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While exploring non-Jewish Prague, I was struck by the traces of Jewish presence at nearly every turn. I was seeing in front of my eyes the 12,000 Jews who survived the Holocaust, and grasped the full extent of the historical and cultural impact of Czechoslovakian Jewry before it had been annihilated. This experience made the magnitude of the loss and the scale of the catastrophe more profound for me.

Inside the Jewish Literary Museum in Prague, the ceiling was adorned with images reflecting Jewish themes, including the 10 commandments and representations of biblical figures such as Abraham, David, and Solomon. Within the museum itself, there were ancient Hebrew books. Among the statues that graced the famous [Charles] bridge in Prague was one of Saint Popus. This statue was inscribed with a Latin phrase recounting his conversion of 700 Jews to Christianity.^[1] Not far from it was the statue of Jesus on the cross, with the Hebrew inscription above it [from Isaiah 6:3]: “Holy, Holy is the Lord of Hosts”, with the divine name written out explicitly. The story tied to this statue was several centuries old: A Jew who passed by the statue spat on it and was subsequently forced to inscribe the divine name explicitly, so that no other Jew would spit near the statue. After completing his task, the Jew jumped into the river, taking his own life. Two statues, two poignant stories that reflected the character of the diaspora.

Prague's city hall featured two statues, one on either side of its façade. One symbolized power and the other symbolized spirit. The statue representing power depicted a knight on horseback, while the statue of the Mahara”l^[2] (author of Lev Yehuda) holding a flower, symbolized spirit. (According to Jewish mythology, the Angel of Death could not reach the Mahara”l, except through a girl holding a flower.) The Mahara”l's name was inscribed on the statue with the Hebrew acronym. It was also interesting to note that the name of the Czechoslovakian oil company was “Golem.” Standing at these sites of Judaism's spiritual conquests, one felt pride on the one hand and a profound sense of mourning for the destruction that had occurred on the other. The horrifying fact emerged in your awareness that these monuments were almost all that remained of a once-vibrant and creative Jewish world that no longer exists. This mother city was a Jewish cultural center, where, after the Holocaust, only 40 young people survived. Remarkably, the first bar mitzvah celebration after the war was held there only five years ago.

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In the former Jewish Prague, there was nothing Jewish left today except for the museums. These museums were built by the Nazis, who believed they would succeed in their plan to annihilate the Jewish nation. The museum's purpose was to leave evidence for future generations that there was indeed such a nation.

Thus, we, the living descendants of that nation, visited the magnificent monument that the oppressor erected–against its will and by disrupting his original plan–to honor a glorious Jewish world. We admired the unmatched sacred artifacts made of silver, and explored the stunning Sephardic synagogue that the Germans turned into a Jewish textile museum, where 2,000 parochets [Torah ark curtains] were gathered. During our journey, we saw hundreds of carpets and tapestries in the National Museum in Warsaw, in the Polish National Opera House, and in magnificent churches. However, nowhere did we stand in such awe and admiration as in the “Jewish Textile Museum.” The Klausen Synagogue in Prague serves as a museum of Jewish customs from birth to death. We were informed that understanding a people's customs could help prevent hatred of them–a noble idea, but late, too late, far too late.

There was almost no Jewish life in Prague when we visited so we went to the Jewish cemetery in the city. It was there that one could learn about the Jewry of Prague before it was struck down. Tombstones dating back to the first millennium testify to the community's antiquity and long-standing presence. The layers of graves and their great density bear witness to a large Jewish population, while the magnificent monument above the Maharal's tomb attests to its high spiritual level.

We visited the Czechoslovakian “Yad Vashem.” The names of the Jews who were murdered were inscribed according to their native towns. The story of a human life was summed up in three words: their surname, first name, and date of birth. The date of death was unknown. When you walked past these walls, you began to comprehend the horrific scale of the murder committed on us by the Germans. Each wall held a long and dense lists of names, row upon row, with almost no space in between, names joining other names. A young Jewish person who accompanied us showed me the name of his grandfather. We laid down a wreath with the words: “We will always remember you.” These words were both a commitment and an obligation. On the 9^th of Av, we visited Theresienstadt. Political prisoners were held there, along with 156,000 Jews on their way to Auschwitz and Birkenau. During our visit, we received a captivating lesson in German work methods, particularly in the field of deceit and deception. Theresienstadt was a so-called “show camp”. The Germans brought Red Cross representatives here. In preparation for such visits, the German machine went into high gear. The camp's orchestra was readied to convey the supposed joy of the camp's residents. A previously unused shower room was made operational, and the streets were painted white to create a more appealing environment. The Jewish council was placed in the SS headquarters to demonstrate the cooperation between the Jews and the Germans. Jewish money, including coins and banknotes featuring the images of prominent Jewish figures, was issued. A cafe, a market, and even a Jewish bank, where hundreds of Jewish accounts were opened, were established. Additionally, the movie entitled “Theresienstadt: the City

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H…r gave to the Jews as a Gift,” was screened for the visitors. The sign, ”Arbeit Macht Frei” (meaning “Work Sets You Free”), greeted those who entered the camp. We saw the other, true Theresienstadt, where the so-called “excellent” conditions led to the spread of epidemics that claimed the lives of 36,000 people. We saw the crematorium, and our blood froze when a member of an anti-fascist organization recounted how he had to put the bodies of his parents into the human furnace. We saw the packages of cremation ashes that were sent to the families, for a fee, of course. We visited the torture chambers, the dark, solitary confinement cell, and the prisoners' living quarters, which housed 400 to 600 individuals per room. The walls were painted green when the Russian army entered, and the interior contained piles of corpses. The few survivors weighed between 29 and 37 kilograms. We saw the bridge, from which prisoners were thrown off, and stood agonized and furious at the execution wall, riddled with bullet holes. It was impossible not to envision the holes inflicted on the human bodies that were shot. We heard about a prisoner who was cruelly beaten until he bled and his wounds were then cruelly rubbed with salt, and another who was ordered to hang himself, and tragically, he did exactly that. We visited the museum in Theresienstadt, and there you could see the struggle for the human soul. On one side, the fruits of the German culture were displayed – handcuffs, lashes, etc., while on the other side, the devastating results of that culture were represented – piles of skeletons, living skeletons and dead skeletons. On the opposite wall, however, there was something very different, a display that did not seem to belong here – a wax sculpture of a man surrounded by a fence, along with wickerwork, embroidery, chess pieces made from tin scraps, children's paper collages, drawings, and poems of children whose childhood was stolen from them. These children longed for a flower, a butterfly, and materials to create collages from straw – delicate works that demanded immense patience. The subject of this work was expressive, and it was obvious – a bird spreading its wings. Let it be known that in 1943, the children in Theresienstadt planted a tree on Tu B'Shvat. Although the children were gone, the tree had grown. Other trees had been planted among us in their memory, serving as a continuation of the branch that was cut off. As you stood by the green tree, the saying, “For in their death they have commanded us to live,” became more than just a mere phrase. The tree, the artworks, and the preservation of human dignity represented the Jewish response; they showcased our people's struggle – the struggle of humanity against the beast. The green, upright trees were our victory.

