THE ATTIC ROOM
A Drama in Two Acts
By
Ronald John Vierling
The ATTIC ROOM is a part of BEYOND THE ABYSS, a series of six Judaica plays written between 1989, when Ronald John Vierling returned from study at Yad Vasehem Institute, Jerusalem, Israel, and 1996, when the last play in the series was staged.
BEYOND THE ABYSS is divided into two volumes. The three plays in Volume One are, in the order of their composition, ADAM'S DAUGHTER, COMMON GROUND, and SEDER. The three plays in volume Two are, in the order of their composition, THE ATTIC ROOM, THE TOWER, and THE CHILDREN OF MOSES DAVAR.
For Erica Eisenberg and Jose Ruiz
All Israel . . . cried . . . unto the Lord,
Because . . . death was before their eyes.
Esther 14 The Apocrypha
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
| Adam Czerniakow | Chair, the Jewish Council, Warsaw Ghetto, Warsaw, Poland, 1939-1942 |
| Rachael Wyze | Journalist, Jerusalem Post, Jerusalem, Israel |
SETTING
The Attic Room is set in Warsaw, Poland on the fourth floor of a musty smelling, aged, and ornate brownstone building that no longer exists in what was once the Jewish ghetto, which was destroyed by the Nazis in 1943 following the Jewish uprising. That is, while it is presented in the play as one of the few buildings of its type still standing in the aftermath of World War II, the building is really impossible. For if the military attack on Warsaw did not destroy it, the ravages of time almost certainly would. However, that does not matter to us now. The building is; the room is; the set for the story is. It is a dream play after all.
The attic room itself is sixteen feet by sixteen feet. Three rather narrow windows built into the same framework occupy the center of the US wall. The landing hallway entrance to the room is SR in the middle of the wall. No other doors or windows break the wall planes. The room is furnished with simple, worn furniture. A single cot style bed juts out from the USL corner at a forty five-degree angle towards the center of the room. The bed is covered by a blue gray blanket. A pillow is under the blanket. Books are piled high on the SL side of the bed, as if close at hand for the occupant so he can read at his leisure.
A drafting board stands in the USR corner, also at a forty-five degree angle, its working side facing CS, revealing what would appear from the audience's vantage to be plans of a city or a part of a city. A tall backless wooden stool stands in front of the drafting table. A bare bulb suspended on a cord illuminates the drafting table.
On the DS side, an overstuffed chair sits in the SR corner at a forty-five degree angle, facing toward the center of the room. An old-fashioned floor lamp stands next to the chair on the door side.
In the DSL quarter of the room, an oblong table of no more than five feet in length and three and one half feet wide stands long side parallel to the front of the stage. The table is lit by a bare bulb hanging on a cord. A small hot plate sits on the table; the electrical cord plugged into the same socket as the bare bulb. A steaming teapot sits on the hot plate. Two white porcelain mugs sit on the table. A tea tin sits next to the teapot, as well as a tin of sugar cubes. One straight backed wood chair sits at each end of the table. The room contains no other furniture, save for the old fashioned Persian style six feet by four feet rug lying in the middle of the floor.
All of the action in the play takes place within that space.
Act One
Date: July 23, 1992
Time: 7 p.m.
(Lights come up to playing level. A stocky man wearing dark dress shoes, dark dress pants, a white long sleeved dress shirt buttoned at the collar but without a tie, is bent over a drafting board. His suit coat lies on the cot style bed nearby. The man is balding. He wears round steel rimmed glasses. Working intently, he does not hear the young woman who enters and moves to the doorframe, which allows entrance and exit to and from the room. The young woman wears khaki slacks, dark loafer shoes, a blue long sleeved work shirt for a blouse, and a dark blue blazer style jacket. She carries an Israeli Military style backpack over her right shoulder. Her hair is dark and heavy with intricate long curls in the style popular with young Mediterranean Jewish women.
The man is Adam Czerniakow. The young woman is Rachael Wyze. (Standing in the doorway, the young woman starts to knock. Then she does not. Instead, she speaks.)
Mr. Czerniakow?
(Somewhat louder.) Mr. Czerniakow? (Adam turns slowly and looks at the figure in the doorframe.)
(Stepping through the open door.) Adam Czerniakow?
(Slowly.) Yes. I am Adam Czerniakow.
The chair of the Jewish Council? In the Warsaw ghetto? (Adam turns more fully so he can see the young woman.)
(Carefully.) Who are you?
Are you the Adam Czerniakow who was Chair of the Jewish Council . . . in 1942?
Yes. I was chair of the Council from 1939 to 1942.
(Interrupting.) Then I've finally found you.
Yes. You've (Puzzled) finally found me. But who are you?
I am . . . Rachael Wyze.
Rachael Weiss?
No. Wyze. With a y and a z.
With a y and a z?
Yes. Wyze. (They exchange nods and careful smiles.)
(Clears his throat.) And you wish to meet Adam Czerniakow?
Yes. I do. I mean . . . I wish to meet you.
(Cutting her off.) Well, (pause), you've met me. (Gesturing that she should enter.) Please Miss Wyze. (He moves to the cot and retrieves his suitcoat, putting it on as he completes his invitation.) Come in. (Rachael steps more fully into the room as he puts on his coat.)
