Return to Mizoch
Homepage | Return to Family Stories
Preface
Rachel was eight when her
father gathered the family together on the night of October 13th,
1942, facing the burning houses of their town, during the
liquidation of the ghetto. He gave his children money and
clothing, guiding them with his last words and asking:
"whoever remains alive must tell". 61 years have passed
since then, and Rachel is almost 70 years old. This book
fulfills her father's last request.
The book describes what
was engraved in the memory of a little girl from the happy
days in a small town, from the beginning of the destruction
and terrors of the war, the death, the separation and hiding.
The memories were verified over the years
again and again with others who had lived through the same
times, and proved to be true. At the same time, this book does
not claim to be an exact historical research. It is based on
reality as it is remembered by that sensitive and wise little
girl.
This is a living memoir,
with attention to details, scents and colors, which succeed in
bringing up a rich picture, full of life and longing for a
world that no longer exists.
The story of Rachel's
survival abounds with circumstance, luck, the will to live,
sharp instincts and level intelligence. She describes a bumpy road which does
not end with the end of the war, but continues with her aliyah
to Israel, the difficulties of absorption on the kibbutz, and
the struggle to survive the loss and loneliness, together with
the building of a new life and new family.
The book was written over
the years by Rachel, but the idea of publishing arose just two
years ago. Some
material from two previous interviews was added one by Elisheva Achmon
of Kibbutz Mishmar HaEmek, and
the other through Yad V'Shem.
The back cover of the book
includes a drawing of a new branch growing from the hewn trunk
of a tree. The drawing is by Rachel herself, and was drawn
again and again over the years, symbolizing the strength and
ability of life to go on, grow and draw from the roots of the
past, despite its uprooting.
The publication of this
book not only fulfills the father's request, but also helps us
the new branch of the family, to become familiar with our
roots, our roots in our soil, and to remember and recognize
the strong trunk which was cut off so that we can go on and
grow new branches and new leaves. They will not replace those
which were hewn, but grow from them, from their core.
The
Family
Father, your wish
children, if any of you survive tell the world.
I have tried but
they would not listen did not believe
a little girl from
there.
They made fun,
laughed
I laughed with
them
and cried at
night.
I so wanted to be
like them
dreams,
nightmares.
And I am silent
choking a scream
so that they won't
hear
so that they won't
see
And I am a little
girl who is 1000 years old.
Father, your wish
-
I have tried
1947, Rachel age 12
Introduction
I am not a writer. I am telling a
story. To remember and never forget.
I tell my daughters, my
family, my friends and myself.
This lightens my burden, and I owe this to myself. to
my mental health, to my ability to survive and function as a
person, as a woman, as a mother and grandmother.
This gives me the strength
to struggle with the difficult past when I recall my warm
childhood home. I also had parents, grandparents, brothers and
sisters, uncles and aunts. I belonged, I was loved and
pampered as any child my age. I guess that my warm home, which
I lost forever, gave me the ability to survive and to
function.
There is no grave I can
visit occasionally. My parents and family reside in my heart.
They visit my in my dreams. This book is my living connection
with them and my past.
Rachel
Gewing
I was born there
Ukraine and Vohlin.
Forests, rivers, villages,
small town, cities, water a lot of water, greenery
everything is green. Fields of wheat, rich, black earth,
parcels of land like a woven carpet, shades of colors, each
farmer and his land, each area and its color.
The trees so tall, so
huge. In the fall
carpets of colorful autumn leaves. Winter, spring, summer
the cycle of seasons goes round.
Circling around villages
with collapsing houses of straw. Poor farmers. The streets of
the town full of children.
Lots of children.
My town. A small town between a river and a forest.
Mizutch.
My home, my tender
childhood, it's all within me, hidden, but uncovered in a
dream, in the day, in a flower which I saw years later in a
field in Israel, and its memory arose. Sometimes a scent of
fresh dark bread reminds me of my home.
Almost 60 years have
passed. I am a mother and grandmother, and things rise and
come up, and I return there
I wanted to forget. To
erase. To repress. To begin anew. To be here like everyone
else, without memories, without a past. Just the present. Just
the future. But it doesn't work1 It breaks out After some
thirty years of painful silence, I now have the need to tell. To the memory of my
parents, my sister, brother. To the memory of those people,
the Jews, the children, so many children, who lived in the
town and were murdered.
A person who came from
there is like a branch cut off from a tree. The branch has
grown leaves, fruit, but the roots are on the surface, air
roots. The branch
bends in a strong wind, and often breaks. The inner branch,
which has become a trunk, is still in pain. Sometimes, when
the pain grows, small drops appear on the leaves. Passers-by
think they are dew.
The town Mizutch
Is this a fairy tale or
the truth?
Our family name was
Mizutch, as was the town's name. I don't know where I heard
the story. It
doesn't make sense that I made it up. My sisters, in any
case, did not remember or know the story, but I remembered it
from a very young age. And this is the story:
One of my ancestors was a
Sabotnik, who married a Jewess and
converted. This man was very friendly with the feudal lord of
the town, who controlled a large area surrounding the town.
There was a feudal custom to send one of their slaves or
servants to the synagogue to take one of the Jews, put him in
a sack, and bring him before the lord. There, the Jew was
forced to dance before the lord to the tune of music. One
time, the lord's friend, who had converted, was caught. After he had danced,
they opened the sack and lo and behold, there was the lord's
good friend. The
insult was great. In order to recompense my ancestor, his rich
friend decided to name the place Mizutch, after my ancestor,
or perhaps the opposite.
I am sure of this.
In addition, the insulted
friend was granted a large amount of land surrounding the
town. It was
grazing land, with a bubbling river on whose banks grew birch
trees with their white bark.
Over the years, the land
was divided among the sons and grandsons of the same family
Mizutch. My family also had a plot of land on which we played
and wandered. During the Succoth holiday we would pick many
plants to decorate the Succah. Now and then I can recall the
scents of the past.
This is the town in which
were born my ancestors, my parents and I myself.
A lovely town, surrounded
by forests reaching to the river full of fish which ran
through. The
blues and greens there are printed within me. I was created of
them.
I would so love to go back
and see again the town of my childhood, but I don't dare.
MOTHER
I still dream of her,
Mother.
But even in the dream it
is no longer you. I no longer remember your face, the color of
your eyes, your smile. I no longer remember the touch of your
caressing hand. Your image, like a passing cloud, changes and
dissolves.
Towards the end of the
war, when I was allowed to come out of my hiding place, it was
a beautiful day. Apparently spring. The sky was blue, no
clouds in sight. A flock of storks flew in the sky above me.
Suddenly they came down near me, and I saw a white image
landing close to me. I
could not identify the face, but the figure standing opposite
me was my mother. I
wanted to scream: Mother!
But the figure arose again
and disappeared in the sky. I so wanted it to be my mother,
but she disappeared. I ran home and told the family where I
had been hiding. They were religious Christians and decided
that I was a holy girl, because they believed that the souls
of the dead are revealed only to the deserving.
The Family
Our family consisted of
four girls and an only boy. My eldest sister Tzviyah, My
sister Pearl, My brother Mordechai, My sister Paula and
myself- the youngest Rachel, or Rochaleh. My parents Father
Zelig nicknamed Buzhy, and Mother
Batsheva. I recall a story
about her name: She was very ill and it was suggested that her
name be changed so that the Angel of Death would get confused. And so she was
renamed Batsheva.
My parents married for
love, not through an arrangement which was customary in those
days. My mother was then 38 or 39, and my father 41.
My mother would sing a
lot, and I believe that she also sang in Hebrew. I remember
the song "Over Har HaTzofim" from
home. My father was a very special person. He had a sense of
humor and was very learned.
He was also an excellent craftsman. I remember many of
his sayings. For example, he would say, A man must have three
foundations: Patience, Tolerance and Humor If one of these
is missing, he is an invalid. Father had an unusual nose, with
two protruding bones and a dimple between. He would say to me:
Do you want a nose like this?
My family was well off. In addition to our
big house we had 12 shops in the center or town, rented to
various people.
We also had land outside
the town, worked by a Christian family. We also had a house
there and I remember going there often to eat berries. We often went by
foot.
We also had a huge grazing
area belong to the family, outside the town. I remember a very
old green church with an unusual cross, perhaps belonging to
the Sabotniks
We would go there to play
games. The place
was full of old things clothes, statues and holy items. In
the midst of the lawns was a stream, around which grew birch
and poplar trees.
Our home, like most other
Jewish homes in the town, were religious and traditional, but
not fanatical. My parents were Zionists. They went to Hebrew Tarbut school, and spoke Hebrew. They
dreamed of going on Aliyah to the Land of Israel, as did most
of the Jews in our town. Eretz Yisrael was absorbed in their
lives, and they even had certificates for aliyah. My mother wanted to
postpone the aliyah and wait until they had more property.
My sister Tzviyah studied
in the Hebrew school Tarbut, and
so did all of us. At the age of six we began to study Hebrew,
the holy language. The teacher came to our home. I, being the
youngest, was privileged to learn with the same teacher. He
would come to our home, teach us, and as payment received food
to take home. The man was small and thin, and apparently poor.
He had a daughter my age, and would sometime bring her along.
This teacher would sit with us at the table, and eat like
there was no tomorrow. I
was amazed at the amount of food he was able to get into his
small and thin body. I still remember the pages of the study
books. The print was large and clear, with illustrations of
mini-silhouettes in black, among them: the walls of Jerusalem,
children with long sideburns and skullcaps on their heads,
weird trees which I later learned were palms. I remember something
that was written in the book: "cow" and then "milk, milk, milk
the cows".
I remember him teaching me
the word "horse", and that I could remember it as looking like
eyeglasses.
Since I attended school at
an early age, and was the youngest child and very curious, I
knew at least three languages: Yiddish, Polish and Ukraine,
with a little Hebrew. My parents were proud of me. At every
occasion I was stood on a chair and asked to read before the
guests who were visiting. Knowledge was very important, as it
was with every Jewish family in town.
Some of these "readings"
were actually parts that I had learned by heart. Once my uncle
who was an artist, mixed up the pages and I got confused. I
didn't realize that I couldn't read, but rather remember by
heart
I was very embarrassed.
I once went to school in
deep snow. I was wearing something long which was buttoned in
the back and I had to pee. I couldn't remove the clothing. So
I sat in the snow and peed. I remember the warm feeling
When
I got to school I claimed that I got wet in the snow.
My parents were religious,
but very liberal. For
example, during the war, when there was no kosher food
available, the children were allowed to eat non-kosher food,
even pork. In our factory there was a special room for the
non-Jews, where they ate their meals. I remember once seeing
them take a big piece of fat pork with bread and onion. They
would cut a small piece with a sharp knife, and then eat it. I
really wanted to taste it, so I stood close by and one man
asked me if I wanted some.
He gave me a piece which I ate. Father know about it,
but said not a word.
My mother was a very good
woman. She never got angry at us. I recall that when she
baked, she would give me a piece of dough and say: Do with
this whatever you like, and I will bake it.
On Sabbath morning my
sister and I loved to get into their bed. On the Sabbath it
was forbidden to count money, but the kids were allowed and
they would give us some.
I remember threes of rubles, which I would arrange in
piles of ten. There was a lot of money.
There was an uncle in
America who would send us plated gold. My father would say
that it is "American Shit".
We also placed with this on Sabbath day. I remember
that I once fell asleep in father's bed, and wetted the bed. I
was frightened and began to cry. My father took me in his
arms, hugged me and said, "Wet? Since when do you know how to
do that? Maybe I did it?"
Grandfather Abraham,
father's father, who was very old, lived in our house. They
said that he was somewhat senile. He used to gather rotten
apples in the garden, and put them in the closet. Mother never
said a word, but would dump the apples. Mother's mother,
Grandmother Ita also lived in our
house. She had a
candy store.
I remember mother's
brother, Gedalia, who was an
artist. He
painted in secret, because we were religious and it was not
allowed. He only showed his paintings to us, the children. He had a paint
store, and painted shop signs.
Tzviyah
My sister Tzviyah was the
pride of the family. She
was beautiful, had a good disposition, and was loved by all.
She studied in the city of the province, Zdolvonov,
where the Hebrew school Tarbut
was situated. During vacations she would come home, and was
happily welcomed. She dressed differently, not like us. I
still remember her ski suit: A pink and gray sweater with
matching hat and gloves. During the winter she would ski, and
we would follow her with wonder. I believe she had a boyfriend
and was planning to become engaged. She was killed in our
town. She was 18
years old.
