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I was born in Skierbieszów, but when I married a Grabowiec girl in 1928, I settled in that town, and became closely connected to the town and its residents. Like every Jewish town, Grabowiec had its landlords, its traders, hardworking shopkeepers, and religious functionaries. On market days, the town began bustling very early. However, on Shabbat, the town was transformed. Everyone aspired to ascend to a higher plane of being. The town's Jews felt like members of a community with strong faith.

Such was my quiet life with my family in Grabowiec. We made a living by trading and working, went to the villages, and worked on the estates of landowners. I was used to living with the peasants as though they were family and made friends among them. They would consult me if they had a problem. There were people in almost every village who considered me a close friend, someone who would gladly help them out with advice. I dwell at some length on this period, because later, during the war years, the villages played an important role in my life. I was able to survive thanks to several peasants who knew me well. However, at the same time, I became familiar with another aspect of peasants in the Grabowiec area – their inhumanity and savagery.

As soon as the war broke out, I began searching for help in the nearby villages. At first, the peasants were friendly. After a while, though, they began to show their true character – that of hatred towards Jews. It was in their blood.

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We in Grabowiec heard about the Germans' savagery from the refugees who had fled from other towns. That was the reason for our joy when the Russians arrived. However, when they left again and handed the entire region to the Germans, the Jews were bewildered, not knowing which way to turn and how to protect themselves against the ferocious beast that was moving against us. Many Jews went with the Soviet army, but not everyone had the courage to leave everything and rush headlong into the unknown.

One morning as I was preparing to go to the village, I saw a German soldier shooting the young girl Chaya Glomb. He spotted me and called me over. I was sure that he wanted to shoot me as well. Having nothing to lose, I began running. I went to the priest's orchard and thought I would hide among the trees. But I realized that the German who was chasing me could easily detect me there. I jumped over the fence and continued running, until the German lost me and I breathed more easily. But, I thought, though I was able to get away this time, what would happen next time? Did miracles happen regularly?

Life in town grew more difficult every day. As they did everywhere, here, too, the Germans found Poles and Germans to serve them. For the most part, these were Gentiles who had always lived close to Jews; but they had changed their spots and forgotten everything. Just like their masters, they began to attack and torture Jews sadistically.

The Jews tried to convince themselves that the Germans would respect workers, and everyone searched for a place where they could work. I left Grabowiec for the small village of Bronisławski, and became a shepherd.^[1]

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I was not the only one who tried to save myself in a village. Other Grabowiec Jews went to work for peasants or on farms. However, only a few were actually saved. I was helped by my Aryan appearance. The peasants, who did not know me, took me for a Gentile.

Grabowiec did not have a ghetto in the full sense of the word. Although all the Jews were forced into a few alleys, with several families living in the same home, no guards were positioned to prevent Jews from leaving the special streets. People could come and go, but faced dangers everywhere outside the town.

The last deportation took place in May, 1942. The few remaining Jews were transported in June. That was the end.

During the May deportation, the Germans permitted the landowners in the area to check the rows of Jews who would be deported, and extract the Jews they needed for work. I was one of those chosen, but my wife and two children remained in the square. All my appeals to the Polish teacher who was translating for the Germans to help me save my family were useless. In despair, I decided to sneak them out of the rows and slink away from town by way of back streets.

In this way, all four of us arrived at the landowner's farm, and immediately began working. The children, too, labored in the field and the stable. There was no shortage of food at the farm, and we ate our fill. But dread of the next day was constant.

The next day came sooner than we expected. At the end of the work day, the landowner came up to me and said that he had been ordered to place us all at the disposal of the town. Clearly, this was the end. We were about to be turned over to the Germans.

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In the Forest with My Wife and Children

Over forty Jews worked on that farm. When I told them what the landowner had said, they were confused. Some thought they should flee; others were overcome with despair and ready to accept their bitter fate, as they believed there was no way out. I was conflicted, but unwilling to be led to death. I took my wife and two children and went into the forest, not far from Grabowiec.

I met many Jews from Grabowiec in the forest, such as Chayim Katzav, Saraleh Matises, Dovidl Matises, Notehle Matises, and Shifra Vertheim. There were about thirty other people whose names escape me. People were despondent. The people were downhearted, not knowing what to do. Dovidl sat near me, crushed. When I suggested that we go to a nearby village, where I was acquainted with a peasant who would give us food, he agreed, and we left to go and see the peasant. His wife opened the door. When she heard what we wanted, she became angry and wouldn't let us in.

We had no choice but to return to the forest. But before we had a chance to recover from the setback, two armed Gentile toughs approached us threateningly. Everyone was terrified. The chances of saving ourselves from them were very slim. Their demeanor was savage and murderous. They surveyed us, and their gaze finally settled on me. We didn't flinch and stared back at them. They finally called me over. I realized that they had chosen me as their first victim. I parted from my wife, and told her that when I began to walk away with them, she should send the children to follow me with loud wails so as to stop me from leaving.

That, indeed, was the case. I had barely taken the first few steps with them when the children burst out crying and screaming, and wouldn't let me leave.

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The toughs stood for a moment, hesitating. I used the moment to make a suggestion that I believed would tempt them: I offered them a large sum of money in return for some food. The children would calm down, and I would be able to go with the attackers. They liked this suggestion. I collected some money from the other people with me, handed it to them, and they left. I then told the other Jews that we needed to flee immediately; I knew the toughs would take all our money and then shoot us.

Most of us decided to go towards Wojsławice, where I had sisters-in-law and other relatives. The local Jews were still living in their own homes, but were forbidden to let in strange Jews. Luckily we were able to crawl into an attic, where we hid for several days, until deportations began in Wojsławice as well.