One's heart ached when comparing these images to others from the camp: the theater for the SS soldiers, the pool excavated by the camp prisoners for the daughters of the camp commander Yukle,^[3] and the canteen for the SS soldiers. These other images also stood in stark contrast to the image of the international cemetery in Terezin, which held the ashes of many victims of those who used the theater, canteen, and pool.

From Theresienstadt to the “Al Tnai”^[4] [Old-New] Synagogue in Prague. This site embodied hundreds of years of history. The walls remained unpainted in remembrance of the pogrom that took place in this synagogue in the 15^th century (following an old Hebrew custom that forbids cleaning the blood shed by innocent people who were murdered). Here we stood in awe of a striking example of historical memory. It was the 9^th of Av, a significant day of remembrance in our history, raising an important question for all of us: What had become of our collective memory?

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Jewish flags hung above our heads. The form of the flag was intentionally incomplete–a deliberate deficiency that served as a symbol of the diaspora, reflecting an outlook that viewed the diaspora as a temporary and incomplete state, and expressing the longing for a homeland.

After Theresienstadt, as I faced the handful of worshipers at the synagogue, the prayer of Tisha B'Av (Eichah-Lamentations 2:11) took on a profound significance:

“My eyes are spent with tears,?My heart is in tumult,?My being melts away?Over the ruin of my poor people,?As babes and sucklings languish?In the streets of the city.

They keep asking their mothers,?‘Where is bread and wine?’ As they languish like battle-wounded?In the streets of the town,?As their life pours out?Into their mothers' bosoms.”

These verses expressed our feelings – the feelings of a group of Sabarim [Israeli-born individuals] confronting the national calamity.

However, another feeling also emerged: According to legend, stones from the old Temple in Jerusalem were placed in the foundation of this synagogue, and when redemption arrives, and a new temple is built, these stones will be used to build it, and the synagogue will cease to exist. That was why the name of the synagogue was “Al Tnai” [“on condition”]. As I looked around at my 30 friends, members of the generation of redemption, the question arose in my mind: has the condition not been fulfilled? Has the time not come for the dismantling of synagogues in exile and transfer to the homeland?

The plan to annihilate the Jewish nation was not the only plan of the Nazis–it was just a part of an overall plan to change the form of humanity. That plan left bloody scars in the conquered countries: Russia, Poland, and Czechoslovakia, scars in the form of the heinous acts performed on the civil population, acts now called crimes against humanity. We visited a place that was a symbol of these places: Liditza [Lidice]. In 1942, 173 of Liditza's men were shot to death and some of the children were given to German families for a “Germanization” process, but most of them were murdered. The women were sent to forced labor camps. After this occurred, the German occupation authorities published a statement, according to which the village was punished for assisting the killers of Heydrich and for other acts of sabotage. It was a deceptive announcement aimed at hiding the truth. The true purpose was to instill an atmosphere of fear and terror. We visited the museum in Liditza, where we saw photographs of the victims and images of life in Liditza before the war – people at work and enjoying their leisure time, along with children studying. Later, we watched a movie filmed by the Germans during the destruction of Liditza. It showed Germans shooting at Liditza's men, standing beside rows of bodies with smiles and satisfaction, robbing houses and setting them ablaze. We saw Germans posing in front of a burned house and Germans digging through graves in search of gold. This experience revealed a profound absence of human feeling that separates a human from a beast. In 1942, a poem was published in England that concluded with the poignant question: “Which flower will rise and bloom in the ruins of Liditza?” This question inspired the rallying cry “Liditza will live.” After the war, a new village was built on the site of Liditza's ruins by youths from all over the world.

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A rose garden was planted there, symbolizing peace and friendship and featuring roses from dozens of countries. A new poem was written: “Hatred plowed the land, and love sowed it.” In the very place where the murderer's boot trampled the eyes of innocent children, there were beautiful rose bushes shaped by gardeners' hands. As we walked beside the roses, we felt a profound sense of elation and triumph. We reflected that our homeland, too, every building, and every flower within it, constituted a resounding testament against the forces of evil and destruction.

Poland, Krakow, another milestone in our journey through a Jewish world that was tragically destroyed. Before the war, 60,000–70,000 Jews lived here, but only 1,500 of them survived.

We visited the “Tempel”, which was the synagogue of Dr. Avraham Yehoshua Thon,^[5] and the synagogue of the RaM”A (Rabbi Moshe Iserles), with its entrance room, the place where the “idlers” –learners –used to sit. We also explored the cemetery, where the RaM”A, his family members, and Rabbi Yom-Tov Lipman Heller, the author of “Tosafot Yom Tov,” were buried. We stood with bowed heads, near or on top of a mass grave from the Nazi period. “The Old Synagogue” served as a museum. Among the items on display were children's paper cuttings for the Shavuot holiday, a certificate of rabbinic ordination, a painting depicting the reading of the Megillah, Jewish coins from the ghettos, a coin of the Swedish King Gustav engraved with God's explicit name in Hebrew letters, a coin featuring the face of Moshe Montefiore, Torah scrolls, Jewish ritual objects, halacha books, pictures of synagogues, portraits of prominent people, and various items that showcased the vibrant, and creative character of the Jewish community in Poland. However, above all, one could not escape the profound sense of destruction.

In pre-war Poland, there was no need to visit a museum to see a shtreimel or a kapote since Jewish life was vibrant and flourishing. We walked through the streets of the Jewish quarter, where the streets bore Hebrew names: Yosef, Yaakov, Esterki, but we found that gentiles lived on the Jewish streets and in the homes there. The Jewish synagogues became workshops and chicken coops. We visited the central Jewish cemetery, which was “destroyed by the barbarians,” as noted on a monument there. This monument, made from broken gravestones, boldly proclaimed, “God will avenge your spilled blood.”

The Jews of Krakow did not leave the quest for revenge to fate. On December 22, 1942, the Krakow Jewish underground launched an attack on the “Cyganeria” cafe, using weapons it had accumulated over an extended period from previous assaults on German military personnel. In this latest attack, the underground group killed 37 Germans. It marked the first instance of an armed revolt against the Germans, who were then ruling all of Europe with an iron fist. This operation was carried out by Jewish youth, most of whom had no military training or prior military experience. The vast majority were captured–an outcome that had been foreseen from the start–yet it did not deter the young men. For it was not the desire to stay alive that gave birth to the action, but rather the longing to earn “three lines in history,” as expressed by the underground commander Dolek Liebeskind. We stood by the cafe, proud, but also grieving

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for a generation of steadfast spirit that knew how to die a hero's death. We also felt a deep sense of shame that their aspiration–to merit “three lines in history”–was not fulfilled, through the fault of our own generation, a generation that severed the binding threads and sank into the abyss of forgetfulness, chattering the empty words: “Why did they go like sheep to the slaughter?”–when in truth it was a people that did not go like sheep to the slaughter, at a time when circumstances dictated that very course.