Pearl
My sister Pearl was mad
about animals: dogs, cats and anything walking on all fours.
We had various kinds of animals in the house. Chickens, geese,
goats, cats and a dog. The dog's name was Alpha. He was my
sister Pearl's pet. Sometimes the Ukrainians kidnapped him for
ransom. My father always paid them something since my sister
could not live without him. Father had a special box with
carvings where he kept his tobacco. He would sniff and
sneeze. He would
let the dog sniff, and the dog would then sneeze and chase his
tail.
Pearl was 14, and very
mischievous. She had non-Jewish friends from school, and would
sometimes bluff, bring them home and present them as Jewish.
When father discovered this, he threatened to beat her. I
remember her cries and screams. In our home beatings were not
used as education, despite the fact that at the time it was
accepted. As for my sister, father would say, "spare the rod
and spoil the child".
An event that I remember
was father preparing brandy from cherries. A huge bottle stood
in our parents' bedroom, covered with some cloth. The bottle
stood and the contents bubbled. Pearl carried on in the
bedroom, and must have either broken the bottle or overturned
it. The entire bedroom was flooded with wine and cherries. Our parents were, of
course, very angry.
My sister Pearl died in
Israel a year ago. She
had two sons and five grandchildren.
Mordechai
My brother Mordechai was
the third of five children. As the only son, he was highly
regarded. My parents called him their "kaddish". He was also a very
talented youth. He was the diamond in the crown. He was strong
and good-looking at the age of 14. He played the violin, wrote
poetry and excelled in school. On national Polish holidays, or
any celebration in school, he was chosen to read his poetry.
The poems were usually very patriotic. I don't recall that we,
as children, were jealous of him. His place in the family was
deserved.
He and my sister Pearl,
who was a year older than he, were in the same class, because
he had skipped a grade. Pearl
would walk around with a book in her hand, studying and
memorizing poems by some Polish writer. When she went to
sleep, she would put the book under her pillow, so that the
words would enter her head. My brother did not study, but the
next day in class he always new
the poem by heart. When he was asked at home how he knew the
text, he answered: "I hear Pearl reading from the book, and I
don't need any more effort". If Pearl was jealous, she never
showed it, but always admired him. Pearl was not a great
student, but she was smart and mischievous.
My brother was also
murdered during the holocaust in our town, at the age of 14.
Paula
My sister Paula was
closest to me. We were really good friends. About three years
separated us. We shared everything. We went everywhere
together.
When it hailed in
springtime, we would run barefoot and shout: "Psulkalech", which means beans. When I was four or
five I would drag after her to school. During good weather I
would sit on the windowsill and listen to the lessons.
Sometimes the teacher would bring me in. After a while, when I
was five or five-and-a-half, my parents enrolled me in school.
The lessons were easy and pleasant. Although we were good
friends and very close, we sometimes quarreled over something
we both wanted. Then my father would enter the picture, sit me
on one knee, my sister on the other, and say: "Girls, it is
more important to give than to take. When one takes from
another, both are sad he who took and he from whom was
taken. In giving, both are happy he who gives gives happily, and he who receives is
happy to receive." At the time we did not really get the idea,
but today I feel that we have understood the message of this
wise statement. Both my sister and I are happy to give.
My sister Paula (P'nina) lives today in Beer Sheba, has
three daughters and four grandchildren.
H O M E
We had a big house on the
edge of town. The house was one story, of stone, with many
rooms. Behind the house, as a continuation of the house, was
the family oil factory. The oil was produced from the seeds of
sunflowers, poppies, and others. My mother and I worked
alongside the Ukraine laborers. It was hard work. The local
farmers would bring sacks of seeds, and in return the oil that
was produced from them. As a result, the house was always full
of farmers from the area.
Townspeople also came to buy oil.
I remember once sitting on
the shaft which connected two horses, and they circled and
turned the wheels which squeezed out the oil. I fell from the
shaft, and was almost trampled by a horse. I was paralyzed with
fear. One of the Ukrainians grabbed and saved me.
Many times, I would fall
asleep on the sacks.
Our house was open to all.
Someone poor would eat with us at almost every meal. A woman
named Sarah lived in town.
She came from a wealthy family. She was called "Sarah
the Meshiganeh" crazy Sarah.
She would wander around town in torn clothing, an umbrella in
her hand, winter and summer. During her wanderings she would
hug lampposts and talk to them as though they were people.
Many stories and gossip
were told about this same Sarah. It was told that she fell in
love with a fellow, apparently not one of our people. Her
parents did not agree to the relationship, and forbid her to
meet with him. Sarah was my mother's age, and occasionally
showed up at our house. I recall that we were afraid of her. She was only
"normal' in our house. She would talk with my mother while
they sat at the table. My good-hearted mother understood her.
She would give her a change of clothes and food to take with
her. But every time she had new clothing, she would tear it
and wander around in rags.
My father would always say: "Treat the king like a
person, and a person like a king."
My brother and sister want
to the Beitar Movement and the
house was always full of kids who were members of the
movement.
Our house was big but not
orderly. Farmers would come in and feel right at home. We had
a Ukraine housekeeper. She did mostly cleaning and sometimes
cared for the younger children. The biggest room in the house
had a red parquet floor. At times it was necessary to renew
the color, and spread some red material on it. The housekeeper
would polish the floor with large sponges strapped to her
feet. Then we were not allowed to step on the floor. My
brother, who played the violin, would stand on the table,
playing some melody, and the housekeeper would polish in
rhythm with the music.
My parents' bedroom had
two beds made of nickel with carvings. The bed covers were of
green velvet carpets with red roses embroidered around the
edges.
I remember that our
neighbors' house was very different. It was heavily decorated
and had a flower garden. The only decoration in our house was
a hand-made wall carpet.
And of course, fruit trees
apples, cherries and pears. We grew potatoes in the yard. We
had a huge walnut tree. When spring approached, father would
plough up the middle of the garden, and we would plant tiny
onions that grew into scallions and regular onions.
My father was not a
healthy man. He must have had tuberculosis, or some other lung
disease. Occasionally he would travel to a recuperation home
in Zakopane, Poland. Upon his return he would bring us toys
and sweets, objects carved of wood, fancy and decorated boxes.
My mother would pamper him and was very concerned. For
example, she would cook clear soup, golden soup, and give
father all the fat that floated on the surface. She would
prepare a "guggle-muggle" from seven eggs. She would mix it in
a glass, and he would drink it in big gulps, all at once.
My father was an
easy-going and good-hearted man. I used to sit on his knees
and comb his hair. In my eyes, he could do everything. He
could fix things in the house, split logs for the fireplace in
winter, sew our shoes, plough the big garden, sow seeds, plant
and work hard in the factory. Neither of my parents shied away
from hard work. They were laborers. They were always black as
coal. They had to toast the seeds which were placed on hot
straw, so they always looked smoked. Next to the oil factory
was a mill that ground grains such as groats and flax. We never lacked for
anything. We even
had oranges once in a while.
I remember a pit in the
yard for fertilizer. Once some policemen walked by and saw
orange peels in the pit.
They were very jealous.
I recall them saying that we were living at their
expense, and drinking their blood.
We, as children, were
generally healthy. I don't recall doctors or medications at
all.
We were accustomed to
drinking milk directly from the cow, with the foam still on
the surface. We would drink milk at the gentile neighbor's
house, and have chocolate there. I remember that everyone in
the house was poisoned by furnaces that burned wood. For some
reason, my sister Paula and myself were unaffected. I don't
remember how, but somehow, we were all saved.
The houses in town were
built of wood. Just a few were of red bricks, including the
movie house, which was also used as "Beit Hillel". There were
other public buildings, one of which belonged to a rich Jew.
The town was beautiful. It bathed in green. The population was
mixed. In parts of the town Poles and Jews lived as neighbors,
and sometimes in friendship. Despite this, there were times
when anti-Semitism showed up, especially during Christian
holidays.
Most of the Ukrainians
lived in villages close to town. The Poles and Ukrainians did
share great love. The Ukrainians were primitive and very
cruel. Most of their children did not attend school. Most of
the Jews in town were craftsmen leather-workers, carpenters,
carriage-builders, and merchants. Everything was connected to
the farmers' agriculture. There were also Jewish
professionals: doctors, lawyers, accountants and more. We also
had a sugar factory in our town. He belonged, of course, to a
Jew. The farmers would bring beet sugar which they grew, and
in returned received sugar. Carts after carts of beet sugar
with roll along the roads, passing through town. As children,
we would chase the carts and pick up beets that fell off, and
then run as fast as we could before the whip could reach us.
We would roast the beets on coals or in the oven, and their
taste was wonderful! Sweet and soft.
In winter the horses would
pull the sleighs which slid across the snowy and frozen roads.
I can still hear the tinkle of the bells tied to the horses'
necks. During winter everything was white, white. The snow
would pile up to the windows.
It was almost impossible to get out of the house. Roofs
would crumple under the burden of the snow. Water froze. Thin
icicles hung from the roofs of houses. On such days the
farmers were wrapped up from head to foot. Only their eyes
peeped through the layers of wrappings. Thin icicles hung from
their noses and their moustaches.
The windows of the houses
were covered with particles of snow like stars. A magical
world appeared on the panes of glass. 'White palaces, fairies,
white scenery, good animals, and wild animals. I could sit for
hours and tell myself stories and tales which I made up from
the beautiful pictures which were created on the window panes.
Spring was also a lovely
time. I can still
smell the melting snows, the scents of awakening life which
brings a feeling of gayness to the heart.
Today, when the snow on
Mt. Herman begins to melt, I can recognize the smell, which
brings me back there to the scenes, the forests, the flowing
waters and the melting snows.
Holidays
On Thursday night Mother
would bake for the Sabbath. On Friday mornings we would awaken
and see what she had prepared: Yeast cakes, Poppy seed cakes,
Hallah and more. She would prepare a huge Napoleon cake with
many layers. Each layer filled with cream. This was cut into
triangles, and each one was so very tall! On Friday evening
the festive dinner included the whole family.
Occasionally on holidays a
rabbi would appear by us. He was a very important rabbi. My
mother would cook, clean and arrange the house in his honor.
He was given a room, and he would join us at meals, and bless
us. The atmosphere was full of holiness. Once something
happened to me that I will never forget. When I recall this I
smile to myself. Our toilet was in an inner courtyard (we
didn't know then that a toilet can be inside the house). I
went to the
outhouse, opened the door, and who was standing with his back
to me? The rabbi! I was so frightened, that I ran into the
house and yelled, "Mama, the Rabbi is pishing!"
I couldn't believe that a rabbi is like any ordinary person.
On Yom Kippur everyone
fasted and went to synagogue. My sister Paula and I were too
young, and not required to fast, but we decided to fast until
noon.
Our parents agreed. We
slept late, but couldn't hold out till noon, and we ate. We
told everyone that we had fasted. I remember that Paula and I
wore the same dress with embroidery that Mother had sewn for
us.
I vividly recall Passover.
It was a beautiful and impressive holiday. The whole family
would come. Grandfather would sit at the head of the table. Father replaced him
after he died. We sat on while pillows, and I, being the
youngest, looked for the affikoman.
I didn't know exactly who was Elijah the prophet. I thought he
was a frightening figure, with a long while beard, who can't
be seen. When Mother opened the door, I would raise my legs,
which didn't really reach the floor, because I feared he would
tickle my feet. I would watch the cup and was sure it would
empty.
Often, I would fall asleep
and wake up somewhere. It
was very long, but very holy.
We would play with walnuts
or chestnuts.
On Hanukkah we ate potato
pancakes with salt, and played with dreidels.
On Simchat Torah we went
to synagogue with flags that had a window and a red apple on
top, and a candle. The synagogue was full and lively.
It was an impressive
synagogue the ceiling was gold and sky-blue with paintings
of lions and stars.
I remember the last
holiday, when the war had already begun, Father made shiny
lacquered black shoes for my sister and myself. We wore the
shoes to synagogue, but we didn't want to dirty them. After
each step we would wipe the soles of the shoes. Father stamped a cow
into the soles of the shoes.
The War
The war broke out and
Poland was conquered.
The Germans had not yet
reached us. We hoped that they would not. Jews, refugees, who
escaped from the center of Poland, reached our town.
Processions of refugees, hungry and exhausted, filled out
town. On the roadside they were offered hot milk and bread, by
the local Jews.
We took a whole family of
refugees into our home. Parents and their five children. We
gave them two rooms. They
spoke a strange Yiddish, and it was very difficult to
communicate with them. It was easier to speak with them in
Polish. They used words in Yiddish which we had never heard. I
recall them cooking potatoes in a huge pot.