We were informed that the town's Jews would be sent to Włodawa. There was no choice but to join the Jews of Wojsławice. When we arrived in Chelm, I noticed the Gestapo men looking at me and talking to each other with amazement. Obviously, they thought I was a Pole, and couldn't understand what I was doing there. In Włodawa, we were loaded onto the rail cars. Our children were taken away and crammed into other cars. The women in the first row were also herded into the cars. The transport was bound for Sobibor.

Throughout our journey, I had thought of escaping; but that would have been completely impossible with my wife and children, who had become extremely weak. But now that I was alone, I was obsessed with the idea of escaping. I had nothing to lose, and was no longer afraid

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that the Germans would shoot me as I ran. Let them shoot and make a quick end of it.

The train finally began to move. As it approached a forest and chugged uphill, it slowed. I made my decision, and jumped. The German shot at me, but I was able to crawl to the bushes, and started to run deeper into the forest, as I kept hearing the echoes of shots. The Germans were shooting blindly, but I felt protected by the dense forest, and continued to go farther and farther into the trees. My objective was to be as far as possible from the Germans.

I don't know how long I ran. I was breathless, my knees were aching, and I ran towards a tree stump near a conifer with broad branches that sheltered me like an umbrella. My entire body ached, and I would have loved to close my eyes and fall asleep for a very long rest… I had been under the tree for only a few minutes, when my mind began to churn and warn me that I might pay with my life for those minutes of rest. I must not rest, but run, run…

It was midday, about two p.m. The forest was quiet and peaceful. It would have been so good to stay there for an hour, half an hour, even only a few minutes. I realized, though, that I must not stay. The forest could be overrun with Germans at any minute. I stopped thinking about my fatigue and fear and kept running at top speed all day, until night fell.

I could barely move my feet, and was hungry and thirsty, but could not risk sitting down for a rest. I wanted to be as far as possible from the spot where I had jumped off the train. Though I didn't know where I was, the area was completely unknown, and I didn't know which way to go, I kept walking farther and farther. Night fell, and I still did not dare to sit down for a rest. I walked that whole night in the darkness, not knowing

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whether I was going forward or backwards. In the morning I noticed a dog wandering around. That was the first sign that I wasn't far from some village or other. I was happy and worried at the same time.

Following the dog's tracks, I came to a small house and I knocked at the door. A woman's voice came from inside: “Who's there?” It was followed by an irritable male voice: “It's a Jew, of course, wandering in the forest. I'm going out to kill him.” My first instinct was to run, but on second thought I realized that it wouldn't save me. I had the bright idea of masquerading as a Partisan. I responded in a gruff shout, “Open up, faster!” As an “aside,” I shouted, “Guys, I'm waiting here and plan to go in…”

The peasant immediately changed his tone. He came to the window and meekly asked what I wanted. I continued sternly, saying that I needed ten loaves of bread and a few kilograms of bacon. The boys were hungry after fighting, and needed food. The peasant started explaining that he had only half a loaf of bread, which he could give me. I spoke more mildly and said that I believed him, but wanted the half-loaf in the meantime, as one of our Partisan group was having trouble keeping up with us, and needed food urgently. I demanded to know where a rich peasant could be found, where we could confiscate bread. He handed over the bread immediately, as well as an address where I could find a greater supply of food.

As we talked, I discovered where I was, and where to find the road to Chelm. I went into the forest again, and kept walking until I reached the highway. The traffic was heavy with German military vehicles. I feared the Germans less than the Poles. My Aryan appearance gave me confidence,

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and I started walking boldly along the highway until it became dark. Darkness posed the danger that the Germans would stop me and demand my papers. I had no choice but to go into a village for the night.

This was a mistake. The moment I entered the village, the local watch unit stopped me and asked me who I was, where I had come from, and what I was looking for there. I made excuses and said that I was looking for work, but they took me to the village elder. He was a cunning Gentile, who immediately hired me. After some questioning, he said, “You're not a Pole. You'd better tell the truth, because you can't fool me.” I tried to cling to my story, but soon realized it was useless. I confessed, and told him the truth – who I was and where I had come from.

He wasn't surprised, and told his wife to bring a bowl of water which I could use for washing, as well as some food. As I ate, he asked for details of where I was from and how I had escaped. I told him everything. He promised that he would save me. It was nearly noon when he took me to a barn and locked me in. I immediately fell asleep, exhausted, and sank into a deep slumber. The next morning he gave me a job to do, watched me as I worked, and was apparently pleased. I was familiar with village chores. I quickly chopped some wood, and took care of everything else. He saw that I would be very useful. Later, he brought me to the stable, and watched me handle the farm animals. The upshot was that he liked me, and decided to let me stay.

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That evening, he sat with me and casually discussed the situation. At one point, he asked me whether I had a photograph of myself – he was ready to forge a document for me. Unfortunately, I didn't have one. He persisted, said he'd find a solution, and let me stay. I did various chores during the day, and was be locked into the barn at night.

One early morning a few days later, several vehicles with Gestapo soldiers came to his house. My heart started to beat faster, but I soon realized that they weren't coming for me that morning. They knocked at his door and were let in. A few moments later, he unlocked the barn door and told me that I wouldn't be able to go out all day, because a committee was registering the horses of the entire region. His wife brought me food that day.

Uproar surrounded me all day. In the barn, I heard drunken voices, laughter, and singing. It grew quiet when night fell. Apparently, the village elder had left with the Gestapo men. The peasant's wife brought me food, and locked me in again. I had the bright idea of asking her not to lock me in, because I had an upset stomach and would likely have to leave the barn in the middle of the night. She suspected nothing, and left the door unlocked. The terror I had experienced that day did not let me rest – I was desperate to escape and leave that dangerous place.