We also visited the place of death, the labor camp in Plashov [Plaszow, a southern suburb of Krakow].^[6]

In the area of the Jewish cemetery, the Germans established a forced-labor camp, where conditions there turned the lives of the prisoners into a living hell. The Germans executed 50 people daily. Even there, our people knew how to retain their humanity. Here is the story of one of them. Moshe worked as a document forger for several Jewish underground groups. During a meeting with him, Fredka, from the underground in Sosnovets [Sosnowiec], found a man on the brink of death, just skin and bones. She offered him a chance to join her using documents he could produce to save himself. However, he refused. He believed that his escape would lead to the execution of 50 members of his work battalion. Fredka argued that their execution was inevitable and suggested that he consult with his friends. “No,” was his response. “I do not want to put them to the test.” Fredka left him, thinking that this would be the last time she saw Moshe. Today, Moshe, the former forger, serves as a district judge in Israel.

In Plashov, we saw an unfenced field where weeds grew and cows grazed. Two monuments marked what happened in this camp during the war. One was a huge general monument to commemorate all the victims of the camp, featuring fisted hands raised upward in a resounding scream, and above them, seemingly, severed, tormented heads. The other was our monument. It was erected by the Jewish survivors “in memory of the Jewish victims who were murdered in the camp.” We stood there by the smaller unpolished monument (but it was ours) and said to ourselves: “Here, in the place where the spirit of our people was put to a test unlike any other, where our people preserved their human dignity in the face of the Nazi beast, we, the youth of Israel, stand bewildered and enraged at the crimes the Nazis committed–may their name be erased. And yet, we are proud of our people who withstood this trial in a manner that awakens feelings of deep respect. In this place, we express the hope that we, who are privileged to be the first generation of redemption, will prove ourselves a worthy continuation of the last generation of bondage, who bore upon the very flesh the harshest marks of slavery and exile.”

Sosnitza. We walked in the streets of Sosnitza, following in the footsteps of Fredka and the members of the Jewish underground. Our first stop was the Jewish quarter, which existed before the war and was located in the heart of the city. The homes there were truly houses, radiating with a sense of ownership and belonging. The day we were there, however, they were inhabited only by non-Jews. Next, we moved to a rural suburb, where the widely-spaced houses had a flat field spread out behind them. Now, imagine a revolt taking place in this place. The first gunshot would have revealed the location of the uprising, leading to its swift suppression. (When we talk about the first shot,

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we must acknowledge the fact that there was hardly anything capable of firing it.) Where would the rebels run? Where? To a field exposed to gunfire? In dozens of houses, the Germans had concentrated 28,000 souls. Given that these houses were only two stories high, it was easy to comprehend the concept of overcrowding. We passed by the former police station. The Jews knew that something ominous was about to happen every time the light was turned on at that station. Here, we could feel the tension and fear that permeated the ghetto. The Germans created an atmosphere of terror and dread by burning down the synagogue along with the surrounding houses on the first Shabbat of their regime. Those who tried to escape were shot to death.

Our journey continued as we paused by a tree marked with a sign. In this spot, six Jews were hanged in public for smuggling food during the Purim holiday. (That was the German Haman's contribution to the joy of the holiday.) But, the Germans underestimate the resilience of the Jewish spirit. On that day, memorial candles were lit in every Jewish home–not organized or directed by the leaders, but inspired by the instinct of the Jewish heart. Food smuggling remained a crucial means of battling hunger and resisting systematic starvation in the face of German oppression.

As the Germans imposed starvation, overcrowding, and terror, the structure of the ghetto hindered any attempt at resistance. Despite this, an underground was established within the ghetto. In various ways, the underground managed to acquire some weapons, with each acquisition endangering lives. During one of the missions, a young man named Harry was captured. He withstood non-stop interrogation for 24 hours, during which he was asked who had sent him and who his associates were. The Germans employed all methods of torture on him, including cruel beatings, forcing splinters of wood under his fingernails, and burning them. They even brought his mother in and tortured her in front of him. When their efforts failed to break him, the Germans decided to hang him. Despite his body being shattered, he remained defiant as the rope tightened around his neck, proclaiming: “The day of vengeance will come, the people of Israel live!” His spirit remained unbroken.

A story illustrating the hardships of the underground: One day, a gentile approached with a conditional agreement from the Polish underground to accept a company of Jewish young men to fight the Germans. The condition was that the young men had to come dressed in military uniforms, armed, and equipped with money. Twenty young men set out after long months of procuring and stocking supplies, and everyone envied them, hoping for the success of their mission. The Polish gentile led them to a grove and then disappeared, claiming he was going to fetch water. While they waited, they were suddenly surrounded by German soldiers. All of the young men were killed, except for one, who managed to escape. That act of betrayal resulted in the death of 19 young men, who were filled with the will to live and driven by a desire for revenge and defense of Jewish honor. This story highlights the immense obstacles faced by those in the underground resistance and the difficulties of fighting in exile.

We arrived at the underground bunker, now a cellar, like all other cellars, located at the home of a local farmer on the border of the former ghetto, in a once unfinished building.

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This cellar, although resembling other cellars, is unique and special -– a product of tireless work done in shifts over many weeks. The task was nerve-wracking, as the walls of the pit occasionally collapsed. Once completed, it became a treasure trove containing dry rations, medications and bandages, kerosene lamps, blankets, and, most importantly, the weapons they had worked so hard to acquire. And it was the underground archive housing newspapers, community notices, various documents, and a chronological record of events. The cellar was also a treasure of a different kind: it was a beacon of hope for a better future in the homeland. This was where the underground members gathered during the final hours of the ghetto, during the time of the last expulsion. This was the place where the rescue plan was devised; from here, the commander of the underground set out to inform those outside about the plan and to organize its execution. He left and returned after finding no one, then he set out once more on his final journey, a journey from which he never returned…

Outside stood a peasant woman who witnessed the last Aktzia. She recounted how the train cars arrived, detailed how the men were separated from the women and children. She described seeing mothers being shot, children held by their legs and thrown like rocks, and the blood that flowed from the walls. We walked along the “Ghetto's Heroes” street, reflecting on the painful irony of Poles who named their streets after our ghetto heroes, and on the Jews who talked about “sheep to the slaughter.” We retraced the path taken by the Jews of Sosnovitz to the railway tracks – to the train that carried them to the place from which they never returned: Auschwitz.

Auschwitz. We were greeted by the infamous sign that read “Arbeit Macht Frei” – three words that embody the ultimate expression of cynicism. We were here, a group of young boys and girls in what was often considered the most horrific place on earth. This site operated like any other factory, striving for maximum efficiency through improvements and innovations, while fully exploiting its raw materials. The raw materials in this factory were human beings, people like you and me, flesh and blood, body and spirit. This factory produced death. We faced the barbed-wire fences, which were electrified at the time, along with guard towers and floodlights. A concrete wall, one and a half meters deep, was built to prevent any possibility of escape through tunnels. Some distance from the first fence stood a sign: “Stop! Danger of death!” This sign felt like a cruel mockery, suggesting: “Do not die here; die there.” As you turned your back to the guard tower, a chill ran down your spine. It was a strange sensation, as if they were still watching you, even more than 20 years after the camp ceased to operate.