This family was murdered
during the war, except for one son and two older daughters.
We lived in great anxiety.
The refugees told us shocking stories that were hard to
believe. I suppose we didn't really want to believe them. We
lived in hope that the Germans would not reach us, and if they
did, they would not harm us, since we had an oil factory, and
could be used as workers there. To our great sorrow, and awful
day did come.
Suddenly, one day, we
heard a strange noise. Never before, at least as children, had
we seen or heard an airplane. But here, in the sky, there
appeared an iron monster in the shape of a huge bird. It was
shooting fire. There
was great panic. Frightened people ran to find cover. I found
myself lying in a field along with many others. I shut my eyes
so as not to see or hear. Mothers ran looking for their
children. Fathers
carried infants and children. There was great confusion and
fright. After a time as long as eternity, the airplane
disappeared. People left their hiding places and ran home. Not
everyone arose. There were wounded and dead. Many homes were
in flames. We heard cries and screams.; People called "Sh'mah Yisrael". Our house was
undamaged, and we were all unhurt. But fear invaded us and we
knew that the days ahead would be difficult. But we never
suspected that they would be so terrible.
One day we saw the Germans
entering town. Cars and motorbikes in perfect order moved
toward the town. All the Jews stayed at home. The children
were not allowed to go outside. My curious brother sneaked
out, and returned to tell us that it's not that bad: the
German soldiers were smiling and polite, and even gave out
sweets to the kids. We wanted to believe that they were not
that terrible, but the following days proved the opposite.
The war was at full
strength. The
Russians fought the Germans.
The Germans retreated, the Russians advanced, more
battles and the Germans returned. Each day brought new
decrees. The non-Jews were forbidden to bring us material for
oil production, and the factory closed down. We were forbidden
to deal with non-Jews, to leave the house after dark, (Page
39)
we had to wear a yellow
patch on the back and front of our clothing even the
children. We stopped going to school. The Jews could not
earn a living, and the stress of existence crept in.
We still had enough to
live. We had a
storeroom fill of flour and sugar, and in the cellar
potatoes. We
could still pick apples from the trees, and pick onions and
potatoes from our garden. The Germans had not yet reached the
homes of the Jews. They created a feeling of calm, and
initiated a committee of Jews called "Judenrat".
The horrors began when the
Gestapo entered the town. Every day we heard to some terrible
occurrence. Innocent Jews were shot on the way to synagogue.
The Jews remained at home and waited for the worst to come.
One day, all the Jews and non-Jews were called to the center
of town. Two gallows had been erected. We stood and watched
two people being take to the gallows. There were signs on
their back. On one of them, who was a Jew, they had written
"such will be done to a Jews who deals with a non-Jew". On the second, who
was a non-Jew, was written "such will be done to a non-Jew who
deals with a Jew". The two were stood on boxes, ropes tied
around their necks. The
box under the Jew was removed, and he was hanged. The non-Jew
was released. It was terrible to watch. As a child, it was
the first time I had witnessed death. I couldn't really
understand what had occurred, but the cries of pain from the
Jews around me, still ring in my ears. After a while the
relatives were allowed to remove the body and bury it
properly.
In the Ghetto
One day a Gestapo decree
came through the Judenrat. All the Jews were required to leave
their homes and move to the center of town, where all the Jews
would be concentrated together. A fence was built around. No one could enter
or leave. We had shops which were for us only. We left our
home to the Gestapo headquarters.
Our family gathered
together in the ghetto My mother's mother and her young
daughter, uncles and aunts with their families. They all died in the
Holocaust.
We my parents and their
five children settled in our two shops. We were still
allowed to bring our furniture and other possessions. We could
not take everything. There
just wasn't enough room for it all. I remember that Father
buried two huge black clay pots under our factory, filled with
gold coins stamped will the sign of the tsar.
Neither my father nor my
mother worked. We lived off the family savings and the basic
food we had amassed over time. We lived sparingly, but did not
feel hunger. Father would exchange oil for leather, make boots
and sell them. The village was close enough, and he was able
to go out and buy food.
I remember Gallia who was
married to a doctor. They
lived in a house at the end of the ghetto. Gallia had studied
together with my sister in "Tarbut"
and my sister lived in her house. She was a nurse and was
pregnant. I remember her saying to my mother: "If you had some
"tsimmes" (Page 42), I really need it." So my mother said: "I
have tsimmes, and I'm making kreplach right now." So that I know that
there was food.
Each day there were new
decrees, many men were taken from their homes and sent
somewhere. The
days passed in fear and terror, and in uncertainty.
One night Pearl cried out
in her sleep. Perhaps
the fears overpowered her, and she broke out in verse:
"Gevalt
Yidden
Es Brent di velt
Midertz
leshen.
Aleh
Yidden un yiddelech
Farbalten
zich thi
de lechalach
Gevalt!"
And in English:
Save the Jews the world is afire!
It must be put out!
All the Jews and little Jews
are hiding in holes
Save us.
My father, hearing her cry
out, tried to calm her and waken her. And so, the days and
nights passed. The terror, a horrible monster, stalked and
came closer to us. There was no escape. We knew that our end
we be like other Jews of whom we heard. My father, who wanted
to save us at any price, dug a shelter in a room which served
as storage. Under one of the boards of the wooden floor he dug
a pit, put in water, dried bread and dried fruits. The shelter
was long and narrow, with no air or light. The earth was damp
and moldy. The floor board was used as a door and could be
closed from within. Father had a Ukraine friend who could
enter the ghetto. He
would come to us and assist in digging and enlarging the pit.
The Ukrainians were loyal
and helpful to the Germans. They were happy to fill their role
as liquidators of the Jews. Their hatred and cruelty towards
the Jews surpassed by far those of the Germans themselves. It
was in their blood from ancient times. They had just been
waiting for the sign. And
it came!
One night we awoke to the
sound of gun shots close by. We went out and saw a frightening
scene. The whole area was occupied by Jews, and the ghetto was
on fire. The houses built of wood were burning. Jews ran
round, screaming and crying, calling "Shema Yisrael" from
every corner. Many burned themselves in their houses, or ran
in the streets while their bodies burned, preferring to die
rather than fall into the hands of the German. It was
horrible!
My father gathered us
together and said: "We will not commit suicide; we will try to
save ourselves. Even if only one of us survives, he must tell
the world." Mother equipped each of us with anything we could
carry, clothing upon clothing in layers, and gold coins. I
held on to my mother and father, not wanting to go anywhere.
Everyone cried. I don't remember exactly what happened,
perhaps I was dragged by force, and we separated. I remained with my
14-year-old brother and my older sister Tzviyah, 18 years of
age.
The other went separately
to different corners of the ghetto, in an effort to get out.
Paula and Pearl left separately. I don't know what happened to
my father. After the war we were told that the Germans found
Mother hiding in sugar cane on the banks of the river, calling
for her children.
Tzviyah, Mordechai and Myself
My brother, sister and
myself reached one of the alleys of the ghetto, trying to
escape. The Ukrainians and the Germans stood all around and
shot at anyone who approached. Many Jews gathered in the
alley, also trying to escape. My brother held a kitchen knife
in his hand, ran in front of us, and ordered us to follow him. Holding my sister's
hand, we ran after him, with many people running in our
footsteps, my cousin among them. We heard shots. My cousin was
killed on the spot. my brother fell, got up and ran, limping
back. We followed
him. We reached the house in which we had been living, and
entered the shelter which Father had prepared. My brother was
wounded in his leg. My sister treated him. She prepared a
bandage in the dark, and used some water in the barrel to wash
his wound. And so
we stayed there, holding each other.
I fell asleep and don't
know how much time passed. Perhaps a week, or more. We could
not know if it was day or night. Occasionally my brother would
leave the shelter, enter the house and bring necessary things.
One night, or day. my brother returned from the house and told
us that the house had been gutted and everything robbed.
Through the window he was able to see empty streets, houses
that were broken into, windows and doors broken. Germans and
Ukrainians wandered the streets looking for hiding Jews. Once
in a while Jews were removed from their hiding places, beaten
and murdered in the nearby forest.
Conditions in our shelter
were difficult. The place was like a burrow. The air was
getting thin, and the water and toast were almost gone. My
brother's leg was in need of medical treatment, but the
situation would not allow us to leave. Occasionally my brother
would lift the board which served as a door, and allow some
fresh air to enter. One day we heard voices and footsteps
above us. The footsteps became hard knocks. We tried to make
ourselves even smaller. I
stopped breathing due to my panic. I scraped the earth under
me with my fingernails. Like a frightened animal, I wanted to
dig in more and more. Suddenly, the board broke in. We heard Ukrainians
scream: "Jews, out!" We did not answer. The voices continued,
in greater volume: "We know you're inside. If you don't come
out, we'll throw in hand grenades." "You stay inside. Only Tzviyah and I
will come out", said my brother. I refused, and clung to him
with all my strength. We crept out, and immediately felt kicks
and we were beaten.
Among the group of
Ukrainians was the supposed "friend" of the family, who helped
Father build the shelter. My brother, who recognized him,
tried to bribe him with some money and jewels in his
possession. They took it all and promised not to tell the
Germans. They left. My
brother did not believe their promises. He was sure they would
return with the Germans. We left our shelter. In the storeroom
where the shelter had been dug, there were shelves, and a
ladder that led to the attic. My brother helped me climb up
the ladder. My sister awaited her turn, when the Ukrainians
suddenly appeared accompanied by the Germans. She remained
outside. They saw
her immediately, and forced her down. Then they climbed to the
attic and brought us down. We were taken outside, the Germans
aiming their guns at us, and the Ukrainians urging us on.
On the way, more Jews were
taken from their hiding places.
We were marched through the streets of the town. The streets of the
ghetto were empty and destroyed. When we reached the streets
of the non-Jews, they stood at the roadside, cheered and threw
stones at us. Very few stood by quietly with pity in their
eyes. We were taken to a large building. We were led to a
large cellar, full of Jews. Many children lay in every corner.
Some were alone, others with a father, mother sister or
brother.
That same day was Sunday,
the Christian day of rest.
The Jews were put in the cellar, with the intention of
shooting them on the next day. The Jews in the Ukraine were
generally not sent to camps, but were shot to death in the
forests. In our forests deep holes were dug, the Jews were
shot and fell into the holes.
Many did not die immediately. Some were wounded, and
fell into the holes while they were still alive.
As I said, the cellar was
full of Jews. The
doors to the cellar were locked behind us, and Ukrainian
guards stood outside, watching the doors. They apparently
drank vodka, got drunk as they usually did on Sundays, and
must have fallen asleep. Suddenly one Jew rose and told us,
the children, to approach the cellar door. Somehow, he managed
to open the door enough for a child to squeeze through. He
began to push the children, one at a time, through the narrow
opening. Understanding his intention, I ran to my brother and
sister, hanging on to them with all my strength. I did not
want to leave by myself. Eventually, the man was able, with
the assistance of others, to widen the opening. My sister and I were
able to get out. The Ukrainians were actually out from the
vodka. We lost our brother.
We couldn't find him. The guards must have awoken while
we were escaping. We
heard shots and bullets whistled above our heads.
Tzviyah and Me
My hand in hers, my sister
and I ran with all our strength. The gun shots grew fainter. It was a very dark
night. We must have reached some field. We continued moving
away, when we suddenly fell into a deep pit. It was a lime pit.
Somehow, we managed to crawl out. The lower part of my body
was wet and covered with lime.
We continued running in
the fields, tired and soaked.
We found a pile of hay and crept in. We tried to get
warm and rest. It was the beginning of winter, on a clear
night, and snowflakes began to fall. I fell asleep in my
sister's arms.
When I awoke it was till
night time, or perhaps night again. I was very hungry. We left
the hay and began walking. We walked in frozen fields. The
fields were covered with snow. We saw a single house in the
distance. Smoke rose from the chimney. My sister decided to
risk going in and asking for something to eat and a little
warmth. This was really dangerous. The surrounding Ukraine was
very hostile, hated the Jews, and usually handed over any Jews
in the area, or murdering them by themselves. We entered the
yard. A huge dog
tied to a long rope began barking and tried to attach us. The
door opened to the sounds of the barking. A big peasant came
out of the house, with a lamp in his hand. I think he was also
holding a pitchfork.
He calmed the dog and
signed that we approach.
