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I was sixteen years old when this horrible war broke out, which ended in a terrible holocaust for humanity and the attempted extermination of the Jewish people in Europe. I dedicate my lines to my hometown, Bielsk. It was my terrible fate to see it a few days before its destruction, and to be with its beloved Jews a few hours before their death, when they were concentrated in the Jewish quarter and the ghetto, imprisoned and awaiting their bitter end.

In fact, I lived in Gajnówka after my parents moved to live there in 1933, but, my entire childhood world would remain tied to Bielsk with strong emotional ties. I know Bielsk in spirit and soul as the region of my longings, as a person in moments of nostalgia and as a child in his hours of diving into the world of his memories and the depths of his innocence. I was also drawn to Bielsk during the years of terror, when my father z”l was murdered, and I was left the only “man” in the family, and planned to move to Bielsk, the city of our extensive family and a city where we could alleviate our sudden loneliness and satisfy our hungry soul.

Gajnówka, or Hajnówka, was a city of 25,000 residents, but the number of its Jews was very small, only about twenty percent. When the Nazis entered, the Jews were imprisoned in such a way that they could not move at will, nor save themselves and escape from the hands of the Nazi guards and their local Christian helpers.

A short time later, the Jews of Gajnówka were taken to the Pruzhany Ghetto and I was among them. While leaving the city, on the way to Pruzhany, dozens of Jews were shot for no reason. They were murdered out of the bloodlust of the murderous rulers. Among those murdered on the way, which were not buried and remained dead in the fields, was also my father, Yosef Grudzinski z”l.

In this manner I became an orphan and the head of a family in a brief moment. My mother was exhausted and broken from the death of her husband and days of bereavement and hunger, and my twin sisters, Esther and Gitel, relied on me, the man in the family. Our situation was difficult. We were hunted like animals when we walked to Pruzhany Ghetto. Jews were beaten and pushed and they tripped and fell, to speed up their way to the death cells and the murder centers.

On the way another thought oppressed us. Apart from those worries that bothered everyone we had our own private concern. All, or most, of those who left for Pruzhany were equipped, more or less, with foodstuffs or rags to sell for food. We left destitute, without a ration of food for the first day in the ghetto. The first thought that came to our mind was - to escape and go over to Bielsk.

We did not know the situation in Bielsk. We knew that preparations were being made to concentrate its Jews in a ghetto, but we did not know for sure if it had already been done, or if it was within the scope of plans for immediate execution. In any case, we wanted to be in Bielsk the city of our family, the famous city of mutual aid. We wanted to be with the Jews of Bielsk in times of trouble.

Pruzhany Ghetto was tightly closed and it was difficult to get out, very difficult, but the situation was urgent. We had no bread to eat, no clothes to wear in the intense cold of that winter and no

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bedding to cover us for the night. That's how we came to the decision that I would go out first, I will check the options, and how we would be able to move to Bielsk and stay there. Fortunately for us, at that time there was a connection between Pruzhany and Bielsk. The first produced slippers to warm the murderers' feet in the winter, and the second provided the raw material for these slippers and luckily for us, Pomeranz, a Bielsk man, carried out this connection. He was in charge of the truck with the wool and occasionally came to Pruzhany.

He was a good Jew with a warm heart, a daring Jew who did not shy away from danger. I approached him as a Jewish child, to the father of Jewish children, and he agreed to take me in his truck while I was hidden and covered with layers of materials that he was transporting.

It was in the winter of 1941. The cold was unbearable. The policemen, who guarded the entrance, sat wrapped in their coats, hiding themselves in the corner from the cold. When they saw the truck they thought from afar that it was a German truck and let us pass without inspection. The Germans did not tolerate their inspections and they tried not to carry them out.

In this manner I arrived in the winter of 1941to Bielsk, my miserable city.

There was still no ghetto in Bielsk. The Jews were concentrated in a small quarter that extended in a small square between the street leading to Bialystok and the small river, and between Orla Street and the butcher shops street. The quarter was guarded from all sides and had only one entrance. Then, the quarter was surrounded by a fence and became a prison for the Jews, “ghetto” in the language of the murderers of my people.

I managed to get in and stayed there for two or three days. As mentioned, I traveled to collect a few items for my family's needs, and to check the possibilities of our move to Bielsk and our stay there. I was a youth very focused on my responsible task, but these unfortunate people, cut off from everything, treated me seriously and warmly. As a person, who came from the outside, they talked to me a lot and told me many things. In these conversations I learned that close to their entry the Nazis gathered all the Jewish intelligentsia of Bielsk, their leaders, and murdered them without explanation or reason. Then, with no representation for the community, they began the arrangements for their annihilation, and the confinement was the condition that made it easier. They also told me about many murders in the street, in daylight and in the evening hours. Jews were murdered in the street, at work, on their way to and from work, or just walking from house to house, from neighbor to neighbor. Every Jew outside his home, his four walls, was intended for murder.

The situation in Bielsk was somewhat surprising. In any case, in my eyes, the eyes of an innocent youth, death certainly hovered over everyone, the murderers' intentions were known and clear, the Jews were full of anxiety and yet... the Jews were equipped with food and clothing and had their meals as on normal days. They bought what they lacked from the gentiles around them in exchange for clothes and other rags that they brought with them from their homes to the enclosure. Something from the stupidity, and the blurring of the brain, befell them and they lived in complete - or deliberate - disregard of the situation and its seriousness. Their main concern, so to speak, was given to food, their daily meals and the next day's meals. I remember, with a laugh, that there were those who started to take care of the stock of wood for the next winter, so that they would have enough to heat their houses when the new year, and its cold, will arrive.

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I left Bielsk in danger, with death waiting for me every step of the way, but, for the sake of my family, I did and succeeded.

