A Promise at Sobibór: A Jewish Boy’s Story of Revolt and Survival in Nazi-Occupied Poland

4. Fritz

4 Fritz One June afternoon I am home alone studying when I hear the sound of a car approaching. I put my book down and look out the window . There, just down the street, is a Mercedes. The car stops. Out comes the driver, an officer dressed in a gray uniform. His collar bears the unmistakable insignia of the SS. He checks a slip of paper and walks toward our home, our door. My heart sinks. Few things are certain. One never knows what might be taken from him next, where one might be sent, if tomorrow your home will be yours. But one thing is near certain: if an officer of the SS comes to your home, your life is at an end. His presence means death. My only comfort is that I am at home alone. At least the others still have a chance to live. I duck under a bed, hidden by the darkness. The SS officer leans his head in, searching. Then he enters the house through the front door. I catch a clear glimpse of him now. Standing straight, he is tall, very broad, with a dark, sad face. This, I think to myself, must be the face of the malach hamavet.1 He closes the door and approaches the windows, then lowers the curtains , darkening the room. He is young but supremely composed. Surely these are the methodical preparations of a trained murderer. A thousand thoughts course through my mind: Who is he here to kill? My father? Mr. Rosenberger? Maybe I am already an orphan. I wonder if I should recite the She’ma in preparation for my death.2 If he takes a few more steps, he will probably see me under the bed. I hold my breath so as not to gasp. 39 I then hear voices approaching from the back of the house. They are returning: Mrs. Rosenberger, with Ilse and Herta. And they don’t know what awaits them in our home. They are seconds away from entering the room where the SS man stands. I want so badly to warn them. But to utter the slightest sound would surely bring about my own immediate end. And if they could run, they would not make it far before getting caught in this land that is still so foreign to them. I curse myself for not having a gun, let alone never having learned to shoot one. They draw closer to the house’s rear door. Within moments their fate will be sealed. Maybe the SS man will kill them before my very eyes. I have never felt so completely helpless. I shut my eyes so as not to see their lives taken in front of me. They enter the room. But instead of orders, shouts, or shots, I hear something much different: polite greetings, laughing, and hugging. Mrs. Rosenberger offers coffee to the officer and begins heating water. I can’t understand what I am seeing. Why has the SS officer not killed them? Could Mr. Rosenberger be bribing the SS to treat his family well? Or worse, are the Rosenbergers collaborating with the Germans? They talk as if they were old friends. The Rosenbergers refer to this man not by his title but by his first name, Fritz. With my limited ability to understand the German language, I can make out that they inquire into the whereabouts of family and friends in Germany. Fritz does not know much. The officer shares news of the work he has been doing at a nearby base. The Rosenbergers describe the goings-on in Izbica. They ask if he can do anything to tame Engels and Klemm. He says he is “helpless against those madmen.” The officer departs, promising to return soon. But without knowing if I can trust the Rosenbergers anymore, I don’t want to reveal myself. Given Mr. Rosenberger’s privileged position in German society, it seems conceivable that he could be spying for the Germans. Whatever he is involved with, however, I am sure that Herta will tell me the truth. I decide to wait until I can confront her in private about my discovery. As soon as everyone leaves the room, I sneak out of the house. After circling the block, I return home and immediately ask Herta to go on a 40 Fritz walk with me. There...