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Preface

Rachel was eight when her father gathered the family together on the night of October 13^th, 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 9^th 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 12^th 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 11^th 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 couldn’t 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".

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