[Pages 595-601]

I, Moshe the son of Reuven Zeev Waldbaum, was born in 1901 in the village of Dmytrov (Dmytrow), which is located in the Radekhov (Radekhov) district of eastern Galicia. I wish to record what happened to the Jewish community in this large village as well as what happened to me from the years of my birth through the Shoah (Holocaust), that came upon our People between 1940-44.

I heard many times from my late father and grandfather stories about the great village of Dmytrov. There were 800 Gentile families, the majority being Ukranians, yet for many generations Jewish families lived among them. Of these may be recalled the Jewish families of Waldbaum, Zolkwer, Sternberg, Meir, Wilder, and Barasch. When World War II broke out there were additional families: Pelz, Lockerman, Waldman, Silber, Czermak, and Klughaupt (Klughoypt) – altogether 100 Jewish souls.

In Dmytrov there was one large farm area that belonged to a count. The man who leased that estate was Reb Velvel Wachs and his two sons, Shalom and Shimon. Reb Velvel Wachs was a very religious Jew, a G-d-fearing man, a Belzer Chassid, and he would hire only religious Jews to manage the land that he leased. They included a large group of clerks and they had a marked influence on the life of the village. The rest of the Jews in the village were merchants, shop keepers, and middlemen. In addition to the Wachs family, there was another prosperous Jew, Sternberg. The rest were poor who with difficulty obtained their bread. My father was a livestock dealer who provided for his family under constant pressure and penury. Together we were two brothers and three sisters. Our education was based on the four grades that existed in the school in the town, we could not afford more than that.

My memories flow: the tiny Jewish community of Dmytrov decided to create a holy congregation of its own in order to break away from its dependence on the congregation in Cholojow, five kilometers away from our village. They sought to stop the tiring journey to Radekhov or to Cholojow during the High Holy days, and build a synagogue in our village, put in a Torah scroll and create a minyan that met regularly. Under father's initiative as well as his personal involvement, they began to collect money to have a Torah scroll written. They assigned the writing to a certified sofer-scribe from the town of Toporow. After two years the Torah was brought to the village with great fanfare and ceremony and it was put into a special, temporary Aron Kodesh (Holy Ark) in Reb Shalom Wachs's house until the synagogue itself would be built. At the same time, Father began to take care of building the synagogue itself as well as a cheder where the Jewish children could study Torah, taught by a melamed (Jewish teacher) that they would bring to the village. They also discussed digging a mikva (bath for ritual purification) – the implication of all this: the congregation was becoming a separate entity in every way. While this was going on, World War I broke out, and all these plans were for naught. Father was taken away to the Austrian army, and the family was left in want and suffering.

The Gentiles in Dmytrov were outstanding in their hatred toward the village's Jews. This hatred came to light particularly in the period after the First World War. It was a time between governments when there was no ruling authority. The Gentiles took advantage of those lawless days; stealing, robbing, and setting fire to Jewish houses were everyday occurrences. In 1924, close to Pesach (Passover), robbers attacked one of our relatives, Klughaupt, robbing him of all his valuables, and afterward, shot him on the spot. The Polish police looked into the matter, investigated it for an extended period of time, but no one was arrested and no one was punished.

A number of years after the war, when the political situation stabilized, Father again got involved in building the synagogue. Somehow they overcame the problem of obtaining the money to get the job done, but it was difficult overcoming the arguments, the disagreements, and the irritating fights that swirled around making the necessary arrangements and building the building itself. But Father succeeded in calming down the storms, and the synagogue got built. The Torah scroll was brought into it with great ceremony and true joy. Father was a leader of the prayer services, a Torah reader, took care of many holy tasks, and did so without compensation or reward of any kind. And so an independent congregation of the Jews of Dmytrov arose that was not dependent on any other congregation.

The Jewish young people who grew up in Dmytrov were, by and large, simple villagers. The parents weren't overly interested nor, from an economic perspective, were they able to give their children an education beyond the village school, and the youngsters, by their own means, were not able to go beyond it.

In 1932, I got married to Beila Mandel from the town of Stanislavchik (Stanislawczyk), and I went to live there. I opened up a general store. It was the ninth store of this kind in that small town, and the competition between the store owners was fierce. Every one of them offered better and better prices to the customers. I bought my merchandise for cash and then I sold on credit. This went on for a while, but soon I was plucked clean from both sides. Without any choice, I returned to Dmytrov.

World War II broke out. The Russians entered our village. In the Russian's eyes we were considered bourgeois in spite of our weakness and poverty, for we were merchants and store owners. The Gentiles of the village informed on us [to the Russians] and incited against us. Bands of thugs formed again in our area, and they pillaged and ravaged without being punished. In one incident my own mother was murdered, may G-d avenge her blood! The NKVD (Soviet State Police) conducted a long investigation; the identities of the murderers was known, but no one was arrested and no one was punished. After all, from their perspective, it was only a Jewish woman who was killed. The anti-Semitic discrimination was blatant for all to see. In another incident, two Jews from our village were taking a little butter and cheese to sell in Lvov (Lwow), when the NKVD seized them. One of them failed to flee successfully and was taken to court where he was sentenced to ten years in jail. His brother, Zelig, of our village, went to Lvov to find his brother in whatever prison he was in. His cousin Wolf joined him and together they sought the prisoner in several jails. In the end, they too were thrown in prison without any charge. With great effort, particularly by giving bribes, in the end, they were set free. While Zelig Klughaupt was delayed in Lvov, a gang of thugs set fire and burned down his house. This was the same gang that murdered my mother may G-d avenge her blood! The general impression was that the Bolsheviks who governed the village, were absolute anti-Semites, and their intention was to show the Jews their strength and their might. This Soviet “Garden of Eden” – paradise – dragged on for us until June 20, 1941.

On June 22^nd, the Germans entered our village. The Ukrainians welcomed them with drums and dancing, celebrating over the day of blood [that was to come] for the village Jews. They weren't afraid to say so and they spoke of it openly: “Your day has come!” We heard about the murders and killings of the Jews in Radekhov and Cholojow. Everywhere that the Germans entered, they always left one or two Gestapo people. They organized the murderous Ukrainian militia and the “Judenrat ” (German-created Jewish council) with its own militia, fulfilling faithfully the quote from Isaiah the Prophet, “From you, yourselves will come forth those who will tear you down and destroy you.” These were Jews who came from the underworld. Anyone who hadn't seen with their own eyes would never be inclined to believe this horror of the “Judenrat ”. But the facts are undeniable. It's impossible, also, to describe the awful sufferings that we bore from the Ukrainian militia as well as from the ordinary Gentile villagers. I can never forget those dark, disastrous days.

A man from the Gestapo, accompanied by a Jew who was a member of the Judenrat in Cholojow, came to the village and began to search for Jews' houses. This was the beginning of the devastation. It was a very cold winter's day. The Gestapo agent entered Father's house and ordered him to open the windows, and while doing this asked, “Who owns this house and what is his name?” He ordered the Judenrat man to write down my brother's name, after my brother had said that he was the owner. By different means he gathered the names of 11 Jews. After a few days, he came back with a list and ordered those same Jews to gather at a certain place. My brother hid himself, so they took my father in his place. When my brother found out, he presented himself to the Gestapo agent and father was set free. My brother, along with the other ten Jews, were transported to Sokal, where they found their deaths. May their memories be a blessing!

On one Sabbath day, the Germans came to the village exactly at the time of prayer in the synagogue. The village Gentiles informed them that the Jews were gathered in one of the houses. So the Germans came quickly and attacked with hot anger those who were praying. With murderous blows they beat everyone indiscriminately with the butt of their rifles, and they desecrated the Torah scroll, tossing it on the ground and stabbing it through with their bayonets. They herded the men out and made them suffer terribly. Then they attacked the house of a Jew that was close to the synagogue, removed everything that was in it, and distributed the possessions as presents to the Gentiles who had gathered around.