Between the first and second trip to Bielsk I left for Bransk disguised as a Pole, to stock up on additional equipment, all with the thought of returning to Bielsk when we are equipped with a necessary supply of food and clothing.

Bransk was still free. Not a quarter or a ghetto. We also had a family there, but we were attracted to Bielsk, and on my return to Pruzhany we looked for advice on how we could all move to Bielsk.

And again, as per our previous plan, I left ahead of the family. This time I had to look for an apartment for us, to return and realize our aspiration for our family there.

I waited again for the good Pomeranz. Again he had to risk something for us, the people of Bielsk in exile. We also wanted him to take the whole family out.

Pomeranz came, and as at the beginning the same trick. I am hidden in the truck. The truck leaves safely as rulers' car. And again, the policemen will surely be afraid of the Germans' scolding and won't check the vehicle, and we are in Bielsk. But this time something happened…

We were stopped by the Germans who ambushed us on the way out of Pruzhany Ghetto. We were taken back to the police station outside the ghetto. I don't know what happened to Pomeranz, I was put in prison. A 16-year-old criminal who wanted to unite his separated family in time of trouble, a youth, whose whole sin was, that he wanted to exchange a ghetto with a more family ghetto. A Jewish boy whose only desire was to continue living and this was one of the most serious crimes.

I sat here until the Jews of Pruzhany Ghetto were evacuated. I was returned to them when they were taken to Auschwitz, to the gas chambers and crematoria. I was taken out together with my family to Auschwitz.

Here I learned later, that in 1942 a ghetto was established in Bielsk in the area of the former Jewish quarter. This time, besides the Jews of Bielsk, the Jews of its surroundings were imprisoned there, and at the end of 1942 the Jews of Bielsk Ghetto were taken to Treblinka and exterminated there. On the way out a number of Jews tried to escape and were shot at the place of their escape. They were murdered without mercy. Among the murdered, who were left dead on the spot, was also Pomeranz. He tried to jump over the fence, was shot while holding onto it, and remained hanging on the fence.

I was in Auschwitz with my mother and my sisters until the selection. My mother was murdered in the selection, and burned in the crematoriums along with many of the inhabitants of Auschwitz camp. My sisters held on and lived. Two weeks after our mother's death Esther fell ill with dysentery. She was fed up with her life. She turned to the camp authorities and asked to be sent to the crematoriums. They fulfilled her request and she was burnt while fully conscious, because her death was better than her life. Gitel, her twin, followed her and also voluntarily burned herself. The separation from her beloved twin sister was very difficult for her.

That's how I remained in my youth, orphaned and useless to myself. But friends, who were older than me, took care of me and with their help I held on until the days of my rescue. Thanks to them I registered as a carpenters' apprentice, as a required professional, I worked, sunk my troubles in the tedious labor

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and forgot my grief and longing to the dear souls, which were cut off before my eyes, and I was so in need of their closeness.

Dear Jews surrounded me all the time. They taught me the carpentry trade while caring for my life. This friendship of these people to my family helped me and I stayed three consecutive years in Auschwitz until I wore out my future murderers.

When the Red Army approached our camps and the Germans began to retreat and dragged us along with them. This is how we arrived in Mauthausen, from there to Ebensee in Austria, and here we were liberated by the Allied army.

In my three years in Auschwitz I knew many hardships, I also knew selections, in which people close to me perished, and my feelings of terrible loneliness were renewed from time to time after each selection. Nevertheless, something beat in me and told me: Live! I lived at any cost. I escaped from the selections. I risked my life to stay alive to wear out the terrible enemy. From every escape I returned risking my life to live again with my family's friends, with the remnants of my benefactors. I hid so as not to be discovered. I was in terrible situations, when the murderers were angry with me for being able to escape from under their eyes and live, while for them I was marked for death. I remained alive.

In the end, I wanted to return to Bielsk, as I saw it in its last days and after the Holocaust. I did it out of a double impulse - also because its memory is associated with the memory of many things in my childhood, and also because I carry with me the horror sight of Bielsk after it became the object of German genocide.

As mentioned, I saw Bielsk during my three days stay in the Jews' enclosure in their quarter. Then, I was engrossed in the matters of the task assigned to me by my mother z”l and my sisters. But I remember it clearly. Bielsk, in the winter of 1941 was partially burned. As was their custom, the Nazis burned it to abuse its Jewish residents who were evacuated, to imply to them that they were preparing a destruction that would never be rebuilt. For some reason they left the ghetto quarter untouched and also other quarters remained undestroyed. The burned section extended from Moshe Leib Ferber on Orla Street to the Catholic Church. The rest of the streets remained standing. Orla Street, in the section where the carriages stood, also remained in existence.

They did not touch one synagogue. I don't know which of the many that were in Bielsk they didn't dare to touch. It's possible that it was “Yefe Einayim,” or the new Beit Midrash, but it is clear that one remained and I saw it as it was.

The state of partially burned Bielsk more than doubled the anguish of its horror, its houses, empty of Jews, emitted horrors and anxieties. The abandoned streets before our eyes emphasized that here was Jewish life, the beauty of youth, the joy of children, the murmur of lovers, the fervor of believers and the longing for the coming of the Messiah, and all of this was destroyed and gone.

But Bielsk, to the horror of it, remained largely unburned, a legacy of murderers and human abusers of the lowest kind, and this I would like to emphasize in the Bielsk Book.

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In 1939, I was drafted into the Polish army as a regular soldier. Unfortunately for me, that was when the war of nerves between Poland and Nazi Germany broke out. This cold war found me serving in the Polish standing army in Brest-Litovsk, on the Bug River. Soon, I was sent to the front in the Battle of Rembertów, near Warsaw, where I was wounded.