(Gesturing toward the drafting board behind him.) I was just working on a map of the ghetto. I didn't hear you at first.
Yes. I'm sorry to have disturbed you, but I've come very far.
And where have you come from, Miss Wyze?
From Israel.
Israel?
Yes. Jerusalem, Israel.
Jerusalem (nods as if thinking) . . . Palestine. I always thought of it as Jerusalem, Palestine, when I grew up.
It's been Israel since 1948. When it became a Jewish State.
Ah, yes. The Zionists. I remember. I knew people in Warsaw who were Zionists. In the 1920's. (Adds.) And 30's. They too always spoke of Palestine as Israel. But . . . (as if distracted) I don't hear much about the outside world any more. Not since 1944. '45. I had visitors then. During the last years of the war. I even had some visitors in 1946. After the war. But since then there haven't been very many. You'll have to forgive me I'm not as informed as I should be. (Looks at Rachael carefully.) But please, my manners. I am forgetting my manners. My wife used to say to me, "Adam, you get so caught up talking that you forget your manners." (Hesitates again.) Put down your pack. You must come in and tell me why you've come from . . . Israel.
(Putting her pack on the floor next to the overstuffed chair; moves to CS.) What are you working on?
Ah. Yes. Well, it's a map (gestures she should come to the drafting table to see) of the ghetto. All of the streets and all of the houses. I had to keep track of who lived where. I had to take care of so many things.
(Moving closer so she can see the map.) As Chair of the Jewish Council?
Yes. I had to be sure that the Jews had to be fed. Housed. That the Germans did what they promised. There were so many Jews to take care of.
That's what I've come to talk to you about. The ghetto. What it was like.
You wish to know about the Warsaw Ghetto?
Yes.
(Puzzled.) Forgive me, Miss Wyze. I don't mean to question your sincerity. But you are a . . . young woman. You must have a very busy life in Israel. Why would you wish to know about the ghetto?
I'm a journalist.
A journalist?
With the Jerusalem Post.
I see. And the Jerusalem Post wishes to know about the ghetto?
No, I wish to know about the ghetto.
The Jerusalem Post didn't send you?
No. I've come all this way on my own.
Well, you've come a long way on your own, Miss Wyze, to find out about the ghetto.
And about you. I've come to find out about you.
You want to find out about me?
I got to Warsaw three days ago. I tried inquiring. But (looks at him intently) I couldn't get any information. Then I found an old man. He was sitting in a cafe across the street from a synagogue. (Quickly.) Did you know that there is only one synagogue left in Warsaw?
(Pained by what she has said, but preparing to ignore her question.) And the old man helped you?
He recognized your name. He said he knew where the Jewish Council had once had its office. He told me to go to the corner of Geisa and Zamenhofa streets. He described what the building . . . what this building looked like.
And so you have come?
Yes. (Adds quickly.) I've read books about the Warsaw ghetto. And first hand accounts by people who survived. (Adam turns back to the drafting table. He begins looking closely at the map, and holding a pencil, begins checking off items on a list printed on a piece of paper next to the map. At the same time, Rachael moves back toward the overstuffed chair.)
(When Adam does not respond.) I've even read your diaries.
(Stops but does not turn around. Looks up.) Someone published my diaries?
Yes. Scholars. (He turns around slowly and looks at Rachael.)
Then you are a scholar in addition to being a journalist, Miss Wyze?
No.
But you've read my diaries?
Yes. All but notebook five. You wrote nine. But number five was lost. (Hurriedly.) And I know my coming here must seem strange. But it's very important, Mr. Czerniakow. It's very important.
(Smiling courteously, looking at her carefully.) I dare say, it must be. (Hesitates for a moment. Then goes on.) Well, Rachael Wyze, as you have come from so far to ask me questions (he moves slowly across the room to the kitchen table), perhaps you should begin. (As Rachael responds, he sits down and turns so he can see her.)
You'll talk to me?
It would be most inconsiderate if I did not.
Yes, it would. But I appreciate that you will.
(Nodding his assent.) Do you wish to know when the ghetto was established? Or do you know things like that already?
I know the historical facts. How the Nazis set the boundaries in 1939, after they'd defeated Poland. I know some things about how they treated the Jews.
Then what exactly do you wish to know from me, Miss Wyze . . . (smiling and adding, to put her at more ease) with a y and a z?
(Stands. Moves slowly back toward the drafting table.) I want to know what was it like every day! (Stops and looks at him.) Dealing with the Gestapo! What could you expect?
(Turns slightly sideways in his chair so he can cross his legs.) You never knew what to expect. That's what you could expect.
I don't understand what you mean.
People think the Nazis were intelligent. That they were well organized. But here, in the ghetto, from day to day . . . I always suspected that they were making it up as they went along.
But I thought that at the Wannsee Conference. In 1942. In Berlin. I thought they planned everything out.
Yes. In 1942. But the ghetto was established in 1939. After Germany defeated Poland. Things were very different in 1939.
Are you saying that the Nazis didn't know what they wanted to accomplish?
