cineSOURCE magazine

Stefan: Falling in Love on the Train to Hell
by Tonia Rotkopf Blair

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Tonia Rotkopf Blair working as a nurse in the Lodz ghetto, Poland, in 1942. photo: Henryk Ross

This story, from the new book 'Love at the End of the World', from London publisher Austin Macauley (purchase it here), concerns a young woman who remains a romantic, despite being trapped in the Holocaust. Written in 1999, it is one of the first stories she wrote and beautifully expresses her central themes of love, art and hope.

I was already late. The notices, posted on every street corner, said we had to be at the train station by eight in the morning. I was petrified. I tried to run with my little suitcase. It wasn’t heavy, but it slowed me down. The cattle cars were being loaded. The barking of the dogs, held on short leashes, made your blood curdle. People were being pushed into the cars by German soldiers carrying guns with bayonets. “Schnell, schnell,” they were shouting, pacing the platform in their heavy boots, kicking stragglers.

I ran alongside the train, trying to spot a familiar face through the doors of the cattle cars. There was no one I recognized. My heart was racing. I didn’t want to be pushed or kicked by one of the guards. Then I heard my name. “Tonia, Tonia, tutaj, tutaj,” which means “here, here.” Then I saw him. Stefan was leaning out from the wide opening of the car motioning to me. I elbowed through the heavy-coated men and women. His outstretched arm pulled me up from the platform into the crowded train. I felt safe to be with someone I knew.

I knew Stefan, but I had never talked with him. I wouldn’t dare. He was older, maybe twenty-four, educated, handsome, aristocratic-looking—the dream of every young nurse at the Drewnowska Hospital in the Lodz ghetto. I don’t know what his position was at the hospital, but I used to see him near the administration building. I was eighteen, the year was 1944.

Stefan held my hand while squeezing himself, with me following behind, to the farthest end of the car. Clearing a little space, he sat down on the floor, leaning against the wooden corner of the car.

The platform was emptying of the Jewish people. We could see the Germans walking alongside the cars. Then the heavy doors were slammed shut, bolted from the outside. Inside it was stifling hot. Although it was August, we were wearing our winter coats. The announcements said that the Germans were sending us to work camps, so we wanted to be prepared for the cold.

It was dark in the car. There were no lights and no windows. Two rectangular, narrow openings at opposite ends of the car, below the ceiling, covered by two strips of wood, allowed a little air and light to seep through. Our eyes were getting adjusted to the dark, and people began forming little spaces around them, sitting on their belongings.

Stefan drew me down next to him, on the wooden floor, placing our coats behind us. My heart was pounding. It seemed incredible that I was so close to this man. I couldn’t utter a word. Then there was a jolt and the train started moving. The sound of the wheels on the tracks and the rhythmic movements of the train were soothing. It gave us hope—something was happening.

I remember Stefan was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck; a little light coming from above accentuated his sharp profile. We soon became oblivious to the people around us, absorbed in our own world. He was telling me about the Polish writer Maria Konopnicka, and I hesitantly mentioned that I had read her short story, Mendel Gdanski, concerning anti-Semitism. Quietly we recited verses and whispered poems by Adam Mickiewicz, Poland’s most famous poet, who was part Jewish. He told me about his life before the war, about his aspirations. He was holding my hand all this time and, my being so near him, I felt faint. I could hear his heart beat and feel his breath on my hair. The train kept going.

We talked most of the night and sang, barely audibly, Chopin’s song “If I were a bird . . .” We kissed—I felt delirious.

Tonia Rotkopf Blair returning to Auschwitz in 1980, where she was incarcerated in 1944. photo: Vachel Blair

The dawn was breaking and a little light had crept in when we realized the train had stopped moving. People were changing positions from the night, children were crying, two buckets were being filled by our eliminations. We didn’t know where we were. Since Stefan and I were sitting right under the opening, Stefan went on his hands and knees and I stood on his back to try to look through the narrow slot.

Everything appeared gray with a smoky haze covering the barren dirt. The most frightening sight was the tall poles with barbed wire connecting them. Wooden guard booths were situated at intervals. In the distance, structures looking like giant chimneys were visible. My heart sank. A terrible fear enveloped us all. I sat down next to Stefan wanting to crawl into something and obliterate what I had just seen.

Then the doors opened with a tremendous clank, the bright sunlight was blinding; the jarring shouts were penetrating our hearts. Gathering our possessions, we jumped down to the platform. Stefan and I, being younger, did so swiftly; others were brutally pulled down by the guards. It was bewildering.

We stood there close to each other with our little suitcases. German soldiers were shouting orders. They pulled Stefan away from my side. It all happened so quickly. All the men were herded away, leaving the women and children on the wide platform. I saw his proud head turn a little, but he could not see me. We never had a chance to say goodbye.

I later learned this hell was Auschwitz.

Preview copies of this book are available by emailing . Posted on May 20, 2020 - 12:54 AM