyalty had a price, and most did not want to pay it. Besides, many had left Belgium already, or at least Antwerp and were on the way to safety somewhere. Tateh believed that he was fortunate not to have been molested nor attacked, and the store was still intact. He felt comfortable with that notion.

Until things changed dramatically.

---

¹ Kosher: food that is prepared based on the Jewish strict laws.

3

Chess Game

August 12, yes, Mauricio said, as he arrived from the long daydream, "August 12, that is the date Mr. Van Der Vorsch; I hope it matches your records now," Mauricio continued. Not a slight cynicism in his voice, however, the message was as direct as he tried.

The Vice-Consul did not demonstrate any reaction to Mauricio’s comment, either because he really could not be bothered by such a statement, or maybe because he had a game plan in his mind, and little would impact his stratagem.

So, Mr. Schwaartzbart, August 12, 1927, it is.

The Vice-Consul made his notation on the form he was looking in almost admiration. He looked above his expensive glasses and gazed slightly above Mauricio’s head, as if there were someone else in the room. Other than the spartan furniture, the Belgian Kings, and other pictures on the walls, there was absolutely nothing that should distract the Vice-Consul from his duty. He seemed to be enjoying savoring that moment, as if in a sadistic game. Mauricio could not pinpoint the reasons for such behavior, and that made him incredibly uncomfortable, and for more that he tried, he could not disguise his reaction. Mauricio seemed tired. It had been a long morning. The short commute was not the case, but the business demands were setting him off. His partnership with his father-in-law was not ideal, although business was booming. They had just opened the fourth store of Rex Clothing Company selling all sorts of clothes, bedding, comforters and other such items. Business was good, but his father-in-law was starting to feel uncomfortable with their own success, and his fears could jeopardize everything. They were being unexpectedly successful, and Mauricio was worried about the work left behind while he was being tortured by the Vice-Consul’s incriminating looks.

Mr. Schwaartzbart, thanks for your cooperation thus far. Can you confirm where in Belgium you were born? the Vice-Consul asked, although his manilla folder contained more information than he could handle in one single interview. He knew that Mauricio had been born in Borgerhout, a district of Antwerp, where at that time more than 70,000 Jews lived. He also knew that only fewer than 7,000 survived the war - after all, the ones who had not fled had been taken to a transfer station and then to the camps.

Mauricio hesitated now. Borgerhout or Antwerp - what would be the right answer? He felt like he was being tested on a first-grade classroom pop quiz. He decided for an ambivalent answer and left it to Van Der Vorsch to decide. I was born in Borgerhout, which a district of Antwerp, right?

His inquisitive look now was less friendly. Van Der Vorsch absorbed the punch but, as if in a chess match between two grandmasters, decided not to sacrifice his important pieces.

It does not seem that you remained there, thou, Mr. Schwaartzbart.

The low blow did not faze Mauricio. Of course, he had not remained there, but would it be worth it to respond? What value would it add to the conversation? After all, why was he sitting there in the first place? Why was he being interrogated? Had he committed a crime for not remaining in Belgium his whole life? Was the Vice-Consul aware of that? Of course, he was! How wouldn’t he?

Mr. Vice-Consul, could you elaborate why I have been summoned? I don’t quite understand that yet. Mauricio said with a tense smile.

That question seemed to be ignored as the Vice-Consul repeated that pungent question, Have you, Mr. Schwaartzbart, stayed in Belgium until military service age?

Mr. Van Der Vorsch knew the answer. Of course, Mauricio had not, but the Vice-Consul started to enjoy his little torture room. The only missing pieces now were the shackles and chains, maybe a whip or a bat for the torture room to be complete. But no, he chose the cynicism of a psychological game.

Check.

No, Mr. Van Der Vorsch, I did not reach military age. I was gone by then, as you are certainly aware. Check.