We were shown a movie filmed by the Russian army upon their arrival at the camp. They found 7,600 prisoners–people who had lost the will to live. These individuals refused to join the Germans' death march, even under the threat of execution. The liberation army had arrived. Salvation had come. Yet there was no reaction, only silence, only total indifference. The prisoners' eyes told the story: tormented glances, faces of people for whom life had become unbearable. They embodied the phrase “the living dead.” The camera lingered on an old man–though he was only 42 years old–reduced to skin and bones. All around lay skeletal figures, some barely alive, others perhaps already gone. Disfigured women and children appeared, victims of monstrous

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medical experiments. Children who were forced to stand barefoot for long hours on the snow had their childhood stolen. Who will return what had been taken?

We were then in Auschwitz No. 1. This camp held political prisoners and Soviet prisoners of war. Here, “only” a single gas chamber and a single crematorium were in operation. We stood in front of the instrument of death–Zyklon B. Between the years 1941 and 1944, the Germans used 20 tons of it in Auschwitz. SS soldiers who filmed themselves during their work were standing beside it, proud and smiling. And the victims–their faces stared back at us. These prisoners were hanged. Their occupations were listed below: musician, teacher, priest, farmer, and physician. In Auschwitz, everyone was equal. They had shaven heads, gaunt faces with protruding cheekbones, eyes filled with pain, and mouths frozen in silent screams. All the faces looked alike. We found ourselves looking at a statistical table. On one side was the number of calories needed for a working person; the range was 3,360 to 4,800. On the other side was the number of calories a prisoner received. That range was 1,303 to 1,744. This limited intake was designed to induce starvation in 75% of the camp's prisoners. Tens of thousands of these prisoners were forced to work in German factories and the work was carried out at a rapid pace. Workers who failed to meet the demanding work quota were punished by being forced to run to the camp, carrying five heavy tiles. Sick prisoners were sent immediately to the gas chamber. In this system, workers were valued solely by their labor. Their humanity had no significance. When work was unavailable, their lives came to an end. That was how work “freed” people. Block 11 served as the location of the court, where the fate of offenders was deliberated. These individuals were accused of crimes such as attempting to escape, searching for food, or making contact with civilians at their workplace. Their only crime was the will to live. Each trial lasted 30 seconds, reflecting the efficiency of the German justice system. In that block there were also prisoner cells measuring 90 centimeters by 90 centimeters. Four people were crammed into each cell; there was hardly any air to breathe, and the temperatures were extreme. (These were the only places where an operational heating system for prisoners worked.) All the prisoners in these cells eventually perished. Other cells in that block included starvation cells and dark cells. There, on the walls, we saw fingernail scratch marks of drawings, names, dates, and the last words of human beings. Block 10 was where medical experiments were performed. There, German physicians attempted to develop methods for mass sterilization. Wooden boards covered all the windows to muffle the screams of the tortured, but we could still hear them. Near that block was the death wall where 20,000 prisoners were executed. Alongside the wall were poles where prisoners were hanged by their arms, which were tied behind their backs, and their bodies hung in the air until their shoulder bones broke. The “flogging chair” was also located there. A punishment of 25 lashes often escalated to 50 or 75 lashes. We also visited Block 26, known as the “doll house”.^[7]

Upon arriving at the crematorium and gas chamber, we witnessed firsthand how the death factory operated through continuous development and improvement. We observed how the Germans lowered the gas chamber ceiling to improve efficiency and enhance the burning furnaces, enabling them to process more bodies and operate at a faster rate. The death factory sought other ways to minimize waste. The ashes were initially transported on carts and then dumped in the river. Later, it was decided to repurpose

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the ashes as fertilizer. We walked on grass that grew on top of ashes–ashes of our people, the ashes of our grandmothers and grandfathers; ashes of someone's father and mother. There was a muddy lake nearby, where the mud was composed of ashes. It was raining, as if the heavens were weeping over the spilled blood and mourning for what human beings (at least biologically) inflicted upon other human beings.

We visited Birkenau, the camp where 2 million of our people were murdered – four gas chambers and six crematoriums. Even in 1966, it was a place where you felt like a prisoner, with fences everywhere that stretched endlessly in straight lines. The whole world seemed to be closing in on you there. You felt the urge to get up and escape from this horrific place, to flee the killing fields. The living barracks were without heat. Twelve hundred human beings were crammed into huts originally designed to house 52 horses. Ten to 20 people were forced to sleep on shelves just two meters wide and half a meter high. Adding to their despair was constant overcrowding, hunger, cold, and rain, while the prisoners walked around in pajamas and torn shoes under the strict supervision of the Germans. This reminded us of the troubling question again: “Why did they go like sheep to the slaughter?” At such moments, you were left not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

We stood by the ruins of the crematoriums. In crematoriums No. 1 and No. 2, 2,000 bodies were burned every day. Two round buildings on the side were used to produce gas from the ground bodies. The “Kanada” region of the camp [also known as Effektenlager] contained 400 structures on an area of 180 hectares [1 hectare = 2.47 acres]. The Germans stored the property of the Jewish people there. This included the belongings the Jews brought with them for what the Germans referred to as a “resettlement.” This is why the Jews of Thessaloniki purchased expensive train tickets for the so-called “new settlement” destination. You stood bewildered, failing to grasp the malicious and murderous deceit that led Jews to pay for their final journey and, in addition, to deliver into the hands of the murderers their finest possessions – an ironic reminder of the biblical phrase, “Thou killed, and also taken possession” [1 Kings 21:19].

The area where crematorium No. 4 once stood was an empty space, with no trace of it remaining. Ruins of other crematoriums that the Germans bombed before leaving still linger. This particular crematorium was destroyed by the Jewish members of the “Sonderkommando” [work units made up of German Nazi death camp prisoners] who used gunpowder smuggled in by Jewish women. This act demonstrated that the Jewish people did not go “like sheep to the slaughter.” The resilience of our nation withstood that test as well. Jewish women lit Shabbat candles in Birkenau, and a 70-year-old Jew, now residing in Tel Aviv, volunteered to receive 25 lashes in place of a young man. Although there were Russian prisoners in the camp, the revolt of the “Sonderkommando” was entirely Jewish. The German Satan could take lives, but it was powerless against the indomitable Jewish spirit. Even though Satan could have executed the Jewish women who supplied the gunpowder, he could not force them to reveal any of their contacts.

The life and death of Mala Zimetbaum illustrated the Jewish spirit. During her lifetime, she earned the nickname “The Angel of Auschwitz” due to the help she provided to anyone in need. She was posthumously awarded

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the “Belgian National Medal of Courage.”^[8] Mala escaped from the camp with her Polish friend to alert the outside world about the atrocities occurring in Auschwitz. When the two were captured, both endured torture but refused to disclose the names of those who assisted in their escape. Mala's Polish friend slipped a lock of her hair and a letter to the Polish underground with the words: “We did not reveal.” The Germans organized a public hanging for Mala, but before the execution, she managed to cut her wrists with a razor. She slapped the German commander and declared, “I will die a hero's death, and you will die a dog's death.” Mala was thrown into the furnace while still alive.

