[Column 107]

The remembrance of the events on September 2 and 3, 1942 will never be erased from us until the end of our lives. Our escape from the ghetto and the Nazis pursuing us are etched very deeply in our consciousness. We, the Jewish survivors, will remember that which Amalek did to us during those days. Our children, the readers of the memorial book of the Lakhva revolt, will learn and know about the episode of the destruction. They will know that their fathers lived during that terrible era, survived through a miracle, and merited to witness the downfall of the Nazis. On the eve of Passover, 1942, we left the houses in which we lived for generations, and we were concentrated in the ghetto, located in a compressed area in our town. Several families lived in a single room, under harsh and cramped conditions, until the day of the annihilation of the Jews of our town. One night at midnight, a child arrived in the ghetto – the son of David (the Tzigeli [Gypsy]) the wagon driver, who worked with a farmer in a village who served as the village head. He came with news that the soltys (village head) was ordered to send farmers to dig pits next to the railway tracks outside the city. The matter aroused suspicion, since farmers had not been taken to work in towns, except for hauling loads in wagons. A panic broke out in the ghetto in the middle of the night, and the terrible news took on wings. Toward morning, Dov Lopatin got in touch with the commandant's headquarters and asked for an explanation of the matter. The “commandant” responded that he has no news regarding the digging. The next day, the city was in ferment. The issue of food, which had been the primary problem throughout all the time, was no longer on people's minds. It was clear to everyone what the pits meant: graves for thousands of residents of our town. The committee hastened from one official to the next, as if they wanted an announcement in writing about what was about to take place. Responses were received from the official offices speaking of strategic excavations for the army and the police against the partisans, who were increasing continually from day to day. Local residents such as ourselves knew very well that the pits were designated as graves for the bodies of thousands of Jewish residents of Lakhva. We continued to go to work with nervousness. We did not want to believe that those who were still that day wandering about

[Column 108]

and going to work would be lying lifeless in the pits next to the railway tracks, where we had spent our Sabbaths and festivals until the outbreak of the war. News spread that the Germans had prepared a list of “vital” individuals who would remain alive after the annihilation. The list included about thirty people: two or three members of the committee, and the rest – tradespeople. With unknown expectation, we saw the sunrise, which seemed brighter, and the sunset, with the thought that we would not see it anymore the next day. Despite our poor situation, we desired to live. At night we sensed the armed military guards next to the fences of the ghetto. This was something new, and foretold that the end of our lives had arrived. Anyone who was already sleeping awoke from their sleep and got dressed. After about half an hour, almost all the adults rose and stood up. Here and there, one could see small groups of people discussing about what was about to happen, and beginning to prepare a plan of escape from the ghetto. There were two opinions: to break through the fence and escape after killing several guards; the second option: to remain and wait for a miracle that we would once again succeed in bribing the local authorities and push off the annihilation. It is very difficult for those who were not in our town that night to judge who was guilty in that we did not break out of the ghetto that night. Some accuse the council, whose opinion it was that it was appropriate to wait and attempt bribery, and only if they do not succeed in averting the harshness of the decree – to attack the murderers and not go like sheep to the slaughter. Opposing them were those who preached about an escape under the cover of the darkness of night. Post factum, it is not difficult to judge who was correct. However, that night, when the elderly mothers were asking their children to not leave them alone to the hands of the murderers who would burn them alive after the escape of the youth, one could not find even one of the proponents of escape who was willing to be the first to break through the fence. The concern for the fate of those left behind, and the hope for deferring the decree moved the Jews of Lakhva to remain in place and wait for their verdict. Indeed, our decision

[Column 109]

was: if all the pleas and bribery were ineffective, we would not go to the pits that they prepared for us, but rather, we would be killed in battle in the area of the ghetto.

At sunrise, the number of guards drafted from the nearby towns of Sinkevich, Mikshevits, Luninets, etc. increased. From the west, we heard the sounds of the shooting of machine guns that informed us of the annihilation of the Jews of Kozan-Gorodok.

At 6:00 a.m., the Germans from the Todt company arrived to fetch the workers who went out daily to work, and they were met with a refusal from the guards. After they approached the commandant's headquarters, they were informed of the truth. To us, it was as clear as the sun that we were living our final moments. Each of us looked at our dear ones with greater intensity, as if wanting to absorb the radiance of their faces. The sun appeared brighter to us, as we knew that within a few hours, it would not shine for us anymore.

Members of the council and several of the communal workers of the city gathered in the house of Zalman Cheifetz, and related what they had heard regarding the nearby ghettos. They related that in Mikshevits, they wanted to leave Motel Rivlin alive, but he did not want to live when he found out that his family had been taken out to be murdered. They spoke of the ghettoes that still continued to exist, and noted the success of the Jews of Lakhva in remaining alive longer than all the Jews of the area. The news of the death of Yaakov Rabinovich spread. He had died suddenly as he left his house for the street. If people were jealous of Yaakov Rabinovich during his lifetime, for he was one of the wealthy people of the town, the jealousy of all the ghetto inmates was greater that day. Dov Lopatin went out to request permission from the commandant's headquarters to bury Yaakov Rabinovich in the cemetery, [hoping] to take advantage of that funeral to enable several hundred of people to break out of the ghetto. The response was that he will be buried together with all of them. His coffin was taken into the synagogue of the Stoliner Hassidim, where he had worshipped during his lifetime. People wandered about aimlessly throughout the ghetto streets. Children held the hands of Mother or Father; a brother held the hand of his sister. Friends spent their last moments with their friends in life. What did they talk about? Almost all of the youth were “armed” with hammers, axes, and metal rasps. The thought was etched in their minds: to not go like sheep to the slaughter! The council decided: when the moment comes and they attempt to haul us to the vehicles, we will set the houses on fire, attack the Germans, and be killed in battle.

