Pages From The Zabludow Yiskor Book:

Zabludow; Dapim Mi-tokh Yisker-Bukh , editor: Nehama Shavli-Shimush, Published by Former Residents of Zabludow in Israel, 1987 (Hebrew) Translation from Hebrew by Ziva Rosenhand
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The Old Synagogue of Zabludow: 1635-1939, a Model by Moshe Verbin, Kibbutz Yakum

Holocaust Chapter

Horrors, Death and Destruction
(Experiences of a Holocaust Survivor)

David Zabludovsky

The train with Jews and Poles returning to their homeland crossed the Urals mountain range, middle Russia and the Ukraine, and after three weeks of travel arrived at the end of [April?] 1946 to Lublin [sic]. The train, with 60 cars, started on the first of April. It was outfitted with bunk beds and iron ovens. They prepared and arranged for such a long journey. The returnees received food rations, and in the bigger stations warm food was served.

When we left the Urals the winter was still harsh, the snow heaps reached to the tops of houses. We arrived in Lublin in the beginning spring; we felt the pleasant warmness of the sun. It was Chol Ha’moed Passover [the days between the first, and the last days of Passover]. The town representatives were awaiting us, dressed in holiday summery clothes. Our appearance- the boots, the wool coats, and fur hats- was very different from what we saw around us. They provided us with Passover food, matzo and wine.

It is almost two years that Lublin has been liberated. There are many Zionist organizations and groups in Lublin. Many families and young men and women expressed their desire to join these Kibbutzim [seed groups]. They departed the train and joined groups of pioneers and later immigrated to Eretz Israel.

In the Lublin train station one Jew, by the name of Borrick, from Brinsk, recognized me. I stayed with him a few times when I visited that town. His family perished; he hid in a village at a Christian house and was saved. The man tried to convince the town representatives to convince me to stay in Lublin.

According to the plan, the final destination for the train was Verotslav and lower Chelziheh. But I remained in Lublin. The remaining refugees of Lublin and its surrounding were housed in a large house called "Peretz" that was erected before the war and still had not been completed. I was placed in a residence that housed a chemical factory; A Holocaust survivor and her husband lived there. For six weeks of my stay in Lublin I stayed in a warm and loving household that made me forget the wandering and suffering years and restored my spirit.

I recovered from the long journey and walked to see the city. At first I went to visit Majdanek. I wanted to go up to the ancestral graveyard – the mass factory for murder; there perished in gas chambers and were cremated in ovens more than three million people from all the nations; the number of Jews who perished was of course the largest of all.

The town representatives took me for a tour of the city that I did not know. She was destroyed from 1939, when the Nazis bombed her. In the days that Lublin was the seat of government after the Polish government fled Warsaw. They showed me an empty lot and ruins in a place where there was a ghetto, in between rocks stood a wall that reminds one of the Western Wall. On the wall there was a sign smeared in tar: "The Historic Synagogue in memory of Mhr’m". Usually the streets and houses in the city were not damaged, the theaters and movie houses were untouched. Only the strategic places were destroyed.

As I said I arrived at Lublin on Chol Ha’moed Passover. Exactly then Easter commenced. The Polish citizens decorated and dressed fill the streets. From the churches big crowds swarmed. Lublin, the residence of the Archbishop was filled with thousands of pilgrims and there were many parades from the neighboring towns and villages. Slowly, slowly I start to feel the pervading atmosphere of the neighboring Polish citizens having lived together many generations – not only did they not feel a need to express even the slightest sorrow. They looked upon us, the Holocaust survivors, as if we were strange creatures who came from the land of the dead. "They were not killed nor were they burned" they call in astonishment. Among them there are those that express their thoughts in simple words "Wait! Wait! We will finish the work the Nazis did not complete".

I gaze at the bright sunny skies. The same sky was covered nonstop, during three years, in clouds of smoke and charred flesh that emanated from the smokestacks of adjoining Majdanek. The smell of charred flesh blurred and poisoned the Polish minds- from this they have a heart of stone, emotionless.

A similar hate they showed toward the Red Army, an army that lost thousands of soldiers when they sacrificed their lives to liberate Poland; many are buried in the city, and among them many Jewish names. The marble monuments that was erected to the memory of the liberators of the city was violated daily.