I will never forget what I saw in the museum in Auschwitz. A room about the size of two to three classrooms and several meters high, contained thousands of pairs of shoes– torn and worn-out shoes, an endless sea of them. Another room was filled with shaving brushes, while yet another contained shoe polish boxes. There was a room dedicated to food bowls and cutlery, another room held prosthetic limbs, and another held glasses and dentures. Each shoe and each bowl represented a person who was once alive but no longer here. Trains carrying personal belongings traveled to Germany daily. The vast number of belongings in these rooms was what remained in the camp after a two-week fire. You stood there, flustered and furious, confronted by this cruel exploitation of people's bodies and property. Mountains of hair–seven tons of women's hair, all of a uniform color–were cut off after the victims were killed in the gas chambers. Sack after sack of hair, 20 kilograms of hair in each sack, was sent to Germany for the textile industry and production of mattresses. The smell of congealed blood rose in our nostrils, and the air echoed with the song of objects whose souls had departed. A curse arose, and with it a flash of vengeance, of one calling for retribution, calling for justice, calling for the God of vengeance to appear.

Children – what remained of them were clothes, tiny shoes, a doll, a pacifier, and ashes that could not find peace. The question of a Jewish mother echoed in our minds, a question addressed to deaf ears and a heart of stone belonging to the camp commander, Hess. He described the encounter in his journal: A woman approached me, pointing at her four children. The oldest helps the youngest walk on the muddy ground. She asked me, “How can you cause the death of such wonderful and sweet children? Don't you have a heart?”

When Rabbi Frenkel returned from a visit to Auschwitz, he likened the place to hell on earth, but it was not. In hell, evil people are tortured, and how could anyone ever say that tender infants are evil? And these little ones – what was their sin?

Israelis in Auschwitz – choked with tears, grim, silent, breathing vengeance, vowing to remember and never forget, Israelis who felt themselves the sons of those who were murdered, who felt themselves Jews, Jews standing upon the graves of their forefathers, upon a mass grave. There was also a feeling of victory – we were alive. And this was what I wrote in the visitors' book: In spite of everything, we are here – Jews from Israel. And my friend wrote: Our march will thunder yet again – we are here.

Treblinka. Another example of the Germans' cunning and deceit. The camp entrance was designed to resemble a whitewashed train station,

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adorned with greenery and flowers. Green branches were stuck in the fence for camouflage.

There was also a clinic that displayed a Red Cross flag, complete with a reception room and restrooms. However, behind it stood an SS soldier who shot anyone in the back of the neck who could not enter the room quickly enough, due to an illness or old age. This room was where they undressed on their way to the gas chambers.

The camp was financed using the money obtained from the confiscated property of the Jews of the Warsaw Ghetto. This allowed the Germans to achieve a horrifying level of diabolic efficiency in their operation. They constructed an extermination camp funded by the very people they were annihilating. The gas chambers were designed to resemble bathhouses, and tragically, 800,000 Jews went to “take a shower” in the gas chambers of Treblinka.

The story of Treblinka was recounted by a young Jew named Abraham [Jakub] Krzepicki, who was part of a work detail responsible for collecting clothing. He managed to escape from the camp by hiding in a train car filled with clothes and then made his way to Warsaw. Once there, he shared his experiences and the truth about the annihilation occurring in the gas chambers of Treblinka. Abraham spoke of a counselor from his youth movement, whom he encountered on the path to the counselor's death. The counselor had asked him for a little water, but he was unable to provide any. He also recalled an incident where a Jew attacked the camp commander with a knife and described a Jewish revolt that was brutally suppressed. His account was documented [in the Warsaw Ghetto Archive] by members of the “Oneg Shabbat” (the group led by Emanuel Ringelblum).^[9]

Both the Jewish underground and some non-Jewish groups urged Abraham to escape to the Aryan area in order to survive as the lone witness to the horrors of Treblinka, but he refused. He was determined to remain in the ghetto and seek revenge by fighting against the Germans. He was among the first in the ghetto to acquire a pistol and to call for an armed revolt, a struggle in which he ultimately lost his life.

The Germans managed to destroy all the structures in Treblinka before their retreat. The day we were there, Treblinka featured an artistic reconstruction of the camp. We walked along the stone sills that marked the route of the death trains. We stepped over the round stones, symbolizing the last journey of our people on their way to the gas chamber. We stood in the courtyard where the selections took place, and a massive monument stood in that location. One side of the memorial depicted suffering and torture, while the other side featured a Jewish menorah. Israeli youths stood in front of the menorah located within the death camp. In front of the monument, there was a stone bearing an inscription in several languages that read: “Keynmol mer” – “Never again.” Where the crematorium once stood, a glass and steel monument in the shape of a pile of bones had been erected. In a large area, 17,000 basalt stones of various sizes were arranged to commemorate the 17,000 Jewish communities that were destroyed. Each stone differed from the others, yet each turned toward heaven as if crying out in anguish. The site resembled a Jewish cemetery – a burial ground for a nation and a Jewish world that had been obliterated. Each stone was a community that included its charitable and relief institutions, cultural and spiritual institutions, Torah learning, education, and Chassidism. It embodied its vibrant economic life and its people, where a song of life became a sigh of death, a challenge that echoed through the void of the world.

Grass grew all around, and flowers bloomed; a forest encircled the place. The trees covered

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mass graves. Nature covered the blood. There we engraved, upon a heart bleeding with pain, the words of the poet: “The sun shone, the acacia tree bloomed, and the slaughterer slaughtered.”

Majdanek. The camp remained the way it was during its time of operation, including the fences and watchtowers. There were even Jews here, visiting the place. Germans also came here to visit and claim that the camp was the creation of communist propaganda.

The ground was covered with weeds and grass. It had good soil, soil that absorbed a lot of blood. Here was the “Rose Field,” as the Germans called it. It was the site where selections and floggings took place, where red blood was spilled on the ground – hence the ironic name “a field of roses.” From here, the prisoners were taken for washing and disinfection. They underwent a dip in one of the two Lysol baths. Here, when a German wanted to entertain himself, he would force the head of a Jew under the Lysol until the victim drowned. There was also a shower. A real one. It was not here, heaven forbid, out of any last kindness toward those walking to their death. The objectives were entirely different. They had to do with purpose and efficiency. The first goal was to calm down the victims. The second was to warm the bodies to intensify the effect of the gas and make it act quicker.

We entered a gas chamber. We were 30 people crowded into the small chamber. The Germans packed 150 people into it at a time. There was a barred window connecting it to the physician's room. A physician's role is to save lives; however, in this case, the physician observed calmly as people died. His responsibility was merely to give the signal to open the chamber. At times, when the gas chambers were opened, some victims were still twitching, leading to their immediate shooting. We found signs of these gunshots on the walls, along with blue marks formed as a result of the gas being used. On the ceiling, we could see scratch marks from hands desperately trying to hold on and escape–a final sign of the will to live in that death chamber.

The building that once held the looted Jewish property was now a museum. It featured exhibits that explored the Nazi Party's rise to power, the German takeover of Europe, and German atrocities committed against the civilian population. The displays included a Jewish prayer book alongside a Christian one, flogging tools, a torture post, and graphic images of German soldiers shooting at terrified civilians. There were also haunting depictions of a German soldier firing at a mother holding her child, executions of women, corpses thrown into trenches and pits, and the haunting sight of murdered children embracing each other. Additional photographs showcase the fear of a hanged man, and a skull depicted with a roaring expression alongside an image of a laughing German soldier.

