SURVIVED
IN SOVIET RUSSIA
Abram Zeideman
We realized, even early in the Occupation, what the Nazis
had in store for us. The town was in the grip of terror. Placards began
to appear on many walls, informing the Jews what they could and what they
could not do. Any violation or infraction of a decree carried with it the
death sentence. In town there appeared German landowners, former neighbors,
wearing the swastika and taking over power. These same Germans who for
many years had lived peaceably with their Jewish neighbors, were transformed
overnight into savages. They installed the miller, Albert Fuss, as mayor
and as his assistant -Wittenberg who taught German in the Polish school.
They took over the town government and following Nazi directives, transformed
the lives of the Gombiner Jews into a veritable hell.
From morning to evening started kidnapping to forced labor
which was connected to hell of agony and sufferings. The payment
was murderous blows. I was caught few times and every time I returned wounded
and hurt. After day of misery I had to look for food. The Polish neighbors
with whom we lived for generations together watched our sufferings with
contempt and mockery. They lost their homeland within matter of days, but
comforted themselves that the destiny of the Jews is worse. Every time
when the Germans marched a group of Jews to forced labor, the Poles stood
by , watching and enjoying “now is your turn zyd to work finally”.
I would also like to note that right upon occupation,
many Jews lost their livelihood, The Germans immediately confiscated the
Jewish business. They took all the warehouses of those who run the trade
of eggs commerce (storing in lime pools) and left many without sources
for income. They ordered a decree which prohibit the Jews to appear in
the market fares which were held once a week. On the other hand, they were
forced to open their shops every day, if not they would have been accused
of sabotage. In their shops they were the prey of any German passing by.
And another common scene in Gombin was, right from the beginning, kidnapping
the Jews in the streets and cutting their beards. Some of the Jews did
not surrender and they wrapped their faces as if they were sick, to avoid
the Nazi abuses.
One morning, it was a Thursday, the Germans issued an
order for all Jews to assemble at the pig-market, threatening to shoot
all those who failed to appear. That same day, my brother Hersch Nissen
and I went out in the street to try and obtain some bread. As we made our
way along the street, several Germans pounced on us and dragged us off
to the Firemen's Hall, where we were put to work loading boxes of ammunition.
There were in our work group about twenty five or thirty Jews. The "procedure"
was the customary one, the work accompanied by abuse and blows. We were
aware of the order to assemble at the pig-market and wondered whether we
were better or worse off. Suddenly, at two in the afternoon, we saw smoke
billowing from the center of town. I suspected the Germans set fire to
the Large Gombin Synagogue. Taking advantage of a lapse on the part of
those who were guarding us, I left the work group and ran toward the market.
The sight that greeted my eyes was terrifying. Our shul, our magnificent
wooden shul, one of the jewels in all of Poland, was enveloped in flames.
Approximately forty Jewish dwellings, surrounding the shul, were also on
fire. Standing nearby, but at a safe distance, were a group of Nazis who
divided their attention between the burning synagogue which moved them
to laughter and raining blows on Jews.
Later in the day, while the embers were still smoking,
the Germans dynamited Jewish stores and plundered them.
Those who excelled in the burning and the plundering,
were not the lowly privates but the officers. A large number of Jews were
assaulted and murderously beaten. Among the seriously wounded, was my wife's
uncle, Wolf Laski (who later shared the fate of most Gombin Jews, perishing
with his wife and two daughters in Chelmno's gas chambers. Two of his sons,
Shmuel and Mendl live in Detroit today). I too was murderously beaten that
day. I managed to save my life by escaping into Faivish Prawda' house,
the Germans firing at me, as I ran. All week long my body was swollen and
I was unable to move. It was on that bloody Thursday that I made up my
mind to escape Gombin and go to the eastern part of the country, occupied
by the Russians.
There were, during that period, others, mostly young Gombin
men, who fled "east." Lying swollen in bed, I discussed the matter with
my brother, trying to induce him to go with me. But he would not hear of
it. Russia, he argued was a "locked cage," and whoever crossed the border
into that land, was lost forever. As for staying behind, one might hope,
he said, after the war's end and the departure of the Nazis, Gombin would
again be free.
My brother was not the only one to entertain such notions.