(Rising, moving a step or two around the table away from Rachael, who sits down on the drafting table stool as he stands.) No. I am not saying they did not know what they wished to accomplish. I am saying they just didn't know how to go about it. And because they didn't seem to know what they were doing, it was impossible for us Jews to know for sure what they had in mind. Or how to respond. Not in 1939, at least. Later, of course, in 1941, 1942, it was obvious what they planned. But by then, there wasn't anything we could do to stop them. So I'm answering your question by saying that, in the beginning, when they first confined us Jews to the ghetto here in Warsaw, I don't think they understood the problems a ghetto like this would create. Not just for the Jews. For them, too. (Hesitates.) Does that make sense?
Yes. It does. It's just that what you say about the Nazis is surprising.
Why is it surprising? It was a very complicated thing the Nazis had in mind. No government had ever said it wanted to destroy a whole people before. And we Jews were living everywhere in Europe, from . . . Russia to England. There weren't any rules for the Nazis to follow when they began.
I know that. It's just that I grew up hearing about how, from the very first, Hitler made his intentions toward the Jews clear. In speeches. At rallies.
Oh, he did. He gave speeches. But to us Jews, what he said was . . . unbelievable. So we didn't take him very seriously. (Hesitation.) I traveled in Germany when I was a student. I heard things. Many German politicians said similar things. It was unpleasant to hear Jews spoken of as undesirable. But how could anyone really have known what would happen? Besides, I was a Pole. I lived in Poland. Poland had an army. But Germany . . . even in 1933? In 1934? Why would anyone have thought Germany would invade Poland? (Gestures broadly.) France, maybe. (Shaking his head.) Even German Jews hated the way France had behaved after the war ended in 1918. They'd been so arrogant. All of that reparations nonsense. Any fool could see Germany would never be able to pay what France demanded. (Adding, but animated.) Or, frankly, we thought maybe Hitler would make war against Russia. The fascists hated the communists. Hitler spoke against the communists almost as much as he spoke against the Jews.
But he did speak about Germany's need to . . . go east? To acquire more land.
Yes. But it was very vague. German volkist dreams. Land for the Aryans. The chosen people. In some ways, he sounded like the Zionists with their hopes for a Jewish homeland. Except the Zionists thought the Palestinians would understand. But with Hitler, it just didn't seem real. Not until just before the war actually began.
(Moves around the drafting table toward the CS end.) But didn't he claim that Germans living in Poland were being treated unfairly? I've seen German propaganda films. Young German women being raped by ugly, retarded Polish men. Didn't that tell you something?
(Looks at her carefully.) Ah, yes. We did know about such things. (Shakes his head.) But at the time those films about Poland were almost laughable. We knew things like that weren't happening. And besides, he said even more about Austria. The Nazis said Austria was really part of Germany. So it was obvious to everyone that they would try to capture Austria. But Poland? Why would they want to capture Poland? RACHAEL (Shaking her head.) I'm sorry, but all of that sounds like rationalization. Because no matter how you explain it, when the time came, you were simply unprepared.
(After a moment.) Yes. (Nodding.) Unfortunately, you are correct. We were terribly unprepared.
(Her voice tightening.) In fact, you were tragically unprepared. (When Adam does not respond immediately.)
(Slowly, precisely.) Wouldn't you agree that you were tragically unprepared?
(Hesitates; moves back to the chair and sits down. His tone of authoritative confidence is suddenly gone.) Yes, Miss Wyze. As you have expressed it. We were tragically unprepared.
(Carefully but with an accusatory edge.) And who was to blame for that, Mr. Czerniakow?
(Looks at her sharply.) What do you mean?
Just what I said. Who was to blame?
For the defeat of Poland? The Polish government. The Polish army.
I don't mean who was the blame for the defeat of Poland. I mean, who was to blame for the fact the Jews didn't believe the Nazis were serious? Who was to blame for the fact you were tragically unprepared?
(Leans forward and turns and looks at Rachael.) I suppose . . . history was to blame, Miss Wyze.
History? (Warily.) What do you mean, history?
Just what I said. History. What had happened before. Pogroms. In Russia. All over Europe. Politics.
The fact that Jews have been repressed, then liberated, then repressed again? Over the centuries.
Yes. Things were always changing. (Almost smiling.) Things would be said about the Jews. A few bad things would happen. But it would be limited. A small place. A village in Russia. A province in Germany. Austria. Then it would blow over. And things would go back to normal.
But Hitler was so much more specific. He made his whole political career out of hating the Jews. Why didn't you take him seriously?
Because (sighing) we thought it would pass. That's what Jews in Germany thought. And if that's what they thought in Germany, what were we to think in Poland? (Looks at her.) Not that we shouldn't have been smarter. (Nods bitterly.) We saw what happened in Spain. What the fascists did under Franco. And we certainly knew about what Mussolini did in Italy. So I would be the first to agree that we should have been more alert. We should have believed. But we didn't. (Looks at her carefully.) So if we are to blame for anything, it is that we didn't want to think anything would happen. (Turns away.)
(Moves back around the table slowly, looking at the map but not at Adam until she finishes her statement; speaking very slowly.) So . . . Jewish leaders failed, Adam Czerniakow.
What?
(Even more slowly.) Jewish leaders failed. They failed in Jerusalem when the Remans destroyed the Second Temple. I've read enough history to know that there were leaders at the time the Second Temple was being attacked who argued that the Jews should have opposed Roman occupation. They argued the Jews could have made a stand.
