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In September 1943, the Germans began a hasty evacuation of the last Jews in the Minsk ghetto. They were taken to the camp on Shiroka St. in groups of 2,000 and sent on from there. The Shiroka St. camp was regularly inhabited by 500 Jewish professionals who had been identified earlier in the Minsk ghetto, in addition to some 100 Jewish prisoners of war, and 300 other Jews who had been imprisoned for various minor transgressions. They would wake for work at 5:00 every morning, and work until 8:00 p.m. Each person received 150 grams of bread once a day. The midday meal consisted only of potato peel soup.

The regular hard labor in the camp was occasionally varied by “amusements.” For example, during the evening bread rationing, the camp commander ordered people to stand behind each other. Then, holding a pistol, he placed that hand on the shoulder of the first man and began to shoot down the column. Anyone who was late or was imperfectly aligned would be shot. Another “amusement” occurred when people were lying in their bunks in the evening. Commander Wachs would come in with his two dogs and let them loose to assault anyone freely.^[2] The dogs pulled at people's covers and bodies, and everyone had to lie still to save their lives. Another time, a prisoner suspected of stealing 200 grams of bread was tied to a building and twenty Nazis took turns beating his heels with a hoe, each for one minute. When he fainted, they doused him with cold water and continued their beatings.

None of the permanent residents were sent away.^[3] On September 18, all the Jews were ordered to gather in the yard. It was 4:00 a.m. and the town was dark. People stood in line, holding their bundles, and waiting for the bread ration of 300 grams that would sustain them on their trip. The packed courtyard was completely silent as babies clung to their mothers. It was quieter than usual. No one was beaten, or scalded with boiling water, nor were the dogs let loose. Commander Wachs swung his whip, announcing, “You'll soon be taken to the train station. You're going to Germany, where you'll work. Hitler aims to save the lives of Jews who are willing to work faithfully for Germany. You're going with your families and may take your most precious possessions.”

The women and children were taken to the station in cars. We men walked, passing the ghetto on our way. When the ghetto residents saw us, they began throwing bread and other food items to us over the barbed wire. People wailed as they said their goodbyes; they all knew what awaited them.

We were locked into the train cars, seventy people to a car. Men, women, and children were all together. There were no benches or ledges. It was so crowded that lying down was impossible. The doors were locked and the windows covered with barbed wire. We received no food or water, nor were we allowed to attend to our bodily needs. The trip took four days; no one knew where we were headed. Late in the afternoon of the fifth day, we reached a remote station, where a white sign in Gothic lettering read SOBIBOR. There was a forest to the right of the station, and a triple fence of barbed wire, three meters high, on the left.

The train was shunted to a side track. For the first time in five days, we received water, but not a morsel of food. At nightfall, the car doors were again locked. At 9 a.m. on September 23, the engine slowly pushed our train backward to a gate in the barbed-wire fence. A sign on the gate read “Sonderkommando.”^[4] The train rolled in, and the gate closed. Exhausted and hungry, we began getting off the train. A group of German officers with whips emerged from a whitewashed building. They were headed by SS Oberscharführer Gomerski, a tall, heavy officer who had been a boxer in Berlin. He stood before us, legs planted wide, surveying the crowd, and announced, “Carpenters and builders, step out without your families!”

There were about eighty of us, mostly prisoners of war. I was one of them. We were sent to another fenced yard and into a wooden barrack with two stories of bare bunks and ordered to find beds. The others in the group stayed beyond the fence, and we never saw them again.

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It was a hot, sunny day. Ami and I and a few more people from our barracks went out to the courtyard, sat on some beams, and began talking. Each of us remembered his home, relatives, and dear ones. I was from Rostov, and hadn't heard anything from my family; I was sure they had moved away. Shlomo Leitman was from Warsaw. When Germany attacked the U.S.S.R., his wife and children were in Minsk. They were unable to escape and were murdered in the ghetto. We were soon joined by a portly man of average height, aged about forty, who had just returned from working in a different yard.

“Where are you from?” he asked me in Yiddish.

Shlomo explained that I did not know Yiddish, because I had been raised in a non-Jewish environment. Shlomo helped us as we talked. Suddenly, I noticed a plume of gray smoke rising to the northwest before floating into the distance. The odor of scorching filled the air.

“What's the fire?” I asked.

“Look backwards,” the other Jew said. “That's where the bodies of your trip comrades are burning.”

I was stunned. He went on.

“They're not the first, or the last. Convoys of two thousand people arrive at least three times a week, and the camp has existed for about eighteen months. You can figure it out. There've been Jews from Poland, Czechoslovakia, France, and Holland. So far, we haven't seen any Jews from the U.S.S.R.”

He was a camp old-timer, and his job was to sort the belongings of the murdered people. He was very knowledgeable, and told us where our friends had disappeared to, and how. He spoke matter-of-factly, as though it was commonplace, while we, the newcomers, despite our many different experiences, all listened, shuddering with terror.

“After you were selected and sent away, the others were taken to a different yard. Usually, everyone, without exception, is taken there, told to set down their belongings and undress in order to go to the bath-house. The women's hair is cut. It is all done quickly and quietly. Bareheaded and in underclothes, the women walk with their children. The men, completely naked, follow at about one hundred strides away, under heavy guard. The bath-house is not far from the smoking chimney. There are two bath-house buildings, one for men, and the other for women and children. I haven't been inside them, but I've heard from those in the know. Each building looks like a regular bath-house, with hot and cold water taps, and washbasins. The moment the people go in, the doors lock, and thick dark clouds descend from above. The screams are terrible, but short-lived, and are soon replaced by stifled croaks and gurgles. They say that the mothers protect their children with their bodies. The person in charge watches from a small opening in the ceiling. It's over in fifteen minutes. The floor opens up and the bodies drop into waiting rail carts, which roll away and quickly leave.”

“It's all set up according to strict German techniques. The bodies are placed on the ground in a certain order, drenched with fuel, and incinerated. We, too, will be incinerated, in a week, or a month.”