The answer had a higher pitch at this time. The tension was reaching a crescendo. Mauricio felt like leaving that place at once, never to return. But he had mixed feelings. He had been born in Belgium, and although he had left very young, he still considered to be his home country, whether when he spoke about it at home, or with strangers.

The Vice-Consul brought Mauricio back to reality while confirming the answer and marking it on his perfectly printed form. In that chess game of theirs, this conversation sounded like a crossfire of hitting the clock and putting pressure on the opponent.

Mauricio tried to regain his composure. It was difficult, after all, to be sent back to Antwerp. He had still sweet memories of his family that by miracle or, more certainly by a sequence of miracles, was still alive. However, he held a feeling of dismemberment, as if someone were psychologically tearing him to pieces.

He tried now to look firmer, albeit fragile within. He looked at the Vice-Consul who seemed to being lost in memories as well now. Probably he was a masterfully crafted interrogator, maybe he was just plain cold. His square jaw and mouth that produced no smiles and the high forehead that kept unwanted hair away made him look like a task master with little patience to spare. Mauricio could not tell what was in the Vice-Consul’s mind. Nevertheless, there was no doubt that the Vice-Consul was in charge. His physical presence was imposing. His penetrating look was fierce. His dark eyes never left Mauricio, while Mauricio’s eyes would dart from place to place either searching within his bleak memories, or looking at the crunching walls closing in. Mauricio was showing weaknesses in his game, something he wanted to hide.

So, Mr. Schwaartzbart, when did you actually leave Belgium? the Vice-Consul asked, his voice cutting the silence like a knife.

Check.

4

Swastikas

Moris was awake quite early. He had a quick breakfast and as routinely during vacation periods he would spend Thursdays with Tateh at the store as he was preparing for his Bar Mitzvah¹. Tateh would prepare the lines of Moris’s weekly Torah² portion that he would read on the planned Saturday coming up in a few months. They joyfully walked to the store while his younger brother Philip was still asleep and Ruchla, his sister, was helping Momshi with the house chores. Father and son were smiling and chatting, in spite of the news that brought even more uncertainty. And then he arrived at the store.

A large red swastika had been painted on the front door and the front window had been shattered, probably by a stone. Tateh was stunned. Moris was terrified. They entered the store and turned the lights on just to be more horrified by the looting. Desolated, Tateh started cleaning with energy and care, as there could be small pieces of glass in the grocery bags, on the potato cans, and anywhere else.

Moris, go back home now. I don’t want you to get hurt with all this debris.

But, Tateh, I can help clean up! Moris responded almost in tears.

No! Go home and ask Momshi to come immediately.

Moris obeyed and rushed back home, tears rolling on his cheeks. As he was leaving, Mr. Kurz, a friend from the synagogue, arrived and could not hide his shock, as if he had not seen the multiple swastikas and derogatory posters around the neighborhood.

Mr. Kurz would you please reach out to your cousin; I suppose he could potentially help fixing the window?

Yes, of course, I will immediately. Mr. Kurz responded and left.

Tateh quickly put all the trash out, and rushed to the kitchen, where he still had to bake bread for the day. He was very nervous, all recollections from the life he had left in Poland coming back quite fast now. Pogrom after pogrom, his family in Poland had lost everything. Now he had to handle this imposing threat day after day.

Mr. Patcas, another acquaintance, appeared to help.

What happened? he asked. Was it overnight? he continued.

Yes, I imagine so, responded Tateh. We arrived in the morning to see all this.

Later in the day, Mr. Patcas brought a cardboard placard that could cover the broken window and Mr. Nagler, Mr. Kurz’s cousin, brought in some paint to erase the swastikas. While Tateh was cleaning the floor and rearranging the scattered goods, customers just looked shocked and helpless. Momshi arrived and they continued working until everything was clean. It was almost time to close and go home, and although everything was clean by then, they had still to assess the damage and loss of merchandise.

In despair, Laja said, Oh, what is happening? What should we do?