For a moment my sister was uncertain as to the
peasant's intentions. We came closer. My sister asked for a
bit of food and a chance to warm up. He brought us in. We were wrapped in
pleasant warmth, and I smelled food cooking. The peasant's
wife brought us warm milk and freshly baked black bread. I can
still, to this day, smell that wonderful bread. We warmed up
and dried up, and felt less hunger. The man did not look
dangerous, even though we were not sure that he wasn't
planning to murder us. We wanted to thank him for his
kindness, but we had nothing to offer. We were still dressed
in the layers of clothing that Mother had put on us. My sister
removed some of her clothing and gave it to them. I fell asleep.
When I awoke we were again
in the field. It must have been early morning. After a long
walk we saw a pile of hay.
The sun began to shine, and since we did not want to be
discovered during the day, we spent the day in the hay pile.
We begin walking at dark. We walked for hours in the freezing
night. We saw some houses in the distance and walked in their
direction. The houses were different. This was a Czech
village. Their houses were built of bricks rather than wood.
The roofs were made of tiles, rather than straw used by the
Ukrainians. They had clean yards, many fruit trees and
gardens. We approached the closest house and knocked on the
door. Again, a peasant came out. Since my sister knew that he
was Czech, she was not as afraid of him. She asked for some
food and a chance to get warm. He smiled and told us to come
after him. We came to a barn, and high above us a hay loft. He
put up a ladder and told us to go up as high as possible, to
hide and wait till he brought us food and blankets. We climbed
up and snuggled together. Despite my hunger, my fatigue took
over and I fell asleep.
I dreamt that I heard
Pearl, my sister's voice.
Many days had passed since we parted. Suddenly I awoke
and opened my eyes. The night was a clear winter night, and I
hear a voice coming from the barn. A familiar voice
from the dream, my sister Pearl's voice.
I thought I was till
dreaming, but no! I wasn't dreaming. The voice was weak
but well-heard. I
listened to it and had no doubt that it was she. My sister
Tzviyah, who laid next to me, did not react to the voice. I
shook her awake and told her: "Listen, I hear Pearl." Tzviyah
reacted angrily: "You and your imagination." It was really
hard to believe this was possible. I pressed her to go down
and check. After
repeating my request again and again, Tzviyah listened again
and was convinced that I had imagined it. She went down to the
barn, and after a while I heard voices crying and laughing,
and the peasant's voice joined them.
Tzviyah, Pearl and Me
I jumped from the hayloft
carelessly. I
fell on a broken bottle laying there. My knee was wounded, but
I felt no pain. I entered and found my two sisters hugging and
crying. My sister Pearl lay on a bed of straw. Her legs were
wrapped in blankets which the peasant gave her. We sat and
listened to Pearl's story:
After we left our house
and Father told us to do everything possible to save
ourselves, my sister managed to escape the ghetto and hide in
the forests, fields and any other available hiding place. She
gathered frozen vegetables in the fields, ate snow and
continued walking without knowing the direction. One day some
peasants saw her and began chasing her with their dogs. Pearl,
my sister, ran with all her strength. The peasants, and
especially their dogs, got very close. She suddenly saw a
well. Without
thinking twice, she jumped in. Perhaps she thought that
suicide was better than being caught by the cruel Ukrainians.
Fortunately, she landed in a pail hanging in the well. The
rope holding the pail let the pail down deep in the well, and
into the water. The chasers lost her trail. She remained in
the well, half her body in the ice-cold water.
She does not know how long
she remained there. The barking stopped, and apparently so did
the chase. With her last strength, she was able to pull
herself up. She does not know how she managed. (Page 54) Her
legs were frozen, and she dragged herself to the place where
we found her. It was hard to believe, but it did happen. A
miracle? I don't believe in miracles.
That's how we three met.
The Czech brought us food and said that we could stay until
our sister could walk again. Then we would have to leave. He
had a family and children, and as long as Jews were sought
out, he lived in fear.
And so we had to leave and
continue our wandering. We
continued walking, without knowing where. I recall that once
we reached a family and went up to the attic which was filled
with straw. The Czech went up after us, approached our big
sister, and began to remove his trousers. Pearl, who was
watching, kicked him hard. He fell, and then ran away. My
sister Pearl had a hard time walking. We left our shelter into
the cold and the dark. We walked along a dirt road. The road
was white, smooth and frozen. Suddenly we heard the hoofbeats
of horses. In the distance we saw sleds pulled by horses
approaching us. There was a low ditch alongside the road, by
the field. We jumped into the field, and tried to reach a hay
pile. Perhaps because of fear, or not being able to run
anymore, I went back and lay down in the ditch. My sisters did
not notice that I had disappeared, and continued running
towards the pile of hay. I did my best to curl up and be very,
very small.
I shut my eyes, but
suddenly heard a voice calling: "Look, there's a little Jewess
here in the ditch." The last sled stopped. The man got off the
sled and pulled me out. He
insisted that I come with him, and even gave me bread from his
bag. I didn't want to take food from him, because I remembered
Mother saying that we should not take food from them. He took
my outer coat, and black and white lamb's wool coat, and my
boots, which were also covered with fur. I remained with my
fur-lined shoes which were leather on the outside. I walked
behind the sled which was loaded with logs. The man did not
notice when I suddenly left the sled and ran back to the
field.
I ran with all my
strength. I thought I heard him calling be, but I didn't stop.
Neither he nor the others chased after me. I reached the pile
of hay in the field, crawled in and found my sisters, who
were, of course, very happy to see me. There was a village not
far from our hiding place, also Czech. We had by this time
learned to discern between a Ukrainian and a Czech village. We
approached one of the houses, and found the door locked. We
knocked, and a man with a pleasant face opened the door. He
looked around and shoved us inside the house. We came into an
area which served as the kitchen. It held a table, a stove
top, an over for baking bread, and a niche above the oven
called a "prepichik", where I was
going to spend the next 11 months.
The man woke his wife, and
she prepared hot food for us. She lit the stove and we were
able to warm up a bit. The couple was very generous and
compassionate. They sat with us the whole night, and my
sisters told them what we had experienced. The left the room
for a moment, and returned saying that they could not possibly
hide us. They feared that we would be discovered, and they
were right. The Germans would have murdered the family
together with the Jews. The couple lived in the house with
their 20-year-old daughter, a son about my age, and a very old
grandmother.
My sister Tzviyah begged
that at least I stay, since I was small and had no more
strength to wander around. They finally agreed that I stay. Of
course, I began to cry again. I didn't want to part with my
sisters, and promised to behave and not linger behind. My
sister Tzviyah promised that as soon as they could they would
come to visit me one night. She also said: "Don't cry and be
very, very quiet, and say thank you to these good people, who
are prepared to endanger themselves for your sake." She also
made it very clear that if they do not return within four or
five days, not to wait for them any longer. We hugged and
kissed. I stopped
my tears. I was only 7 or 8. Tzviyah was 18, and Pearl 13 or
14. They left. I stayed alone.
A l o n e
The owners of the house
put me in the attic, under a big pile of hay. A number of days
passed, but my sisters did not come. I stopped expecting them,
and thought that I would never see them again. That they were
caught and executed. Occasionally the man would come up and
bring me some food, and a pail for my body wastes.
I was along in the world.
I did not weep. I had no tears. I also had no one to cry to.
One night I heard the
ladder creak. Someone came up the ladder. I was frightened. It
couldn't be the man of the house, because he would come once a
day or once every two days, and I had already been given my
portion of food that evening.
I even had saved some of it.
I huddled deep in the hay,
and became very, very small.
Suddenly I heard a small
voice calling my name: "Rocheleh,
Where are you? It's me, Pearl." I thought I was dreaming. But
the voice came closer. I peeked out and there was my sister
Pearl, leaning over the hay, looking for me. I was sure that
it wasn't really her, but her ghost, coming to take me with
her, to the land of the dead.
I asked her not to take me
there: "I want to live," I said to her. My brother always
frightened me, saying that after midnight the souls of the
dead come out and wander around, and I believed him.
My sister, understanding
my fear, promised me that she was not a ghost, that she was
alive, and came to see me as she had promised. She stretched
out her hand and told me to touch her.
I reached out and touched
her hand and her face. Her
hand was actually cold, but it was a hand, and her face was a
face. It was she,
alive and tangible.
Pearl and Me
We hugged, and I burst
into tears. I wept quietly, with tears. She told me about my
eldest sister Tzviyah, who had been caught together with her
by the Ukrainians. On the way they saw an outhouse a small
wooden building with two cubicles. They asked to go in, and
were allowed to go. They were guarded in front, and Pearl said
to Tzviyah, "Let's push open a board and escape to the
fields", but she answered, "I don't want to run away. If you
want to, go ahead." Pearl broke the board and ran. The
Ukrainians took Tzviyah to the shack where they were sorting
out the murdered Jews' clothing.
Later on, the people who
were hiding me went to that shack, and asked about my sister. They were told that
she was there. They
saw her and told her that they could arrange for her to
escape. Tzviyah refused.
She knew that she might endanger her rescuers, and also
us. My sister
Pearl managed to escape.
Tzviyah did not.
Pearl remained with me for
a while. We were both put into the barn, with a cow and a pig. Sometimes the owner
would come and bring us and the pig some food. We were often
hungry, and ate the peelings and cooked potatoes along with
the pig. They had an orchard with fruit trees, mostly apples.
The trees were losing their leaves, but sometimes we could
find an apple which had been missed on a branch, or on the
ground. As usual, we were hungry.
The barn was built of thin
wooden boards. My sister once decided to break one of the
boards and told me to go out and look for apples. I squirmed
out through the partially broken board. I don't even remember
if I found any apples, but I returned. My sister fixed the
board and put it back in place, as though nothing had
happened. But the pig broke through the board and went out. It
was already light. How could we get the pig back without our
being noticed? What could we do?
My sister found a
'solution". Since
only I could get through the opening, she told me to take the
pig's bowl, go out to him, find him, and perhaps tempt him
back to the barn with the bowl of food.
I went out and saw him
digging around one of the trees. I approached him and
stretched out the bowl to him. I held the bowl out, walking
backwards, and he followed me. I was afraid I would be seen,
but continued with my task until the pig came into the barn
after me.
When the sun rose, the
peasant entered the barn to bring food to us, the pig and the
cow. My sister told him that the pig a gotten through the
wall, and we were able to get him back. The peasant was
amazed, saying that such a thing had never happened. My sister
was smart, and suggested that the pig was frightened by our
presence. He repaired the broken board and everything returned
to normal. The next day my sister told me that she was going
to a different hiding place, without telling me where.
Alone again.
Alone Again
It was winter. It was cold. The pig
played an important role in my hiding place. He had a separate
corner in the barn. A small fence separated him from the cow,
that stood or laid down. His corner was spread with straw. It was usually fresh
straw. Since I suffered terribly from the cold, I laid down
next to him and patted his head, as though he were a cat. He
liked my touch, and made snoring sound, lying quietly. I felt
secure and serene next to his warm and reacting body.
One winter day, when the
cold was unbearable, the owners brought me into their house.
They put me into the oven for baking bread. The area was small
and crowded, but it was safer than any other place. They put
in some sacks to cover me. I also wore a coat from home. I
remember that it was green. I no longer had shoes. I could
only lie on my back, and could not turn from side to side, or
to sit up. Occasionally, they would push in something for me
to eat, mostly solid food, since I was unable to drink lying
down. I would use a sack for my excrements. How did I manage
this? I don't know.
Naturally I was thirsty,
and usually also hungry. Sometimes they would push in some
kind of object with a spout which enabled me to drink a bit. I
don't know how long I was in there.
One Sunday the whole
family left for the weekend to their house in another village.
Only the old grandmother stayed to keep watch over the house.
I heard her moving back and forth in the kitchen, murmuring to
herself in Czech. It's very similar to Polish, and I
understood that she was looking for something. I finally
figured out that she was looking for the cup with the spout,
which it turns out was hers. She did not know that I was
hidden there. They hadn't told her. They apparently did not
trust her since she was old.
I pushed the cup towards
the opening, which was hidden by some logs. She finally saw
it, put her hand out to it, and caused some logs to fall. The
opening was before her. She seemed to think that the sacks
were not in place. She used to long pole for the bread to pull
out the sacks. She hurt me with the pole. I tried to make
myself as small as possible, but I kept getting hit by the
pole, so I pushed out the sacks, until all of them were gone.
The old lady kept muttering words I couldn't understand. When
she found the coat, she raised her voice. She began to scream:
"Jewess, get out from there". She kept hitting me and
shouting. I had no choice but to crawl out. She must have
thought that I had snuck in without permission.
I was thrown out into the
cold and snowy winter, wearing only a dress and my feet
wrapped in rags. It was a clear day, and I feared that I would
be seen. Without looking in any direction, I ran towards the
fields, beyond the barn. I found a pile of frozen potato
peels, dug my way under them and found myself a shelter.