We couldn't sleep that night, in spite of our fatigue.

“Sasha, how will it end?” asked Shlomo, my bunkmate.

I was so gloomy that I didn't know what to say and pretended to be asleep. The image of Nali, the two-year-old curly-haired girl who had been in the car with us, floated before me, but now I saw her in the midst of that deadly bath-house. I seemed to be there myself, choking as I died. I gradually fell asleep, but kept seeing flames around arms carrying Nali. The flames then turned into galloping horses. Mounted Germans chasing – whom? Chasing Nali, my little daughter, almost catching up. I must have shouted in terror.

“Sasha, what happened? Wake up!” I heard Shlomo say, and I sat up.

We arrived at the camp yesterday. We were roused at 5 a.m. this morning. Each man was given a cup of hot liquid and bread. Roll call was at 5:30, and we left for work at 6. The column was three abreast, headed by the Russian Jews, who had arrived in yesterday's convoy.

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They were followed by Poles, Czechs, and Dutch prisoners. Franz, the unit commander, gave the order: “Russians, sing Russian songs!”

“We don't know what we're permitted to sing.,” I called out.

“Sing the songs you know.”

“Sasha, what shall we sing?” Cybulski, a tall, round-faced Jew from the Donbas region asked me. “If Tomorrow Brings War?”^[5]

“What do you mean? You know we'll be killed.”

“Sing! We don't know any other songs.”

Cybulski began: “If tomorrow brings war,
If tomorrow we march
If the vicious enemy is at the gate,”
and everyone joined in:
“The entire Soviet nation
Will rise to free the motherland,
Will rise, old and young”

The guard detail in the nearby barracks suddenly appeared. But the Soviet song echoed through the camp of torture and death like a spring thunderclap. We cheered up and were as happy as though we had heard a message of victory and salvation.

We were taken to the northern camp, which was still being constructed; it comprised three barracks that were almost completed. Some of us in the column were tasked with various carpentry jobs, and the others chopped wood. The day passed more or less “well”; only fifteen of us got 25 lashes, for laziness. Each prisoner had to count his lashes while the beating was occurring. Any mistake resulted in the count – and the lashings – starting anew.

As on the previous days, we worked in the open area of the northern camp. It was about 6 a.m. when I was approached by Kaly-Maly, one of my travel mates. He was a young man from Baku, whose actual name was Shubayev. He asked me, “Sasha, have you noticed? The Germans have all left; the Kapo is the only one here. Why do you think that is?”^[6]

“I don't know,” I said. “But as long as they're away, survey the area. Check around the sentry positions and note their change times.”

One of the Polish prisoners came up and said quietly, “A new train just arrived.” I was struck by dread.

“Where's the bath-house?”

“Over there, behind that wooden structure, about 100 meters away. Do you see that tall barbed wire fence, camouflaged by tree branches, with sentry boxes are at the corners? That's the location of the bath-house.”

Holding our hoes, we stood and watched the spot. There was no movement. It was silent, but we watched, and waited.

Suddenly terrible screams broke out, from a woman, from many women. Babies were crying out “Mama! Mama!” The screams were a nightmare from which there was no waking. Soon, the honking sound of startled geese arose. We later learned that about 300 geese were being fattened there. While the “bath-house” was operating, the Germans would chase the geese around to scare them into honking in order to drown out the screams.

I was petrified – not from fear, but from realizing how powerless I was. I resolved that something needed to be done.

Shlomo Leitman and Boris Cybulski came up to me, pale and agitated. Cybulski began. “Sasha, we must escape. The forest is 200 meters away. The Germans are busy right now. We can overcome the guards at the fence with our axes.”

I said, “We might be able to escape, but what will happen to the others? They'll all be wiped out immediately. If we're thinking of escaping, all of us should do it, leaving no one behind. Some will probably die in the process, but the others will avenge them later.”

“You're right,” said Cybulski. “But there's no point in waiting. Winter is coming. Tracks are visible in the snow. Besides, living in the forest in winter is harder.”

“If you trust me,” I said, “wait, and don't say a word to anyone. I'll tell you what to do when the time is right.”

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As Soviet prisoners of war, our arrival made quite an impression in the camp. People knew that the war was continuing somewhere; but we were people with battle experience and a fighting spirit. They watched us intently, hope in their eyes, listened to our every word, realized that we were men of action, and waited for these features to appear.

My observations as well as my conversations with the camp inmates had been enough to familiarize me with the camp's internal workings. Our barracks area was designated Camp 1; it also contained the workshops for the shoemakers, tailors, carpenters, tinsmiths, as well as the kitchen. Camp 2 was situated slightly higher; it was where the possessions of the victims were sorted and stored in warehouses. Above that, at quite a distance and off to the side, was Camp 3, the location of the gas chambers. Finally, the most elevated of all was the “northern camp.” Eventually, I discovered the locations of the armory, officer's quarters, and all the crucial information. In addition to the outer fence surrounding the entire camp, each unit and pathway was edged by barbed wire.

At noon on September 28 Shlomo was approached by the Jew who had told us about the camp the day we had arrived.

“Sholem Aleichem! How's work?”

“Bit by bit. Like a watch: you wind it up, and it goes.”

The first siren sounded. Time to get ready.

“Wait, I need to talk to one of your group.”

“Who?”

“The one who doesn't know Yiddish. Bring him to the women's barracks.”

“Why there?”

“Because he's good-looking. Let him spend some time around our women.”

The second siren sounded, and we all took our places.

While we were at work, Shlomo told me to ask permission to go to the bathroom after he had left on the same pretext. Once we were together, he told me about his conversation with the Jew from the other camp.

“The girls want to know you,” said Shlomo.

“The hell with them.”

“I think it's important. He didn't just come over to say that.”

“Who is he?”

“They say he's a tailor, named Baruch.”

“All right, let's go together.”

