INTRODUCTION 1

A Brief Survey of My Parents Home

Father
Father was born in Warsaw, the eldest son of Shlomo and Hannah. After him were
born: Yaakov-Leib, Moshe, Hayya, and Avraham. My grandfather Shlomo was a wise, Godfearing Jew. He aspired to have all of his children receive a proper secular education alongside
their religious studies. His life, however, did not work out as he planned, as only my father
received a structured education. He was educated in a prestigious yeshiva, where he studied
languages, science, history, etc., and passed a strict rubric of exams. Through his life, he
devoted his free time to writing commentaries on Jewish religious books.
My grandfather was a ritual slaughterer and a legal authority on Jewish dietary laws; his
integrity worked against him his entire life. He refused to permit non-kosher slaughter and was
unwilling to compromise on issues of the kashrut of food. The butchers rebelled against him
arguing he stole their livelihood. My grandfather remained steadfast. They said to him, well
make it worth your while. He said to them, my hands will not touch your tainted money.
They said, Everyone has a price. He said, Im the exception. They threatened to kill him.
My grandfather took his young wife and their child (my father) and moved to the city of
Zerderov. There too, however, the story repeated itself. My grandmother said: We will not
wait for them kill you. They moved to a small town named Wiskitki. That is where my father
spent his early childhood, that is where his siblings were born.
My father was thought of as a wunderkind; at a young age, they used to say he had the
mind of an old man. Therefore, his parents decided that any financial burden was worth
sending him to a prestigious yeshivah. In the yeshivah he grew to be a tall, broad, and
handsome young man. It was no surprise when the match-makers began to frequent their
home. Among all the matches, my mother was chosen. She was born in the city of Lodgz and a
few years younger than my father.
I do not remember my fathers parents: my grandmother died before I was born, and
my grandfather while I was still a baby.
After Gavriel (my father) Yaakov-Leib was born.
He was not a lucky boy and the angels did not dance around his crib. My grandmothers
second son was not born into a happy life. He was a handsome boy, with burning black eyes
and a wide forehead. He was shy and gentle. These traits, however, do not necessarily
guarantee a good life. Yaakov-Leib studied in heder and he quickly had to contend with the

realities of life. His parents also married him off at a young age. The bride, who was the
daughter of affluent Jews, only brought her good family name to his home. She also brought
money, but Yaakov Leib was too nave for a life of trade and his family quickly fell to the brink
of poverty. As a matter of fact, his wife was quite fertile and was always pregnant or nursing. It
is too bad that the growth of his family was not accompanied with growth in income. She was
also not a good housewife, so they lived their lives without value or hope. Yaakov Leib did not
know how to yell. He immediately surrendered to his wifes indolence. My father, who
occasionally traveled to Warsaw with gifts leaving them sums of money would return broken by
what he had seen.
That whole family was murdered in the Holocaust. I do not know if they died of hunger
in the ghetto, were sent to Treblinka, or to another place. There is no one left to tell the story.
Yaakov Leib, who hoped for the Messiah his whole life, did not find redemption for himself or
his children from poverty or the yoke of the Germans. Just as there was no reason for their
lives, so was there none for their death.
Shlomo and Hannas third son was Moshe.
Moshe was very similar to my father: tall, broad, strong, and stable. He actually
captured my heart with his voice, a beautiful baritone voice. Moshe studied music and was the
Hazzan in the Great Synagogue. With that, ends the similarities between the two brothers.
During his early childhood Moshe already began to rebel against his Jewish heritage. He would
evade prayer services and he did not observe the commandments. Later in life, he did not grow
a beard. He preferred European dress to the Hassidic garb of a kapota and shtriemel. There
were also rumors that he chased women. My father held a grudge against him for his apostasy
and he did not appreciate his visits to our home. So my uncle Moshe would visit us when my
father traveled to visit the Gerrer Rebbe. Uncle Moshe had a good and joyful life. His wife was
beautiful, elegant and bore him a son name Yezi (a common Polish name). After the birth his
wife became weak and sickly constantly worrying about the health of her son (who was in
excellent health). The boy was like his father (and mine), with blonde hair, blue eyes, and white
skin which gave him the look of a cherub. Family life in the Polish capital at the time was easy
going. The boy grew up loved and cared for, turning into a handsome young man.
This was all before the Holocaust. The first victim was actually Yezi, who was already
sixteen at the time. It was during curfew when Jews were not allowed on the streets. Yezi
went out and bought a loaf of bread at the bakery near his house. Two representatives of the
New Order ordered him to stop. He smiled, stopping, assured of his non-Jewish looks. What
are you doing on the street at this hour? The young man asked. I just went to buy bread, he
said, his voice sure and calm. Are you Jewish? The soldier asked. No, he said smiling again
with his white teeth. They ordered him to take off his pants. He was shot in the head; he feel

to their feet while still holding the loaf of bread. This was all reported to my parents by a
neighbor who witnessed it all through a window.
I dont know where and how his parents disappeared. There is no one left to tell the
story. It is certain that they were murdered by the Germans. Im just not sure if after the death
of their only child they felt it was a shame to die.
Chaya, the fourth in line, my fathers only sister, was a fair woman, with blue eyes, a pug
nose, tall with wide hips. She was an industrious woman who put her manual skill to good use.
She married a man from Lodz, and bore two daughters, Judith and Hanna. He husband did not
excel at anything and he remained poor his whole life. Lucky for him, Chaya was his wife. Her
industriousness, smarts, and understanding of running the home, kept them afloat. Their
home was spotless. The windows displayed embroidered drapes she had made herself. She
embroidered beautiful covers and pillows. In the corner of the kitchen were polished copper
pots hanging on the wall which she herself plastered. Everything was spotless, well organized
and tasteful. I dont know what the nature of the relationship was between her husband and
my parents. My father warned her (before the wedding) that her groom was not worthy of her
(rightfully so) but Chaya was quick to end her adolescence in the small town. She arrived in Lodz
and jumped on the first opportunity that fell into her hands. The young man she met seemed
no different from any of the others. She could not have guessed how dull he would turn out to
be. She put her hope in fate, God and the great energy that flowed through her veins. What
she got in return was a hard life constantly battling with a lack of income. Her life of poverty
would not forgive wasted electricity (when she visited us), a discarded piece of bread, or
careless peeling of potatoes. As soon as she entered our home, even the cleaning lady would
be careful about her work. Her cleaning obsession impelled her to critique the level of
cleanliness in the homes of others. She would rub her finger on a picture frame and ask: Are
you waiting for Passover? Yes, my father would say, you are absolutely correct, and he would
wink to us.
The diamond in the crown was the two girls. They excelled in their studies like their
mother. They only inherited their black eyes from their father. I dont know if they felt any
distress in their home. They always had everything: good food, beautiful clothing, books, and
games. They both loved to read and learned languages with exceptional ease.
Aunt Chaya, her husband and two daughters disappeared one night from the ghetto.
We received word the next day. It was relayed that the Germans emptied an entire quarter of
its inhabitants that night. Worried, we ran to their house. We found the door open, the beds
were unkempt, chairs were turned over and there was broken glass on the white floor, clean as
always. Based on what was in the closet, they were only allowed to take a small amount of
clothing. The sheet was removed from one of the beds where apparently they had packed. A

womans open purse, with books strewn about on the bed without a sheet, relayed without
words the minute amount of time they had to part forever from everything in their home.
Unfinished knitting was rolled up in the corner. The windows were open and Aunt Chayas
drapes were blowing in the wind, tied up with a pink ribbon. It brought to mind, in a grotesque
way, an illustrated fairy tale. The table cloth, embroidered with red roses, was hastily moved
and hung from the corner of the table (something that was unforgivable in the eyes of Chaya).
A jar filled with a stalk of fragrant peas stood atop the cupboard, as if it was looking down on
the destruction of the house. Next to it were the Shabbat candlesticks (Chayas pride and joy)
their golden glint reflected the rays of sun peaking in through the window. Here they lived, in
the small apartment, one room with a small kitchen. This is where the wonderful girls were
born. Here is where the Shabbat candles were lit and from here their prayers went up to the
Master of the Universe Until the troopers came, took them from the little they had and led
them to their death.
We stood there and cried. My mother closed the windows and made sure to tightly
close the door. Maybe theyll still come back my mother said, desperately trying to encourage
us. Today I know: No one came back.
Abraham, my fathers youngest brother, also made it to Lodz. He was a handsome man,
a bit on the heavy side. He was always dressed elegantly. Like Uncle Moshe, he renounced the
traditional Jewish upbringing of his parents home and married a young woman who grew up in
the home of assimilated Jews. They had a beautiful apartment with lovely furniture and
expensive house wares. They owned a textile shop which was beneath their apartment.
Abraham had no children; instead he had a poodle that he spoiled with chocolate and liver,
brought to get its haircut, and dressed with a silk scarf to cover its wooly neck.
They did not have a Kosher home and my parents forbid me from eating in their house.
I would occasionally visit them, drawn by the endless pampering they would shower me with.
When I would visit them, they would stand me in front of them and ask me to sing. (My Uncle
Abraham would boast to his wife about his musical family) and they would shower me with
sweets, caresses, kisses and requests for me to come again. True to my word, I never ate in
their home; I only devoured the chocolate imported from Switzerland. (Mickey the poodle
would lazily lie down on the thick carpet, his waging tale testifying to his enjoyment).
Immediately upon the outbreak of the war, the two escaped Lodz on a train which
brought them to Warsaw. (No one knew if this was true or not). We received no information.
They left behind their beautiful house, the thick carpets, the crystal chandeliers, the beautiful
dishes, artwork that decorated the walls, and closets filled with clothing. They only took with
them the most essential thing, the poodle. The neighbors did not know much, they only said
they went in the direction of the capital, Warsaw. And just as my fathers great faith in God did

not help him, my Uncle and his wifes complete apostasy did not help them. Just as they were
born Jews, so they died in the sanctification of Gods name.
Did their souls depart for heaven in the flames of the burning ghetto? Or perhaps the
Germans took the trouble to send them on trains to the place set aside for the Jewish people?
Did they die of starvation? Like many other questions, these too remain unanswered.

Mother
My mother was born in Lodz, the eldest daughter of Abba and Rachel-Leah. My
grandfather (whose name was Abba) was one of Isaac and Gensiyahs eight children. The
majority of the family lived in Varta, a regional city on the banks of the Varta River. They all had
children and they were blessed with many grandchildren, they were fruitful and multiplied.
They lived a good life among the Jews, most of whom were observant, hard-working, and
knowledgeable.
From that entire line, there were only a few survivors following the Holocaust. One of
them, Aunt Henya, lived in our home for a number of years. Like most young adults she was
drawn to the big city and my mother apparently had the closest relationship with her. In 1933
she moved to Israel with her husband Zalman. It was here that their two daughters, Bracha and
Sarah, were born. My uncle Zalman was a contractor and supported his family honorably. He
did not merit a long life.
The house, in which they lived on 2 Yavetz Street, was run in an exemplary manner by
my Aunt Henya; the girls grew to glory. When I came to them as a refugee, I heard many
stories about their lives in the small city of Tel Aviv, about unemployment, about old fashioned
diligence carriages, the coin with a hole in it, the difficulties of day to day life, and the need to
suffice with the absolute minimum I sat on the porch of their home and looked around. I saw
many homes with the plaster peeling off, narrow passages between the homes, broken
sidewalks, clotheslines hanging from the windows, cats burrowing in the open trash bins and I
thought to myself: How lucky are these people! What do they know about the fate of their
relatives who remained on the cursed ground, at the mercy of the Nazis?
I did not talk about myself. Many wounds needed to scab, over many years, before I
was able to start picking at them. I was tortured by the thought that no one would believe me.
That was another reason for my silence during that time.
The two girls brought me a beverage and served me cookies. They spoke only in Hebrew but I
luckily found a means to communicate with them (with the help of some Yiddish) but despite

the worm familial connection, there was a deep chasm between us. There, on the porch of
their home, (a few neighbors also came to see me) I realized for the first time my place in this
new society. I was different from them, despite all of their kindness and desire to help.
Dividing us were the years I lived as a sub-human, imprisoned, devoid of everything and at
times even the hope to come to this country. Even before I arrived I had heard troubling
questions asked by the people of the small yishuv, many of whose families in Europe were no
longer living. There were many questions: Why didnt you fight back? Why did you go as sheep
to the slaughter? Why are you still alive, while the others died? Why didnt you come to Israel
before the Holocaust? And the question of all questions: Did you give of yourself to the
Germans in order to survive?
Aunt Henya and her family treated me with kindness and none of them asked me those
questions. But they were hanging in the air and I knew my transition to a free life was not
complete. The Yishuv in Israel was incapable of comprehending the great travesty. We were
there and could not forget. They were here and could not understand.
Aunt Henya merited a long life. Her two daughters married. Beracha gave brith to
Avishai and Elon, and Sarah gave birth to Shai and Shahar. Of all of my mothers family, my
Uncle Simha, one of the first inhabitants of Tel Aviv, is still living at a ripe old age. Aunt Henya
lived until her last days in daughter Brachas house, loved and respected by all of her family.
She was clear headed with a sharp memory until the day she died.
My grandmother Rachel-Leah died before I was born. She had five children: my mother
Esther-Sarah, Ita, Mordekhai (whom everyone called Motish), Yocheved (who was called
Yochtziah) and Leib (who was called both Leon and Leibish).
Ita lived a short distance from our house. He husband Yehoshua was one of the
hassidim of the dead Rebbe; he was extremely devout. They had five children, smart and
healthy; two of them were good friends of mine as we were close in age. Their eldest daughter,
Bronka, was talented with her hands, well versed in sewing and embroidery at a young age.
She was a beautiful girl, with black eyes and curly charcoal hair. Her younger brother Menahem
was a child prodigy, he excelled in all of his studies and he was also the reason for my frequent
visits in their home. We spent countless hours together arguing and playing and when I was
nine he proposed marriage. I did not agree for a few reasons. This is what I said to him:
First of all, cousins do not get married. Second I dont find the name Holzman (their
family name) appealing, and third I have four older sisters and in a Jewish family it is not
appropriate for the youngest daughter to get married before her sisters.
Menahem reluctantly accepted my explanation, but our close relationship continued. I
would visit most often Saturday afternoons when my parents and younger brother were

sleeping and my older sisters went out. There was a warm familial atmosphere in Aunt Itas
home and she treated me with boundless motherly warmth. I really really loved her. Ita was
my mothers favorite sister, despite the cool relations between her husband Yehoshua and my
parents, for financial reasons it seems (my mother, as the eldest daughter received a large
dowry, while her younger sisters was meager). It also seems that my mother held a grudge
against her brother in law for the religious stringency he enforced upon his house, which was a
significant burden on her sister.
Aunt Ita, her husband and five children were the first ones deported from the ghetto
(even before Hayya and her family). They were told they were being moved elsewhere, where
it would be easier for them to liveThey were given time to prepare. Word came to us and my
mother baked them a cake with the flour that was leftover in the house. We all went to their
house. I remember the moments when they were packing: The bedding was placed on the
sheet with its corners tied, the childrens clothing was placed in a crate, the Torah scrolls were
meticulously gathered, the important things were sorted. Bronka carried the embroidered
bridal dresses (which she had prepared for when the time came). Menahem carried many
packages on his back. The younger children carried smaller packages and a few toys. We
accompanied them to the gathering place, walking in a procession with many deportees. I
dont remember if anyone objected to the deportation or tried to hide. I imagine there were
people who were happy to move somewhere else. Famine had already prevailed in the ghetto.
The transfer was a sign of hope, and the lie provided by the Germans that it was to lighten the
overcrowding seemed reasonable to most.
My mother hugged her sister (who had just miscarried what would have been her sixth
child) and wished them a good trip. We waved goodbye We didnt know that pits had
already been dug for them a short distance from the city.
My Uncle Mordechai was a charming man, who was always dressed fashionably. He
looked a bit like a movie star from the twenties and thirties. Unlike my mother and Aunt Ita, he
was not a religious man, and he lived and acted accordingly. My father was indifferent towards
him. Motish smoked cigarettes on Shabbat, rode in taxis (on Shabbat) worked (on Shabbat)
carried money in his pocketshe was really a perfect lost boy.
My mother respected him greatly for his intelligence. He was quick witted and sharp
tongued. Many people respected him and when he was in our home I felt his warmth and
kindness. Many women loved him and he knew how to have a good time and enjoy life. He was
drawn to all kinds of entertainment, whether praising or critical, all with the expertise of an
intelligent listener, finding the essence and discarding the superfluous. As he flourished into a
man, he met a beautiful young girl, from a good family. He quickly married her, as if out of fear
that it would never happen again. The love softened him; it relaxed him and brought him great

happiness. He also had a daughter. Motish became immersed in the serenity of his lovely
daughter, next to his beloved wife.
The last time I saw him was immediately after the war broke out. The Germans
organized a manhunt in the streets of Lodz, and he managed to get away from them. He was
breathing heavy and sweating; he knocked on our door. A long time passed before he calmed
down and when he did calm down, it became clear to all of us that the Germans captured my
mother together with other women and took them to an unknown place. It was a difficult night
for all of us. It was the first time in my life I saw my father cry. Motish stayed with us because
the curfew came into effect. Only at dawn, did we hear a knock on the door. My mother
returned. It turned out she was taken with a large group of women to a big building from
which all the Jewish tenants were evicted and they were held there for the night. No one said a
word. In the morning the Germans removed the older women and keep the younger ones.
They told them to clean the building My mother ran though the empty streets, afraid, filthy
after a night on a cellar floor filled with garbage. That is how she fell into our arms. We
alternated between crying and laughing. We were so happy. Only later did I find out about the
belt my mother with diamonds and other valuable sewn into it. Such valuables were
confiscated by the Germans immediately upon their arrival; their possession was a crime
punishable by death. The Germans did indeed search the captured women and it was only by
chance they did not touch my mother.
Motish hugged my mother and said: Forget about what happened today. It will all pass.
I heard them saying it will be a short war. They Germans will not last a long time. It is well
known that the German army is not well equipped and is not strong. Their victory is only
temporary That was what my Uncle Motish claimed, despite his wisdom and sharp wit.
The Germans also came to his house and took them to an unknown place. It is a bit
strange to call it an unknown place, however you can certainly argue that the land of the
dead is a place unknown to the living. It is reasonable to assume that Motish went to his death
dressed nicely, carrying a suitcase with his young wife next to him carrying their baby in her
arms. His elegant clothing was presumably thrown onto the pile of spoils, taken by the
murderers. If he ever believed that he was part of the chosen people, he could have
understood in his last moment that he was chosen to be among the first, from his extended
family, to die. And if he still believed that it was to be a short war, perhaps he was comforted
by the thought that at least he was the last of the casualties.
Yocheved, who was called Yachtze, remains in my memory as a spinster, even though it
is not entirely true. She was a woman without grace and charm, a sourpuss. It seems she did
not have much joy in her life. In my youth I heard that Yachzte sent away all the potential
suitors that were brought before her because she was in love with a Polish policeman. After

her sisters and brothers left the house, Yachtze remained to care for her aging parents. She
filled the role very poorly. She was unhappy and unloved. She had flat feet and crooked teeth.
When she came to us she took on the role of home room teacher, castigating her sisters
children every step of the way. Sit quietly, how are you eating, dont speak with your mouth
fullI didnt dare laugh at her because I knew my mother would get very angry. Being the
spinster of a family blessed with children gave her a lack self confidence and bitterness which
manifested itself in her need to educate her sisters children.
My mother would give her money, buy her beautiful clothes, and secretly look for a
husband for her, all in order to improve her poor lot. But fate brought her a wretched life. Her
whole life was spent worrying about others; she herself lived on the margins. In the end even
her father left and went to live with his daughter Ita, (after sometime he moved in with us). He
was unhappy to be under the care of the gloomy and miserable Yachtze.
Oh the irony that it was actually during the war that she saw a ray of light. In 1943, a
year after the evacuation of the ghetto she was matched with a widower, a father of seven
children, all young, whose mother died of starvation. Immediately after the wedding Yachtze
became pregnant and carried her pregnancy with pride, actually happy for the first time in her
life. She became a wonderful house wife, making sure with meager funds to make food and be
responsible for the cleanliness of the children. She cared for her husband with the obedience
of a dog, who finally found a loving heart. Occasionally she would take the seven orphans to
visit their mothers grave, so that they would remember her forever.
Forever lasted a year. When she was seven months pregnant she was sent with her
children and husband to Auschwitz. The child in her womb never saw the light of day, and the
children who were born had their souls taken from them in the gas chambers, all seven
together with their step-mother.
So lived and died, Yachtze, my mothers sister.
It was only at the bitterest end that the two sisters, Yachtze and my mother the eldest
daughter, had something in common. My mother was beautiful, graceful, and wise with
unlimited spiritual strength. She had brown eyes and black hair (that I only saw in pictures
because after her wedding they cut her forest of beautiful hair and in its stead sat a wig). Due
to the fact that she was the first born she was the first to receive all of the pampering in the
world. She also excelled in her studies and as a high school student the match-makers began to
knock on the door of the house. My mother was very against it. She wanted to complete her
studies and stand on her own; unsure of what path she would choose. But the pressure her
parents applied broke her resistance. She was the eldest and had to be an example for those
younger than her.