Wait a minute, Miss Wyze. You're confusing two very different things.
I'm talking about failed leadership.
The Jews left Jerusalem rather than sacrifice the People.
What do you mean, the People?
The Jewish People. The Jews might have made a stand, as you call it. Started another armed rebellion. But what would have been the cost, Miss Wyze? Do you want to keep a shrine but kill the People? The culture? That's what the Jerusalem leaders had to decide.
The leaders in Jerusalem took the People, as you call us, into the Diaspora. So we ended up scattered all over Europe. To what end? Repression. Persecution. (With greater emphasis.) Pogroms. So they failed. No matter how you want to explain it away, they failed. But what did you have to decide when you heard Hitler's speeches? Whether you should take him seriously or not. Which you didn't. So history, as you call it, history (carefully) says you failed.
(Startled.) I failed?
Someone failed, Mr. Czerniakow.
You are right, Miss Wyze. (Standing.) Someone failed. Many people failed. But I was not a leader.
That's not true. You'd taught in Jewish vocational schools. You were active in the Jewish labor movement. You even published essays attacking the Polish guild laws, which had tried to dismiss Jews from the jobs they'd been doing for years. And when the Nazis invaded Poland, you were named Chair of the Jewish Council.
You have misinterpreted what you've read, Miss Wyze. You're giving me too much credit. I was a part of the Jewish labor movement because I was an engineer. I saw what the Poles tried to do to Jewish workers. I was named Chair because most of the previous members of the council ran away after the Polish army was defeated. I was simply here when the need arose.
But you were a part of the Jewish community.
I was only a very small part. A very small part. And I wasn't any wiser than anyone else.
Which is not an excuse.
No, it is not an excuse, but it is the truth. Besides, what should we have done? You're arguing from the advantage of living in a Jewish state.
Which we have had to defend.
That may be. But let's stick to one issue at a time. Good God, Miss Wyze, think for a moment. Even if we'd taken Hitler seriously from the beginning. Even if we'd known the Polish army would collapse against the Germans. There were millions of Jews living in Poland. Where would we have gone? East into Russia? Where thousands of Jews had been murdered in pogroms under the Czar? Or maybe you think we should have gone south all the way to Turkey, where the Armenians had been slaughtered during the war. Or to fascist Italy. Or Spain? Maybe you think we should have put millions of Polish Jews on trains and gone to Spain?
(Starts to interrupt.) That's not what I'm saying.
(Going on.) Even if we'd had the money, do you think the French would have let millions of Jews cross France into Spain? (Looks at her intently, surprised she has so aroused his anger.) Maybe if you'd been here, you could have persuaded the English or the Americans to take more Jews. Because we couldn't. Not even after the war began. No one wanted us, Miss Wyze. No one wanted Poland's Jews. So we were here! Right here! This was our home! So if you've come all the way from . . . Israel . . . to accuse me of failing the Jews of Warsaw, then you had better go back and (gestures angrily) consult your scholars, again. Because you are wrong! You don't understand anything. (He stops speaking and looks at her; he is angry and shaken.)
(After a moment.) Will you tell me about the map? (Turns to Adam.) About what you had to do as Chair of the Jewish Council?
What?
Will you tell me about the map? The one you were working on. (Slowly.) About what you had to do as Chair of the Jewish Council?
(Softly but offended.) Why should I bother? You have apparently only come here to accuse.
No. I have not come only to accuse.
That's all you've done so far.
Then I will stop.
No. It would be better if you told me why you have come. Why you wish to know about the ghetto. (Before she can respond.) And me. It would be better if you explained why you wish to know about me.
I don't know if I can do that.
You don't know if you can or if you will.
I don't know if I have the right words.
You have the right words to accuse me.
I didn't say I was being fair.
Good. Because you aren't being fair. If you've read about the ghetto as you claim, then you must have some understanding of the nightmare. And that's the only word that is even close to being adequate. Nightmare. And if you've read my diaries, then you must have some notion of what I went through. (Hesitates.) I am not asking that you give up your passion, even if you won't explain it to me. But you should at least let me try to answer your very difficult questions before you start to argue. (Rachael looks at him carefully. Then she nods in agreement.)
I will. (Quickly adding.) I mean it. I will. I'll be more civil. (Waits. When he does not respond, she goes on.) It's just that I'm a sabra.
A sabra? What does that mean?
A native born Israeli. (Shrugs her shoulders.) When we discuss things, sometimes we become too assertive.
Or aggressive.
(Smiles.) Yes. That too. But I still need to know.
(Sarcastically.) And you have come so far.
Yes. I have. (A tense moment passes.)
Then you will have to understand what the ghetto really was, Miss Wyze, before you can understand what I had to do. (Rachael waits.)
And to do that you will have to start with what it was not.
What it was not?
Yes. That's crucial. So you won't make the mistake we Jews made at the time. (Moves to the drafting table. Speaks while still standing.) When all of it happened, when the Nazis invaded Poland and ordered that the Jewish Council take part in organizing the ghetto, we thought . . . we were led to believe . . . that confining us Jews was a way of protecting us from all sorts of dangers. I mean, we knew that the Nazis hated Jews. So they certainly weren't doing this for our good. But with all the disorder . . . disrupted food supplies, destroyed homes. Shops closed. All of that. And with the way the Poles were acting . . .