By order of the militia, every night three men guarded the village, Jews included among them. One time, when it was my turn to guard, the two Gentiles who were my partners in guarding, told me that each of them would guard the outskirts of the village at each end while I was assigned to guard the middle part, near my own house. I agreed to it. Meanwhile, the militia came by to check on how well we were guarding. They sought me out. The two Gentiles had told the militia that I would certainly be sleeping at home. They approached my house and actually found me outside. Without even asking anything, they began to beat me with their rifles. I passed out on the spot. They thought I was dead and left. After they had gone, I awoke and got up. Evidently, the heavy winter clothes I was wearing saved me from death.

The head of the village, Vasil Motshek, wasn't a bad Gentile. In return for some favors I had done for him, he assigned me to work for the village council keeping track of its accounts. I worked there with a village farmer, and as I found out later, he was among the absolute best of the villagers. One day when I was by myself in the council building, a strange feeling came over me, a sense of fear, the feeling that something awful was about to happen. I didn't think much of it. I took the keys to the council's doors and handed them over to the Gentile, my partner at work. Within a short while I heard loud gunshots close to the building where I was working. It turned out that some drunken Germans were near the council building. They wanted to enter, but because it was locked up, they simply fired their guns into the building. If they had found me in the building, I never would have gotten out alive. Evidently, my intuition saved me from death.

There were, some seemingly good Gentiles in the village, trustworthy and strong friends, who supposedly were inclined to save our property out of compassion. In the end, though, things were pillaged and not returned. And if someone turned to them for a little bit of help, they would stare back blankly.

In Radekhov, the next city over, the following shocking incident occurred: a Gestapo person was walking by the city's public garden when he saw a Jewish woman plucking up different grasses and the like. He asked her what she was doing in the garden. She answered him that she was looking for special kinds of leaves – that if one puts them on a wound it would help speed up the healing process. He ordered her to go with him. She understood for what purpose he wanted her to come with him – for death. She began to plead with him, begging him for her life, that she had five small children, and that he should have mercy on her. So he took along the five little children also and transported them to a designated spot. A militia member told the story afterward, that right in front of the mother, the Gestapo man turned his dogs loose on the children and they ripped the children apart. The children found their death right in front of the mother, and afterward, he shot [and killed] her too.

From mouth to ear the news arrived concerning the crematoriums in Belzec. The Ukranian militia told the Gentile villagers about it with great pleasure. We learned about all the torture and atrocities that the victims suffered before their deaths, and the terrible treatment after they were killed: the bodies burnt, teeth extracted [for the gold], and the like. We had absolutely no doubt about the truth of these reports.

In spite of the pervasive evilness committed by the village's Gentiles, there were two men, two brothers-in-law, that could be included among the pious of the non-Jewish nations of the world. Thanks to them, we were saved and remained alive, their names being Dimitri Muzyka and Tomke Mostove (Tomko Mostowy). They helped us with honest, good will, and it should be told that in doing so, they put their own lives in danger.

I worked with Tomke Mostove in the village council office handling the accounts. One time, while we were working, I hinted to him that I wanted to be able to hide somewhere until the danger passed. He didn't answer me out loud but the look on his face answered for him, that he was prepared to help me. To have hidden in his place would have been actually courting danger, for Mostove was known in the village as a friend of the Jews. His house and farm were comparatively small and there wasn't any place there where a bunker could be dug. Nevertheless, I kept in mind what had passed between us.

Father was caught and taken to Belzec. Just a few days before he was caught, he managed to bring the bodies of five Jews who had been murdered to Cholojow for a Jewish burial. Many Jews abandoned their homes. They handed over their property to various Gentiles and sought to hide themselves with them. Many of the Gentiles distanced themselves from the Jews and didn't want to be associated with them. But we don't have to talk just about Gentiles, for certain members of the Judenrat were known for their own cruelty. It happened in the ghetto of Radekhov. I worked in a field digging up beets. I didn't feel well and fainted. I appealed to the Jewish militiaman to release me from work. He refused, even though he saw me collapse. Using the whip in his hand, he forced me to continue working. It was actually the Gentile militiaman who saw my condition and let me off.

One day, at the end of October 1942, in the Radekhov ghetto, I returned from work exhausted, broken and shattered, starved and depressed. By this time there wasn't any food or wood, nothing to keep body and soul alive. I mentioned to my wife that I'd been thinking about going to Dmytrov, that maybe I could find something at our house. My wife agreed. Taking an out of the way route, with fear and trembling, I arrived late at night in Dmytrov. I knocked on the door of Dimitri Muzyka's house. They opened it for me, and greeted me warmly, gave me food, and even suggested that I sleep there. Dimitri woke me up very early in the morning and told me that an “Aktion ” (round up of Jews for forced labor or death camps), was taking place in Radekhov. He arranged a place for me to hide and told me to go there as quickly as possible. I did as he said, and though in pain and distressed, I started thinking about my wife and my family who were there in Radekhov at the time of the “Aktion ”. That night I returned to Radekhov, using side paths, in order to find out how things were going with my wife and family. This was a journey of martyrdom. As soon as I entered the town, the Jewish militia grabbed me for forced labor. We were emptying out the houses of Jews who had been caught. The Germans took for themselves the housewares and the furniture that we were loading onto carts. It was then that I noticed household items that were from my own family. Terror and fear overcame me. I was sure that my wife and family had been picked up during the “Aktion ”. In the end, a militiaman released me after I had taken from my pocket and given him several valuable items that I had brought from the village to Radekhov that I had intended bartering for food to assuage our hunger. To my joy, I found my wife alive, and she told me how she escaped by a miracle from this particular “Aktion ”, the third that happened.

Here's her story: by force and blows they hauled several Jews out of the house where we were living, and two militiamen guarded them, a Jew and a Ukrainian. In the line in front of my wife stood a woman with her two children. She suggested to the Ukrainian militiaman that she would give him a valuable ring if he would allow her to get away from that place. The Ukrainian agreed and showed her a side room where she could hide. At the same time, the Gestapo man was busy searching the attic of the building and he wasn't able to see what was happening below. The Jewish militiaman objected, apparently because he, too, wanted a bribe. The woman began shouting loudly at the Jew, and cursed him in G-d's name. Only then did he look away. The woman went with her children into the room that the Ukrainian militiaman had indicated, and my wife succeeded also in sneaking in after her into the same room. When the situation calmed down, the woman and her two children as well as my wife climbed up to the attic and found shelter there that night.

Several days after the “Aktion ” one of the ghetto's districts was sealed off. Those who had succeeded in hiding out and escaping the previous “Aktion ” now needed to gather together in the other section of the ghetto. The place was very cramped, and ten to 12 people were crammed into each modest-sized room. Everything was distressingly cramped and suffocating. Waste and filth were everywhere. Typhus disease spread, a number of people died every day. The living envied the dead. Comparatively speaking, it was an easy death, not a lot of suffering. Before Radekhov was made “Judenrein ” (emptied of Jews), we succeeded in fleeing and then hiding out in the forests of Dmytrov. There is no way to describe our pain and our suffering in those forests. Much later we found some Gentiles who took pity on us and every now and then gave us a little food, just enough to keep us alive. Tomke Mostove, who built a bunker for us at his place, was the one who saved us from death. His brother-in-law, Dimitri Muzyka, may he always be mentioned for good, cooperated with Tomke in doing the work that saved us. At first, we hid out on Dimitri's farm under a pile of hay and straw. He worried about our needs, bringing us food and other things that we needed, even newspapers. But after our spot was discovered by a local Gentile fellow, he took us one night to his brother-in-law, Tomke. And we stayed there until the liberation.

