12
12 As long as Manek had been nearby and I could see him, even for a few minutes, I was not alone. He had helped me to face the horror of the camp and shared the worry and despair about our parents. We supported each other with our hopes and by sharing the silence when we ran out of words. I worked at the lathe, hoping that the stranger who brought the note from my brother would return. One night, several months after I got the note from Manek, another stranger, a middle-aged Polish civilian, stopped at my lathe and asked if I was Lucek Salzman. I nodded my head quietly, trying not to attract attention. He handed me a small piece of folded paper and quickly walked away. I knew that it was a note from Manek. I looked around to see if anyone was watching me. I let a few torturous minutes pass, and then I carefully unfolded the paper in the palm of my hand. Inside were two folded 20-zloty bills and a short message written in pencil: Beloved little brother, I am well and think about you. I am in the forest with friends. Take good care of yourself. Hope the money helps. Will contact you again soon. Love, Manek Manek was still alive and able to contact me! I had not been forgotten, and even though he was far away, I still had a brother. Bent over the noisy lathe, I read the note many times. I placed the paper money inside my shirt and then tore the note into tiny pieces. During the next few days I used the money that Manek had sent me to buy, through a Jewish prisoner in contact with a Polish worker, half a loaf of crusty bread and two pairs of used socks. I needed the socks, for it was late December and winter had come. The night shifts were long and exhausting. At the lathe I 104 was left alone to meet my quota. In the production hall I was shielded from the cold, snow, and ice. I knew that I was lucky. Many Jews had died out in the cold, sick from the conditions and starvation, beaten by the brutal guards and police. Every few weeks different strangers approached me and slipped me notes from Manek. The notes included small amounts of money and were brief and without names or specifics. He wrote that he was well, that he thought about and missed me, and that he hoped that I was well too. Reading between the lines, I assumed that Manek had joined the Polish Resistance and was fighting in the forests near Rzeszów. I worked at the factory bent over the lathe, always hopeful that a messenger would appear with a note from my brother. The German factory managers wanted us to be reasonably clean and free of any vermin. Every few Sundays the factory police marched us through the back streets of Rzeszów to a prewar Polish army barracks for showers. We undressed, and our clothing was disinfected with hot steam. Even the showers were used to torment us. While we were showering , the water would be turned to freezing cold or scalding hot temperatures . We still welcomed the opportunity to wash and scrub our bodies even though we would be filthy again in a day. On those rare Sundays we did not work. We were allowed outside the camp for a few precious hours. Our Sunday marches to the showers took us through the streets of Rzeszów. Many Poles were home or on their way to church. The German factory police marched us in military step with kicks and punches. They ordered us to sing as we marched. Some prisoners who had served in the Polish army before the war started singing old Polish marching songs. The rest of us hummed and mouthed the words to make it appear that we were singing too. The Poles on the streets found the sight of Jews marching in step and trying to sing old Polish military songs comical. Some stood on the sidewalk and shouted insults at us. The Polish children shouted, “Filthy Jews! Go to the devil! Dirty Jews to Palestine!” The Poles shouted while we sang at the top of our voices. The Germans were amused that the Poles mocked and cursed us. I fell ill with a cold and constant cough. I forced myself to keep working...
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