At the time when the men were armed with actual “weapons”, groups of girls prepared an entirely different weapon: poison. Ema Kaplan, the daughter of the pharmacist, obtained and distributed deadly poison to all her friends.

[Column 110]

That “weapon” was intended to save the girls from the disgrace of rape if the murderers attempted such. That poison later caused indescribable suffering to Chasia the daughter of David Slutski, who died in the bogs of Grichin a few days after swallowing the poison.

Additional guards from the nearby towns and villages began to appear around the ghetto. Only babies, the elderly, and the sick, who did not have the energy to leave their houses, remained in the houses. The rabbis lived in Lipa Moravchik's house. Several minyanim [quorums] of Jews gathered there to read chapters of Psalms after they completed the Shacharit service. Their voices could be heard outside the house. Most of the residents of Lakhva gathered on the streets, next to the houses of Zalman Cheifetz and Bokchin, overcome with despair and fear. There, one could see entire families with arms locked together, prepared for death. Here and there, individuals who had escaped from their relatives so as not to witness their deaths were running about. The youth had taken upon themselves the task of burning the houses, and resisting their removal from the bounds of the ghetto with force.

At 9:00 a.m., we saw the German murderers advancing from the direction of Kozan-Gorodok with cars and trucks. To our great surprise, the murderers did not set their steps toward the ghetto, but rather to the tavern of Tichnovich, in the house of Aryeh Cheifetz of blessed memory. After about a half an hour, we saw them leaving the tavern in high spirits after their imbibing, and they were advancing toward the ghetto. Most of them took up positions around the ghetto. They set up three machine guns on their mounts. Several tens of murderers entered the area of the ghetto and wandered around it, as if they arrived for a polite visit.

Most of the residents were on the street next to Rochczyn's house. The murderers moved the rest of those present to the other side of the street, around the synagogue. At 10:00 a.m. the murderers began to herd the people to leave the ghetto and board the transport trucks that were waiting next to the fence of the house of Zalman Cheifetz of blessed memory. They moved backward and joined the rest of the unfortunate people who were standing crowded, leaning on the houses of Rozavski and the Cheifetz brothers. During those moments, almost the entire population of Lakhva, about two thousand individuals, were in that compact area. Each time the murderers approached to snatch a victim, they all moved backward, leaning and crowding around those two houses. When the murderers backed off, the crowded people moved forward without leaving their place. The tragic scene looked like a field of grain and stalks swaying in a strong wind. More than one of the unfortunate people were trampled. The reciting of Shema Yisrael and the

[Column 111]

weeping voices could be heard from afar. At that time, Dov Lopatin entered Zalman Cheifetz's house, and along with Zalman's son Yehudale, poured kerosene on the roof, and ignited a fire in the items that were in the attic. Yisrael Zarbaski ignited blankets and mattresses in the house of Zelig Dolgopiati. When he left the house, one of the murderers noticed him and the smoke rising from the house. The German grabbed his clothes, stood him at the riverbank, and shot him with the first shot in the ghetto. Yisrael fell to the ground, and his head was split open. Following him, Avraham Slutski met his death. He was a deaf-mute who did not respond to the call of the murderer. Basia-Lea Cheifetz, who stood at the railing of the riverbank next to Dolgopiati's house, and witnessed the atrocities, jumped into the river, and her daughter Shulamit followed her into the waves.

Yitzchak Rochczyn, who stood not far from them, approached the murderer who stood next to him, and let his axe loose on his head. Then he jumped into the Smierc River (“Mot”)^[1].

Dov Lopatin attacked a murderer who stood next to the house of Yaakov David Moravchik. He fought with him but was injured in his hand. The German met his death on the spot through the axe of Chaim the son of Yosef Cheifetz and his friends who helped him in his holy work. The killing of the murderer forced his friends to take up more comfortable positions between the houses, and sporadic shots were heard from all corners. Asher the son of Zalman Cheifetz attacked a German, and, with the help of several youths, felled him to the ground and injured him. Asher removed a pistol from his boot, and his brother Moshe Leib took his gun from his hands. After many hardships, the weapons were brought to the partisans by Yaakov Abramovich.

The Jews of Lakhva fell as victims. Those who survived began to escape through the broken gate in the direction of the market, which was also surrounded by machine guns on stands.

The houses burned, and the smoke covered the streets of the ghetto. During the commotion, almost all the adults began to run in the direction of the market and crossed Kozan-Gorodok road. Along the way, the unfortunates who were hit by a bullet fell. The street was strewn with fallen victims. The hero Chaim Cheifetz also met his death at the hands of the despicable murderer. Not far from him, Chaim Moshe Kolpanitzki and his girlfriend Rivka the daughter of Zalman Cheifetz were lying without the breath [of life]. The market square was full of the corpses of those murdered. Those who succeeded in breaking through the ghetto fence ran in the direction of Kozan-Gorodok and Davyd-Gorodok. A bullet hit a five-year-old child who was being held in Shechtman's arms.