Immediately following the wedding she had no reason to be upset. The children she
bore, one right after another, were healthy, her husband was loving and loved by her, their
home was full of all good things and the future looked bright and promising. My mother bore
many children, only seven survived. A few died from illness which caused many deaths in those
days and her last birth was a stillborn. Aside from her many births, my mother was the primary
wage earner, she managed a haberdashery on the main road of the commercial section of Lodz.
Her clients knew her talents to select for them the best and most beautiful items and they
would keep coming back, relying on her for everything. She knew how and where to buy and
how to sell, her success in running a business only increased with time. My father only had one
job: he manned the register and the finances, all in cooperation with my mother. He knew full
well how to appreciate her proper judgment and wisdom. Sitting behind the register, he would
look at her with kind eyes, always surprised anew by her talents for relating with her
customers.
Father loved my mother without limit. Im not sure if my mother loved him as much in
return. Its probable that in her heart she preferred for her husband to be less erudite and
more of a businessman so that it would have made things easier for her. Mother ran the house
remotely. There was a Polish housekeeper and the eldest sister Rachel in the house. Mother
would come back at night very tired but despite her exhaustion she would give of her time to
the children and pressing matters in the home, taking care of everything. We the children knew
our mother was present at home, despite the fact that most of the day she was at the store or
travelling for business. That was her strength, being everywhere at once and all thanks to her
wisdom and spiritual strength.
My dear mother, who was a bit claustrophobic, afraid of enclosed spaces, was forced
into the shower in Auschwitz, enclosed in the death trap together with Paula and Rozeya.
Leon my Uncle, who was also called Leibish, had big black eyes, a nice face and always
thought that laughter was good for ones health. He was a happy person by nature, sharp
tongued and quick with his hands, he had many talents, but what stood out was his talent for
impressions. He was flexible, tall and thin, loved by all. Like my Uncle Motish, Leon wore
European clothing, was clean shaven and questionable in his religious observance. My father
actually was fond of him despite the fact that his apostasy bothered him deeply. Leon was the
last child of my grandparents and there was a very warm relationship between him and his
oldest sister (my mother). He would often come to our home and on holidays he was a regular
guest. In order to satisfy my father, he would pull out a kippah from his pocket and keep up
appearances.
Uncle Leon was the uncle who did magic tricks with cards, cups, sugar cubes, talented in
all of the tricks you can imagine. Time spent with him was always the funniest. He had an

incredible memory and knew by heart all of the monologues and dialogues of Dzigan and
Schumacher, two comics who became famous in Lodz (their hometown). His good sense of
humor was in no way an affectation, it was natural to him; he was the intelligent joker beloved
by all of us.
I love him very much. His vivacity, his sharp mind, his phenomenal memory, his pithy
remarks spoke to me greatly.
Many women loved Uncle Leon, who as I have already described, was a great charmer.
Ironically, he loved only one woman who did not love him back. At the height of his success, a
tragedy happened from which he never recovered until the day he died (at age 40). And so it
happened:
An impoverished Jewish family lived in their building. The glorious day in their lives
arrived when they were to marry off their eldest daughter. There was great excitement in the
home and most of the neighbors chipped in to help out with the great event. The big moment
came and the bride, dressed in white was standing under the huppah on the porch of their
house and thenat that moment the electricity went out. It seems that just then the clerks
from the electric company showed up and cut off their electricity due to an outstanding debt.
It was a bad sign(they didnt have any idea how right they would be). The brides brother
called my Uncle Leon, to ask for advice. Leon, who was an electrician, like his brother Motish,
reattached the main line, which was illegal. He refused payment saying he only wanted to do a
mitzvah for a Jew in need.
At that time Leon was very in love with the girl of his dreams and he secretly planned for
a life of happiness together. I dont know any details about her, just that she is the one my
beloved Uncle chose to be his wife and the mother of his children. It turns out that she too
loved him, but her love did not stand the test of time. Leon was arrested and thrown in jail,
together with the Communists and other law-breakers. The conditions were difficult, but his
spirit was not broken. Only one thing bothered him: why didnt his love come visit him, my
mother who would go to see him laden with packages did have the heart to tell him the truth.
Right after his arrest, the girl found comfort in the arms of another. When he was released she
wasnt expecting him and it indeed threatened to break him. Very quickly it turned out my
Uncle had bigger problems: he was released from prison infected with tuberculosis. In those
days it was a death sentence.
The conditions worsened in the ghetto as did Leons health. As a result he received an
increased food ration for the rest of his life. The ration included bread, oil and sugar. He would
carry the ration with him in a suitcase, always right next to him. Leaving food at home, in those
days of famine was the act of an imbecile. He had to be sure that in a moment of weakness,

which for him came often, there would be food at hand. And he had another reason to come
to us with that suitcase: he offered all of us something to eat. I wasnt able to take even a
crumb from him as I knew how difficult his illness was. In truth it was difficult for me to refuse.
I was so hungry that the smell of the bread made me crazy. But I firmly refused. And Leon
would say: people like you will die in this war. When you are given food, eat! Dont be stupid!
I dont have an appetite anyway! Im telling you again, if you want to live, you must eat!
Otherwise youll die... So claimed my beloved Uncle Leon who died a short while afterward.
Today I know that his illness provided him with a great mercy. Uncle Leon lived his final day
among a loving and adoring family and even merited a Jewish burial (if there was any
significance to the deceased himself). It was a hot day, a clear summer day. We followed his
casket crying and wailing. Somewhere, beyond the barbed wire birds were singing and a light
wind caressed the golden wheat fields of cursed Poland
To the credit of the Germans you can say that at least this Jew they didnt kill. He met
his end before they had a chance to send him to the unknown

INTRODUCTION 2

The House Where I Was Born

My older brother Israel was born into a world of pure love between two young people
beginning their lives together. At first his name was Israel, when he became sick they added
another name as a supernatural cure. The boy grew up and it quickly became clear that he was
smart and easy-going. He studied in heder and afterwards in yeshiva. Everywhere he went he
was praised for his smarts and kindheartedness. From a young age he knew how to live
peacefully with his surroundings, he was diligent and always prepared to lend a helping hand to
those in need. As a young man he took it upon himself to teach his sisters. He knew Hebrew
very well and he did everything so that his sisters, and afterwards his younger brother, would
know how to read the prayer book and understand the prayers. Israel believed in the existence
of God with all his soul and with all his might and he lived his whole life according to the Torahs
commandments.
I vividly remember the lessons with my brother Israel. I was a naughty girl and he was
18 years old, a serious and good looking young man. He told me to read (the Hebrew letters
were very strange to me) and I tried to find different excuses to cut the lesson short. Israel did
not get angry and he did not give up. He just explained to me the importance of learning, he
would keep saying, a person must learn his whole life. That is the key to a good life. He
excelled in all of his studies. I loved my brother Israel with all my heart. I dont remember if
there was ever a moment when I was mad at him. Everything he said seemed so wise and
correct to me. Israel married the daughter of a good family, Hayya, who bore him three
daughters. Ruth was born in 1936 and Gitel was born in 1938. Yentel (who they called Janette)
was born in the (cursed) ghetto in 1944.
In the ghetto, he had a good job as a firefighter which he merited because of his height,
strong body and quick hands. The work paid well and came with extra rations. Afterwards, he
also worked in the supermarket, which was really a gold mine. To find yourself next to food
products was the dream of the prisoners of the ghetto. His wife and children also benefitted
from the better conditions. The difficult life in the ghetto did not diminish his faith in God. He
was certain that there was a God in heaven and one day His mercy would save His nation Israel.
Just as he taught his sisters the prayers, so did he care for the girls in his home? Everything
with love, understanding, and great mercy. He loved his wife with all his heart and she saw in
him a lover and protector from all evil. When she became pregnant for a third time, they both
thought aborting the fetus was great sin. They believed itll be ok. Their faith in God ran so

deep. (what was Israel thinking to himself when he saw with his own eyes that the God of
Israel abandoned his nation? Did he feel betrayed? Did he dare protest?)
He was sent to the cattle cars, with his wife, his three week old daughter Yentel, eight
year old Ruth, and six year old Gittel. When they arrived at Auschwitz, they separated him from
his wife and daughter, they sent him to life (he was sent to the right) and his loved ones were
sent left. He no longer had reason to live. Israel (as was told to me years later) did not take
advantage of his chance to live. He refused to live and transgressed the largest and only sin of
his life as a believing Jew; he committed suicide.
My sister Rachel was born after Israel. As the eldest daughter to four sisters, she was
naturally destined to have a thankless role. I have no doubt that as a child she received the
same pampering that all babies receive, not only that but she met all expectations. After a son,
a daughter was born which is always a reason to rejoice. But the reality in the home dictated
her role as a given. Rachel demonstrated maturity and responsibility from a young age and she
always remembered her place in the family hierarchy. She saw my tired mother, tended to her
during her pregnancies and made herself useful with absolute devotion. When I was born, it
was already natural, her voice and authority controlled everything. It is certain, that despite
her obedience there were moments of rebellion, but the feeling of responsibility was stronger
than anything else. Rachel would wake up with the housekeeper, taking care that the children
would wake up, get dressed, eat, and go to school. She packed food for them, tied shoelaces
and checked their bags to make sure nothing was forgotten. She would stuff clean
handkerchiefs into pockets and remember to give medicine.
My parents were very pleased with her. Rachel, as a result of her situation, was forced
to quickly leave the school bench but she would fill the void by reading many books. Father
would look at her with loving eyes and he would ask for her advice about various things. Rachel
was the final authority on all matters of the house. The various housekeepers quickly
understood who the master of the house was and they would act accordingly. There was also a
time in which she had enough of playing the role of mother and wanted to go out with her
friends, meet boys and enjoy the big city that was full of them. But then she would find herself
in the trap that was her role. There was no one to replace her. And Rachel would give up on
herself without complaint.
When she reached marrying age, a young man from a small town came to our home
before receiving tonsil surgery. He came by chance and when he saw Rachel he was shot with
cupids arrow. He fell in love with her and asked for her hand. Rachel too fell in love with him
(it was her first love) and they hoped their parents would take care of the rest. Rachel went
around the house daydreaming. The moment the young man would pass by our house she
would drop everything. You could see them, sitting in the living room, holding hands, their

faces glowing with happiness. She saw herself under the wedding canopy with the man she
loved so much. But it turned out fate was very different from her (and his) dreams. His
parents, who had only one son, demanded a kings dowry. My parents were shocked and tried
to explain that their eldest daughter would be well provided for to the best of their ability and
that their demands were exaggerated. They were adamant. They would only bring their son to
the wedding canopy if it included a large dowry.
Rachel went around the house crying and miserable, my parents were really
heartbroken. And they couldnt save her. No one asked the young man. His parents left him at
home so he wouldnt interfere and try to influence them. They returned home quickly and
married him off to the sole inheritor of very wealthy Jews. It was all because he was weak.
(Fate in a way got back at him. The woman his parents chose for him was older than him by a
few years and she bore him no children. They lived their lives from one fight to the next. It was
told that he would often run away to his parents home leaving his wife in misery, until the war
came and solved their problem. They both disappeared in the Holocaust and nothing is known
about their fate. Rachel was the only one who came out ahead of the tragedy. She survived
the Holocaust, came to Israel, married, had a daughter and son and merited, with her husband
Joshua to have grandchildren. Today she lives in Haifa, beloved and honored by her family.)
Rosia, officially Sheva-Rayzel, was born in the morning. Her birth is tied to a sad story.
So it happened:
Before dawn my mother began to feel contractions. Father got dressed quickly and
went to bring a midwife. As he arrived at the corner of Novomiska Street and Independence
Square he saw some Jews running and screaming. As he got closer he saw their clothing was
torn and they were dripping blood. Briefly he stood confused, frozen with fear. And then a
trolley stopped next to him. He jumped into the trolley, blind and trembling, trying to explain
to the driver to quickly leave. He wasnt able to get a word out. He just gave him his whole
wallet. The non-Jew looked at him curiously and went on his way. They went through the city
and only stopped once they reached a suburb. The driver returned some of the money to my
father and took him down the dunes. With failing legs my father arrived at the first hut. In his
stammering Polish he explained to a famer that he wanted to stay in her home for some time.
My father took off his watch and gave it to the woman. In return she sent her son to the city
with a note my father wrote to my mother. At the time Rosia was already lying on the table,
covered in a white blanket crying her first cry. She didnt know anything about the hostile
world beyond the windows of the house. On that day the Polish hooligans murdered many
Jews.
Afterwards everything went back to its fictitious silence. The dead were buried and
the survivors went to synagogue to say a prayer of thanksgiving. And my father, who was saved

by a miracle carried the memory of the pogrom until his last day. He suffered from nightmares.
The bad dreams would come back again and again. My mother would turn on a light in their
room and calm him down with her quiet and loving voice.
Rosia was born after a very difficult labor and immediately after her birth it was clear
that my mother had no milk to nurse her. A wet-nurse was hired and she loved Rosia. But
Rosia became ill with rickets, caused by a lack of vitamin D which disrupts the accumulation of
calcium that strengthens bones. Rosia had a large head and crooked legs. My mother dragged
her to many doctors. It was actually the wet-nurse that got her to stand. She endlessly
devoted herself to her. She dipped her in starch baths and took her out into the sun, all
according to the doctors orders. And Rosia indeed made it past her trouble and grew into a
beautiful, tall, well-built girl with a head of fiery red hair. She excelled in school due to a quick
grasp of the material and a talent for learning languages. Rosia had a calm demeanor. She was
thoughtful and deep. She was the only one among us that knew how to read and write Yiddish.
It seems that her difficult childhood left her with feelings of inferiority which made her
try and be nice to everyone, at every moment of every day, to gain their love. That was her
silent war, the need for a caress, smile, and a good word. I loved Rosia and when I grew up we
had a friendship that went beyond sisterly love. I would tell her things that I told no one else. I
would go to her during my times of crisis and always found in her support and understanding.
Rosia had experienced love and she knew days of happiness. Her meetings with boys
were rare because of her sensitivity to dress, manner of speech, and culture of the young man.
She would say to me: I have all the time in the world. I am young and have no need to
compromise. The man whom I marry will be my choice. All the men I have known have been
nice for a walk or a trip to the movies, nothing more. But Rosia would not get to experience
true love or happiness in her life. The Germans had something else planned for her.
Paula, officialy Perala-Blooma, was born large and chubby. She was a good eater all her
childhood unlike my mothers other children. She was a healthy baby with rosy cheeks and she
would shove anything that was edible and close by in her mouth. She had large green eyes, a
round face, and two dimples. She was stunningly beautiful. When she was three years old she
became ill with a high fever and the doctors did not know the reason for her illness. My father
went to the Rebbe and the Rebbe promised God would help. She indeed recovered, but she
was never the same girl again. She began to faint, stutter (which would pass with time) and all
of her natural development was disrupted. When she reached the older grades in the public
school, it turned out that her ability to learn did not match the level of her peers. It did not
bother her though; it wasnt in her mindset to get upset about low grades.

Everyone loved Paula for her rare beauty, her charm, and her white smile. My parents
would often say that Paula was accidently born in the big city. They saw her as a broad farmer,
with many children, working with her husband in the fields, reaping and sowing, milking cows.
She probably would have become a farmer in Israel, having joined the Beitar movement.
Probably, if only she had been allowed to live.
I owe my life to Paula. So it happened:
On one summer Saturday when I was six and she was 12 or 13, we both went out to a public
park, as per my mothers request. Paula agreed despite wanting to go out with her friends
without a little girl tagging along. The big park, with its budding flowerbeds, rows of blooming
trees and long trails of gravel, was filled with people on the hot day. Mothers strolled with
their babies; children ran on the paths after a ball, others built sand castles. Paula sat me down
next to a sand pile and stood at a distance talking to her friends. She held my Shabbat dress
and shoes in her hand as I made cakes out of sand. Suddenly I saw many people running. I
looked up and didnt see Paula. Where is she? Whats happening? The commotion
surrounding me increased and Paula was standing next to me. She grabbed me and screamed:
Run! We ran with all our strength. Everyone ran in the direction of the gate. The crowd got
bigger and bigger. Scared, I ran next to Paula, barefoot, only wearing underwear. The gate that
everyone was running to was locked! No exit! Screams of terror filled the air. Mothers began
to throw their babies into the hands of people who stood beyond the gate. The crowd of
people threw itself forward Mommy! Whats going on? I felt like I was suffocating and I fell
down on the ground. People were stepping on me and I knew: Im going to die. Suddenly I felt
Paulas hand, she pulled me up. With all her strength she pulled my hand In the end she took
me in her arms and yelled into my ear: we need to go home! Apparently someone opened the
gate and the crowd escaped into the street in a large stream. There were a few people who
were left on the ground near the gate not breathing. It turned out a group of hooligans decided
to go on a rampage against the Jews. Armed with knives they entered the park and closed the
exits.
We ran home terrified. We found our family there crying. Word of the pogrom had just
reached them. Everyone praised her bravery and the act of rescue. Paula quickly returned to
the serenity of her good life. A joyful young woman, filled with life, and health.
The majority of those characteristics were erased in the ghetto. She became thin (like
all of us) her natural joy was lost, and quickly she became a shell of herself. She had been
destined for city life or village life. Her entire appetite for life was interrupted in a matter of
moments.

My sister Hanka was the exact opposite of the one who preceded her, weak, tiny, pale,
and she refused to eat. In our home she had the unflattering nickname: green Shavuot. All of
the food that was put in front of her received the same treatment: a push with the tip of her
fork and look of disgust on her face. Despite her physical weakness, Hanka had a strong
personality, stubborn, always standing her ground. As she grew up it became clear she excelled
in her studies, smart, first in her class when it came to mathematics. She also did not spend a
lot of time doing homework. She understood the material with ease. She did not see any need
for exhausting drills. The teachers recognized her talents and were very fond of her. She also
discovered her talents for games and singing, she was a soprano.
Many girls wanted to be her friend and with time the boys started chasing her. They
chased around her like a swarm of bees. But Hanka saved her love for one boy, who like her
was 15 years old. The boy lived across from our house. He told her he loved her and she was
overjoyed. The boy had a bicycle and they would ride together on it. This puppy love had an
effect on Hanka for years. Anyone who was interested in her was invisible. She would stand by
the window waiting for him. He would give her a sign and the two would meet in the yard and
go out for a long ride. The boy had received a clarinet from his parents and he would practice
near the window, showing off his skills in front of his love. Hanka was in seventh heaven. Her
love turned her into a beautiful young woman, her dark hair, burning eyes; her white and
straight teeth drew the attention of many other boys. But Hanka was blind and deaf to their
advances. She loved her one and only. And then, suddenly, it all ended. His parents sent him
to Israel. His older sister and brother had already been living there. The whole family had
intended to immigrate, and in the meantime his parents and younger sister remained until they
finished their business. The boy came to say goodbye to Hanka and promised he would write.
He also promised to wait for her Hanka cried and refused to be comforted for a long time.
Did he ever write to her? I dont know. Did he remember her?
After some time Hanka met a man older than her, who was a Communist intellectual.
He saw a future in the world of tomorrow (as Soviet Russia was called then). She would often
go for strolls with him, listening to his lectures, which filled her head with his opinions. The
solution to the Jewish question, he argued, is Communist rule. Everyone is equalAt home she
wouldnt speak of the man or his opinions. As war broke out he disappeared, he escaped to
Russia and was lost. Hanka was left behind.
After a short while those events lost their importance. Times of famine, fear, and death
had arrived. Hanka, the girl who so many wanted to get close to, continued to be social and
joyful even in the ghetto. Despite her great physical suffering her spirit was never broken. Like
the rest of us, she became very thin, she was pale and trembled from the cold as she stood in
line, wearing wooden clogs in the snow. But there was always a hint of a smile flickering in her

eyes; she remained optimistic, full of life, up to a certain point of course. Because days would
come which would wipe the white smile from her face. Today Hanka lives in Tel Aviv with her
husband, a mother to two boys and a grandmother.
When I was born, I brought bitter disappointment to my parents. Four girls and now
another one? The world I was born into had established rules and procedures. A girl was a
burden which would never pay back what was invested in her. When I was six or seven I
already knew what was to be my fate: when the time came the matchmakers would arrive. I
wouldnt have much influence over the choice. The groom would have a beard and side locks,
he would be a yeshiva student and he would work in the store of a rich Jew to make a living
until he could open his own business. Everything was arranged and established.
From the time I was able to read I began to swallow up books which opened up for me
other worlds. People lived in different places in the books I read, they wore different clothing,
and spoke different languages; they lived according to very different rules! In the books, young
girls would leave their homes to study in far away schools only coming back to visit on
Christmas. When they grew up, the servant would arrive in a carriage and bring them to the
dance hall, they would attend a large ball where the well dressed young men would invite them
to dance. They would gently touch the shoulder of the young women and speak with proper
manners. There their love would flourish and the lovers would always overcome all of the
obstacles
Despite the cold greeting I received as a child (as was told to me later) I was a happy and
joyful girl, often spoiled, both in and out of the house.
My mother gave birth to my brother Yitzhak a year after me. A nanny was hired to take
care of both of us, and she stayed with us until I was about seven. Her name was Zufiya but we
called her Zushiya. She was a village girl with a good heart who was crazy about cleaning.
Zushiya took care of my clothing, she washed every part of my body and she sang nostalgic
songs of the country to me. The dresses I wore as a child were always clean and ironed. My
sisters told me that Zushiya was very close to the two children she took care of. She left us only
after she decided to marry. Even after marrying she would still come to our home, dedicated
and loving.
When it came time for me to attend school I already knew how to read and write. My
parents enrolled me in a private school for religious girls. The language of study was Yiddish
with an emphasis on religious studies. After two days I came home crying. Im bored! My
mother brought me to the principal and he gave me a test. After the test I was placed into
second grade. I was the youngest in the class. The school was prestigious but I was ungrateful.
I didnt want to study there. I wanted to go with my friends from the neighborhood to the

public school. In the end my parents gave in and with that my religious education (outside of
the home) came to an end. I only studied there, in the place where my siblings went before
me, for three years. After that we moved apartments and a new chapter in my life began.
Yitzhak was born with that name but with each difficult illness another name was
added. In the end he had a three part name: Yithak-Eliezer-Menachem. At home we called him
Yitzush or Itzik.
Despite it all, his entry into the world was received with exclamations of joy. Finally a
son! As it is told, there was a great celebration in our home for many days. Family members,
neighbors, my fathers friends from synagogue, and my mothers friends all came and brought
many gifts showering the infant with thousands of blessings. My mother was not a young
woman then and its not hard to understand how joyful she was having brought into the world
a healthy boy at the end of her days of fertility.
If only a speck of that same joy would have been Yitzushs portion it would have been
enough. We said he should live to a hundred and twenty? He didnt even make it to twenty.
While still a young (and spoiled) boy Yitzush received all the good in the world. He was
a skinny, freckled boy with black eyes and wild hair that sat on his wide forehead. He was agile
and effervescent. He would beat all of the other kids his age in races, sliding down the banister,
catching a ball, or walking straight on the edge of the sidewalk. He was talented at performing
impressions and had a phenomenal memory. The privilege of a son actually had a certain
obstacle. His future was set with the customary study in heder, yeshiva, etc Yitzush hated
heder, the Rebbe who would hit him, and waking up on a cold morning from his warm bed. It
seemed that all of his natural wisdom was used to make up excuses not to attend heder. His
stomach hurt, he felt ill, he was nauseous, he was cold, he was hot, he had a sore throat. My
parents were strict but forgiving, while he was young. Their love for him grew to the level of
absolute faith and religious obedience. When he grew up a bit, two things happened at once:
my parents became strict about their demands and Yitzush, in return, redoubled his efforts to
evade his responsibilities to study in heder. The solution that my parents came up with was to
assign someone to accompany him and when it was my turn, I became his escort. But I
misappropriated the faith my parents had in me. I didnt bring him to heder, instead I ran with
him in the park (I was his escort only when I was on vacation ) and we would play there for
many hours without worry. I didnt have even an inkling of a guilty conscience. I saw his laugh
and happiness and it was sufficient for me. Of course the fraud was revealed and my parents
reprimanded me. But it didnt stop me from doing it again. Yitzush paid me back with love and
endless dedication. The bond between us grew with time, but time was short. Before he
reached the age of thirteen the war broke out which would sweep him away to his horrible
death