That evening we went to the women's barracks, which housed 150 Jewish women and girls from various countries. They surrounded us the moment we came in, and asked many questions about the U.S.S.R.; what we thought about the war, when it would be over, and who would win. We told them what we knew: how the Red Army had chased the Germans out of Moscow, how it had punished them near Stalingrad, and how it had beaten them at Kursk. We also told them that the Red Army was nearing the Dnieper and continuing its assault.

“They say,” said one woman, “that there are partisans in Russia who harass the Germans constantly. Is that true?”

“It's true. For instance, the Germans don't dare leave Minsk unless they go in a convoy of ten vehicles, armed with submachine guns and hand grenades. Trains are blown up every night.”

They listened with bated breath. Shlomo translated the account into Yiddish for those who didn't know Russian, and the women went on to translate into Dutch and German.

“Tell me,” came a trembling voice came from a corner. “If there are so many of them, why don't they attack our camp?”

“The partisans have other roles to play. No one except us will do our work.”

Baruch never showed up. It was time to go. We said farewell and left.

At 6 a.m. on September 29, the six hundred men and women in the camp were ordered to form columns before being taken to the camp's train tracks. Eight large cars loaded with bricks stood there. We were ordered to unload the bricks. Each person carried six or eight bricks, ran about 200 meters to a designated spot, set them down, and ran back.

Germans at every train car, as well as along the way, managed the work. The slightest error was punished by the whip. Everything was done at a run. It was very crowded. 70-75 people worked around each car, stepping on each other's feet.

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If you didn't catch a brick that was flung at you, you got twenty-five lashes. Any pause was punished by lashes; the whips were constantly cracking. We were all drenched in sweat, our eyes blurry and our chests heaving. People ran to and fro with the bricks.

The eight cars were unloaded in fifty minutes. We immediately formed a column and were marched back to camp. The Germans were in a hurry; a train with new victims was waiting outside the fence.

Eighty men from our group were moved to the northern camp. We were divided into two groups: forty people chopped wood while the others (including me and Shlomo) worked in the barracks. Someone soon came in and announced, “Sasha, we're leaving right away.”

“How's that? Who made the decision?”

“There are only five people on guard duty. We'll overcome them and make our way to the forest.”

An act of such rashness could only hurt us. I tried to convince the guy that we shouldn't do it. “Talk is easy. The guards aren't in a group, so that if you kill one, you'll be shot by the next one. How will you cut the barbed wire? Go through the mine field? You'll stop for a few minutes, and in the meantime the Germans will figure something out. One or two might make it through, but what about those working inside the barracks? They're not aware of the events, but they'll be shot. You say, ‘Escaping now is easy’, but I have my doubts. I think that if you're prepared, it's easier to succeed under difficult conditions, than to act impulsively even in conditions are better. You can do as you like, I won't stop you. But I won't join you, either.”

Apparently, my words were effective. Everyone went back to work.

I met Baruch that evening. He began by saying that what I had said in the women's barracks – “No one except us will do our work” – had made a great impression; everyone understood that. But as he was talking in the barracks, he noticed a tall, gaunt man with one squinting eye standing nearby. It was Brzacki, the Kapo, a contemptible man, someone to be wary of.^[7]

“I see no reason to be afraid,” I said. “I'm only interested in fulfilling the mitzvah.”^[8]

“I understand; that's what you need to say,” said Baruch, “but in any case, we need to make a decision. Franz just dropped a hint that Hitler wants to keep some of the Jews alive, including we camp workers. Just think: some of us are foolish enough to believe that. I think you won't sit by idly. But have you thought of what our fate would be if you escape? The Germans can't have the secret of this camp out in the open. The moment the escape route is made public, they'll finish us all off. I'm absolutely certain of that.”

“Tell me,” I said, “how long have you been in this camp?”

“About a year.”

“So, you're one of those who believe that the Germans won't kill you. I believe it as much as you do. Why do you think I'm thinking of escaping?”

“Wait a minute,” Baruch caught my sleeve. “Are you surprised that we haven't escaped yet? Let me tell you. We thought of doing it many times but didn't know how to do it. You're a Soviet soldier. You take command. Tell us what to do, and we'll do it. I understand that you're concerned about me. After all, we haven't known each other very long. But we do have to make plans. I'm here on behalf of a group to tell you that we trust you. Start acting.”

I looked at him for a moment as he stood there before me: he wasn't tall, but muscular, with a serious, honest face. I liked him.

“Thank you for warning me about this Brzacki,” I said. “You're a camp veteran. Do you know the layout of the minefield on the other side of the fence? How far apart are the mines, and what is their order?”

It emerged that the camp's inmates had helped to dig the pits for the landmines, and Baruch knew much about the minefield. We decided to continue our contact through Shlomo.

On October 7, Baruch and I were playing chess with talking. I asked about the organization of the camp guards, and Baruch provided detailed information. I also asked him

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whether the tailors, shoe-makers, or carpenters in the other camp included people we could rely on.

“You need only to say what, when and where – and it'll be done,” he responded.

“What I'm telling you now is a worst-case scenario,” I said. “I have another plan, but we won't go into it now. The carpentry workshop is 5 meters away from the barbed-wire fence. The three fence rows are 4 meters wide. The minefield covers 15 meters; let's add 4 more meters beyond the minefield. The stove is 7 meters from the wall of the carpentry shop. We should dig to a depth of exactly 80 centimeters. Above that, at a depth of 30 centimeters, lie the mines; below 80 centimeters, there's water. If we dig to a depth of 70-75 centimeters, we'll need to remove about 20 cubic meters of soil. As much soil as possible should be hidden under the carpentry floor. Later, we'll find other places to hide the soil. We should dig at night. We'll appoint someone with experience to make sure the direction and depth of the tunnel are maintained. We'll need 12-15 days to complete the tunnelling, given our conditions.