[Column 112]

When the father saw that his son had died, he lay him on the ground, covered him in his coat, and continued to run alone. He arrived at the Pripyat marshes, and met his death the following day.

Many of those who escaped set out toward the Pripyat River, thinking to find refuge among its marshes and shrubs. The chain of escapees extended for a distance of hundreds of meters. Behind them, the bullets of the murderers' machine guns were firing. Many of the escapees were injured or killed. Those who were injured lightly continued to run, and even reached secure places. Those who were severely injured remained lying in the vegetable gardens of Kozan-Gorodok and Davyd-Gorodok roads. The murderers continued to kill victims from among those who remained. Many of the non-Jewish residents of Lakhva impeded the escapees who ended up in their yards, raising sticks, and forcing them to leave with wild shouting.

The houses in the ghetto continued to burn. Tongues of fire engulfed the entire area. Not one house of the ghetto remained after a day.

The Jews of Lakhva went up in flames along with their property for which they had toiled for entire generations.

The shooting was heard during the entire time of our escape, and even when we were already next to the Pripyat River. Hundreds of survivors reached the river. They removed their clothes and shoes, which had become an extra burden. Many continued on the way with injured feet. The slaughter was not yet over. After sunset, when the murderers concluded their work with those who had remained in the ghetto, they sent units out to catch the escapees. Many of the survivors were murdered that night among the river shrubs by the local fishermen. One murderer named Polin, who had been faithful to the Germans for some time, murdered in cold blood about seventy of the survivors with a machine gun. About half a year later, three partisans exacted revenge upon him for our blood. Fortunate were the survivors who succeeded in crossing the railway tracks near Sinkevich on the first night, and reaching the Grichin marshes. From among those who were on the banks of the Pripyat, only individuals remained the next day. September 4, 1942 was the second day of the liquidation of the Lakhva survivors. The murderers combed through the shrubs of the marshes the entire day, and murdered in cold blood the young and the old, women and children, whose bitter fate was to remain among the river shrubs for one more day.

Many of the escapees who succeeded in leaving the ghetto fell victim in the area of Lachovka and Luban. However, most of them succeeded in reaching the Grichin marshes and joining the partisans in their battle.

Translator's footnote

1. “Mot” was a local nickname for the Smierc River, meaning “Death”. Residents used this name because the river's currents were dangerous and drownings were common. The writer includes the nickname in quotation marks to reflect its colloquial use in Lakhva, and not because of what was transpiring in the river on liquidation day. Return

[Column 113]

From the fog, I remember the day of my childhood. The school hat with the Magen David embroidered onto it, my middle school years at the Yavneh School with its classes, my friends, and my teachers.

On the evenings of Chanuka, the school children in Lakhva performed plays on the boards of the stage of Dom Łudowy. In the evenings, we listened to lectures in the ken [youth movement locale] by the counselor of the group about the Land of Israel, and we would sing with enthusiasm and longing. We were already Zionists with all our essence and soul.

I remember Chaim Shklar jumping and bursting forth in the song Am Yisrael Chai [the Nation of Israel Lives]. Following him, everyone would join arms and break out in a traditional hora. On the High Holy Days and Simchas Torah, we would join arms and dance David Melech Yisrael [David the King of Israel]. It seemed that the walls, the street, and even the gentiles were celebrating your holidays.

At the end of the summer of 1939, we left school joyous and happy, as usual. Suddenly we saw a mass of people in the middle of the town. A loudspeaker burst forth from the home of Yitzchak Cheifetz and announced the Nazi attack on Poland. This shook and quaked everything.

There was a great commotion. The news spread about cities that were conquered, that fell, and were subdued. The Germans were approaching. The Russians went out against them from the other side. Life in the place continued for another twenty-two months. Indeed, the days of splendor of Jewish, traditional life had passed. The Jewish community grew with the addition of refugees from central Poland. It seemed that we had already become accustomed to the new regime. Again, things shook up: the Russians were retreating, the border that existed between Poland and Russia until 1939 had yet to be opened, and anyone who dared cross it would be shot.

At home, bundles were packed for each person according to their ability, containing the personal belongings, so as to be prepared in any event to leave the place. Groups of Jews got together and made plans for escape, but it was for naught, as the border was closed. It was clear to everyone,

[Column 114]

that the Russians were retreating. The fuel tanks near the railway station were bombed. The iron bridge was bombed. The wooden bridges over the Smierc River were burnt. The Russians vacated the town. There was bedlam, without a ruler or a judge. Everyone did as they saw fit.

Calls of denigration of Jews were heard. Non-Jews, who just the day before had played with Jewish friends, “got drunk”, threw stones at windows, and called out disparaging words to the Jews.

The days between regime and regime, between retreat and conquest, between the past and the unknown future, were days of indescribable fear and trepidation.

We found out from the railway workers that on the final day of the Russian retreat, a train with many wagons stood waiting for Jews or escapees. One of the Jews was even told to publicize this, but he was silenced. The train traveled from Lakhva empty and stopped in Mikshevitz, from where surviving Jews escaped. On a fine summer day, we heard the chugging of cars and motorcycles – the Germans entered the town. The Jews who sat in their houses the entire time, closed and frightened, saw people talking with the Germans outside. To the disappointment of our neighbors, who had been waiting for this day as one of “official murder and plunder”, things turned out somewhat milder.