Once again, I wandered along side roads and paths in order to avoid German sentries and Polish policemen. Eventually, I came to a distant village, and had no choice but to look for work. A poor peasant really wanted to hire me as a worker, but complained that he had no money to pay me with. Would I be willing to work in return for food? After some time, he proposed that I give him my papers and he would register me officially. He was certain that I was a Pole, and I didn't dare to correct his error. I decided

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to go to the city with him, explaining that I wanted to do the registration myself.

As we approached the city, I feared that a patrol would stop us and demand my documents. I told the peasant to give me the reins so that he could stretch out and take a nap. We hadn't gone much further when a patrol stopped us. I pretended to be the cart's owner, and the soldiers asked only for the documents of the napping peasant. That satisfied them.

I finally arrived in Chelm, where many Jews still lived, mainly artisans. The peasant drove back, and I promised him that I would complete the formalities and return to the village on my own. In Chelm, I met my cousin. She was alone, after her husband had been marched to Skała and murdered. She begged me to stay with her in Chelm. Like many other Jews, she tried to convince me that I would be able to live out the war there. But I had been through many disasters, and knew that the Germans wouldn't let the small number of Jews live. I decided not to wait until I was recaptured by the Germans.

Yosef Zilber from Grabowiec was also in Chelm. He had married a local woman. He was a policeman, one of those who constantly tried to help Jews and save them whenever he could. I told him of my experiences, and that I had decided not to stay in Chelm. He began saying that it would never be too late to run, and I could stay with him in the meantime. He concealed a number of Jews in his house, and helped them through that difficult time.

One evening, there was a commotion, and a rumor that a German police raid was imminent. Everyone went down into the bunker, but I stayed

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alone in the house. Several policemen came in, asking for the Jews; they didn't take me for a Jew. I told them that I had only brought food for the Jews. Suddenly, they ran out. Apparently, they had believed me, and had gone to find the Jewish escapees. During this period, Chayim the butcher kept coming and begging to stay with me. After a while, people started saying that the Germans were preparing another large transport for the last few Jews of Chelm. I told Chayim that he had to be ready to leave that night.

As soon as it was dark, he came over, and we started to discuss the best way to leave and where we should go. At around 11 p.m., there was a sudden rapping at the door. There were about 25 Jews in the house; we all quickly climbed up to the attic, waiting fearfully for the rapping to stop.

They burst through the door. An armed German immediately appeared in the attic, yelling that we needed to come down quickly. I whispered to Chayim that we should be the first to come down. A Polish woman stood at the door and wouldn't let us out. We had to force our way past her.

The darkness outside was dense. We stayed together; Chayim had his son with him. We approached the forest. That's easily said, but the way was extremely dangerous. Death lurked on all sides, and the Germans also lay in wait at the approaches to the forest. They knew that the Jews would try to flee there it. I actually saw a group of Jews creeping up to the forest, and told Chayim that we should wait and see if they could enter successfully. We lay down on the ground and tried to see through the murk. Before too long, we heard a loud volley of shots, directed towards the Jews who were attempting to enter. We did not go into the forest that night.

We returned to the city. Chayim and his son went to their home,

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where they were arrested. I never saw them again. I spent that night standing in a dark corner, waiting for daylight, when I believed my Aryan appearance would enable me to walk freely in the city. My plan was to go to the forest during daylight.

Before dawn, I heard the SS men shooting from their stations; they had encircled the Jewish streets. It was the last deportation from Chelm, which included Jews who had been able to escape from Grabowiec. After months of suffering in Chelm, they were caught in that deportation.

I spent the entire morning in town with a Polish shoemaker. I stood at his door all night. When he noticed me, I convinced him that I had come from a village to rejoin my contingent. He invited me in, saying that wandering in the streets was not a good idea. The Jews were being deported, and any who tried to escape were shot. A bullet might go astray and kill an “innocent” Pole. He offered me treats at his house. When his son wanted to go out and watch them hunting Jews, his mother yelled, “Don't go out – you look like a Jew. They'll mistake you for a Jew, and you'll suffer needlessly.”

The city quieted down at around 1 a.m. The deportation was complete and the Jewish streets were “clean.” I left the city and started walking along the highway. I caught a ride on a peasant cart, and came to Wojsławice, hoping that someone might have remained there. As I walked into town, I was seized by terrible desolation. There was not a soul in view. Night was falling and it grew dark. I decided to go to the house of a Polish acquaintance named Borowski. But the moment he saw me, he started shouting for me to go away, because he was afraid. I was about to leave, when his son came up and began begging his father not to drive me away.

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He took me inside and set a bowl of sour milk and potatoes on the table. Later, he led me to a pile of hay, where I fell into a stupor. All my thoughts vanished, and thick mists covered my field of vision. After only a few minutes, my mind started to work. I considered the danger that hung over me. I had already heard of many cases where Poles had fed Jews and called the police, turning in the Jews who were hiding there. Those thoughts upset me greatly. Despite my fatigue, I decided not to stay at the haystack, and took side roads to the village of Titev, where I was acquainted with all the peasants and knew who was kind and who was not.^[2]

It was dark by the time I arrived at the village, and the dogs barked. I knocked at the first door I came to. The moment the peasant saw me, he started screaming, “Run, Moshkeh! I'm afraid.” His son-in-law from Komarów was there, and begged him to give me at least a bit of bread so that I wouldn't collapse on the road. He must have seen that I was at the end of my tether.