I meet with remnants of the survivors of our nation. They are mostly partisans who hid in the forests or Jews who hid in the bunkers. I hear the story of an emaciated boy who hid for years in a chimney. I speak with a few sisters that wandered in the forests and the priest of the village provided them in secret food and clothing; he consoled them and foresaw for them "God tells me that you’ll remain among the living".

Everyone and the miracle of their staying alive and their experiences: A Jew in mid-life, hidden in an attic in a house outside the city by a priest. On the day of liberation when the Russian forces entered the city, he wanted to greet the liberators; full of happiness and enthusiasm. To his misfortune, the priest removed the ladder from which he would descend on the same day. The Jew fell and broke his spine and limbs. Two years have passed and he is still in a cast and his back is in an orthopedic splint.

The kitchen manager of the Jewish town representatives in the branch where I got my meals, was a Jewish woman with Aryan features. Her husband, a well-known surgeon, was cremated with all the Jews. She wandered as a Christian; they said that only recently she left a cloister but still wears a crucifix on her neck. It’s impossible to convince her that there is no reason to fear that as Jew nothing bad will happen to her. But no reason would help. She has a fear complex and cannot escape it.

I talk with a young intelligent girl with a high level of education. "How did you survive?". "Very simple" she answers. "During the entire Nazi occupation, I was on the Aryan side dressed as a beggar. I was dressed with dirty ragged clothes; I would walk around as a crazy and deaf person begging alms." This is how she played her role until liberation. There are other stories of unusual rescue. Those who returned from Russia have innumerable stories of such miracles.

On the last day of Pesach I had my debut in the "Peretz Hall". The program consisted of stories of Shalom Aleichem, stories of Peretz – the trust of a Jew in his G-d and creations by other Jewish writer from Russia. The production made a big impression on many refugees and provided me with such strong experiences that I would never forget. By the way, that was my first artistic evening after the Holocaust. I had several more presentations. I was asked to go to Chelm and appear before about one hundred Jews who survived the Holocaust. I appeared there twice.

I must tell on the atmosphere of the blood libel that spread in Chelm. I felt it when I visited the town committee. At 3’Oclock in the afternoon, I came to the town representatives to part before my return to Lublin. Suddenly, two Polish men in green army uniforms entered; one of them a lieutenant, armed with a machine gun went inside the room with the other soldier accompanied by the head of the committee and some other people; I hear loud voices and warnings. When they emerged from the room, the committee member faces were pale as limestone. The guest announced in a threatening voice: "If the boy is not found today, you will pay dearly." The committee chairman informed that they came to look for a lost Christian boy that the Jews, they assume, killed him. A few of the committee members ran to the police to ask for help. A young lady that hid during the Holocaust and was saved entered and relates that the same army men "calmed" her and said: "It’s too bad she saved herself from the Germans." They promised they would "take care of her" in due time. They attempt to reach Lublin by phone but the telephone line is busy for unknown reasons. In great depression I set out to the train accompanied by an emissary from the committee – a young man from Pinsk named Fuchs. We encounter groups of Christians in the street that are discussing the lost boy. We feel the atmosphere of a pogrom.

And as for "desert" to those events there is to add my experiences. When the train was stopped at night by a gang of Polish soldiers that emerged from the forest; there were the ‘white’ soldiers that opposed the current regime. Floodlights lighted the train and the soldiers wearing uniforms of the Polish army before the war and armed with machine guns gave an order: "Jews! Soviets and policemen! Outside! Out of the cars!" I felt a trembling in my bones; a deep fear of death passed me. A few Holocaust survivors were shot [like this] nearby the cars! Fuchs tells me: "Pretend you are sleeping." Darkness in the cars. At the entrance of our cars stood two soldiers. They lit the car and repeat the same orders. A Christian woman answered: "There are none like these here." Suddenly there was commotion. And again darkness. The gang leaves quickly without taking anybody from the train. A miracle happened. The noticed an approaching train and fled. With the dawn we arrive in Lublin.

Refugees are already waiting for us. They ask what has happened in Chelm. Some have relatives there. What could we say to them? We were later informed that Chelm succeeded in connecting by phone to Lublin and immediately a security unit was dispatched. And in this way a slaughter of the remnant survivors was averted.

The Lublin committee asks that I remain in the city and requested that I conduct drama classes. But the heart was pulling toward Bialystok and Zabludow.

I leave Lublin and depart for Warsaw, even though the journey is laden with dangers and risk.