The Germans that we first got to know did not relate to us badly. German riders were hosted with us. They gave chocolate to the children, knowing very well that we were Jews. On one occasion, during a conversation with a German who seemed quite warm-hearted, my father took interest in finding out about the fate of Jewry in the occupied areas. The German did not want to answer. Only after an uncomfortable silence did he say, “In the meantime remain, but the best place for you is – to the forest.” The front moved further eastward, and a local authority was set up. A Judenrat was set up, headed by Berl Lopatin.

The S.S. “punishment detachment” arrived in the city. Immediately, all the men between the ages of thirteen to sixty-five were ordered to present themselves for work.

I went out to see what was taking place. The streets were empty of people. Here and there, villagers could be seen. The Germans were dragging an elderly Jew, about

[Column 115]

seventy years old, who lived in the home of Moshe Leib the watchmaker, beating him and forcing him to sing. I fled home through the fields – only to not see, to not see.

The S.S. left the city after a few days. They turned eastward, and took a few suspicious Russians out to be killed.

The Jewish community continued to exist in the town, despite the decrees that came anew each day. Jews were captured and beaten. They were forced to work at backbreaking work, but we did not know yet of the loss of souls, other than a number of Jews who were arrested, and their traces were lost: Meir-Berl Julivitz, Pialkov from Luninets – until the decree of the ghetto came. On the eve of Passover 1942, two local policemen came to us, a captain and a German constable, a representative of the city council and a guide who was a local native. They gave us time to remove our belongings. Since they had already been prepared for some time, we took them out quickly. In this haste, the matzos were forgotten in the home. When the announcement came about the end of the time for removal of belongings, the captain entered for an inspection, and found the matzos. He came out and reminded my father to take them. The house was closed with a lock, and we left with our lives. A neighbor volunteered to transfer the belongings, and he carried the load on a wagon hitched to a horse, as we moved over to face the future.

In the ghetto, we were housed in the home of the Cheifetz brothers. There were two families in a small room: Gluzman the tailor and us, ten individuals in total. Nine families, numbering about forty individuals, lived in a four-room house. The living conditions in the house were very difficult. Nine women cooked their meager food in a single kitchen around a single stove. Disputes increased on Fridays, as the “warm food” was being prepared for the Sabbath.

People got thinner. They had to hold on to the walls as they walked, due to lack of strength. There were people swollen from hunger. People went out to forced labor. I would sometimes go out to switch with my sister, so she could rest a bit. Three of us boys went out together, Mordechai (Mema) Romanowski, Yitzchak Cheifetz, and I, and we worked on the railway line. They ordered the children to bring railway ties and arrange them in sections, with each section numbering ten ties. At times, a tie fell on our foot. We worked to ensure that the supervisors had no pretext to take care of [i.e. to abuse] us. Indeed, there were no more fatalities, but there were still isolated cases of people who were imprisoned and beaten, and eventually released in exchange for ransom.

One day, the ghetto was surrounded by the local police. The day of judgment arrived, and the guards did not deny this.

The morning began to get light. The sun shone, and for many of us, this was the last vision of this in life.

[Column 116]

For the first time, I saw men weeping aloud. Men wandered around as shadows on the streets, searching for hiding places.

Several lads stood in the yard of the Judenrat along with Lopatin, engaged in discussion. I heard one of them, Asher the son of Zalman Cheifetz, saying, “We must resist with force.” “No,” Lopatin called out at him, “If something happens, I will be the first to approach the pit, I will stand there so that they will shoot me first, so that I will not see others writhing before me.” “Wrong, we will resist,” said another of the lads. When I got home, my mother was waiting for me. She stuck a piece of bread with something on it, and an apple into my pocket. “Take it my son, they are talking about an escape. Perhaps you will succeed in escaping, and this will sustain you for the first day.” I wanted to comfort her.

Information passed from house to house and from person to person, to resist, to break through the fence, and that the last person to leave a house should set it on fire so nothing would remain. Who sent this information I do not know, but a bright ray of light lit up the heart.

At one point, a German entered our house, and chased me out with coarse movements and shouts. Crying and screaming, we decided to run in the direction of the fence, as we were commanded. People held hands, entire families, so as not to be separated on their final journey. Opposite us stood guards with weapons in their hands, threatening anyone who drew close. People pushed themselves into the yards of Rochczyn and Cheifetz on the way to the bridges. At that point, I lost my family. From afar, I saw Jews sitting next to the bridge, waiting for their transport. Those were the Esther-Chaika Moravchik family. Thick smoke billowed upward, and the entire mass of people walking to their deaths moved backward to the ghetto. From right to left the houses burned. From the screams and weeping, the voice of Rabbi Eliezer Lichtstein could be heard clearly, as he stood on Dolgopiati's porch and called out Shema Yisrael. People were trampled alive. I heard shots. “Jews, save yourselves.” Screams of fear pierced through the air, and the mass of people moved toward the center of the city. The fence was broken through, and the escape began. I ran after a group of people who ran, entered the yard of Shalom Romanowski, broke through the fence, passed through the yard of Yaakov Shulan, and from there to the other side of the river near the Lyubchki bridge. The river was deep, and to this day I do not recall how I crossed it. I was only ten years old at the time, and I did not yet know how to swim. After I crossed, there were people ahead of me. Fire and screams reached us from the city. I caught up to the group. I recall some of them: Berl Katz, Misha Kaplan the son of the pharmacist from Hantsavich near Lakhva, Reuven Cheifetz the youngest son of Zelig and Gitel Cheifetz who lived “at the sandy area”.