The way the Poles were acting?
(Hesitates.) Yes. The animosity.
Toward you? Toward Jews?
Yes.
Wait. Why would the Poles feel animosity toward Jews? You'd both been defeated by the Nazis. You were both suffering.
That's true. But it didn't matter. The Poles have always been prejudiced against the Jews. It's part of Polish culture. Polish Christianity. It's part of church teaching. Anti-Jewish theology. It's always been there. Since the Middle Ages. Since the Jews arrived.
(Turns away toward the windows as she speaks.) But you were part of the Polish society. (Turns to him.) I mean, you personally. You were an engineer. You'd studied at Polish universities.
Yes. I had. So had most of my friends. So I knew Poles. I worked with them. We got along. I was assimilated. But that didn't matter. I also knew . . . Jews knew . . . no matter what it looked like, that there were anti-Jewish feelings everywhere. Most Poles were simply too polite to say them out loud. When the Nazis came, the feelings were turned loose.
So you had to deal with the Nazis and the Poles?
Not all Poles. I don't want to mislead you. Stefan Starzynski, the mayor of Warsaw, he was always helpful. People like that. But out in the neighborhoods where Jews lived. Sometimes next door to Poles. Or in business. Small businesses. Shops. Things like that. (Hesitates.) When the war came and Poland was defeated, the resentment came to the surface.
So you thought . . . what? That if the Jews came together you'd be able to . . .
(Quickly.) We thought it would be better . . . under the circumstances. That we could protect ourselves. But we didn't really understand what the Nazis were going to do. (Looks away for a moment.) It's very hard to remember now what we thought then. When it all began. Or why we decided. It was so long ago. But I remember that at first we thought we'd suffer some, but that we'd be left alone to take care of our own. That the Warsaw ghetto would be just for Warsaw Jews.
But it wasn't
No. Not for very long. The ghetto was a part of a process. It took a while to understand that. We weren't going to be left alone to organize ourselves so we could then try to live out the war. The ghetto was designed to slowly destroy Jews. When the Warsaw Jews were crowded in together, it was bad enough. At one point, there were almost a half million of us crammed into a small section of the city. Running water was a problem. Living quarters were horrible. Families had to be moved in and out of small apartments so we could give everyone shelter. And illness. Illness was beyond stopping. There just wasn't enough medical care. But we went to work, waiting each day for some new edict Nazi administrators would dream up. Just when we'd thought we might survive, the Germans brought more Jews from outlying districts and told us we had to house them, too. At the same time, the Nazis took away some of the blocks and gave them to Poles. We were nearly starving anyway. But when that happened, when other Jews were brought to the ghetto to live with us in an even smaller area, nearly starving was the best one could hope for. Because some Jews started really starving.
What happened?
Dead bodies started showing up in the street. Dead Jews.
No. I didn't mean what happened to the Jews. I know what happened to the Jews. I mean, when you finally saw what the Nazis were really trying to do, what did you decide? (Adam stands up and moves toward his cot. He looks at the cot for a moment. Then he sits down on one end, turned toward the kitchen table, so he cannot see Rachael, who is still near the drafting table.)
I had to decide on a new tactic. If we weren't going to be left alone, we had to have a very specific tactic.
And did you?
Yes. I started with the idea that I would make sure every single Jew had a chance to survive. No matter how many people the Nazis put in the ghetto, no matter what the other Council members said or did, I would fight the Nazis for food. I would fight the Nazis to let Jewish men have outside jobs so the ghetto would have income, even if it meant we did things that helped the Nazis in the short run. If we could eat, even very little, but if we could eat, I would be able to keep the people calm so they wouldn't anger the Nazis. We'd trade our labor for more income so we could buy food. Some days I had to provide almost 10,000 men to do labor for the Nazis. Which I did, because I knew we had to cooperate so we could make deals with them to let us provide doctors and medicines. Things like that. (Starts to turn to her, but then does not.) We had to make our own bureaucracy to deal with the Nazi bureaucracy. And so we did. And so Jews were put back into shops. Into factories. That's when I saw there was another problem.
Which was?
Rich Jews.
Rich Jews?
Yes. Rich Warsaw Jews.
What do you mean?
(His body tensing.) Most Warsaw Jews were laboring class. Craftsmen. The Jews from other districts who were brought here were the same. They had to work at something to have incomes. But the incomes the Germans paid for war labor was not enough to buy what little food was available. To provide kitchens so we could distribute food, the Council had to tax Jews. The tax was put on incomes. Which affected the poor Jews. But rich Jews were living on assets. Things they had. That they could sell. (Turns to her.) I tried to get the Council to change the rule, to make it a tax on spending. But there was too much resistance. So poor Jews starved while rich Jews still went to nightclubs, and Jewish gangsters made money providing luxuries.
(Slowly.) Are you saying that . . . some Jews suffered while others did not?
Yes. And no. All Jews suffered. But some (turns to her and smiles bitterly, standing) Jews suffered more than others. (Nods.) Of course, when their assets ran out, even the rich Jews started suffering.