I left for a different village, where I had good friends, especially Adamski; I believed he would help me. But when I opened his door and said “Good morning,” he did not respond, but took his wife and children out and left me alone there. He was one of the peasants who had close relations with me before the war. Now, he wouldn't even talk to me, but fled as though I were a ghost.

I fought against despair with my last bits of strength. There was a farming community not far from the village, where I knew a peasant

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who had always considered me his friend: Skoczylas. I decided to approach him. It was late at night by the time I arrived. I told him of my situation, and that he was my only hope. He was the first peasant I had encountered who was not frightened, and he promised to help me. He told me that he had a potato pit, and gave me straw bedding. I stayed there several months.

Skoczylas was a poor peasant, and I gave him money regularly to buy food. His cow supplied milk, and we didn't go hungry. At night I went into the forest with him to cut wood, which we carried into his home.

I stayed with Skoczylas a year. He knew that I had had a relationship before the war with the wealthy peasant Mrożek, from the same village. I had even given him a cow to keep, and [after a] while Skotzylas confided to him that I was staying with him. One day, I noticed that Mrożek was coming up the ladder to the attic where I was hiding. He glanced at me, and immediately climbed down and ran. I was scared for a moment, but couldn't believe that Mrożek would harm me.

After several days, I ran out of money and couldn't buy food, so I went to the fields at night to dig out potatoes. One day, Skoczylas said that wanted me to come to his place, and that he would take care of me. He was actually quite friendly. One Fall day in 1943, he took me up to the attic and gave me food. I sat up there for four weeks, until the Home Army started to become active in the area and murdered many concealed Jews.^[3] Skoczylas, too, grew fearful, and he began to talk me into leaving.

I then went to Minkowice, to a shepherd – an elderly peasant,

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a Ukrainian who lived in a small house over a hill. I visited him at night and begged him to let me stay overnight. He quizzed me about my home town, and I gave him the name of a village, and was able to convince him that I was escaping from the Germans because I hadn't joined my army unit. He then allowed me to stay with him.

That house was extremely filthy. I was attacked by immense hordes of lice, and

couldn't stand the squalor. It was the end of 1943. I decided to return to Mrożek's, but he was still very fearful of the Home Army, and stated in no uncertain terms that he wouldn't shelter me. He did promise to provide me with as much food as I wanted, but asked me to find a different hiding place.

Conditions in the village were clearly deteriorating from day to day, because of the Home Army's activity. The peasant who sheltered me was becoming anxious, and I saw indications that he wanted to get rid of me; he was prepared to hand me over to the Home Army, or murder me himself. I started to think of escaping, but realized that he was watching me. Clearly, I would first have to trick him and throw him off my trail.

I knew his good qualities, but also his sly greediness, and decided to make use of this knowledge. I told him that I had concealed a hoard of merchandise and money in Grabowiec, and then asked him to come with me so that I could show him where it was. I said I had decided to let him have the property rather than anyone else. He immediately agreed to come along. I let him go first. Before we came to the town gate, I told him to check whether any Home Army patrols were around. He went ahead, and I immediately turned around and went to the Grabowiec forest.

When I had gone for some distance, I heard a quiet rustle.

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I lay down on the ground, and listened nervously. Before long, I saw two Germans in uniform. I was overcome with fear and ran in a panic. Bullets whizzed over my head, and I was sure that I'd be hit and fall any second. But some hidden strength kept me running on and on, until I came to the Pshedin forest, beyond Grabowiec.^[4] I knew this forest well, as the Jews of Grabowiec had hid there during the first deportations. I had also been there for a time. Now, no one was there. I was alone.

As I sat under a tree, breathless and exhausted, I considered my situation. I became even more melancholy and depressed. Terrifying images flashed before my eyes of Germans and Home Army soldiers surrounding me. I relived the horrible things they had done to Jews, the savage murders, torture, and shootings.

I was paralyzed by an icy cold feeling. I tried to cover my eyes with my hands, but couldn't. The images surrounded me, and seemed to fill the whole forest. There was no escape. All I saw were their bloody fists and rifles pointing at me. I had never felt so despondent. Sooner or later, I would fall into their clutches. Was there any point to my suffering? Would I be able to save myself? Death was lying in wait at every corner. Its icy claws had already touched me, and the very notion of escaping seemed ludicrous.

I don't know how long I sat there, lost in the horrible nightmare, but at a certain point the forest rustled. A strong wind moved the treetops, as though a thousand hellish spirits had been let loose among the trees. Oddly, I was less frightened of them than of the German and Home Army murderers. On the contrary, I felt that all the evil spirits wished me no harm, and might even offer protection from the people who were persecuting and hunting me.

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I suddenly felt better about escaping from my German and Polish pursuers. My new-found drive was stronger than the death that lay in wait. I now began to consider my situation more soberly and clearly. I remembered that I knew one of the forest gamekeepers. This realization gave me new strength, and I went to him immediately.

The gamekeeper was glad to see me, and offered me food. I asked whether I could hide in his forest, but he told me that his forest was very dangerous. However, he knew that Jews were hiding in the Halizne forest, and directed me to a peasant by the name of Szlebad, to whom Jews went.^[5] I went there immediately, but the peasant denied that any Jews had come to him. He calmed down after I managed to convince him that he need not be afraid of me.

At this peasant's house, I met Chayim-Leib, Sara Rosenfeld's uncle. It was winter. We sat down to a dish of roasted potatoes, and told each other our troubles. He was devastated, but I encouraged him. He told me that Shiyeh Piteshivker was hiding there, as well as two Jews from Wojsłowice. We set out to see them. Chayim-Leyb couldn't find the way, and wanted to give up. However, as an experienced forest traveler, I was able to detect the traces leading to the thicket, and found them there. I stayed with them for several months.