INTRODUCTION 3

Life as the Hourglass Runs Out

I spent my early childhood on Novomiska Street. Immediately following Israels marriage my
parents decided to move to a larger apartment, far from the commercial center. The place that was
chosen was Zabacheka 36, a street that was populated mostly by middle class Jews. The entrance to the
street was from the main road in Lodz, Puterkovski Street.
My school was also new. It was close to our house on 51 November 11th Street. The building
itself was old and gray with a carved stone floor; it had small classrooms and a large courtyard. Each of
the four floors was divided into classrooms and during recesses the courtyard was as crowded as an ant
hole. All of the girls wore a uniform. The school was known for its excellent teaching staff and strict
discipline. All of the students were Jewish. Some of the teachers were Jewish and some were Polish.
The school principal, Ogniyush Shimchikvitch, was a tall handsome man, who walked upright and did not
excel in his love of Jews. Shimchikvitch did try to hide that fact but he was not always successful. One
of his regular procedures was his morning greeting: Good morning girls, whoever has brought garlic or
onion to class is requested to remove it! The principal taught math and I, who did not excel in the
subject, was afraid of his gaze. Lucky for me, I shared a bench with a girl who was a wizard in math; her
help kept me out of trouble. She would sneak me notes with the answers, even during exams. I would
only struggle when standing at the board. The teacher thought I was a scatterbrain.
My homeroom teacher, Ms. Christler, was my favorite. She taught literature and history.
Because I excelled in those subjects I became her favorite. She was a chubby woman, an old maid with a
limp. I loved her with all my heart. Ms. Christler with her magical personality knew how to arouse
imagination, encourage creativity, and stimulate interest in reading. She lit a flame within me which
burned with curiosity and a desire to read and write. A week after my arrival in the new school I bought
a thick notebook and on the cover I wrote in large block letters: MY JOURNAL. The pages filled up
quickly. Writing in it became an irrepressible need.
My second favorite teacher was Ms. Kogen, the nature teacher. She stood out among the other
teachers. She ridiculed the rules of the school and how they went against her desires to take her class
on new hiking trails. She believed in a flexible curriculum, took into account the opinions of the
students, and disliked abstract concepts. Kogen would often take the class out on hikes; introduce us to
nature, leaning over a flower or leaf, turning the nature class into a wonderful symphony. We would
also visit her home which was packed with books. One time while visiting with her, she gave me the
book The Girls from Novolipki Street and asked for my opinion. After I shared my impression with her,
she gave me a note of recommendation for the director of the library in Burokov (who was a friend of
hers). The note said: Please allow my student to take out books at no cost. Please do not limit her to a
certain kind of book; I would like her to read whatever she desires. Thank you.

And so I entered paradise. The Burokov library became my second home.

The music teacher was loved by all: a young and beautiful woman, with sparkling green eyes,
auburn hairgoulash. She had the face of Venus. Most of the time she was the music teacher, but
sometimes she would substitute for Shimchivitchs math class. Shimchivitch the Christian and the
Jewish music teacher (both of whom were married) had a forbidden love affair which broke all of the
accepted rules. We, the girls, were well aware of the situation. We saw the longing gazes they sent
toward each other. There were moments when they would stand in the corner of the courtyard,
whispering to each other, blind to what was going on around them. More than once, as we left the
school we would see her husband standing and waiting for his wife, tense and smoking. He was a tall
gray man with a severe face who wore dark clothes, a hat, and dark glasses. She would walk towards
him with coquettish steps always dressed with elegance, wearing high heels which accentuated her
shapely legs. Her husband would grab her arm and they would go on their way. The love triangle
seemed so romantic to us!
It was in that school where I meet my best friend from the days before the flood (I mentioned her
before she was the math wizard). Henya was a shy girl, neither pretty nor ugly, she was quiet and
serious. Immediately upon my arrival in the class we became the perfect team. She solved all of my
math problems and I wrote her papers and grammar assignments. She was Shimchivitchs prized pupil, I
was Ms. Chrislers prized pupil. Later we had a group of friends in the class Life was beautiful.
Henya had an older brother and sister but because of their difficult financial situation they lived in their
grandmothers house. Her grandmother also had an unmarried son who ran a Judaica shop with his
mother. Henyas father worked odd jobs, her sister worked in an office and her brother in a factory.
The ones who ate the bread of charity were Henya and her mother. I say bread of charity, because
Henya suffered greatly from the situation. Her grandmother was a disgruntled, stingy woman with little
faith in humanity. Henya was made to do all of the dirty work in the house. She developed an allergy to
the sound of her grandmothers cane. As she heard the noise banging on the wooden floor she would
quickly distance herself from her. Her grandmother would always get angry: Henya used too much
soap, she placed a careless amount of polish on her shoes, she wasted water, took a sugar cube without
permission. When I was present during the scolding, Henya would turn pale and with a sad face she
would drag me outside. When we were outside not a word! She never spoke ill of her grandmother
to me. I saw and that was the end of it. That was only the tip of the iceberg of Henyas misery. Her
mother was mentally ill and between episodes she would act normally. She was a quiet, withdrawn
woman. Even her attacks would come in quiet: she would disappear from the house, wander the streets
with no purpose, unaware of the world around her. Only at night when her husband came home would
the search for her begin. The family always looked for her by themselves. Police involvement would
have brought about her being institutionalized. Everyone, even her mother-in-law, was opposed to that.
Most often they would find her outside of the city, on an old dirt path in the field, curled up trying to
keep warm. On the days when there were searches, Henya would be absent from school. She would
explain her absence as a result of a sore throat, keeping the secret of her mothers illness.

On Saturdays we would go on long treks together through the city and talk. Henya wanted to be a
scientist, like Marie Skodowska-Curie, the famous scientist from the Pasteur institute. She also shared
her plan for her future house with me. The entrance to her house was via white marble stairs. She
planted fragrant lilac trees around her house, planted flowers, painted the roof red and built a
wing for her children (which would be born to her in the future).
Many years later, in Israel I saw a blueprint of a home that was meticulously sketched by a young man,
the son of my friend Risha, who died during his army service when he was only 19. The young man,
Alexander Hecht, loved Israel very much and had many plans for his future. He did not even get to
complete his army service let alone build his future home. The parents, Holocaust survivors, remained
along with his sister Nina. Both of them, Alexander from Ramat Gan and Henya from Lodz, did not make
it to the age of twenty and were taken from the world in the sanctification of Gods name, albeit in a
different time and place.
The light in Henyas life was her single uncle, the owner of the Judaica shop. He gave her money during
times of distress and protected her from her angry grandmother. On my thirteenth birthday she
brought me a gift (which she purchased with money from her kind uncle): a pair of ice skates! Until then
I did not have skates because my parents forbade me from ice skating (as many other children did)
claiming that I would break my legs. And I really wanted them! We ran to the skating rink. It was a very
cold November. There was great joy on the ice. There were colored lights and music which poured out
from a speaker that hung on a tall post. We spent many hours there. We got up and fell down, laughed
and got up again. In the end we even learned how to skate. At home they reprimanded me but did not
prevent me from continuing. My mother chose a sweater, hat, and mittens from her store for both of us
and threatened with her finger: should anything happen to you
Almost every day after school we ran to ice skate. One day I arrived at the rink I did not see Henya
there. I went into the dressing room and put on my skates. I went out onto the rink and fell
immediately. I sat for a moment waiting for a helping hand. After a moment a young blonde boy came
to me and gave me his hand. We started to skate together and he praised my great skill. He held my
hand the whole time and smiled at me with an encouraging smile. It turned out, that Henya actually had
a sore throat. She was sick in bed for a few days. I kept skating and every time the boy with the blonde
hair was waiting for me. His name was Zavishak and he was the son of a Polish army general and a
school teacher. He told me that he was going to study in the military academy due to family pressure.
He himself preferred music and literature and had no interest in the military academy. I smiled at him
and told him that we had the same interests. We stood together next to the fence and started to recite
Polish poetry. The next day he brought me a small book of poems by Adam Asnyk. Inside I found a
note: To my great friend, the snow queen Maria.
The day came when Henya recovered. After school we ran to the ice rink. I saw Zavishak from afar
waving to me. When I came close to him, his face changed. He pulled me aside and asked: Your friend
is Jewish? I was speechless. I just pulled my hand away from his and, together with Henya, left
immediately. The next day we came back and this time I looked for him. I took out the book of poems
and said: Take your gift back. It is of no use to me. Im only interested in knowing if the poet Adam

Mickiewicz who we both love to recite also hates Jews! And you, Zavishak, go with the boys who stick
out their legs in front of the Jewish boys and stand and laugh when one slips and breaks his legthat is
where you belong! We are both proud Jews! I turned to Henya, shaking with emotion. Zavishak walked
away ashamed. And Henya said: You were brave!
The same winter Henyas father was able to buy an apartment for his family and Henyas troubles came
to an end. Henyas mothers episodes became less frequent in their new apartment.
In 1937, during my last year in middle school, the school moved to a large open building on 6 Vishvovah
Street. Before the move, there was a school prom. It took place in the boys school, near my house, on
42 Zabacheka Street. There was great excitement. It was the first time the school teachers facilitated a
meeting between the boys and the girls. That was the general impetus for the event. For me, the prom
was an important turning point in my life. One can certainly say that it determined the path of my life to
this very day.
We stood in the hall in two groups, boys in one corner and girls in a different corner. When all of the
teachers arrived and the dancing music began to play, one of the teachers announced into the
microphone: please line up in two rows. The boys are asked to invite the girls. Suddenly there stood
before me a tall boy, very skinny with traces of a moustache on his upper lip. He took my hand and we
began the first dance. Immediately it became clear that he was not used to ballroom dancing and I
volunteered to teach him. We danced together the entire night.
When I returned home I could not fall asleep. I was in love! In the middle of the night I got up and
wrote in my journal: today I met my great love, and I also hope he will be my last. The next day during
school, I wrote a note to Henya: Do I look different? I fell in love yesterday! I didnt even see you, did
you have fun? She stared at me in silence and wrote in the margins of the note: Nothing happened to
me. I saw you dancing. Is the tall boy the man of your dreams?
Two days later I found out that the boy goes after school every day to the Gordonia chapter on 31
Zermoski Street, near my house. This important information was given to me by a girl in my class,
Loshka, she was also a Gordonia member. On the weekend I went with her to the chapter and she
introduced me to the counselor Eliezer. I immediately joined a wild Hora dance. He saw me and joined
the circle, putting his hand on my shoulder. Overjoyed I continued dancing. All the angels in heaven
smiled at me. His name was Israel Abramson but in the chapter they called him Tzipek. With that began
and ended our interaction. We were both too young for anything to develop. Only Henya and my
journal knew of my secret love.
That was my entrance into the world of Zionism and that is how I developed my longing for the Land of
our Fathers. It was there that worlds which I could only imagine existed were opened before me. My
interest in Zionism prompted me to learn proper Hebrew with great enthusiasm. I bought a collection of
Bialiks poetry (still in Polish translation), Tchernichovsky, and the poems of Rachel. However, my entry
into the Zionist movement (the reasons for which are unimportant), was the cause of the sole rift
between Henya and myself. She did not want to hear of it and said that her mind wasnt open to that

nonsense. I had a choice: Henya or the movement (and Tzipek); in the meantime I chose both.
During the days at school I was with Henya and at night I ran to the chapter.
Henya also fell in love, she with her neighbor who didnt even know she existed. We would share our
love pains and suffering with sighs. My journal grew and overflowed with my crowded writing.

Upon finishing middle school, at the end of the summer, we enrolled at the school for industry and
commerce, in the accounting department. Tuition was relatively low and the enrolment was met with
our parents support. The one doubt we had was the fact that the majority of the students were
Christians and there was an extremely small number of Jewish students. On the first day I was treated
very kindly by the students until I made it clear that I was Jewish. Henya was received coolly from the
beginning. We sat in class tense, and a bit afraid. Henya wrote me a note: Relax, well show them, well
be at the top of the class. One day one of the students (a large and fat girl with straw hair) was called to
the board and stood there confused, not understanding anything. The teacher became angry and asked
her mockingly: what is 8 times 4, do you know? She didnt answer. I felt bad for her and whispered (I
sat in the front row) 32She heard twenty two and was met with a roar of laughter. Red with anger and
embarrassed she yelled: She, She, the Jew, She tried to trick me. If the teacher had believed her, it
would have ended there. But the teacher just said: I dont know what you are doing in my class! You
have no concept of simple arithmetic!
During the break I looked for a place to hide. I sat in the bathroom until the bell rang.
Our Jewish problem did not end there. Two weeks later we were celebrating the school principals
birthday. The music teacher chose me as the soloist. There was another girl whose voice was
appropriate. But the teacher thought that her soprano voice was too grating. There was a revolt in the
class. How can a Jew get the part? The matter reached the school principal. Henya and I awaited the
judgment. That day we said goodbye to that cursed place. We both went to our favorite teacher, Ms.
Kogen and told her everything. She wrote a letter to the Ministry of Education requesting for the two
good students to be given an exam. A passing grade would give us the privilege of studying in the high
school with reduced tuition. And indeed that is what happened. We both passed the test and were
enrolled in the Clara Wolfson High School on 38 Shardmiska Street. It was a school for external studies,
meaning matriculation exams had to be taken elsewhere. We only missed two and a half weeks and we
didnt even notice. We still sat together, Henya and me. Our parents understood the situation. My
mother promised to help with the payments, but I knew the situation was not good. The Jews of Poland
were going through a crisis. Hitlerism on the other side of the border had flourished and anti-Semitism
was flourishing on the streets of Poland. Hooligans disrupted commerce, there was talk of forbidding
kosher ritual slaughter and the governments tax collection became more severe. My parents were
forced to sell their large store and to move to a side street. I saw the situation in my home and
understood that I had to fend for myself. I again returned to my favorite teacher and she recommended
me to parents who were looking for a tutor for their children. Every day I gave 5 private lessons (at this
point I was 14 years old). Six am wake up. Until seven homework. Eight thirty to school. One

thirty run home. Eat quickly. Two pm First lesson. Until nine pm, I would go to five different places
and then run to the chapter. At 11pm Return home. During that time I suffered from chronic lack of
sleep. Sometimes I would ask for a glass of cold water from one of the students to wet my eyes in order
to stay awake. During those lessons I taught in a home with four children of loving parents, well
respected people. I taught the youngest who was a fourth grade student. The two girls, Hannah and
Leah who were around my age would follow me to Gorondia. They were the only two who survived the
Holocaust. The boy was cute; he had beautiful eyes and a cute face. His mother, older brother and
father remained there. Everything is still very vivid for me: the big table, the white tablecloth, the pretty
mother, the smell of yeast cakes and the boy hunched over his book. Me, Miriam the teacher, next to
him. The two survivors, Hannah and Leah now live in Israel, both mothers and grandmothers.
Henya and I felt overwhelmed by kindness. There was an open and advanced atmosphere in the school,
the teaching staff was incredible. The material was presented pleasantly and clearly. The teachers did
everything to ensure that the students would pass their exams and build up a name for the school.
Henya continued to excel in exact sciences: math, physics, and chemistry while I excelled in the study of
languages. We learned four foreign languages: English, Latin, German and Hebrew (or French if chosen).
We both loved history class. When we learned about ancient Rome, we read Homers Iliad and Odyssey
and Henya read Penelope to me and I read Cyclops to her. We laughed all the time, happy with our lot.
That continued until the summer of 1939. That summer the entire Bonim group of the Gordonia
chapter went to a summer camp. There were many preparations for the trip. First of all, I had to
deceive my parents. I knew they would not allow me to go. A summer camp with boys and girls
together was considered totally licentious. I brought my friend Loshka who made up some story for my
parents. Her parents were going on a vacation and they wanted to take me with them. My mother
accepted it without suspicion. That summer my family did not go on vacation. My mother was happy
that her daughter would have the chance to enjoy the village far from the smoky city. Next, I had to get
equipment which I collected in Loshkas house. One day in July of 1939 we went on our way. We
arrived at a place called Podgozitsa next to the city of Tomshov. We found two cabins at the location
with an open space for a kitchen. Close by there was a large forest with a running stream. The
counselors organized everything. The head counselor was Eliezer Shilsky (today Shiloh). We were ready
for a month of happiness with no end!
I left Henya behind. Two weeks later the sisters Hannah and Leah arrived. They brought a letter from
my house with them. When I opened the letter my eyes went dark. My parents discovered the fraud!
The letter was written with great anger: Liar! You should be ashamed of yourself!
It turns out that after a few days my mother decided to check everything out, she went up to the fourth
floor to Loshkas house (her family lived in shabby attic). No one answered the knock at the door; just
the neighbor came out and asked: what are you looking for? Did someone come back from the village?
(It was customary for the father to travel to the village on the weekends and return home to work
during the week). From the village? The neighbor asked, who said they went to the village? My
mothers face turned pale and she placed her hand on her heart. They didnt go to the village? She
whispered, feeling a strange weakness. Are you kidding? The neighbor asked, where would these

paupers find the money, my dear madam? My mother sat on one of the steps and covered her face
with her hands. But my little daughter went with them My mother said choked up. Oh, the neighbor
said, I saw your daughter. She and Loksha did indeed go to the village; they went to summer camp with
the Habonim group, from Gordonia
Rachel and mother went to the chapter on Zromski Street and the chapter head, Ira Tishler, calmed her
down. He charmed them with his words and pleasant smile. There is nothing to worry about, he said,
our children are models of behavior and they are very happy there. And soon there is another group of
kids who are going to join them, you can write her a letter, she would be very happy to receive it.
Henka added a few words to the end of the letter: Dont worry. Everything will be OK. Good for you for
having such courage! Im looking forward to your return with a new collection of poems and funny
stories
On one of the hot July days we went on a long hike and made it to the bank of the river. Before we had
a chance to jump in the water we saw a large group of young men coming close. While still staring at
them with curiosity the first stones hit us. Juden, get out of here! The stones and curses terrified us,
but only for a split second. Eliezer, the counselor, said decisively: Guys, dont run! Lets go give it to
them!
The group of Polish students were already 17, 18, tall and strong, full of self-confidence. Eliezer yelled:
Girls step aside! And the battle began. Hand to hand combat. Kicking, punching, rocks, hair pulling and
cursing: Dogs blood! May you have Cholera! A few of them began to run. And then their teacher came
gathered them up and said to Eliezer who was breathing heavy and bleeding: Im very sorry! Theyre
just stupid kids, you know
At dusk we stood at attention singing:
We go up singing/ on swords and corpses/ we go up stepping/ in the light and the dark/ knowing/ and
not knowing/ we go on the path / we go up singing / we step and pass!
The humiliation and the anger were washed away with the proud and unified song, which gave us hope
for better days.
It was there that I met Lutzia (Leah Burnstein). We went to visit kids from a different Gordonia camp
who came from the town of Alexandrov. While walking past an open window I saw an open suitcase
that was resting on the window sill. I looked inside and asked out loud: Who leaves an open suitcase on
a window sill? A brunette arose over the pile of clothes. A girl with a cute face looked at me and said:
Oops Thanks, we just arrived, I hadnt had a chance to
That is how Lutzia and I met. A long lasting friendship sprouted from that encounter.

One day, while we were still playing scout games, hiking in the forest, and swimming in the river, we
heard a rumor about the black clouds over the skies of Europe. The news came from our counselor
Eliezer while we were sitting on the green hilltop for our daily swim. He was holding a newspaper and
asked for quiet. He said: What I see written here is not good tidings. To tell you the truth, we only
listened with half an ear. Granted a bitter drop had fallen into the calm sea, but it only marred things
for a brief moment. Not everyone was listening, but I remember that specific moment well.
The black clouds over the skies of Europe. Indeed, that was the last summer of happiness. One month
separated us from the bloodsucking predators that would enter our lives. One final month. In the
meantime we sat on the green hilltop, with the scent of a summer night in our nostrils, the song of birds
in the air and a starry night above us. Tzipek sat next to me and at a certain moment he touched me
and asked in a serious voice: what do you think about the news? I dont know, I said excited by his
touch, well hope for the best. Tzipek only arrived at the end of the camp, he was busy helping his
father (who was an accountant) and he had a chance to read many newspapers all of which had
pessimistic articles. So he told me, and he added: The quiet here seems to be the calm before the
storm. A warm starry night fell upon the camp. We sat on the green hilltop and sang at the top of our
lungs: There in the land of our forefather all of our dreams will come true
I was met at home with open arms, kisses and hugs. All was forgiven in one moment. I sat on my
fathers lap as he stroked my face with his kind big hands. It was Sunday, the store was closed and
everyone was at home. Yitzush did not leave me alone for a moment. There was so much he wanted to
tell me! We both went out to the street and I bought him ice cream. Afterwards we ran to Henya.
Henya was very happy to see me and she said: Now enough playing games. We have to enroll in school,
time is short. I already spoke to the principal and I have a list of the new books. We only have to work
out the issue of tuition payment. Henya looked pale to me, but she smiled and said: I have good news,
a week ago I joined the rank of womenit hurt a bit, but my sister taught me how to deal with it. She
said that next month it wont hurt anymore. We hugged. Yitzush sat in the corner on the floor playing
with stones. The date: August 1st 1939. Henya went out with us onto the street to escort us home. As
always it was hard for us to separate. And the city around us was bustling with life.