You couldn't get help from outside?
Outside the ghetto? The Poles?
Yes. There must have been some who . . .
(Cutting her off.) There were some. Not many, but some. But even most of them wanted to make a profit. (Shakes his head.) But most of all, there was hatred. Whenever the Nazis would confiscate a Jewish home or a Jewish business, it would be given to a Pole. So the Poles loved what was happening. The Gestapo printed Polish language newspapers, which stirred up more hatred of us Jews. Even Polish underground newspapers wrote anti-Jewish articles. (Moves back toward the kitchen table.) What was most clear, Miss Wyze, is that the Jews in the ghetto were all alone. I could try to set up schools. I could try to set up orphanages. Our kitchens fed thousands of people every day. But it didn't matter, did it? Jews kept starving. Jews were sent away to labor camps. It was all futile. Foolish and futile. (Stops and almost laughs.) Did you know, we even tried to keep the arts alive?
Yes. I knew that.
It's really quite amazing, isn't it? (Turns to her.) What other people have you ever heard of . . . when they were forced to live in hell, what other people but the Jews would try to make sure their actors performed plays and their musicians performed classical music and their painters displayed their work? There were days when I thought we Jews really are crazy. We got permission to open three synagogues. But then the Nazis took away the permission. Because Jews had gone to pray. In the middle of all the suffering, Jews had actually gotten up enough strength to go pray. The Nazis couldn't stand seeing that. No matter what they did, we kept on being Jews. We were starving to death. Yet, we kept trying to hold ourselves together. Not just eat food. But hold ourselves together.
The People.
(Moves to the overstuffed chair.) Yes. The People. Just like Jerusalem. The Second Temple. But I was wrong. I was horribly wrong. I chose the wrong tactic. (Looking at her bitterly.) So you are correct, Miss Wyze. I am what you called . . . failed leadership.
Mr. Czerniakow, (agonized) I shouldn't have said that.
(Going on, as if she had not even spoken.) When the Nazis first came, and I decided that every Jew was going to have a chance to survive, I didn't know if each one would. Or which ones would. But I was going to make sure each one had a chance. I spread things around. Food. Housing. Work. But that was a terrible mistake. Because it gave the Jews a feeling that if they simply adjusted to the conditions and kept busy, they might survive. I mean, I didn't want Jews trying to escape. Running all over Poland and getting killed. That's where I was wrong. Where the whole Council was wrong. We tried to be rational, but we were facing something irrational. We should have known that Jewish culture in Poland was finished. The Nazis weren't going to let us keep alive the culture they said they hated. So we should have sent more of our people . . . our young people . . . into the forests to fight. Or to simply try to get away. That's what I can't forgive myself for not doing. For not helping them fight back by helping them to run away.
Mr. Czerniakow . . .
Or I should have decided among the Jews in the ghetto . . . who should live and who should die. If I'd had the courage to abandon some of them, perhaps more would have survived.
How can you say that?
(Looking at her, startled, as if he'd been speaking to himself, and she'd interrupted him.) How can I say what?
That you should have abandoned some of the Jews? (Before he can answer.)
Maybe you should have helped some to escape. Maybe you should have done that. But you couldn't have just let some Jews die without trying . . . I mean, Jews don't abandon Jews.
(Quickly, aroused.) Yes, they do.
What do you mean?
Did the Jews in England help? Did the Jews in America help?
The Jews in America? What could they have done?
(Angrily.) I don't know. Something. They could have done something. Maybe. (Turns to her.) I don't know what to think anymore. It was madness, Miss Wyze. All madness. (Almost laughs in desperation.) Once, after the walls had been built around the ghetto, the Nazis came to me and said the Jews had to pay for the cost. I asked them why. We Jews hadn't wanted the walls to be built in the first place. Then the Nazis said they'd built the walls to protect the Poles from the diseases the Jews spread. Typhus. Other illnesses. (Shakes his head slowly.) I told the Nazis that the Jews hadn't had typhus or any other diseases until we'd been crowded into the ghetto and forced to live in such unsanitary conditions.
What did the Nazis do when you said that?
They took me away and beat me and tried to make me admit they were right. (Bitter smile.) Which I wouldn't do. Finally, they got tired of kicking me. They told me to go back to work.
But some Jews did survive the ghetto, Mr. Czerniakow.
(Moving to the overstuffed chair and sitting down.) Some. But not many. Not enough.
(Hesitantly.) My mother got out. (Adam looks at her intently. A long silence passes.)
(Nods thoughtfully.) I thought it must be something like that.
The reason I would come all this way?
Yes.
Well, you were right. I grew up hearing her stories. She wouldn't talk to anyone else in the family. Not even my father. Or my two brothers. But she would talk to me. (Rachael moves around the drafting table and closer to the windows. She looks out of them. She speaks over her shoulder.) I've hated you for a long time, Adam Czerniakow.
(Takes a deep breath.) I knew. From the moment you called out my name. I could feel it.
(Without turning around to face him.) Ever since I was a little girl, ever since I was old enough to understand, whenever I'd go for walks with my mother near the kibbutz where she became a woman . . . where I was raised . . . We'd stop on the top of one particular hill. We could see for miles from there. Across fields, green fields. That had once been desert. But which Jews turned into green fields. (She turns around to face him.) We could even see the Mediterranean. On the horizon. (Nods slowly. Then is silent for a moment.)