Toward evening I crept
back towards the house. There was a dog house nearby.
Trembling with cold, I sat next to it until I heard the family
returning. I approached them and told them what had happened.
They brought me back into the house and arranged a place for
me over the oven. They told the grandmother that I was Jewish,
but very rich, and at the end of the war they would receive a
lot of money for hiding me.
The grandmother became
nice to me, and would bring me the crust of the bread which
she could not chew. And so, I spent about 11 months on top of
the oven.
I large box covered with
drying flax covered the oven as a protecting wall. This was my
shelter. It was small and crowded, but bearable. I made a
small crack through which I could look out the window to the
yard outside the house. I could see the barn in which the pig
and cow stayed.
And so, I looked out the
window through the crack. The window pane was frozen and
covered with which stars of snow which created beautiful forms
and pictures. There I found a whole world in itself. My
imagination would carry me to magical and wonderful worlds.
One day I heard noises
outside in the yard. I was able to make out some figures
through the frozen window. The noise, which sounded like cars,
stopped suddenly. The pounding on the wooden door sounded
threatening. I didn't stop to think. I jumped from the
oven, and ran towards their rooms. I went in quietly. I sat on a chair. I
grabbed the cat which lay by the chair, and began petting it.
The people in the house
were amazed. The man ran to the door and let the Germans in.
The search began they searched every crack and corner. They
didn't miss the top of the oven.
They found my potty and asked whose it was. They
explained that their little son is ashamed and uses it. After
what seemed like an eternity, they entered the rooms and saw
me sitting with the cat. They looked in the closets, under the
bed and inside the large pillows that were on the bed, and I
sat peacefully smiling. They were told that I was a relative
who had come to recover from typhus.
After the search, they
were given something to drink, and then they left. The window
in the bedroom looked out on the yard, as did the one in the
kitchen. For some reason, the bedroom was not as cold, and I
could see them getting on their motorcycles. Only one Czech
who had brought them, peeked in the window next to which I was
sitting. He smiled a smile which seemed to say, I know who you
are, and disappeared.
After they left, I
panicked, and my whole body shook. I was sure I would be
thrown out since I had endangered them. But to my surprise,
the opposite happened. They all began to hug and kiss me
crying with excitement. They
said that I had done a smart thing, sitting there calmly with
the cat. They claimed that only a Jewish girl would have the
sense to behave like that. I didn't know, nor did I think of
why I had behaved that way. I guess that the instinct to live
was smarter and stronger than me and I was only 8 years old.
And so, I continued to
hide. Most of the time I lay on my back, with my legs folded
up. The place was too small for me to straighten them out. I
was also able to lay on my side like a baby in his mother's
womb.
Naturally, I couldn't
wash. The lice were living on my body, and in the pressure
sores that developed. I could see them in rows on the flax.
Some were big and fat, and I could see a dark spot in their
transparent bellies. There were also small ones. My whole body was
covered with them.
The hair on my head became
one mass. Sores under the scalp became a safe place for them
to reside. I could not help myself. Once in a while I grabbed
a handful of these disgusting creatures, and squashed them one
by one on the wall. The was became dotted red and brown.
One night the owners took
me down and washed me, shaved my head and poured kerosene on
the hairs which stuck to my scalp. They ironed my dress
(to burn the lice). I
can still hear the sound of the crackling of the lice when the
iron went over them on my dress. I had had long blond hair. After the shaving,
black curls replaced the long blond hair.
The bales of flax were
burned one by one. In their stead they placed sacks filled
with straw or corn husks. Under them stood a crate I don't
know what was in it.
One day a man arrived a
settler in the Czech village and asked to see the contents
of that crate. I understood that he claimed that the contents
belonged to him. The owners attempted to prevent him with
various excuses, but he insisted. The opening of the box was
turned inside. The man climbed on the table, took down the
sacks, and tried to turn the crate around.
I shut my eyes. I tried to
move together with the movements of the crate. I hoped he would not
see me. I opened my eyes for a moment. I saw a bearded man,
with a lot of hair on his head, and a broad smile on his
bearded face. That smile looked to me mean and dangerous. I
shut my eyes. I don't remember what happened after that. The
fear paralyzed me, and I seemed to be unconscious. Years
later, as a girl in Israel, I dreamt that face. I would awake in
terror, and try not to fall asleep. Every time I fell asleep
that face would return again and again.
I tried to free myself
from the dream. I would get up, go into the classroom, sit and
write, until fatigue would overcome and I would again fall
asleep. One day I decided that I would use my own powers to
get over this problem. (I
also did not know to whom to turn, and was embarrassed). I
went to sleep telling myself that I know that it is only a
dream, so that I need not be so fearful. The exercise did not
work at once. A few nights passed, and finally it was over. I
dreamt, and knew that it was a dream. Finally, the fear
passed, and so did the dream. I had won!
The owner of the house was
a teacher. The classroom was part of the house, the length of
a corridor which separated the classroom from the house.
Towards the end of the war, when the searches were almost
over, I was allowed to get off the oven in the nighttime, and
sit in the classroom, with the curtains and shutters closed.
My back was curved from
the position in which I lay, and I could hardly stand or walk. I would try to walk
and would fall forward on my nose. One night he took me
on his knees, which was very unpleasant. I know that this was
wrong, and did not give myself. I jumped out of his hands and
began to cry and go crazy. He something like: "you're a wild
girl". Maybe he only wanted to pamper me, but I had a bad
feeling.
They had a son my age. He
knew about me, but was smart and responsible enough not to say
anything. On those same nights, he would sit in the classroom
with me, and teach me to read and write Czech. I found it easy
to catch on to the language since it resembled Polish, and
since I had learned to read and write at a very young age
maybe I was 4. I taught him the Hebrew alphabet (actually
Yiddish). I knew how to read and write in Yiddish. I also knew
some Hebrew, Ukrainian, Polish, Russian, and finally Czech.
The boy had fun with the
strange letters. I taught him to write his name. I believe his
name was Vitkeh. We would write
the letters on the blackboard, and finally erasing very well,
so that we would not leave a sign for the pupils to see.
We were very careful, but
once we left some Hebrew letters which we did not notice. In
the morning, the pupils saw the strange signs. They asked
their teacher what they were. Vitkeh
explained that they were part of a secret game which he plays
with his sister, who was much older. The pupils accepted the
explanation, and asked to join the game, but he said that it
was very secret, and he could not reveal it.
The next day he told me
what had happened. We laughed and were glad that the incident
passed well. It was the first time in my days that I laughed.
I began writing a diary in my hiding place. I asked for some
paper, and tied it with flax.
I wrote in Yiddish, Polish and Ukrainian. The diary
became thicker. I wrote poems, thoughts and memories.
The war came to a close.
Sometimes we heard explosions from afar. The owner would tell
us that the Russians were approaching our area, and few
Germans were seen in the village streets. He told us that in
my town, which was almost completely destroyed, the Germans
began to leave. There was still danger for the Jews. Groups of
Ukrainian Nationals (Bendrovtze)
were still seeking out Jews and murdering them with their own
hands. During the day I was allowed to get down from the oven,
and walk around their apartment. There were big windows in the
living area. Usually
I would sit in their bedroom doing something. I would knit
with lamb's wool which they gave me, or write poems and other
thoughts in my diary. When I went into the living area, I
would crawl under the big windows, so as not to be seen from
outside.
The door to their
apartment was locked from the inside. When someone knocked on
the door, I would run to their bedroom and crawl under the
bed. I still slept on the oven, where I felt safe and had
become accustomed. It
was my place. My
security.
One day, while I sat in
the bedroom, there was a knock at the door. As was my habit, I
jumped up and crawled under the wide bed. I heard the voice of
a woman and a baby. I laid quietly without moving. Suddenly I
saw a little baby crawl under the bed. He saw me and began
laughing. He
reached out to me and I pushed him away. I guess I used too
much strength. He began to scream. The mother bent over to
pull him out, but the owner was faster than she. She pulled
him out. The
mother calmed the baby and everything passed.
The Vision
It must have been a spring
day or the beginning of summer I was allowed to go outside.
I loved to lay in the garden under the apple trees. I lay on
my back breathing the fresh air and the scents of the
blossoms. I suddenly saw a flock of white storks in the blue
sky. The flock slowly came together opposite me on the ground,
very close by. But the form and shape of the group changed.
They became a woman all dressed in white. The white clothes
wrapping her body waved lightly in the wind. Her face was
covered with a white scarf, but I knew that I was seeing my
mother. I called out: "Mother" and reached out to hold her.
But suddenly the figure disappeared and climbed to the sky,
again becoming a flock of white storks. I was sure it was my
mother. I ran excitedly to the house of my rescuers, and told
them what I had seen. And again, as was their habit, they
embraced me and announced that I was a holy child. According
to their beliefs, a person to whom the image of a dead one is
revealed, becomes holy. I
was pleased with this description.
The War's End
One day we received the
news that the war was over! The Russians entered the village.
I went out together with the others to see the liberators. The
soldiers entered the village. Although they were victors, they
were exhausted, and some were wounded. Most of them were in
carts drawn by horses. The officers rode the horses. There were women
soldiers among them.
The whole village came out
to greet them. Joy abounded. I don't remember if I felt joy. I knew that things
would never be the same as they were before. Some days passed
and my sister Pearl appeared. I knew that she was alive, but
did not know where. It turned out that she hid in the house of
my rescuers, in another village, where they had gone for
weekends.
There was a Jewish officer
among the soldiers. He was a young and pleasant man. When he
learned about me, he would often come to visit. He would speak
with me, asking questions about my family, trying to make me
happy, and teaching me some Russian songs and the dance called
Kozatchuk. He wanted to adopt me
and take me home to his family in Russia. But my sister Pearl
refused.
I remained with my
rescuers for another period of time. Parting from them was
difficult. I remember crying. I later learned that the owner
was executed after the war by Ukraine nationalists, the mother
died of typhus and the daughter committed suicide. I tried to
make contact with their son, but he was not interested.
My sister Pearl began
seeking out members of the family who had perhaps survived.
She gathered news from various people, from those who had been
saved, and from Christians, who had heard of or seen my mother
on the day she was murdered. Thus, I also learned that my
sister Paula was in a Ukraine village, not far from our town,
with a family of Ukrainian farmers. Pearl went there and saw
Paula, but Paula would not agree to go with her. She claimed
that she did not know her, and she was not Jewish, but Polish,
and that her parents were killed in a bombing. The Ukrainian
family would not give her up, and did not believe that she was
actually Jewish. They had an older son, and were planning a
marriage. They had even begun to prepare the dowry: linens,
towels, and carpets. These were all handmade, woven and
embroidered, which my sister had been preparing.
Pearl had no choice. She returned to
town, took two Russian soldiers, and went back to the village. They took Paula by
force, and so my sister was brought to me.
Since we had always been
very close, as soon as she saw me, she ran to me and we hugged
each other. We wept together. Suddenly she began to speak in
Yiddish. She told us her story, how she had been rescued and
what she had been through. She told us that she had been taken
to a pit and was about to be shot. She either jumped or was
pushed into the pit full of clothing that those to be executed
had taken off, before moving on to the next pit, where they
were shot. She lost consciousness, and awoke under piles of
clothing. She crawled out, and made it to the village where
she remained.
Aside from my sisters
Paula and Pearl, none of the rest of my family survived. My
parents, my grandmother, aunts, uncles and children were all
brought to the forest near the town, and shot into the death
pits which had been prepared ahead of time. The earth was
broken and one could see layers of bones. The whole town was
destroyed; our house was also bombed and destroyed. The three
of us remained. My
big sister Paula tried to find us a place to live. And so, Paula and I
were placed in an orphanage run by a Jewish Communist woman.
In the Orphanage
The orphanage was in
Poland. I don't remember exactly how we got there. The place
was full of Jewish children who had been gathered from various
places. A group of Zionist activists were working to bring us
finally to Palestine, which was against the opinion of the
woman who ran the place.
She thought that we should remain in Poland and help
rebuild the destroyed homeland. My sister Paula and I were in
the same orphanage. My sister Pearl remained in our town,
looking for more survivors.
We tried to organize our
lives in the orphanage. We began to study a little. We had
other tasks to perform. We were separated into age groups.
Each group had a teacher and a housemother.
I continued writing in my
diary. We received food and clothing from the Joint. Sometimes
we received packages from Palestine. I remember eating dried
fruits on Tu B'Shvat. That was,
of course, a celebration.