“What are the drawbacks of the plan? I'm afraid that the period between 11 p.m. and dawn will be too short for 600 people to crawl on hands and knees through the 35-m-long tunnel. Additionally, those who exit the tunnel will have to quickly move as far away as possible from the tunnel's exit without being discovered. And there's no assurance that people won't quarrel during the escape – each one would want to be the first. Others will start shouting about Hitler's promise to keep them alive and won't want to take chances. I'm asking you to reconsider and consult with other people.”

“All right. What's your other plan?”

“I'm still thinking about it. It involves an attack on the officers in charge of the camp. For now, please prepare about seventy sharp knives, or razor blades. I'll hand them out to the most reliable guys. If we fail, we'll at least be armed with some weapons. Also, it's important that Shlomo and I be detailed to the carpentry workshop, where we'll have better conditions to observe and prepare.”

“Good. We'll do everything we can. There's something else I need to tell you. Moniek, of the young people's detachment that works near the barracks, is one of us. Their Kapo, Goniok, asked to join the escapees. Of course, Moniek said that he knew nothing, but thinks that the Kapo can join us, even though Brzacki is the worst of the worst.”^[9]

“What did you tell Moniek?”

“That I can't make any decisions without asking you.”

“Of course. Having the Kapo with us would be an advantage. The Germans trust them, and they have more freedom of movement. But who knows – they might want to join us in order to turn us in.”

Shlomo responded, “We'll let you know about the Kapo. Meanwhile, we need to say our goodbyes.”

A new trainload of prisoners arrived on October 8. Janak, who was in charge of the carpentry workshop, selected three members of the unit, including Shlomo and me. That evening, Baruch handed Shlomo four sharp, long knives.

At 10 that evening, Shlomo and I were invited to the metal-working shop, to listen to records. Some of the camp inmates were there, among them Kapo Brzacki. The gramophone had been brought from the guards' barracks to the workshop for repair. Someone found a few Soviet records in the other camp to play for us. If the Germans had found us, we would have been killed, of course. But that was life in the camps – life on the brink of death.

Reichman, the metal-worker, made pancakes and sprinkled them with sugar.

Shlomo asked, “Where did you get flour and sugar?”

“From the other camp. The bundles brought by the prisoners usually include food, some of which we take for ourselves.”

Brzacki made room for me next to himself.

“Eat,” he said as he moved the plate of pancakes closer to Shlomo and me.”

“Thank you, but I can't eat,” said Shlomo.

“And what do you think we eat? This is the food we eat – they don't supply us with anything else.”

“Official meals are different. You may be right, but we aren't used to it. That's why we're hesitant.”

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In order to end the unpleasant conversation, I began talking about the phonograph records. Brzacki kept trying to change the subject, unsuccessfully. He finally motioned to the tinsmith to take the phonograph to the metal workshop. Reiman left with the device, and everyone stood up.

“Come, Sasha,” said Shlomo.

“He's coming in a minute,” Brzacki responded.

I saw someone in the workshop standing close to the window, observing the courtyard. “Well, then,” I thought, “so the Kapo is also afraid.”

“I'd like to talk with you,” Brzacki began. “You probably know about what.”

“Why do you think I know?”

“Are you afraid that I know?”

“Unfortunately,” I said, “It's difficult to hold a conversation. I don't know Yiddish, or Polish.”

“Please don't cut me off. First, listen, and then respond. Something is happening in the camp. People are excited.”

“They have good reason.”

“Yes, but it wasn't so noticeable before you arrived. Clearly, you're all preparing something. In short, you're preparing an escape.”

“Accusations are easy. What evidence do you have?”

“You're extremely wary – you never gather, and don't talk much. I know you declared in the barracks a few days ago, ‘No one will do the job except us.’ Of course I remember that. Everyone repeated the phrase, interpreting it in different ways. If I wanted to, I could destroy you for those words alone. But as you see, I didn't do that. I know you don't think much of me, and I'm not about to justify myself to you now. I just want to tell you that you don't have to tell me anything. I know that you don't talk to anyone; the short guy, I think his name is Shlomo, he speaks for you. He's smart. You two sleep next to each other and have opportunities to talk. I understand. But, as you see, I'm not turning you in, nor do I intend to.”

“Go on, I'm listening,” I said when he fell silent for a moment.

“Sasha,” said Brzacki, “I propose the following. Let me join your group for this job. It'll be quicker and more efficient if we work together. We Kapos can move easily between the camps (except for Camp 3) during working hours. We can talk to anyone without arousing suspicion. Think about how useful we can be. You'll ask why I'm proposing this. It's very simple: I don't trust the German. Franz is promising us special rights, but when the camp is liquidated, we'll be liquidated too. I have no doubts.”

“I'm glad you have no doubts,” I said, “but why are you turning to me?”

“Because you're heading the job. As you see, I know everything. Why waste time on idle talk? We want to help you. We want to join you.”

“Who's ‘we’?”

“Kapo Goniok and I.”

“How about Shmid?”

“He might turn us in.”

I often wondered about Brzacki. He had a thick coat, a cap that tilted sideways, a squint, and strode through the camp, whip in hand, as though it was his own private property, beating the camp inmates indiscriminately. If he liked one of the girls, he'd hound her until she gave in. But we never heard that he had turned people over to the Germans.

“Say,” I suddenly said, “Would you be capable of killing a German?”

Brzacki took his time before answering.

“Yes, if it was necessary.”

“And unnecessarily? For no reason, just as they are killing hundreds and thousands of our brother and sisters – could you do that?”

He was silent for a while.

“I have trouble answering that; the thought never crossed my mind.”

“Well, it's time to go to bed. Good-bye,” I cut off the conversation and went back to my spot.

The Kapos would obviously be very useful, but could we trust them? When I asked Brzacki whether he was capable of killing a German, he thought for a long time. A traitor would have said immediately that he was more than ready

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to do anything. On the other hand, only God knows his intentions. It's difficult to understand what moves a man of that sort.

That night Shlomo and I had trouble falling asleep; our minds were too busy.

Early in morning, terrible screams sounded, quickly followed by submachine gun fire. We were immediately forbidden to leave the workshops. The gate of Camp 1 was locked, and more guards were posted. The screams and shots increased.