Nobody could remotely imagine, at the time, what the Germans had in store
for us. But I became daily more determined to leave Gombin. I talked over
this matter with the girl I intended to marry and she expressed a willingness
to go with me. It was decided that we marry before leaving. The wedding
took place in my bride's mother's house. Present at the wed-cling which
took place in the after-noon, were my two brothers, Hersh Nussen and Mayer,
my sister Ruzia, my bride's mother, Malka, Freydl Laski, her daughters
Sarah and Chana Laski, her brother-in-law, ltzhak Bauman, Wolf Laski, Mayer
Kesele and his wife, Mordechai Findik and Miriam Ettinger. We received
the blessing from my bride's cousin, the sexton ltzhak Bauman. Moishe Niederman,
was placed outside the house to stand guard, in the event a German came
upon us and found a group of Jews assembled in one place.
On the following day, Sunday, November the 20th, we left
Gombin, Moishe Shlang who had a "permit" to travel, drove us in his wagon.
With us on the journey, was a son-in-law of Shekerka's (whose wife and
daughter perished in the bombardment). He was a resident of Eretz-Israel
who had come to Gombin on a visit only to be caught in the war. |
|
The road to Warsaw
was fraught with peril. We were stopped by the Germans several times and
were pressed into work gangs.
Arriving in Warsaw we first perceived the full extent
of the destruction. Whole blocks were levelled to the ground. Among the
ruins, people moved like shadows. An acrid odor of smoke permeated the
air. Two bridges, spanning the Vistula River were smashed and we crossed
on the third which was crowded with German schutz-polizei and soldiers.
Approaching the Jewish section, we found the destruction
worse than elsewhere. Every second Jewish house was a fire gutted ruin;
in many places it was impossible to pass owing to the mounds of rubble.
The Jewish faces one saw, were filled with sorrow and grief and - fear.
After only several hours in Warsaw, we learned that here,
too - in Europe's largest Jewish community -the Nazis "caught" people on
the streets and pressed them into work gangs. Every day fresh placards
were pasted on the walls, announcing new disabling decrees. There was also
widespread talk about instituting a ghetto. The prevalent mood among the
Jews, was despondency.
We went to an address which we received from home, to
the son-in-law of Manyale Wolman, Manek. We stayed there a few days and
prepared to continue our journey.
In her house we met some Gombiners: Chaja Ajdel Mitzenmacher,
Gitl Celemenski, her husband and son Brunek, Wowa Appel from Saniki. Also
during the few days we stayed in Warsaw, we were grabbed to forced labor.
Over there we saw for the first time the S.S. with the red skulls on their
uniforms.
After three days in Warsaw, we left in a wagon. Among
the passengers, besides my wife and myself, were Chaya Aydl Mitzenmacher,
Chawa Appel, Gitl Celemenski and her four-year old boy. Our destination
was the small town of Slovatich on the Bug River which divided Poland from
Russia. The man who drove us was a Pole.
Arriving at the border town, we were surrounded by Germans
who beat us mercilessly and locked us in a fortress. Inside, it was so
dark, we could not see one another. When, later a German opened the door,
we were almost blinded by the light. He let us go free, but we didn't know
what path to follow. As if by some miracle, a Polish woman appeared and
signaled us, with her eyes, to follow. Arriving in front of her hut, in
a nearby village, she volunteered to row us across to the opposite shore
of the Bug. She led us inside a large white washed dwelling, left us there
and came back later carrying food for us to eat. She was very friendly
and did not demand an exorbitant amount of money for rowing us across.
She treated us decently. Considering our recent unfortunate experiences
with the German barbarians, we were very moved and grateful. In the middle
of the night, she led us to the river and we took seats in a little boat
-in two's and three's - and she rowed us across. Nor did she abandon us
on the other side, till we were shown the road to Brest-Litovsk. In parting,
she wished us luck. May you never experience misfortune again, she said.
Her wish did not come true.
Several kilometers from Brest-Litovsk, we happened upon
a peasant who regarded us with a hostile expression and did not let us
out of sight. Wherever we went, he followed. We realized he planned to
report us and offered him some money to leave us alone. But to no avail.
Spying the first Russian militiaman, the peasant told him about us and
the other commanded us to follow him.