In the meantime, I got
sick. I was sent to some hospital. My sister would come to
visit me once in a while. The tests showed that I had malaria,
and also typhus. I had very high
fever. I was given quinine, and my skin turned yellow. Even my
scalp yellowed. One day I decided that I didn't want to remain
in the hospital any more. The treatment was terrible,
especially after I had tasted other food. I simply got up, got
together my few belongings, opened the door and walked out.
I wanted to get back to
the orphanage, to my sister, but of course I had no idea of
how to get there. I was weak, and it was hard for me to walk.
I walked and walked until I had no more strength. I sat down
under a tree, not knowing where to go. I had no choice but to
retrace my steps.
I returned to the
hospital. Happily, my sister Paula had been waiting for me and
worrying. Aside from her, none of the staff noticed my
disappearance. Or perhaps no one cared. After my recuperation,
I returned to the orphanage. I don't remember how much time we
spent there. Some of the teachers at the orphanage were
secretly planning to send us to Palestine. We, the younger
children, knew nothing about this. My sister Paula and others
her age (14-15) were in on the secret. One night, while I was
sleeping, my sister came to quietly, and told me to dress and
come with her. She whispered in my ear that we were going to
Palestine. I got up quietly. I dressed, but had no shoes. I
went to my friend's bed, took the pair of shoes by the bed,
and left a note saying: I am going to Palestine. I have no
shoes. I am taking yours. Ask the housemother for another
pair. The funny thing was that we met in the morning, because
her brother had also come to take her to Palestine. I don't
know what happened to her barefoot state. I believe she was
able to get a pair for herself.
Eliezer, our Counselor
A large group of children
left the orphanage. We were able to avoid the director of the
orphanage. We made our way to a close-by city, Lodz', and from
there to Germany. On the way we stayed in some camps which
served as passage points. We met other children. Groups and
groups of children, organized by the counselors of the various
youth movements such as "Gordonia",
"HaShomer HaTzair",
and others. We belonged to "HaShomer
HaTzair". Our counselor was from a
"gar'in" which settled in Beit Zera. He simply was unable to join
them before the war. Today
he is a member of Beit Zera.
Eliezer the counselor was
like a father to us. He made us into a group with strong
awareness. We loved him very much. He would gather us together
and drill us in exercises. He had a trumpet. He would march in
front of us and play in marching rhythm. Somehow, he got us
gray uniforms. There was a Magen David on the sleeve, and
above it and blue and white ribbon. We were very proud of our
uniforms. We felt that we belonged and were important. The
camp was full of Zionist movements. They were competing, and
sometimes blows were exchanged. The camp was closed and we
were not allowed to leave.
Our marches took place inside the camp, between the
blocks and paths that were paved.
One day Eliezer decided
that we had spent enough time behind walls and fences. We
decided to go out of the camp and march outside. The camp was
fenced in. A guard sat at the gate and let no one out. He was
an American MP. We marched up to the gate. The guard tried to
stop us, but Eliezer commanded us to keep on going. We left
the camp. Our counselor would usually walk before us. We marched in
threes, to the rhythm of his trumpet, and moved forward on the
paved road.
The threes
were arranged by height, the shortest in front. I was among
the shortest and marched in the first group of three. Suddenly
we saw two or three motorcycles traveling in our direction.
Eliezer told us not to retreat, and to continue marching
forward. We
continued. Suddenly one of the riders got off his motorcycle,
grabbed our counselor, and threw him into the ditch alongside
the road. He had a rubber club in his hand and began beating
our counselor, with all his might. I don't know how, but I
suddenly found myself above the ditch, an iron rod in my hand,
hitting the MP on his back with all my strength. The MP
straightened up, and threw the rubber club. It hit me on my
neck.
I sharp pain traveled
through my body, but I uttered not a word. The policeman sat
down. He saw who had hit him, stopped beating Eliezer, and
returned to his motorcycle. We decided to return to camp. The
blow was painful. The place I was hit was red and swollen. I
did not say a word. I carried my head with pride. I was sure
that I had performed a heroic deed. We reached the camp, where
an officer waited for us.
Apparently, he was of high rank. He examined my neck,
took me to the clinic and treated me.
For many days I went
around the camp with a smile on my face, holding my head high.
People asked me about the incident, and I was happy to relate
my heroic deed.
There was a small village
near the camp. Perhaps just a few houses. In one of the houses
lived a German family, with a small daughter, about my age.
Sometimes we saw her peeking into the camp. She was blond with
two braids tied with ribbons. She was cleanly and nicely
dressed. I suppose she made us revengeful. She had parents and
a home. We did
not.
A few children decided to
take revenge. They
caught her. The
beat her. The pulled her ribbons off, together with some hair
from her braids. The girl screamed, her mother came out of the
house, and took her back in, without a word. I did not take
part physically in the assault, but felt no pity. But two
older children, about 14 years of age, gathered together the
children who had taken part in the beating, and tried to
explain to them that the girl was no to blame for what we had
been through.
Those same children had
been partisans, who fought in the forests against the Germans,
together with their older brothers. I don't know if
their words affected us, but the beatings stopped. The girl
did not go out of her yard, and that satisfied us. A German
pampered girl is afraid of us, Jewish children!
On the Way to Palestine
We were on the way about a
year. We wandered from Poland to Czechoslovakia by train. I
remember reaching a city called Bratislava, where I saw
peppers for the first time in my life. We lived in a hotel a
few stories high. I remember sitting on a window on the
seventh floor. There
was a wire outside the window.
I put my neck on the wire, and was hanging there. I'm
not sure if I wanted to commit suicide, or what I was
thinking. Someone passed by and grabbed me inside. I wanted it
to be known that I was suffering. My sister was shocked, and I
felt satisfaction that someone cared.
We went through several
places in Germany, with names like "Bibrach",
"Pernold" and other names that I
have forgotten. Bibrach was some
kind of health resort, operated by nuns. They received us like
princes. I remember being washed and dressed, sitting down to
eat by long tables full of forks, plates and benches. We did
not know how to begin.
In one of these camps a
group of people appeared. We were told that they came from
Eretz Yisrael. We were very excited. We gathered in one of the
rooms, or perhaps it was the dining room, and we were
presented to the people from Eretz Yisrael. Among them was an
older man with grey hair. I was very impressed by his hair
style. His hair stood around his head like a white crown,
although the crown was somewhat strange, since the hair stood
out at the sides of his head, forming what looked like horns
(eventually I understood that it was Ben Gurion himself).
I, being known as the
writer of poems, was stood on a chair, where I declaimed one
of my sad poems. The man came to me, patted my head, and said
to me in Yiddish: "Good girl". Among those people was Rosner,
a member of Kibbutz Gat, who made aliyah during the exodus
from Europe.
We traveled from Germany
to France by train. For some reason, we were given false
papers. In order to pass the border, we were given Greek
names. We were supposed to be refugees returning to Greece. We
were forbidden to speak in any language we knew. Not Yiddish,
nor Polish. Since we had learned some Hebrew, mostly songs, we
were permitted to speak through the songs. It was a pretty
funny situation. We were happy that no one could check up on
us, where we were going, and why.
We reached France, the
city of Marseilles, where we were supposed to board a boat and
sail to Eretz Yisrael. The ship arrived. It was a big boat
named the "Champolllion." We were
given certificates, permits to enter Eretz Yisrael. It was the
year 1946. The British were in charge, and we, children and
survivors of the Holocaust, received legal permission to
enter. We boarded
the boat. It had a few stories.
We were given the lowest tier, which had a large dining
room, bathrooms and sleeping quarters. Not everyone got a bed. Some of us slept on
the tables in the dining room. No one complained. We had known worse.
The trip was very hard.
Some children, including me, vomited constantly. We were given
lemons to suck on, in hopes that they would give us some
relief. The sea was stormy.
Huge waves rose to great heights. They sometimes
reached the height of the railing, and washed the deck of the
ship. The sea was black and threatening.
I continued writing. I had a high pile,
and was even able to write a poem in Hebrew:
I can hear the sound of the
waves
and I think that they say
be gay and happy
since you are going to a
different land
and so we reached the beach
and our song came to an end
I
also wrote a song in Yiddish while on the boat, and translated
it later on:
Go on, little boat
take us away from this terrible
land
and carry us
towards home where the sun
shines
when you bring us home, go back
and bring others
and we will remain in our
homeland
to protect her like a young
tree
We
reached Alexandria, Egypt. Our last station before the end of
our trip. The boat stopped in Alexandria apparently to
refuel. The port was full of people: merchants and porters. I looked at them in
amazement as though they were from another world their
clothing, their voices and especially the women, who were
dressed from head to foot, their faces covered, and so many
little black children. The
picture was strange, and I felt that I was in a dream, and
strange dream full of figures that ran around and had no
connection to reality.
Atlit
After about 10 days, which
seemed like eternity, we saw lights on the horizon. The ship
approached land. Voices on the ship were joyous: "Here, that's
Haifa, the port!", people shouted. And so, we reached the
Haifa port. The British Mandate had given us legal permission
to make aliyah.
We were taken off the
ship. Busses took
us to the Atlit camp. We again
saw fences and soldiers on guard all around. It was an
unpleasant sight. Is this really Eretz Yisrael? We were taken
in. A fenced British camp. Soldiers on guard. No one can enter
or leave without permission.
We were put into long
barracks, with beds along the walls. Each of us was given
a bed, but not before we were sprayed with DDT and showered.
For some reason I do not remember that there was a shower, but
it is a fact that we did shower. We did not complain, not then
and not now, that we were sprayed.
I didn't exactly
understand why we were there and not in Eretz Yisrael. We had
been promised Eretz Yisrael, but we were again in a guarded
camp. The
soldiers were only armed with clubs, but they were soldiers.
A long barracks served as
a dining room. The
food was tasty and satisfying. We had a lot of white cheese,
sour cream and butter and very tasty bread.
We were there for a number
of weeks. We, the
younger children, were even given Hebrew lessons and other
things to keep us busy. One day the counselors called us to an
important meeting. We
belonged to HaShomer Hatzair, and we were very proud of
this. The counselors told us that today or tomorrow we were be
called by the movements, and they would ask us questions.
Among the questions they would ask about our homes were our
parents religious, did they keep the Sabbath and other
traditions. We were told to never mention that we came from a
religious home because we could then be sent to religious
homes and religious schools. We were told to lie, since every
Jew in East Europe, even if he was a Zionist, was religious.
The day arrived. We were called to
some barracks. We
entered one by one, to a small room. There were tables along
the wall, with people sitting behind them. Some were bearded,
wore black clothing and hats (figures that were familiar from
home). There were
others with bare heads, short sleeved shirts and smiling
faces. I sat on a chair opposite the bearded men, who asked me
about my father's home: Was he religious? Did father pray? Did
we go to synagogue? They also asked if my mother lit candles
on Shabbat. I well-remembered what our counselor had said, and
answered all the questions with No! Even when they offered
me candy from a plate, I did not break down. The man smiled at
me I guess he understood the game. I went out, ran to
my counselor, and told him that I did not get confused. He
hugged me, and I again felt heroic.
Sometimes, when I am
alone, I see my parents before me my father is praying. My mother, a scarf
covering her head, blesses the candles. If there is a god, and
my parents watch me from above, do they forgive me?
Mishmar HaEmek
I felt that I would not
make it. Hannah, the counselor from Mishmar
HaEmek tried to help me. I remember saying to her: "I have
come such a long way in order to die now?" She hugged and
petted me, and said that it's only because I don't feel well,
and it will pass. She told me that she has a two-year-old
daughter named Rachel. Her words were warming and calming.
We reached the gate to Mishmar HaEmek. Children in white
shirts waited for us at the gate. They were shouting: "They're
here they're here they're here". To me it sounded like the
barking of dogs. (In
Hebrew it sounds like "bow-bow"). I asked Hannah why they are
barking at us? She explained what the words meant, and I
relaxed.
We entered the kibbutz. It
was spring, April or May, and everything was green and in
bloom. I thought: "Well, is this the last station? Will this
be my home for the rest of my days?" We entered the children's
house, which was emptied for us until they would finish our
house "Beit Shachar". This was the name we
chose for our group.
The temporary house into
which we came was decorated in our honor. White tablecloths
covered the tables, each child was given a book with his name
written next to it. The beds were made. We showered, ate and
went to rest.
In the evening, the
children of that house came to visit us, but we could not
connect due to the language.
Perhaps there were more reasons.
I regret that it was our
first and last meeting. There were more coincidental meetings
now and then, but they all ended badly. We felt ridiculed, we
were strangers, and strange in this scenery.