“What do you think happened?” asked Shlomo. “The shots seem to be coming from the northern camp. Could the guys have lost patience and started off?”

“No, they're not from there but from closer to us, from Camp 2. I hear the cries of women. A train must have arrived. But what do the shots mean?”

It was a long time before quiet returned. We found out the details at 5 that afternoon.

A train had arrived. When the people undressed, they apparently realized what lay in store for them and where they were going. Naked, they started running. But where could they run to? They were inside the camp, which was fenced on all sides. When they reached the fence, they were met with rifle and submachine-gun fire. Many people were felled by the shots; the others were taken to the gas chambers.

This time, the pyres flamed late into the night, fueled by human remains rising to the dark autumn sky, and casting an eerie glow over the camp and far into the distance. Stunned, we were silent, watching the flames that were consuming the bodies of our tortured brothers and sisters.

A day I will never forget. Eighteen people in our camp had been ill for several days. A group of Germans, headed by Franz, entered the barracks. Franz ordered the sick people to rise. It was clear: they were going to their deaths. One of the eighteen was a young man from Holland, who was barely capable of standing. His wife heard where her husband was bound, and ran after the group.

“Murderers!” She yelled at the Germans with all her might. “I know where you're taking my husband. Take me with him. I don't want to live without him – do you hear me? Murderers! Savages!”

She clung to her husband's hand, and supported him as she joined the group of people going to their deaths.

At lunchtime, Shlomo and I agreed to call a meeting of selected people at 9:00 p.m.

We met in the carpentry workshop. The participants were Baruch, Shlomo, Janek (head of the carpenters), Jozef (head of the tailors), Yaakov the shoe-maker, Moniek, two others, and I.

We posted guards in the courtyard and at the gate of Camp 1, to watch the traffic and warn us to disperse if necessary.

I began by reporting my conversation with Brzacki, and asked the others for their opinions on whether we should add him to our group. They all thought it was a good idea and that we should do so.

Moniek left, and soon came back with Brzacki.

“Brzacki,” I said, “we've decided to invite you to our meeting. I believe you understand the responsibility you're assuming by coming here. If we fail, you'll be among the first to be executed.”

“I understand,” he said. “Don't worry.”

“Well, comrades, here's my plan. First off, we need to eliminate the camp's commanding officers. We need to do this one by one, quickly and silently, in the space of a single hour – it can't be done any faster. Acting slowly is dangerous. The Germans might notice that one of them is missing and make a fuss.”

“The officers will be eliminated by people selected from the Soviet POWs; I know them as reliable. Obviously, it must be done by people who are brave, decisive, and resolute. A moment's hesitation, or one person's failure, might mean the end for us all.”

“At 3:30 p.m., Kapo Brzacki will find a pretext to take the three people I will designate to Camp 2. Those three will liquidate the four Hitlerists who work there. Baruch needs to make sure that the four will enter the hall one by one, where they will be killed. He will also have to make sure no one leaves the camp while the Hitlerists are being liquidated.”

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Anyone who tries to make a noise will be either silenced or killed. The operation must be finished by 4:00 p.m.”

“At 4:00, specialists will cut the phone line between Camp 2 and the guard headquarters. The wires must be cut at both poles and concealed, to prevent any resumption of the connection.”

“At the same moment, we'll begin eliminating the officers in our camp. One by one, the officers will be invited to the workshops; two people will be waiting at each shop to carry out the elimination. Everything must be finished by 4:30 p.m.”

“At 4:30, Brzacki and Goniok will set up all the camp inmates in rows, as though preparing to take them to work; the column will head toward the exit. Our best men will be in the front rows. They'll attack the armory, while the others continue to move, covering the attackers. Those who grabbed arms will catch up with the column and move to its head, eliminate the guards at the gate, and attack the guard command post.”

“Contrary to our expectations, the soldiers of the guard might be quick to realize what is happening; they'll cut off our way to the gate, and open fire with both machine guns. Well, if we can grab arms we'll start fighting. If not, we need to prepare a different way out.”

“The building that houses the officers' quarters is close to the carpentry workshop, near the barbed-wire fence. We can assume that even if the open area nearby is mined, the mines are only signaling mines; those aren't dangerous. Right there, behind the officers' quarters, is where the barbed wire should be cut. Those in the vanguard need to throw stones ahead as they walk. These will set off the mines, and the way will be at least partly clear.”

“ That's the plan. Shlomo and I have considered it again and again. We cannot think of any better plan. Let every man of you consider whether he's able to carry out his job. We'll meet again tomorrow evening. Remember, comrades, that you mustn't tell anyone – not your brother, or wife, or friend – of what we have decided here.”

There was no debate. One by one, we dispersed.

In recent days, I had noticed that the soldiers going out on guard duty were each given five bullets every morning. When the guard was changing, they handed the bullets over to their replacements. Clearly, they had no bullets when they were not on duty. I wanted to check my assumption, and agreed with Brzacki that I would be sent to the guards' barracks the next day to do some repairs.

On October 13, the carpentry workshop received a demand to send someone to the guards' barracks immediately, to repair the doors. Janek sent me.

The first thing I did was to check the doors throughout the building. I opened the door to an empty room and closed it immediately, supposedly in order to check it. Quickly, I opened one of the closets.

There was a rifle in the corner.

I looked into the magazine – there were no bullets. The clip on the shelf was also empty. It was the same in the next closet.

When I returned to the carpentry workshop, I went up to the roof. It gave a full view of the area outside the fence. The railroad line lay to the left of the camp gate, with the station behind it, and a forested area beyond that. Five hundred meters to the right of the gate lay a forest. Logs were scattered throughout the intervening space, while Poles worked across from us, moving logs. Clearly, we needed to run to the right.

We decided that evening that the escape would take place the next day, October 14.

October 14 was a bright, sunny day. The night before, we distributed out the knives we had prepared, as well as several dozen medium-sized axes that the blacksmiths had made for us, and that we could conceal beneath our clothes.

