Gertrude fidgeted a tad, her arthritic hands folded in her lap. I could tell that she had put on her best summer dress. Soft white curls framed her thin face, giving her head the appearance of a dandelion tuft. It was the archetypical old lady style.
I was here to write about her ordeal although I really did not want to be. My editor and I had a heated discussion about it last week. I absolutely loathe these sorts of interviews. I stood my ground, I threatened and I cajoled. I even stooped to pleading, offering a drawn out “Jim, do I have to?”
She thanked me for coming. Her voice was warm and the German accent endearing. I could almost picture her as perky Fraulein somewhere in Germany, eating sauerbraten and laughing with her friends.
I took out my recorder and asked her to begin.
_____________________________________
The apartment building was ominously quiet. Philip, a lover of men in more than just one sense of the word, cracked his door and locked fearful eyes onto mine. We both stepped into the hall, ears pricked in anticipation of the noise of the beautiful entry door downstairs being kicked from its old iron hinges.
“Mrs. Rosenbaum,” he whispered, indicating our ancient neighbor. We both turned to stare at her apartment door at the end of the hallway.
“Oh God,” I said, my heart beating a vicious tattoo in my chest. “Oh God, oh no! Oh Philip, she’s a Jew!”
The threadbare carpet seemed to stretch into eternity. Surely our footfalls would resound like a herd of elephants if we approached her door. We had no idea where They were. Had They surrounded the building? What if Zimmerman, that lazy bastard landlord, had simply let Them in. What if They were just a flight below, guns at the ready, waiting for an indication that people were moving about upstairs?
Tears blurred my vision, making the carpet’s pattern into a hazy fog of brown and red tones. I wiped them with my apron. I would have to sneak down that hall. I wouldn’t let them take Rosenbaum. I felt a hand slip into mine and Philip’s breath upon my ear. “We do this together, liebling.”
I felt a small smile creep to my face despite the horror of the moment. Liebling – darling. Philip called everyone by this pet name. I had so many fond memories of hearing his voice singing a jaunty song as he cleaned his apartment or beat his rugs in the courtyard below. He seldom had visitors, with the exception of Wilhelm, a handsome man that come to call on weekends, staying until sunrise on Monday mornings.
We set off together, Philip and I, each step carefully placed. God forbid the ancient wooden floor under that dusty rug should betray our movement! Our entwined fingers were like small vice grips upon each other, knuckles white. Even our breathing was strained, a quiet yet shuddering intake of air with each step.
The apartment door slowly opened. Mrs. Rosenbaum’s pale, round face reminded me of the moon. She toyed with the fading Star of David pinned to her sleeve and opened her mouth, but Philip put a finger to his lips and proffered a soft “shhhh”.
“They have come for me,” she stated.
“Yes, yes liebling,” Philip said. “They have come, but they will not find you.” We softly spoke of various plans of hiding Rosenbaum. Perhaps she could take shelter in the attic? Would the basement be safer or in a closet?
Screams echoed from the street followed by a volley of machine gun fire. We knew the voice and drew close together, holding onto each other until a second volley silenced Mrs. Liebermann’s screams. It was then that we heard a pounding upon our building’s main door.
“Fuck!” Philip said. I felt my hair standing on end.
We shuffled about like drunken pigeons trying to fly in all directions at the same time. I heard Landlord Zimmerman’s gentle admonishment to "please wait” as he scurried towards the door, only a flight below us. I thought I would piss myself.
I grabbed Philip’s sleeve. “Look, I’m German. All my papers are in order. I only live in this neighborhood because I’m a student. I will hide her. I have space under my bed and we can stuff shoeboxes and old quilts around her like a cocoon. Perhaps they won’t come in. Perhaps if I spoke about the Jew rats and my hate for them, glorifying Hitler’s ideology, perhaps they will go away!”
“You would risk too much to hide me in your apartment,” Mrs. Rosenbaum cut in, shaking her head violently. “You should not do this!”