But first I ascend to the ancestral graveyard at Majdanek.


As we were leaving the city the Polish man on the cart showed us from far away the barbed wire fence and the crematoria chimney that rose in the distance. We are approaching a quite large fenced-in field. Many building stood there – a whole city. Near the gate, a Polish army guard station. The camp remains the same. Today it is a national museum. Near the gate we meet waiting visitors. There are many Polish and few tourists, French, Swedish and English among them. They allow an entire group enter. The guides, a man and a woman explain in Polish. They are conversant in five languages and can answer in all of these languages. They show us the mountain of shoes spread out in a large warehouse. A large sign indicates "Don’t touch". The shoes were removed from people before the victims’ death. I am reminded of the words of the poet M. Sholstein!

"I saw a mountain – higher than Mount Blanc, holier than Mount Sinai; not in a dream, in reality; it stood on the ground".

And it continues! "I hear mixed steps of sword boots, of plain boots, ordinary, of children’s knitted shoes, tiny, shoes of small children just beginning to walk".

We are brought to a building that had the name "Department of Disinfection". In the first room, they cut the victims’ hair. The spokeswoman explains to us that the hair was sent to Germany and from them they made thousands of mattresses. A door is opened and we enter a large hall; it seems as if this is a large military bathhouse. On the deck long pipes from which steam comes out. From the left and the right a square wall made from concrete; before the shower, they’ve been told – they should exercise; the intention that if anyone hid any valuables they would drop and fall to the ground. The Nazi animals would deceive the victims; till the last minute the victims would not know what their fate would be. After they cut their hair, they even gave them a towel and soap.

A door is opened for us from the wall in front of us. We see the gas chambers. They told the victims that after the shower everyone would go through disinfection. The square wooden chimney, from which poisonous gas was released, was not very large. The door closed hermetically. On the side – a small hole glazed with glass – the executioner would watch to see if all the victims had been suffocated and were quiet.

We enter the gas chamber. I touch the smooth walls and a fear pours over me. On these walls where I stand, quivering hands of thousands of martyrs groped, the beautiful and modest Jewish girls, the cheerful and dear children, Yosselech, Shlemelech, Rivkalech and Saralech; they pleaded for rescue near these walls and breathed their last innocent breath.

In a moment I will collapse – and now a door is opened in the opposite wall. This is also a sealed door. And we see a train track and cars. On the cars they would heap the bodies that were gassed and were taken to the crematorium. We are walking on the train tracks toward the crematorium. The crematorium is a large building, built of large red bricks. The impression is of a factory. The chimney is squared and wide. From left and right two mass graves of people who were gassed. The Nazis did not have time to burn them. On the graveyards -- fresh bouquet of flowers. The visitors add more flowers. Near one wall a mountain of human bones, near it there is a sign: "Do not touch: These are bones that were taken from the ovens that burned until the last minute before the liberation". We came closer, and saw five oven’s openings, and big dustpans with wheeled handles, it looks like an iron plow. With this dustpan the body was thrown to the furnace. In the side- a room in which stood a unique cement table, on it they used to extract from the bodies the gold teeth or they cut the bodies, in order to search their inner organs, out of the suspicion that they swallowed valuable stones [jewels]. From the boiler that stood in the crematorium, came out pipes that through them dripped the fat in which they later on made Jewish soap with. They show us a barrel full of brown fat that they caught in the crematorium at the time of liberation.

They showed us a can with the deadly gas "Zyklon" with which they killed the people. It looks like a white lime that you cannot suspect it to be dangerous. They explained to us that the amount of the gas "Zyklon" that was found at the time of liberation was enough to kill about 7 million people.

The death camp was divided into 7 "fields" each "field" had a unique role and bunks of their own.

We looked at the different bunks that have bunk beds. "Slaves" "lived" there; that the rest of their life was taken away and then they were "thrown" to the ovens.

We see the hospital in which the most horrible experiments took place. The last "field", where prisoners who were unlawful were killed by hanging. The hangings were done in front of the "slaves" so they’ll see. In this camp the camp officers and his helpers were finally hung after they were caught during the camp liberation. They were hung for three days, and the survivors went to watch them, rejoicing in their suffering.