Tateh just looked at her, and assured, without much confidence, that everything would be all right. However, in his mind he had not yet devised a plan. In case the Germans came closer to the border they would consider leaving if things turned worse.

Yet, Mr. Domberg’s advice would not leave his mind.

---

¹ Bar-Mitzvah: ceremony in which boys aged 13 celebrate adulthood for religious services.

² Torah: rolled parchments of the holy Old Testament.

5

Boxing

Van Der Vorsch was tapping his pencil on the metal desk as he waited for Mauricio to answer. He looked incisively at him. Mauricio in his turn ignored his stare and managed a soft smile. He wanted to change the game, shift the discussion to something else, maybe Van Der Vorsch’s role at the consulate, maybe even the weather forecast for the day would serve. He took his glasses off, wiped his eyes, pulled one of the handkerchiefs from his vest pocket and cleaned the lenses. He focused hard on that task, lifting the glasses against the light to ensure they were clean. He was obviously buying time, diverting the Vice-Consul’s attention to something else, maybe to something mundane that would not drag him back to the war, or maybe to something that would have the Vice-Consul reveal his true self. The difficult task was not only to divert Van Der Vorsch, but also to bring him into a different conversation, maybe by exposing his role at the war, something that Mauricio had not envisioned until then. The Vice-Consul seemed stoic and resilient; his tall figure not impacted at all. But Mauricio found an opening to Van Der Vorsch’s potential weaknesses. What had been his role during the war? he thought to himself. What had his role been in Belgium and elsewhere? After all, he was not Jewish, and most likely either had fought the Germans or joined them. Seeing the Vice-Consul’s initial discomfort with his silence, Mauricio advanced.

Excuse me Mr. Van Der Vorsch, may I ask you a question? he quietly asked.

His intervention somehow startled the Vice-Consul who looked at him almost outraged by such behavior. Van Der Vorsch frowned, his nose more protuberant now, his looks like a hawk smelling blood.

And what would that be, Mr. Schwaartzbart? he asked.

Mauricio shifted on the seat. I imagine that you have had important positions in the Belgian government, Mr. Van Der Vorsch, he said. After all, no distinct figure becomes a Vice-Consul without having significant responsibilities in their past, and it should not be different for you, should it?

Van Der Vorsch looked pensive now. Annoyance being replaced by curiosity about Mauricio’s inquiry. His ego felt an opportunity to portray himself as a hero, or as someone who drove the Belgian pride untouched, despite the painful surrender during the war. He lowered his guard some, exhaled heavily, and sat back at his reclining chair, now looking at Mauricio with an inflated persona, as he would not surrender just yet.

Mr. Schwaartzbart, it is clear to me that you are a smart man. I would love to engage in many conversations today, but I have other priorities and my day today is full. he spat back, and continued, as long as we finish this quick interview, I am positive I can dedicate time for your personal inquiries.

The Vice-Consul’s response sounded more abrasive than he had intended, but he had been caught off guard, and his reaction was more instinctive than rational. The game was just beginning, Mauricio thought, patiently closing his eyes, and rested his hands on his crossed legs. I understand that, Mr. Van Der Vorsch, he said, and added, we left Antwerp in 1940.

Van Der Vorsch looked back at his papers and smiled, not a victory, just a small step towards the end of the meeting. Mauricio, surprisingly lifted from his chair, and leaned on the desk, as if stretching before a workout. He gave the Vice-Consul an amusing look and continued.

We left when the Germans invaded Belgium, apparently without much resistance.

That comment struck the Vice-Consul almost to the point of offending him, but Mauricio went on, now slowly pacing the room, approaching the window, turning towards the Vice-Consul and continuing his improvised pitch.

We had to run, Mr. Van Der Vorsch, on our own, without protection from anyone, I mean, anyone. We left everything we had, and no one was there for us. Is that what you wanted to know?