CHAPTER 1
In Our Home The Last Station
The house on Zavacheska Street was large and modern. It had two entrances from two
parallel streets with spacious apartments inside. Our apartment was on the third floor with
two separate entrances: one to the kitchen and the other to the long hallway which led to the
bedrooms. Most of the neighbors were affluent; a minority of the residents was Christian,
Polish army officers, government officials and the like. The building had two guards on each
side. Below us lived the Liss family, they had many children with twins, Yedziah and Paula, who
were my age. Pelah, an attractive and talented high school student, lived on the first floor. She
would often stop me in the stairwell and ask me to come in for a moment. In her room she
would stand me before her and recite a poem from a Polish poet (Mickiewicz or Slovatzski)
asking me to check in the book that she did not make a mistake. In the dramatic voice of a
theater actress she would recite:
There are many Zimbalists in the world/ Yankel is the best of all!
I would stay for a few minutes and would always leave with a book she recommended for me to
read. After a short while we became good friends.
There was also a Christian girl, the daughter of the guard, who wanted to be my friend.
We would sit on the stoop of the building and chat. She was older than I and was in love with a
married man who lived across the street. The man had a son my age. Genya, the Christian girl,
would pour out her heart to me. What could she do? She loved him! I had no solution to her
problem, but she always invited me to come over. After the war broke out we stayed friends
until the day she realized her advantage over me. Being friends with a Jew became unwise.
She stopped smiling at me and no longer invited me over.
There was also a Christian boy, Stashek, who was my good friend for a while. His family
lived across the street and his father was a captain in the Polish army. During the first
bombings we ran to the shelter and Stashek was waiting seeking out my company. He would
recite in my ear patriotic speeches about the sacred obligation to protect the Polish homeland.
Aside from the speeches he asked for a kiss. I allowed him to kiss my cheek. One day he
disappeared from the courtyard with his parents. It was told that they fled to Romania.
With the outbreak of war, our apartment became the focus of German attention. The
first to be evacuated from their apartment was a young family with three children. They lived
in one of the large apartments with windows facing the street. For reasons known only to
them, the Germans never entered the apartment and after a while the guards family moved in.
The wife set a stove in the center of the apartment and threw into the fire all of the holy books
that filled the shelves and ultimately took down the mezuzahs and threw them into the fire.
One mezuzah opened and the parchment flew out of the burning stove. The woman was
frightened; she ran to the window and yelled to her husband who was in the courtyard: Yan,
come quickly! The God of the Jews is taking revenge on us! And she fainted.

God of vengeance, you saw and heard, why did you forsake us?
But we are still in the month of August, with clear skies. Father was writing a book and
mother was engaged in her own dealings. New purchases were made for the home. A new bed
for Rachel, new silverware, new boots for Grandfather, a fur coat for mother. I got new
sandals. Rosia was working in the office and always had money in her pocket. Paula found
work in a printing house and at night she would run to meet her friends from Beitar. Hanka
worked as an account manager in a large china shop. Yitzush was finally enrolled in a secular
school. Rachel was immersed as always in housework, the love of my parents as always.
Israels daughters looked like two cute dolls.
Loshka, my friend from Gordonia, and I go to see the film Halka. It is a romantic, tear
jerker. On the way back we stop at her house. Loshka is hungry. We have to eat quickly in
order to make it to the chapter. Her mother puts two plates in front of us (youll eat with us,
right?) and on the plates there are two slices of dry bread. Next to us are two cups of black
coffee (no milk). Her mother breaks a sugar cube in two and divides it between us. I pretend
that everything is delicious. Loshka doesnt look at me. We eat in silence.
Loshkas younger sister sits in the corner, pale with a rag doll in her hand. She coughs a
dry cough. Loshka is a tall and skinny young girl. Loshkas father has a lover and he doesnt
bring his paycheck home. Her two brothers do not live in the house. Loshka, her little sister,
and mother live in poverty.
We finish eating and run outside. Her mother lovingly kisses me. Youll come again, ok?
(Poor Jewish woman! Mother of four children, abandoned and neglected. She too was once
young and dreamed of pure love, a husband and children. What she got was a cheating
husband, boys who wronged her, and two girls who were always hungry, the younger sick with
tuberculosis. An empty pantry. With the outbreak of war she hoped for some change. She
could not imagine that life would get worse.)
In the Gordonia chapter there was a joyful commotion. We dance a wild Hora. Benik
stands from afar yelling: Who will build the Galil? And we answer: We will build the Galil.
Young legs dancing, red faced with hearts racing. Life is so beautiful!
That beautiful nights also comes to an end as we race home before the gates closed.
After midnight a day would begin which would be spoken about for years to come.
The next day: September 1st 1939.
It is a Friday like all other Fridays. Mother and Rachel go to the market (the green
market a few blocks from us) where they sell fresh fruits and vegetables. They buy cherries,
strawberries, pears, and blackberries. The dough was already rising in the kitchen. Later the
blackberries would be put into squares of dough and baked into treats. It is the first of

September and summer is almost over. The blackberries are rare and the farmers charge
almost double for them.
There is no school, I dont remember why. It is probably because the new school year
will not start until Sunday or Monday for the Polish children. It could have be for another
reason. At nine in the morning large groups of people gather in the streets. There are also
many children running around them. The voices are a bit agitated an things are still unclear.
There are rumors and hearsay.
Mother and Rachel return from the market. Come home now, mother says. All three of
us go home. Mother places the basket in the kitchen and we all enter the living room. Father is
sitting there reading the paper. We heard in the market war has broken out, mother says.
War, father raises his eyes from the paper, war?
The number of people in the streets grows. It seems as if no one remains in their home.
From the windows, the shelters, a large bark of heil Hitler is heard. The chancellor of the Third
Reich is giving a speech to the entire world. Every radio in the shelters of Lodz is turned on; it
seems as if the sound is reverberating throughout the world. I can only hear a few words,
which I dont understand. The JewsGlobal Jewrythe heroic German nation we will march
with strengththe barking lasted for a long while. The groups of people do not disperse. The
streets are filled with people. All of the shops are closed. Freshly printed notices are pasted to
the walls of the city. Marshal Edward Rydz-migy, ruler of Poland calls for the Poles to fight for
their homeland which is under attack. We, the brave Poles, will not let our land be stolen! We
will not give up even a single button!
Children are playing ball in our courtyard. Many of the children are happy there is no
school. It is a bit difficult to part with summer vacation.
Lunch. As usual we eat potato soup and meatballs. The smell of challah bread fills the
house. Everything seems normal, only the look of the adults is different. They are worried.
There is little talk. Father goes, as usual to synagogue. Mother lights the Shabbat candles. Her
normal silent prayer now sounds like a silent cry.
I run in the direction of the synagogue to meet father and Yitzush who are returning
from prayer. Groups of Hassidim wearing black kapotas with their prayer shawls tucked away
in embroidered bags are marching down the streets of Lodz, on Friday night, the first night of
the war.
The sky is red with fire, as if there is a gigantic blaze in them.
A clear sign of war, say those in the know.
September 1st 1939 came to an end. The next day, Saturday, clear, true, troubling, and
frightening information came. There is a war on the Polish borders. The German invaders are
defeating the Poles. The Polish army retreats in haste. The German tanks are pushing forward.

Giant notices call for mass enlistment: Poles scream the large letters the homeland is in
danger! Come help your nation!
My Polish friend Genyas mother faints and needs medical attention. Why, I stupidly ask
Genya, why is this happening? My mother, Genya says as she throws her blonde hair behind
her shoulder, remembers the last war. That was when my grandparents died and she was left
an orphan
The first bombs. We run to the shelters which were just basements. We play games as
we sit in the shelter, games of broken telephone. The phrase that is passed from ear to ear
is: swan song. The words that make it to my sister Paula are: condom in the oven. Paula, who
doesnt know what a condom is, says condom out loud and everyone bursts out in laughter.
Paula, embarrassed, asks: What did I say? There was a respite outside. Until next time.
In the meanwhile the great eastward escape begins. Young men and women pack
backpacks and go on their way. Older parents, families with many young children, and those
who believed there will be a quick end to Hitlers adventure stay behind.
Grandfather (who they called Abba) lay in bed mumbling prayers. He has no idea what
is happening around him outside of his small range of hearing and fading vision. At night, after
grandfather fell asleep, Rosias suggestion to escape to the east is considered. The suggestion is
rejected for three reasons:
1. Grandather. Mother refuses to leave grandfather even with her sister.
2. Father argues that running to a communist country is a great danger to the children
3. Everyone argues that the war will be short lived. As everyone knows, the German
tanks are made of cardboard, their uniforms from paper and they have no food to
feed the army. The whole thing will last a week or two.
Rosia insists, she thinks we should run. Maybe shell run away first and after she gets things in
order shell come back for the rest of the family. That suggestion also falls on deaf ears.
The street of Lodz seem very strange. There are homes with doors and windows left
wide open without anyone inside. The stores are bolted shut, here and there a few cafes have
people inside. A crowd of residents of Lodz gather around someone in the know. There are
prophets of darkness and those who try to be a calming force. The Germans will not last long.
The English will come to help Poland (based on some treaty) the world sees and hears. No need
to panic. We have already seen a war with the Germans. They are orderly and will not touch
civilians. All we need is patience.
In a thick notebook I write:
War Journal
Today is the fourth of September. The group of trained men who stood outside across
from our apartment has left. Other families have also left the building. The windows and doors
are locked and there is no one to be seen.

September 5th The bombs. We run to the basement. Mother was able to get jam and
all day we ate fresh bread with purple jam spread on it. I saw many wounded on Valchenska
Street. They lay in the large courtyard crying out in pain. I ran with Seltchia, my friend, to find
her brother. He serves in the Polish army because he was enlisted with the outbreak of war.
No one knows where he is. We walk among the wounded calling: Mendl Mendl! (We are both
reminded of Tolstoys War and Peace).
September 6th Father is still optimistic and is sure that Churchill wont let Hitler
advance. My father knows a lot about politics and I believe he is correct. I dont know who
Churchill is, but he is certainly someone important.
September 7th Thursday. Many young Jews have hasty weddings (and immediately
leave) in order to satisfy their parents. They enjoy their wedding night on their way. The
streets are filled with fugitives. Everything is up to blind luck. Turn left and you will succeed in
escaping. Turn right and you will find the Germans waiting for their victims. The
Messerschmitt aircrafts have control of the air and are firing live rounds on any target that
moves. The wounded and dead are left behind, on the roads and in the fields, left to the
vultures.
Rumor is followed by rumor, none of which bring good news. The undecided choose to
remain. This one has a pregnant wife. That one has an infant or a widowed mother. And if you
dont have an infant or a pregnant wife, but you have young children, you think twice before
leaving your house (which seemed safe until now).
Two brothers (neighbors) leave to escape. They pack backpacks which have in them,
aside from their clothes, cookies their mother baked for them all night. They part in tears and
kiss their younger brothers. Their father stuffs prayer books into their pockets. On the road
they hear the footsteps of soldiers. One stops to jump into the bushes. The other was relieving
himself at that moment with his back to the group of Germans. He was startled by the German
order. They asked where he was going and where he had come from. He told them (trembling)
that he was going to his parents home in the neighboring village.
Are you Jewish? They asked.
No, the young man answered.
Pull down your parents, they commanded.
He was shot on the spot with a single bullet to the head. His brother, who was frozen
stiff from what he had seen, waited for them to leave and had no choice but to bury his brother
on the spot that he was murdered. Still in shock, he returned to Lodz. At first he said that he
and his brother separated to take different routes in order to make sure they were headed in
the right direction. After they split, he was unable to find him and did not want to continue on
his own. His mother did not believe his story and he broke down in the end and told her the
bitter truth.
These and other similar stories flew throughout the city.

Grandfather continues to cough at night and he mumbles prayers to himself during the
day. Mother makes soft cereal for him and feeds him with a spoon. Grandfather can no longer
sit; he lays down in silence, mumbling and one time he even asks mother what she is doing at
home and why she is not at the store. Before he received an answer he fell asleep.
September 8th The Germans enter the city of Lodz. Soldiers riding on motorcycles and
jeeps rush into the city in a steady stream, a great and powerful army. The citizens of Lodz
stand on the sides of the street staring at them. Their boots are shined, their weapons cocked,
sitting up straight inside their vehicles decorated with swastikas. The city sees the conquerors
and stops its breath. The flow of soldiers continuestheir uniforms are not made of paper and
their tanks are of iron and steel.
September 9th The first Jewish residents are evacuated, with nothing, from their
homes. The more the house is beautiful and spacious, the faster it is evacuated from its Jewish
residents. The Germans demand many residences for their large group of commanders and
officers. The name Lodz has been changed to Litzmannstadt (the city of General Litzmann). It is
now difficult to buy food. You can still get potatoes from a farmer who comes to the city with
his produce. Occasionally it is possible to buy a sack of flour or rice. The prices skyrocket from
one moment to the next. It is almost impossible to find bread.
Lutzia, my friend from Gordonia visits Lodz from Alexandrov (a nearby town). It seems
that her father was able to escape East and the rest of the family decided to join relatives in
Lodz. The rest of the family includes: her mother and two sisters. We meet on the street and
Lutzia does not look the same as she used to. She is wearing a fine rain jacket, clean and tidy.
Lutzia has brunette hair with pretty eyes. She has shapely legs with an incredible smile. Lutzia
is a serious and intelligent young woman. She is happy to meet up with me and we stroll
through the streets of conquered Lodz. We are still young girls full of joy and we do not allow
our sadness to take control. Lutzia tells me that her family has moved in with her aunt. The
place is not ideal but that is the only option. She is sure that coming to Lodz was the right
choice.
It is only the beginning of September and the sun is still shining on the streets. It is
warm and pleasant outside.
Many people are still escaping from the city. They walk on the streets which do not yet
have Germans on them. They turn to the villages and advance only at night. They are headed
to the Bug River. According to rumors, the Russians are on the other side.
The Germans capture Jews on the street and bring them to do various kinds of forced
labor. Here and there a truck stops, a group of soldiers selects their victims from those passing
by, putting them on their vehicles and charging forward. Those who disappeared in the
kidnapping operations did not always return home in full health, if at all. For the most part they
were taken, while being physically and verbally abused, to clean the apartments that had been
evacuated while. Woman who are pregnant are able to walk about as well as men who have a

small child with them. Many of the Jewish residents learned from their past experience and
they try only to go out on the streets together with a child Sometimes they take a neighbors
child (two is even better).
The soldiers who hunt the people are common soldiers, privates from the Whermact
(they are not SS). The black workers were treated by the soldiers each according to his
conscience. There were many among them who had not yet learned to hit a woman or an old
man. When they are told to bring men for a certain job they follow orders without hesitation,
an order is an order. A true German is obedient.
There are many motivations for hunting Jews in the streets (in addition to house
cleaning). One of the varieties was for scientific research. One morning my brother Israel was
grabbed when he was walking near his house on Zabacheka Street. Only young and strong men
were taken with him. They took him to the basement of a home where one of the
headquarters sat, they were commanded to undress and stand in a single file row. A doctor (so
it seemed to them) wearing a white robe called each one in his turn and began measuring. He
measured the length of their hands, feet, fingers, ears, nose, width of the forehead, chest,
genitals, number of teeth, etc He spent a long time on the shape of the skull, jaw, width of the
nose, and cheek bones. Everything was documented and photographed, from the profile,
front, back, sitting, crawling and walking (the representatives of the superior race were
conducting research to prove their superiority If it was for the purpose of proving the
superiority of the Aryan race, why were only strong men taken?). In the adjacent basement,
those who were examined were tortured all night long: beatings, breaking of limbs, kicks to the
groin, slaps, lashes etc... Without food or water they were brutally beaten until morning. Israel
returned home in bad shape. He had an open wound in his head, two broken fingers, totally
beaten and bleeding. That was the day that mother almost broke down. While his wife took
care of the two infants, my mother sat beside his bed without moving until he was able to stand
up.
The German conquerors had many loyal collaborators; they were known as the
Volksduetsche, meaning Poles from German descent who came to Lodz in search of income. In
their home country it was difficult for them to make a living and they saw Poland, sitting on
their Eastern border, as a place which would promise them a better future. Despite their
perfect acclimation to life in Poland, they kept their allegiance to their German homeland and
with the rise of the Nazi regime in Germany they were invigorated with a new spirit. They had
no reason to love Jews (who were their employers) and with the arrival of the Germans in Lodz
they were the first to hang flags with swastikas in the windows of their homes.
With their knowledge of the place and the language they quickly became advisors to the
new rulers. These Volksduetsche joined every group of robbers and murderers, leading the
Germans to the correct addresses with great speed. They knew the area, the factory owners,
the rich, the intelligentsia. They wore special uniforms and had a free hand in their dealings

with the Jews of the city. If a German stopped you on the street and asked: Jude (Jew)? You
could deny it to save your skin. If he was part of the Volksduetsche you would meet a bitter
fate.
The lack of bread was one of the first plagues. Only a few bakeries operated for the
local population. The flour was taken for the German army. The rations depleted. In order to
get a loaf of bread you had to stand before dawn in a line next to the bakery. The doors were
only opened with daybreak and then the bread was distributedonly to Poles. They would take
the Jews out of the line (with the active help of the Poles or the Volksduetsche).
One night we, six girls, went out to stand in line: Rachel, Rosia, Paula, Hanka, my friend
Henya, and I. She came to our house before curfew and slept together with me on the mattress
on the floor. At two thirty in the morning we got up, got dressed and went on our way. I wore
clothes that I had set out the night before. My Polish friend Genya gave me her high heeled
shoes. Hanka gave me a grown up hairdo (with a curl on the forehead which was in style back
then) and Rachel put lipstick on me, all in an effort to make me look older (bread was not given
out to children). Henya also changed her appearance.
It was a quiet night, clear with the moon traveling in the sky. We walked carefully so as
not to travel on the roads where there were Germans. It was a bit chilly. A fall wind blew,
whipping the treetops. We quickly advanced. The distance between us and the closest bakery
was quite far. Henya was very apprehensive. She doubted if we would be able to get any
bread. Henya had black hair. Her appearance was completely Semitic (like Rachel, Paula and
Hanka Rosia had red hair with blue eyes and a small pug nose). I took Henyas hand and said:
Dont worry, you look fine. In my heart I knew she was right.
We entered a street that was particularly dark and did not see the German soldier who
was standing at the gate of one of the houses. We only heard his voice
HALT! (Stop!)
We stopped, overcome with fear. The soldier shined his powerful flashlight on us,
looked at us for a long while and asked: WOHIN? (To where?)
Hanka was the only one who was able to speak. She took a step forward and said: We
are going to the bakery to buy bread.
At this hour? The soldier asked, as it was forbidden to be on the street.
Correct, Hanka answered confidently (When she spoke Yiddish it sounded completely
like German) but there is always a long line and we are going to stand in line
Still unsure of what to do with us, he measured us with a long glare. In the end he
shined his flashlight on me and asked: BIST DU EINE JUDIN? (Are you a Jew?)
No Hanka was quick to deny she is not a Jew. I was flushed with anxiety.
So why are you friends with Jews? The soldier asked, it is not nice, dont you know? He
said to me and extended his hand. He brought me close to him looking at me affectionately.
My sisters and Henya stood at a distance.

Whats your name? He asked.

Maria, I said, encouraged by the fact that he bought the lie.
Thats a pretty name, said the soldier, there are many girls in Berlin with that name. Tell
me, how do you know German so well?
I study it in school and really like the language (my confidence grew with each passing
moment).
Ill tell you what, the German said, taking my hand again, come here at six in the
morning. That is when I finish guard duty. Ill take you to the bakery and give you a sack full of
bread. I like you. Just promise me, never be friends with Jews Will you come? Ill wait for
you here
Yes, I said, Ill gladly come and will be happy to tell me parents I met such a nice soldier
Go! The German commanded Henya and my sisters, quickly run home! And to me he
said: Maria are you sixteen yet?
Yes, I said. (A cold sweat covered my brow. I knew exactly what he wanted from me.
Like any disciplined German, he wanted to abide by the law).
Go, he said and smiled as he stroked my face, Ill be here waiting for you
We quickly ran away, tense with fear. We were sure he was going to shoot us from
behind. We changed directions on the adjacent street, quickly moving toward the bakery. We
found a spot among the many people who arrived before us, both Jews and Poles. Wrapped in
sweaters and scarves, they stood there at daybreak occasionally looking at the sky as it
brightened. We stood at the end of the line waiting like everyone else. We were still tense
from the encounter with the soldier.
The line began to move at dawn. Each person stood vigilantly guarding his place in line.
Encouraged by what happened on the way, I began a conversation with a Polish girl standing
next to me.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I said, how long is this going to take?
They (the Germans) should be stricken with Cholera, the girl said.
My brother was wounded in battle, I saidHe was an infantry soldierthe cursed
Germans stole our homeland
They killed my Uncle Franchishak Oy, oymy aunt cried and cried.
Other girls joined the conversation. I adjusted quickly to the village dialect which I had
learned from our various housekeepers. Now I spoke freely. My sisters and Henya, who saw
how involved I was in the conversation with the Polish girls kept a safe distance.
At six am the bakery finally opened its doors. Immediately a German soldier appeared
accompanied by a Pole. The Pole pointed at all of the Jews standing in line (all night).
RAUSS! (Get out!) The German yelled.