The neediest received warm clothing. Only the leaders knew exactly when and how we would escape.

I was working at a branch of the carpentry. The view from the windows covered the entire courtyard of Camp 1. Shlomo, with a group of 20 selected men, was working in the adjoining barracks, putting up office shelving.

We decided the following.

Unterscharfuehrer Barg would come to the tailoring workshop at 4:00 to measure his new suit. The head of the camp would arrive at 4:15. The head of Camp 3, Getzinger, and Oberscharfuehrer Graetschus, would be at the shoemaking workshop at 4:00. Franz would come to my barracks,

[Page 185]

to inspect the cabinets. Simultaneously, Untescharfuehrer Friedrich Gaulstich would check Shlomo's work. Baruch would eliminate four officers in Camp 2. All the other officers would be called to the workshops on various pretexts. The comrades who were to carry out the eliminations all worked with Shlomo that day. He sent them to me, one by one, and I gave each his mission. The first was Kali-Mali.

As I noted earlier, his actual name was Shubayev. He had graduated from the Rostov Institute of Transportation Engineering in 1940. About 25 years old, he was tall, with curly black hair, and not much of a talker. He was strong and straightforward – a good friend.

“I don't need to waste words with you. You and Moniek go to the tailoring workshop. Take a planer, a chisel, and an axe. Remember, the guy mustn't be allowed to utter a sound.”

“Understood.”

“Go, then. I wish you good luck.” We shook hands silently, and he left. I asked him to send Cybulski in.

Cybulski was from the Donbas region, a cart driver. Strong and tall, he was about thirty-five, kind and merry. He was a cart driver from the Donbas, a bit garrulous, and we couldn't share everything with him. But he completed every mission he undertook.

“Boris,” I said, “we sat in the cellar together. I know you better than anyone else. Your job is the toughest. Michael and Banu will go with you. Brzacki will come for you and take you to Baruch, in Camp 2. Borya, make sure to strike the first blow. You need to inspire the others. If any of your companions hesitates, swap him for someone else. This type of job can't be forced on anyone.”

“Don't worry, Sasha. We're eager for the signal.”

“Don't forget to take the pistols of those who were killed. Good luck!”

We had to succeed.

At 2:00, Untescharfuehrer Walter Ryba came to Camp 1, called Brzacki and three others, and took them with him.

We were very upset. The officer was carrying a submachine gun, which wasn't normal procedure when taking people to work. What had happened?

We linked the unusual situation to something that had happened an hour earlier, which increased our worries. Janek had dressed in his best clothing that morning. As people would be running without possessions, he thought that they should be wearing their best. Franz noticed him and said,

“Is someone getting married? Is that why you're dressed in your best?”

I hurried to the carpentry workshop to find Janek.

“Find out immediately where they took Brzacki.”

“How should I do that?”

“That's up to you. As the commander of the work detail, it shouldn't be hard to find out what is happening.”

The next hour was nerve-racking. We didn't know what to expect.

At 3:00, Kapo Goniok came and announced that Brzacki had been taken to the “Northern Camp” to supervise wood-stacking. As he had left without guards, he took a submachine gun along.

“Do you know,” I said, “that Brzacki was supposed to take several men to Camp 2?”

“Yes.”

“You take them now.”

“That's impossible. I\m not permitted inside.”

“You have to. Say that Brzacki is gone, and a job needs to be done there. Make something up.”

“It would be better to postpone it to tomorrow, when Brzacki will be back.”

Clearly, though, the mission couldn't be postponed, even for one day. Although not many knew about the preparations, everyone felt that something was about to happen.

We were in a hurry for another reason as well. Gomerski was about to return. In spite of all his tricks, Franz was a kid compared with Gomerski.

“No,” I ordered the Kapo. “We might miss the chance tomorrow. We spoke, you agreed. You can't go back on your word for anything like this. Do as I order.”

[Page 186]

At 3:20, Goniok entered Shlomo's barracks. From my window, I saw him, Cybulski, and two others, leaving for Camp 2.

Unterscharfuehrer Ernst Bauch arrived at the tailoring workshop early, on horseback.^[10] He dismounted, set the reins down, and walked in.

I later heard about what transpired inside. When Bauch came in, everyone rose to their feet, as usual. Shubayev approached the end of the table. The concealed axe was on the floor in the corner near a table leg. The German unbuckled his belt and set it on the table, together with his pistol, then took off his outer coat. Jozef the tailor immediately came up with the new suit. Goniok approached the table, positioning himself to snatch the pistol if necessary. Jozef turned the German around with his back to Shubayev, ostensibly for better light. At that moment, Shubayev landed an axe-blow on the back of the Nazi's neck. The latter sounded a terrible scream… The horse outside shuddered and pricked up his ears. The second blow silenced the Nazi forever. The body was shoved under the bed and covered with various objects. The bloodstains on the floor were cleaned or covered up.

Shubayev immediately came running to my barracks.

“Here you are!”

He handed me the German's pistol.

“From now on, there's no way back, even if we want to. Thank you, Kali-Mali.”

We hugged and kissed each other. He was in a hurry to go back. The second client was about to arrive at the tailoring workshop.

“Quick, tell me: how did the other guys manage?”

“Excellently!”

Shubayev returned to his spot. Ten minutes later, Oberscharfuehrer Herbert Halm came into the tailoring workshop. He never came out; Moniek felled him as soon as he entered.

At 4:00, as arranged, Getzinger (commander of Camp 3) came to the shoe-making workshop. Arkady Wajspapir was designing a stool. Grisha stood at the door.

The Angel of Death was in a good mood.

“It's sunny, nice and warm today,” he prattled. “Are my boots ready?”

“Here you are, Your Honor” Jakub handed him the boots. “Let Your Honor try them on,” he said.

“Hi, Jakub,” the Nazi said as he pulled the boots on. “I'm going to Germany in five days. Remember, you need to make a pair of sandals for my wife!”