As is well known, the Polish army disintegrated, unable to withstand the blows of the German army. We retreated, and I ended up in a hospital in Kovel. After being discharged, I returned to Brest and then made my way on foot to Bielsk. By that time, the German army had withdrawn before the Soviet forces, as had been agreed. Our city experienced three days under Nazi control but by the time I entered, Soviet rule had already been established.

Cultural life in the city, institutional activities, and everything that had existed changed entirely. Everything was eliminated. Anyone who had been a Zionist concealed their Zionism, and those who did not join the regime were forced underground. Previously, I had worked at the local cooperative bank, the Municipal Savings Bank, but when the Soviets began reorganizing institutions, they dismantled the existing banks including the Polski Bank and the Jewish Bank and replaced them with the Soviet state bank. I was accepted to work there as the head cashier.

Working alongside me was Yaakov Applebaum, who had been well known in the city as the head of the Zionist movement for many years. He had previously worked at the Jewish Bank, as I had. Several other Jews from our city also transitioned to work at the state bank. The Russians decided to scrutinize each person's past, and all employees were required to appear before a general meeting to present their biographies. I was working extra hours in the evenings, and one day, someone came to me, saying that the bank manager had ordered me to finish up and come downstairs immediately. It turned out that they had heard my biography and discovered that I had been a member of Hashomer Hatzair, which they regarded as a counter-revolutionary organization. I stood up and began explaining my background: I was born to poor parents, grew up in the city, studied at a local school, and later took up various jobs. Most of my years had been spent working at the cooperative bank until I was drafted into the army. When I returned, Soviet rule had just begun, and I was accepted to work at their state bank.

The interrogation began. One person asked, “Tell me, please, which party did you belong to?” I answered, “I didn't belong to any party, as I am still young. At my age, I was not yet able to join any party.” There was a certain credit inspector, Mazamatov, sent from central Russia to manage the review. He stood up and asked me: “So tell me, please, how much did you pay in membership fees, and which party did you belong to?” I stood there, feeling my knees tremble slightly. Next to me sat Yeti Kohl, who had

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been with me in Keren Hakayamet, the Jewish National Fund. Sitting there too was the elderly Yaakov Applebaum, trembling all over, for he had been the head of the Zionist movement. We had worked together in Zionist institutions, and as he looked at me and I at him, I knew he was shaking like me. The fear that I might slip up in my words and implicate them as well consumed us all. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, I steeled myself against the sly and deceptive questioning of this hostile gentile and refused to admit any wrongdoing. I did not belong to any movement, and that was that. I was too young. That was the end of discussion.

Perhaps because I was younger, they allowed me to keep my job. Six months later, there was another general meeting of all the workers, and this time, the Soviets themselves recommended me for admission into the professional union, which was entirely loyal to the party. At the time, cooperatives for trades were established in the city: for carpenters, shoemakers, tailors, leatherworkers, and others. This was an effort by the Jewish population to survive at any cost. Many went to work for the military, and some of the youth as civilians. Some of these young people who remained alive were spared thanks to being of military age and being drafted into the Red Army.

Until the outbreak of war with Hitler, Bielsk remained under Soviet control for about two years, from September 1939 to June 1941. Life adapted to the new regime. Some religious Jews adamantly refused to work in Soviet institutions, fearing they would have to work on the Sabbath, and instead pursued independent livelihoods. Among them were Shmuel Sirsky and the sons of Moshe Goertzman, especially Mendel Goertzman. Typically, these Jews became independent woodcutters.

Most of the youth joined special cultural institutions, and cultural life began to flourish under Soviet rule, which provided ample funding for it. Various initiatives were organized, including a choir that performed on the radio and was preparing to travel to Minsk for a singing festival. The choir included Jews, Poles, and Belarusians, though Jews constituted the majority. In addition, evening schools were set up free of charge for young people eager to learn, and many, thirsty for knowledge and education, eagerly attended.

Regrettably, the youth stopped thinking about the past and were content that the oppressive Polish regime had been replaced by a supposedly liberating rule that allowed them to breathe freely. Thus began the “Red Assimilation.” Young people gradually forgot the values instilled in them over years, their national identity and aspirations for the Land of Israel. Those who remained faithful to their upbringing scattered in all directions. Some moved toward Vilna in search of a way to reach the Land of Israel. Those who stayed behind feared gathering together, as former youth movement members were under surveillance. It was as if their wings had been suddenly clipped.

Each of us longed for comfort and the companionship of friends, so we met in private, sometimes at my home, sometimes elsewhere. Among us were Stupnitski, Applebaum, and Melamdowitz. We would pour out our hearts to one another, talking, speculating about what would come next. On the last evening before Hitler's bombing, Melamdowitz sat in my home, along with Applebaum. We talked, listened to the radio, and heard reports that Hitler was preparing an attack, concentrating 22 divisions near the Soviet border.

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I still remember, as if it were yesterday, my debate with Melamdowitz. He said, “The Soviets will lose.” I argued, “No, history always shows that when the Germans begin a war, they win every battle, but they ultimately lose the war.” That was our discussion. That evening, he also told me that just a week earlier, several German pilots had been captured over our city.

In our town, the Russians had begun constructing a large airport near the Piliki forest. They recruited all the local youth to work on it, and Tikotzky was one of the work managers. Since he had extensive knowledge of all types of labor, they welcomed him with open arms instead of an engineer. They also established barracks, and those young people there were conscripts. Additionally, they conscripted all the villagers from the surrounding area to haul stones from all over, a project that lasted for months. The scale was massive, they didn't manage to complete it before the bombing. On the night of June 22, the first aerial bombardment struck these barracks, causing devastation and loss of life.