We entered a barrack where shoes were hung at a height of two and a half meters, along walls arranged in rows. In another barrack, you walked along a raised platform, like a stage, and all around you on both sides were children's shoes. Before your eyes lay the naked bodies of the shoes' owners – the children.

Here were 300 dogs that received their training on living people. Here were cultivated plots of land, gardens littered with human ashes. Here 2 million people were murdered.

We walked to the gas chamber. Beside it was a room where the bodies were piled. For lack of space, the “Sonderkommandos” were ordered

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to tear off arms and legs. From there, the bodies were carried to the crematorium. Inside there was a table used for extracting teeth. Outside, there was a mill for grinding bones and turning them into fertilizer. Next to the crematorium and sharing a wall and a window with it, was a room that served as the living quarters of the crematorium commander. There, the camp commander built a private bath for himself, heated using the very fire that consumed human bodies.

From there, we went to the mass grave. In 1943, the Germans brought 20,000 [forced labor] Jews to this site to dig what they called “anti-tank” trenches. Once the digging was finished, they ordered the Jews to strip naked, enter the trenches, and lay down. The Germans then stood above them and opened fire. Cars equipped with loudspeakers played Strauss's waltzes to drown out the sound of the gunfire, an operation infamously named by the Germans the “Harvest Operation.”^[10] Approximately 20,000 Jews were murdered in a single day. Their bodies were burned in piles, and when the Russian army reached the camp, there were still unburned bodies in the pits. Some of the bodies continued to twitch, and the pits shook. There was a memorial at this site. We laid down a reef and stood in silence. These were moments of profound stillness–total silence of a solemn communion. We stood there, a group of boys afflicted with colds, trying to suppress our coughs to maintain the silence. But when we turned to leave, coughs erupted from our throats like the howls of jackals.

We arrived in Warsaw, and our first stop in the city was the Jewish Historical Institute. The exhibits revealed anti-Jewish acts that took place when the Nazis rose to power: book burnings, the Jewish [Star of David] patch, Kristallnacht, the economic boycott, the invasion and conquest of Poland, the restrictions and harassment of Jews, Jews digging their own graves, the plucking of beards, and executions. It also detailed the establishment of the Warsaw Ghetto. The exhibits continued with pictures of the underground resistance members, their newspapers, and a Jewish proclamation calling for struggle. Alongside this was a deceitful German proclamation promising that if a whole family showed up at the Umschlagplatz,^[11] they would not be separated; however, if not everyone in the family came, the entire family would be killed. The revolt in the ghetto was depicted through various images, including a map of the battles, locations where the fighters held out for two weeks or more, and the tragic end of the revolt, featuring images of burning houses and people leaping from the flames. There was also a high density dot distribution map of the Jewish uprisings in Poland showing the many locations where Jewish uprisings took place. Additional displays illustrated daily life in the Warsaw Ghetto, including an invitation to the opening of a Hebrew school, a children's chorus, a symphonic orchestra, concerts, a social aid society for the winter, a children's show, and students surrounding the renowned educator, Janusz Korczak.

We arrived at the Jewish cemetery in Warsaw, where the graves of prominent figures from the glorious Warsaw Jewish community were located, including those of Ester Rachel Kaminska, Poznanski, Moravski, Sirota, Peretz, Ansky, and Dinezon. Also among the graves was that of Czerniaków, the head of Warsaw's Judenrat. He took his own life when he realized that he had been deceived all along by the Germans. Engraved on his gravestone was the phrase: “I saw you kicking about in your blood, and as you lay there in your blood, I said to you, ‘Live!’” [Ezekiel 16:6]. The cemetery was also the resting place of the ghetto's fighters. Once again, we were reminded of the immense loss of life, the many fine individuals having shed their blood. Here, the words of the phrase became a commandment: “As you lay there in your blood, I said to you, ‘Live!’”

We wandered around in the ghetto, along streets that were once vibrant with Jewish life. Today Nalewki and Tlomackie Streets were lined with Polish houses and neighborhoods. Only in the open trenches could one catch glimpses, here and there, of remnants of houses – traces of the ghetto's former homes.

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As we walked, we passed several significant landmarks. One notable site was the stone wall that marked the location of the “Umschlagplatz,” the place from which the Germans deported Jews to the death camps. We also saw the fighters' memorial with the dedication, “From the nation of Israel to its fighters and martyrs,” as well as another monument in the shape of a sewer trench, which commemorated the battles that took place in these trenches. We also visited the Mila Street mound^[12] and memorial (located on 18 Mila Street), which was a pile of rubble covered with vegetation. At that site, we paid tribute to the memory of the heroes of the ghetto who were entombed there. We said, “Once there was Warsaw – a great and mother city in Israel. The Warsaw of today, where no trace remains of those days, stands as a haunting testimony to the destroyed Jewish world.” We were in the Warsaw Ghetto, a relatively small area where the Germans confined a population equivalent to that of Tel Aviv – about half a million residents –most of whom were no longer alive. Despite the conditions of hunger, horrific overcrowding, and disease, our people managed to preserve their human dignity and maintain a vibrant cultural life. This is where Emanuel Ringelblum and his “Oneg Shabbat” group operated. It was also where Jewish mothers were called upon to extend a compassionate and helping hand to children whose parents were murdered. The educator Janusz Korczak worked here, and from this place he set out with his students on their tragic journey to Treblinka. This is where Mordechai Anielewicz's final aspirations were realized, and the Jewish defense became a reality. The fear that the Germans had of the Jews became palpable here. In the bunker on 18 Mila Street, the saga of heroism reminiscent of Masada unfolded once more. After managing to escape, the ghetto's fighters returned to rescue their comrades. From this place, the IDF's sacred tradition was born: leave no soldier behind on the battlefield.

Warsaw stood at the forefront of the struggle, but it was not the only location where Jews fought back. In the Cyganeria cafe in Krakow, Auschwitz, Treblinka, and many other places, it became evident that the Jewish nation would not go as sheep to the slaughter. The results of these struggles were not always remarkable. But to the question posed by one of the fighters, Justyna, in her book “Justyna's Diary”–“How will we be judged? Based on our accomplishment, or the effort we put forth?” Our answer was clear. We were in Auschwitz, Treblinka, and Majdanek. We saw how the death factories operated with maximum efficiency, fully utilizing the victims as a labor force, and their bodies for products such as mattresses, clothing, leather, soap, and fertilizer. We recognized a profound difference in feelings between ourselves and others. The Germans, along with their Polish and Ukrainian collaborators, should bear eternal shame and disgrace. The world must feel a deep sense of remorse for having stood by in silence. As for us, we felt both pain and pride. Between us and the German nation lay 17,000 screaming tombstones, representing the 17,000 Jewish communities they destroyed. Separating us was a wall of hair, a wall of shoes, a wall of children's clothing, and a sea of blood.

We will return to Israel in a few days. We will return as proud Jews who see themselves as descendants of the Masada generation, and descendants of the 18 Mila Street generation. We will return as a generation that understands there is no place for Jews in the world other than the homeland of our ancestors, and as a generation committed to ensuring that “never again shall Masada fall.”

