Free All but My Life: A Memoir by Gerda Weissmann Klein

again.
    He was slim, wore a navy-blue shirt and gray slacks. He had a tan, lean face, a prominent nose, a cynical mouth, and a determined chin. When he looked up, his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses were steel gray, searching, and seemingly cold. His hair was dark and wavy. What struck me most forcibly were his fingers. They were long and nervous. I felt uneasy under his searching eyes.
    The man to whom I was talking told me that antique furniture, paintings, and other valuables from the homes of Jews who had been liquidated were stored in the factory.
Here they were repaired and refinished, if necessary, and then sent to furnish the apartments of German officers.
    “We have quite a collection of paintings,” he said. “Would you care to see them?”
    “I would love to,” I replied.
    We went up two flights. He opened a heavy door and we entered the storeroom. In the fading afternoon light I saw beautiful paintings, vases, inlaid tables, marble-topped consoles, Chinese curios, pianos, tapestries, treasures from many homes. They were covered with dust.
    I fancied that I had seen some of the things before–in the houses of friends.
    As I was admiring an inlaid table my companion was called away. I wandered alone among the furniture until I came to a corner of the room, where, behind a piano, I saw a life-size portrait of a beautiful girl holding a torch. Her hair was hanging about her shoulders, her eyes shone with a strange power of hope and conviction. She was so incredibly beautiful that I gasped. I had never seen hope, power, and determination thus expressed. The faint light coming through the dusty windows illuminated the canvas to perfection.
    “Isn’t it beautiful?” said a voice behind me.
    “I wonder who put her there,” I said without turning around. I was carried away by my emotions.
    “I did.” The voice was nearer now.
    I turned around, and there he stood, the stranger with the penetrating gray eyes. I was annoyed that he was there, and yet pleased that he understood what I meant.
    “What would you call her?” he asked.
    “Hope,” I said without hesitation.
    “Or Wisdom,” he added. “Come, I will show you something.”
    He led me to the other end of the storeroom. In a corner stood an easel, a canvas on it with a half-finished painting.
    “Do you paint?” I guessed.
    “A little,” he answered. “Stand there, as you did in front of the picture,” he ordered.
    I started to laugh.

    He took my hand and pressed it firmly.
    “You are going to sit for me,” he commanded with a determination that I disliked.
    “No,” I said, just as determined, and started down the stairs. Ilse and her mother were ready to leave. We said our good-bys, and I turned to the imperious artist.
    “I hope you can keep the picture in its hiding place for a long time.”
    “Our picture,” he replied.
    I felt like fighting with him, but restrained myself.
    “I will take you home,” he said, turning to Mrs. Kleinzähler and Ilse. As we left the building he turned to me and said, “By the way, we were not properly introduced.”
    His name was Abek Feigenblatt. I wanted to know more about him, yet I was afraid to ask. I was curiously disturbed, annoyed and yet pleased. He must be around thirty, I thought, practically an old man. Just then he asked how old I was.
    “Sixteen,” I said, but corrected myself. “Almost seventeen.”
    He smiled. “Well, I will see you soon,” he said.
    “Perhaps.” I was not too encouraging.
    “I know I will,” was his confident reply as he waved good-by.
    Nervous, excited, and feeling foolish, I turned and entered our house.

Chapter 8
    THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY PAPA DECIDED THAT HE WOULD GO WITH me to the cemetery. It was the only place where Jews could freely enjoy nature. Until that Sunday Papa and Mama had shown no desire to visit it, even though their parents were buried there. But Papa had been confined to the house so much he longed to see green trees and breathe fresh