[Column 117]

I do not remember them all. There were nine people in the group. As we got farther away, we encountered seven farmers who were harvesting fodder. They came to greet us with scythes in their hands. One of the people saved us through trickery. He said, “See, the partisans have conquered Lakhva and the town was set on fire in battle.” They let us pass, and we continued to advance until the point where the Smierc River flows into the Pripyat. We hid under the bundles of hay. When darkness fell, our group moved to the other side of “the huts”. We crossed the railway tracks. One farmer gave us pickled cucumbers. Another farmer gave us fermented milk. In the morning, we encountered four armed men on the other side of the river who shouted at us, “Halt, raise your hands.” As they approached, they recognized that we were Jews and introduced themselves as partisans. Joy filled all of our hearts. Some wept from joy. Others kissed them. That was how we forged our first connection with partisans in the Chobot forest. Other survivors continued to arrive there. They had been helped by gentiles from the area. After a few days, we were about one hundred to 120 individuals in the forest, free.

My oldest brother, fourteen-year-old Yaakov, arrived on the fifth day after our escape, and in the evening, we found Father, who already knew that we escaped. The conditions in the partisan group were difficult. The food we received was potatoes. After several days, the camp disbanded, and only about thirty people remained with these partisans. The rest dispersed to the partisan area around Lyuban, in the Minsk district.

Tzvi Schwarin and his son Zeev, Orcha Goldman the wagon driver, Kalman (the son of Nisan) Moravnik with his son, and a girl from Davyd-Gorodok joined us. We moved through the marshes toward Grichinovich. In one of the villages, my father went to one of the farmers, and in the conversation that ensued, he found out about a person living in the area who had served in the same brigade as my father in the czarist army. In the morning, we went to the farmer, who had been informed of this by the neighbor and was waiting for us. He related to us in a friendly manner. We went out along the way to the aforementioned group, and suddenly, we heard a volley of shots. We jumped to the side and hide. We saw a convoy of Germans passing by. A farmer stopped us, and told us that a killed Jewess and a Jew were lying on the route, and we should not approach there. We heeded his advice. Along the way, we met Berle the barber, Gitelman and his daughter Tzipora, and Beila and Sender Shklar and their son. Together, we continued on our journey, full of adventures and tribulations, until we arrived in the village of Zaglia in the partisan zone. My father met a Jew named Oritzki, who gave us over to the commander of the partisan brigade. Through his intermediation, we were accepted into the partisan brigade that very day.

[Column 118]

We were in partisan brigades for two years. I did not take an active role in the war due to my age, but I filled responsible roles. My brother was a scout, loved by his commanders due to the bravery of his heart. Once, he was captured alive by the Germans and succeeded in escaping from them. In the partisan brigade, there were about forty Jews, from Gluski, Starobin, Lyuban, and Lakhva (just us), Lenin (David Zikling, the Lazovski brothers). The Jews of Lakhva among us included Gitel Dropski, Dov Gitelman and his daughter, Reuven Cheifetz with whom I had escaped from Lakhva, Beila and Sender Shklar and their son. The life of the Jews among the partisans was difficult. We encountered hostile and anti-Semitic relations. One was killed because he was a Jew. If a Russian partisan failed, they did not pay attention, but if they found an issue with a Jew while engaged in action, news spread throughout the entire region, even though the Jews fought and displayed bravery relative to their numbers among the partisans. It was difficult for a Jew to be accepted to the ranks of the partisan unless they were professionals who were needed: shoemakers, tailors, smiths. A Jew could only transfer to a fighting unit after he was accepted to the brigade. They did not accept Jews directly into the fighting units, under the pretext that Jews were afraid to fight. Rumors also spread that Jewish spies had been caught. Even here, a Jew was afraid to no small degree.

After the liberation of Lakhva by the Red Army, we were not able to return to the city. We also did not hurry. We remained in the district city of Lyuban.

At first, there were five families from Lakhva: us, the Sender family, and Beila, and a third family from among the Polish refugees, a father with two sons. Later, other residents of the place, who returned from Russia, arrived. Dov Gitelman and his daughter were in Slutsk.

After a year, I received a furlough, and I had the chance to visit Lakhva. It is hard to describe my feelings. It was very difficult. The railway station had been burnt, only the platform remained, and nobody was seen in the station I passed by our house. The house was closed. One of the neighbors had crossed over the fence and took control of our land. As I passed by, I heard as she quietly cursed about my return. I responded to her what was on my heart, and immediately our non-Jewish neighbors gathered and invited me to them. I stayed with one of the female neighbors, who used to sneak us milk for the little girl even while we were in the ghetto. That morning, I set out for the center of the city. The road was empty and desolate. Little children did not run through it; they were not sitting on the porches of their houses. The stores and workshops had disappeared. Weeds grew in the area of the park and the nice houses. There was no sign of the houses

[Column 119]

that had stood there. In the center stood a large wooden cross, as a testimony that a human atrocity had taken place there.

I found out that Tzvi Schwarin and his son Zeev were in Lakhva. I found them in the house where Gitelman's daughter Tzipora, who had come for a visit, was also being hosted.

We decided to go to the mass grave to bury our dear ones.