We were taken to the militia headquarters, where a heavy-set
N.K.V.D. lieutenant sat behind a desk and questioned us in Russian, through
a translator. He asked us who we were and where we planned to go. GitI
Celemenski and her husband and child were allowed to go to Brest-Litovsk,
as he had been born in Byalistok and was thus a citizen of the "Liberated
Territories." But the rest of us made the mistake of telling him the truth
- that we were Gombin Jews who suffered untold agonies at the hands of
the Germans; but now that we were in the land of the Soviets, we were hopeful
of finding protection and freedom. The N.K.V.D. lieutenant heard us out
calmly and just as calmly informed us we would have to go back where we
came from, in view of the fact we crossed the border illegally.
And that is how it was. After spending the night under
arrest, a militiaman put us inside a train (for which we had to pay) and
we returned to the Bug. There, a Russian peasant, whom we had to pay, rowed
us across to the Polish side. Fortunately when we crossed, there was not
a German in sight. We came upon a tiny Jewish village, Swislowicz, and
found an inn that was crowded with Jews who had run away from German-occupied
towns and villages. Now they were waiting for an opportunity to cross into
Russia.
The owner of the inn brought us food and put us up for
the night. In the morning, he found a Polish woman who, like the peasant
woman before her, rowed us across the river. This time we were lucky and
made it to Brest-Litovsk without untoward incident.
Our first impression of Brest-Litovsk was shattering.
People walked about in the streets without fear or hindrance. Jewish children,
clutching books, were on the way to school; business establishments were
open. Soldiers promenaded on the sidewalks, engaging passersby in friendly
conversation. It seemed incredible that only a few kilometers separated
us from the gehenna, where the Nazis stalked their prey like animals, where
each and every Jew had a death sentence hanging over him.
The Russian soldiers had a popular song about Russia,
where one could "breathe free air." Our initial impression was, after the
German nightmare, that this was indeed so. Everything we saw that in ordinary
times would be considered as a natural state of affairs, we held to be
a wondrous revelation. Even the fact that we could appear in the street
without fear of being assaulted by a hate-filled German who could torture
and kill us at will, we deemed a miracle. We entered an inn and spent the
night. As our money soon gave out, we went to the "tolczok" (free market)
and sold a few of our personal belongings.
Although we felt good in Brest-Litovsk, it was not our
plan to remain there but to go on to the small town of Yanov, near Pinsk,
where, we hoped to find my wife's brother, Moishe Gelbert, who at the start
of the war, had been a soldier in the Polish army. After the invasion of
the Germans and the rout of the Polish forces, he returned to Gombin where
he stayed only briefly. He left for Yanov, where a friend of his, a former
Gombiner resident, Benyomen Baruch, a locksmith, lived. From Yanov, my
brother-in-law sent regards to us through another Gombiner resident. Noah
Zielonka who had come back with his wife. We, therefore, decided to go
to Yanov and settle there with my brother-in-law.
Before the departure to Yanov we phoned and talked to
Baruch who informed us that my brother-in-law, Moishe Gelbert decided once
again to return to Gombin, but he offered us to join him in Yanov. Only
later it was discovered to us that my brother-in-law, Moishe Gelbert was
caught before arrival to Gombin, murderously bitten. He lied a few days
afterwards with destroyed lungs and died from the blows.
Travelling to Yanov was not a simple matter. To begin
with, it was difficult to get a railroad ticket. But even after standing
many hours in line and finally obtaining a ticket, you had to force your
way into the train which was frightfully crowded and did not run regularly.
But in the end, after much effort, we found ourselves inside the train.
There were only my wife and myself, Appel and Aydl Mitznmacher having stayed
behind in Brest-Litovsk. On arriving in Yanov, several militiamen were
on hand to take charge of the refugees and find quarters for them in private
homes. We were put up with a couple, Moishe and Brayne who ran a small
bakery. They treated us in a friendly manner. Yanov was not far from the
small town of Motele, where Chaim Weitzmann, the eminent Zionist and first
President of Israel, was born. The town was very small but colorful. It
consisted of a large rectangular market and little streets that led out
toward open meadows. The early weeks in Yanov were for us a transition
from a nightmare to sunny reality. The little town Yanov was quiet and
Jewish and after the ordeal of Gombin everything appeared as though it
were a pleasant dream. But the dream did not last long.