That same day, the Russians began evacuating the city. Since I was responsible for the bank's funds and held the keys, I was immediately summoned to the bank. A decision was made at the bank to issue advance payments because there would not be enough time to distribute full salaries. We wanted everyone to have some money for the journey. The preparations for departure were intense. As we were talking, the bombing started, and we trembled along with the building. Orders were given to bring a truck. When it arrived, we were commanded to load the money and drive away.

Everyone boarded the truck, but I hesitated. How could I leave when my family remained behind? My uncertainty was apparent to everyone, and they were baffled by my reluctance. Truthfully, I opposed leaving. I conveyed my objections to the director, who, in a polite and measured tone, told me: “My friend, think about what you're saying. The war is just breaking out. It is not known what will be. You see, I sent my wife to the nearby forest. No one knows how the front will unfold. We will counterattack, they will retreat, and we will resume normal life here. But for now, we must secure the state's funds. The money has to be transported to Bialystok Province, and who else should accompany it if not you? After all, weren't you in charge of the cash reserves? You are responsible for the bank's funds; you must deliver everything according to the records.” I had no argument against him.

I took my seat in the vehicle, and we drove to Bialystok. That decision saved my life. I was the first branch in the region to arrive with the money, perfectly accounted for. I managed to organize everything meticulously. There were inspectors there who had audited my work in the past. When they saw me, they called out in joy, “You're here too!” I don't know why, but when they reviewed my records, they nominated me for a bonus. A memo was issued throughout the district, highlighting my efforts and awarding me a premium equal to a month and a half's salary.

That was shortly before the war. Now, I was reunited with the same auditors who were so glad to see me. But I felt like a stranger in my own world. I had left my family behind, I had fled, I was far from home, and bombs were falling there. What would become of them? There was no way back. Shortly after, we left Bialystok, heading toward Minsk. Along the way, the bombardment

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was relentless. We were forced to hide repeatedly until we finally reached Minsk. And there, we found hell itself. Upon our arrival, the city endured one of the strongest airstrikes yet, perhaps even worse than Warsaw. They were obliterating Minsk, and we had just entered this inferno.

With me was Tuvia Davidovich, whose brother, Lazer Davidovich, had survived the camps and was now in Tel Aviv. We called him “Tovilah.” He had been a policeman, and so he accompanied us. In Minsk, I handed over the money for safekeeping and was sent to sleep in a house where most of the workers lived. The next morning, I returned with the director. We passed through the city park while the bombing continued. We fell to the ground, covering our heads, as a deafening echo nearly shattered our ears. Suddenly, the director lifted his head and asked, “Levin, are you alive?” I lifted mine too, uncertain–was I alive or not? I felt my own body and said, “I don't know... I think I am.”

We got up and saw, right where we had been lying, a crater–two meters wide–on the pavement near the house. It had torn up the sidewalk from the soil, and the debris from the blast had passed right over us. It seems fate exists–if a person is destined to live, they live. This was not my first brush with death in the war; I had also been wounded on the Polish front and had somehow survived.

Minsk, the capital of Belarus, was now a gathering place for masses of people. Bank employees arrived with their families, and now, we had to escape from there. The city was burning. We moved through streets consumed by fire. When we reached the bank, flames had already engulfed the building. On the other side of the bank, blazing beams were crashing down. They left us in the car. With me was Gavriliuk, a Russian policeman from a nearby village. He said, “Wait here. I'll go inside and see if I can find someone else.” He entered the building while we remained outside.

Just then, a frail-looking Jewish man, perhaps thirty years old, approached us. He stared at us. I stepped out of the car, walked over to him, and asked: “You are Jewish? If so, escape now. “He” is coming, and we all know what he does to Jews.” He replied, “But I have a sick father at home. I can't move him. What should I do?” I had no answer for him. I don't know what became of him; he stayed behind. As we waited outside the house, a section of the roof nearly collapsed onto us. We had nowhere to retreat; another building in the middle of the block was already in flames. The Belarusian policeman grew frustrated and began cursing the director: “What the hell did he bring us here for? What was he thinking?” Then he turned to me and said, “Levin, come with me–we're going home.”

We were more than three hundred kilometers from our city, perhaps even farther, and yet, at that moment, the longing for home struck with full force. The worry for my family filled my heart, leaving us lost for direction. On the one hand, my family remained behind and we knew the front was advancing, and the beasts would arrive soon. We knew exactly what they would do to our loved ones. On the other hand, we also knew that even if we returned, I wouldn't be able to help

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them. If I could return, I couldn't imagine that we would get as far as Bialystok. And then, suddenly, the director said, “We'll go for two hours, deliver the money, and then go right back. Let's head home right after that.”

In that moment, I was truly stunned. But then, I answered him: “Gavriluk, do you see? You know the difference between you and me? You're a Gentile, and I'm a Jew. You may have somewhere to return to, and perhaps even a reason to go back. But I am not sure that you will make it out of all this in one piece. As for me, I certainly have neither a home to return to nor a reason to go back. If I do return, it only means adding another victim to the toll.”

And then–he was gone. He jumped out of the vehicle into the flames and vanished around the corner. That was the end of him. I remained in the car. We drove out of Minsk, traveling sixty kilometers to Borisov, and from there, we could still see Minsk burning, already partially in ruins. We continued until Smolensk. It turned out that the driver who had transported us from Bielsk was originally from Smolensk, and he still had a home there. He took us to his place, settled us on the floor to sleep, and parked the car in the yard. At daybreak, the driver had to report that we had arrived with the car. The bank director was also required to notify officials that he had arrived with a vehicle. He, too, left, but before departing, he told me: “Levin, I'm heading to the state bank here in town to sort out all the formalities. I'm leaving you responsible for the vehicle and everything in it.”