“I hope Your Honor's wife will like my work,” he responded.

Arkady cut the conversation short with an axe blow. We dragged the body to a corner and covered it with rags. Quickly, we strewed sand over the blood. Oberscharfuehrer Graetschus was approaching to pick up his order.

At 4:15, Cybulski returned from the other camp and reported. He was excited, but kept calm.

“All four have joined their ancestors,” he said. “The phone connection was cut at the right spot. No one is allowed out of Camp 2; Baruch is keeping order. He wants to know ahead of time when to let the people out.”

“Where are the pistols?”

“Two remained there. I have one, and Michael has the other.”

“All right. For now, return to the barracks and join Shlomo.”

Brzacki and his group returned from the Northern Camp at 4:30. Unterscharfuehrer Gaulstich appeared in the courtyard. Shlomo ran up to him.

“Herr Unterscharfuehrer, I don't know how to continue work on the shelves. I need Your Honor's instructions. The men are standing idle.”

The German set out for the barracks, followed by Kapo Shmid. When I saw him, I hurried to Brzacki.

“Get Shmid out of here. He mustn't go into the barracks.”

Brzacki grabbed Shmid's hand.

“Don't go in,” he told the other man.

“Why, what's wrong?”

“If you want to stay alive, stay out of it. Almost all the officers are dead. People are watching your every move. Don't interfere, do you hear?”

Terrified, Shmid listened to Brzacki. His lips were trembling so that he couldn't utter a sound. Meanwhile the Nazi inside had been killed. Short, thin Shlomo had landed a single blow on the back of his neck.

[Page 187]

It was time to give the signal, but Franz was still alive. He was in no hurry to come and inspect the cabinets, as the plan called for. Strolling around the courtyard, he did not enter the workshop. The head of the camp's command hadn't been eliminated yet.

Our tinsmiths arrived, holding tin pipes, which contained six rifles and bullets. One of the girls brought pistol bullets from the barracks of the killed officers. Word came that Engel, a metalworker from Łódź who had been working in the garage, had killed Unterscharfuehrer Walter Ryba; the German had come into the garage holding a submachine gun. Engel was suspicious, and killed him in the doorway. Clearly, what transpired in the garage would soon be known. We couldn't wait. But what about Franz?

“The hell with him,” said Shlomo. “Sooner or later he'll get his dose of lead. It's time to leave. We shouldn't waste another minute.”

We stood there silently, listening. The camp was deathly quiet. I ordered Brzacki to give the signal. A sharp whistle cut through the silence. Shlomo sent someone to Camp 2, to let them know that it was time to leave.

People started rushing in from all sides. We had originally placed seventy men, almost all Soviet POWs, at the front of the columns, to storm the armory. But the crowds, who guessed something was about to happen but did not know the timing, began to shove and push once they grasped the situation. No one wanted to be left behind; it was an unruly crowd that arrived at the gate of Camp 1.

The guard commander, a German from the Volga region, faced us.

“Hey, the devil take you! You heard the whistle – why are you pushing in? Form a column of threes!” As though by command, a few axes were drawn simultaneously from under jackets, and landed on his skull.

The attack on the armory was unsuccessful. We were blocked by heavy submachine gun fire. Most of the people rushed to the main gate and trampled the sentry. Shooting the few rifles they had, lobbing stones, and flinging sand into the eyes of the Fascists they encountered, they ran out of the gate and towards the forest.

One group turned to the left. I saw them breaking through the barbed wire, but they now had to cross a minefield that was 15 meters wide. Many of them probably died there.

I, with some members of the group, turned towards the officers' quarters, and broke through the barbed wire there. My assumption that the field behind the officers' building wasn't mined proved correct. Three of us fell not far from the fence, but their deaths might not have been caused by mines but by the occasional rifle fire.

And there we were, beyond the mine field. We crossed 100 meters, and another 100 meters. We had to hurry across the exposed area, where your body could be seen by your pursuers and exposed to their bullets. Quick, quick, run to the forest and shelter among the trees… And there I was, hiding in their shadow.

I stopped to take a breath and looked back. The last men and women were nearing the forest, crouching as they ran.

It is hard to say exactly how many people lost their lives during the breakout. Most of the inmates escaped the camp; many fell in the exposed area between the camp and the forest.

We had earlier decided not to stay in the forest, but to scatter in groups in all directions, and keep running. The Poles ran west, toward Chelm. They understood the local dialect and were familiar with the roads in the region. We of the U.S.S.R. went east. The most helpless were the Jews from Holland, France, and Germany, who couldn't communicate with anyone in the vast region.

We used the continuing rifle and submachine gun fire as orientation; we knew it was coming from the camp. The phone connection had been cut, and Franz was unable to call for reinforcements.

The shots gradually grew more distant, and finally fell silent.

It was dusk. We could hear distant, faint shots to the right of us. They were pursuing us. Boris Cybulski and Arkady Wajspapir came up to me. I proposed that we go on walking all night, in single file, with me at the head, Cybulski second, and Arkady at the rear.

[Page 188]

No smoking, no talking, no lagging, no running ahead. If the leader dropped flat, the others were to follow suit. If there was a flare, everyone immediately dropped flat. And no panicking, no matter what.

We emerged from the forest and walked about three kilometers across an open field. A trench, 5-6 meters wide, blocked our way. It was deep, and couldn't be crossed on foot. We walked along the trench. About 50 meters on, I sensed the presence of a group of people. We dropped flat instantly. Arkady was ordered to find out who they were.

He crawled at first, but soon rose and returned to the group. “Sasha, they're our folks. They found some wooden beams and are crossing the trench. Kali-Mali is one of them.”

Shlomo had been wounded even before he entered the forest. Regardless, he ran for about three kilometers before he grew too weak to stand. He asked to be shot dead. The Poles in the group refused to leave.