In the first days I started to work at a private tailor
workshop Zanwel. After a week of work I asked for my salary and he fixes
payment which you couldn’t live on it. I left him and started to work by
my own as a private tailor. I succeeded. Work was not missing. People were
afraid to leave material for fear of confiscation. Everybody wanted new
clothing. So income was sufficient for both me and my wife in those days.
When we stayed in Yanov, I was in contact with our Gombiner
Jewish friends from Gombin, who escaped also and lived in the surrounding
towns and villages. Some of them even came themselves to visit us, like
Jazik Zaliszynski, Welvek Friedland, Lajzer Cohen, Fawisz Bol, Menasze
Ber and others.
In January arrived and settled with us the brother of
Benyomen Baruch. He enlisted to the Polish Army afterwards, survived and
killed afterwards in the Independence War of the State of Israel.
I traveled a few times to visit Gombiners in Bialystok
and Brest-Litovsk. In Bialystok on Kazikowa Street 16, lived 30 Gombiners.
I remember Moshe Wolman, Rachel Lajzerszteyn, Natan Schwartz, Lajzer Cohen
and his sister Rivka Cohen, Natalia Fuks, Mendel Wruble, Jazik Zaliszynski,
the two Rogozynski brothers, Muniek Laski, Itzhak Wirobek and others. They
all lived in a small room with a kitchen which looked terrible and frightening
from poverty, dirt and hunger. The little bread they found they used to
hang on the ceiling so that rats will not eat it. They fought hard and
sold some clothes in the market, to gain some money. I met them in most
depressing situation and they were all desperate and home sick, longing
for the relatives who stayed behind in Gombin. Some of them had thoughts
to go back to Gombin, and so it was. Part sent deep into Russia and the
others who returned to Gombin were liquidated.
Second time I traveled to Brest-Litovsk to visit group
of Gombiners who fled to that town. I found there the former chairman of
the Jewish Community of Gombin: Chaim Lurie. Also he told me he is desperate
and wish to go back to the home town. And he did return, and shared the
bitter fate with all the Jews of Gombin.
Several weeks after our arrival in Yanov, a new decree
was issued by the local authorities, evicting the local "rich" from their
homes. One such person, a Jew named Pomerantz whose mill and store had
been nationalized earlier, was quartered with our landlord. It was therefore
necessary for us to find a new place to live. We moved in with an old Jew
who had a much smaller and poorer house than the baker. The second change
was a 'social" one. The local Jewish communists discovered that I worked
privately as a tailor; they came with the intention of forcing me to open
a large workshop specializing in ladieswear (there were many Soviet officials
in town with their wives). I tried to beg off and made a counter-proposal
that my wife shall be employed in the workshop. They agreed. But soon a
third change occurred, a radical one, destroying all our previous plans.
Some time ago, the authorities had come to us with a choice: either we
accepted Soviet citizenship or registered for the purpose of returning
to Poland. Owing to the fact that both my wife and I had relatives in Gombin,
we decided to register as Polish citizens desiring to go back. Morever,
we knew if we accepted Russian citizenship, we would, as my brother once
said, get 'caught in a trap." We registered and for a long time heard no
more about the matter. But one Friday evening a large number of Russians
appeared in the town and we became suspicious something was afoot. But
we did not know what it might be; there was not one among us who had an
inkling of the misfortune that was in store for us.
In the middle of the night, we were awakened by a knocking
on the door. Several N.K.V.D. members entered, guns in hand. They were
here on an inspection, we were told. But instead of inspecting they told
us to get dressed and accompany them. We had not the slightest notion,
at the time, that the scene unfolding in our house was being repeated a
thousand-fold throughout the "Liberated Areas" of former Poland. Permitted
to take along a few personal belongings, we were led outside, where a horse
and wagon was waiting. Only now we saw that we were not alone. Horse and
wagons were strung out in front of virtually every dwelling. Refugees,
like ourselves, were being led out of the dwellings, carrying their personal
belongings. We were ordered to climb in and driven to the railroad station.
It was summer, the end of June. We were put inside the cars and spent the
whole day here in the unbearable heat. Towards evening, soldiers sealed
our doors and put huge locks on them.
We spent ten days in the sealed freight-train that moved
slowly across Russia's vast and endless steppes. We did not have the slightest
notion where the train would stop and let us out. At each railroad station
we saw throngs of people who gazed at us from a distance, tears of pity
in their eyes. Toward the end of the tenth day, the train stopped and soldiers
removed the locks. Now, for the first time after so many days and nights
in the airless, fetid, unsanitary cars, with all of us on the point of
being asphyxiated, we emerged to breathe the free air.