One by one he removed each Jew from the line. My heart began beating faster. When
it came to be my turn they looked at me for a short moment and moved on. The Polish girl
standing next to me said: The Jews are getting what they deserveLet them go to Palestine
Youre right, I said. (The whole time I was thinking about Yitzush, my parents and
grandfather who were waiting at home for the bread I would bring, or not bring).
My four sisters and Henya were removed from the line. On the way home (it was
already close to eight) we found an open basement where they were selling potatoes. One
kilogram per person. We bought potatoes.
I held the bread I had gotten thanks to lies and joining the Polish riff raff close to my
chest. At that moment I matured many years.
The streets of Lodz are plastered with many notices. Notices in German and Polish. All
the Jews must bring radios, bicycles, jewelry, furs, sewing machines, musical instruments to
collection locations. Anyone who transgresses will be put to death. You have been warned,
after the date listed below any Jew who transgresses will be strictly punished with death!
Citizens of Lodz, it is forbidden to be on the streets after six pm.
To all the Jewish residents: You must wear an armband (10 centimeters wide) on your
sleeve. Any Jew found on the street without the armband will be tried!
Note: Jews are forbidden to use any form of public transportation.
Attention: Jews must step off of the sidewalk in the presence of a German soldier
walking towards him.
Many stand in line in order to give their possessions over to the German authorities.
They confidently claim it is a wise step in order to protect the lives of your family. Others hide
their contraband in the basement of their house. My mother sewed her jewelry into a corset.
The fish bones sewn across the length of the corset hide it during a body search. (This was only
known to me much later).
September passes and October comes and with it the cold and rain. Heavy clouds hang
over the rooftops. The Germans have complete control of the city.
Friday, October 15th: Mother succeeds in making food for Shabbat. At dusk father and
Yitzush go to the synagogue close to our home. They only have to cross May 1 st Avenue and
after a few steps there are inside the prayer hall. The Jews send their supplications to God to
have mercy on His nation of Israel. Everything is done with brevity. On their way home they
encounter a group of German soldiers. For a moment the soldiers stand and stare at the
stream of Jews leaving the synagogue. One of them take his rifle off his shoulder and hits the
elderly man that is closest to him. A riot breaks outs: The Germans are beating and kicking
people screaming: Cursed Jewish swine!

Yitzush quick to realize what is happening grabs father by the sleeve and in a moment
they both disappear into our courtyard. He pulls father toward the stairs. Fathers hat and
prayer shawl remain on the street. Oy! Father yelles.
Wait, Yitzush jumps back onto the street. As the soldiers are still occupied with their
vile actions, grabbing old men beating them left and right, Yitzush carefully gathers fathers hat
and prayer shawl. He catches up with father still on the stairs. (Father slowly ascends to the
third floor with heavy steps, tense, lost in his sad thoughts). Master of the Universe, Master of
the Universe, his pale lips whisper.
On the second floor they decide not to alarm mother. Father straightens his clothing,
gives Yitzush a calming look and they both enter the house.
Shabbat Shalom, father announces festively. I want to tell you something after we eat,
Yitzush whispers into my ear.
The next day, on Saturday, Henya comes over. They captured her brother and beat him
until he was bleeding and unconscious. We walked together on Zabacheka Street. There is a
pharmacy close by. She has to buy something to dress her brothers wounds. The pharmacy is
closed. We walk the length of Puterkovska Street. There too it is closed.
Suddenly screams. Two soldiers grab a Jew and throw him down; they begin kicking
him with all their might His zizith cover his eyes, his kapota is torn, and his shirt quickly turns
red with blood He holds his prayer shawl to his chest without relinquishing his grasp. They
kick his head. Scared people stand at a distance watching the spectacle, some with pain and
mercy and others with indifference.
Its just an old Jew, says one woman, wearing a wide brim hat, to her son who is holding
her hand. Dont worry dear; it wont happen to us
Henya and I cry in silence, holding each others hand as we tremble. The crowd grows
around us.
In the end the soldiers are separated from the unfortunate old man and they leave the
scene. Two young men carry the man into the closest apartment.
I run home and in a fit of hysterics fall at my fathers feet: Promise me, that you will not
go out on the street until the war is over! Promise me, promisetheythey It took a long
time for me to calm down. Father caressed my head and smiled with great courage: I promise,
just calm down. (How nave my request was).
After they had made some order in the city, the German began operating factories for
the war effort. Every plant or factory that was under Jewish ownership was now run with a
German or Volksduetsche supervisor. Wearing boots and a freshly ironed uniform with a
swastika on the arm, they would walk through the large factories supervising the employees
like peacocks swollen with pride, the new rulers of the world.
My sister Paula continued her work in the publishing house. There was a lot of work
and the demand for employees was very high. The supervisor assigned there was a soldier in

the Vermacht (I dont remember his rank). Herr Herbert Shrieder, a 25 year old from Berlin,
was a quiet and debonair man. Each day after his arrival at the publishing house (whose Jewish
owners were removed) everyone would breathe a sigh of relief. He was not like any other
German. He did not yell or hit. He himself, it seems, worked in a publishing house before his
enlistment and he knew the work well. He knew how to appreciate the knowledge of the
workers (the majority of whom were Jewish).
One day, Paula returned from work pale and trembling with fear. Herr Herbert Shrieder
stopped her at work and asked for her address. He wrote down the address and said he was
coming to visit herWe were all terrified. Hes coming to our house? The Nazi? Why? What
does he want? What is he going to do to us? What will we do? What does he want from us?
A few moments after curfew the doorbell rings. We are frozen in place. Who is coming
at such an hour? Rosia goes to open the door. She sees the uniform through the glass. A
German soldier is standing behind the door.
Herr Herbert Shrieder enters, takes off his hat and says: (with a warm smile on his face
and flowers in his hand) Good Evening, Does Fraulein Paulina (Paulas name in German) live
here? Yes, says poor Rosia (still trembling with fear) please come in. She shows him the way to
the living room.
In the living room, father stands at the head of the table and we stand next to him. Herr
Herbert Shrieder enters the room after letting Rosia pass in front of him. He measures us up
with his eyes and repeats his greeting of good evening, with a chivalrous bow he approaches
mother. Herr Herbert Shrieder kisses mothers hand. Excuse me, he says into the open space
of the house (we are all standing still, there is dead silence throughout the house) I apologize
for barging in on you. Im lonely in the city.
Please sir, sit down my mother says finally finding the words (she spoke German
fluently) we are happy you came
Mr Shrieder relaxes in his chair and says: I am very attracted to Fraulein Paulina, I would
not have guessed that she had younger sisters each as beautiful as she
Father sits without moving (like all of us), none of us understands what is happening.
Paula (still blushing) arranges the flowers the German brought in a vase.
Hanka is the first to gain her confidence and she starts chatting with the guest as if it is
something normal.
He places his hat and next to it his pistol in its leather holster on a chair next to him.
Rachel brings him a cup of tea with lemon and says: Im very sorry we do not have any cake in
the house.
Thank you, thank you, he answers smiling kindly Im actually full
A free flowing conversation begins. Father asks his permission to step away from the
table. Herr Shrieder stands and does not sick back down until father leaves the room. We all
return to our seats. He begins to recount.

By chance, yes by chance, he is also one of many children in a working class family. Yes.
He has five sisters whose names are almost identical to ours: Helen, Rozy, Paulina, Anna, Mary.
Only the order is different. He feels like hes back at home. When he was called to report with
the outbreak of war, everyone in the house cried It was hard for them to part from him. He
himself would very much like for the war to end quickly
We are sitting there with our mouths agape. Yitzush slowly moves toward the chair
which has the hat and gun on it.
Herbert says: It is forbidden for children to play with guns. It is dangerous.
Yitzush, embarrassed, returns to his seat. The night passes with pleasant conversation.
There are moments in which we all forget the whole situation.
Before he leaves, Herbet asks: May I return again tomorrow? I feel really wonderful
here!
JA KOMMEN SIE BITTE (Yes, please come) mother says. Well all knew very well that she
could not refuse. Another kiss on mothers hand, followed by a polite bow and kind smile.
After Herbert left the room he retraces his steps and gatheres his belt and pistol. Almost
forgot, he says apologetically.
It was hard to sleep that night. We couldnt understand what happened. Who was this
Herbert? Is he really just a simple man, a soldier fulfilling his simple and basic duty to his
country? Is he really not infected with hatred of Jews? Is it possible? Maybe he is just
pretending and actually a spy, sent by the Gestapo.
Father cannot sleep. He has five young girls and he is anxious for their safety. The
soldier, far from his home Who can stop him if he tries something with his daughters? What
is he really looking for? Is he so nave? After all the trouble we have already been through how
can he understand this man? Who is he really?
Paula explains: From the moment he entered the place he was staring in my direction. I
was terrified. I thought there was something wrong, that I wasnt doing the work correctly,
maybe I had something on my face When he came over to me I almost fainted. But he just
asked my name and where I lived. I was afraid he was going to come to our house and kill all of
us But I couldnt lie. He would have easily found my address Everyone tried to comfort me
but I knew they were having pity on me
From that night on, Herbert from Berlin would visit us. One time he brought me a
harmonica and taught me how to play. I learn quickly. The first tune I learned to play was from
the opera La Traviata. Herbert was pleased. He pinched my cheeks and said: you are sweet.
Another time he came with together with a Pole carrying a sack of charcoal (It was really
hard to believe). After he left, mother went down to the Liss family and told them the story of
Herbert. Come to us and take some coal, she said. You do not have anything to cook with.
Mother gives out coal to other neighbors as well. She tells the story: He comes and acts the

way people used to act before the war. But Im very afraid and dont know who he really is?
What is there to do?
The neighbors comfort her:
In the meantime you have no reason to worry. Maybe he really is a good man.
Despite the fact that Herbert came to our house because of Paula, he is most interested
in Hanka. He has long conversations with her and is pleased when she sits near him. Hanka is
intelligent and graceful. She has straight, white teeth. Her hair is black; she has brown eyes
and very white skin. Herbet praises her clear voice. He teaches us a few German romantic
poems.
One day he comes and says:
Im sorry, I have bad news. They are moving all of the Jews to the ghetto.
To the ghetto? mother asks, where will the ghetto be?
I still dont have details. It is still in the planning stages. But I am sure that is the
direction it is going.
When? What do you mean? Mother asks, What will happen to us in the ghetto?
I really dont know. As soon as I hear more details I will come and tell you. But I know
it is not good
Suddenly he stopped coming. He also no longer appeared in the publishing house.
Soon after the publishing house closed.
The cold month of November arrives and with it snow during the day and night.
Grandfather appears totally removed from the world. He speaks with great difficulty and one
day he asks mother, where are the letters? What letters? mother asks and caresses his pale
hand, what are you talking about? It turns out that grandfather was asking for the letters
grandmother wrote to him when they were engaged Mother cries: my father is very sick On
November 10th (my 15th birthday), grandfather dies in his sleep.
Henya does not give up. She comes over and in her hand is a necklace of small colorful
beads that she made. She hangs the necklace on my neck and says:
Pretty, right?
Henya, my best friend.
We walk on the snowy streets until curfew. Lodz our beloved city! The Constadt School
next to my house, where I met my first love Tzipek has become German offices. Two German
soldiers stand at the entrance. We pass by carefully; on our sleeves is a sign indicating we are
Jewish. The soldiers look at us and smile. We move faster.
It is freezing in the house. Hanka and I peel frozen potatoes under a feather blanket.
That is the only way it is possible. There is no heating in the house and we walk around indoors
in our winter coats. The food situation is terrible. It is only possible to get some potatoes,

onion and unfiltered, black oil. Mother slices the onion and fries it in the black oil. The frying
pan sits atop a small iron stove in the middle of the living room, which has become the center
of life in the house. That is the only place it is possible to live. The other rooms are as cold as
Siberia. The small stove burns and gives off heat. We shove wood into it (which in the recent
past was a lounge chair from the balcony fathers favorite place).
November is the third month of the Germans stay in the city. The pogroms continue
with full force. Many are shot, many are hanged in the city squares, synagogues are set ablaze
and eyes are filled with tears at the sight of the destruction. The general feeling is one of fear,
uncertainty, hunger, severe cold accompanied by a steady stream of bad news.
The Poles are also occasionally reminded. The statute of Kociuszko, their national hero,
was blown into pieces.
I dont know if there are still Jews who succeed in escaping. The rumors are that there
are people who are able to get Aryan documents and use them to slip out of the trap. The
majority of them are women who do not look Jewish. They take their children and get on the
train with the forged papers. The children are commanded to keep quiet and they do. Young
Jewish children quickly learn the art of survival. People who have a lot of money or jewelry are
able to find refuge among certain villagers.
One day Herbert appears in our home. He comes for a surprise visit. His eyes are
troubled. His voice is serious. He gathers us together in the big room and says: now I know.
You are going to the ghetto. It is in Baluty. Im not going to mince words, it is not good. Take
everything you can carry. It is going to be difficult to live there. I did not come until today
because they informed on me that I am becoming friendly with Jews. It is forbidden for us I
am very sorry. I must go. May God be with you!
That is basically what he said. He hugged us all and left. We never saw him again.
Today I know that he was a good man, unique in the general human landscape. Is he
still alive? Did he make it safely through the war? Who knows?
A grotesque picture occasionally recurs in my mind which is etched deep in my heart: A
Friday night in November. Our final weeks in our beautiful apartment. Father raises the
Kiddush cup and says the blessings: The sixth day. Thus the heavens and earth were finished
We all stand silently around the big table and Herbert is with us. At first he removes his hat as
he is used to during prayer, but he immediately puts it back on when he sees my father and
Yitzush with their head covered. A voice of supplication comes from my fathers mouth, it is
almost a cry. Herbert seems moved despite not understanding a word, only the intention. The
Shabbat candles cheerfully flicker
December. White snow covers the city. The roofs, the window sills, the tree branches,
the electric lines, the park benches, the streets everything is covered in pure white which
continues to accumulate. The snow blackens on the stairs beneath the feet of the passersby
and is white again near the walls of the house and on the sides of the street. It is cold. The

window panes are decorated with frost. The snow falls without stopping. It appears like any
other winter, but only in appearance.
History will remember the winter of 39/40 as the worst winter in many years. There are
no heating materials (wood or coal) and the cold is unbearable. We walk around in the house
wearing jackets, wool mitten, and warm scarves. Its only warm in bed. You can see your
breath while you talk. Mother is able to bring home some potatoes, onions, and a bit of oil.
Everything is frozen. We again peel the potatoes under the covers. Our hands are swollen
from the cold, we breathe on our fingers to warm them a bit.
The pantry in the kitchen quickly empties out. There is no place to get new supplies.
The jar of good jam, the rice, the flour, the sugar all disappear. Frozen water stands in the sink
and the large stovetop which always had pots and pans full of steaming food sits empty. It is
very strange. No one enters the kitchen (which used to be the center of life and the source
delicious cooking and baking). We stay in the large room, around the iron stove, which has a
pot on it filled with leftover soup. No one complains. The hunger has not set in yet, only the
fear.
The skies are gray and heavy as the snow continues to fall. The days are short and the
nights do not bring a restful sleep. The parents worries are passed onto the children. We all
know that our time here is at its end. No one is sure of anything. Every order is a sudden blow
affecting everyone. The ghetto. Everyone is talking about the ghetto but the imagination isnt
developed enough to understand the meaning of the term.
Genya, my Polish friend, no longer responds to my greetings. Other families disappear
without a trace. The rumors are that a (Judenrte) Jewish council was organized in the city.
They say that there are many arrests. Heavy penalties for those who dare to hide a radio or
something else of value. They also speak of German victories on the front. The prophecies of a
blitzkrieg die out.
After December, came our last month at home. January 24th is the day the transfer to
the ghetto begins. The gigantic notices in the streets exclaim: All Jews are ordered to leave
their homes and move to the area designated for them which is in Baluty. The Jewish council
will care for all your needs.
We pack. We put all of our light property in sheets that are spread out on the floor
and tie them up at the corners. We put all of the dishes and pots into a crate. Mother brings
down the Passover dishes from the attic. We are able to get a wagon (without a horse) and put
all of our sheets that are filled on it. We walk on the snowy streets dragging the wagon. It is a
long and difficult path. When we arrive at the ghetto we take everything off and put it in the
first available stairwell. Then we return to Zabacheka street. Over and over again. Boxes,
crates and we are the horses. We pull the wagon along the path. Father carries his holy books.
He has recently become very old. His dignity has disappeared. His clothes are stained and

dirty, the opposite of how they used to look. He is hunched over and pale, he is not the man I
have known my whole life. Mother, in contrast, is full of vigor and tries to encourage us all.
We are not the only ones suffering. Thousands of people, young and old, walk with us
carrying packages on their packs, on makeshift wagons from wooden planks, pulling them with
a rope. Many carry their possessions in overflowing baby carriages, which collapse along the
way. The legs sink into the deep snow; they become filthy with black mud. The migration route
looks like a dark mass, like a thick bellied snake. It winds. Small children also carry packages.
They carry their younger brothers, their toy dolls. A four year old boy marches next to me with
a rocking horse in one hand and a Talmud in the other His family lost him along the way (or
he lost them) and he marches in the snow crying. Rosia picks him up and puts him on the
wagon between the packages. He smiles. His face is smeared with mud. Along the way we
hear the cries of a woman: Davidaleh, Davidaleh, has anyone seen Davidaleh? The boy
returns to his mothers arms, hugging her neck His big black eyes shine with tears of joy.
We walk back and forth many times We close the door to the house. And so it ends.
Goodbye 36 Zabacheka Street. But there is no time to be sentimental. Inside the ghetto Rosia
stands guard next to the packages. We all join her. We spend the night with the packages,
inside the stairwell.
And so a few days pass. All of the exiles from Lodz spend their days and nights under
the open sky.
We eat the potato pancakes mother had made in advance (from a mixture of potatoes
and flour) and we drink tap water. When I say tap water I am referring to the water that is
drawn from the well built into every courtyard (there is no running water in the apartments).
During these winter days, the well freezes and the ice must be broken every morning. It is very
easy to slip next to the well. The water drips during the day and freezes at night creating a very
slippery surface.
After a few days we are directed to our apartment. We again gather our things and
walk to our new home in the ghetto. The address is 2 Pudzachena Street the first house in
the ghetto, next to the first bridge. The apartment itself is almost a cellar; you walk down three
stairs to get to it. It is in the passage between two houses 2 Pudzachena and 36 Zgeyrska and
it is directly across from the gate. The apartment has two rooms one large and one very
small. The apartment has two windows which face the courtyard. There is no running water or
bathroom. (The bathroom is shared by all of the residents of the building and they are located
in the corner of the courtyard. Aside of the terrible smell, the toilets are broken and there are
hungry rats which run about between the legs of those using the facilities). The apartment is a
bit dark, but it does have electricity. The larger room is a long rectangle and the smaller one is
almost square, half the size of the rectangle. Inside the two spaces (which were once storage
rooms) there are piles of garbage, papers, and rags. We all take part in the clean up. Removing

the garbage and cleaning everything with a bucket of cold water. An open sewage pipe passes
just beyond the door. During the winter it is covered by a layer of ice.
After a day or two we are already settled in the new place. Everything finds its place.
Some of the furniture for which there was no room inside the apartment remains, for the
meanwhile, outside next to the window (With time they will be used to make fire for heat or
cooking). The iron stove which we used in the last days of Pompeii gives off its heat and here
too it becomes the center of life. The beds take up most of the space. The table stands at a
distance (in the left corner, in the depths of the room, is a wide double bed). A kitchen
cupboard (which had to be cut in half) stands close to the stove. There are a few shelves on the
walls which hold various books. Fathers holy books sit inside a small glass cupboard. Beyond
my parents bed is a deep alcove where a pile of our clothes sits.