What terrible news, what despair! He escaped the camp, but collapsed, helpless, en route to freedom. We had been like brothers. In our talks as we lay next to each other in the bunk, we had covered all the topics in the world. His common sense, calmness, courage, and faithfulness supported me during the most difficult times. We had planned the camp revolt together. He was our adviser on everything and anything. What eventually happened to him? Would we ever get any news of him?

Now we numbered 57. We continued walking. Five kilometers further on, we heard a train passing by. The terrain around us was flat and exposed, with low bushes. We stopped. Dusk was near, and we knew that they would come looking for us in the morning. The woods in that area aren't dense, and can be searched easily. We consulted with Cybulski and Shubayev, and decided to scatter among the bushes. No one would come looking for us here, precisely because the area was exposed and near the railroad tracks. But we had to camouflage ourselves well, and lie silent and unmoving.

First, I sent some men to search the bushes and their surroundings carefully and thoroughly. Then we all lay flat among them.

At dawn, it was drizzling slightly. Now, in daylight, we could take stock of our surroundings. Arkady and Boris Cybulski went one way, Shubayev and I the other way. After some 500 meters, we reached an empty field. A forest was visible on the horizon, a few kilometers away. We returned to our hideout and took a rest.

Cybulski and Arkady appeared about 30 minutes later, with the following report. The railroad track were about 100 meters away from our position. The station lay to the right, about a kilometer away. The Poles working near us weren't under guard. They had no other observations.

We positioned two well-camouflaged men close to the tracks to watch the movements around the area. The lookouts changed every three hours.

Planes flew overhead all day. Two made a low pass directly over the bushes that sheltered us. We could hear the voices of the Poles working near the tracks. Our men hugged the ground, covered themselves with branches, and stayed there until it became dark.

That was our first day of freedom, October 15, 1943.

Evening fell. We had just started moving, when two men came up toward us, walking carefully. We realized that they were our people. It turned out that they had reached the Bug River and were coming back.

“Why didn't you cross the river?”

They told us that they had visited a farm close to the river, and were told that many soldiers had arrived on the riverbank the night before and were guarding the crossings closely.

We continued our way in single file, as the day before with Cybulski and me at the head, and Shubayev and Arkady at the end. Some five kilometers later, we entered the forest, and stopped.

There was no point in continuing to move in a large group; we were too noticeable. Besides, it was impossible to supply so many with food. We split into small groups, each of which went its way. There were nine people in my group, including Shubayev, Boris Cybulski, Arkady Wajspapir, Michael Itzkovich, and Semyon Mazurkevich.

[Page 189]

We headed east, with the North Star as our guide. The nights were star-filled. Our first mission was to cross the Bug. We had to find the right spot and set a time. We obtained food and received news and instructions at remote, quiet farms. People warned us about the dangerous areas and which areas to avoid, because the prisoners of the Sobibor death camp, had escaped, and the Germans were combing the area. We headed for the Stawki farm, 1.5 kilometers from the Bug, and spent all day in the forest. At dusk, three of us entered one of the farms; the others stayed away, to warn us if we needed to leave.

The house was lit by an oil lamp. A blond, long-haired young man of about 18 stood in front of the table, his hair flopping over his forehead. In an open shirt and wide overalls, he was chopping tobacco leaves on the table. An old man sat next to the stove. A cradle dangled from the ceiling in the eastern corner of the room, rocked by a silent young woman who was spinning yarn while pressing a rope that was connected to the cradle.

“Good evening. May we come in?”

“Come in,” said the young man, in perfect Russian.

“Mistress, cover the windows,” Boris suggested.

“I can do that,” she said, and rose.

We sat down. The residents said nothing.

“Do you know where we might cross the Bug?” Shubayev asked.

“I don't know,” the young man said.

I turned to the old man. “You, Father, are an old-timer here, and I'm sure you know the answer. People say that the river is shallow near the Stawki farm, and you can cross it.”

“If that's what they told you, go – I wish you success. We don't know. We don't go to the Bug; we're not allowed to. Sit down, take a rest. We're not getting rid of you, but we don't know anything.”

Our conversation lasted for about an hour. We told them that we were escaped prisoners of war who wanted to go home, some to the Donbas region and others to Rostov. There was no need to fear us.

“Listen, comrades,” the young man said, after a long silence. “I will show you the place. I won't take you to the river. You should know that there are many patrols out on the river bank. Prisoners have escaped from a nearby camp, where they make soap from human bodies. The Germans are turning the area upside down. Go on your way. If you're lucky, you'll cross safely. I wish you luck with all my heart. But if you fail, don't destroy me.”

“Don't worry, good man, our friend. We won't turn you in no matter what. How can we thank you? The words ‘thank you’ are nothing for the help you've given us. We're speechless. Let's go, before the moon rises.”

“Wait,” said the young woman. “I'll give you food for the road.”

We thanked the housewife and parted from the old man. He blessed us with the sign of the cross.

It was early on October 20, 1943 when we trod on Soviet soil once again. Although the area was still controlled by Germans, the air seemed different, more refreshing. The roads, the trees, the sky – everything was intimate and friendly.

On October 22, we met the first partisans of the Comrade Voroshilov company, near Brest.

Translator's Footnotes

1. Alexander “Sasha” Pechersky was the Soviet Jewish officer who led the uprising and was one of the surviving escapees. Return
2. I was unable to identify a Sobibor commander by that name. Return
3. This sentence is unclear. Return
4. Sonderkommandos were groups of Jewish prisoners forced to perform a variety of duties in gas chambers, and crematoria, as well as at other killing sites, to dispose of the corpses of victims. Return
5. This was a well-known 1938 Soviet patriotic song that accompanied a propaganda film by the same name. The song was reworked in 1941 for the wartime situation. Return
6. Kapos were prisoners who collaborated with the Nazis in return for privileges. Return
7. The name has been transliterated from the Hebrew account. Return
8. It's not clear which mitzvah is referred to. Return
9. The connection between Goniok and Brzacki is unclear. Return
10. A different account gives this German's name as Johann Niemann. Return

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