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Man is Wolf to Man

University of California Press

Chapter One

September 1939

Early in the morning on September 1, I was drawn out of sleep bya penetrating, high-pitched whistle lasting several seconds andending in a distant, thunderous explosion. I'd never heard such asound and snapped upright.

    Sleep and terror slowly loosened their grip, and I was able tothink. I'd been up late the night before with my family; mygirlfriend, Taubcia; and several friends talking and listening to theradio. My father had closed his dental office early in the afternoonand appeared, pale and nervous, to tell us that Nazi invasion wasimminent. He'd heard from one of his patients that Marshal Rydz-Smigly,chief commander of the Polish armed forces, had put allunits on full alert for war with Germany.

    All afternoon we switched back and forth between RadioWarsaw, French Radio, Radios Kiev and Moscow, and the Polishedition of the BBC, following negotiations between the Polish andGerman governments. Around seven P.M. close friends cameover. They were frequent guests in our home, and each broughtnew information about the crisis. As we ate, our attention shiftedfrom the radio reports to a tense conversation about what wewould do if the Nazis invaded.

    Conflict with Germany had intensified during the summer of1939, culminating in August, when Germany gave Poland anultimatum to cede the city of Gdansk (Danzig in German) and theentire Danzig Corridor or face invasion. The Danzig Corridor,Polish territory along the Vistula River that separated EastPrussia from Germany, had been in dispute between Germanyand Poland since the Middle Ages. After World War I, under theTreaty of Versailles, Gdansk was given the status of a free city,with Poland having administrative governance over it. Thelegislative assembly, however, was mostly German, and with Hitler'srise to power in 1933 the assembly became more and more hostiletoward Poland. In 1938 Hitler demanded that Gdansk and itsregion, the Danzig Corridor, be given to Germany in order tounite East Prussia with Germany.

    Threatened by Hitler's increasing hostility, the Polishgovernment signed a defense treaty with England on August 25, 1939,hoping that this agreement, in conjunction with a long-standing onewith France, would discourage invasion. However, the stronglyanti-Communist Polish government made no effort to establish adefense pact with the Soviet Union. By the end of August,Germany had assembled its military forces on the Polishborder. In response, the Polish government secretly amassed700,000 troops but didn't announce a general mobilization, notwanting to alarm the public or provoke Germany into war.

    For Jewish people, the prospect of a Nazi takeover wasparticularly disturbing, though opinions varied about the likelihoodof such an event. Many of our friends believed Hitler would neverinvade Poland, because that would mean starting a war withFrance and England as well. Others thought that if Hitler didinvade, only wealthy Jews would be persecuted, and the rest of uswould be left alone. These hopeful scenarios ignored the fact thatpersecution of Jews was already well underway. Since the mid-thirties,Nazi ideology had been streaming across the border andhad become woven into everyday life. Jewish students at theuniversities were forced to sit or stand on the left side of theclassroom and were often beaten and slashed with glass or razorblades. Some were thrown from second-story balconies and windows.The police and local authorities didn't intervene, nor werethe culprits arrested or tried.

    In 1936, harassed by my Polish classmates, I was forced totransfer from the state school to the private Jewish gymnasium. Awidespread boycott in my hometown, Wlodzimierz-Wolynski,closed many Jewish-owned stores and businesses, and in 1937 myfather was requested to prove the equivalency of his Russiandiploma and license to practice dentistry, something that had neverbeen questioned since he'd begun practicing in Poland in 1921. ThePolish authorities repeatedly demanded documentation from thedental school in Kharkov, even though it had been closed since theOctober Revolution.

    My father was the first person in our family and among ourfriends to realize what might happen to us if Hitler invaded.During the summer of 1939, as Hitler's intentions becameapparent, my father transformed from his usual upbeat, energetic,optimistic self into a solitary figure consumed by his thoughts.

    On August 31, Radio Warsaw provided little information aboutthe anticipated invasion. Instead it played bombastic militarymarches interspersed with official government announcementsthat Poland would not give in to the German ultimatum norrelinquish an acre of land and that France and England wouldsupport Poland if war did break out. But we knew that, givenGermany's military might, Hitler would certainly annex Gdanskand the Danzig Corridor. As worried friends arrived at our flatand huddled in front of my parents' newly purchased Phillips radio,the only questions were these: how much more Polish territorywould Hitler want; how would Poland protect itself, and howwould we protect ourselves?

My father touched the end of another cigarette to the one he wassmoking, then suddenly stood and walked over to the window. Hishands were jittery. I'd never seen him so nervous. "What's on theradio is all propaganda," he said, puffing on the cigarette. "Thegovernment knows we can't keep Hitler from invading,and I'm afraid to think of what will happen to us given what'salready happening to the Jews in Germany." The words burstfrom his mouth in an angry, tense barrage. We all knew about theconcentration camps and Kristalnacht, or "the night of brokenglass." This pogrom, inspired by Hitler, took place in Germany andAustria on November 9, 1938. Jewish homes and businesseswere vandalized, synagogues were burned, and nearly onehundred Jews were killed. We had read and heard about howJews in Germany were being persecuted, their children expelledfrom public schools. Walking the streets had become dangerousthere.

    My father looked back and forth between the group and thedark, quiet street in front of our flat. Light rain hit thewindowpanes. A car occasionally splashed through puddles on thedeserted street. My mother suggested we listen to the Polishedition of the BBC and bent toward the radio slowly and stiffly,searching the dial. The dim light from the crystal chandelier cast awarm glow on her tired, pale face. She'd been diagnosed withcolon cancer three months before and had undergone majorsurgery; her bobbed hair had grayed, and it pained my heart to seeher so ill.

    My father, bald and husky, remained standing at the window,fiddling with his black mustache. It was unusual for him to be sosilent. He loved to tell stories, give advice, play cards, and talkabout new business ventures. He had many friends, and our housewas always full of people. My mother attracted a different group,people interested in politics and the arts. Although my fatherlacked the intellectual insight of my mother, he was verywell known, liked, and respected. I had never seen him so full ofdespair, and it was more than a little unnerving.

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