When Radekhov was made “Judenrein ”, nine Dmytrov Jews were able to flee to the town of Busk that still had its own ghetto. Afterward, when Busk was also made “Judenrein ”, those nine souls from the Sternberg family went back to Dmytrov. There they all gathered in the house of a poor, Polish widow, Yevgenya Mandris. It was very difficult for that widow to sustain these nine people, but in spite of that, she extended herself beyond her capabilities. Suddenly she died, and the Sternberg family fled to an abandoned farm of a Polish fellow named Cygielski. It pains the heart to say that the Banderowcy (Bandera men)^[2] found out about this family's hiding place and they slaughtered them all in there.

Meanwhile the war was nearing an end. The battles came closer to our area. The imminent danger to the village houses was great because they could go up in flames from the shells. We were sitting in a barn filled with straw and the danger of a conflagration was exceedingly real. Mostove had made two bunkers, one for his own family and one for me and my wife. There is no way to describe the complete generosity of Mostove toward my wife and me. But meanwhile, a disaster happened to him. His wife took sick and under terrible circumstances he started to transport her to a hospital in Lvov, but on the way she died. Before he left, he put his daughter in charge, so she could guard us and worry about our food. But the daughter began to relate to us with open hatred, with the accusation that we were responsible for her mother's death, because her mother had been fearful that the Germans might discover that we were there and then kill them also. We had a serious suspicion that the daughter would hand us over to the Germans during her father's absence.

Luckily we were liberated during those same days by the Russians, July 17, 1944. Our fear of the Germans ended, but we still had to contend with the Banderowcy . One night we went out again on byways and winding paths from Dmytrov to Radekhov. In Radekhov I found a good job at the “Sovkom ” (Soviet Committee) as a treasurer and bookkeeper. We were eight souls living in the house that belonged to the Menaker family, may G-d revenge their blood!

I then bestowed a relatively small favor on the Mostove and Muzyka families, that thanks to them I stayed alive. I had some influence with the Soviet authorities in our area, and through my efforts, their two sons were released from the army. This was a very important and serious matter for them.

I then went to the Polish area. After many different moves to Krakow, Prague, Vienna, and Germany, we arrived in the land of Israel in 1948. We had passed through the full length of the path of suffering, we drank from the poisoned cup down to its dregs, until we merited arriving at the place of our desire, to the state of Israel.

Of the pious of the non-Jewish nations of the world who gave us shelter and saved us, Faranka Muzyka and her children; Tomke Mostove – her brother

1. The original testimony in Yiddish , “Moyshe Valdboym fin Demitrov Radekhover Bezirk, Seine Memoiren, Gehert un Geschrieben fin Ben-Zion Friedmann,” Gedera, 1969, is deposited at the archive of the Diaspora Research Institure, Tel Aviv University, call number A-28/16. As the text reveals, the Hebrew translation in the Yizkor book is actually an edited and condensed version of the original. For this translation, the original testimony was only used to clarify unclear sections and verify name spellings –March 2003. Return
2. Nationalist Ukrainians led by Stepan Bandera. Return

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One of the largest estates in the district of Tarnopol [Ternopil] was owned by my grandfather, David Rapoport. Of short stature and with a deep voice, he was one of the most interesting and prominent figures in the Radekhov area. Countless stories about him circulated among both Jews and gentiles. Today, it is difficult to discern where the border lies between the truth and imagination. Gentiles sensed there was something mysterious and inexplicable about this Jew. They attributed his success to Jewish wisdom and cunning, even though all they ever gained from it was good. Jews pointed him out to their sons as an example worth emulating–though always with a touch of envy. Legends were told about both his stinginess on the one hand and his generosity on the other.

It is difficult to understand how a young yeshiva scholar became the owner of vast estates, especially since his path was not different from that of many other Jews. A Jewish villager, the owner of a karczma (tavern), chose my grandfather to marry his daughter. At the time, my grandfather was just 16 years old. As a dowry, he received 10 morgas [1 morga =1.38 acres] of forested land along with a woman several years his senior. He saw her for the first time on the day of the wedding, and she was not considered attractive. Still, he grew accustomed to her and lived with her for many years. Together, they had 15 sons and one daughter, of whom only seven were still alive at the outbreak of World War II.

The young groom chose not to continue his studies at his father-in-law's home. Instead, he decided to work in the forest industry, a line of work that appealed to him. These were the vast woodlands that stretched along the banks of the Bug River, the longest river in the area. The paritzim [the wealthy], owners of the forest plots, would fell the trees and send them down the Bug and the Wisla [Vistula] Rivers, to the harbor in Danzig [now Gdansk], where the timber was sold and shipped to Germany and England. My grandfather advanced rapidly in this field, moving from a simple laborer to a supervisor, then to sorter, and eventually to a position where he accompanied the timber barges. In time, he became the chief seller. When he turned 20, he cleared his own forest and sailed with the timber to the harbor. However, along the way, he was arrested, and spent several months in jail on a false charge. Upon his release, he discovered that the price of wood had skyrocketed severalfold, making him a wealthy Jew overnight. He sold the timber and returned home, with a large fortune in his hand.

He was now able to fulfill his dream of buying land and settling on it permanently. This was made easier because Polish landowners were always in need of money and willing to sell. They preferred an easy life, politics, and entertaining themselves in Europe's large cities, and they disliked doing any work. So, my grandfather bought land from them. During the First World War, the Russians held him as a “geizel” (hostage),

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along with a group of other prominent Ukrainians. They held them in jail for close to two years, where they did nothing. Some of these people were broken both physically and mentally, but not my grandfather. He used the time, as he always did, to study. He immersed himself in the study of religion and Jewish wisdom, and upon his return, there was no one like him in the entire region. He stood his ground in debates with the local rabbis, and his reputation as a Torah scholar preceded him. At the same time, he situated his older married sons in separate estates: the oldest, Dan, a father of seven sons, in “Dombrova,” and Refael and Simcha in “Stanin.” He married his daughter to Reis, an estate owner in Dyniska, and a relative of the Rebbe from Belz. He sent the younger sons to study in Brody, and then to the university in Vienna. Those who did not complete their studies returned and assisted him in managing his estate called Synkov. Among them were my father, Nathan, and my uncle, Yona.

In the 1920s, at the request of the Zionist Union, he opened a Hachshara [training] camp for pioneers who were about to immigrate to Eretz Israel. He did not think about making Aliyah, but to us, his grandchildren, he spoke about the right path for our future. He promised to help us and directed us to study agriculture. He was even willing to purchase land for us in Eretz Israel.

Over time, he purchased three estates from a Polish nobleman named Vasilevsky and moved with his family to the largest estate, “Synkov.” Managing the property demanded not only extensive agricultural knowledge but also industrial and business acumen. Several enterprises operated on the estate, including a vodka distillery, a flour mill, a brick plant, and a fulling mill for producing thick, woolen cloth. To help oversee these operations, my father brought in an agronomist, an economist, and managers for the factories–along with their families–all of whom were Jewish. Gradually, more Jews arrived, seeking to make a living in their new environment. One opened a shabby little shop, another worked as a tailor, and a third served as a middleman between the local landowners and the farmers. Though each owned a small plot of land, they largely depended on the work available around the estate. My grandfather's home became the heart of the village life. It was a place where Jews gathered to pray on holidays and on Shabbat.

My grandmother Yocheved never adjusted to being a “lady.” Throughout her life, she remained a modest and warm-hearted Jewish woman. I believe that her dreams of wealth were always intertwined with a vision of simplicity. She always dressed plainly, lived frugally, and watched every penny.