It was difficult to find the place, had it not been for the barbed wire around the grave. Torn clothes, babies' shoes, and human bones were scattered about the area.

We gathered the bones. I also gathered the babies' shoes. We buried everything in the grave. I could not recite kaddish. The source of tears had been dried up. We did not utter a sound. We stood for several minutes, we each set out on our ways, and went back. It was hard to bear the wound and the pain.

I returned to Lyuban the next day. I could not remain in Lakhva for even one more day – the place was too cramped.

After time, my father also received a furlough and found out about the repatriation of Polish refugees. He arranged our “papers” to return to Poland. (My brother had been enlisted.) In Lyuban, they did not want to free us, so we were forced to escape at night, announcing that we were going on furlough. When we arrived in Luninets, the train was standing there with Lakhva natives, as I remember: Yisrael Schwarin, Fanny Cheifetz, and Zeev Schwarin. When we arrived at the border of Russia and Poland, it was clarified in an inspection that my father and I were not registered, and that our documents were not in order. A bottle of vodka and five thousand rubles “arranged” the matter, and we continued westward to Poland.

Just after we crossed the border, several non-Jews who were traveling on the train with us got drunk and wanted to attack us. We were in two cars. The Jews were alert and prepared for any sacrifice in their defence, but that bloodshed was prevented through the intervention of the other people on the train. We arrived in Łódź, and immediately began to concern ourselves with leaving Poland. We did not want to remain in Poland, and through hustling, we were assured by the Pecha”ch (Partisans, Soldiers, Chalutzim) organization that we would go on the first convoy. In the meantime, my uncle Tzvi Kantarowitz, who had reached the level of lieutenant in the Red Army and earned badges of excellence, found us.

Shraga and Dov Chinitz, as well as the child Yosef Chinitz were still there from among the people of Lakhva. We were told to prepare for the journey, but neither my father or I had any clothes other than our Russian “uniforms”: jodhpurs [cavalry pants] and boots. We also did not have any money. We went out to the marketplace, sold our boots and purchased sandals. We walked

[Column 120]

in sandals and jodhpur pants in the outskirts of Łódź. We went to Czechoslovakia via Katowice. We remained in Bratislava, and continued through Linz, Braunau (the birthplace of Hitler, may his name be wiped out).

All the paths for Aliyah were closed off at that time. We were forced to remain in the camp for about ten months along with the Chinitz family from Lakhva.

We transferred to Italy on the eve of Passover, and were in Milan. From there, we were transferred to “Rizzomilia” a joint camp with Jewish and White Russian refugees. A dispute broke out between the Jews and Russians on May 1. One Jew was killed and several were injured. Through the intervention of the English captain who was the camp commander in favor of the Russians, we were immediately transferred to “Acqua-Santa” – a small town in the mountains on the coast of the Adriatic Sea. There was a convalescent place and a Pecha”ch kibbutz there. We arrived in Rome, to a kibbutz that was located on 20 Nazionale Street. There was not yet an opportunity for Aliyah, so we waited.

In February 1947, we arrived at an Aliyah camp called Matfona in the Gulf of Taranto, in southern Italy. We waited for a ship. My father got sick in the meantime, and it was only with difficulty that I managed to bring him to a doctor in Bari. I was told that he required a heart operation. His weight dropped from day to day, and he was forced to lie in bed.

On one difficult night, a small ship Jozna, the name of which was changed to Shabtai Lozinski, arrived. We boarded the ship. It got damaged in a storm, and we were forced to return to the place from where we set out. The conditions were difficult. We lived in caves which we arranged for ourselves underground. The food was difficult and meager. Nevertheless, my sick father bore everything quietly, without complaint.

After two weeks, another ship arrived from Sweden called Chaim Arlozorov. We set sail to the Land in it. Even though my father knew that the route to the Land was via Cyprus, and despite the attempts to convince him to not travel and recover first – we set sail.

We reached the shores of the Land, and from there, we went to Cyprus. Such a seriously ill person as my father continued to bear the suffering of the pain of entry to “prison” – and he stood on his feet and walked. About a week after we arrived in Cyprus, I approached a doctor, and my father was immediately admitted to the hospital. I tried to visit him five days later, and did not recognize him. Ten days later, it was decided to transfer him to the Land due to his illness. We separated in Cyprus, with his illness not known to me.

I learned from the newspapers about the death of my father in the Atlit Camp in the Land.

I decided to escape from Cyprus, and with the help of one of the Israelis,

[Column 121]

Shaul Biber, I succeeded in reaching the camp and disappearing along with the deportees of the Latrun ship.

I lived in Atlit for two months, and made plans to escape. There I met Zelig Cheifetz, who had arrived by ship in an official fashion. I approached the office and verified my father's illness. As was explained to me, my father had suffered from intestinal cancer. The pain was very great that my father had lain for two weeks in the hospital in Atlit, and my brother and sister, who were residents of the Land, were not informed that he was there. They were only informed after he died. On July 20, a group of thirteen young men

[Column 122]

and women were organized, and, at the risk of our lives, we succeeded in escaping from Atlit during the middle of the day, and arriving in the Kiryat Shmuel camp near Haifa. That was a Jewish Agency camp. From there, we transferred to Yagur, and after about a week, we received identity cards with fake names. I joined a group of youth in Tel Yosef until the War of Independence. At that point, the entire group enlisted in the Palmach.