Finally we were looking at a big building- the museum. Right at the entrance we are overcome with fear. The wax figures look as if they are alive; the clothing, the shoes, the natural colors- that was how the slaves looked like in the camp. The Jew with a patch and a Star of David; the French with the letter "F" on his chest; the Polish with the letter "P"; for each nation- a special sign. Underneath the glass: different diagrams, statistics, pictures, torture tools, etc- until the last pictures from the liberation; pictures of the animal Nazis that were active in the camps and in the end were caught and hung.

Deeply shocked I’m leaving the death factory, our century’s disgrace. The world saw and remained silent. For a long time I was under the shocking impression, and even now, at the time of writing these words the nightmare is relived.


The city of Warsaw was bombed three times and suffered a great damage; in 1939, when the war broke out; in the Polish uprising against the Nazi occupation; and at the time of the ghetto Warsaw uprising, in which the Jews fought heroically with guns against the German animals, and wrote a great chapter in the history of the suffering Jews.

Praga- the suburb of Warsaw- almost complete, except for a few parts that got destroyed. The Jewish City and regional committee was located in Praga. I arrived on Sunday to the committee; this is a resting day. The clerk, a young woman, is writing information about me- "refugee, born in Zabludow…" she is asking who am I from Zabludow. It so happens that she is the daughter of Teible Bialistotski, she was saved and is living with her family in Praga.

I get some helping money and a place to sleep in beautiful bunks in Praga; there I meet many acquaintances, survivors from Bialystok. I’d like to bring up a picture that shook my soul and doesn’t leave my memory until this day: on the second day of the holiday of Shavuot a group of refugees, myself among them traveled to Warsaw for a memorial commemoration. The beautiful, long streets of Warsaw- were turned into ruins. Ruins all over. The Nusick famous synagogue was saved by a miracle, although a big part of it was destroyed. The synagogue is full of survivors, and Jewish and Russian soldiers with many achievement metals on their chests. On the bima and on the tables stood many lit memorial candles, for the memory of all the martyrs, and the dearest. When the cantor, also a Holocaust survivor conducts the memorial service in memory of the burnt, the killed, and the suffocated ones the air is filled with cries and sobbing. I see, next to me, a few young girls with crucifixes on their necks; who knows with which circumstances they survived. They came to the memorial service for their dearest ones, and still are afraid to remove the crucifixes. They are standing there, crying, and tears are washing their eyes.

We are going to see the old ghetto, the places that until recently were filled with active Jewish life, Nalbaki, Gensha, Telomatska, etc., now there is stillness. They even cleared the area from the ruins; they are about to turn it into a big clearing. Among the people that are with us is a woman that lived in 2 Gensha St., she is looking for the place, picking out from the ashes a bent, and burnt spoon, and a biblical paper, half burnt, while sobbing.


In Laudge I met my friend Greenhois, may he rest in peace, that I had been in his company until we separated in Paris. We decided to travel to Bialystok, in spite of the dangers that awaited us.

First impressions from the city were horrible. It is impossible to recognize the city. Everything is ruined. There is no sign to family members, I couldn’t find anyone.

Avraham Bachrach and his wife Raiseleh that were expelled to Russia, and survived are living on Surasa St., in a house that was not damaged, across from the synagogue yard. I stayed in their warm and friendly house until I left the city.

The most horrible experience I had in Bialystok was the murder of four pioneers that were taken off a train and were killed when they traveled to Warsaw to take care of the formal papers regarding their aliyah to Israel. They left at two o’clock; the Polish gangs shot them near Melkin. The next day three boxes containing the dead bodies were brought to Bialystok and were put in the ‘Beit Midrash’ of Ztitron. One of the pioneers was badly wounded and was taken to Warsaw, and there he passed away. The journey of the funeral service to the cemetery, in Zhavia St. turned into a huge strike of those few survivors that brought bouquets of flowers and they said the eulogy. The cries reached the sky.

In the winter the bones of 72 people, who fought against the Nazis, were brought to a mass burial in Zhavia’s cemetery. The crumbled bodies were taken out of holes, where the Nazis buried them. Chlorine was spilt on them, and then they were put in bags and were taken to the cemetery. From their rotten, torn clothes fell rifles and ammunition that they used against the Nazi animals.