CHAPTER 2
Life in the Ghetto
(February 1940 August 1944)
Communal kitchens were opened in the ghetto. There was also food distribution.
Everyone had a choice: prepare your food on your own or give your rations to the kitchen in
order to get your daily portion of soup. Aside from the stores which distributed food and the
communal kitchen, a vegetable market opened where they was distribution of vegetables. The
great famine had not arrived yet. Everyone received 250 grams of bread per day (about two
thin slices) and the vegetables that were given out were enough for a daily bowl of soup. Once
a month canned meat (reddish horse meat) was given out. Sugar, margarine and oil were
distributed sparingly. Saccharine became a precious item. Aside from that it was possible to
find an almost unlimited supply of two items: baking soda for laundry and a coffee substitute,
the cheapest on the market.
The luckiest people in the ghetto worked in the distribution locations. First of all, they
were protected from starvation (which quickly became the number one cause of death in the
ghetto). Second, these people could get anything they needed in the ghetto in exchange for
the surplus food (which was always, inappropriately, found in their homes).
Mordechai Chaim Rumkowski was the head of the ghetto. He was born in 1877 (he was
63), childless and uneducated but he had organizational skill. He was surrounded by people
chosen by the Gestapo (like him) and that was how the Jewish council in the ghetto was
formed.
In the meantime, the first winter passed and spring arrived. It is still cold and the
remnants of blackened snow melt during the day and refreeze at night. But the skies are clear
and the sun shines on the streets of the ghetto. It is possible to remove some of the heavy
clothing. Along with the sun and the lengthened days, hope enters the heart. It is tiny,
uncertain, unstable, tenuousbut it is hope. Here we are among Jews and the Germans are
outside But they are standing around the walled ghetto, bunched together, with their guns
loaded and their strong, heavy, and horrifying steps. (It was only many years later that I
realized what happened that spring which crushed the glimmer of hope. On the first of March
the Germans began a hunt for the Jews who remained in the city. Some of them were people
who were hidden by their neighbors. Others were successful during the commotion of the
move to the ghetto to get Aryan documents. They took advantage of their Polish appearance,
changed their addresses, in the hope that no one would suspect they were Jewish. There were
others whose relatives were in hospitals and because of their condition it prevented them from
leaving as they hoped for a speedy recovery. Intermarried couples also remained in the city, in
the hopes that their assimilation into the Polish nation would earn them special privileges. All

of them were captured by the Germans who carried out a rigorous search with the help of
informants, both Poles and the Volkesduetche. They were all killed on the spot. From that day
on there were no Jews living in the city of Lodz).
Barbed wire was erected and guards were stationed around the ghetto. Soldiers armed
from head to toe insured that no person would escape, dead or alive. (The heavy steps, back
and forth, back and forth, echo in my ears until this day). Those who experienced the pogrom
had a life philosophy: if we comply, we will stay alive
The ghetto crossed Zgeyrseka Street which was not part of it. Two large bridges were
built over it. You could also cross through three gates which soldiers would open for
pedestrians. Another bridge was built on Limnovski Street. A tram would pass occasionally on
Zgeyrseka Street filled with Polish citizens. They could see us and we could see them. Only
stares. No other communication was possible. The food that was brought to the ghetto also
came via Zgeyrseka Street. We lived right next to the bridge and could see the laden wagons.
In the summer of 1940 life in the ghetto became organized. Offices, hospitals,
pharmacies, a fire station, police, and an orphanage were all opened. Rumors began about
setting up a factory or various workshops where the ghetto residents would work.
That kept the adults occupied. The children and teenagers were still busy with meeting
up, flirtation, singing and dancing. Really. The people in the ghetto still looked healthy as they
did in the past, they wore fine clothing and stayed somewhat optimistic. (It came from a lack of
understanding of the Germans true and terrifying intentions: to crowd, enclose, starve,
degrade, bring to suicide, prevent healing, deport to death sending sealed train cars to gas
chambers all those who dared to remain alive).
The prescription for a long life in the ghetto was: do not eat your bread ration quickly.
Eat very slowly and drink water or tea in order to fill your stomach. Divide your portion wisely.
Make sure you are not left without food until it is distributed again. Do not hesitate while near
the barbed wire! Walk carefully without stopping. The guard is watching you! Obey curfew.
Stay as much as you can with family. They are the only ones who will help you when it is
critical. Know people with influence. Work diligently in order to merit some kind of bonus it
can save your life. Keep your body temperature warm. Stay away from people with contagious
diseases. Remember, there is no medicine! Do not break any laws! Anyone who is caught is
exiled to an unknown place. Smile and encourage others. Do not sleep in bed when you feel
weak. Those who do, do not get up. When walking on the street do not speak aloud. The walls
have ears, etc. etc
I meet up with friends from Gordonia, with Henya, and meet new people. A family with
a record player lives nearby. All of the children from the neighborhood gather there and dance
to the sound of the creaky turntable:
In grandmothers old album/there are pictures of her youth
A beautiful woman in crinoline/the sparkle of a dream in her gaze

Lords dressed magnificently/ bowing impressive bows

Holding the women close to their heart/while dancing and kissing
I continued writing my journal in the ghetto. Everything my eyes saw and ears heard was
precisely recorded with the date, name, and description of the event. Every night the journal
would be passed around among my family. It was like a daily newspaper. Everyone
encouraged me to write. I do not think anyone at the time was thinking about leaving a
memory. The daily chronicle was important for making sense of what was happening and no
more than that.
My brother Israel was selected as a firefighter. His two young daughters grew up and
always looked clean and meticulously dressed. His wife cared for them with great devotion.
They lived a great distance from us.
One day I was taken to work in the communal kitchen. The workpeeling potatoes.
The work was difficult, competitive. Even the thickness of the peel was a source of
competition. The peel had to be thin. A special supervisor checked all the time. Whoever
failed was thrown out. The work was thought of as especially desirable as one would get an
extra portion of soup. I was very lucky. First of all I was busy. Second, I was not hungry. I
could also bring my soup home (if I was able to eat some carrots or beets while there). We sat
in a basement, about twenty girls and a choir was quickly formed which would not have been
embarrassed on a concert stage. We had sopranos, altos, and mezzo sopranos. The singing
contributed to the good atmosphere and high morale. I got the job thanks to good
connections. A young man who I knew from Gordonia (who professed his love to me)
recommended me to his mother, who was the chef in the kitchen. While distributing the soup
the woman made sure to add a potato or two to my portion. That was the first work I had in
my life aside from the tutoring.
The summer is hot and there are no problems with heating or proper clothing. The
problem is with shoes. Someone found a solution in the ghetto: He began making wooden
shoes. Quickly the streets were full of the knocking of wooden clogs. While the foot is used to
flexible leather and it is uncomfortable, in the end you get used to it. There are high clogs and
sandal clogs with a strap, there are those with laces and those which close on the side. The
clogs are made of thick fabric and the sole is made of wood. Those shoes accompanied us
throughout the war. (There were many who were not able to buy wooden clogs, but that is a
different story).
I meet Henya, Lutzia, Loshka and many other friends from Gordonia often. Everyone
still looks well: young men and women at their best. There are new love interests, innocent
flirtations, many of us meet in one of the members homes for a night of songand fun. The
girls put on lipstick, doll themselves up and send dreamy glances over to the boys. The big
worry is still left to the parents.

One day I go to visit Loshka. Loshka who lived (in the city) in an attic now lives in a
basement next to the cemetery. Her younger sister sleeps in her bed, pale, weak, and
coughing. Her mother wipes the little ones sweat. The air is heavy with sickness and
helplessness. The next day I return with two potato pancakes made by my mother. (To save
the young girl from death) But the girl will no longer eat. She lays down burning up with a
fever, her skinny body occasionally shakes. Loshkas mother cries. Loshka herself is pale. She
speaks very little. In this time and place there are no words. Everything is clear. The girl died
two days later. Soon after her mother followed. Loshka was left alone in the basement next to
the cemetery.
Loshka, I ask, how did your mother die?
From tuberculosis, Loshka says quietly. By the way, I also have an appointment for a
chest x-ray.
At home mother says: You cant see Loshka anymore. It is a contagious disease. Do you
understand? A week later Loshka comes to my house: she had a chest x-ray. She is completely
healthy. I kiss her warmly. Mother serves her a bowl of soup (each of us got a little less). I go
with Loshka a few times to visit the graves of her mother and her sister. We pick wild flowers
and place them next to the small tin can which marks the grave. Loshka has no money for
gravestones.
It was the middle of the summer, suddenly the idea to go on a training mission popped
up. Our counselors unintentionally walked to the end of the ghetto in Marysin, where Polish
farmers once lived. The farmers moved to the city when the area was included in the territory
of the ghetto. The small houses and the fields gave them the idea to start a youth training
facility. After discussions it was decided to present the proposal to the head of the ghetto,
Chaim Rumkowski, and to everyones delight the proposal was accepted.
Before this all happened, the communal kitchen where I became an expert potato
peeler was closed. It happened on the day when the Germans came for a surprise visit. Mr.
Davidovich, the head of the kitchen, managed to hide in one of the large empty vats before
they came in. Good people closed the cover over him. Mr. Davidovich was a short Jew, who
was extremely wealthy before the new rulers arrived. Everything was taken from him, the
textile factory, his beautiful apartment, everything of value in his house, his son who was killed
during an interrogation and his wife who died from heartbreak. In the end they even took his
freedom. It was only while in the ghetto that he merited some mercy. He was appointed the
head of the communal kitchen something which was considered a gold mine. But not for
long. One day the Germans indeed came after him. The refuge he found in the cooking vat was
only temporary. He was on the black listas a rich Jew the Germans suspected that Davidovich
was hiding gold and silver. He was taken to the Gestapo building and tortured. His soul
departed as he screamed Shma Yisrael.

The kitchen was closed and along with it the source of my daily extra soup ration. (If
poor Mr. Davidovich had indeed hidden gold and silver somewhere there is no one left on earth
who knows where it is. The Germans were most disappointed about the fact that the Jew died
too quickly. His property belonged to themhe was a lousy cheat, a liar and phony according
to their doctrine)
The Gordinia youth counselors in the Lodz ghetto began preparations for the training
facility. They got two houses close to each other and another at the end of the field. The field
was a plot of fertile land, black, with earthworms traveling between the clods of earth. The
counselors who went out first were: Eliezer, Aryeh, his brother Yehiel, Shmuel Milgrom, Zev
Weiss, Leah Meirovich, Lana Hamburskah, Moshe Afel, Zev Rabinovitz, Adash Alter and others.
They took twenty young men and women with them who were going to prepare the site
for the others. The rooms were whitewashed; the upstairs was for the boys and downstairs for
the girls. The kitchen oven was repaired and wood was prepared. Farm tools were also
brought to the location.
After Rumkowski gave his permission there was no difficulty in completing the
operation. After some time a hundred of us gathered together and the best and most beautiful
time during the war began for me.
My parents were not pleased with my exit from the house. There were many doubts,
but the biggest for them was: the issue of training and living together with boys. One day my
father appeared to speak with the head counselor, Aryeh Tishler (today Tel-Shir).
Is my daughter making sure not to eat milk together with meat? My father asked (God
still had many supporters among those who would later be known as the six million).
Certainly, Aryeh wisely answered. He was not lying. Our menu did not include luxuries
such as meat.
And what about the modesty of the daughters of Israel? My father worriedly asked.
There is nothing to worry about, said Aryeh, and Miriam is a young woman from a good
home; there is no need to look after her. She knows how to behave appropriately
During the training in Marysin we were referred to as Group A. There were many other
groups who followed us setting up training for their members. Marysin filled up with
settlement sites similar to the kibbutzim in Israel.
How different life was in that place! We could only see the German sentry on the far
end of the field, behind the barbed wire (it was the far end of the ghetto). The life of the ghetto
disappeared from our eyes.
We all received a part in the daily routine. I had two duties: to run the library during
the afternoon, and in the morning to cook soup in a rotation with other girls. (I already had a
lot of experience in peeling potatoes).
We also all worked on preparing the soil for planting and sowing. We set up
committees: the work committee, culture committee, membership committee, provisions

committee, infirmary, a sewing group, a choir, a drama troupe etc The boys and girls were
13-18. The counselors were a few years older than us.
We worked diligently. Despite the lack of food, we did not spare energy in our goal of
working the soil, setting up a fence, ensuring it was clean, and maintaining precise organization
of every aspect. Eliezer was in charge of various group classes: philosophy, psychology, history,
Hebrew, literatureThe teachers were themselves students and contributed to the education
of the campers. The library that was set up (everyone brought a book from home) included
beautiful Polish literature, but there were also text books. The most popular book was Adlers
introduction to psychology. (The philosophy class was led by Leah Meirovich a beautiful,
dark, twenty year old woman. She tragically died a heros death. One day it happened about
a year later she was walking in the street and a German ordered her to step off the sidewalk.
She refused. He fired his pistol and she died on the spotso it was later told to us).
Eliezer was also responsible for roll call formations. He would yell: attention! And we
would all stand at attention. Right march! Left March! We would march in lines forming
quadruplets and triplets
Yehiel ran the choir. We sat in a room which had a window above the solider marching
back and forth in the corner of the field. We sang: On the banks of the sea of Galilee/a glorious
palacethe days pass/a year passesthe singing was beautiful and very encouraging.
With the arrival of the winter I decided to sleep together with Lutzia in the same bed. It
was bitterly cold. She brought a warm comforter from her house and I brought a mattress. We
joined together and it was warm for us to sleep. During that winter we would wake up in the
morning and our eyelashes would be frozen. Our breath would wet them and they would
freeze. There was frost on the walls.
On November 10th my 16th birthday I received the most wonderful present: a warm
dress. The dress was made of gray (and itchy) wool with pleats in the skirt. It was colorfully
embroidered on the front with a row of buttons up to the belt. It looked beautiful to me, and
despite the discomfort from the itching, I felt like a queen The sewing counselor from the
older group, Shoshana Kovska, was responsible for the sewing. (One of the counselors, Shmuel
Milgrom, really loved Shoshana, and his love went unrequited. Today they are both married to
other people, living in Israel with children and grandchildren). Shoshana had long blonde hair;
she did not look Jewish at all. A tall girl with blue eyes and a small mouth, she was delicate and
well-mannered. There was something aristocratic about her, very cultured. We all met
Shmuels disappointing love with sadness.
One day Henya showed up and asked me to get her into the group. I went to the
counselors and they asked me to wait. There are many people who have requested and they
are all Gordonia campers, while my friendisnt.
Henya, my best friend, an honorable soul was never accepted. Until today I still have
doubts about whether or not I did all I could in order to get her accepted, it was a place which

was, without a doubt, the Garden of Eden when compared to life in the ghetto. I cannot banish
the stubborn thought that ifif she was with me thereshe may have survived. Because Henya
disappeared from the ghetto one day, just as many others before and after her who were sent
to a place from which no one returned aliveDid she feel disappointed that I didnt stand the
test of our great friendship? She never asked for favors from anyone, she can to me and asked
for help and what did I do? I was satisfied with a negative answer and I denied her request
One day they sent word from home that I had to come To a wedding. Rachel, my
sister is going to get married. It hit me like a crash of thunder. Lutzia gave me the kerchief she
knitted from the leftover wool, her glorious handiwork. I wore it on my beautiful (itchy wool)
dress and ran home.
I found everyone ready for the marriage ceremony. Ceremony, wedding canopy,
wedding? I said. It was so pitiful! There were a few candies and cookies on the tablesMy
sister Rachel was wearing an old dress (that had gotten too big on her because of her
emaciation) and all of the family looked skinny and pale, especially father. He did not look like
himself. To that day (after a year in the ghetto) he lost about thirty kilograms. His face was
sunken, his hair grayed, and he was hunched over. I gave Rachel Lutzias beautiful sweater in
order to adorn her a bit. She smiled at me with thanks.
The groom was tall, skinny, and pale with read splotches on his cheeks. His name was
Moshe Avigdor Weintraub. No one knew about the tuberculosis that eroded him and actually
during the wedding ceremony his fever rose to 40 degrees. (A short while later it became
apparent that he became ill only 10 days prior meaning his illness was just discovered and
his days were numbered).
With this ring, he said in his week voice and put the ring on her finger. Lehayyim!
Mazal Tov! Everyone shouted. They were given a small room (one of ours). A bed was set up
with a curtainThere was no need for the privacy. The many was very sick. He had a fever and
coughed. Rachel, his new wife, sat beside him and wiped his brow. She cried silently with pity
for him. There were only seven days until he would be brought to his eternal resting place in
the cemetery
I returned to my training, to my beloved books, my work, to the vegetable patch, to my
daily routine, to conversations with friends, to my studies. I became engrossed in the lively
social life. I did my work with great diligence and read many books. But the visions of my home
haunted me at night: Rachel, the virgin bride, married only seven days
Spring came again. It was already 1941. There was a great famine in the ghetto. The
entire inventory which had been brought from the previous homes in the city was finished long
ago. There were harsh diseases which spread throughout the ghetto. The hospitals were full
and long lines formed outside the pharmacies which were almost completely out of medicine.
We continued learning, knowingly disregarding any sad news which came to us. Everyone did
their part. We were a unified group and hoped to stay as such for as long as possible.

The day arrived when we were informed the Gestapo was coming for an inspection.
Officially we were an agricultural group, young people working the land and growing
vegetables for internal use. The Germans could not know of the Zionist aspect. Immediately
the pictures of Herzl, Gordon, Bialik, Katzenelson, and the poet Rachel were taken down and
hidden. The Hebrew signs and notebooks were also removed and hidden.
The men from the Gestapo came, observed us from afar (we were told to be working
among the crops), walked for a few minutes in the room (everything was spotless), asked a few
questions (they held their hands behind their backs during the entire visit), took another look at
us, and disappeared.
Everything went back to normal. One day I saw on the rotation that I had night guard
duty withTzipek. (At that time he was already a very tall and skinny guy, with a thin
moustache and black burning eyes). Obviously I was a bit excited. My prior enthusiasm, my
love for him it all dissipated because of life events, or because of the time that had passed,
since I fell in love with himin any case, we were suddenly together, just the two of us, in the
moonlight beneath the deep blue skymy heart beat strongly. We walked through the
vegetable patches chatting about this and that. I was a bit confused. I tried to check myself:
Am I happy? Suddenly I felt his hand on my shoulder. He hugged me and said in his quiet
voice: do you know that I like you a lot? I knew that I blushed and I felt my heart beating. But
without hesitating I took his hand off of me. (Why did I do it? I really wanted to be close to
him! Why? What made me do it? My education? Concern that something unwanted would
develop? It is hard for me to say).
He continued walking next to me as if nothing happened. He got the hint and did not
try to get close again. I was grateful to him from the depths of my heart. And thenI relaxed.
My excitement passed, as if it was never there. The man walking next to me seemed just like
everyone else. We chatted the entire night and my voice was calm and composed. He told me
that he was interested in studying Galvanization (a word that I did not understand at all). He
said that it was work with metal and that were it not for the war he would study chemistry. He
probably would be able to complete his studies after the war. Working with metals and other
materials began to interest him after he read a book about the life of a famous scientist. He
wanted to know about my plans for the future and I, as always, still wanted to be a teacher and
author. He praised my writing (he had seen a Feuilleton I had written for a wall newspaper).
We talked about the war and the chances we had to make it out alive. He told me that there
were already a few who had died in his family and that his parents were not in good health. His
younger brother, Efraim, was too thin and he has to be given extra foodif notthe night
passed too quickly. I was sixteen and I knew nothing. But in other ways I felt very old
I dont know what happened to Tzipeks family. To his younger brother Efraim, his
beautiful mother, father, I can only guess. Tzipek himselfdied of starvation in the ghetto
before his nineteenth birthday.

One day my sister Rosia arrived and stood beyond the fence, she did not dare to enter.
Someone called for me and I ran to her. I am so hungry, she said to me. Her pale face glistened
with drops of sweat. Wait, I said, wait here, Ill bring you something. I ran as fast as I could to
the kitchen. I found a carrot and two radishes. I shoved them into my pockets. I knew it was
stealing. I passed her the carrot and the radish through the fence. She took them and quickly
left. No one saw us.
That night I couldnt sleep. My family situation would not let me rest. The fact that I
couldnt help them made my preferred situation seem like betrayal. The next day I had a high
fever and it turned out I was sick with mumps. I swelled up and was forced to lay in bed for a
few days.
Many began leaving as the summer arrived. Many of us felt the need to join our
families. There was no family in the ghetto who lived life passively. There were illnesses and
deaths. There were suicides and deportations to the unknown. That summer there were many
who volunteered to go outto work. To work in the village that was what was written on the
gigantic notices, on which the many benefits were detailed: good food, living quarters in the
village, paymentpostcard even arrived at the ghetto written by those who had volunteered
earlier. On the cards it was written: I arrived safely. It is nice here. I was given good food. It
is too bad you are not here with me
What no one knew was that anyone who volunteered was brought to prepared mass
graves where they were shot on the spot. Before that they were told to write a postcard. As
soon as the postcards were collected they were put on trucks and brought to their death
One day I too returned home. I told my counselors about the difficult situation at home
after Avigdors death. I received a food package: some potatoes, a bottle of oil, and some
sugar. I left with a broken heart. Marysin. 13 Garvarseka Street. The two white houses. The
beautiful vegetable patches. The library. The beloved classes. The singing. Lutzia. Tzipek
and all of my other friends I left it all behind.
There was a song that was very popular in the ghetto which is tied in my memory to the
time I spent in Marysin:
A small white house/I remember it to this day/a small what house/returns to me in my
dreams/
The windows of the house/sparkle in the sunset/like the clear tear of a crying child
All of my longings/for my home
Where I lived/there my heart remains
(I probably mixed up the words a bit, it has been such a long time!)
Not long ago I saw the film Shoah. While sitting in front of the big screen, as the movie
begins, I see a river with a small boat floating across it. In the river a man is sitting singing
Small white house (In Polish). That was the only happy and romantic scene in the film.