(Not looking at her.) I have waited for fifty years for you to come.
My mother told me about coming to Palestine. About how it became Israel. The struggle. The fear. How the Arabs had tried to kill them. Destroy the farms. (Hesitates; then goes on.) She told me about growing up. Meeting my father the first time she went to Jerusalem to pray at the Wall after it was liberated. She told me about how they married, and he moved to the kibbutz to work with her. (More moved than she can manage, she turns away. Struggling, she goes on.) Finally, one day two years ago, two years ago today, she told me about how, in 1942, in July, 1942, the Nazis came to the ghetto building where she lived with her family. (She turns away toward the windows. She starts to speak; then she does not. She turns back to face Adam.) Oh, God. I can't do this.
You can't do what?
Accuse you. Hold you responsible.
Or hate me?
Yes. I can't hate you. Not any more. Because I don't know if I can blame you or not. My mother does. She blames you. She wants to hate you.
You still haven't told me what happened. Perhaps she is right to hate me.
(Moves to the end of the cot.) It was very early in the morning. The Nazis came up the stairs. There was a lot of noise. That's what awoke my mother's parents and her brother and two sisters. People were screaming. So they all got up and started trying to decide what to do. Just then, the soldiers broke down the door. My mother says her mother began to scream. That her father hurled himself at the soldiers, but they knocked him down and kicked him. She says her brother grabbed his sisters and tried to push them away from the soldiers. But the soldiers grabbed him and pulled him away. That's when . . . she says her brother screamed at her that she should hide. He screamed in Yiddish. There was a wall cupboard. Her brother broke free of the soldiers and ran at his sisters. In the confusion, he pushed my mother into the wall cupboard. He was trying to do the same to his other sisters when the soldiers grabbed him again. But Eli. That was his name. Eli kept throwing himself against the cupboard so the door would be jammed shut. So the soldiers would be so busy trying to hold onto him that they wouldn't look inside. Then suddenly, it was silent. My mother said . . . my mother said all of a sudden it was silent. She couldn't hear anything. Except people in the hallway. As if the soldiers had gotten her whole family out of the room and out onto the stairs. So she stayed in the cupboard. Because that's what Eli had told her to do. Stay in the cupboard. She was crying, but she wasn't making any sounds. She just stayed there curled up and shaking and crying silently but not moving. (Rachael stops talking. She sits down slowly on the cot.)
What happened next, Miss Wyze? How did your mother get out of the building? How did she get out of the ghetto?
She didn't come out of the cupboard for hours. By the time she did, the whole building was empty. She crept down the stairs very slowly, but she still did not hear anything. Even when she got to the street, she still did not hear anything. Then she remembered that her father had talked about a Pole he knew. A friend. From when they'd worked together. She remembered lying awake one night when her father and mother were talking. About escaping.
(Nodding.) Ah.
Yes. So she came out of the cupboard and out into the hallway and then down the stairs very quietly until she got to the door that led out of the back of the building. Because she remembered what her father had said. How he'd worked it out. How they could follow the back alley to a place in the ghetto wall where his friend had loosened some bricks so they could escape. (Adam waits.)
My mother now thinks that the friend . . . her father's friend . . . must have known the Nazis were going to send the Jews to the camps. To Treblinka. To die. That's why he'd been willing to arrange to meet my mother's father and . . . (She stops for a moment.) But my mother's mother . . . my grandmother . . . she'd been too afraid. She said that you (turning to him) . . . that you had assured them that the Nazis were too busy fighting the war to worry about killing Jews. (Adam turns away.)
My mother says they did not go to the place on the night the friend had said they should meet him. But she did, because she was alone, and there was no one else. She went along the alley. She could hear soldiers blocks away, and Jews screaming and Germans cursing. And gun fire. She says she remembers hearing gun fire.
Was the friend waiting? (Turns back to her.) The Pole?
Yes. My mother said she got to the place. She felt along the wall to the place her father had described. She'd played in the alley sometimes. Most of the buildings . . . the back of the buildings . . . were part of the wall. (She looks at Adam.) I don't have to tell you that. But behind their building there was still an alley. And she went along until she came to the place. She felt along the corner where her father had said the bricks were loosened. She was very afraid. But she kept feeling until she found it. One brick came loose. Then another. Then enough. So she could pull them out and crawl through the hole to the other side.
(After a moment.) But was her father's friend there? Where he'd promised he would be.
My mother said the noise was still going on in the next street. But it was quiet where she got through. She stood on the other side of the wall without speaking. Just listening. Then she heard a voice. A man's voice. He said, "Josef?" Which was her father's name. Then she whispered, "Esther." Then there was silence, as if the man who'd spoken had become frightened. Then the voice said again, "Josef?" So my mother said, "No, Esther." Then she walked toward the voice. All of a sudden, the man was standing in front of her. "I am Josef's daughter," she said to the man. Without saying another word, he took her by the hand, and they walked away very quickly.
Away from . . . hell.
(Hesitates.) Yes. She just walked away . . . from hell.
How old was she?
How old was she then?