In the fight against the Nazis ghetto Bialystok takes second place after the Warsaw uprising. We can learn that the uprising in Bialystok was the second largest, by its three hundred or more bodies that were murdered in the ghetto’s hospital, and were thrown into a huge lime hole, not far from the ghetto cemetery. On of the Christians that lived near the place told that he saw everything from the roof of his house, although it was forbidden to look through the windows. He knew Fritz Friedel, the Nazi animal that sat on a chair that sat on a chair and shot with his gun in the patients’ heads that were brought out from the hospital and were thrown into the hole. The pictures, of taking the bodies and transferring them, were shocking; a body of a mother whose baby was attached to her breast. Of course, it was impossible to recognize the identity of the buried ones. Who knows how many close and dear people were taken out from those graves?

I want to tell about the Action that started on Friday, February 5th, 1943. It’s a story about a heroic action of ‘Malmed’, that was an acquaintance of my Uncle Motke Zabludovsky, may he rest in peace.

The streets were filled with SS and special Gestapo units with cooperation with the Jewish police in the ghetto. They went out to hunt Jews according to a list that was made ahead of time. Those who were caught were taken to the train. The smallest resistance resulted in death. The people without working certificates were taken away from the factories and shot on the spot, the Gestapo and the Jewish police looked for the bunkers in which the Jews were hiding, they were taken out from there and were brought to the trains and sent to the death camps.

Unfortunately there were Jewish squealers that gave out the location of the bunkers, for the exchange of a conformation: "this Jew is exempt from the transporting". The famous author from Bialystok, Pesach Kaplan, may he rest in peace, writes in his memoirs about the ghetto: during a whole week pictures from Dante's hell are taking place here. The butchers slaughtered, and then the ‘Chevra Kadisha’ came and moved the bodies to the ghetto’s cemetery in Zhavia’s Street. Appalling was the picture of hands and legs hanging over the death wagons. The crushed and torn bodies like butchered wagons. The animals shot the people with dum dum bullets that shattered the bodies.

The Heroic Action of ‘Malmed’

When, on the first day of the action the ‘kidnaps’ started in my uncles house, Motke Zabludovsky, on 29 Kopiatski St., a matter arose that brought a big disaster. Yitzchak Malmed, a youngster from Slonim who worked in Weinbergen’s paint store drew out a bottle of vitriol that was prepared ahead of time and sprayed it on the SS man's eyes. The SS guy blinded and crazed from pain, shot from his gun and killed another German. Immediately Fritz Friedel arrived. He gathered a hundred people that were in that very crowded place and ordered to take them to Praga’s garden, there they were put against the fence and shot with a machine gun. Among the dead were my uncle Motke, and his family.

Yosef Zabludovsky, that was saved and is now in Israel hid on the roof of one of the houses and saw the horrible scene from the time they were gathered until they were shot.

Friedel told the Judenrat that if Malmed will not show up until the next morning he will shoot five thousand Jews. Malmed knew in his hiding place about the threat and he gave himself up to the murderers. After he was tortured badly he was sentenced to death by hanging. Malmed was hung across my uncle’s house, and near the ‘Beit haMidrash’ he acted proudly. He spit in the faces of the murderers and before he let his soul out he threw in their faces the words "robbers, murderers, you will pay for this; your end is not far". For three days his body was hung for others to see and be warned. Kopiatski Street now has the hero’s name "Malmed St."

My uncle’s house and the buildings around were not damaged. When I look at the passing door from room to room in my nephew’s apartment, Chaim Zabludovsky, may he rest in peace, and also in the place with the stain from the vitriol that was sprayed in the Nazi's eyes. I remember the words of the poet Morris Rosenfeld: "You are telling about blood, suffering, and courage that once were." Yes! But those weren’t once, but not too long ago in my uncles house, Motke.

Not once I went to the Praga garden, the place of the murder, where a big part of my family was killed. I stood there, frozen, and looked quietly to the ground that absorbed the blood of innocent victims, and the world was silent.

I would like to mention here the tragic Friday, immediately when the invasion of the Nazi units; 1,500 Jews from Bialystok and the surrounding areas were put in the big synagogue and were burnt alive; among them was my cousin, Aaron Zabludovsky, that for years was a famous chess master. Among the burnt ones named "people of Shabbat" were many from Zabludow.

My father, Yosef Zabludovsky, that lived in the ghetto in my uncle Motke’s attic, died, as I heard, before the first action, I never found his grave.