Exhausted from the journey, I climbed into the car to rest for a bit. Tovilah Davidovich was also with us, along with a second police officer, and they were eager to see the city. They put on their uniforms and went out. I left my coat hanging on the wall, along with my identification papers. Just as I started drifting off, I heard pounding on the vehicle. “Get up! Immediately!” It was the NKVD. I asked where my two officers were–they were gone. I hadn't noticed when they had left. The agents demanded my documents. I asked if I could retrieve my coat, where I had left my identification papers. “No discussion,” they snapped. “You are under arrest.” It was over. They took me into custody.

What had happened? Apparently, the sudden appearance of two unfamiliar policemen in the area had aroused suspicion. Early in the war, the Nazis frequently smuggled agents disguised as police officers or paratroopers deep into Soviet territory for sabotage. When locals saw two officers strolling about, new, unfamiliar faces, they grew wary. We, too, had non-local appearances and clothing, further reinforcing their doubts. First, they detained the two officers, interrogating them about their background. Then they came for me as well.

Under wartime conditions, espionage charges required no real investigation. A suspected spy could be executed immediately with no trial and no delay. They were certain in their convictions. They dragged us from point to point, eventually depositing us in a vast yard where NKVD recruits were assembling. The sun blazed overhead in the middle of July, and I sat on the ground, exhausted and parched. The Russian officer sat beside me. Where was Tovilah? I didn't know. Now, both of us were prisoners. I was

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desperate for water–I felt like I was dying. I pleaded for someone to give me even a little to drink, but no one would listen. We sat for an hour, then two, before they came and took us elsewhere. Next, they marched us down the middle of the street, their bayonets at the ready. Crowds of children and adults began to gather, chasing after us and shouting, “German spies! Spies!”

What could I do? How could I prove my innocence? I had no documents. They led us from one police station to another before finally locking us up in a courtyard. Half the day passed, and then I noticed they had brought in a pilot suspected of being a spy and imprisoned him with us. The atmosphere was thick with suspicion, and I began to wonder about my own fate–how could I possibly prove my innocence?

I resolved to plead my case before the police commander, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he would listen. I entered his office, sat down, and explained everything. “I arrived here under such and such circumstances,” I began. “We were caught, but it was a misunderstanding. How can I explain it to you? How can I prove it? What will be the end of this? Either execute us if we are truly spies, or release us. The only way I can prove my identity is to return to the place where I was arrested and retrieve my documents. But I don't remember the exact address where we were taken.”

I had been there only once in my life. I vaguely recalled parts of the surroundings and described them to him. He asked, “If someone takes you there, will you recognize the place?” Upon hearing this, I thought, “Yes! I'll describe it to an officer–he is local, surely he will recognize it.” A policeman arrived, but he refused to go, saying, “I don't know where it is. I won't go.” I decided I would go myself and search for it. The police commander agreed to accompany me, even as bombs continued to rain down over Smolensk.

We wandered, searching, he, being a local, knew the entire area well. I told him that the Dnieper River begins near Smolensk. He followed the direction I pointed out. Along the way, he was unexpectedly kind, stopping at a restaurant and sitting me down, asking about life in the west. I told him about it. Finally, as we walked down one street, a small boy ran out and shouted: “That's the guy who was arrested today!” My eyes lit up. I asked, “Child, tell me where his house is!” The boy led us straight to the house. By then, the windows had all been smashed, the occupants had suffered a pogrom. The townspeople had suspected spies in their home and shattered everything. We entered the courtyard–just as the director arrived. When he saw me, he jumped with joy. “Where have you been? What happened to you?” And just like that, the whole ordeal was resolved.

That night, as the terminal was bombed in Smolensk, we fled quickly and arrived at the eastern outskirts of the city. When we arrived, we had no idea which way we were going, we ran purely on instinct. Survival dictated our actions, compelling us to escape the danger however we could. By the time we had left Smolensk, we had no money, nothing at all. At the edge of the city, we found a small, lone house. We knocked on the door and entered. It turned out the house was already crowded with refugees. We asked if we might also find shelter there. “It's three in the morning,” they said, “and there are so many of us already, but come in, you too.” We somehow managed to settle on the floor among them and fell asleep. How long we slept, I do not know. We were beyond exhausted. The next day,

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when we woke up, it was around 3 or 4 in the afternoon. There was nothing to do, no one to ask for food. The house was packed with refugees, and we were starving. What could we do next? We stepped outside just as a torrential downpour began. Such a heavy rainstorm was unusual for the area. On the side of the road, an abandoned car stood. We climbed inside and sat there for about an hour until the rain stopped.

Then we set out again, heading east toward Smolensk, searching for a way to leave the city. We didn't want to approach the front lines; we feared falling into the hands of the attacking forces. The road was packed with vehicles, wounded soldiers, and all kinds of Soviet military convoys, slowly crawling forward in the chaos. I approached one of the convoy commanders, asking if he would allow us to board one of the trucks. He agreed, and we rode until we arrived in a town called Vinagrodek, a military town. There, we wandered around, but the army had already moved to the front. There were no soldiers left in the town. We spent half the day searching for something to eat, but everything was abandoned and desolate.

We moved toward the town center, making our way through, as at every checkpoint, we were scrutinized. I remember one particular moment when we encountered a Soviet military command unit, and they began interrogating us. As was often the case, there were Jews serving in the Soviet army, and the commander happened to be one. He examined us with a piercing gaze and asked, “Who are you? What are you? Where did you come from? Are you Jews?” We started telling him the whole story. He stood there, deep in thought, and then remarked: “You can go–but where exactly do you intend to go?”