The following members of my family are in the Land: my sister Chasia and her family, my brother Yitzchak and his family, as well as Baruch Kantarowitz, and Sara Kolinchik and her family who had made Aliyah to the Land prior to the war.

[Column 123]

In July 1941, the rumors of the Nazi atrocities reached us: as soon as they entered a settlement they killed in cold blood all the men aged 13 to 65. Very few survived and together with the elderly, women and children they faced death.

The residents of Lakhva who survived the first wave of Nazi murders always felt the sword hanging above their heads; no ray of light could be seen on the horizon nor was there any hope for the morrow.

This is how the hell began.

The hunger, the back-breaking labor, the freezing cold winter and the mental depression took their toll on the people who became emaciated and weakened day by day.

Jewelry that had been handed down from generation to generation, festive clothes for Shabbat and weddings, and merchandise that hadn't been stolen were traded with our Russian neighbors for a loaf of bread or some potatoes.

Such trading was dangerous because the Russians were prohibited any contact with the Jews and certainly not supplying them with food. As the Nazis advanced on the eastern front, so increased the suffering and anguish of the Jewish population and thus their spirit of faith was broken.

At the approach of the Passover festival, it was decreed that the Jews be locked up in a crowded ghetto. We were forced to put up barbed wire around the ghetto ourselves. The division of the meager living space was accompanied by contention. The intercession of the heads of the Jewish Community (Judenrat) with the authorities did not help nor did bribery ease our situation.

We were allowed only two hours to leave our homes and property and move into the ghetto. We had to carry our possessions on our backs after undergoing a careful check by the men of the SS who robbed from us anything they desired and left the rest for looting.

Frightened, pushed, shoved and cruelly beaten we were forced into the ghetto. We spent the first Seder night squeezed into a tiny room with another 10 -15 persons. The Festival of Freedom turned into gloom and sorrow; the executioner's axe hung over us and there was no escape.

Bringing food into the ghetto was prohibited and those who worked outside the ghetto were thoroughly examined on their return. Death was the penalty for anyone carrying provisions into the confines of the ghetto. Despite this, the members of the Jewish Community (Judenrat) and the Jewish militia bribed the police and endangered their lives by conveying small amounts of food into the ghetto via river boats. The food was distributed among the poorest families.

However, this “supply” in addition to the ration of 200 grams of bread per person was insufficient to satisfy their hunger and the people ate potato peels and bits of leftover food from others.

Groups of adults and children who were suffering greatly from hunger and were able to evade the forced labor tried to sneak out of the ghetto and find some food in the nearby villages, given by good-hearted farmers who didn't ignore the cries of the starving children.

At the end of July 1942, a group of five children was shot and killed by the police. The children had been going through the villages searching for food but found instead their death. Slowly, the private supply of food ended due to the strict watch of the guards and because the assets of the Jews used to buy food were depleted; the residents of the ghetto faced annihilation by starvation.

The tragic deaths of the innocent children who were murdered by the local police, was a turning point that aroused the Jews in the ghetto from their passivity and depression and gave rise to a daring thought: to die as martyrs for the sanctification of the Holy Name (Kiddush HaShem).

The youth who had a Zionist education always knew how to fight back against the rioters and burglars during the Polish Republic and now they awakened. They understood that when there is no possibility of waging a war of “David against Goliath,” then there was a possibility of a war of revenge as in, “I will die with the Philistines.” (From the Biblical story of Samson.)

Life in the ghetto continued as usual: hard labor, starvation, abuse and oppression faced us every day. Then an idea began to grow – defending our lives and taking vengeance on our oppressors.

The initial contacts with the farmers to try to obtain weapons for self-defense were unsuccessful, yet time was of the essence. The chief executioner had already given the order and our fate was sealed.

One after another the Jewish settlements in our area were destroyed, among them Mikshevitz, the neighboring town. And that was the sign to take action: under the supervision of the “Judenrat,” the youth guarded the ghetto at night and took note of any activities in our area.

In secret, it was decided and told to the youth, that in the event of any action by the murderers to destroy the ghetto, they should revolt, fight back and beat the murderers. Fervent efforts were made to obtain weapons for the planned revolt.

Finally the rumor reached us: farmers are digging holes in the forest near the train tracks. On 22 Elul 1942, at midnight, the ghetto was surrounded by large police forces. All our attempts to get near the ghetto fences to see what was happening failed. Threatening with guns and shouting orders the police prohibited us from being in proximity to the fence. Then we knew: our fate was sealed.

The people were aroused and excitable; different groups debated what to do: whether to escape from the ghetto under cover of darkness or to defend the ghetto. We all had one goal: not to be led like sheep to slaughter. Our activities raised suspicion among the head of the town and the police, who cunningly tried to calm us by claiming that a great number of people were needed for labor and the large police force was meant to prevent evasion from this work.

The youth, who understood the gravity of the situation, demanded immediate action: an attack on the police force, fleeing the ghetto and escaping to the forest in the dark of night. There we hoped to find the Partisans.

In the morning, we heard the sounds of gunfire from the town of Kozengorodok and we knew that our brothers in the nearby town were no longer alive. The police force was increased and a company of SS arrived armed with machine guns. The announcement of the chief executioner was short: “For security reasons it has been decided to destroy the ghetto. Everyone must enter their homes and wait for orders!”