On one sunny afternoon three of us, all Holocaust survivors, left for Zabludow: Chaim Itzick Miller, Avrahamel Bachrach, and this writer. The drive was very dangerous because of the Polish gangs who lay in ambush in the forests, but our eagerness to go to Zabludow rose above the risk, to see the place where we were raised, and spent our childhood and most beautiful youth.

We drove in an army jeep- the only means of transportation that left for Zabludow twice a day. We passed Skorop, and we were on our way- to Corian-Shovrecki; the heart begins to pound. The jeep wobbles along the rough road.

In front of our eyes appears the Polish cemetery, surrounded by an iron fence. Here is the house of Yankle Fanetesh, behind the leather factories; over there, there was the Zabludow ghetto that from which the Jews were taken to their deaths. Now silence fell over the area. We passed by the second cemetery in which there was a church, nearby there was Plavski’s leather factory and some other buildings, and one more minute of driving. The jeep stopped. Chaim and Avrahamel, who were already in Zabludow a few times already tell me "well, my son, get out of the jeep, we are already in Zabludow."

I stand in astonishment, and unable to move… I have difficulties continuing with my writing. The pen does not respond. The emotions and the experiences are ineffable, and what, actually, can I say; we are standing by the church and beyond the church, where we stand, is desolate. The area is covered with wild, high grass; somewhere there a local Christian built a hut.

I close my eyes, the old Zabludow appears in my imagination; two markets, its shape, its webbed streets and alleys are intertwined. I open my eyes; it’s an illusion, everything was erased, a sediment of a hundred years was wiped out. "Bialystok near Zabludow" is written in the sources. The town is no longer; its inhabitants are gone.

In some distance the Pravoslavic church is standing; near it are sitting some city people; they recognize me and said "here is the midwife’s son, how did you survive?"…

Near the Pravoslavic church are still standing the houses of Yoel Miller and Mordechai Leib, where the municipal buildings stood. On the other side there was the Bilsk "Beit Midrash" that was converted to a barn.

We continue to the courtyard where the ruins of Shepsl Mordechai Bakers house stood. We passed the big river path and arrived to Chaim Miller’s leather factory.

All the buildings remained intact, in the big wooden house, near the garden, are living some Christian families. Everyone gathers; the main spokeswoman is Malashka, who, for many years, served Chaya Zlote, and speaks a fluent and rich Yiddish. She lives in the house with her husband and children.

From the eyes of the Christians there was a fear in the Christians eyes that somehow they may be evicted from their houses. Chaim, a goodhearted person, calms them, "nothing bad will happen to you… he just wants a little bit of rent money for a bottle of vodka…" Malash, the shepherd, is telling me how he was drafted to transport the Jews to the military camp of the tenth cavalry camp. He gives me many details.

I exploit the opportunity to return the fields that my grandfather owned that I legally own. A few citizens witnessed and signed that I am his grandson, but the court denied the petition with different excuses.

We are roaming around, among the ruins and arguing near the foundation that separated the two markets talking about which store stood where. We are picking through the weeds; we are trying to find where the old synagogue, which existed for hundreds of years, stood; we were not able to find the place.

Time goes by. We are running to the new cemetery, most of the gravestones were uprooted and were stolen. Some of them are still unharmed. Among those was Aharon Hirsch Zesler’s gravestone. Meaning, their heart couldn’t let them take the gravestone of their doctor and savior.

The two city people are asking for ‘drinks’ in exchange for their testimony. We entered to kind of a bunk and ordered a bottle of vodka, and a bite to eat. "Do you know where we are sitting?" Asks Avrahamel- "at Paltiel’s, the barley maker" in this place stood his big house… From an inner impulse I ordered another bottle of vodka to at least rid the depressing thoughts, that take over me when I look through the open door to the ruins of our unforgettable houses where we had our cribs.

Only when I returned to Bialystok did I start to feel the deep pain; this is also my feeling now, at the time of writing those lines. I can only wish that my writings and the pictures from the Great Holocaust will be a contribution to the modest memorial that we are establishing for our most beloved and dear ones, so that our children, grandchildren and great grandchildren will know how our fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers from Zabludow and Bialystok suffered, were tortured, and fought together with six million martyrs.

I’m writing those lines and the tears are washing my face, I’m enclosing with the words from the great lamenter, Z. Sgalovitz:

From all that was
Only a tear is left
About a nation that was destroyed by fire
May it grow and be holy

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