Sensing the tension, the Vice-Consul decided on a different approach. A masterful negotiator, the Vice-Consul simply looked at him. He kept a serious but respectful look, still unfazed by Mauricio’s attack.

Mr. Schwaartzbart, he started, we just want to know when you left Belgium, because I have to register that on my papers. Besides, we have a very attractive offer for you and your family. We want to offer you something that you may have dreamt of all your life, and it is within reach now. You all could become Belgian citizens. he said in a more conciliatory tone. You could fulfill that dream now, Mr. Schwaartzbart, just listen to what I can offer.

6

Mezuzot

¹

Late evening news indicated that the German army had invaded Belgium and were attacking everywhere. A neighbor had come with the warning. The news of the German forces invading the eastern part of the country were everywhere now. A few days after Mr. Domberg’s ghostly visit, Tateh became convinced that it would be important to be prepared. German forces were closing into Antwerp now. They had heard bombardments and planes flying overhead. This was real.

Tateh looked at the apartment, aware of the three small bags sitting by the door for weeks now - bags that Momshi had insisted on preparing. He looked at the doors and had an insight as he saw the mezuzot. There were just a few of them: four mezuzot in the house and two in the grocery store.

Tateh decided to run.

He grabbed his coat and darted through the door, almost bumping into Ruchla. He ignored the yelling from Momshi urging him not to go anywhere at night and ran to the store as fast as he could. He arrived with sweat pouring from his forehead despite the chilly May evening. He struggled to open the door and ignored his feelings about the plywood that replaced the window weeks ago. They had painted another swastika, but at this time he could not think about it. As he entered and closed the door behind him, he took his coat off and began working on the mezuzot. He carefully lifted the encasing on the kitchen door, using a kitchen knife to pull the small nails off the wooden threshold. He carefully opened the encasing and withdrew the small scroll that had the blessings of the shemah². He looked for some wrapping paper on the counter to his right. He found a very thin sheet and with extreme care wrapped each of the mezuzot. The next move would be trickier, even dangerous, which was the one placed on the front door. He had always insisted on placing it on the external part of the door. He was adamant about not having it on the inside. Why would we? he always thought. If the Egyptians saw it, why wouldn’t the Belgians?

Tateh woke up from his reverie; there was no time to waste now. He opened the front door and looked around. He could not devise if the shadows to his left, in the direction of the house, were people waiting for him. He dared to look harder, but darkness engulfed him, and he could not see. But he could not wait either. He carefully took the knife from his pocket and began working on the front door. He again lifted the nails, took the parcel and carefully wrapped it. It was time now to leave. He locked the door and walked as close to the building walls as he could, hiding in the shadows.

He walked fast against the brisk wind, sweat dripping from his forehead, which he dried with his sleeve in a swift move. He looked left and right all the time, and looked behind his shoulders for anyone who could be following him. He turned the corner to his left and was running now.

He arrived home safely, and expected all the kids to be in bed, but Ruchla was still awake. He ran to the bathroom and called Momshi.

I need scissors, and a razor, I need to shave, he said in a hushed voice.

Momshi did not understand at first but quickly ran to their bedroom and grabbed her sewing kit. She appeared fumbling for the scissors in spite of knowing exactly where they were. Tateh had already washed his face and cleaned the sweat. He took the scissors and started cutting his beard off in large chunks. It was painful to see those locks falling on the sink. Momshi helped collect the dark hair as she immediately understood what he was doing. The last time he was shaven was before they emigrated from Poland, but feeling safe in Antwerp he grew his beard again. He took the razor and carefully shaved his face, using the soap Momshi had given him. He finished quickly and looked again in the mirror. And there she was, Momshi looking at him with worried eyes through the mirror. She handed him the towel with teary eyes, quite emotional in anticipation. Ruchla appeared at the door and contained a hushed scream. She could not remember seeing his father like that, with a bare face. He looked younger thou, and that pleased her. Momshi had understood the message when Tateh began cutting his beard. It was time to go.