The relations between members of my grandfather's household and the villagers were both unusual and deeply interesting. On one side stood the Jewish “paritz” and on the other, poor Ukrainian farmers long oppressed by the Polish regime and by the Polish “paritzim.” And yet, the villagers felt entirely at ease in our home. There was not a single evening when my grandfather's large kitchen was empty of Ukrainian guests, from impoverished villagers to small landowners. They came in freely to seek advice, ask for help, or simply to talk about various matters of the day. To this day, I can picture my grandfather seated at the large table, his back warmed by the hot stove, with a Gemara volume open before him, and at the same time, deeply engaged in discussion with the villagers in his fluent, effortless Ukrainian.

The village's distinguished women would come to visit my grandmother. During the winter evenings, they helped prepare

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feathers for “ferenes” (down blankets), and in the spring, they came to receive vegetable seeds. Savta [grandmother] knew how to talk to them. In appearance, she resembled them greatly–perhaps just a bit more slender and thin. We, the children, wandered through the workers' houses on the estate and in the village among the gentiles.

At the high school in Radekhov, we were the only Jewish children who studied Ukrainian (a language that was not compulsory). Our father insisted on it. He believed that we must learn the language of the people among whom we lived. That shaped how the population viewed us. They did not consider us outsiders. During vacations and holidays, when we returned home, we spent most of our time with the village children. My fondest memories from that time are tied to winter evenings, when the peasant women spun flax and wool, and the girls embroidered [Christian] icons on towels, as well as shirts and tablecloths for their dowries. Everything was stored in large, painted wooden chests, which they took with them to their new homes on their wedding day.

Before Easter, the girls decorated eggs–some of them were true artists. Their work was always accompanied by beautiful singing. They welcomed us warmly and were genuinely surprised by how eager and able we were to join in their work and songs. I would bring them special embroidery patterns or teach them how to knit, share stories from my life in the city, and… write letters for them. In that, they considered me an expert; “educated–like one of us,” they would say, and to me, that was the highest compliment.

During the springtime, my grandfather allowed the youngsters to dance in the large garden that spread between the estate and the village. My father would place the radio speaker or the record player on the windowsill and there would be music. The image still stands before me: trees in bloom, the girls and boys dressed in colorful holiday clothes, a mournful song heard from far, far away, dancing around the trees–beautiful scenes from my childhood, as if from another world. Sometimes my mother would serve refreshments. A holiday for everyone–and for us, too, as we were always part of every occasion, joyful and sorrowful alike.

My brother taught the boys how to play chess, and my uncle would compete with the village musicians in violin playing. Yet, despite all of this, not everything was idyllic or pastoral. There were thefts, arsons, misunderstandings, and even violent clashes. Still, on the whole, the relations between the two sides was sincere and grounded in mutual understanding and respect.

During the dark days when the Germans arrived, those relationships proved to be a lifeline. The knowledge of the language, religion, and way of life we had absorbed in childhood bore fruit. It allowed us, later on, to live as Ukrainians with false papers, and in that way, we managed to survive the war.

All that was described above lasted until the mid-1930s. After that, everything changed, and the change was drastic. It came from the outside and was directed at both the local population, 93% of which was Ukrainian, and at the Jews, particularly the estate owners. The spirit of national awakening that had begun to stir among the Ukrainian youth was mercilessly crushed in inhumane ways. As for us, radical measures were taken. We were simply forced to sell our land to the government for absurdly low prices,

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often without receiving any payment at all. The government then settled Poles brought over from Mazovia [Mazowsze] on these lands–people who had no knowledge of farming. Laborers, who had worked at the estate for years, were left without work and land, and resentment grew. There were also clashes. That situation lasted until 1939, when the Russians “liberated” us. Now, the Ukrainians had an opportunity to settle old scores with the Poles, and the Russians were eager to assist. Arrests and deportations to Siberia began. We were thrown out of our house and were issued identification papers marked with Article 11, branding us as enemies of the working people. Most of our family members were arrested and sentenced to forced labor in the forests of Siberia. After the war, I held on to the hope that perhaps my uncle would return, but it was all in vain. Stalin's camps, it turned out, were no better than those of the Germans. No one came back from there, and their burial places remain unknown.

Thank God that my grandfather did not live to experience that. He passed away in 1933,

Today I left the house for the first time. It had been emptied of everything. The “Judenrat” in Radekhov promised to get me a job harvesting potatoes and wages were to be paid in flour. I woke up early and stepped out onto the street. I was struck by the unusual silence–thick gray fog was all around, and the street was completely empty. The door of the office where I was supposed to report for work was closed. I waited for a while and decided to return home. I think I may have misread the clock, and gotten there too early. Suddenly, a chill swept over me, and I began to tremble. I quickened my pace. Out of the fog, a man emerged–and just as I heard the word “halt,” a gunshot rang out. The man collapsed to the ground. I approached and saw blood spilling from his body onto the road. The red color blended with the fog, forming a kind of halo around the man lying on the ground. A pool of blood formed in the mud. I stood rooted to the spot beside the stranger, staring, gripped by fear and a deep sense of helplessness. A few minutes later, I began to calm down. I walked over to the nearest gate and knocked on it forcefully, yet something inside me was still pounding hard, and I could not tell whether it was my heart or my fists pounding on the gate. No one came to open it. There was not a soul in sight.

“Go away, Jewess–get out of here!” I hear from behind me. Without turning around, I answer: “I just wanted to work.”– “Today is a day for dancing, and not a day for working! Get out of here!”– I hear him say and I do not ask anymore questions. I begin to walk, followed by the German.

I walk straight without looking to the left or right. We reach the market square–I and the German behind me. Only then do I stop to look around. The square is full of German officers and Ukrainian militiamen – “commandos” – armed with rifles and rubber batons. Gestapo soldiers are also present, accompanied by large wolfhounds. I always loved wolfhounds, and perhaps one of the dogs senses it. It comes toward me, dragging the German handler behind it. Suddenly, I sense the eyes of the soldiers,

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the officers on the horseback, and the Ukrainian policemen fixed on me. I remain calm and try to make sense of what is happening around me. I do not lower my gaze before these so-called “big heroes.” A strange sense of stubbornness rises within me– Let them meet the representative of their great “enemy,” the one they are planning to destroy. Maybe then they will begin to understand us. They eventually disperse, and only a small group remains in the market; the rest go off to carry out the mission of their “Führer.”

I am still standing. The Germans continue to bring people in, slowly and steadily. The market is filling again–but this time with Jews, old and young. Mothers wrapped in scarves and triangular woolen kerchiefs for protection against the cold, clutch their babies. They cradle their children and try to quiet them with lullabies. The elderly are weeping. Among the youth, some beg for mercy. Others try to slip through the blockade. Shots ring out, and people fall. And I–I remain standing like a fossil. Someone touches my arm. “What's wrong with you?” It is the pharmacist–an old friend of my family. I try to understand. I lower my head, thinking. I begin to grasp what is happening, though not fully understanding. Then, I feel the touch of a dog's mouth. A voice says: “My child, I want to help you–but how?” I lift my eyes and see a Gestapo officer in front of me. At that moment, I decide that I have to escape. I can not go to the [concentration] camp. I begin to walk, and the officer says nothing. I step outside of the circle, and he lets me go. I open the double doors of a nearby store and slip into the space between the inner and outer doors. The inner door is locked. I stand there for the rest of the day. That's where I learn what fear is, what helplessness is, and how strong the will to live can be. Time stretches on endlessly there. I hear the Germans shouting, the dogs barking, and the cries of the children. Finally, I hear the sound of people being marched away under German guard. When night falls, I emerge from hiding. I am alone in the market again. There is a gray and heavy silence, as if nothing happened. I stand there, unsure where to go.

There, between the doors of that shop, I lived through the longest day of my life.