The building of "Beit Shachar" was completed, and we moved
in. Hannah was our teacher, and Ruth our housemother. We were
10 children, complicated kids with a difficult past. Hannah
and Ruth had a hard job. The boys were disturbed. They would abuse the
girls, and even hit them. They would pour water in our beds,
or peek at us in the shower. Hannah would often sleep outside
the boys' door, on the porch, and prevent them from carrying
on.
One night the boys pulled
one of the girls' beds outside. She awoke, saw the stars in
the sky above her, got frightened and burst into tears. We
went through many "educational" discussions, but they didn't
really help.
The Brown Dress
During the first week
clothing was distributed among us so that we would look like
the rest of the children. The clothes that we had brought with
us were given to us by the Joint in Germany, and were unsuited
to the kibbutz scene. We were called to the communal clothing
storeroom, and asked to bring with us all our own clothing. We
didn't have much, and what we had did not necessarily fit us
very well.
We came in, each child
with his bundle. I
brought my clothes. In
addition to them, I had a small package wrapped in brown
paper, in which I had saved the only thing I had from my home.
It was a little dress of brown velvet with white dots. Naturally, it no
longer fit me, but was very dear to me. I put the big bundle
on the table. The woman in charge saw that I was holding
tightly a small package, clutched to my chest. In a commanding
voice, she turned to me saying: "What do you have there?" Her
tone confused me and I began to stammer. In a sharp motion,
she pulled the little package out of my arms, cut the string
with scissors and without asking what it was, threw the dress
into a pile of rags. I stopped my tears, took the bundle of
clothes that she prepared for me, and ran out of there.
Outside, I burst into
bitter tears. I
cried about everything and everyone, and the little souvenir I
had kept from home. This was my first meeting with the
inability of the environment to understand us or perhaps
unwillingness or fear?
The Adoption
We were divvied up to
adopting families. We were orphans, and we wanted a family
with children, but not everyone got a family. Out of 10
children, only 4 were adopted by a family. The rest, and I
among them, were adopted by unmarried members. I was adopted
by a woman named Anka, who was
not married. I first met her during Hanukah. A poem by
Alterman about household items was staged. She was the teapot,
and was supposed to say something like: "The pot is boiling".
Every time she raised her head, she began laughing. I remember
that I read a very sad poem, and saw her crying with tears,
which really affected me. After the play, she came to me and
told me that she would adopt me.
I assume this was prearranged. At her place she gave me
candies, and told me all sorts of things. She said that she
worked in the poultry farm, and suggested that we work
together.
Anka was a very special woman. She had a small
place which was very orderly, with pretty objects. I remember
seeing a lot of books on a shelf, and asked her: "Did you read
all of these books?" I really appreciated her. We would talk a
lot, but since she had no children, she could not really
understand a teen-age girl. When I was sad or in pain, I could
not share my feelings with her. For example, I once visited my
sister in Tel Hanan, and on the way home I hitched rides. An
older man stopped for me, and began touching me. I was
embarrassed, and wasn't sure of his intentions. When I
understood what he was after, I said: "Stop here, I want to
get out," and he said: "No, I'll take you home." In short, he
drove with one hand, and tried to fool with me with the other,
so I got up my nerve and said to him: "If you don't stop, I'm
jumping out of the car". He laughed at me, but I opened the
door and jumped out. He continued driving, but called out:
"You're crazy." It was dark, winter, and I dared not stop
another car. I saw a bus coming, so I stopped him in the
middle of the road. The
driver of the bus was from the kibbutz. I got into the bus. I
was hurt and shocked, and walked to the end of the bus. The
driver shouted at me: "What do you think? This is a hitch? You
have to pay." I did not answer him, but when I got home, I had
to tell someone. I
had no one. I laid on my bed and cried and cried.
Years later, when I was a
mother myself, my girls adopted Anka
as their grandmother, and then our relationship became
stronger. The girls loved her and called her "Savtanka", after she suggested that
they call her "savtah"
(grandmother), but since she wasn't their real grandmother,
they decided on Savtanka. It was a cute and
original solution.
Entering High School
After half a year we
entered the "mosad" as the high
school was called then. We were joined by some "outside"
students (not from the kibbutz), and we began to study. I
wasn't a bad student, despite the fact that I had not been to
school during the war years. So I began the "mosad" without having been to
elementary school.
It was somewhat difficult
in the beginning, but I already handled the Hebrew language, I
could read and write freely, and continued writing in my
diary, poems and different thoughts that passed through my
mind.
In the "mosad" there was a wall newspaper that
the students participated in. I also wrote poems and articles
on different topics. I usually did not sign my name only the
name of our group I feared criticism and didn't have much
self confidence in those days.
I recently found some of
the articles which I wrote in the archives of the kibbutz. They were, of
course, signed "Shachar" my
group's name. I could hardly believe that I had written the
things I read there. I'm not sure that I could express myself
better today, than I did when I was 12 and just one year in
the country.
I loved my mother tongue
Yiddish. Naturally, we were required to speak only Hebrew, and
we were interested in knowing the language as did the kids who
grew up on the kibbutz. But deep inside, Yiddish was important
to me. It connected me to my home there
Following is what I
wrote in 1947:
Only one year in Eretz. Why can't I
forget Yiddish? I can imagine that anyone who hears us
speaking Yiddish probably thinks or says: How can it be
that "Shachar", after a year
in Eretz, and living with our kids who speak only Hebrew,
they still speak Yiddish! But no one thinks that we really can't
help it. It's true that we love and are faithful to the
beautiful Hebrew language, which was spoken by
our forefathers. We also want to know and use Hebrew, but
we don't want to forget the language of the Diaspora,
which was spoken by our fathers and brothers who were
murdered there.
It's true that it is not our language. It is composed of different foreign languages, but it is still precious to us, and holds many memories for us, both happy and sad ones. Sometimes, when one of the kibbutz children says that Yiddish is not a nice language, I want to reply that it's not so! That Hebrew is not nice, but I can't say such a thing because I know that it's not true. Hebrew is beautiful and precious to me. But I also love Yiddish. My memories of the past are kept there.
I want to conclude by saying that I will always use Hebrew and it will remain my language, because I have chosen it from all other languages, but I will not forget Yiddish, even when the day comes when I will not use it, I will remember it forever!
Rachel Shachar
I also wrote in the year
1946/7 when I was 12:
Two years of my life one long and one short.
I wish to explain what I mean by one long and one short
.
The short year the one I have spent here in our land and the long year is the one which passed in the Diaspora, during the period of Hitler. I will explain why this was a long year. Not because it had more months or days. In the year '42, when all the Jews of our town were executed, I was hidden from sight. I was on top of the oven at the Christians' home. I sat there day and night, didn't bathe, hardly ate or drank. I sat and trembled from both old and the fear. I missed my home. I wanted to go back home and to again live with all of them. But I knew that this was in the past and would never return. The hiding place was crowded. I did not see a child. I was forbidden to stick my head outside the hiding place. I could only sit day and night, and wait for the day of my freedom.
But in the meantime, there were raids almost every day, and I was sure that my end was near. But each time, it passed, although my fear and longings, my hunger and the filth all annoyed me to the extent that I lost all hope. I thought that I would forever be on the oven, and would never again be free.
A day became a year an hour became a day. And so, I sat on the oven for 11 months, but for me it was not 11 months, but rather 11 years of torture.
In our country everything is beautiful and just the opposite. We are afraid of no one. Each of us is free, and together with other children. We have kibbutz members who try to give us warmth and a home. We study and work, and before we know it the day has already passed. We have the opportunity to learn, something we thought would never come to pass. All this enables us to rest and forget some of the terrible things we have seen. And so, this is the short year.
And so, I have explained the difference between and long year and a short year.
Rachel Shachar
The Diary
During the war, on top of
the oven, I would write. I had pages which the owner of the
house had given me. Some of them were jackets of old books. I
also had a pencil. I wrote a diary. Poems full of longings for
home, for my parents and siblings. I began writing in Polish,
continued in Ukrainian, and towards the end of the war I wrote
in Czech. I tied the pages together with flax, which I took
from the bales of flax which covered my hiding place. I kept
the diary very secure. In
continue writing on the ship to Eretz Yisrael. When I arrived
in Eretz it was still with me. I continued writing in the "mosad", and even got a thick black
notebook, but no one knew about my diary. But once in a while,
when I remembered, I would give in to the local paper "Our Mosad" something I had written, under
the name Shachar.
In Israel, of course, I
wrote only in Hebrew.
Privacy was not part of
our lives, we all knew everything about everybody, and each
one knew everything about everyone. I still kept the
diary completely secret.
I would write at night in the classroom, but in the
summer, I would climb into the berry tree close by, in a site
called "Abu-Shusha" (an Arab village in the past). The place
was distant and quiet. I wrote most of my things there.
I kept the diary in a wall
closet in my room. Each one had a cubby there, but we really
needed more room than that. The cubby was not locked, of
course, nor was it closed.
The diary was hidden between the shirt and pants
(that's all we had).
One day, while in the
bathroom, I heard a boy reading from the diary to another boy.
They laughed, especially about the parts in Yiddish, because
they could not understand the contents, but read the letters
which made them laugh a lot.
They left and returned the
diary to its place.
I was deeply insulted. I
took the diary, with the pages and notebook, and went up to
Abu-Shusha. I
took matches, and burned everything!
I cried and cried, until
there were no tears left. I returned to the Mosad, but said nothing to no one. I had no one to
tell.
Years passed and I
regretted what I had done. I tried to recall and rewrite, but
with no success. I have never since written a diary. Sometimes
I feel the need to express myself. I dared not write about
longings for home, I wanted to feel that I am here, born of
this country.
I wrote about beautiful
scenery, green fields, flowers and trees. I guess that only
they gave me the feeling of home. I loved the beautiful
landscape; I still love it today.
One winter's day,
apparently Shabbat, I sat in the classroom thinking. Through
the window I saw a cold rainy day, and my eyes fell on an
ancient tree proudly standing on a hill
beyond the road. His steadfast standing, on this stormy day,
must have impressed me deeply. Only the leaves moved in the
wind, the trunk standing stock still. Thus for years upon
years. Perhaps I envied him his roots for I had mine (and
have to this day) air roots.
I wrote to it to the
tree and perhaps I wrote to myself!
Winter '47
On my window drops, little drops
like pearls hanging on the glass.
My is so quiet and dark
as though night has come to rest on everything.
And outside the rain dripping
and puddles stream
And I am so cold so very sad, everything is so dark
everything has become water, mud and there is no path.
The oak tree beyond the grandfather of generations
it's leaves have yellowed
and fly in the wind.
His trunk is strong and he is from this place
and in my very cold and dark room
it seems that the night has wrapped itself around everything.
This poem is also in the archives of the Mosad,
and signed "Shachar".
The Shachar Group Breaks Up
My years in the mosad were not easy. No one hurt me or
harassed me, since I was a "good" and "quiet" girl. But no one
was particularly interested in me. I remember that one of the
most difficult things was the communal shower. I just
couldn't. I felt that my body was the only thing that belonged
only to me. I didn't shower for many weeks. There was a shower
for the girls who had reached maturity, and they were not
happy to see me there. I would often shower at night. As long
as we were "Shachar" I had an
identity, I belonged. But the group began to break up. Some of
the non-kibbutz children left, and others, from my original
group, found relatives: uncles, brothers, and even a mother or
father. Just a few remained, and the Education Committee
decided to put us in groups together with the kibbutz
children, who were two years older than us, and in a higher
grade. It turned out that we skipped to the 10th grade, and
never attended the 9th grade. The move was very
difficult for me. I had been a good pupil until then, but as
soon as we were skipped, I lost all my energy. I couldn't continue.
I did sit in class, but
was not really a participant. It's strange, but I have almost
no memories from the mosad. I
lived in the shadows, and the shadows seem to have covered
almost everything. I do remember that there was a boy that I
liked. In secret, of course. I did not dare to reveal my
feelings to any one, especially not to him. He was in the
upper grades, and I thought he was beautiful. One day I
happened to find his photograph, without looking for it, on
the lawn of the big building. I was so happy as though it
had been sent to me from somewhere. I wrote on the back to the
picture: "To Rachel with love from A'
"
Once in a while I would
peek at the picture and the dedication, and the imaginary
became reality. I was thrilled, and I was loved.
Years passed, year
followed year. I did not experience anything special. I don't
remember any special events. One day was like the next.