We hadn't thought about it ourselves. We only wanted to escape this nightmare. “Try heading toward the city,” he advised. “Perhaps you'll find something there.” Somehow we got back to Smolensk. In Smolensk, I turned to Tuvia and said, “Let's go to the enlistment office.” We found our way there, and the place was crowded with Russians. An older officer, a captain, approached us. I spoke to him, but I had no identification papers with me, only my certificate from the army. I handed them over. Then he asked me: “Where did you come from, and why are you here?” I explained that I was from the western regions occupied by the Soviets and that, because of my banking duties, I had been forced to leave in order to accompany a delivery of money. Now I was stranded, with nowhere to go. “In my view, I should be drafted into the army,” I told him. “It is my duty as a Soviet citizen to join the military and fight for victory.” “That's admirable,” he replied, “but for now, we won't be taking you in. I'm very sorry. We just can't enlist you now.” I asked him, “Then what should I do?” He sighed and said, “Find yourself a way out of Smolensk somehow.” I was stuck in limbo, with nothing. The army was my only path. Then he told me, “You know what? If we need you, we'll find you. Don't worry. Go to the main train station. If you want, there's a commandant in charge of the trains. You can tell him I sent you, and he'll put you on the first evacuation train.”

I left with Tuvia. We stayed another night and another day, wandering the city, but we couldn't find the commandant. We were starving the entire time. Securing a meeting with the commanding officer took time. An enormous line queued up in front of his office door. Military personnel approached him for documents, and there were many others waiting too. We stood patiently by the door; we had no choice. Finally, we reached him. I began explaining how we had arrived there, that I had spoken with the city officer, and that he had sent me here so that the commandant could arrange our evacuation inland. He listened and then said, “Alright, comrades,

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very well. Stay here, don't wander off,” the officer told us. “At the first opportunity, when there's a train, you'll leave. You see what's happening; there's constant bombing at the railway station, and incoming trains don't stay long. They're brought in and immediately sent out.”

We had no choice but to wait. Eventually, a train arrived. The officer led the way, and we followed him closely, shadowing his every move. He was granted passage onto the platform, and we entered behind him. We saw a freight train, each carriage packed to capacity. We moved from car to car, searching for a spot, but every compartment was overflowing. The sheer number of people crammed into the train was overwhelming. Finally, the officer lost his patience and although he had remained composed until then, he strode up to one of the carriages, issuing a sharp command: “Stand up immediately and make space! Don't argue! You're saving your own lives. There are still others who need to be evacuated. It won't help to resist. Move closer together!”

And so, we squeezed into the carriage. We were relieved beyond measure. Pressed into a corner, we prayed the train would leave quickly. German bombers frequently targeted railway stations. That was their target. The train didn't linger. As soon as it started moving, it felt as though a massive burden had been lifted, as if we had escaped from hell itself.

The journey lasted twelve days. We had no idea where we were headed. We passed through stations, fields, villages, and collective farms, encountering place names I had never heard before. We traveled without food, without sleep. At every station we reached, we searched for something to eat. In some places, there were party-affiliated civilians standing by the platforms, approaching the train cars and asking, “Are there any children in your carriage? Children can receive food, a little hot soup.” Sadly, I was not a child.

I recall one instance at a particular station where an announcement was made: “There's a restaurant next to the train.” Many rushed out in a frenzy, hoping to receive a bit of hot soup. They dashed out of the cars in excitement, but by the time I arrived, the food was gone. I returned empty-handed, disappointed. For twelve days, I did not eat. I curled up in a corner on the wooden planks inside the carriage, resigned to whatever fate awaited me. If I was to die, I would die here. There were moments during the journey when the train would halt, and people leaped off the car to relieve themselves. Occasionally, bombs would strike at just that moment, and some never returned. I thought to myself: why risk dying out in the open? If fate was kind, I would survive. If not, I would perish inside the train. We remained like this the entire journey, until at last we arrived at Rozivka central station, a large railway hub near Tula in Mordovia. There, we were disembarked and waited another day, again without food.

Fortunately, Tuvia, being a policeman, managed to get inside somewhere and was given food. Thanks to him, I got a little as well. We stayed there for one or two more days, wandering around the town. There was nothing for us to buy, and even if there had been, we had no money. Every station was crowded with refugees awaiting a train. One day, as I roamed near the railway station, I suddenly heard someone shouting:“Shmuelka! Shmuelka!” I turned and saw a Soviet soldier accompanied by a sergeant major and two other soldiers. I looked closer and there stood Chone Knorozovsky! He had lived in the courtyard of Kadlebovsky's wife. His father had been a shoemaker, and he himself had worked as a shop assistant at Glubovsky's store in recent years. As it turned out, he had been drafted into the Red Army when the Soviets entered our city. I had been older than him,

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since I had already served as an active-duty soldier in the Polish army and had been caught up in Hitler's war in Poland, returning from the front, I was older, perhaps by four or five years, than my friend. When he found me here in the camp, it was a true stroke of luck for him. His excitement overwhelmed him; he threw himself at me and started kissing me. I said, “Wait, I have another surprise for you–Tuvia Davidovich is with me.”

He carried a military sack and immediately began questioning me, asking if I was hungry. I was embarrassed to admit that I had been starving for days, so I simply replied, “What can you do to help me? In the end, you are a soldier.” Without hesitation, he reached into his sack and pulled out a few pieces of sugar. “Take these,” he said. “At least it's something. I'll get more in the army.” His excitement was immense, and he couldn't bring himself to leave me until the sergeant finally ordered them to move out. I asked him how he had ended up here, and he explained that he had been in the army the entire time and had already served on the front. Since everything at the front was meticulously scrutinized, they had noticed he was from the occupied western regions. The Soviets were highly selective at the front, wary of spies and intelligence leaks. They didn't want outsiders, and anyone deemed potentially suspicious was transferred deeper into the rear. The two soldiers accompanying him were also Belarusians from our region, and they had been assigned a sergeant to escort them farther from the front lines. This certainly increased their chances of survival. We parted ways with him, and to this day, we have no knowledge of whether he survived. He never returned to Bielsk, and he was not found anywhere else. Perhaps he is still hiding somewhere in Russia; that too is possible.