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The terrible war broke out, and destroyed Jewish life in all the cities and towns of Poland. At first, the Russian army arrived, and it seemed that we had been helped. However, they didn't stay for long. We soon learned that the Russians were retreating across the Bug River, which would be the new border between Germany and the USSR.

Panic overtook the town. Some people said that going to Ludmir, on the other side of the Bug, was the best thing to do.^[1] But many didn't want to move at all. They couldn't imagine what the Germans and Polish murderers were capable of.

That day, I was with my parents in Antivitz, where we owned an orchard.^[2] When people started to run away, Father said, “Where would I go in a foreign land? I'm too old for it. You're young. Run, and save yourselves!” So we – my sister Rachel, her husband Azriel, and their daughter Feygeleh – crossed the Bug to the other side.

When we came to Nistila, we got the sad news that my dear mother, Tseytl [Tzeitel], had suddenly died.^[3] It had happened immediately after she had left their orchard; she collapsed and could not be revived. My father was now alone. My brother Yosef was then in Ludmir, with his wife and child. I later heard from Shiyeh-Menashe that my uncle Mendel had already

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harnessed his horses and was ready to leave. He began to lament, “Where am I going? Where will I find shelter with my children?” Mendel had nine children, none of whom survived.

With us in Ludmir was my cousin Moshe Miller, who could not overcome the difficulties. He decided to cross the border and return to Grabowiec, and planned to hide in the village, on the Yanivkes.^[4]

In the winter of 1940, we were moved with the Soviet military force deeper into Russia. We travelled with Yankl [Ya'akov] Pergament, his wife Chana, and his children. However, they had decided to leave. They returned, and were murdered. Also with us was Dvoyreh Lazer and Freyda Lazer with his son, Pinyeh. They, too, returned to Ludmir and were slaughtered together with all the Jews.

I lived in Soikel, and shared a house with Shmuel Rayss [Rajs] (Shmuel the water-carrier), and his wife Malyeh and children.^[5] Soon after, they left for Crimea, but could not escape the murderous hands of the Nazis. To this day, I do not know what happened to them.

During our first days in Russia, I wrote a letter to Father and asked him to send me a photo of himself. Deep inside, I had the feeling that we would never see each other again. In fact, in 1941 I did receive a letter from him with a photo, that he had taken in Sokolovsky's studio. Looking at Father's picture, I can see the entire appalling devastation of the Jewish community of Grabowiec.

Translator's footnotes:

1. Ludmir is located in current day Ukraine and is now called Volodymyr. Return
2. I could not identify this place name. Return
3. I could not identify this place name. Return
4. I could not define Yanivkes. It might be a place name, or a term for a specific stream or other feature of the unnamed village mentioned. Return
5. I could not identify Soikel. There is a Sokal in Ukraine located 26 miles (42 km) south of Volodymyr (Ludmir). Return

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Mr. Leyb Glomb
Israel – Ramat Gan

In response to your letter of 3/20, we are sending you a copy of the witness statement of Sala Zilbershteyn (No. 1297), and a “Press Service” extract from the Underground Archive of the Warsaw Ghetto (Ring. 1, No. 471), that relate to the events in Grabowiec during the Nazi occupation.

Archive Director
Mr. T. Berenshteyn

Grabowiec – Hrubieszow county. On June 8, 2,000 Jews of Grabowiec were herded to the Miaczyn train station. Eight hundred people were released, as capable of physical labor. The rest, beginning with the elderly and children, as well as women, were crammed into rail cars that were sealed, and moved out, probably to the Sobibor death camp, 36 km from Chelm.

On the specified date, June 28, 1942, Jews from all the villages had to assemble in the Grabowiec marketplace. All were then transported to the railroad station. Children and the sick people

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rode in carts, while the men and women walked. They stayed in the marketplace for 24 hours, where they were beaten, shot, and searched. Their money and jewelry was confiscated. It was a terrible scene. The “selection” was done at the railroad station.^[2] Father was taken to the left; we children and Mother were taken to the right. I saw a mounted SS man who was choosing people, and begged him to leave Father with us. He smiled and said nothing. I told Mother that I wouldn't abandon Father alone and went over to him through the wire fence. At that moment, an SS man gave my shoulders such a blow with his whip that my dress split. I saw an SS man who knew me from the village, where he had a farm. He had come to take the Jews who had worked for him. I went up to him and asked that we stay with Father. He didn't respond, but later talked with the mounted SS man. All of us were then ordered to move to the side where Father was standing.

We came back to the village. All the other Jews had been transported to Belzec and Treblinka. We weren't allowed back into our home, which was already occupied by someone else. We therefore lived on the SS man's farm, where Father, Mother, and my sisters worked. My parents worked in the fields, and my sisters worked in the office. We were housed in a small room, with an earthen floor, and subsisted on the proceeds of what we sold. This was our life until October, 1942. At that time SS men came and ordered all the Jews employed there to report in Grabowiec.

My parents were sure that they were going to their deaths. They were prepared, after hearing regular reports of deportations from the surrounding villages.

Translator's footnotes:

1. The discrepancy in names is in the original. Return
2. This was part of regular procedure, usually upon arrival at a concentration camp. The deportees were sorted into two groups: those chosen for immediate murder and those temporarily kept alive for forced labor. Return

[Page 351]

At 2 o'clock on Friday, October 16, 1939 – Simchat Torah – I left our town, Grabowiec. The situation was very grim. That Simchat Torah had become a day of tears and tragedy. People walked around bewildered, their eyes filled with terror, not knowing what to do next. The question that nagged at everyone was whether to stay, or leave and go somewhere else – perhaps to Volhynia, which the Germans had not yet reached. Many Jews, especially the young, did so: they left the town immediately. Most, however, stayed.