I sat on the train going from Radekhov to Lvov. It was actually not me. On the papers in my pocket, written and sealed by the village council of Dombrova, it stated that my name was Evdokia Dumenchuk, and that I was Ukrainian, the daughter of a small farmer, a genuine Christian, who was born in that place. I was convincing in the image I tried to portray, and my clothes fit that image as well. I just hoped that I would not need to use those papers. I put on three skirts to look fatter. On my head, I wore a flower-patterned kerchief, a “shlinova.” My blouse was embroidered with crosses, and I had black boots on my feet. This was full Sunday attire; a cross around my neck and a small prayer book complete the picture. I was holding a few kilograms of pig fat, and was on my way to Lvov to seek my fortune–or rather, to wander through the city's markets supposedly selling the fat, while in truth hoping to fall into the hands

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of one of the German policemen hunting down black-market peddlers, aiming to send them to forced labor camps throughout Germany. I actually wanted to be caught. There was no hope of survival for me in our region, even if I managed to pass as a Christian. The idea of choosing this path was suggested by Barbara, the blacksmith's daughter, whose father once worked on our estate. I met her by chance at the home of a farming couple, who had hidden me for several weeks after I escaped from the Aktzia in the ghetto of Radekhov. I hid in their barn, where I was given food and drink. At night, once the whole village had gone to sleep, I was allowed to warm myself by the kitchen stove and talk a bit. They were good people, but terribly afraid. I, too, was not ready to live like that for long.

I started playing my role, or the biggest lie of my life, on the train. I talked to people and laughed with young men, who were convinced that I had crossed the border to engage in black-market dealings. In Lvov, people pushed me and said tauntingly, “It's no wonder she stands motionless, like a log–you can see that it's her first time in the city.”

I went with Barbara to see some people she knew who bought produce from her. There, I pretended to be a girl from a remote village, who had barely finished four years of elementary school, who did not speak Polish, had never been to a big city, had never seen a tram, and was both amazed by and frightened of electric lights, and even more so by flushing toilets. Despite all of this, the woman of the house took a liking to me. Even though she could not understand how a girl who made such an intelligent impression could be so “stupid,” she offered me a chance to stay in Lvov and work as a maid. She said that by doing so, I would be able to see the world, learn modern ways of life, or in her words, “broaden my horizons.” If I were lucky, I would also find a young man willing to marry me, allowing me to go on with my life in the wide world…

After two days of wandering around unsuccessfully in the markets of Lvov I accepted the woman's offer. My friend, Barbara, became frightened that my Jewishness would be discovered and left the city hurriedly. I was left alone. The woman and I went to see an acquaintance of hers, Mrs. Ternevsky. As a candidate to be a maid, I made a good impression. Her only reservation was that she thought village girls ate too much. However, since I was thin, she agreed and decided to give me a chance. And thus, my career as a maid began.

I was immediately faced with another problem. To stay in Lvov, I needed to provide a certificate from Dombrova and a birth certificate. After sleepless nights, I decided to reach out to the priest in Peratyn (a village near Synkov where I lived). I did not know him personally, nor did I know his name, but my brother once told me that he was a wonderful person. I wrote him a letter, detailing who I was, what I was doing in Lvov, and the reason I was asking for help. On the envelope, I wrote: “To the priest in Peratyn–strictly private.” After sending the letter, I became frightened about what I had done and contemplated running away.

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However, I had nowhere to go. Having no choice, I waited for what the future would bring. And then, one day, the priest arrived. My employer was convinced–due to a coincidental resemblance between us–that the priest was my brother, and I, for some reason, did not want to tell her about it. From that point on, she told everybody that I had a political past, that because I must have gotten into a conflict with the Germans, I moved to live in the city. The conversation with my “brother” was quite amusing, since my employers witnessed our exchange. The priest knew a lot about me, while I knew nothing about him. He brought me gifts from “home,” messages from my girlfriends, and word from a friend who had allegedly enlisted in the German military. However, none of these things ever happened or existed. The most important thing was that he brought me all the paperwork I had requested. He even brought me some additional blank official forms, so that I could assist other people. From that point on, throughout the war, he became both a friend and a family member to me, as he offered his support to me during the most difficult times. It is unfortunate that our connection ended when I left Ukraine.

I stayed with the Ternevskys for several months. Although I struggled to be an effective maid, Mrs. Ternevsky found it convenient to have a helper in the house. I truly made a genuine effort, waking up at four every morning and working until late at night. It is only when a person has nowhere to go that they work like that.

The home was steeped in antisemitism. It was there that I heard praise for the remarkable skill of the Germans – that they had managed to sever the head of the Jewish hydra. There, I also heard about what was happening in the ghetto. The lady of the house told me that the way Germans threw babies out of windows into trucks was inhumane. According to her, the Germans could have eliminated Jews through more humane means, such as injection. From the office window in the house, I saw trucks loaded with naked corpses on their final journey after the Aktions in the ghetto in Janowska. At times, I was awakened to the sound of Jewish songs, sung by Jews who were being marched to work under guard. In the street, Jews offered me large sums of money for the loaf of bread I had just bought in the store for breakfast. It was enough for me to look into their eyes to know that they recognized who I was, yet none of them spoke a word. In that house, I once opened the door to Gestapo officers who came to take away a secretary from our office. She was also Jewish and living with Aryan papers. I always tried to avoid her whenever she attempted to talk to me about “the Jewish parasites.” It was in that house that I received my first marriage proposal from the house guard, a friend of my employers. In just a few months there, I learned more about life than in all of my previous 18 years. A relative of my employers once introduced me to two intelligent Ukrainians who expressed a desire to meet me because they were familiar with the area I had come from. She might have suspected something, which frightened me. However, when I realized that I did not recognize them, I calmed down and decided to teach that relative a lesson. When they asked me about Synkov, I began recounting an event that had occurred on our estate there shortly before the war broke out. Polish policemen had killed three young Ukrainian men, claiming that they had attempted to escape from their guard. This, of course, wasn't true. The funeral for the three young Ukrainians,

[Page 619]

turned into a mass demonstration. I imagined that the two visitors attended that demonstration. I did not let them stop me from blaming the Poles. My employers and their visitors came to see just how good a Ukrainian patriot I was. I exaggerated to the point that they began to feel uncomfortable and tried to interrupt my torrent of words – but I kept going… I imagined the men were quite relieved when I finally left the room. After that meeting, I decided to leave that good family and the quiet life there. I was aware of the partisan activities in the forests and wished to join them and take an active part in the fight against the Germans. The challenge was figuring out how to find them and discover the way to reach them.

The year 1942 was marked by the resistance of the disillusioned Ukrainian population to the Nazi occupiers. The Russian soldiers who managed to escape from the prisoner camps, Poles who hid in the forests from the Ukrainian oppressors, and a few Jews who escaped from the ghettos began to organize partisan movements in the forests of Volyn, Poland, and Ukraine. The underground members in the big cities provided support, helping with the transportation of people, medicines, medical supplies and teams, and even weapons. The city of Lvov became a center for this partisan activity. The Nazis quickly responded to this resistance movement. They established special commando units to carry out urgent operations against the partisans and opponents of the occupation. They began conducting house searches and making arrests at all hours of the day and night. The Klimanko family for whom I worked as a maid, was subjected to such a visit, and the family members were arrested. By chance, the Germans didn't notice me, and I was saved. I knew that my survival at that time was due to sheer luck, but I realized I could not count on that alone. Up until then, I managed to evade the Nazis by relying on my instincts, but now, I decided to take action and protect myself by any means necessary. I decided to leave Lvov and approach the Russian underground. I presented myself as a nurse relying on the knowledge I received during a basic first aid course. Therefore, I was sent as a registered nurse to work at a partisan's field hospital.

