Doctor Mina rushed over, wrapped her arm around Dolik’s waist and yanked him backward, into the crowd.
“You will control your brat in future, madam, if you know what is good for you,” said the Commandant.
Dolik struggled to get out of his mother’s grip.
The Commandant paced some more and looked out into the crush of people. Behind him, his soldiers pointed their Lugers at the hundred and one Jewish scapegoats. The men were herded off the square towards Esther Street. Mr. Kitai had his eyes fixed on his family as he was marched out.
From my vantage point, I could see where they were heading — to the wooded area beside the Jewish cemetery.
No one in the crowd spoke.
The Commandant stopped pacing. He rested a palm on the holster of his own Luger and glared at people in the crowd. “I am your Commandant,” he said. “You had best remember that. We have plenty of room for new graves.”
He turned and walked back towards me — and into the Tarnowsky house.
Chapter Nine
Black-Framed Eyeglasses
I was frozen to my spot on the balcony. Doctor Mina gripped Dolik and the two of them stumbled together towards home, Maria, Nathan and Auntie Iryna close behind. A few metres behind them was Mama, who held a flailing Leon in both arms.
The Commandant wouldn’t really have all those men killed, would he? Was this a ploy to scare us?
The Commandant approached the house, but not once did he look up. I guess he didn’t think of me at all — which was a good thing — but I desperately didn’t want to be in his house when he got here. I would make my escape using the servants’ stairs at the back.
I turned. And gasped.
A woman blocked the balcony door. Her light brown hair framed a hard-looking face. “What are you doing on my balcony?”
“It’s an… an honour to meet you, Frau Hermann,” I said, my heart still pounding from what I had just witnessed. “My name is Krystia Fediuk. My mother is Kataryna Fediuk. She cleans for the Commandant, and my sister and I help her.” The words tumbled out breathlessly. “Commandant Hermann told me to attend the announcement from here.”
“What an odd thing for him to do,” said Frau Hermann. “He is a very kind man, though, so in some ways not unexpected.”
His performance in the town square was not the act of a kind man. Ensuring that I would witness everything clearly was also not the act of a kind man. But I bobbed my head and said, “Yes, ma’am, he very kindly let me watch from here because someone stepped on my toe and I couldn’t get through the crowd.”
She glanced at my toe, which was now red and slightly swollen. “You can finish your cleaning now.”
I had just witnessed my friend’s father being marched into the woods along with a hundred other innocent men, and this woman wanted me to finish cleaning? Just looking at her made me feel ill.
“Mama and I will be back tomorrow, Frau Hermann,” I said in as calm and humble a voice as I could muster. “But there are chores I need to do at home.”
Her brow furrowed. “You Slavs are all alike. You can’t think further than your own shallow needs.”
With that, she turned and walked away from the balcony. I watched her exit into the hallway, then heard her high heels click-clacking down the curving front staircase. I followed a few steps behind, then exited by the servants’ door.
As I limped down the street, I was jolted still by the deafening staccato of gunshots. Is this what the execution of a hundred and one victims sounded like?
My conscience swirled. Why had I been so selfish, praying only for my family? I should have prayed for Dolik’s family too — for everyone in our town. I wanted to find Dolik — but I needed time to think.
I wondered if what I’d heard wasn’t really an execution. Maybe it was distant thunder or the sounds of war. Would the Commandant really go through with killing a hundred and one innocent men? It just didn’t seem possible.
I pushed through the noisy crowds until I got to my own street. As I passed our blacksmith shop, I saw that the door was slightly open. I was surprised to hear the familiar rhythm of metal banging on metal — almost as if my father were calling to me. I slipped though the door and the sound got louder. The scent of beeswax and linseed oil almost made me weep. The forge was lit, and a man was shaping a piece of iron into a horseshoe.
How I longed to see Tato just one more time. Tato would tell me what was going on and what I should do about it. This man in here now was like his ghost. When he raised his head and took off his mask, the spell was broken. His hair was blond, where Tato’s was dark, and this man’s build was much slighter.
“Greetings, Fräulein,” said the man with a smile. “Don’t tell me they sent you to be my apprentice.”
My mouth opened, but no words came out. I took a deep breath and held on to the door to keep my balance.
“I won’t bite,” he said. “Did you just step in to get away from the crowds?”
I nodded, then found my voice. “My father was a blacksmith. This was his shop.”
“The Soviets probably killed him, is that correct?” said the man.
“Cancer,” I replied. “But my uncle Roman, who was a blacksmith here as well — he was killed by the Soviets.”
The man set the tongs that still held a half-shaped horseshoe onto the forge and removed his work glove. He reached out his hand. “I’m Wolfgang Zimmer,” he said. “And who might you be?”
“Krystia Fediuk,” I said, gripping his hand in mine. “I live a few doors down.”
“Drop by any time, Fräulein Krystia.”
“Thank you, Herr Zimmer.” I said. He seemed nice enough, but the whole situation was wrong. He had been rewarded with my family’s shop just because he was German. Dolik’s father may have been executed today just because he was Jewish.
I slipped back outside.
The street was nearly empty now, but I didn’t want to go home and I couldn’t bear to see Dolik just yet.
I made my way to the Jewish cemetery that backed on to the woods. I needed to see for myself what had really happened. If the Commandant had just been trying to scare us, I’d have good news for Dolik. But maybe the men had been beaten. Maybe they needed help.
I hid behind a weathered tombstone close to the edge of the woods. Voices drifted in the wind, but the words were mostly indistinct. I stepped closer, keeping behind a leafy bush.
“The shoes. Sort them by size.” A woman’s voice. And not a soldier. It sounded like some sort of meeting.
I stepped from behind the bush and walked towards the voices.
The Germans who weren’t from Germany: Volksdeutche refugees. A few were tossing loose soil from a mound onto what looked like a freshly turned garden. Other shovels were neatly piled to the side.
Most of the Germans were calmly sorting through mounds of clothing. Shirts here, jackets there, hats there. As a shirt was picked up and shaken out, then folded, I couldn’t see a bullet hole, and there was no blood. All of the clothing seemed undamaged. But where were the Jewish men?
And then I noticed a familiar face — Frau Schneider, but her daughter, Marga, wasn’t with her. Frau Schneider was picking through the clothing along with several men and one other woman. One of the soldiers who had been handing out shovels yesterday stood among them, giving orders. They all seemed so calm, just concentrating on sorting the clothing.
So these people had been sent out here first to dig what looked like a garden ready for planting, and then they were sorting clothing? Very odd. And what would they be planting in the middle of the woods?