My brothers Yankele and Moshe were among those who left. I was very sad at the prospect of leaving my parents. I didn't want to abandon them to their fate. But they urged me strongly to save myself and leave town so as not to fall into the hands of the murderous Germans, who by then had already reached Skierbieszów, only one kilometer from Grabowiec.

That was the mood in the town that day, as it was in many other Jewish towns in Poland, which could feel the hot breath of the German murderers. Those who stayed behind could not conceive of the idea that the Germans would develop such a scheme, and all the nations would look on while an entire people was slaughtered.

On arrival in Ludmir, I met many Jews from Grabowiec, as well as Jews from other cities and towns who had fled in terror. There were no arrangements for the refugees in Grabowiec,

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and no housing. It was incredibly crowded, and there was no prospect of employment. My parents joined us a few days later, but when they saw the situation, they quickly returned to the home where they had lived for so many decades. They were murdered there.

My father Motl and my mother Miriam, dearly beloved parents and kind people, are no more.

I stayed in Ludmir with my brother and many others. It was not because we were smarter, more realistic, or more sensible than those who returned to Grabowiec. We were thinking the same, but made tremendous efforts to hold on to the idea that we would be able to set ourselves up and wouldn't fall into the hands of the Germans.

It was the will of fate.

One day, when we were roaming the streets with nowhere to lay our heads, we decided to install ourselves in the show window of the ‘Bata’ shoe company.^[1] It was on Farna, Ludmir's main street. Sholem Shtorch was with us; he had taught both my father and me in our town. We lay with our feet toward the street, which was completely empty. No one bothered us. This was how we spent our days and nights, never staying too long in one place.

A few months later, the Russians forced us to move away from the border, deeper into Russia. We suffered hunger, cold, and privation. Many found their deaths in the taigas of Siberia. We traveled in the same rail car as other people from Grabowiec. They included Baruch-Mordechai Eynes and his family, and Tuvia Tzuker with his family. The train stopped in Sverdlovsk, where we got off. We spent several months in Sverdlovsk, but found nowhere to stay. After a time, we were able to leave that city and travel to areas that had formerly belonged to Poland. It was a bit easier

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to find a place, but Germany soon attacked the USSR. Once again, we had to flee in a panic, and went to the Caucasus.

German aircraft followed us there as well, bombing and shooting. We had to leave for Tashkent. Many Jews stayed in Frunze and other small towns not far from the Chinese border. The roads were thronged with travelers seeking refuge in distant Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Alma-Ata, Dzhambul, and Ashkhabad. These were warmer locations, where there was no fear of freezing to death on the street, as had happened to those who went to Siberian cities and villages such as Chelyabinsk, Omsk, and even Kuibyshev, Kazan, etc. We traveled through all these cities and to Moscow, and crossed the Volga River. On our quest for a place to survive the war we went through dozens of cities and towns.

Some time later, I lost my brothers. Shortly after the end of the war we returned to Poland, where the soil was soaked with Jewish blood. It cried out to us, demanded revenge, and recalled the horrible murders perpetrated by the Germans with help from the Poles.

Now, the Poles shouted at us, “Zhids, the zhids are here again… They've come to pollute our land.”^[2] It was a mixture of hate and fear – fear that we had come to demand the property they stole from our murdered elders and brothers. Hate dogged us as though with whips. We realized that there was nothing for us here, and that we needed to move as far away as possible from the bloody soil of Poland.

Translator's footnotes:

1. Bata, founded in 1894, is a global family-owned footwear and fashion accessories manufacturer and retailer. Return
2. Zhid translates as ‘Jew’ and is used here in a strongly derogatory sense. Return

[Page 354]

The most festive occasion in the camp was when we were taken to the steam bath. At the beginning, the brigadier took us there, but we later became more independent and went on our own. Excessive washing aroused the suspicion of the authorities. We had to be careful not to overdo visits to the bath.

Each bath visit had its problems. We often had to endure cold or warm water; more often than not, the water was cold. There was never enough warm water. The rusty taps in the middle of the bath-house would suddenly stop working, in the midst of your wash. Yells would erupt. The female attendant would come in calmly, unbothered by the presence of naked men, and say, “Get dressed and go home. There's no water. The boiler is out of order.”

The bath-house our labor camp was assigned to was in a wooden shack, about a mile from our workplace. The chimney jutted out like a tower, and was visible from far away. When it emitted thick black smoke, everyone knew that the boiler was being heated and there would be hot water. The mood became cheerful.

The bath-house's attraction was twofold. First and foremost, we would be free of work for several hours. But the main attraction was the act of washing. The procedure was quite complicated. First, you waited in line for several hours before going into

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the building. Once inside, you had to wait in line, naked, for several hours, for the wooden buckets in which we drew water. According to regulations you were entitled to your own bucket, but that was never possible. There was barely a bucket for every two men. The number of buckets grew smaller by the day, and the wait for them grew longer.

You had to take your bread ration with you to the bath or it would be stolen. But you weren't safe from stealing in the bath, either. No matter how many layers of clothes you wrapped your bread in, it was useless. While you washed you had to constantly keep an eye on your clothes. The bath-house was also a marketplace for trading tobacco and makhorka, which were worth their weight in gold.^[1] There was a shortage of newsprint for rolling the makhorka. A scrap of Pravda was exchanged for bread.^[2] The bath-house was the scene of conversations on various topics, but we had to watch every word.