The place where we stopped was called Kotlas, on the River
Severnaya Dvina, Archangelsk region, Siberia. As evening settled, it did
not grow dark. Even later, in the middle of the night, it was so light,
one could read a newspaper under the open sky. Towards nightfall, we were
divided into small groups and put in small open wagonettes. My wife and
I and several other refugees were taken to a place about twenty-five kilometers
from Kotlas to a village surrounded by an impenetrable forest, named Basharova,
where exiles were held. We arrived at our destination at three in
the morning. The insects were unbearable. Clouds of mosquitoes swarmed
over us, stinging our faces, hands and all exposed parts of our bodies,
It was impossible to drive them off; they appeared determined to eat us
up alive. When we reached our destination in the middle of the forest,
the insects were even worse. The place consisted of several wooden barracks,
subdivided into one room compartments. Two families were crowded into each
room. Entering our "dwelling," we were horrified by the sight of red worms
covering the walls. These live, squirming objects were soon in our clothes,
on the table, in our beds, in our food.
The barracks were furnished with little iron beds and
crude tables and benches. Owing to the bright light, the worms and the
insects, crawled out of the walls; sleeping was out of the question.
At dawn, we were summoned to a meeting. There were several
Russian families in our camp who took charge of us. At their head was an
N.K.V.D. official, Bayoff who had an assistant, named Samsonov. Bayoff
greeted us with cold harsh words. "You were not sent here for a certain
period," he said, "you will remain here forever. You declined to become
citizens of the Soviet Union; you declined to accept Russian passports
offered you; you are, therefore, traitors to the Fatherland. Those of you
who want to live will have to work. All others will be buried here, under
the firs. Here, in Russia, we firmly believe in the principle that he who
does not work, does not eat."
Many of those present began calling out their skills.
One man declared he was a doctor; others called out they were tailors,
cobblers, tin-smiths. But the commander dismissed them all with a wave
of his hand. "Here," he said, "you will forget what you were in the past.
Here, you will chop down trees." As the work was being assigned, I was
put in with a group of "Drivers" whose task it was to haul the logs from
the forest with horse and sled. The work was much more difficult than cutting
wood in the forest, but the commandant promised us we would be better fed
than the others. However, the difference between their portions and ours,
was two hundred grams of black bread.
Our work-day began at five in the morning; we returned
to our barracks twelve hours later, exhausted and hungry. There was only
one break during the whole day, during which we received a piece of bread
and a liquid they called "soup," for which we had to pay. It became apparent
during the very first day that being a "driver" was extremely hard work.
In the first place, it was very difficult to put the felled trees on the
sleds; but our real trouble started when the horses tried pulling
the loaded sleds. The horses were skin and bones, perennially hungry and
exhausted. The Russian had told us we could use the horses for work only,
not, under any circumstances, for pleasure. The life of a horse, they told
us, was to them of greater value than a human being. We heard this refrain
many times. It was true, the horses were more important to the Russians
than human beings.
The food we received, barely appeased our hunger and we
were forced to seek additional sustenance in the forests. In the summertime
it was bearable, as the forest provided berries, mushrooms, roots and certain
vegetables with which to still our hunger. But the winter was insufferable.
In the first place, it was numbing cold and none of us had the proper clothing.
We still wore the clothes in which we came in the summer. Now, during the
numbing winter nights, when the wind knifed through the barracks, we covered
ourselves with all the belongings we'd brought along from Yanov. But even
worse than the cold, was the hunger. The berries and mushrooms of the summer
months were gone and we were forced to live on the rations we received
for "fulfilling the norm." This consisted of a piece of pasty bread and
thin, unappetizing soup.
With the arrival of winter, hunger began to exact its
toll. Many of us became ill and bloated with swelling. It became a vicious
circle: the weaker one became, the less work he was able to perform; the
less he worked, the less food he received, the weaker he became. Realizing
that some of our people were on the point of dying from hunger, we organized
a secret group whose task it was to help the weaker ones in every way possible.