I return home. Father lay in bed. He is so weak that he cannot stand. I take him out of
bed and dress him. I sit him outside in the sun. I comb his beard and put some powder in his
hand. The powder is pudding like, despite the fact that only the color and the taste vaguely
remind one of pudding. But it is hot and it fills the stomach a little.
Later we all return home with the rations. There is joy in the home. Rachel (who is
responsible for handing out the bread) slices a piece for everyone. Mother starts cooking the
soup (we will eat that night) Yitzush takes his slice and disappears outside. Later he returns
with two potatoes. He saw a wagon with sacks of potatoes. He followed it and when it the
wagon was unloaded two whole potatoes rolled to him!
There was a celebration in our home that night. We celebrated my return home and the
thicker soup. The next day I dress father and say: Lets go out in the sun. It will help you.
Father looks at me with his kind and very sad eyes and goes to sit out in the sun. I decide: we
must whitewash the small room and clean up the house a bit. I am full of energy.
The next day I found a whitewasher. I took everything out of the room and helped him
find tools. The small room was not in use all winter. The small stove only heated the big room,
where everyone in the house concentrated. There were some cleaning utensils and a bucket in
the small room. There were many marks on the walls. After the whitewash everything looked
much happier. Rosia and I cleaned everything; we scrubbed the windowpane and washed the
curtain. The white plaster brightened the dark room a bit.
At the end of that summer, we were all sent to different kinds of work. Many factories
were opened and employed the majority of the residents. The work did not provide a salary
(we received a few cents) but everyone who worked was given a bowl of soup every day.
Father got work reprocessing rags (the place was called a ragery). Mother and Rachel worked
in a factory for womens undergarments. Rosia worked in a sewing workshop. Paula worked in
a straw shoe factory (for the German army). Yitzush worked in a carpentry workshop. I joined
the factory where mother and Rachel worked.
It was also the time during which the future of the ghetto was temporarily decided. The
first plan was to eliminate the ghetto by the end of 1941. All the preparations had already been
made. On November 15th, Governor Frank ordered all of the Jews to remain in their homes
anyone who did not obey would be killed. The Germans were prepared to transport all of the
Jews to their death. Someone then decided to employ the Jews of the Lodz ghetto as cheap
labor for the war effort. There is a difference of opinion if it was Rumokowski himself, or one of
the governors of the city and the ghetto who tried with all their might to keep the residents in
their place in order to keep their high ranking position which promised them important
dividends: a large amount of wealth and distance from the front lines.
Either way the factories were set up that summer (the sewing factory was already
established in 1940) and the destruction of the population was put off for a different time. (I

read all of this information in the book The Chronicle of the Lodz Ghetto which was published
in 1987).
These facts changed the situation for the better and not just because of the additional
food. The mere fact that there was a reason to wake up in the morning, to go to work, was
stimulating and kept the humanity of many (especially the adult men). Meeting people at
work, the mutual encouragement, the pay (albeit small) the various benefits, like: a pair of
wooden clogs, or work overalls breathed new life into people.
My sister Rachel recommended me for the job, saying that I was an expert with a sewing
machine. I was brought before the manager and he sat me down next to a Singer. My hands
shook. My heart was pounding: I didnt know anything! But, by some miracle, I passed the test
and he took me for the job. At first I sewed buttons like the other girls. With time I became an
experienced seamstress (I even received an award extra food for 10 days).
In the fall of 1941 a few events occurred which I remember vividly. The first: The
Gordonia training camp was finally closed and from then on we began to meet up in private
homes for evening singing and conversation (for mutual encouragement). The second:
Henyas father became ill. She came to me crying, asking for my help. I, of course, could not
help much, but I could ease some of the burden off of poor Henya who had to run throughout
the ghetto in search of medicine, a doctor, nurse, and a bit of food. The streets were already
full of mud and the first snow. Bundled up in our coats we both stood (each of us in a different
line) and in the end we were able bring the necessary pills. There was also the problem of a
thermometer. It was impossible to buy a thermometer, but you could borrow one. The man
slept in the damp basement burning up with a fever, at times he lost consciousness and would
mumble unintelligibly. The doctor who was brought (who asked for bread as payment) did not
give much hope. I remember the vision of her mother, with a scarf tied on her head, standing
next to the iron stove stirring the soup (that the patient was unable to swallow) Henyas
father lasted for about two weeksuntil he died. I did not leave Henya during that time, I slept
at their house and helped clean up. I stood on line during the food distribution as Henya sat at
her fathers deathbed. Her mother had already been withdrawn into her own unclear thoughts,
she did not speak, she only prepared food. She did not leave the house. The entire burden fell
on poor Henyas shoulders. Her brother and sister were not in the ghetto (I dont know where
they escaped to). Her good uncle, the bachelor, also disappeared at the beginning of the war.
We went to bury the dead. Just Henya and I. Her mother remained at home under the watch
of her neighbor.
The muddy streets were covered with the thin layer of snow. The cold and the wet
clothes of those days remain in my consciousness as the paradigm of unending misery. Despite
everything, I was still too young for those kinds of worries and carrying the burden of caring for
her father weighed heavy on my young shoulders. (With time I gained much experience in
difficult situations. The death and illness of the man were perhaps my official entrance into the

world of courageous adults, veteran fighters, experienced in battle). Her fathers death brought
us both closer and in the end further apart. She had to care for her mother and after a days
work outside of the house she had to return home to her sick and withdrawn mother who was
unable to take care of herself.
And so Henya faded away, the girl with great intellectual potential, together with her
dreams and aspirations into the horrible reality with no exit. The hourglass of her life had
already reached its end. She disappeared on one of the first transports; she left an open door,
two beds and a pile of books in a corner. It is very likely that I am the only one in the world who
carries her memory in my heart. To this day, as I walk on the street, it happens that I will see
her image walking towards me. She of course is not there.
Just this: Once, when her father was still alive, we sat together next to the stove in her
house (the patient had fallen asleep thanks to medicine and her mother was also asleep) and
we spoke about: what we would do when the war was over. At the end of the conversation we
agreed: after the war well meet...and we picked a place...6 Zamenhoff Street (just a nice house
in Lodz) We agreed that each of us would go there for a few days until we met up...
I returned to Lodz and went there a few times. Henya never made it.
At home - there was an oppressive famine. We all became very thin, but father and
Yitzush suffered more than the others. In the end it was decided: both father and Yitzush
would receive more bread every day. In other words, each of us would get less. No one
complained. It was agreed upon unanimously.
I write in my journal: My father is writing a book. He sits every night after work and writes. It
seems as if it encourages and stimulates him. When he is tired and weak he does not sit in bed
like he used to. He sits next to his papers and writes without stopping. Father writes in
Hebrew. He has very beautiful handwriting, his lines are straight, and his letters are round and
picturesque.
The next day I write: Mother encouraged him to shorten his beard. Father resisted, but in the
end he agreed. It seems strange to me (...upon my return to Lodz, immediately after the war I
went to the ghetto to the place where we lived, to that valley of tears, on 2 Pudzachena Street,
I found the apartment completely destroyed down to the foundations. It was later told to me
that it was the Poles who came after us searchingfor gold in the wallsI stepped on the ruins
and found only a few pages, in my fathers handwriting. I cried terribly. It was perhaps my
first cry, the big one, after it all ended. I collected the dirty pages. On the way to Israel on the
illegal second aliyah, I was forced to give the pages over to the people in charge of the aliyah.
They demanded that we give any papers that we had which could testify to our having come
from Poland. We were all equipped with documents which stated that we came from Greece.
It was forbidden for the English, or the Russians, to know where we came from. That is how the
pages came into their possession and were lost from me).

Rosia coughs a lot. She is really choking; her cough worsens with each day. Mother is
able to get her an appointment for an x-ray. Rosia is healthy, she does not have tuberculosis.
She cannot stand the smell of the smoke which wafts from the stove each time we cook. It is
hard to prevent it. Rosia lays in bed (the thought was that when you cough it is best to lay in
bed to stay warm) coughing and coughing. We all seek advice. Rosia should be given extra
sugar. When she drinks tea with sugar, her cough weakens. Rosia recovers after some time.
We all breathe deep.
It is cold outside. Winter has begun. It is very hard to keep warm. There are many
blackouts and we light the apartment using candles. We are able to find candles; it is hard to
find matches. Occasionally we fold up a paper and bring it to the neighbors to get a flame.
That is how we light the stove and the candles.
I have a friend named Rebecca who lives across from us. She is 15 years old and she
takes care of her 12 year old brother. They are orphans. Occasionally an aunt takes care of
them. One day her brother died. I found her crying, standing in the street crying. Why are you
crying? I ask. My brother died, she again bursts out into tears. You should be happy, I say in an
adult voice, you can bury him and give him a beautiful gravestone. We, all of us, do not know
where we will die and who will bury us
I write in my journal: December 1941. I received a concert ticket. Im very excited.
Today they called me to the factory managers office. I was told that my supervisor, Mrs.
Puterkovska, recommended me as an exemplary employee.
I went together with Frieda Baum who worked with me in the same hall. Frieda is a tall,
beautiful young woman with a long blonde braid. She washes her hair with kerosene to
prevent lice. The smell of kerosene which she emits bothers me a bit. I like even less her habit
of singing at the top of her lungs as she sews. She does have a beautiful voice but she often
sings out of tune.
The concert includes one of Beethovens symphonies. I sit alert and in the depths of my
heart I really felt adored. I want to be happy and cry at the same time. We go outside and I say
to Frieda: It is interesting to think about what Beethoven would say about what his countrymen
are doing. I have no doubt he was a humanist
Frieda answered: If Beethoven were alive today he would become a wild animal like
them. He probably would write a symphony in honor of Herr Adolf Hitler, The Swastika
Symphony.
True Frieda sings out of tune and has a lice problem, but she is not stupid. (We had
both recently read The Kreutzer Sonata).
I write in my journal:
There are rumors again about deportation. I heard about it in the factory and on line for
potatoes. I do not say anything at home. Tomorrow everyone will knowmy parents will have
a good nights rest in the meantime. And tomorrow? Maybe it will turn out to be just a fake.

Yitzush is very hungry. He cries a lot and demands food. He is already 15 but looks like
he is 9 or 10. He is skinny, pale, very small, and forgot how to smile long ago. His face only gets
some color when he eats hot soup. The soup at home is made mostly from anything leftover or
potato skins. The infirm receive the skins with a doctors prescription. The extra can only be
bought. Washed potato skins are put in a pot, salt and water are added, and it is cooked. If
there is some flour in the house, even better. A bowl of soup like that fills you up a bit, takes up
some space in your stomach. It also warms you up.
It is important to know: People say they are vitamins in the potato skins. Many people
in the ghetto are malnourished. There are those whose hair falls out and others whose teeth
fall from their gums; no dentist can help them. That is not even the worst of it. With time
vitamin deficiency spread throughout the ghetto. It caused people to have pains in their limbs,
back, and hips. It is as if the body revolts. It shouts: We need vitamins!
Because people lost the ability to move their bodies, it was necessary to dress them in
the morning, undress them at night and they moved about during the day with the aid of a
cane. Many were stricken with vitamin deficiency regardless of age and the streets filled with
people who were hunched over and walked with great difficulty. The medicine for the illness
was vigantola small bottle out of which two drops were taken each day. From out of
nowhere bottles of the medicine appeared in the ghetto, but the price was so high that only a
few were able to pay the amount needed to free themselves for their disabling state.
The offices of the ghetto management were located in the center of the Baluty market.
The location was surrounded by a fence and next to the surrounding fence stood a number of
armed German soldiers. When they would see the young people of the ghetto hunched over
on their canes as they walked passed, they would laugh and ridicule them. They would point at
them and burst out laughing.
Father, Mother, Rosia, Paula, and Yitzush were all stricken with vitamin deficiency.
Rachel, Hanka, and I were apparently stronger. I do not remember how it happened that
everyone except Mother recovered. Mothers condition deteriorated, as her ability to move
lessened and even raising her hand or foot caused her great pain.
One day while standing in line waiting for radishes, I met a young woman who was a
friend of my sister Rachel. Her name was Toshia. She had long blonde hair and a petite body.
She was very short and skinny, in her late twenties.
Toshia touched my shoulder and smiled:
Do you remember me? She asked.
Of couse, I said.
Toshia stood next to me and by the time we got to the front of the line I had found out
she was to marry soon.
She also had a request:

Do you know how to knit? If yes, I will pay you as much as you wantI want the sweater
to be ready for my wedding in two weeks.
I made a quick calculation:
To learn and finish knitting in two weeks was almost impossible. But it could solve my
mothers problems. I know how to knit, I said with great confidence, butI dont want money.
I need vigantol for my sick mother.
Ok, Toshia quickly answered. I will bring you vigantol. Come to my house, and I will give
you the wool. Toshia lived nearby. After I dropped off the radishes at home, I went to her
house. She gave me two balls of wool, one black and one red.
I brought the wool with me the next day to the factory. There I told my friends (we
were about twenty in the same hall) the story. They all jumped to help. A knitting expert was
found and the work began at a feverish pace. The sweater was knit and was ready in a few
days. We great pride I brought the sweater to Toshia and she gave me the vigantol in its
original box.
I ran home. I gave it to mother. And so my mother began to recover. And I learned to
knit sweaters.
I write in my journal:
Snow falls all the time. It sticks to the wooden clogs and we walk on clumps of snow
stuck to our feet. It makes walking difficult and many slip and fall.
Many people from different places arrive in the ghetto. They are housed in the
apartments from which the previous tenants were deported. There are Jews from Vienna,
Berlin and Prague. There are also Jews from the neighboring towns who arrive in the ghetto.
There is a 14 year old girl who works in our factory with gray hair. It seems that her hair turned
white over night. That night they took all the residents of the town into the square and divided
the families. She remained with those who were sent to the ghetto. Her white hair stands out
as unusual. She has yet to form breasts but her hair has already turned white
It is very cold in the house. We break chair after chair. We move the table towards the
beds and sit on the beds. The chairs burn in the iron stove and the wretched place turns into a
warm paradise, with the alluring aroma of the bubbling soup
The end of December 1941. Loskha is sick with tuberculosis. She is admitted to the
pulmonary unit of the hospital. It is forbidden to visit her because she is contagious.
January 1942. It is very very cold. They are talking in the ghetto about the next
deportation of 10,000 residents. There are speaking about it everywhere and there is fear deep
in our hearts. Who will be taken this time?
On Zegyarska Street (near where I live)outside of the ghetto Polish workers appear.
They gather piles of snow from the street and throw them onto the ghetto sidewalks. The
sidewalks are very narrow and when they are filled with snow it is impossible to cross the
street. After many days the ghetto workers come to collect the snow.

A mother and her 14 year old daughter live on Rivnah Street. You can see both of them
taking a daily walk on the street. They are both tall with their light hair in braids. They have a
noble look to them and their clothes are clean and straight. They walk slowly holding hands.
The majority of the people they bump into stare at them with curiosity.
One of the factory workers said that they are her neighbor and that the daughter is sick
with tuberculosis. Her father is a doctor in Warsaw, he is prevented from leaving the ghetto in
Warsaw. At first he sent postcards; now even the postcards dont come. She also said that the
mother barely eats, she gives most of her food to her daughter in the hopes that she will
recover. The daughters name is Yanina.
One day the two disappeared from Rivnah Street. In the end the neighbors knocked on
their door. They found the mother and her daughter lying dead in their beds. A letter was also
found. The mother wrote in the letter that after her daughter died she had no will to live. She
asked that they bury her in one grave. The mother was 36 when she died. She committed
suicide by swallowing pills. The two corpses rested in white beds, wearing lace-lined night
gowns. There was a cross on the mothers neck. Yaninas neck was decorated with a small Star
of David.
Aryeh, the counselor, gathers the group again. He invites us to his house and there we
sing songs in Hebrew and we learn a new song each time.
We sing in four voices:
God gave His people a Torah of truth
We sing:
Do not eulogize! Do not cry! In a time like this! Do not lower your head! Work! Work
Spring 1942. There are constantly deportations from the ghetto. At first criminals are
taken, welfare recipients, communists, etc. There are persistent rumors that there are ordinary
people taken. They have no connection with the criminal world, there seems to be no
reasonable explanation for their deportation. Terror runs deep in our hearts.
Across from the house where we live, there is a four person family. Everyone says that
the father is an informant. He gives the Gestapo the names of residents who still have property
that they did not hand over to the Germans. The family has a daughter my age who wants to
be my friend. As she sits on the porch of her house she calls for me to come over. I pretend
like I dont hear and quickly disappear into my house.
Sometimes the mother goes out on the porch with her young son. The mother, well
dressed and dainty, feeds her son with a small spoon. Everyone knows that the father receives
a decent amount of extra food in return for the information.
One day Mirkas father (Mirka was a good friend of mine who works with me we were
both exemplary seamstresses) was taken to the red house (where the Gestapo is located). The

men from the Gestapo came to their house at night, demanded that he get dressed quickly and
the poor man was interrogated for a week. Mirka continued to come to work every day (one
could not give up their soup) she sat pale and crying (after a sleepless night) not uttering a
sound. During breaks she would whisper in my ear: if they kill father, I will commit suicide
The man was indeed released, alive, thrown in the street, his entire body bleeding,
broken, and bruised.
After a while Mirka told me that her father tried to kill himself twice in the basement of
the Gestapo. She also told me that he once saw through the window our informant neighbor
sitting in an adjacent room talking with one of the interrogators.
The Gestapo came one day to a family with many children who lived nearby. They
searched the whole apartment, broke walls, and tore up the floor. They did not find gold, but
they found a journal written by the 14 year old girl in the family. They took the whole family
and sent them to an unknown place. The story spread quickly throughout the ghetto. It turned
out that one of the sons, who was about 12, managed to hide, in all of the commotion under
one of the beds, and was left alive. He lay scared under the bed until nightfall. Only then did
he dare leave his hiding place. A neighbor saw a dim light in his window and knocked on the
door. She took the boy with her and from that point on he lived in her house.
My mother heard the whole story the next day. She came to me and said: take your
journal and burn it. Do you understand what kind of danger it is for the whole family? Without
objecting, I put my journal into the small iron stove. (No one thought of burying it in the
basement beneath the floor of the large room).
One morning I heard a knock at the door. I was inside just with Yitzush. We both were
working the second shift at the time. Yitzush was still in bed and I, dressed in a flowered robe,
opened the door. A man from the Gestapo stood before me (we knew most of the hangmen
they walked around the ghetto, fat, in regular clothes. Their puffed up exterior betrayed them.
A number of them knew Yiddish and listened to the conversations of the passersby).
My heart stopped beating. I probably also turned pale, I dont know. But I smiled at the
man (a smile I could not control) and I said in German: Bitte, kommen Sie herein (Please sir,
come in). In a split second I remember my journal which, only a few days before, had become
ashes and dust. The tall man, who was wearing boots, blue overalls, and had a stick, looked at
me amused: Ja, erlauben Sie? (Yes, will you let me?) I moved from the door. He quickly
stepped inside. A lamp was on in the large room. He lifted his stick and with a quick move
broke the lamp.
Why is there a light on in here? He asked, If is forbidden to use electricity during the
day!
We live in a basement and it is a bit dark, I answered and put my hand on the opening of
my robe. Also I havent yet opened the blinds. I only woke up a little while ago.

What are you doing at home? He asked. He stood in front of me, staring at me slightly
amused, with his legs spread; he conveyed strength, like a deity.
My younger brother and I worked the second shift, I said, my voice no longer trembling.
Your younger brother? The great man said, is he really your brother?
Yitzush still lay in bed, awake, under the covers. Only his large black eyes stared at us in
the room. The man approached his bed (my heart froze with fear). He raised the blanket with
his stick and said: Get up!
Little Yitzush, dressed only in his underwear, quickly jumped out of bed.
The man from the Gestapo looked Yitzush over, as he trembled in fear, with his cold
blue eyes. I saw his gun, stuck in his belt as I stood behind him. After a moment he turned
around to me. The smile returned to his face. Slowly he went to the closet and opened it with
his stick (as if he were afraid of being infected with leprosy).
Rows of beautiful plates and saucers which we had brought from our old home were
inside. He opened the other door. Inside were neatly folded towels.
He turned to me and said with a smile: I see that your house is clean.
I returned a smile (smiling as if he were a close friend) I knew that my knees were
shaking. I wondered if my hair was turning white at that very moment. I was worried for
Yitzushs safety.
He came close to me, pinched me cheek and said to me in a normal voice: just
remember, it is forbidden to use electricity during the day. He said it and left.
Yitzush was still standing erect, on his skinny legs, trembling and pale with his hands
hugging his stomach. I hugged him. He burst out in tears. I was so afraid he was going to kill
usI was so afraid. I cut a piece of kohlrabi that was in the pantry. Eat, I said, and relax.
Everything will be OK!
When everyone returned from work and heard the story, they could not believe their
ears. It was a miracle, father said, a miracle from God! And Yitzush said: there was no miracle.
He did not kill us because the house was clean and because Miriam spoke proper German. He
even smiled at her
The incident with the man from the Gestapo stayed with me for a long time. Was I
wise? Is there someone that can be wise before animals like them? Everything I did was out of
instinct. Im not sure I was even aware of the danger we were inVisits from the Gestapo
always ended with the worst possible outcome.
I considered starting a new journal for a long time. In the end I gave up on the idea.
My familys safety was more important to me. I wrote poetry instead of a journal. Nave
poems of a teenager.
The deportations continued the entire summer of 1942. The number of deportees
reached the thousands. No one knew exactly what was happening aside from the officers and
rulers of the ghetto. These were taken and sent away; the others woke up in the morning and

went to work. A resident of the ghetto who worked had some feeling of security. Work was his
insurance policy. The working man felt necessary, productive he opened his heart to the
sweet illusion that he was most essential. Without him the Germans would have trouble
managing the war
Persistent rumors spoke of the deportation of the orphanage. It took the sleep away
from everyone. An orphanage? Small children? Sent to work? What work could poor young
children do? Suspicion crept into the heart again. All of the talk of transferring to work in the
village, again seemed untrue. In addition, no one received any word from a relative who was
deported. Only rumors. The rumors were bad. But there were also good rumors. (The
Germans spread them on purpose to convince the residents that it was good to volunteer to
work in the village instead of the life of degeneration in the ghetto) The notices screamed:
Young men and women! Come and volunteer! You will get food and good living conditions!
We need many workers! Come and volunteer! Many, many fell into the trap of lies.
Some time after the closing of the training facility on Garvaska Street, I became a
counselor for a group of ten year olds. Shmuel Milgram, one of my counselors, was the initiator
and I happily accepted the job. I would gather the children (about twenty of them) and have
discussions with them. During one of the discussions I asked the children what they thought
about telling lies.
It is not nice to lie, said one of the girls.
But adults lie, said one boy.
And a third boy said: If I just lie for no reason, it is not nice. But if my mother asks me if
I am hungry and I tell her that I am not hungry at all, I am lying, but my mother doesnt cry
In the summer of 1942, many of those children were deported along with the
deportation of the orphanage. The majority of them were already orphans at that point. A
number of them were sent to the orphanage thanks to their good connectionsTheir parents
were sick and their relatives made sure to get them proper care
During one of the breaks at the factory, I take a piece of paper and write new words to a
well-known childrens poem.
Without a doubt, the deportation of the orphanage was tidings of Job. No one believed
the lies on the notices any longer and they stopped volunteering to leave.
Here and there, there would be a story that could easily have been false about a girl
who sent a note from there. The story went that a girl discussed with one of the ghetto
officers about sending information in any manner possible about the final destination of the
train. Due to the fact that the trains which took the deportees returned empty, it was
reasonable to assume that some sign would make it to the ghetto inside one of the empty
compartments. And so, the girl who was deported and was taken with everyone from the train
to a concentration camp (Im not sure which one) looked around her, saw the selection, the

separation of the men from the women, etc... And one of the Jews who greeted her probably
whispered a word or two in her ear. She managed, in all the commotion, to write a few words
on a piece of paper, go back to the train car, and put the note inside one of the cracks. The
train indeed returned to Lodz and the officer found the note. According to the rumor, the girl
verified all of our concerns: we are all being brought to our death so she wrote quickly with
a trembling hand.
All of the stories about being brought to our death raised doubt about the sanity of
those spreading the information. The survival instinct among people did not provide them with
the ability to believe such a horrific thing was possible. The group who believed tomorrow will
be better silenced the pessimists. They called them black ravens, and tried to stay away
from them, they would look at them with pity saying: people like this will die of fear first
The persistent rumors said that the soap, that was given out in the ghetto was made
fromhuman fat. The soap was called Rjf: Rein Judishes Fett-Rjf (pure Jewish fat). The idea
was so insane that no human mind could possibly understand it.
In addition, the train cars would bring used clothes into the ghetto. The Germans were
apparently careful not to send the clothing of those killed back to the place from where they
were deported. Despite their caution, there were many signs on the clothes which pointed to
the fact that they were not taken off willingly. My father, who worked in the reprocessing of
rags, once found in one of the coatsa think gold chain sewn into the lining, which was
overlooked by those who checked the clothes
Father brought the chain home (it was very daring. Had he been caught, it is not hard to
imagine how he would have been punished).
The big question came up again: what happened to the people who wore those clothes?
Who would throw out a coat and leave a gold chain inside?
There were many macabre jokes:
Drink cologne and youll be fragrant soap.
Goodbye, see you on the grocery shelf.
When you get to heaven throw me a piece of bread or two.
One day father came back from the synagogue that was on our street about three doors
down and while choked up said: There is a person lying on one of the synagogue benches
dyinghe seems to be starvingmother gave me a small pot with a portion of soup. I ran with
all my might to the synagogue and I heard groaning from outside.
The man (the tall man, was very skinny, with a beard, in worn out clothes) sat on the
bench close to the niche where the Torah scroll sat groaning, mumbling, cryingI moved close
to him. I was overcome with pity. He did not see me, but he could feel the touch of my hand.
His hand searched for mine and he muttered: who is this? Who is this?
I brought you hot soup, I said.