The main attraction of the bath-house was the baking oven, into which we would toss our clothes for a good steaming. The attendant later dumped all the clothes out on the ground, and we each had to pick out our clothes. Once, I went to the oven to get my clothes after steaming, but could find only my quilted, padded work jacket (pufajka). My trousers were nowhere to be seen. We started a search, but it was useless. The trousers were gone, as though sunk in deep water.

What could I do? Reporting my plight to the bath-house authorities was pointless. It would only lead to a series of documents, inquiries, and investigations that might culminate in a trial. I would have to supply a witness to attest to the fact that I had been wearing trousers when I came to the bath-house.

I was saved from this catastrophic situation by one of the men who was bathing with me. He loaned me his trousers so that I could go home. Once back in my dugout,

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I returned the favor, and gave him a piece of soap that I had received in the bath-house, but was not able to use, due to the absence of water… To this day, I'm puzzled as to how that man walked home. I now understand that he probably went home wearing my pants.

In general, I was unlucky in the Siberian bath-houses. If my underwear wasn't stolen, it was my soap that was stolen. Every partner I chose as a bucket-mate turned out to be dishonest. Another time, I put on a pair of felt boots that weren't mine, and were actually in worse shape than my own. This honest mistake even led to my being accused of other thefts in the bath-house.

Once, I was the victim of a bath-house scandal that involved my bucket-mate. The two of us had worked together on the railroad track, and I knew he was an antisemite and a troublemaker. He had called me zhid several times. Now, he used the bath-house opportunity, grabbed the bucket, and kept it until there was no more water. After this incident, I was doubly careful about choosing a bucket-mate. This situation did not last long. Within a few months, there were no buckets at all in the bath-house. They had all been stolen and sold in the market at Omsk.

The harsh Siberian winter was finally coming to an end. The thick snowdrifts began to melt, and were replaced by streams of mud. I had no choice but to plod through the mud in my felt boots, which became soaked through with mud. Once they dried, they became as stiff as stone. My feet couldn't carry the extra weight that I had to drag to work and back.

One day, an announcement was pinned at the entrance to the soup kitchen. Written in white chalk, it stated that from that day on people had to enter the kitchen looking respectable, behave in a refined manner, and observe good manners. This announcement was strange, considering the way we looked and the way the kitchen looked. It was always full of makhorka smoke and constantly smelled putrid. The

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tables were always bare. The tableware consisted of tin pots and wooden spoons. Makhorka cigarette butts littered the floor, and the people were filthy and in tattered clothing. The announcement seemed intended to mock us.

No service was provided in the kitchen. People had to stand in a long line at the window, where the bowl of soup was doled out. I was lucky, though, as I was temporarily assigned to a better soup-kitchen, which offered service. I got this privilege after my hands had been frost-bitten and I was classified as “sick.” The authorities later forgot to revoke the privilege. As I sat at the table, waiting and waiting for the waitress to come over, I realized that I was being overlooked for a reason. I started thinking that it might be because of the new announcement, though I thought that my clothes were still “refined” enough; No one could see that I was naked under the pufajka.

I finally decided to address the waitress, and asked politely when my turn for soup would come. She responded in an official tone. “You won't get any, because you aren't behaving as politely as you should, according to the new announcement. You can't sit at the table in a work jacket – it's not ‘refined.’ ” I tried to defend myself, saying that I had no jacket underneath my pufajka. She stubbornly refused to retreat. I started to appeal for an exception, saying I would appear even less ‘refined’ without my pufajka. However, once I realized that my words were useless, I quickly took off the pufajka and sat there with no shirt, half naked. That worked, and I received my portion of soup.

Translator's footnotes:

1. Makhorka is a coarse, strong type of tobacco (Nicotiana rustica), especially grown in Russia and Ukraine. Return
2. Pravda was the official newspaper of the Soviet Communist Party until 1991. Return

[Page 358]

The small town I found myself in while I was wandering through the U.S.S.R. lies among dense, primeval tundras that cover hundreds of kilometers. I entered this forest one day to go to a nearby kolkhoz, to swap a suit of clothes for some flour.^[1] I stood trial for this crime, and expected a severe punishment, but went free, thanks to my status as a Stakhanovite.^[2] My work in that forest consisted of driving a team of horses to move heavy wood beams. It was lonely work, under inhumane conditions, during the harshest frosts as well as in extreme hot spells.

It was late August. Fall had already overtaken the forest, and the rain was unending. The mud was often deep, and traveling to the forest was difficult. I lived in a stable, in a corner closed off for horse equipment, on a wooden bed I had been given.

I remembered that the High Holy Days were drawing near, but had no idea when Rosh Hashanah occurred. I did not have a calendar, and never encountered Jews. I knew that there were several dozens of refugees from Ukraine and Belorussia in town, but didn't know where to find them. Approaching someone on the street who looked Jewish and starting a conversation about Rosh Hashanah was very risky – it could be taken for a provocation.

Nevertheless, I went to the market, where small-scale trading was going on. The merchandise consisted of bread, onions, potatoes, cigarettes, or a bar of soap; the prices were very high. I was walking through the market furtively, checking out faces, when suddenly an old man appeared. He was tall, with an elegant face and clean clothes, and moved leaning on a stick. I was certain that he was a Jewish refugee. I therefore approached and greeted him in Russian. He was still for a moment, looking at me, and immediately

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responded in hearty Yiddish: “Sholem aleichem, sir. Where are you from?”