But the commandant found out about it and warned us that forming such "secret"
organizations could lead to severe punishment. The position of those who
received occasional packages from the outside, was less intolerable. But
there were only a very few of those in our barracks. Another way of acquiring
a little food was to sneak out of camp and go to a kolhoz (collective farm),
about ten kilometers away, and barter clothes for something to eat. This
could be done only on Sunday, our free day. But not every Sunday was free.
The authorities "invited" us meetings and tried to prevail on us to "voluntarily"
give up our free Sunday for the "Soviet Union." It goes without saying
everybody "volunteered." The medicinal care we received was minimal. They
did not provide us with a doctor altogether; we were dependent on a Russian
woman who claimed to be a qualified nurse. On her "diagnosis" depended
whether a sick person would be allowed to remain at home a day or whether,
in his indisposed state, he would have to drag himself to the forest to
work. Under such circumstances, a number of people collapsed and died.
A number of infants also died.
There wasn't any school available for the children; but
there was a prison. People were imprisoned for the slightest infraction
of rules, put in a cold cell and received nothing to eat, as 'those who
did not work, did not eat." As for the outside world, we had not the slightest
idea what was happening. Often we spent nights on our iron cots, thinking
about Gombin and what was happening there, how our relatives fared. Only
the Russians in our camp received an occasional newspaper, but there was
little in them about the events transpiring in the world. The winter, arriving
early, increased in severity, bringing with it heavy snows and arctic winds.
And just as on our arrival, there had been tweny hours of light and four
of darkness, there were now no more than a couple of hours of light, the
rest, pitch-black night.
We kept track of Jewish holidays and when Yom Kippur came,
we decided to go to the forest but not to perform any work. The leader
of our brigade was a Jewish attorney from Warsaw, named Glicksman.
Came Yom Kippur, we rose and went to the forest. But nobody
made an effort to work. The commandant flew into a rage, summoned Glicksman
and took away part of his pay. In the meantime, the temperature continued
dropping. After a period when the thermometer stood at fifteen and twenty
degrees below zero, it fell precipitously, reaching forty below. It was
hell to get up at five in the morning on such days and wade through the
deep snows. The forest was a little more congenial than the open, the trees
providing a little protection from the winds. Moreover, we built fires
in the forest, enabling us to thaw out.
However, the hunger was unbearable. Everyone of us hoped
fervently that with the passing of winter, conditions would improve. But
when winter finally bowed out, we were beset by new troubles. With the
arrival of the spring thaws, we were forced to stand deep in water for
days on end, performing our work. The dampness, the work and the inadequate
diet, brought on a rash of illnesses. Many of us lost our teeth; some had
swellings; virtually all of us suffered of chicken-blindness, the latter
caused by a vitamin deficiency. Often, on the way to work, our sight was
so deficient, we held hands and probed our way cautiously, led by those
who managed to see a little better than the rest of us. The camp administration,
moved by pity or concern for decreased production, one day brought in a
wagon of old and rancid liver. After we ate the liver, a miracle occurred
- our blindness disappeared.
Thus we worked and slaved in that distant, snow-bound,
God-forsaken camp in the Siberian forest, removed from the rest of the
world. One day, one of the refugees heard indirectly about a startling
bit of news that appeared in the newspaper the Russian received, called
"Severnaya Zvezda" ("Northern Star"). The news, according to our informant,
was that the Germans invaded Russia, precipitating a war between these
two countries.
Our first reaction was delight. Such a war, we were confident,
meant an eventual defeat for the Germans and their withdrawal from Poland.
We had heard so much about the might of the Red Army, we now firmly believed
it would prevail over the Germans. Secondly, we were hopeful the new war
would somehow bring about a change in our desperate condition, one we could
not much longer survive. One day our prayers were answered and our hopes
realized. The commandant summoned us to meeting and informed us that the
Soviets signed a pact with General Sikorski. As a result, we would be freed
from exile and be permitted to go to designated areas. Understandably,
we were overjoyed. After repeated threats that we would be "buried under
the fir trees," there was a new hope now of survival, perhaps even of eventual
return to our homes, our families and friends.
Our commandant who only recently ruled us with an iron
hand, now kept his distance from us as though he wanted nothing more to
do with the refugees. We went to our work, as in the past but the administration's
control over us was relaxed. Upon receipt of permission to go to south
or middle Asia, we packed our few remaining belongings and left the camp.
