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for one day). If the commander was in a bad mood, he could make life difficult. If someone so much as committed "a sin," the entire village or town would be locked for a month, and no one could obtain a travel permit. If someone wanted to travel from the administrative district to an outlying district, he had to first submit a request to the district inspector, which took a very long time. Later on, things got even stricter. In order to get a travel permit – even within the same district – you had to obtain a special permit from the authorities.

        If somebody became ill, he could already be dead by the time he got his travel permit. Each governor made very sure that nothing would be exported from his district. On the other hand, however, he was pleased whenever something was illegally imported into his district. Although discipline in the administrative districts was unproductive, many Jews lived well thanks to butter and eggs, which even the strictest German couldn't resist. Anyone could get a permit for butter and eggs, engage in smuggling and go from one district to the other, thereby not having to engage in forced labor.

        Gradually the Germans also got used to bribery, and the iron hand of the Germans was powerless against life, which broke down any iron wall in its path.

J.

The Typhus Epidemic

        After the holidays in 1915, my brother David, sister Toiba and I, together with other Jews, left town and went to the village of Horvacha. My wife and daughter stayed in town. Unfortunately, a typhus epidemic started to go around, and Drohitchin was closed – no one could enter or leave. Occasionally we heard bad news: someone died, and someone else was on his deathbed. I was cut off from my family, and I couldn't stop worrying about what might have happened to them, and they had no livelihood. I started trying to bring them to the village. At first, the commander told me this was impossible; later on, however, a number of us received permission to go to Drohitchin, and I was able
to bring my wife and child to the village.

        I was indescribably happy, and I hoped that I would be saving my family from the fire of the epidemic, as well from hunger and want. We left with two wagons. A non-commissioned officer rode along on his horse, and a soldier sat on the wagon. The road wasn't too good, and it rained all night. The next morning the weather cleared up, and we saw the sun rising over the horizon. The two horses were harnessed side by side, and started running along. The officer, a brave and precise German, rode along and sang a patriotic German song. Above us, we could see an airplane flying in the direction of the railroad, and the German told us that it was a Russian airplane. In a couple of hours we were already at the entry to town. We were first met by the local patrol, walking with their rifles on their shoulders. They looked at us with malicious eyes, and asked us, "Where are you going, Jews?"

        [Photo:] From left, Gedaliah Kaplan (as policeman). He was a male nurse in 1918. The other man is Yaakov Einbinder.

        Our escort exchanged greeting with the patrol, and asked for the commander. He stopped our wagons, and went in to talk to the commander. The secretary told him that going in and out of Drohitchin was prohibited, and the officer ordered the soldier to keep the wagons where they were, and keep an eye on us so we wouldn't go into town. The officer himself went to shop in town, and was allowed access. We couldn't see any Jews on the street in town; we only saw a Red Cross nurse go by. She didn't even stop to speak to us.

        A lieutenant was walking by the commander. He was tall and had a sympathetic

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face. He walked slowly, and his dog was running in front of him. The dog kept stopping, standing on both front legs, and looked straight into the face of the lieutenant. The lieutenant petted the dog, and had tremendous pleasure from it, just like from a naughty child, and didn't even pay any attention to the fact that the secretary was trying to make sure the lieutenant heard him speak about us. The lieutenant just ignored it, walking and petting the dog. Soon, the officer came back and told us to go back.

        Anyone can understand the suffering we went through. We invested alot of effort to obtain the permit, and now, when we were already in town, we had to go back. My situation was utterly desperate. Everyone in town was lying in the hospital; people were dropping like flies, and here I was about to be able to save my family from the horrible fire. Who could imagine how this all would end? The German wouldn't give in, and told us to go back. By the time we started back, it was already dark. The officer rode on his horse, and sang a song from his homeland. The soldier sat on the wagon and accompanied the officer in song. They both made fun of us. On the horizon I could see the moon. The horses started galloping, panting and going faster.

        [photo:] From left, Zechariah Schmid, the director of the People's Bank, and others, standing next to the bank.

        The horses let us know how they were affected by the journey and by the man's cruelty. We, however, told them that we weren't guilty; we had our own problems. When I came home, I couldn't settle down. My imagination produced sorrowful pictures. The idea that could lose my family didn't give me a moment's rest. For a long time I couldn't even work. Later on, I received a permit to bring them to the village. This time I was successful. It wasn't until the winter that the epidemic subsided, and I was then able to bring them out.

K.

Drohitchin Jews in the village of Horbacha

        In the village of Horbacha, two miles from Drohitchin, we were a few dozen Jewish families from Drohitchin and other villages and town during the war years. Among the Jews were the Kholozshin Rebbe and his family.

        The peasants in the village were evacuated to Russia. Their grain was moved into the barns, and potatoes were planted. The Jews had food to live on. The commander stayed in the village of Vartzavich; the first commander was Commander Romm. He was of average height, wasn't a bad person, but was whimsical. He never had any strong views about anything. If at one moment he refused a permit, the next minute he could change his mind and give one. When we would go to him to request a permit to go to town, we would hang around his courtyard, and had the same feeling we would have about a dangerous dog. Many times the commander would jump up just like a dog, hitting and shouting curses like: "You lazy fools!" Soon, however, he cooled down and finally gave us the permits.

        When my mother, Gittel, died in the winter of 1916 in Horbacha, the commander didn't allow her to be buried in the Drohitchin cemetery. He told us to bury her in the village, and we persuaded him to let us bury her in a colony.

        The German commander made sure that everyone was working, and he had alot of work to do: in the "horse hospital" and field work, picking nettle, raking hay, and tearing down old houses so that they could use the wood for fuel, etc.
        
        On the first Purim, after we finished our prayers and came home, we saw patrol soldiers standing next to every house, with soldiers going from house to house to record how much grain each person owned.

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