Tuvia and I remained at the station for a while longer, always trying to find a way to move deeper inland. But during wartime in Russia, this was difficult. Thanks to Tuvia's status as a policeman, he was directed to a station not far from Rozivka, where officers were gathering for enlistment and transport. We boarded a train and arrived at Kamirkona station in central Russia, then traveled to Moscow, an eight-hour journey. We never even dared to dream that we would be allowed into Moscow. But reaching Moscow was never our true goal; our priority was getting as far from the front as possible, so we could stay alive.

The local authorities assigned us a place in a school building far from the city. We slept on the ground, on bare floors, without blankets or proper clothing, for an entire week. We were given vouchers for food at a municipal cafeteria, one meal a day as refugees. The only thing served was “chik,” a sour cabbage soup. The smell was so unbearable that, despite my hunger, I simply couldn't stomach it.

Tuvia, meanwhile, was always working on getting himself transferred. Eventually, he received an official directive requiring him to report to Gorky (formerly Novogorod) on the Volga River. I traveled with him.

We returned to Rozivka and waited for a train to Gorky. We spent two days waiting, encountering police again, receiving small portions of food, and sticking close to each other. Upon arriving in Gorky on the Volga, we set out in search of shelter. We didn't know where to turn, so we went to the police. There stood a police officer who turned to me and said: “I'm very sorry, comrade, but we can't accept you here. We are only processing police officers–you are a civilian, and you have no right to remain in this facility.”

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I realized I had no choice but to part ways with Tuvia. I bid him farewell and headed into the city toward the central committee of the party. They told me that a woman there was in charge of all refugee affairs in the city. When I arrived, I was directed to the Volga River transport station. The station was built on a massive ship, and throngs of refugees crowded around it. For the first time since arriving in Russia, I encountered a stark differentiation of social classes. I was surprised by the extent of it. At the Gorky maritime terminal, there were refugees from Moscow and other major cities, carrying bundles of belongings, possessions so luxurious that I couldn't believe ordinary Russian citizens owned such things. One woman shouted, “Porters, professional porters!” Each porter wore a distinctive cape and carried suitcases twice his height. The authorities were working to disperse the refugees so that massive crowds wouldn't concentrate in one place. I was among them.

What struck me deeply was that inside this transportation hub, there was an excellent restaurant, complete with waiters, where each refugee was given a grand meal, courtesy of the evacuation committees under government orders. The meal even included bottles of beer and other delicacies. Naturally, everyone wanted to stay in this warm, welcoming space, but they wouldn't allow it. The process was strictly managed, each refugee received one meal and was immediately sent onward. I was assigned to the city of Yustovo, 60 kilometers west of the Volga. There, I met two young Jewish men, one from Vilna and the other from the surroundings of Vilna-Molodechno.

In Yustovo, the conditions were much the same. We were housed in a vocational school and given meal vouchers. The accommodations were terrible. The school was filthy, and bedbugs devoured us. Sleeping there was impossible. We roamed the area, searching for a better place, but nothing was any better. There was no way to relocate. We had no money, and survival itself was an everyday struggle.

One day, we wandered into another refugee shelter and encountered a Jew from Minsk. He appeared to be one of the high-ranking figures in the party, also a refugee. His last name was Plinko. It turned out he was a central figure in the party, and during the occupation, he had been sent to Bialystok to work as a party official. Now, he recognized me. He asked how I had ended up here and where I had worked. I told him I had been a bank worker and had left while escorting a money transport. I asked if he could help place me in a work sector, since I had no food and no means of survival. I had no idea what would become of me. He looked at me and said, “Alright, come tomorrow to the brewery.” It turned out that he was the commercial director there.

In my new job, I had to go to the Volga port every day, seven kilometers from the city, to dispatch beer shipments in barrels to Gorky and other destinations. But the worst part was that, despite having work, I had nothing to eat. The cafeteria opened only once daily–one meal, and that was it. How could anyone survive on one meal a day? Some workers drank beer, but even that was prohibited. Those near the large barrels could sneak drinks, but I worked outside, where access to the beer was restricted. Still, some managed to sneak in and get a large mug. But it wasn't easy. I remember wandering around the area, where there were enormous empty warehouses. One day, it seemed they had once stored potatoes or something similar there, and I found

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a few potatoes buried in the straw. It was an incredible discovery.

Under such conditions, I remained there for several months–until winter began to approach. As refugees, we grew anxious, without proper clothing, housing, or food, we would freeze. We moved from the vocational school into a Persian-style house, staying with a local citizen. Yet again, we slept on the floor in a crowded room, without even a pillow under our heads. As winter drew nearer, people were being conscripted to dig trenches in Gorky, since the front was advancing. Suddenly, I heard that I, too, was expected to join them. At that point, we prepared to leave the city entirely.

I went to the director and told him: “Look, I'm not from here, I have no proper conditions here, the front is advancing. I want you to release me so I can leave.” He responded, “I'm very sorry, but there's no such thing as lawlessness here. If an evacuation is needed, everyone will leave together in an organized manner; you can't simply go on your own.” Having already learned my lesson from past experiences, I didn't trust his words. I decided to escape at any cost.