After shaving, they all went to bed. They would leave in the morning.

Sleep evaded the three of them. Tateh was still considering each way to flee - north or south, but also wondered if trains would be running, and where. When he finally fell asleep, it was almost time to wake up.

When he decided for breakfast, Moris woke up and was in shock to see his father without the beard. It was the first time ever. Tateh embraced him and asked him to get Philip. They would leave now.

He had gone to the store before dawn to collect a few items for the trip and rushed back home. Momshi then started the preparation for their trip by extending old bed sheets over the scarce furniture, the dining table, the five chairs. She collected some leftovers from the evening dinner and packed them for the trip together with the items that Tateh had brought from the store. By then, the three siblings were watching this unfolding chapter with weary eyes. Ruchla and Moris somehow knew what was coming as they had been kept abreast of the plans. However, Philip was not. He looked terrified. His terror had only increased every time he saw Tateh without a beard as he entered the apartment. Philip was confused, and that drove him to tears.

Tateh was on the move, quickly pulling documents from a drawer. He checked them, put them in his breast pocket, and turned to Moris and Philip.

Get dressed, go!

Ruchla helped Philip who was near a tantrum, ever closer to an emotional breakdown. He was sobbing, uncontrolled tears falling down his cheeks. What was going on? He sat down on the toilet bowl, holding his head with both hands, crying unconsolably. He only calmed down when Momshi brought water in a small cup that he drank in one gulp. Philip was gaining control while everyone was collecting their few belongings for the trip. Tateh and Momshi had told them that they would have to travel until things calmed down. Naturally Ruchla knew it, and Moris felt it, but for Philip that was too much to bear. They were on the move. And time was running out.

Tateh reappeared and ordered the boys to hide the kippahs³. Kindalach⁴, put the berets on, please. he said.

He had determined that everyone should look more inconspicuous from that moment on. The least they were recognizable as Jews, the better. That could and would save them from trouble. He took off his tsitsit⁵ and told the boys to do the same. He would wear only a plain hat. He had almost forgotten that he had the mezuzot in his pocket. He gave each of them one mezuzah.

Have this in your pocket at all times, he said, never let this go.

Ruchla intervened and suggested that the mezuzot be sewn in their jackets. They would be hidden and safe. I will be quick, Tateh. It is the best thing to do, just keep them on our pockets, so that we don’t lose them.

Good idea, Ruchla, but do it quick, replied a worrisome Tateh, who was pacing the room nervously.

In the meantime, Tateh checked the bags one more time, anxious and in a hurry. He took his shoes off and hid the money inside. There was not much left, but it was all they had now. He had been withdrawing the little savings they had and had been hiding them in one of the small closets. He took his jacket off and gave it to Ruchla to finish her sewing. He would carry the talit⁶ and tefilin⁷ in his bag and monitor how safe it would be to have them with him. Time would tell.

Moris looked outside the window and saw many people walking hurriedly around. The sidewalks were busier than normal. Some people were just going about, but a good score of people were carrying bags with them, a sign that they were not staying in town anymore.

Ruchla returned from the bedroom and handed Tateh’s coat back. She pointed out where the mezuzah was, and Tateh was happy with the work. The boys appeared and were waiting for the next step. Tateh looked around while Momshi collected the bags. They would return one day, he thought. He was hopeful that the war would be over soon, and they would be back to dust off the furniture, clean up the rooms, get back to the store and reopen it. It would be a temporary setback, he wanted to believe. He looked tenderly at Momshi who just awaited alongside the children. Time to go her eyes said, time to go.

They left the apartment, locked the door behind them, and went down the stairs to the street. Tateh gave a final look at the mailboxes on the ground floor and opened the door. There were many neighbors walking by, wandering on the sidewalk, as if in a trance. Tateh recognized Mr. Fingherman, the rabbi’s cousin, across the small street and walked over.