Equipped with a certificate and a password, I set off on my journey. My goal was to join the Communist partisans, but as I moved from place to place, I ended up arriving at the wrong place – the Banderovites^[1] camp. The circumstances surrounding this incident and the identity of the saboteur, remain a mystery to me to this day. However, given the chaotic conditions within the partisan movements at that time, anything was possible. The three partisan movements active in the region had shared a common objective–fighting against the Nazis. In addition to this common goal, they were also engaged in fierce battles with one another. The Banderovites, for example, ruthlessly massacred Polish farmers in Ukraine. They also fought against the “A.K.”^[2] and the Communists. The Poles would often hand over captured Banderovites to the Germans while simultaneously fighting against the Communist Russians. Despite these divisions, each group included people of other nationalities. There were Poles among the Russian partisans, and Russian soldiers were also present among the ranks of the Banderovites. In this tumultuous environment, escapes and betrayals were common occurrences. It was no wonder, therefore,

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that I ended up in the wrong unit. Fortunately, I realized it immediately, so when they asked me about my identity, I replied: “I am a Jewish nurse who wants to help in the war against the Nazis.” They burst into loud laughter and said, “Don't tell us you came to cooperate with the Banderovites. Jews don't like us. There isn't a single Jew who speaks Ukrainian like you. You're a Polish woman, and you came here to spy on us.” The story about our family and the farm, which was not that far from their camp, did not help me. I was taken to the headquarters for interrogation. They interrogated me day and night. They had not yet begun to torture me, but they made it clear I could only save my life by telling them “their truth.” After a few days, I reached the brink of collapse from lack of sleep and hunger. I knew that my resistance had been broken, and I was ready to confess to anything–just for this nightmare to end. But then, as I was leaving the headquarters, I came across a soldier standing guard, and I recognized him as someone from my village. In a desperate cry, I called out his name. In that moment, startled and astonished, he recognized me too and called out my name. Incidentally, I had once received help from his family when they give me a certificate that allowed me to travel to Lvov as a Christian. Thanks to his testimony and recommendation, the suspicions against me were lifted, and I was accepted into the service of that gang. I was sent to a hospital as an assistant to a surgeon, who was also Jewish. He had been kidnapped by the partisans and taken along with his equipment from the hospital in Sokal.

On my first day working as a nurse, due to the stench and the horrifying sight, I fainted twice while changing the dressing of a wounded partisan. The physician had to attend to me first before he could care for the wounded man. With no other option, I gradually began to adapt to the work. I typically worked night shifts, since no other nurse wanted to take them. The severely wounded needed my constant attention, while the lightly injured sought my company simply out of boredom. It was hard work, but I preferred the night shifts over sleeping in the hospital attic, which had become a regular hangout for the officers. Naturally, during the day, I could sleep peacefully since everyone was busy.

Once a week, equipped with medicines and food, we would go to the defense lines with a physician and other nurses. I enjoyed these trips. We travelled along rough and impassable roads, through dense forests. Sometimes, we got lost and wandered around for a whole day until we finally reached the defense lines. In the evenings, the partisans lit campfires and sang Ukrainian ballads. The dark forests, the star-filled sky, and the mournful melodies felt like they belonged to another world. The next day, at dawn, we would return to our everyday work. Time passed and the autumn of 1943 arrived. Around that time, the tide of the war began to turn. The Russians successfully broke the siege of Leningrad and Stalingrad, causing the Germans to retreat. The Germans still believed that their retreat was only temporary. Meanwhile, trains continued to transport ammunition to the front and wounded soldiers to the rear. The partisans were busier than ever, sabotaging these trains. The force of the explosions shook the ground, and the fires illuminated the horizon. The Germans, increasingly alarmed by the growing intensity of the fighting, dispatched

[Page 621]

the special commando unit to eliminate the partisans in the area. Their battle against the forest fighters allowed for no compromise. They deployed trained soldiers, airplanes, tanks, and artillery.

The Germans' successes came swiftly, as one battalion after another was eliminated without mercy. Eventually, our turn arrived. One day, we found ourselves surrounded by the Germans, leading to an uneven battle between their forces and the partisans, who lacked adequate weapons. The Germans shot and shelled from a nearby village. I stayed with the fighters for a long time until I heard the approaching shouts of the Germans and the Poles. I threw out the bag containing the medical equipment and, along with two Christian nurses, left the front line. We walked through the fields, among the piles of harvested grain, all while under the relentless hail of German gunfire. We walked slowly, as if we had become deaf and blind. When we reached the edge of the village, we were stopped by German soldiers. We explained that we were on our way to visit a family and had inadvertently found ourselves in the middle of the battle, unsure of what to do next. I was the one doing the talking, and I myself was surprised by the words coming out of my mouth. The battle was quickly decided, and most of the partisans were killed. The few who managed to flee and hide among the villagers were caught and taken to Germany for forced labor. The Germans also severely punished the local population. We were added to one of the many convoys that left the area's villages, setting off on wagons on a long and exhausting journey. However, we also walked for a good part of the journey, as the Germans took pity on their tired horses. We sank up to our knees in the thick mud, shivering from the cold and soaked to the bone. Hungry and exhausted, we finally arrived in Sokol with the convoy and spent the night in the yard of the burned down synagogue in Sokal. We sat on the bare ground throughout the night; that was the rest allotted to us. In the morning, they brought some food and milk for the children. I decided to escape. I made contact with some people who were willing to help me. Wrapped in a colorful kerchief and holding a basket of empty [milk] bottles, I joined the Christian women who had delivered the food and milk, and I managed to slip out of the encircled yard with them. I told the locals that I needed to pass important information to partisan headquarters in Lvov and asked them to help me cross the border. Apparently, I made a good impression on them, and they fulfilled my request.

With a herd of cows, I crossed the border into the territory of [Poland's] “General Government,” and I boarded a train to Lvov the next morning. I returned to my Russian family, the Klimankos, who had been previously arrested by the Germans but managed to get released. Unfortunately, due to the cold and damp conditions I had to endure, I fell seriously ill with pneumonia. However, I was relieved to have escaped the nightmare of having lived among the Banderovites. It truly felt like I was returning “home.”

During the final days of World War II, the Allies pushed forward and raced toward Berlin. While Germany's cities burned, Lvov was already liberated. We, a handful of wretched souls who had survived by some miracle, emerged from our hiding places, drained and shaken, and tried once more to stand upright, to live again as human beings like everyone else. We rejoiced at the defeat of the Nazis and were intoxicated by freedom, by daylight, by the warmth of the sun, and we were filled with hope for a better world.

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We clung to life with our fingernails. We started to work, trade, and study, eager to reclaim the time we had lost. However, we quickly realized that antisemitism did not vanish with the defeat of the Nazis. We remained isolated and felt like outsiders in a world of gentiles. I did not feel well and I was lonely. I decided to study medicine, hoping that one of my relatives would eventually show up.

During that time, I met Max Ringert, and I was immediately impressed by him. I valued his perspectives and the seriousness with which he approached life. He had a balanced demeanor and radiated a sense of calm, someone whose presence made others feel at ease and secure. We quickly became friends, and our friendship lasted a lifetime. When we first met, Max was working as an engineer at the Russian communications office in Lvov. However, he dedicated much of his time to finding Jewish children, those who continued to live among non-Jews even after the Nazi defeat. He worked diligently to transfer these children to Poland and into the care of Jewish institutions.

His approach to life was clear and straightforward. He often said: “Our miraculous survival obligates us to receive every new day as an enormous gift from the Creator, and live accordingly. We must help and support every Jew, whether child or adult who needs assistance in life, and we must dedicate our lives to others.” This perspective guided him throughout his life right until his last day. We left Lvov, traveled through Poland, and arrived in Germany on our way to Eretz Israel. In Landsberg am Lech, my husband began working for ORT, initially as a teacher and later as the head of the school. He was deeply involved in training Holocaust survivors in practical skills that would help them rebuild their lives and integrate into the new reality in their homeland.