We started, on foot, toward the railroad station and boarded open wagonettes,
similar to the ones that had brought us to Siberia. The train started and
we were off again across the vast and endless Russian land. It was summer
and the heat unbearable. The train was crowded and filthy and we had to
provide our own food. And so, at each stop, we were forced to get off and
exchange a garment for food.
It was a period when all Russia appeared in motion. All
trains and ships were crowded. Millions of people were fleeing from west
to east to escape the invading German armies. We saw, along the way, large
numbers of Russo-Germans who had been uprooted from their homes near the
Volga, where they had their own republic, and driven into exile in Siberia
because the Soviet government did not trust them.
Our train moved slowly across the face of Russia. Two
weeks later we arrived near the Volga and stopped in a little town called
Volsk, in the Saratov region. The whole surrounding area consisted of German
villages that bad been emptied of their inhabitants. At Volsk, where we
got off the train, we found large quantities of food. The abandoned villages
were all amply stocked with food and live-stock and fowl. We decided this
was a good place to get off. After many months of starvation in exile,
we began the slow process of recovery. For the first time in a long time
we ate our fill. We slept in genuine beds and enjoyed long periods of rest.
But our paradise was of short duration. The front moved closer and soon
we heard the distant rumble of heavy guns. Many of us, the women in particular,
became concerned about again falling into the hands of the Nazis. Learning
that it was possible to escape to Afghanistan, we boarded a freight-train
and got off at a station near the border. The little town's name was Karushi.
We were seven couples and our arrival aroused the militiamens' suspicion.
In the end they sent us back to Uzbekistan Guzari. The town was crowded
with many thousands of refugees, the majority of them Jews. All the little
houses and tearooms were thronged. People slept in the streets. Hunger
and sickness were rampant. We decided to leave without delay and took a
train to Khazakstan, in the direction of Alma Ata. We arrived at a very
attractive and well-lighted station, at the town of Djambul. The station
being bright and clean, we were certain the town itself must be modern
and well-kept.
We left the train with our belongings and started for
the town. We soon realized our mistake. What we saw was a dirty, muddy
town with muddy huts, many of them windowless. The place was inhabited
by Khazaks, a primitive people, who had not heard of such things as beds,
spoons or forks. The Revolution changed nothing. The people lived now as
they did hundreds of years ago. The town was full of refugees. We succeeded,
after expending a great deal of effort, to move in with a poor Khazak family,
who let us have a "room," in the middle of which was a place for a cooking
and warming fire. Owing to the fact that we had no money, I began immediately
to look for work. A tailor workshop hired me but it was twelve kilometers
from where I lived, a distance I was forced to walk every day. As a qualified
worker, I was paid 300 rubles a month. This sum was barely enough for one
day's subsistence. All of us received the same pay. We worked thirty days
and were paid for only one. There was no other alternative than to look
for other means to earn more money.
The whole of the Russian people were forced to look for
other means, to keep from starving to death. This other means was to deal
on the black market. This was done by the menial worker as well as high
official. Those who did not resort to the black market, died of starvation.
In February, 1943, my wife gave birth to our first child,
a girl whom we named Hannah. Pregnant women were treated with a little
more consideration than the rest, receiving on their ration cards some
butter, fine flour and white bread.
With the creation of Polish committees, there began the
registration of citizens of that country for General Anders's army. Soon
discrimination against the Jews set in. The Christian Poles, in charge
of the registration, refused to accept into the newly constituted army
Polish citizens of Jewish extraction. A small group of Jewish refugees
went to Kuybishev, headquarters at the time of the Anders army, and prevailed
upon the leaders to be taken in. But their number was small. The Poles,
by and large, did not long conceal their anti-Semitic bias; they soon began
to carry on as though they were home, in Poland. The situation became even
worse when the Russians instituted raids, seizing refugees and pressing
them into work-battalions.
Six weeks after my wife gave birth to our daughter, two
N.K.V.D men entered our room and demanded to see my passport. They well
knew I did not have a passport, being a refugee. They arrested me and took
me to jail. The cell, where they took me, was large enough for twenty people,
but there were two hundred in it now. The conditions were unbearable. As
though counting on our being despondent, the authorities again offered
us a choice - that of accepting Soviet citizenship, or staying in jail.