The indifference of the murderer reading the verdict was intolerable. People didn't obey the orders but instead gathered in the road between the houses on the riverbank. Quietly, an instruction was passed among the residents of the ghetto: to prepare flammable materials (oil, kerosene, etc.) and when the signal was given, they should ignite the houses and run into the street carrying axes and knives.

The SS and the police opened fire and hundreds of residents were killed. The ghetto went up in flames and while fighting for their lives, and in the midst of gunshots, the people broke through the fence, escaping from the ghetto and fleeing the town.

The Germans and the police stood nearby spraying death with their gunfire. The Russian citizens joined the murderers and took part in the killing. Some motivated by looting and robbing and others by the frenzy of a wild animal that smelled blood. The struggle in the ghetto lasted about one hour during which time 1500 Jews were murdered – men and women, old and young who gave their lives for the sanctification of the Holy Name (Kiddush HaShem). Their bodies filled the streets of the town and the flames of fire consumed the remainder of the ghetto.

About 500 people including the elderly, women and children succeeded in escaping the hellish flames and fled in all directions attempting to reach the forests and swamps, to find the area of the partisans.

The SS, the police and some of the local population chased after the escaping Jews and combed the area to locate and liquidate the survivors. Those that escaped hid in the swamps during the day and travelled at night until about 120 Jews who remained from the Lakhva ghetto reached their destination, near the Lana River.

[Column 127]

At the end of March 1940, a decree was issued to the handful of Jews of the city of Wlodawa, who had crossed the Bug River to the town of Tomashovka and remained under the protection of the Soviet government. Within ten days all the refugees (“Beizhanchim”) had to leave the town of Tomashovka, which was located near the German border, and to move eastward, one hundred kilometers from the border.

There were great emotions in the town. Everyone asked, “To where?” People began to take interest in and examine the map in order to find a new corner, to build their homes anew. It was hard to take up the wandering stick once again and to begin life anew, after recently moving away from our city.

We knew that it would be difficult to set ourselves up in Polesye, but we had no other choice. We contacted our relative Dr. Ogolnik, who had moved to Lakhva with his family at the outbreak of the war, and we immediately received an invitation to come to him. There was not much time to think. We booked a railway car and began to prepare for the journey. Several other families joined us: Olomitzki, Chalif, Babet, Libman, Eizenberg, Sweiko, Rosenbaum Godzanski, and Berl Furer.

On April 10, 1940, we cast our final glance at the city of Wlodawa as it appeared to us in the distance across the border, and we set out on our journey. After a difficult journey through the night, we arrived in the town of Lakhva the next morning. It was a typical Polesye town, with wooden houses, gabled fronts, and overhanging balconies. Some of the roofs of the houses were covered with straw.

The town didn't make a great impression on us, but we did not have time to think about that. Each of us began to search for a room where we could sleep in comfort. The people of Lakhva displayed understanding of our fate, and a will to help us settle in the place. They gave up rooms in their houses and gave them over to us. They concerned themselves with our sustenance and finding work for us in the place. Through their great help, we established

[Column 128]

ourselves and entered into the regular course of life. We felt no discrimination during the time that we remained in that remote town. This was very significant for us, after all the tribulations that we had endured.

With the entry of the Nazis into Lakhva in July 1941, a Jewish council (Judenrat) was set up, headed by Dov Lopatin. We saw how the people of Lakhva did everything they could to save Jews. With the assistance of the Judenrat, the community was saved from death more than once. Order was exemplary, and maintained with understanding rather than a heavy hand. The head of the council Lopatin, and the other members, worked day and night, and the ghetto maintained its stand thanks to them until September 1942, with no loss of life for us. The distribution of bread and other necessities for our sustenance was conducted in an orderly fashion. Those in need received their full assistance in all areas.

On September 3, 1942, the Germans arrived to liquidate the ghetto. Even at that tragic moment, with the knowledge that we would all be hauled to death, the council did not abandon us. This was one of the only ghettos where there was dedication and brotherly feelings from the council. The lads from Wlodawa played an active role in organizing the uprising in the ghetto, and were among the first to raise the banner of revolt against the German murderers. Yitzchak Lichtenberg from Wlodawa was one of the first to break through the ghetto gates. He was seriously injured. Dr. Shlomo Ogolnik from Wlodawa was the only physician in the ghetto. He stood on duty under the most difficult conditions, extending medical aid to the residents of the ghetto. He did a great deal to save lives. Even in the moments of death, when the battle in the ghetto was underway, and Dr. Ogolnik and his family were among those whom the Germans wanted to keep alive, and he was called to administer aid to a German who was injured in battle with our lads, he refused to treat the bleeding murderer. He told the Germans, “I am a Jew. I will join my fate with all the people of my nation, and I will not administer aid to the murderers of our people.” Dr. Ogolnik was murdered on the spot, and died a hero's death.

After some Lakhva natives succeeded in saving themselves from death

[Column 129]

by escaping from the ghetto and finding refuge in the marshes, there were tens of Wlodawa natives among the hundreds of survivors. The Lakhva natives among them, who knew the area, did not leave the refugees to fend for themselves. They ensured that they too would reach secure areas.

The survivors of Wlodawa fought as one with the

[Column 130]

Lakhva people in the ranks of the partisans and in the Red Army, avenging the blood of their families.

The people of Lakhva who survived, as well as those who did not merit and were murdered in sanctification of the Divine Name, shall be remembered for the good for their brotherly help and dedication that they displayed to us, the refugees.

[Columns 131-132]

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