Yes. How old was she that day . . . when her family was taken?
Seven. (Looks at him.) She was seven.
(Closes his eyes for a moment.) And they all died? Her family.
Yes. At Treblinka. (A moment passes.)
And what did the man do with your mother?
He took her to another friend, a woman, who took her to the country to a farm. She stayed there in hiding for the rest of the war.
She was very fortunate.
Yes, she was. She knows that, even though I don't think she's ever forgiven herself for living. She talks about her brother and sisters. She's never gotten over losing them.
But how did she get to Israel? (Rachael looks at Adam intently.)
The farmer and his wife, they helped her get to Palestine after the war was over. They had known people in the underground. They had let their farm be used . . . the woods . . . a secret place away from the house. So the farmer and his wife knew people who knew people.
What day was it?
When she went to Palestine?
No. When she got out of the ghetto. When the Nazis came and took her family.
It was July, 1942.
Yes. I know it was July. But what day was it? (Rachael does not reply.)
Was it the first day?
The first day?
The first day the German soldiers started coming into the buildings to take away the Jews?
Yes. I think she said that. There had been rumors. She said her father had come and told them that people were saying the Nazis were going to take away all of the Jews. But the morning they actually came . . . it was the first time . . .
(Interrupting.) Then it was July 23rd.
How do you know that?
Because that's the day the Nazis began to clear the ghetto. That's the day they began to take away children. (Stands up slowly and moves toward the drafting table.) You must have known that. Your mother must have told you. You may not even remember that she did. But she must have. Or you could have read it in my diaries. My last entry is July 23rd. So you must have known.
Why is it so important to you?
(Turning away.) Miss Wyze, today is . . . July 23rd. There are many things I do not know. Many things that have happened since that day. I live a very . . . quiet life, here. But I know that date. I have been counting every day ever since . . . July 23rd, 1942. Because that was the day . . . this is the day . . . fifty years later . . . (slowly, painfully) this is the day that I killed myself. And you knew that, Rachael Wyze. You knew that!
Yes. I did.
And I've been waiting for you to show up ever since. Every July 23rd, I have waited from sunrise to sunset for you to come here. For someone to come here. Because I knew . . . I've always known. That someday . . . on this day . . . that one of you would show up. (He starts to laugh.) But you fooled me.
(Standing, turning to him.) How did I fool you?
I always thought that . . . it would be one of the children who died. A visitor from the gas chambers. Someone returned from hell to tell me what it was like. But you fooled me. I didn't think it would be . . . the child of one of the children.
The second generation?
Yes. The second generation. (Agitated.) So now that you've come. All the way from Israel. Now that you've come! What do you want from me? To tell me I have not been forgiven?
No. I have come to be with you.
To be with me?
Yes. To be here with you.
No. You can't lie to me now. We've said too much to each other for you to lie to me now.
I'm telling the truth. I've come to be with you
Why would you come to be with me? What do you want from me? Have you come to see me die again? Well, I can't. I took my poison once. The pill I'd been saving since the first day the Nazis came into Warsaw. I can't die again. (Adam moves away from the drafting table toward the overstuffed chair. Rachael watches him, afraid.)
I don't want to see you die. I know what dying looks like. I came to see you. I've come to be with you! So I can understand what happened to you.
No. You can never understand what happened to me. No one can ever understand what happened to me. Because what the Nazis asked was impossible. Four thousand children! Do you hear me. They wanted me to send four thousand children to be deported. But by then I knew what it meant! What was happening to the Jews. What would happen to the children. So I killed myself. The worst of all sins. Because the Nazis told me I must send . . . children! There was nothing else I could do!
You could have stayed with them!
I could have stayed with them?
You could have gone with the children. To the trains. To Treblinka. To the ovens!
My, God! What good would that have done? I would have been taking them to their deaths.
They would not have been so afraid. Don't you understand? They would not have been so afraid.
But I was afraid. I was too afraid. I was not a hero. I was only one man.
You were the one man they had!
But I was not enough. I was trapped just like everyone else. Trapped in something no one understood. Something no one will ever understand! (Looks at her intently.) Which is why I'm here! In this attic room! Because this is the hell I made for myself! Do you hear me Miss Wyze! Do you hear what I'm saying to you?
Yes! I hear you! (She stands next to the cot, agonized.) I hear you. I know what this place is! I know what this place is!
(His voice suddenly controlled, almost laughing as he looks at her.) Then why don't you leave? You have seen me, now. I am suffering for my sins. Your mother is haunted by her family. I am haunted by my ghetto. By every child who died. What more do you want from me? Why don't you (bitterly) leave, Rachael Wyze? (He points at the door as he speaks.) Why don't you just leave?
Because I can't. I can't leave. (Speaking through her tears.) Because I have to be with you. This is my hell too! Do you hear what I'm saying to you, Adam Czerniakow? This attic room. This is my hell, too! (Shattered, they face each other without speaking.) (Lights down slowly to black.)
| Act One | Act Two |
Copyright 1993 Ronald John Vierling
For production information, please contact Joyce Davidsen at Celnor House, 407-677-6288.
A Teacher's Guide to the Holocaust
Produced by the Florida Center for Instructional Technology,
College of Education, University of South Florida © 2005.