I spoke with my Jewish friends, and among us was another Jew, Motke Becher, a bookkeeper from Orla. Together, we decided to leave the city. We bought some onions and a bit of bread, gathering whatever we could. It was all we had for the journey. One night, the four of us set off on foot. Suddenly, heavy snow began to fall, making everything slippery and casting a deep darkness over the landscape. We started losing our way, weighed down by sacks of food. Every few moments, one of us slipped and fell. It was a vast, empty steppe stretching seven kilometers. We had no idea whether we were heading back toward the city or moving toward the Volga. Desperate and exhausted, my friends began to cry. Every few moments, they stumbled and fell. There was no light, no sign of human habitation, and the snow kept falling. We knew that if we returned to the city, we would be doomed. After all, we had deserted our work, and in wartime, desertion was akin to fleeing from the battlefield. We had to hold on, keep moving, find a ship, and sail away. If we could mingle with the crowds aboard, we could disappear. No one would know who we were.

We trudged forward for hours. We had left at 7 p.m. and only arrived at our destination by midnight. From a distance, we saw lights. We knew it was the port. Now the main challenge began: how would we board a ship? People had been waiting for days by the ticket booth, hoping for a chance to purchase a ticket. Many peasants transported their harvests to Gorky or other locations, and they managed to secure tickets to board. The booth opened for only five minutes at a time, selling just two or three tickets. Then it closed again. It was a remote and small station. We waited until the next evening but still, we couldn't secure tickets. Then, around six o'clock in the evening, we spotted a ship heading downstream toward Astrakhan. I told my comrades, “If we don't seize this opportunity, we are lost.” And so, we finally boarded a vessel–we were on the Volga, sailing toward Astrakhan. On the way, we docked only once, in Kazan, the capital of the Tatars, where the ship refueled. We sailed for about a week down the Volga until we finally arrived in Kuybyshev. When we entered the city, we found it teeming with people. At that time, the Soviet government had relocated to Kuybyshev with all its ministries. The streets were filled with crowds, trams, and buses. It was a beautiful and large city. Once again, we were housed in a school building.

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The conditions were unbearable with filth everywhere, making it nearly impossible to move around. It was the beginning of winter: snow, mud, and bitter cold.

We decided we had to escape, no matter what. But it was nearly impossible. Trains came and went, but none took us. We had no tickets, no identification papers. There was no choice. We snuck onto the platform, squeezed in among thousands of refugees, and climbed aboard a train. There was no space in the carriages, and we had not eaten in days. Exhaustion weighed us down, and ahead of us still lay a journey of 5,000 kilometers. We were leaving Europe behind, heading into deep Russia. Refugees from central Russia–Moscow, Kyiv, Leningrad–were there as well.

By chance, we encountered a group of students, and in conversation, young people took notice of our condition. We looked miserable, and they were curious about us. One young student looked at us and motioned for me to follow him. In the compartment, he said: “We won't let you leave, and we won't allow anyone to throw you out. Stay here with us. Lie down on the floor and sleep–it's not so bad.” He welcomed me as one of their own. I told him everything we had endured over the past months. He was traveling with his fiancée. It turned out that he was Jewish and she was Russian. He had a brother in Tashkent, and now, their entire institute was being relocated there. As we journeyed, he shared his thoughts: “I barely felt Jewish before. Only now do I realize what it means. Until now, in the Soviet regime, there was no clear sign of discrimination. I had Russian friends, I was a member of the Komsomol. But imagine. When Hitler's threat to Leningrad grew, do you know what my so-called friends did? They went around marking crosses on the doors of Christian residents to indicate where Jews were living.

These were my fellow Komsomol members. This was supposed to be our 'brotherhood of nations.' How could I not accept you? How could I not feel a shared fate with you? How could I not recognize that I am Jewish, until the very end?” The journey was filled with deeply moving stories. His fiancée listened to everything and, in her own way, carried grievances against the Soviet regime. She was an extraordinary beauty, the daughter of a family of Tsarist-era generals.

As we traveled, he urged me: “Come with me to Tashkent. My brother is there. Whatever happens, you'll figure things out.” I hesitated. I had heard that Tashkent was already overwhelmed with millions of refugees and that the situation was far from easy. I was advised that it would be wiser to head east, toward the Chinese border to Kazakhstan.

On the train with us was a young Jewish woman from Riga. She had married a military officer, and he had been assigned to Frunze for officer training. She told us, “My husband writes that life there is still manageable. You can find provisions, and the situation isn't so terrible.” That was how I arrived in Frunze, then moved on to Kurbalti.

Everywhere, there were masses of refugees, no work, and hunger. There were moments when I fainted from starvation and weakness. As my journey continued, my companions went their separate ways, turning to trade which always thrives in wartime. I was left alone. And in my solitude, my longing for life grew and my need to survive, to reach something, to see my family again. That is how I overcame the hardships of Russia. I continued my journey through hunger, pressing forward, and eventually, I escaped

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from situations fraught with danger, illness, and death, nurturing within myself the will to keep living and to see the light of the world among Jews.

I understand that my story is typical of many Jews who were exiled to the Soviet inferno, but I did what I felt was necessary. I left behind a record in the “Book of Bielsk,” a testament to human suffering. A man of Bielsk. A Jew, carrying the memory of Bielsk in his wanderings.

Editor's note

The author was the youngest first cousin of the translator's grandfather.

Translator's Note

I spoke about this chapter with Shmuel Levin's only daughter. She was born in 1949 in Wroclaw, Poland and the family moved to Israel shortly after her birth. From what she knows, her father served in the Red Army during World War 2, something which is not mentioned in this chapter. During his military service, her father became ill with a heart ailment, possibly myocarditis, and met the Jewish nurse who was to become his second wife, his daughter's mother, a Russian-speaking assimilated Jew. In the chapter, Shmuel talks about his family remaining in Bielsk but does not elaborate; according to his daughter, these included Shmuel's father who worked as a physician assistant, his very religious stay at home mother, six sisters, and his recent bride. All of these were killed by the Einsatzgruppen in the local forest, except for his father who was murdered at Treblinka. Shmuel died in Haifa in 1990.

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