We made Aliyah in 1949. For a short time, Max managed the workshop at “Maspenot Israel” [Israel Shipyards], but he later returned to work at ORT. In fact, he was the one who established and organized the ORT school in Jerusalem, which over the years developed into a major educational institution where an entire generation of students was educated. He was both an educator and a loving father to them. At the beginning of a new school year, he once said, “In Israel, every type of work is important. You must remember that not only does the pilot defend the homeland, but so does the plane mechanic. Everyone needs to know their work extremely well and execute it in the most efficient way. Only in this way will we fulfill our tasks.” Many of his students adopted his ideas and now occupy key positions in the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces), industry, and private businesses. Many of them work in education, continuing in his footsteps. He maintained positive working relations and helped and promoted employees according to their skills and abilities. He trained members of his staff to become successful principals of large and important schools nationwide. He gave wholeheartedly to everyone, demonstrating honesty and good spirit. The only person he neglected was himself. Even after becoming ill, he continued to work, fully aware that he needed to rest due to his precarious state of health. That was simply his nature, and it remained so from the moment I met him until his final moments. He educated generations of boys, but entrusted the education of his own sons to me. I had to step into his role within our small family and guide the boys in his spirit and manner, and I believe I did not disappoint him. My heart aches at the thought that he did not live to see his two sons grow into adulthood. The older one is an officer and commander in the IDF, while the younger one graduated from his studies at ORT and is about to begin his service in the IDF.

Translator's footnotes:

1. Banderovites were a faction of the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists, led by Stephan Bandera. Besides fighting against the Nazis, they had been engaged in various atrocities, including the murder of civilians, most of whom were ethnic Poles, Jews, and other people. Most of the anti-Jewish pogroms carried out by the Banderovites occurred in Eastern Galicia and Volhynia, but some were also carried out in Bukovina. (Based on Wikipedia). Return
2. The Home Army (Polish: Armia Krajowa, abbreviated A.K.) was the dominant Polish resistance movement in German-occupied Poland during World War II. (from Wikipedia) Return

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Before 1942, until the age of 12, I lived with my parents and sisters–even during the time of the Russians, when we were forced to move further from the border (as we were estate owners).

When I was 12 years old in 1942, we were still living in the village, but already knew that we would soon need to move to the ghetto in Radekhov. One day, my mother came home accompanied by the daughter of the village teacher, Slevka, a good acquaintance of our family. Slevka had recently married and was planning to move to another village near Brody. She proposed taking one of my mother's daughters as a “maid,” thereby saving her from falling into German hands. Naturally, my mother agreed with heartfelt gratitude and even promised Slevka a generous reward, should the plan succeed.

The choice fell on me, as my appearance was distinctly Aryan – my blue eyes, upturned nose, and blond hair all seemed to affirm a belonging to a non-Jewish world.

When the night fell, my mother dressed me as a village girl. All the family stood around me, their eyes filled with tears. Like the others, I could not say a word. My brother tried to break the silence and said: “We are dressing Hela for her chuppah, the groom is waiting for her outside. Too bad we will not get to see him…” “Yes,” I whispered, “and you will not be able to see me either–anymore.” I felt as if my heart were trembling. But we did not cry when I left home, and not even when my parents left me on the way to Slevka's new home. I felt like an orphan, and that was how my new “madam” introduced me in the new place the following day–a little girl, thin, frightened, and pitiful. That became my new image: like an orphan, lost, and helpless.

My work was hard and plentiful–I initially thought that I would not be able to manage it at all. I had to clean the whole house, cook, feed the pigs and the other animals, and wash the dishes. But the most challenging task of all was not to forget that I was supposed to be a gentile. Slevka was strict about my appearance. She taught me Christian prayers and songs–wisely, and deliberately, but without a drop of affection or love. I found some warmth, a bit of help, and understanding in her husband, who worked as teacher at a high school in Brody. That quiet kindness gave me the strength to carry out my mission. I managed to contact my family–, in turn, they stayed in touch.

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After a few months, someone from my village began to suspect that I was Jewish. My “madam” had to move with her entire household to the city of Brody. There, it was easier for me to blend in. We were all strangers to everyone, both in the city and in church. I even made a few girlfriends whom I met briefly on weekends. However, during the week, I worked hard and had no time to think. And so, a year or more passed by.

My employers were Ukrainian patriots and supporters of the Germans. They hated the Poles, and even more so, the Russians. It is no wonder, then, that when the Russian front approached, they left the city with the retreating German army. Naturally, I did not go with them. I stayed behind in Brody to “guard the property,” hoping that the Russians would arrive soon, so that I could return to my family.

I refused to entertain the thought, even for a moment, that something terrible might have happened to my family–God forbid, –despite being aware of the fate of the Jews in my region. I was not afraid to live alone in the big house; in fact, I felt a sense of relief as the front approached and the sound of gunfire echoed in the distance. For several days, I stayed alone in the house, and later took shelter with a few other girls in the cellar. In the meantime, the city changed hands–falling alternately to the Germans and the Russians. Eventually, the Germans forced the entire population, including us, to leave town. They loaded us onto freight cars intended for animals and sent us westward. It was cold and there was nothing to eat. Once again, I felt totally lost. One Ukrainian family took pity on me and invited me to join them. They gave me a slice of bread and a blanket to wrap myself in during the slow, grueling journey. Later, I began to feel warmer–perhaps from the crowdedness, and the stench that filled the hermetically sealed train cars. They opened the cars only once a day to distribute food–a slice of bread and a cup of water– and also to give us the chance, for just a few minutes, to relieve ourselves, in full view of the laughing German soldiers who surrounded us. These were the same soldiers who accompanied the train and kept watch over us to make sure none of us would even think about escaping– God forbid.

On one occasion, a girl, whom I had noticed earlier, approached me. She had been sitting near the stove with several other boys, always quiet with a pale face concealed by an abundance of dark, delicate hair. She asked if she could sit next to me and told me that she was Polish. When I replied that my family did not like Poles, she answered: “Never mind–tell them that I am a Ukrainian too.” I was struck by how easily she was willing to change her nationality, and I began to suspect her. Before long, I concluded that she was Jewish. Still, I did not reveal anything about myself. She clung to me, and once she discovered that I did not belong to the family in our train car, she suggested that we escape together. Perhaps she was afraid somebody would recognize her. I agreed to the plan; I did not want to end up in Germany.

We jumped off the train as it slowed down. We got injured some, but we were free. We walked for hours in search of a shelter. A young Ukrainian woman we met on the way helped us. When she heard our story, she immediately offered me a job at a train station in Pshemishel [Prezmyśl]. However, they rejected my friend Asya because she did not have any identification documents.

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We decided to turn to the city's officer, a Ukrainian, hoping he might be able to help us. But on the way there, we were arrested by a German soldier who suspected that we had escaped from the train. By some miracle, another policeman took pity on us, perhaps moved by my miserable appearance and our desperate cries. He not only helped us escape from the police station but also led us to the city officer, telling him that he knew us as cleaners who worked at the train station…

Based on the documents I carried, which identified me as an orphan from Brody, and my testimony that Asya was my cousin, we managed to obtain some sort of identification papers for her. With those, we returned to work at the train station. I was assigned to the tracks, directing the rails before the trains departed. Asya, who admitted knowing German–a foolish thing to reveal under the circumstances– was placed in the office. She soon became a problem for me, since she was not very careful about hiding her identity. I, on the other hand, fell ill from the hard work and the meager food. My fever worsened by the day, and those around me believed I would not last much longer. What kept me alive was fear –the fear of what I discovered hidden in Asya's closet. Inside, she had a sack with a tefillin pouch, a [Zionist] shekel, pictures of bearded, traditionally dressed Jews, jewelry, and letters written in Yiddish and Hebrew… Drained of all strength, I collected the items, and once I was alone, I burned them all in the stove.