The majority declined the offer, fully aware that the moment one became
a Russian citizen, he severed the last tie with his past. Several days
after entering the overcrowded, filthy cell, I came down with a virulent
sort of dysentery. The prison doctor doubted I would survive. The prison
authorities, convinced I would soon die, called me in the office and said
they would release me, temporarily, until such time as I recovered. Then
I would have to come back to prison. The distance between the prison and
the house in which we lived, was only four kilometers, but it took me eight
hours to get there, It was twelve weeks before I could rise from bed. The
doctor who came to see me, declared it was a waste of money, my ailment
being incurable. But we were able to obtain a woman doctor who used to
come to see me at dawn and bring medication she bought on the black market.
In the end, after three months, I recovered, though my
body was weak long afterward.
Owing to the fact that the N.K.V.D. raids had not stopped,
we decided to go away from the town, to a kolhoz which was about seventy
five kilometers away. There we were "made comfortable" in a windowless
stable, on a mound of straw alive with insects. Plagued by the filth and
the hunger, we decided to return to Djambul, in spite of the raids. Back
in town, I succeeded in obtaining a job in a tailoring workshop, connected
with the railroad. It was said the workshop was "secure" from raids and
work-battalions. But one day, during work, several N.K.V.D.
men entered our shop, took away all our identification papers, sent us
to the "voyenkomat" (military headquarters), then by freight train to some
unfamiliar destination. Only later did we discover that our destination
was Karaganda's coal mines.
We rode one hundred and twenty kilometers
before I decided to jump off the train. After walking several nights (I
did not dare move during the day as I did not possess identification papers)
I returned home. I went immediately into hiding and stayed there. I slept
in an attic and thus avoided the raids. In due time we made the acquaintance
of a woman who was the head of the passport division and through her, with
the aid of graft. of course, obtained a Polish passport. This made it possible
for us to come out of hiding, to register and receive a bread-card. But
this did not make me immune from raids. I was caught in the net several
times, but each time I managed to escape. On one occasion they even fired
at me, but I was determined not to fall into their hands, come what may.
Time passed and 1944 stood on the threshold.
Our condition took a slight turn for the better when wounded soldiers began
trickling back from the front, bringing with them all manner of objects,
including material which could be used for sewing clothes. Trade increased
as soldiers came to the open market to buy, trade, sell. The town revived.
One day, a tumult spread through the town. People poured into the streets,
shouting and waving. We soon found out: the Germans capitulated, the war
was over.
The scenes that were enacted, are indescribable.
All of Russia celebrated and wept, at the same time. The outpouring of
joy was for the bloody war finally concluded, and the sorrow was for the
loss of millions of husbands, sons and brothers. In the hearts of the refugees
hope was reborn to come out of the ordeal alive, to go home eventually
to our towns and villages and after these many years of suffering untold
agonies, be reunited with our families. While in exile, bits of news would
reach us about the German outrages, but none of us, even in his wildest
nightmarish dreams imagined what had taken place during our absence, the
total destruction visited on our people.
Although the war was over, our condition
did not improve. The raids continued unabated and it was necessary to hide
from the N.K.V.D. Soon we began to hear of Jews who crossed illegally into
Poland. Through a friend of ours, a Polish Jew who was the head of a committee,
we managed to get on a list of "military families" picked to return to
their homeland. We left Djambul in one of the early transports, riding
by freight-train again, in the direction of Poland. Among the passengers
were many Poles who appeared friendly enough while we were on Russian soil.
But no sooner did we cross the border into Poland than their true anti-Semitic
colors surfaced. They accused us of being responsible for the war and all
their suffering. According to them, we worked hand in glove with the Russians.
Arriving at the Polish border, we were
subjected to an inspection, the last one, after which the train was put
in charge of Polish officers. Without losing any time, the officers took
charge. They decreed that the Christian passengers on board were free to
go where they pleased, but the Jews were ordered to Wroclaw in Lower Silesia.
Arriving at our destination and emerging
from the train, we were confronted by a Pole who said derisively: "Moishe,
you still alive?!
This derisive question was hurled at
us wherever we went. When in the end we found out that our Gombin had been
emptied of Jews and that in this land of our birth the lives of those who
miraculously escaped the Nazi assassins were not safe, my wife and I said
to ourselves: we will not rear our child in Poland which is a mass-grave
of our people. We will go elsewhere. |
|