Studies did not worry me too much. I accepted the fact that I
was not the best of students. I never dared to express my
opinion in group discussions, or in class, I was passive to
what occurred around me. I did not allow the situation to
penetrate my soul. I opened a channel which enabled me to be a
part of the student body jokes. I discovered that I had a
sense of humor, and I used it.
Humor also helped me in
later years. I loved the responses, and suddenly I had found
myself a niche and people reacted.
The War of Independence
War again. The year '48. Ko'akg'i and his soldiers attached the
kibbutz. Cannons from the "Volcano Hill" shot on the mosad buildings. The building was
bombed, we were frightened. Of course, I was afraid,
everything from the past came back to me. We were sent to
other kibbutzim. My group was sent to kibbutz Gan Shmuell, where my sister Paula (later
P'nina) was staying in the youth
group. We met
again, and were very excited.
We were happy to see each other.
After the attach we
returned home. The
kibbutz was different, members had fallen in the battle of Mishmar HaEmek, even children were
killed. Many houses were destroyed, ditches tore open the
kibbutz, the scene was sad. I loved this place with its
forest, lawns and green surroundings.
The scene was really
painful to me. I
sat in the classroom and wrote poems. The poems were
Zionistic, this was my Zionist period I deeply felt love for
the homeland and wrote her poems.
I wanted to be a poet like
Rachel, the poetess. I
envied her ability to express her love for the homeland in
her poetry.
I even wrote a poem (not
one of my best) on that envy:
My name is as yours
my country your country
why are my poems not like yours
beloved, beautiful, wrapped in soft sadness.
Yes, my name is as yours
my country your country.
The Army
Since I skipped a grade, I
completed 12th grade when I was almost 17 years
old. The entire group was about to be recruited, and I with
them. When it was my turn to sign up, I was asked if I had
permission from my parents to join the army at the age of 17.
I answered that I had no parents to ask, but that the kibbutz
agreed. I was
accepted with no further questions. We arrived at army base
No. 12.
I was confused, and did
not really understand what was wanted of me. But life's
experience taught me to manage under any circumstances and
to land on my feet, like a cat. I made us of my humor, which
always saved me in difficult periods. This enabled me to have
friends immediately. They
were also in need of some laughter. We had an officer that
made our lives miserable, which did not help any.
We lived in long barracks
with a lot of other girls. Most of us were from various
kibbutzim. There were few city girls, mother's girls, who were
still accustomed to mother's apron strings, and her pampering.
One of them, a delicate girl, was the most pampered and
frightened of them all.
For some reason, I didn't
like her behavior (now I can understand what disturbed me
about her). She came from a good family, and could not face
difficulties without mother's help. She cried endlessly.
At night, when everyone
was asleep, I would wrap myself in a white sheet, sit on her
bed, and call her name in a frightening and mysterious voice. She opened her eyes
and saw a ghost before her. She burst into hysterical tears,
screaming "Mother, I'm going to die!" The whole place woke up,
and I understand that I had gone too far, I removed the sheet
and calmed her down. It's interesting that I myself was
frightened by what I had done, although the girls enjoyed the
joke.
After base camp No. 12, I
was accepted into the communications corps. I participated in
a course for Morse Code, and was then sent on to the Southern
Command in Beer Sheba, where I did decoding and
communications. I was pleased with the job, and enjoyed my
service. I discovered capabilities of which I had not been
aware.
Every two weeks I was
permitted a weekend off base. At home, each girl had a bed or
room for weekends, and we all lived together. Since my base
was far from home, I would arrive late, and often I would not
find an empty bed.
One Friday when I got
home, everything was taken. Without thinking much, and without
opening my backpack, I went out to the road and returned to
the base. Sometimes
I went to my sister Paula, in kibbutz Nir Yitzhak.
Moshe Dayan
One Shabbat I remained in
camp. It was my
turn to be on the premises. I sat outside and a group of
soldiers let by a high officer (I could not as yet identify
the higher rankings) with a black eye patch on one eye.
Without asking or relating to me, he wanted to enter the
building, which was full of communications equipment and
encoding and decoding stuff. I was there alone, and had been
ordered to allow absolutely no one inside. He smiled at me scornfully, and went in. I
called the officer on duty and told him what had happened. He
showed up immediately, approached the officer and let him
into all the forbidden areas
After the visit, the
officer on duty came to be and told me off, since I had not
allowed Moshe Dayan to enter (at that time he was General in
the Southern Command). I was very ashamed for not recognizing
that officer.
The Discharge
The day of discharge
finally came, and I feared the future I didn't really want
to go back to the kibbutz, but to my regret, I didn't have the
courage or the means to leave.
I returned to the kibbutz
with the rest of the girls who had been recruited together
with me. It wasn't that I disliked the place, the beauty of
nature, the green lawns, and the landscaped gardens. There
were also people there that I liked. I also knew that in the
kibbutz I was safe, but I longed for a family, for a home that
would be my own! I would look into windows of houses while
riding the bus in some city, thinking with envy and pain
here, in that house, lives a family, a father, a mother,
children and maybe grandparents. I so wanted to be in their
place. I hoped that one day I would find myself in such a
situation, and perhaps at that time the kibbutz did not
emphasize the family, but rather the community. The emphasis
was ideology, and the community determined the way of life.
Life had taught me to get
used to what there was, and not to cause unnecessary problems.
It was important to me to be nice, for people to like me, to
be a good worker, to be fast and efficient and in this I
succeeded.
I worked in a number of
different places, and did my best at each one, and they were
pleased with me. But from time to time, I was hurt or insulted
from the kibbutz members' way of relating to me. Although in
the beginning the children treated us badly, today, as an
adult member, I can understand their behavior towards a
strange and unknown person. I cannot understand the adults.
They should have felt, understood. Some of them had relatives
there brothers and sisters, parents that died there.
When I was 13, my sister P"nina, who was then at Nir Yitzhak,
stepped on a land mine and was seriously wounded. I received
word that she was wounded, and wanted to go to see her. I went
to the treasurer and for money to go there. I was told that
children were given money only to visit their parents. What
did I do? I went to my sister and her baby, who lived in Tel Chanan, took a few coins from her, and
went. I cannot understand why they were so hard.
In the 11th
grade I was very quick and talented at work. I worked in the
poultry farm. The kibbutz pressed us to declare that we would
be members, but I couldnt decide, didn't want to obligate
myself before the army service. I spoke about this during
coffee break at work, and one woman told me: "You can't leave
the kibbutz, do you know how much money we have spent on you?"
I thought to myself: "My God, the Christians who hid me and my
sisters, endangered their lives, got no payment and did not
claim anything in return and she is settling accounts with
me?
Or another incident after
my discharge from the army: I was very fast at work. The
poultry farms were very long, and we had to walk along pushing
a rail cart, to give out feed and collect eggs. I did this very
quickly. I never heard a word of appreciation, not from the
woman in charge, nor from anyone else. Once the woman in
charge said to me: "Tell me, do you go all the way to the end?
Are you sure you're not putting all the feed in the first
three rooms?" I was very embarrassed, and felt that she did
not believe me. A few years ago, while she was working in the
cashier's office, she suddenly said: "you know, I really like
you". And I answered without thinking: "I'm very happy that
you like me, but you know what, I don't need it now. I needed it then,
but you didn't know how to say a good word." She was probably
insulted, but I felt that I got something off my chest.
Many years ago, a book was
published about our town. It cost 50 lira, but I didn't have
the money. I asked the kibbutz to pay half and the Mazkir (kibbutz Secretary) said to me:
"We don't participate in such things, only in putting up a
memorial stone." I was truly hurt.
The army gave me a certain
confidence. I stopped thinking of myself as unsuccessful, as
unnecessary.
My sister P'nina was in Nir Yitzhak. I missed her very
much, and asked the Secretariat of the kibbutz to join her for
a period of time. I was permitted to go for 3 months. I worked
there in the fruit orchards, and enjoyed it, but for some
reason I felt the need to return to Mishmar
HaEmek, because I had made a promise, and did not dare to
break my promise to the kibbutz. In addition, the kibbutz had
become home to me. I longed to return home, and so I did.
I began working in the
tree nursery. I loved the green green.
The scent of dew in the morning, the seedlings that sprout
leaf after leaf, so soft and needy of care. They were just
like babies. And they seemed to feel my affection and returned
it through their sprouting and growth. I loved the grafting
time, and did it quickly and delicately, caring not to hurt
the plant too much. And
my percentage of success was high.
I was 22. I still felt,
despite all the advantages in my life, that my soul was empty.
I could not define the reason for the emptiness. And if I did
know so what?! How could I fill this emptiness? I missed my
relatives, true friends, or just friends. I was in the kibbutz
with myself, in the margins, not participating in holidays,
committees, the joy of creating. I knew then, after the army,
that I have the power to give. To my sorrow, only I knew this!
I did not know how to express myself, I feared failure and bad
criticism.
A Family of My Own
I met my husband while on
vacation in Natanyah, and moved
to his kibbutz for a trial period. The trial was successful,
but for some reason I again wanted to back. I felt that if I
was to live on a kibbutz, then only in Mishmar
HaEmek. I brought my future husband to Mishmar
HaEmek. We began to build our own family, I gave birth to a
beautiful little girl, something that was mine I was proud
of myself, I loved being a mother. It was hard for me to have
her sleep in the children's' house, I wanted her beside me at
nighttime, to see her wake up in the morning, opening her eyes
to me.
But I did not express my
feelings in words, I thought it was my problem that I am
different, because of my past. I wanted to be a good mother. I
did my best. I missed my own mother while my daughter was
growing up, we were a small family with no relatives or close
friends.
I again felt the
loneliness, and we were about to leave the kibbutz. My sister at Nir
Yitzhak left for Beer Sheba, and they wanted to help us get
settled in Beer Sheba. I was able, with great effort, to
convince Ehud, my husband. I was on the verge of achieving my
dream: we are a family a father, a mother and a daughter
my sister and her family nearby, but all this was just
almost
.
At that time, leaving the
kibbutz was considered close to treason. The functionaries of
the kibbutz sat in our room evenings on end attempting to
convince us not to leave, that we would have a hard time
"outside"
We remained today I do not regret it, even though
at that time I thought that I had missed my moment.
I wanted my family around
me, I hoped to see my grandchildren running on the paths of
the kibbutz. We accepted their choice after all, we also
made our choice. The
kibbutz today is no longer an ideological way of life, but
simply a way of life. A person must choose the way of life
that suits him best, and that is what they did. If I had had
the means to help them when they started out, I would be
happier.
The years passed with
their ups and down, the need for a bigger family was strong.
We had four daughters, sweet and lovable girls. It was
important to me to be a good mother I wasn't always sure of
my ability. I had the feeling that something in me was
incomplete, unfinished
a feeling that I was stuck somehow,
unable to decide, to choose by myself for myself.
I worked in a children's
house. I loved
the work. I loved the little children. It was important to me
to give them a warm home, and they returned my love. The work
and my family were my entire world. We did not leave the house
very much, and we would take the girls with us on vacations.
My husband was not always pleased with this, but it was
important to me. In addition, we did not have close family
with whom to leave the children, and feel assured.
Dreams
I dream often. There are
dreams that recur again and again. I dream of scenes scenes
from there, with people from here. Trips with everyone and I
am not with everyone, I am there and they are here. I am often
a child in my dream, losing my way, seeking and not finding.
Wandering in familiar side streets there, seeking an opening,
any crack that will bring me there to a familiar house. They
are waiting for me, my mother, my father, my sister, my
brother. I so want them, to hold them, to snuggle in my
mother's warm arms, I run into a wall, in a dead end, no door,
no way out, and I am the little girl creeping into a corner
and crying.
I awake and my eyes are
moist.
There are other dreams,
too, in which I am a mother, a grandmother, trying to protect,
to embrace. And sometimes in the dreams there are solutions,
which I did not think of when I was awake. Sometimes I dream
parts of movies or books, change the ending so that it won't
be sad.
There Is Less Pain
We built and wonderful
family 4 beautiful daughters, 11 grandchildren (with more on
the way.) Our relationships are good and we all live close by.
We see each other often and the meetings are filled with
happiness. Sometimes I look at the beautiful family and
cannot believe it. Are these really mine ours? And I am
flooded with joy, yes, I did it!
The tree that was chopped
down has new branches, and it grows and grows, despite
.
Today, after all I have
been through, am I happy?
Do I know what happiness
is?
I know that I can make
people laugh with the humor within me, but do I know how to
laugh? I have
noticed that I never laugh out loud, a free and rolling laugh.
Deep inside me the sadness
remains, the loss, as Yehudah Poliker wrote in his song: "It is
painful but less".