I felt at complete ease. He radiated kindness and familiarity, and we quickly became good friends. I gave him a brief account of my origins, and found that he was a refugee from Odesa who was living there with his whole family. He suggested that I come to his house, as conversing in the market was awkward. Then he said, “Is there anything specific you want to talk about?” “Yes,” I answered in a low voice.

He had originally thought that I was proposing a business deal. When I said that I was anxious to find a minyan for High Holy Days prayers, he lit up. Nothing would do but that I come that I come to his house, and we did so immediately. His home wasn't far. It was a low house, with two poorly-lit rooms.

As we came in, he called to his wife, “Dvoyre, I didn't trade any merchandise in the market today, but on the other hand I found a real Jew from Poland.” Dvoyre, an elderly woman with kind eyes in a furrowed face, called out in excitement, “Oh, what a guest! Come and sit down, let's eat something.” She offered bread, fat-fried potatoes, and a piece of herring. I hadn't eaten such a feast for a very long time.

We talked business as we ate. They seemed pious and observant. We decided to actually convene the minyan at their house. There were about thirty Jewish families in town. My host believed there would be no problems, because the official anti-religious policy had been slightly more relaxed since the war broke out. He thought he'd be able to gather about fifteen men for the Rosh Hashanah service.

The elderly Odesan had a handwritten calendar, and we knew exactly when the two days of Rosh Hashanah would fall. He promised to visit the Jews and talk to them. We

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decided to meet in a few days. However, when we met, I noticed that his face was glum. “No, we won't have a minyan. The Jews are afraid.” He told me that those Jews who had found employment were simply afraid of losing their livelihoods. Some even drove him away, demanding that he stop bothering them with Jewishness and Jewish holidays. Dejected. he suggested that the three of us – he, his wife, and me – should pray together. He had a machzor, a siddur, and a tallis.^[3]

It rained heavily during Rosh Hashanah that year. The rain pounded the roof and the windows. In the elderly couple's home, two candles illuminated the table, and we shared the same machzor, devoutly chanting “Instill fear of you”…^[4] The old lady from Odesa stood bent over the machzor, tears streaming from her eyes. My heart was seized by profound sadness.

Such were our High Holy Days prayers in that remote Siberian town.

Translator's footnotes:

1. The mention of a forest here is odd, as tundras are typically unforested. A Kolkhoz is a type of collective farm. Return
2. In Soviet Russia, a Stakhanovite was an exceptionally hard-working person. The term commemorates Alexei Stakhanov, the coal miner Alexei Stakhanov who set a production record in 1935. Stakhanovites often enjoyed special privileges. Return
3. The machzor is the special prayerbook for the High Holy Days; the siddur is the prayerbook containing the set order of daily and Sabbath prayers. Return
4. A section of the prayer in the machzor Return

When I left Grabowiec, fleeing the Nazis, I quickly threw on my cloth khalat, which accompanied me during my entire time in distant Siberia.^[1] It served me faithfully through blizzards and rainstorms, and protected me during fierce snowstorms. Whenever I slept on the bare ground, it provided warmth. More than once, I had to take it off and use it to wrap whatever belongings I had, carrying the bundle on my shoulders.

It was in the Siberian labor camp, near Omsk, that I had to part from my faithful garment, the khalat from Grabowiec, my partner in all my tumultuous experiences.

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I had been in Siberia for six months, and considered myself almost a resident. I endured a hard winter while building the new Siberian rail line, when I spent entire days outdoors digging the spade into frozen soil and laying the rails. I must admit: I was not a true Stakhanovite. The spade and I weren't good partners, even though I wasn't parted from it even during the hardest freezes, which I had trouble becoming used to. I was not at all sure that the rails that I laid were of the best quality, and would have hesitated to ride the first train to use them.

We were constantly moved from one camp to another. They consisted of barracks, where we lived under extremely crowded conditions. The first barracks in Omsk later seemed like a palace. Later on, my “living quarters” were a deep cellar that never received daylight. Actually, that didn't bother us much, as in any case we weren't there during the day. We left for work in the dark before dawn, and returned late at night. We came into the dark, ice-cold cellar, with icicles hanging off the walls. We would then start heating the small clay stove, and the walls would begin to defrost, weeping icy tears.

The cellar had no door. Blizzard winds swept in the thick snow from outside, and we ten occupants set up a nightly roster, switching each night. Duties included staying awake all night to make sure that the stove stayed lit, and sweeping out the snow that kept drifting in. We tried to block the door with boards, but such barricades never lasted long – the fire in the stove needed to be fed, and we had to chop the boards up for firewood.

We had to get up before dawn,

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and hurry to the soup kitchen to catch the early morning soup, then rush to work on the new rail line. The searing cold was biting, and I huddled in the cloth khalat that I was able to acquire in Grabowiec. One day we were in great luck: a load of clothing load arrived with warm uniforms for the camp workers. There weren't enough clothes for everyone, but I was one of the fortunate ones. The uniform included a padded cotton jacket, padded trousers that reached to my knees, and a pair of warm felt boots. In these clothes, I felt enveloped in delicious warmth. But when I looked at myself, I realized that I was dressed all in white, and was terror-stricken at the feeling that I was wearing a shroud. This feeling did not last long. I felt livelier as a dead man; the main thing was that I was warm throughout my frozen limbs. I was so delighted that I did not notice how ill-fitting the uniform was. The jacket was too wide, the trousers – too short and narrow, and the boots were too big. Yet I felt festive, a feeling that did not last long, unfortunately. The hard work, freezing temperatures, and hard work soon caused wear and tear on the uniforms, which didn't stay white for long. Our makhorka cigarettes soon burned holes in the clothing.

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