Maria Orwid (Pfeffer), born in 1930

Father

Sometimes when my fellow psychiatrists, especially Germans, ask me to what extent and how my traumatic childhood influenced my attitude as a psychiatrist, my banal response is that in my professional work, I place the greatest value on human dignity, the dignity of the patient. I’ve often wondered why it is that dignity is so important. It is probably due to many reasons—mainly to what my father instilled in me during my childhood. One situation in particular has etched itself in my memory. It is a short story about my father, already from the time of the Nazi occupation. My father’s name was Dr. Adolf Pfeffer. He was an attorney in Przemyśl who had studied in Kraków and Vienna. He was born on January 31, 1894, in Przemyśl and died of tuberculosis on May 17, 1943, in Lwów—on Aryan papers. I was with him then.

As long as I can remember, we had this custom in Przemyśl that every evening we would all gather at Grandma and Grandpa Weinstock’s. Toward the end of June 1941, right after the German attack on Przemyśl, I was walking in the evening, as usual, to my grandma’s, this time across Kolejowy [Railroad] Square. I noticed a commotion in the square. I came closer and saw that a man was lying on the ground, while German soldiers were kicking him with their boots and screaming something at him. A small crowd looked on. I walked up even closer. The man on the ground—it was my papa. I froze with horror and fear.

After a while the soldiers stopped and headed toward the train station—they were going to the eastern front. They were full of fury. Papa got up with difficulty. He brushed himself off and wiped his hands on his clothes. He was very pale and didn’t say anything. Suddenly, he saw me. He immediately put a finger to his lips, which meant, “Don’t say anything.” He walked off toward Grandma’s house, with me following, in total silence.
When we got to the door, he said, “Kitten,”—he usually called me that—“not a word about this.” I nodded.

When we walked into Grandma’s house, he went to the bathroom and washed his hands for a long time. He was still very pale. At Grandma’s that evening, there was an acquaintance, a very beautiful, elegant lady, the wife of an attorney. When Papa reappeared from the bathroom, she was just saying, “Oh, what luck that those primitives (the Soviets) are gone, now we have Kulturträger; they can’t do us any harm. Perhaps things won’t be all that good, but at least we’ll be dealing with people of culture.” (This lady perished in Auschwitz.) Before I could think, Papa grew even paler and said to me, “Come Kitten, let’s go home.” We walked out, leaving Mama at Grandma’s. She didn’t know what it was all about and got upset. We lived very close by. We walked side by side, this time in complete silence. I don’t remember how Papa behaved that evening and what he told Mama. The next day he was silent. I watched him with anxiety. I knew how he felt.

Kulturträger (German) means “carrier of culture”. (Author’s note)

In the morning he sat down at a little table between the windows, with his back to us, and began reading Shakespeare. He read and read for an entire year, until July 1942, when we had to move to the ghetto. All that year he didn’t say a word to Mama or to me. He ate very little, and only when some food was handed to him.

He just read Shakespeare the whole time.

Years later, when I was already a psychiatrist, I began doubting my memories and the adequacy of human recollection, and I got into a quandary. Did all this really happen? Or did I just make it up, using a child’s imagination to glorify Papa even more? I never asked Mama about it, because I didn’t have the courage to confront this possibility.

Only recently, these doubts were cleared up for me quite unexpectedly. My cousin, ten-years my senior, the late Gustaw Pfeffer, unexpectedly asked me, “Do you remember how your father sat all year and read Shakespeare?” I reacted with joy and disbelief, “It’s true then; I didn’t make it up?” My cousin didn’t understand and answered, amazed, “Naturally you didn’t make it up. It was I who, a few months before, had brought your father the Collected Works of Shakespeare; he’d always been fascinated by him.” The doubts were dispelled. Thus, the drama that Papa had experienced was confirmed. I had understood him well! Despite everything, I felt happy; my papa had defended his human dignity.