Translator's footnotes:

1. There are 30 statues on the famous Charles Bridge in Prague and none are known to be a statue of “Saint Popus” with the inscription “conversion of 700 Jews”. It might be a misremembered or misinterpreted detail of another statue. On the bridge, there is a statue of Saint John of Nepomuk, a saint with a similar name. Return
2. Judah Loew ben Bezalel of Prague, also known as the Mahara”l (Moreinu ha-Rav Loew - in English Our Teacher, Rabbi Loew) was an important Talmudic scholar and Jewish mystic. Return
3. Sources list Siegfried Seidl as the camp commander in the years 1941-1943. The prisoners did dig a pool in the camp, which was used by the SS officers, but the anecdote about the name Yukle and his daughters could not be verified. Return
4. Al Tnai, meaning “on condition,” refers to the legend that angels brought stones from the Temple in Jerusalem to build the synagogue in Prague on the condition that they would be returned when the Messiah comes, i.e. when the Temple in Jerusalem is rebuilt. The synagogue is also called the Altneushul (meaning old-new shul in Yiddish). It was called the New Synagogue when it was built in the 13^th century but became known as the Old-New Synagogue in the 16^th century after newer synagogues were constructed in Prague. Return
5. Rabbi Dr. Abraham Yehoshua (Osias) Thon (1870 – 1936) was a thinker, rabbi, writer, and businessman. The Zionist Thon was one of Herzl's assistants in the establishment and preparation for the first Zionist Congress. Besides being one of the leaders of Polish Jewry and a member of the Polish Sejm, he served as a reform rabbi in Krakow before WWI, at the Tempel Synagogue on Miodowa Street, a significant site for Jews for more than 150 years. Return
6. The camp is featured in the movie Schindler's List (1993), about the life of Oskar Schindler. Return
7. According to Wikipedia, Block 24, the so-called “doll house,” served as a whore house for prisoners who received favorable status, and Nazi soldiers. In his book “The Doll House, “Yekhiel Di-Nur (KaTzenik) described the story of the protagonist's sister, who was forced to provide sexual services to Nazi soldiers. Return
8. There is no credible evidence that Mala (Malka) Zimetbaum ever received a formal Belgian national award of courage but she is remembered for her acts of courage and resistance. A Stolperstein (memorial cobble) for Mala Zimetbaum was installed in Antwerp. There are also many local and municipal commemorations. Return
9. The Oneg Shabbat underground archive began as an individual chronicle by Emanuel Ringelblum in October 1939 and became the secret archive of the Warsaw ghetto. The term Oneg Shabbat, which refers to the traditional Sabbath gathering of members of the community, was applied to the underground archive because its organizers held their regular, clandestine meetings on the Sabbath [From the Holocaust Encyclopedia https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/]. Return
10. After a series of uprisings and concerns about Jewish resistance, Henrich Himmler ordered the killing of Jews held in the concentration camps at Majdanek, Poniatowa, and Trawniki. All the camps were in the Lublin area. The planned massacre was given the name Operation Harvest Festival (German: Aktion Erntefest) and up to 43,000 Jews were murdered by the SS, the Order Police battalions, and the Ukrainian Sonderdienst on November 3-4, 1943. Return
11. Umschlagplatz was the term used during the Holocaust to denote the holding areas adjacent to railway stations in occupied Poland where Jews from ghettos were assembled for deportation to Nazi death camps (From Wikipedia). In Warsaw, the Umschlagplatz was actually the area that separated the Warsaw Ghetto from the Polish part of the city. It was the only official junction where goods could be transferred in and out of the ghetto. (Based on the Shoah resource center of Yad VaShem, www.yadvashem.org/odot_pdf) Return
12. The Anielewicz Bunker mound on 18 Mila Street is the remains of what was the headquarters and hidden shelter of the Jewish Combat Organization (ŻOB), a Jewish resistance group in the Warsaw Ghetto. Mordechai Anielowicz and the Ghetto fighters are entombed in the mound. Return

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When the war between Germany and Russia broke out on June 22, 1941, the Germans occupied, among other things, eastern Galicia, and assigned S.S. companies, Gestapo, ShuPo [Schutzpolizei–state protection police], Gendarmerie [rural police], etc. to it. According to a report dated June 6, 1943 from General S.S. Katzmann to General Krieger, the chief commander of the S.D. [Sicherheitsdienst-Nazi intelligence agency] in Krakow, and according to statistics from 1931, the Jewish population of eastern Galicia was 502,000. In April 1942, the deportation of Jews from Galicia began, and by June 27, 1943, 434,329 Jews had been deported and murdered in forced labor camps. Geographically, Radekhov was close to Volhynia, while administratively it belonged to Tarnopol. The grain trade, forestry industry, and timber trade were concentrated in the hands of Jewish residents. Additionally, there were Jewish landowners, and the flour mills and sawmills in the vicinity were run by Jews. The economic situation of the Jews in Radekhov and the surrounding area was not bad.

In almost every village in the area, there were several Jewish families who worked the land and owned shops. These villages included Barylov, Vigoda, Uwin, Potoki, Zavitsh, Synkov, Dombrova and others. The rural population was mostly Ukrainian, but there were also Poles and on isolated farms, there were Germans. The relationship between the Jews and the Ukrainian and Polish townsfolk was quite good for a long time. But, gradually the antisemitic propaganda of the government and the nationalist parties began to increase, leading to increased hatred of Jews.

Jewish residents welcomed the occupation by the Red Army on September 17, 1939 because it was preferable to the Nazi invasion, though not all were satisfied with the Soviet authorities. The nationalization of factories and property adversely affected a certain segment of the Jewish population. The acceptance of Jews into government positions also aroused anger and resentment in the minds of gentiles.

The war between Germany and the Soviet Union broke out on June 22, 1941 and struck the Jewish population like a thunderbolt on a clear day. No one foresaw the terrible danger. Many guessed there would be hostile treatment from the Germans, pressure and persecutions, but no one imagined complete annihilation. The illusion that it would somehow be possible to manage was widespread. This was also the reason that only a small number of Jews fled with the retreating Red Army to Russia.

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This step was only taken by those who collaborated with the Soviets, and they were mainly single people. With the chaos and disruption of transportation that abounded when war broke out, escape was considered dangerous almost from the first day.

At the same time, with the withdrawal of the Red Army, unrest began among the Ukrainian population. Horrifying news of riots arrived. The Ukrainians declared the establishment of their own state, and the Bandera gangs^[1] began committing acts of robbery and murder against Jews. A Ukrainian state failed to materialize, since the Germans annexed this region into their occupied zone. The Ukrainians, nonetheless, were given a free hand to harm Jews, and notices appeared that announced persecution and decrees for the Jews.

All Jews were forced to wear a white armband with a blue Star of David on their right arm as a distinctive sign and also to facilitate kidnappings and other actions. A special curfew was imposed on Jews, and contact and transportation between Jews and Christians was prohibited. Jews could obtain food only at great risk to their lives and only at skyrocketing prices. In October 1941, the German authorities issued an order demanding that Jews hand over all the valuables, furs and jewelry in their possession. (They had forbidden Jews from wearing furs.) The Germans carried out terrifying kidnappings for forced labor. The fear was not of the work itself but rather the risk to life it entailed. This was an excellent opportunity for the oppressors to abuse Jews with sadistic cruelty.