We decided to stay for a few days and see what will happen. Maybe it will be fine. My wife is recovering still from the flu, I must wait a few days. Mr. Fingherman said.

Good luck, I hope everything will be fine. Tateh responded, unsure of his words. He then walked back as they joined the crowds with their determined stroll. It would be a few minutes to the train station. Tateh reviewed the plan mentally and hoped their papers would suffice for any border crossing. They walked now as fast as they could. Moris looked pale and worried, scared even by the commotion. Philip was weeping.

Ruchla, however, was pensive. She was monitoring everyone around, rushing Philip when needed and looking at Moris every now and then. He had been quiet, she realized. A mix of fear and doubt struck him when he went through the door to the outside. A feeling of defeat was taking over, like the cool air engulfing him as he stepped on the street. He had finally been absorbed by the unknown. He had crossed the border from the routine life onto uncertainty. It was overwhelming. Accustomed to his own peaceful routine, he had survived the short days of winter studying at home when school would be closed. He would look at his bedroom walls, enclosing his meager possessions. He thought he was happy. He did not need much. He played with friends, he rode his scooter, and went to the zoo sometimes. That was enough for him. He could only wonder what a life with means would mean to them. And now, even if they had means, would it be easier? Probably, he thought as he eventually stepped out onto the street with his family. Would money enable them to flee to a distant place, somewhere safe and far from this war? But where was safe, anyway?

He could only wonder as he pulled his overcoat up to protect his face from the wind.

---

¹ Mezuzot: parchment with prayer placed on door’s threshold used for protection.

² Shemah: prayer that affirms believe in one God.

³ Kippah: head cover also known as Yarmulke.

⁴ Kindalach: Yiddish for children.

⁵ Tsitsit: undergarment with fringes used by observant Jews from age 3.

⁶ Talit: praying shawl with fringes.

⁷ Tefilin: praying phylacteries used during morning prayers.

7

Gambling

Mauricio had been caught off guard again. He hated himself for allowing it to transpire in his reaction, but somehow it seemed unavoidable. Citizenship! He had applied for the Brazilian naturalization and was undergoing all the pertinent scrutiny. He had presented his refugee papers, the marriage certificate, the birth certificates of his three children, the youngest one just one year or so old now. He mused with the thought, but looked away, fighting the urge to jump into any offer. After what he had been through, this seemed to be quite appealing, but he had such determination - some would call it stubbornness - that it would take more than just that for him to fall into a trap, if there was one. With a new government in place after the military coup, things could change. He had not been called yet to the interview related to his application and was still waiting for news on that front. Therefore, anything related to writing off his refugee past and present would be quite attractive. As a gambler who is ready for a bluff, he tried to pretend not to be impacted by the offer, and at the same time be ready to hear, or even raise the ante.

Van Der Vorsch sensed a small weak moment from Mauricio. And he jumped in without hesitation.

Then, Mr. Schwaartzbart, you could deservedly attain the Belgian citizenship and realize a dream, correct? he continued, let’s evaluate your situation today. You have an opportunity to realize that dream. he insisted.

Mauricio, on his side of this chess board, decided to investigate further.

What is the opportunity, Mr. Vice-Consul? What is on the table? he asked, trying not to show how vulnerable he felt. The Vice-Consul sat back and relaxed his jaws that were strained by the tense conversation. He had expected a challenging dialogue, but not to that extent. Calm and reserved, he came back to the offensive position of moments ago, but more empathic, subtle, and somehow appeasing. This is an open table, Mr. Schwaartzbart, but there are some requirements you would need to consider carefully. he paused a little, and then continued, the Belgian government is very conscious of the great strength of its people, but we need all support we can get.

Mauricio looked suspicious. He had followed the events of the early 1950s and how the Congo revolution had taken its toll as a colony to the Belgian Kingdom. The geopolitical consequences of the war in Africa were quite ample, and although Mauricio attempted to be neutral as he read the news, it was obvious that Belgium was calling him to serve the country. He immediately reached the conclusion which the Vice-Consul knew he would. Van Der Vorsch was quiet.