“Mrs. Rosenbaum,” he whispered, indicating our ancient neighbor. We both turned to stare at her apartment door at the end of the hallway.
“Oh God,” I said, my heart beating a vicious tattoo in my chest. “Oh God, oh no! Oh Philip, she’s a Jew!”
The threadbare carpet seemed to stretch into eternity. Surely our footfalls would resound like a herd of elephants if we approached her door. We had no idea where They were. Had They surrounded the building? What if Zimmerman, that lazy bastard landlord, had simply let Them in. What if They were just a flight below, guns at the ready, waiting for an indication that people were moving about upstairs?
Tears blurred my vision, making the carpet’s pattern into a hazy fog of brown and red tones. I wiped them with my apron. I would have to sneak down that hall. I wouldn’t let them take Rosenbaum. I felt a hand slip into mine and Philip’s breath upon my ear. “We do this together, liebling.”
I felt a small smile creep to my face despite the horror of the moment. Liebling – darling. Philip called everyone by this pet name. I had so many fond memories of hearing his voice singing a jaunty song as he cleaned his apartment or beat his rugs in the courtyard below. He seldom had visitors, with the exception of Wilhelm, a handsome man that come to call on weekends, staying until sunrise on Monday mornings.
We set off together, Philip and I, each step carefully placed. God forbid the ancient wooden floor under that dusty rug should betray our movement! Our entwined fingers were like small vice grips upon each other, knuckles white. Even our breathing was strained, a quiet yet shuddering intake of air with each step.
The apartment door slowly opened. Mrs. Rosenbaum’s pale, round face reminded me of the moon. She toyed with the fading Star of David pinned to her sleeve and opened her mouth, but Philip put a finger to his lips and proffered a soft “shhhh”.
“They have come for me,” she stated.
“Yes, yes liebling,” Philip said. “They have come, but they will not find you.” We softly spoke of various plans of hiding Rosenbaum. Perhaps she could take shelter in the attic? Would the basement be safer or in a closet?
Screams echoed from the street followed by a volley of machine gun fire. We knew the voice and drew close together, holding onto each other until a second volley silenced Mrs. Liebermann’s screams. It was then that we heard a pounding upon our building’s main door.
“Fuck!” Philip said. I felt my hair standing on end.
We shuffled about like drunken pigeons trying to fly in all directions at the same time. I heard Landlord Zimmerman’s gentle admonishment to "please wait” as he scurried towards the door, only a flight below us. I thought I would piss myself.
I grabbed Philip’s sleeve. “Look, I’m German. All my papers are in order. I only live in this neighborhood because I’m a student. I will hide her. I have space under my bed and we can stuff shoeboxes and old quilts around her like a cocoon. Perhaps they won’t come in. Perhaps if I spoke about the Jew rats and my hate for them, glorifying Hitler’s ideology, perhaps they will go away!”
“You would risk too much to hide me in your apartment,” Mrs. Rosenbaum cut in, shaking her head violently. “You should not do this!”
I bit my bottom lip as I mustered up my courage. “Do I have to do this? No. I choose to. You can’t complain. They are at the door. Philip, help me tuck her under my bed. NOW!” I hissed these brave words even though my knees knocked together.
We heard shouts below as the soldiers began to spread down the hallways. Heavy boots began to stomp up the stairs. Phillip pushed both of us into my apartment and secured the bolt.
“This way, hurry!” I said, and Philip practically carried Mrs. Rosenbaum’s fragile body into my bedroom. He eased her down and she rolled herself under the bed. We pulled my favorite quilts from the closet to seal her in and make my bed look festive.
As we stood back to survey our work, we heard solders knocking on doors. It was not a polite sort of knock; it was two or three loud raps followed by the crunch sound of a boot kicking in the door itself.
“I suppose this is it for me,” Philip sighed. I gave him a confused look. “Liebling, I’m homosexual. They know where the Jews live. They know where the gays live. It’s the camps for us.”