When she noticed the sack was missing, she became terrified, but did not dare to ask who had taken it. Fear kept her from sleeping or eating. I felt sorry for her and admitted what I had done. She cried and promised to be more careful. I got so overwhelmed by the effort that I lost consciousness. A close friend–a Russian girl– covered my shift so that I could receive food. Another friend helped wash me, and yet another brought a priest to give me the final blessing… These friends from work were kind to me. Eventually, they brought the supervisor from the train station, and he sent me to the hospital. There, they laid me among the patients with typhus.

I stayed at the hospital for a while, unaware of what was happening around me. I was dizzy and was unconscious most of the time. I remember only one thing: I dreamt that my mother came to me. I was happy to see her, but I refused to go with her. I resisted, and shouted–and then woke up. I had regained full consciousness, and my long way to full recovery had begun.

My friends visited me often, and the German supervisor from the train station would occasionally bring me a slice of white bread. It took a long time until I was able to stand on my two feet and take some steps. I stayed to work at the hospital, and only then did I discover that it was located inside a labor camp for Russian prisoners of war. By then, I had endured great suffering in my life, but what I saw in this camp went far beyond anything I had known. The cruelty of the Germans and the prisoners' misery, poverty, and humiliation were indescribable. I worked in the kitchen, distributing bread… I saw the prisoners' eyes–wild, animal-like, on the verge of madness from hunger… and I was powerless to help. I gave them my own portion until I lost weight and no longer had the strength to stand on my own feet. This time, Asya came to help.

She asked to be transferred to the prisoners' labor camp and worked in the guards' warehouse. She stole food from there and forced me to eat. My health improved, but it wasn't long before new troubles with Asya began. She drew everyone's attention with her intelligence and her command of the German language.

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She began working at the office. My repeated pleas [for her to lower her profile] led to an almost complete rupture in our relationship. She found a Russian friend “better than me”. It did not take long for the “new friend” to turn her in. They arrested her–and later, me as well–since I had signed all her papers.

The interrogations began. I will never forget those night interrogations: a blinding light in my eyes, a row of Germans speaking among themselves, making promises, issuing threats, telling me that Asya had already confessed to being Jewish, and maybe I was too? And me? Just 13 years old, small and thin like a nine-year-old–the dangerous enemy of the German Empire. But I only had one answer: “Kill me if you want, you are strong. But I will not lie, and will not tell you anything else. Maybe you beat Asya, and she said what you wanted to hear out of her out of fear, but that will not work with me. I can only tell you the truth. And the truth is that we are both Ukrainians!” Through the days and nights of threats–sticks, dogs, pain, and weapons–I never changed my testimony. I will never know where I found the strength to endure it all. Perhaps my deep will to live gave me the power.

Weeks later, the interrogations stopped, and they put me in a jail cell with the prostitutes. I felt good among them. They really pampered me–gave me food and took care of me. They were kind women, and they pitied me as if I were their beloved daughter.

Some time later, they also brought Asya into our cell. Fortunately, this time, she knew how to stand her ground against the Germans. We were happy to be together again and thought that the worst was behind us.

Two months passed. Then one bright day, the cell door opened. A German entered and announced that he had come to kill us all. The prostitutes burst into tears, and we followed the guards like frozen fossils. They loaded us into a closed truck and brought us to a camp for prisoners who were about to be transferred to Germany for forced labor.

The camp was closed, and it was forbidden to leave it, but we couldn't resist the temptation to tour the area. We knew that we were in Częstochowa. We decided to sneak out to visit the monastery with the venerated icon of the holy Virgin Mary,^[1] known for its miracles and wonders according to the belief of the gentiles. We stood in front of the picture, feeling that we, too, had experienced a big miracle. On our way back and with her last pennies, Asya bought each of us a picture of the Lady of Częstochowa. We wrote the date, August 28, 1944, on them and we have kept the pictures to this day.

The Ukrainian guards persuaded us to volunteer for service with the German Air Force. Many Ukrainian women had already joined the German war effort, driven by the hope that Germany would support the creation of an independent Ukraine after the war. For us, the motivation was survival–we wanted to leave Poland in search of better security. And so we began our strange new chapter as recruits of the German Empire.

We were sent to a huge camp at “Pomeran-Liptnitz” for training. That region also housed manufacturing bases for Germany's V1 and V2 rockets. There we joined thousands of Ukrainian patriot women, believing they were fighting “for their homeland.”

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The training was not that intensive, and the guarding was not too strict. We ventured out to the neighboring villages, and formed some relationships with the villagers. We helped them with their fieldwork, and, in return, they gave us food and treated us kindly. After the horrific experiences at the prison, we breathed a sigh of relief in the fresh air, among simple people who also suffered in the war.

After six weeks of training, we were sent to Germany. We were issued sophisticated devices designed to create artificial fog, which blanketed the entire area, concealing it from the Allied bombers. The operations posts were positions around the factories at a distance of approximately two kilometers, with about 50 meters separating each post. Each post was staffed by six girls responsible for activating the device whenever air sirens sounded. The “fog” was foul-smelling and suffocating. The chemicals used to generate the fog were hazardous, causing burns on our hands and severe eczema– conditions we still suffer today–despite the protective rubber suits we wore. Asya and I did everything we could to disrupt the operation. We did not seek shelter during the bombings and secretly hoped each raid would be the final raid–destroy the factory, freeing us from this dreadful work.

The year was 1945, February. The Russians had advanced into Germany. The Allies bombed continually. “Camouflage” was needed every day in a different place. The Germans moved us around constantly, and we “enjoyed” the work–unlike all the Ukrainian women, for whom the ground was burning beneath their feet. One day, when we were in Koblenz, we sneaked away from the group and we hid in the cellar of a big building. Later, we found out that it was a seminary for women teachers. The cellar was filled with wonderful jams, and we truly cried when we were called to leave and move on.

We arrived in Thuringia, where we were required to be diligent in operating the fog devices to protect a massive factory and a dam adjacent to it. There we saw the Americans “skip-bombing” for the first time. (A film about it was released recently). The bombing around the dam was a spectacular sight (the dam held, and so did we). We remained there until the end of the war. We first sensed that the end had come when we got an order to abandon the devices and flee. Asya and I made our way back to the village where we had worked during our training period. The villagers welcomed us warmly. It was there, listening to the radio, that we first heard about Germany's surrender. And it was there, on February 28, 1945, that the American soldiers found us and set us free.

The road back “home” was long and not paved with roses. It took about half a year. Along the way, we underwent medical examinations in American hospitals and endured troubles and interrogations by the Russians. But by then, nothing felt as difficult or as important anymore. After all, we had survived–and we knew that the future would surely be better.

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Rapaport family, Dombrova Sitting: Dan Rapaport and his wife Hudel from Dombrova Standing: Yekutiel, Sara wife of Fuss and Itzchak Rapaport (two sons and the daughter)

Group of students and their teachers from “Beit Yaakov” school for girls Top, from left to right: Peshi Zwerling, Henia Gutfleisch (teacher), Zvia Rosenberg, Rachel Charap, Chana daughter of Sosi, Nechama Kras, Zvia Waldbaum, Sara Zeitler, Rachel Barach, Mindia Mirochnik, Chesi Genauer, Rosa Zwerling, Rachel Ismach and Chaya Letzter Bottom: Henia Konstantin, Gina Rapaport, Chana Rubin, Rachel Kohl, Sara Kitzes (teacher)

Translator's footnote:

1. Jasna Góra monastery (1382) which contains valuable frescoes and the famous painting The Black Madonna (also known as Our Lady of Częstochowa). There are numerous legends and traditions surrounding the painting, including claims that it was painted by Saint Luke or that it has miraculous powers. Return

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