The Vice-Consul looked half-expecting, as he examined Mauricio’s reaction. He did not have to utter another word. The chess game seemed to be nearing an end, and a tie would not be acceptable to either side. On his account, he had to summon Mr. Szwarcbart to his pale, dull office. He had mulled the idea carefully, looking at the initial list of a two dozen or so Belgian refugees in Brazil. Van Der Vorsch knew it was a near impossible task, especially because he had no sympathy for those people anyhow. He was a servant of his government, loyal to his King, a man aware of his role and responsibilities. He had been assigned to Argentina right after the war, and then, after a short period in Chile, had been promoted to Vice-Consul in Brazil. Not that he had chosen those places, but he was aware that he had to climb the diplomacy ladder slowly if he wanted to get something better. His arrival in Brazil had no controversy. The Brazilian government had been pleased with his credentials. He had been received in Brasilia, the recently inaugurated new nation’s capital with its monumental architecture. Van Der Vorsch had been impressed with the country’s quick development and the outlook of a progressive future. He had been living in comfortable conditions and possibly could be promoted to Consul in a less significant country that he would have to tolerate for a while, and then, later on, be placed in a reputable country in Europe, or who knows, in America.

However, right now he had a more pressing business to resolve - one that could determine his own future in diplomacy, and not really limited to only one individual. What he did not expect was to have such a counterpart in that conversation. Mr. Szwarcbart had been a brave opponent, and he clearly did not expect that. Furthermore, Van Der Vorsch felt disturbed by Mr. Szwarcbart’s determination, something you acquire either by being extremely successful, or by hardship. The Vice-Consul was leaning more and more towards the latter, and, as time passed, he had become more convinced of Mauricio’s resilience. Just the fact that Mauricio played with his answers, whether through a sensible thought process or not, already disturbed him. Most invitees to those meetings would not even dare to appear, let alone debate those very trivial matters.

Mauricio, however, had felt a constant disturbance. He was not comfortable physically and mentally about the whole proceeding. He knew deep inside that the invitation to the consulate was not a good thing. He recalled the conversation with Douchen, his wife, as she said, Go, Morris, go, it may be good news. trusting her always optimistic approach in life. And so, he did. Now he was immersed in this quasi death-match with a powerful man who could potentially change his life forever. He had been in fear of expulsion from Brazil - a fear that was pure result of his own darker mental day-dreaming and constant nightmares, in spite of the fact that there were no evident signs of any danger. Nevertheless, based on what he had gone through in his early life - and not so long ago - there were more than imaginary reasons for that. If he could only erase the memories of the perils, he and his family had been through during the war… If he only could.

Mauricio constantly wondered, in those semi-awaken moments, those moments when sleep was difficult to come. He would recollect the many terrifying moments he had been through while on the run. He often asked himself and God, whether one day he would be able to reconcile his dramatic past into a promising future. Everything in front of him should lead him to believe that, but the memories still haunted him. Was he really safe? If he could devise a different perspective, maybe then he would see the Vice-Consul as a minor interruption and not really a significant threat. Unfortunately, for more that he tried, the memories of the hiding, the times of persecution, the moments of near certain death would not let him forget what he had been through. He occasionally managed to block those thoughts and the nightmares, but never the constant anxiety, and fear. He had felt safe. He had his parents and his brother miraculously nearby, and secure. Yet he felt that all could change in a telegram. All could change with a visit to the consulate, which, in the end, could confirm a self-fulfilling prophecy.

8

Trains

Antwerp was madness. Soldiers were running back and forth. Their polished boots, light green-brown color uniforms contrasting with the dark grey officer’s garments, and serious looks were menacing. They were at war, and none of the soldiers seemed to enjoy that moment. The historical train station had few