My parents had a farm in the village of Vigoda and our relationship with the Ukrainian villagers and the Poles was quite normal. We lived near the village called Potoki, and all around were forests. Among the villagers, there were also those who risked their lives to provide help and shelter for Jews – they were truly the Righteous Among the Nations. Among them were Shlichta, a Ukrainian and Mrs. Sobetska who was Polish.

The Jewish settlements in the area were liquidated and only a few Jews were given shelter by the Christians. The expectation was that hiding places would only be needed for a short time with the hope that the defeat of the Germans would be imminent. But when this situation continued for a long time, it became extremely difficult for the Christians who provided shelter. All of them looked for a way out and all had their own solution. Fear gripped some of them and they considered turning out those they were protecting. They worried that if the expelled Jews were caught, their identities might be revealed to the Germans who had vowed to shoot anyone caught hiding Jews. There were Christians who killed Jews hiding with them, and indeed bodies of Jews were found in pits in various places. There were also those who invited “Bandera” gangs to come, take their victims, and murder them by shooting them. When my brother and I found temporary shelter with a Ukrainian neighbor in Potoki, the neighbor brought a gang of murderers one night, and this gang took us to a nearby forest and shot us. My brother David was killed and I was wounded in the shoulder. The murderers were sure that I was also among the dead. I received first aid from Shlichta, who had been a medic since the days of the First World War,

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and he helped my remaining brothers and me build a bunker in Mrs. Sobetska's cowshed. The roof of the bunker was covered with animal manure, and we stayed in this bunker for many months. At night we would go out to the barn to breathe “fresh” air. Despite her fear of being exposed to the authorities or to the neighbors, Mrs. Sobetska cautiously provided us with food.

The Righteous Among the Nations who worked to save Jews, even without expecting recognition for their actions, will be remembered for generations. – Only in April 1944 were we liberated by the Red Army. –

From the right: Sabina Apelfeld and her two friends

David Apelfeld, may God avenge his blood, murdered by a Ukrainian gang (November 12, 1943)		Rabbi Yaakov Apelfeld and his wife Feige Gittel, deported to Russia in 1940, immigrated to Israel in 1950, died in Kiryat Haim

1. Bandera's gangs, also known as Banderovites, were militia gangs led by Ukrainian nationalist Stepan Bandera. During World War II, the gangs engaged in various atrocities against Poles and Jews and murdered many of those who hid in the forest. Return

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The rural communities where Jews lived in eastern Galicia were largely agricultural. If there were 18 families in the village, half of them would earn their living solely from agriculture and the rest from petty trade. There were also Jews who owned estates and the remnants of estates which they had purchased from Polish nobles in the second half of the 19^th century and the first half of the 20^th century. In the eyes of the Ukrainian people, it was very natural to see Jews as estate owners. Relations between Jews, Ukrainians, and Poles were generally normal and even friendly. The same was true in the Radekhov district. One of the typical Jewish families in the area was the Tzvi (Heki) Krantz family from Vigoda [Wygoda]. This family was notable for its generosity, goodness, and self-sacrifice. These qualities were especially evident during the war years. Heki Krantz had six children, five daughters and one son: Zissel, Yetl, Ela, Gina, Joseph, and Nina. Unfortunately, no one from this family survived, and I have not been able to find even one photograph. Tzvi (Heki) Krantz owned a farm in Vigoda. Somehow, he managed to escape the Russian confiscation, and the farm remained in his hands until the Germans arrived. From then until the German-Russian war in 1941, his economic situation, relative to those times, was quite good. Many Jews were displaced from their homes immediately after the outbreak of the war. This home was always wide open to anyone who knocked on the door. Here is one of the many instances that reflect the generosity of this family's heart.

Two months after the German onslaught arrived, a young Jewish man from the nearby town of Leshnev [Leshniv] came to the house at night. Frightened and wounded over every part of his body, he said that during the Russian occupation of 1939-1941, he was a police officer at the Leshnev police station, along with many Ukrainians and Poles from that same place, something that was normal at that time. With the arrival of the Germans, the local Ukrainians began to persecute the Jews and collaborate with the Germans. The Ukrainian police (militia) in particular “excelled” at this. This was almost their entire method of operation. Among other things, they targeted this young man who served in the police during the Russian era, and they accused him of being a collaborator and informant for the Soviet NKVD. The Ukrainian police could arrest people for political reasons. The young man was arrested and severely tortured by the Ukrainian murderers. However, he managed to escape from their hands and found refuge with the Krantz family. Heki Krantz and his family received him with open arms. They fed and clothed him and hid him in their granary, undertakings that were considered dangerous because the Ukrainian militia often conducted searches for the purpose of robbery. The young man managed to hide in the house for several months until one day, when he was seen by chance, by a farmer from the town of Leshnev.

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It seemed that the farmer did not recognize him, but… a few days later, the Ukrainian militiamen appeared at night at Krantz's house, and after a vigorous search, discovered him and arrested him, but not before abusing the entire family. They led him in an unknown direction. Heki Krantz traveled furiously to Leshnev in the hope that he would be able to rescue him from the hands of the murderers in exchange for a decent ransom. After a few days of delay, he learned that in the meantime, the young man had been murdered. Despite the pleas of Leshnev Jews to cease his contact with the police in this matter and not put himself in a dangerous situation (dangerous from the point of view of the local Jews), he did not stop trying until the last glimmer of hope vanished. He even made an effort to bring him to the Jewish cemetery.

This house was always open to those who were persecuted who could not be in their own homes. Because of this, the house was always full to capacity. When the German Gestapo began to carry away Jews for forced labor, this house, isolated from the rest of the village, was the most convenient place to hide. When the “Aktions” began in September 1942 and when they learned that the city of Radekhov and the surrounding area were also in danger, Heki came up with the idea of sending girls to work in Germany in order to try to save them from the clutches of the Nazis. He did not make use of this plan for his daughters, who, based on outward appearances, could pass as Aryan. In this way, sending girls to Germany, several girls from this place managed to stay alive. Only his family did not survive. They were not so lucky.

In the last days before the Jews were deported to the ghetto, when economic hardships had reached their peak, the Krantz family shared a loaf of bread with anyone who entered the house. During the deportations to the ghetto and the Aktions, there were more than 20 people in the house. At the end of November or the beginning of December 1942, after being informed on, the Germans, accompanied by Ukrainians, attacked the house. Every living soul they found there at that moment, about 20 or so people, including Krantz's wife Chaya and four of his children, Zissel, Ela, Gina, and Nina, were brought to a nearby forest and shot dead. Chaim Suchman and his two sisters were also among these holy victims. Heki Krantz himself, his daughter, Yetl, a friend, and his son, Joseph, managed to hide until May 1943. In that month, they were found murdered in the fields in the village of Kulikov [Kulikiv]. Since no remnant of this family remains, it is imperative that we remember them here for the sake of future generations.

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