The absolute harshness of that reality struck me. “How would they know?”
“They know. I am sure of it. They somehow know.”
“But, you are German!”
“I’m a fag. Most of us have gone into hiding. I stayed. I had nowhere to go,” he said, and then added in a thick voice, “They took Wilhelm last week.”
There was silence between us then. His lover. I had known all along, but polite girls wouldn’t discuss such things.
Two doors down, a frightened family screamed in unison as their door shattered off its hinges. The husband shouted that he was a loyal German, loyal to Hitler, loyal to the ideology. I knew that he had his papers in order. He might have been the bastard who turned in Rosenbaum and Philip. Who can say in these troubled times?
I would protect Mrs. Rosenbaum and Philip. My mind began to work furiously. I knew that there might be a chance, if my plan worked. It would mean that I would be humiliated. I am a virgin, a good girl. I would never bed a man without the blessing of a priest. Yet… I asked myself, “Do I have to?” The answer was “yes”. If I failed… I did not want to think of such things.
I turned to Philip and said, “Strip.”
He looked horrorstruck. I said it again, even as I pulled off my blouse and unhooked my bra. “Strip. You are not gay if they catch you in bed with a woman. Perhaps the ruse will work. Hurry. We will pretend!” I pulled off my skirt. We must have looked like naughty young lovers frantically trying to join each other for the first time. The knock came to the neighbor next door even as we hurried onto the bed.
When the knock came to us, we were kissing and rolling about like fish trying to find air on a dock. When the door shattered open, we sat bolt upright, a tangle of body parts, and I offered a scream for good measure. The soldier was rather embarrassed for us and lowered his gun.
I rose from the bed and allowed him to see my nakedness as a form of distraction. Philip slid on his pants and then grabbed the sheet and offered it to me.
The commanding officer joined the soldier and the young man quickly explained what he had walked in on, offering a bawdy laugh to cover his embarrassment. Philip and I produced our papers. The officer questioned Philip closely, but Philip and I both grew indignant at the implication that he was anything other than heterosexual. After all, we had dated since I was eighteen and we were engaged to be married. Yes, he still worked at the paper mill. Yes, his bad knees prevented him from serving in the military. The officer gave us a dubious look.
_____________________________________
She stated that her apartment smelled of stew that day. She remembered it so well. She could recall the young soldier’s face as he leered at her. She recalled Philip pushing the door back into place, then propping it shut with the couch. She could clearly remember Mrs. Rosenbaum’s hand waving at them from underneath the bed; her face wet with tears as they pulled her from her sanctuary, the old woman’s sobs wracking her body as Gertrude sat on the floor and rocked her. She remembered Philip kneeling next to her, thanking God and every saint that he had ever heard of. She found that so odd. Philip was an atheist.
They stayed in the apartment that night, huddled together. They saw the glow of buildings on fire, and they feared theirs would ignite. They were afraid to look out the window but they could hear the occasional burst of bullets riddling some poor undeserving person.
These are her memories. What would it be like to forget what she told me, to sweep it under the rug, to pretend it never happened?
Philip evaded the concentration camps; so many of his friends did not.
Mrs. Rosenbaum was later captured and taken to a camp. She accidentally tripped while carrying water, and was deemed too frail to be of use. They lead her to a communal shower (along with 49 other men and women) and as they sat shivering in the gloom, lethal gas belched from the fixtures. Eighty years on this earth were ended in such a brutal fashion.
Who will remember these things when all the survivors are gone? Who will care? I ask myself, Do I have to? I hear my mind reply, No, but I choose to do this. I choose to remember.
For further reading: Gay Holocaust - Lagers
Other "Do I have to?" posts can be found at: Sunday Scribblings
They rant malevolent slurs even as they thump their holy bible (hilly bibble, as one dear person terms it. She was promptly burned at the stake for her “mockery of God” and his minion, Paul.) I concur: it is puerile Hilly Bibble babble (say that ten times fast, dear Readers.)
