11
11 Very early on that Monday morning in the fall of 1942, I lined up with the men who worked in the production hall.Aguard marched us to the back entrance of the large building. I was excited to see that the entrance was near the building where Manek worked and just across a narrow grassy area from his window. Inside the building a Polish foreman met the Rzeszów Jews and led us to a corner that was filled with rows of work tables and high stools. This was the Parts Finishing Shop. We were given rags and steel files and ordered to clean, file, and polish machined metal parts of airplane engines. The foreman instructed us and checked our work. He was critical and rejected many pieces as not acceptable and demanded that we work faster. The metal pieces were dirty, oily, and had sharp edges; soon, my hands were black with dirty oil and full of small bleeding scratches and cuts. The foreman’s shouts and our awkwardness amused the Polish workers. The work was familiar to me from my days in the locksmith shop of Mr. Gorzelec. The foreman yelled and complained but did not strike or even physically threaten us. After a few hours he lost interest in us and talked to the Polish women working at the polishing machines. A German supervisor wearing a white laboratory coat came into the area, silently inspected our work, and left. An hour or two passed. I was glad to be working there. I was inside, out of the rain and winter winds. The work was easy, and I was sitting down. My cold would get better. This was much better than sweeping the streets and collecting garbage. I had to find a way to leave the building for a few minutes to see Manek. His window was so close to the back entrance of the production hall that it gave me the confidence to find a way. We had to ask the foreman for permission to go to the toilet. He usually responded by saying, “Yes, you better go. I do not want you to shit 94 here! But come back right away!” He told us that the only toilet in the building that Jews and no one else could use was located right next to the door that we used to enter the building. I noticed that some men came back from the toilet right away, but others stayed away for as long as fifteen or twenty minutes. The foreman did not seem to care. He was busy with the young Polish women. This was the chance for me to go out to see Manek. I asked the foreman for permission to go to the toilet. He waved his approval. I walked quickly through the enormous building, past row upon row of noisy lathes, drill presses, and other machines. Many people were busily working at their machines, pushing carts, carrying boxes, and walking in all directions. No one paid any attention to me. In a minute I was at the rear exit. It was not guarded. I could see through the glass pane in the door that it was drizzling outside. Just across the wet strip of grass was Manek’s window. A door right next to the rear exit had a large sign on it in German and Polish: “Jewish Toilet.” I went in. Some Jewish men stood talking by the sinks. They did not seem concerned about the time. I looked around and, as I expected, in one corner stood a bucket, a mop, and a broom, just what I needed. I took the broom and walked out. The men took no notice. Broom in hand, I walked out the rear door. No one stopped me. I could feel my heart beating in my chest. I crossed the patch of grass and came to Manek’s window. It was closed. I gently knocked on the glass with the broomstick. A face appeared behind the rainstreaked glass and disappeared again. In a moment the window swung open and out leaned my brother. He was happy to hear of my new work inside the production hall. He said that he still had no news from our parents. It had been more than two months since the deportation. I knew that I had to hurry back before I was discovered. I waved to him and ran back to the production hall. I put the broom back into...
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