Because he did not answer I raised his head a bit and began to feed him with a spoon.
One, two, three, he swallowed with difficulty, but he swallowed. I continued to feed him the
soup. When he finished a faint smile spread across his tortured face.
I continued to hold his head as he mumbled to me the story of his home in Warsaw, his
children and wife and how he cannot go back to them He came to Lodz just to get his elderly
parents and he didnt have the chancedidnt have the chance hell never see his children
againHis wife told him not to go and he insistedhe couldnt leave his parents in
distressnow hes lost everyoneHell never see
I wanted to cry. But I started to sing a song in Yiddish about Rabbi Elimelech who was
very joyous and I sang about the great feast the Jews would have when the Messiah comes (a
very well-known song) and who will play music at the feast? King David! And who will dance?
Miriam the prophetess! And what will we eat?
His head was heavy in my hands. He continued mumbling, with his eyes closed, and his
beard pointing to the ceiling. As I sang, he stopped mumbling and I placed his head on the
bench. The man looked frozen. I felt for a heartbeat. I did not feel anything. I put my ear near
his mouth. The man died.
I ran home overwhelmed, crying, not processing that he had just died in my arms. Who
was he? Who were his children?
Mother told me to wash my hands.
And father said: A good deed like that is recorded in heaven. You gave him his final
grace on earth. (The memory has come back to me many times. The bench next to the Torah
scrolls with the dying man and I was his last glimmer of hope with spoonfuls of soup and a song
of the Messiah)
Aside from the gold chain that father found, there were also a few diamonds in the
house hid in theholes in the wall behind the electrical outlets. I found out about it many years
later from my sister Rachel. My mother received the diamonds from my father with the birth of
each child. Mother would adorn herself on holidays or other special occasions like weddings,
etc
Mothers diamonds traveled throughout the war, first into her corset, then in the ghetto
into the electrical outlets. The secret was kept from the children. It was against the law
punishable by death. When there was a moment of crisis one of the diamonds would be given
to someone who sold rice or flour. Just to save a life. Until the fury came to an end. Since
there were innumerable crises, the diamonds ran out before the time of redemption. (It never
came Unless you take into account death which for many was the end to suffering).
I can imagine the grief it caused the Polish looters who broke into our apartment on 2
Pudzchena Street to loot after the clearing of the ghetto. I found the poor basement with its
two rooms, one big and one small, after I returned to Lodz in May 1945, in the same state as

the legendary Pompeii. There was no stone left unturned, all of the floor boards were lifted up,
the walls were peeled off, the windows sills torn off. The niche which held our poor clothes,
marked with the gold stars looked like a deep elevator shaft To the credit of these vultures,
they left one thing untouched: the waste bucket, the rusted bucket which reeked of mold
As I write these words the movie Shoah which I saw this year comes back to mind. I
also saw the Poles in all their glory in itAs he visits a village, the scriptwriter asks one of the
villagers what they think about the murder of the Jews, etcOne of the women says: come on,
those Jewsthey had gold in the walls and hidden in the bottom of their pots
Despite the fact that I knew the Polish nation from up close, it was hard to believe my
ears.
The Jews who were born and lived in that remote village (which to this day is destitute,
undeveloped, without paved roads, with small houses with the plaster peeling off) were
basically desperately poor. Due to some ancient law, they were prohibited from engaging in
agriculture and they had to suffice with handcrafts like shoemaking and metalworking etc
They were only satiated on the Sabbath and their children never had fancy clothes or any other
extravagance. In the minds of the Polish villagers, they were unfortunate souls who held onto
gold in the walls and bottom of their pots
Another villager, while standing among a group of worshipers leaving church said: I sir,
heard from an acquaintance that when they gathered all of the Juden in the square in Warsaw,
when they cried the chief Rabbi stood before the crowd that was gathered and said: My Jewish
brothers, do not cry! We spilled the blood of Jesus now it is our time to pay!
Despite everything I have described, we were still a fortunate family. After almost
three years of war our family was still completely intact. My brother Israel, his wife and two
children were still relatively healthy, above average for the ghetto. Israel, who worked in a
supermarket for some time, enjoyed extra food rations and a higher monthly salary. When we
visited their apartment, his wife would always serve us some food. Rachel, my sister, put in a
lot of effort in order to get his six year old daughter Ruth into the workforce. Hanka also tried
and was successful. Israel had many jobs just to provide his family with the basic necessities.
He was, indeed, successful in keeping things at a reasonable level. Ruth and her little sister,
were beautiful girls who were not delayed in their development in the ghetto.
Rosia, who was kind hearted, suffered terribly from hunger. (Like Father and Yitzush)
her ankles swelled. Rosia with her beautiful and shapely legs, the tall, white-skinned, blueeyed, brunette haired young woman walked with great difficulty. Her swollen legs refused to
go into her clogsOccasionally her severe and debilitating cough would return and her chest
would trembledespite all of her troubles, she was always ready to help, she never refrained
from getting up to offer to help. Rosia was sensitive and thirsted for any kind of affection: a
caress, a smile, a kind word. I could always rely on her emotional support for any issue. Had

she only merited life! Had she only merited the love of a man and the fruit of her womb. How
few and far between were Rosias joys , my sister
Paula too, despite the fact that she was different in every way from her sister Rosia, met
a similar fate. Poor and miserable she walked through the ghetto, with her one desire in life: to
eat; to eat and for once be full, nothing more. Paula, who suffered her entire childhood from
being overweight, round and red-cheeked, overdeveloped for her age, charming, full of grace,
feminine, with strong sexuality become a miserable shadow of her former self. All of her
natural cushioning quickly fell away, her face lost its color, her teeth rotted and her legs
swelled from hunger. Paula was not resourceful in the horrific conditions of the ghetto. As she
stood in line, she was always pushed aside. When the soup was distributed at home she did
not know how to complain if she felt some kind of deprivation.
When she was given her daily bread ration she tried to fix her defective teeth,
suffering quietly, almost living outside of herself. Despite her great success with boysbefore
the warshe too, like Rosia, did not merit the day in which she could taste of life itself.
In contrast to the two of them, Hanka had greater luck. Anywhere she was always
surrounded by people who loved her and who wanted to help. Hanka had a beautiful and
strong soprano voice and she would organize song sessions and she would sing solos and
always merit praise. Sometimes she would even get an extra food ration here and there. She
was loved by the audience and she received encouragement from everyone around. Hanka had
the most beautiful teeth in the family and she would laugh often. There is no doubt that she,
like all of us suffered from starvation along with all of the troubles that were part of life in the
ghetto, but Hanka always knew how to stay above it all. If she had better chances of surviving
than others it was not because of special qualities, superhuman strength or connections with
the right people. Not at all! She suffered like all of us from starvation and fear, she lost weight,
she became ill, she was afraid, she ran in the snow and frost, in her wooden clothes to
exhausting work, with great expectations for a spoonful of hot soup.
But Hanka knew how to stay positive, with high self esteem and optimism. The
adoration of her surroundings was probably very helpful, but first and foremost her mental
strength kept her strong and she refused to give up.
Rachel became ill with a gallbladder infection and for many long months she had to stay
on a strict diet of rice cereal Things like that were unavailable in the ghetto and she had to
suffice with substitutes. But she recovered and in the end she continued to be the responsible
one at her work in the factory and at home where she was in charge of distributing equal
amounts of food to everyone (with the exception of the small children). Like before, she was
the eldest daughter in the ghetto, the parents favorite, and the anchor of the family.
Father, as always, loved her with all his heart. She was the Oracle of Delphi to her.

Mother, who was always excessive with her personal hygiene continued in that path
during our siege. Now of course, without a bath tub, sink, running water, or hot water in the
winter.
In our small room stood a chair with a bowl on it. There were also buckets there. Two
buckets with clean water and one with waste. Every morning during the winter we wound find
a layer of ice covering the water in the buckets. Every morning mother would break the ice
with a small axe, take out some water with a mug and place it in the bowland she would wash
her cold body with freezing cold ice water. It was bitterly cold in the room itself (we all slept in
the large room), but it did not deter mother. Occasionally she would encourage us to follow
her saying: washing in the morning is important for your body and soul. My mother also did
not think, like the majority of people at the time, that cold water could cause illness. In any
case, she was meticulous about being clean, even in the ghetto.
But she was no longer the same graceful and well-groomed woman with black hair and
a shapely body. Mother, who was never fat, became so skinny in the ghetto that all of her
clothes hung on her like a scarecrow. The clothes themselves, which were worn out, did not
merit her attention. More than once father would look at her and say: Saraleh, Saraleh, what
happened to you? Dont you see you have a hole in your sock?
Her hair turned gray and her black eyes sunk deep into their sockets. If she was hungry,
I never heard her complain. Mother had unlimited mental strength. If she suffered, only
Rachel and Rosia knew. In front of the younger ones she pretended like everything was ok.
One day, when I returned after my break from the factory, to my station I found on my
sewing machinea slice of bread spread with oil and brown sugar, something that was
considered a meal of kings. My friends told me that my mother (who worked in the same
factory) waited behind the door until I left and then put down the slice of bread and slipped
out. She knew full well that I would not take food from her mouthbut I could not resist the
temptation. I took it and ate it (quickly) and then ran to her room.
Mother, I asked, what did you do?
She looked at me with her sad eyes and said: when you get to be a mother yourself,
youll understand
And then the day came when mother became ill with an unidentified illness. She had a
very high fever and suffered from painful diarrhea. She would lie in her bed groaning, holding
her hurting stomach and would run, every now and then to empty her bowels in the waste
bucket.
There were many cases of intestinal illness in the ghetto. Those critically ill were
admitted to the hospital but it was a mixed blessing. Lying in the hospital promised proper
care, medicine, and additional food, but many people refused to be admitted. There were
many stories in the ghetto of spontaneous German operations where they would clear out the

hospitals and send them towhere? That is what happened to the mental hospital and to
others.
We brought a doctor, named Dr. Karo, to our house. He was a family acquaintance, a
young man and a good doctor. (He died of starvation in the ghetto). Dr. Karo came, examined
mother and said: rice, a lot of rice cereal, and take her temperature twice a day. I do not
recommend a hospital for obvious reasons, but remember, if mother does not receive the food
she needs, she will not make it. She is thin, weak, with a high fever and medicine is notshe is
very, very sick!
The next morning I went into the factory managers office and requested to speak with
the manager. I was sent to his deputy. I told him about my mothers severe illness and asked
to receive a two month advance on my monthly salary in order to buy some rice.
The man (his was in his forties) looked at me for a long time and said: Look, girl, I have a
proposition for you. I will give you as much rice as you want, you will not be lacking in food, on
the condition that you move in with me. Im lonely, my wife is in Warsaw and I am very sad to
be alone. I know that you are always full of joy and you know how to sing beautifully and Im
sure that we can both help each other (That is basically what he said, he took my hand and
began to cares it gently).
I was a bit shocked and it was as if I lost my tongue. I knew very well what I would
receive in return for making the grass widower, who suffered from loneliness, happy but the
price I would have to pay was less magical. In any case, it was very difficult in my situation to
reject the generous offer, when I knew my mothers life was dependent upon it. I promised I
would give him an answer and I ran home. I ran home and naively told my mother the deputys
demands. My mother burst out into tears, and had a coughing attack coupled with terrible
stomach pain. In the end she said: No way! May God protect you! It is better for me to die!
Mother, I calmed her down, on the way home I heard that they are distributing rice
tomorrow. I calmed her(the lies, the lies, what would I do without those lies?) I ran barefoot
(my wooden clogs were broken) over the bridge to Mrs. Makovers house (I once sewed
buttons with her. As a young child I learned from her). She had a thermometer in her house
and she gave it to me to borrow out of mercy. (I had to return it every day). I prepared a chart
at home to record the temperature, per the doctors instructions. After I ran to Tushia, the
same Tushia for whom I knitted the sweater (with the help of my entire department) and gave
her a pair of socks, which I had sewn from old wool. She understood my crisis and paid me a
decent sum. I was able to buy half a kilogram of rice on the black market. Thanks to those
reserves and a great amount of luck, mother recovered at home amidst her loving family.
Take note of this last fact, one of the most well-known during the cursed war, one of the
Ten Commandments was: do everything you can to stay with your family. They are the only
ones who will help you when life is on the line.

(Mrs. Makover was a poet. I knew her when I was younger because she lived in our
neighborhood on Zabacheka Street. She was a tall and skinny woman, with her hair gathered
on her neck, she wore black clothes and there was something mysteriously tragic about her.
One day, when I sat reading a book on a bench in Stasicha Park, she sat next to me with a kind
smile on her face and asked what book I was reading. It was Cronins The Citadel and she
praised my choice. We began talking and after a few moments I realized what drew her to
meMrs. Makover was a bereaved mother. Her only daughter died at the age of ten from
pneumonia. Until her final day, she did not stop mourning the death of her daughter. After we
became friendly, she gave me her book of poems. It flattered me greatly when she asked for
my opinion of her book. To tell you the truth, my ability to understand that kind of suffering
was very limited. I read about grief and bereavement in books and I was sensitive to human
suffering, I even cried sometimes for the fate of the orphan in Victor Hugos Les Miserables
but the skies of my life were still clear and cloudless. And then, during the war fate brought us
together. As we sat together, in the sewing room, we would talk about philosophy. I argued
that during this terrible time she should be happy that her daughter died before she knew this
evil world. I pointed to all of the children suffering from the illnesses, without the help of a
doctor, medicine, or food, and the children who died in the streetsMrs Makover argued the
opposite: now when children die, at least it is a great redemption, an end to their suffering. But
then? When the world was so beautiful and life was carefree, she had to bury her only beloved
daughter and to return to live among happy peopleIt was the tranquility that surrounded her
which was so painful).

CHAPTER 3
The Great Sperre
September 5-12, 1942
8 days of madness in the Lodz Ghetto
On September 1st 1942, the wars third birthday, nothing of note happened. Summer was still
in the air, the sun was shining and the sky was free of clouds. It was only cold at night. Every
day we went to work on 12 hours shifts, we ate the soup and at the end of the day we dragged
our feet home. There we would eat something if there was anything to eat or we would go to
sleep early, tired and weary, in the hopes that perhaps tomorrow there would be more to eat.
Rumors about deportation continueda new wave which was to be bigger than all the
previous ones. The news of the deportation was delivered by Mordechai Chaim Rumkowski
(the King of the Jews). He ordered all of the Jews to gather and, standing above them, he said
something to the effect of:
Hard days have come upon us. The time has come for us to hand over our greatest
treasure to the Germans our children. Believe me, brothers and sisters, I myself am
childless and I would give me life for a single childBut what can I do? Fate has been
cruel to us and our rulers demand it. I tried to object with all my strength. Dear parents
give me your children!
Loud screams and bitter cries burst forth from the throats of the gathered crowd. A mass
protest was immediately organized and mothers and fathers marched through the ghetto
screaming: we will not give our children! We will not! Take your hands off our children!
A general curfew was imposed on the ghetto on the evening of September 4 th. No one
is permitted to leave their home until otherwise instructed! Punishable by death!
Like scared chickens in a cage, terrified of slaughter, we all withdrew into our homes.
With daybreak on the 5th of September the gates of the ghetto were opened and army units
began to flow inside. They divided into small groups and began the selection. Street after
street, house after house became a tragic spectacle which had never before been seen.
A truck or wagon stood before each house, three SS officer entered the courtyard and
called for all of the residents to quickly report to the courtyard. The elderly, women and
children all stood in lines and the selection would begin with two armed officers standing on
each side of the third officer who held a stick in his hand, ordering people to step out of the
row.
The chosen were all of the children, anyone who looked old or sick, like those with
swelling under their eyes and who were paleall of the pregnant women, and all those of
whom the German officer did not approve. Street by street, house by house. The objective
was to cleanse the ghetto of its 15,000 Jews (Im not sure if that was an exact number). The

people stood frozen with fear, they did not dare move or breathe out of fear of drawing the
hangmans attention.
Our courtyard on 2 Pudzchena Street was no exception. The Germans arrived in the
morning. They whistled and screamed for us to report to the courtyard. We quickly ran
outside. All of us with the exception of father who was in the nearby synagogue to which he
slipped out at dawn. The concern was for mother (who was already an older women) and
Yitzush who was little. Yitzush used a red paper he had wet with saliva to add color to his face.
He stood in the second row on his tippy toes for the entire selection. It did not help
himYitzush was removed from the line and commanded to go outside, to the truck. We froze
with fear, but there was no time to think. Mother was still in great danger. Standing in the first
line I saw the Nazis eyes fixed on my mothers face. I bit my lip until it bled. But he let my
mother alone and moved on
With the completion of the selection, the Jewish officers came and sent us all back into
our apartments. Curfew was still in effect they yelled.
We sat in the house wailing, mother fainted. We continued to cry. A half hour later
father returned home. It turned out that he passed the selection in the synagogue courtyard.
The Germans stopped him and asked his age. Father took out his work ID and the Germans let
him beWhen he heard Yitzush was taken, father grabbed his head and joined in the wailing.
The pot of soup on the small stove was forgotten, the great hunger was forgotten,
everything in the world was forgotten except that Yitzush was taken.
Mother began to scream: God, God, where are you, God?
We all thought about our older brother, his wife and two young daughters. What was
their fate? But no one dared mention their name out loud.
The screams and bitter cries were heard in every corner, from every window, from every
door. I do not know if on the day of the destruction of the Temple, the first and the second
combined, as the nation saw the burning and defiling of the Holy of Holies, that the cry that
reached heaven was greater than the one in the ghetto. On that day not crying was a
desecration of that which is holy.
There were also those who showed great strength and courage in that terrible position.
There were also innocent expressions of love which seemed so natural at the time and ended
up being suicide.
A young family stood next to me, the mother held an infant in her hands. The German
ordered her to step out of the line and she began to cry bitterly, hugging the infant close to her
chest. Her husband stood like a statue, pale and trembling. Suddenly he too stepped out of
line and said to the German:
Please sir, release my wife. She is still weak from giving birth.
The German looked at the man like a dangerous lunatic, politely smiled and said:
Oh, the woman is weakPlease, join her.

The man caught up with his wife at the gate. He hugged her and the three of them went up on
the truck. To this day I can see the white diaper that fell from the mothers hands and was left
on the stones of the courtyard as a living and screaming testimony.
The mother of the Tishler family, whose two sonsAryeh and Yehielwere my
counselors in Gordonia was taken out of the line. (They lived in the adjacent courtyard. During
the curfew we broke the wall which separated them to make all of our lives easier).
Everyone stood and saw: the father of the family, her two sons and her daughter
Hannah. The unfortunate woman, very tall and thin, with gray hair fell at the feet of the
German begging for mercy.
The German kicked Mrs. Tishelr and screamed at her demanding that she go outside, as
he pointed to the gate. In that blood freezing moment Yehiel stepped out of the row (the same
Yehiel who taught us Hebrew poetry and directed the choir in Myrsin) approached the German
renewing his request:
Please, sir, release my mother.
Yehiel was also kicked but he was returned to the line. He was a tall man and still
healthy and strong.
Mrs. Tishler was still lying at the feet of the German, holding his boot like a lifeline. Two
soldiers (who accompanied the head soldier) approached her, grabbed her arms, and pulled her
outside. She continued screaming with all her might, resisting with the energy she had left.
One shoe remained in the courtyard. She was thrown into the truck.
The shoemakers entire family was taken after her. The shoemaker and his family were
all born in that courtyard. The father of the family, a man of about 40, skinny and pale with
swollen legs was taken with his four daughters, the oldest 11 and the youngest 5. His elderly
mother was also taken. The mother of the family who remained in line (she was chosen to live)
began screaming, pulling out her hair and running after them. The grandmother yelled: Go
back! In a second they too disappeared from the courtyard. The three Germans really seemed
amused by the displays of family unity.
The two girls, 13 and 14, whose parents died of starvation the previous summer were
removed from the line and ordered onto the truck.
The entire time there were Jewish officers standing there whose duty it was to make
sure no one would slip away on the path from the courtyard to the truck The Jewish officers
also called out for everyone to come down to the courtyard as they walked one step before the
Germans themselves. They would also search the apartments to uncover any renegades who
were hiding.
It was only many years later that I knew what I did not know while I was in the ghetto:
The Germans wanted to ensure the cooperation of the Jewish police in the ghetto they did
the simplest thing: they promised the officers that no one would touch their families. The
officers also knew the number of deportees Rumokowski was to provide during this wave of

deportations. And they knew very well that should they not find the requisite number no one
would have mercy on their family and no promise that had been made would help them.
Today, as we investigate the events of the Holocaust and judge the collaborators, the Jewish
officers in the ghetto among them, it is hard to close ones eyes to these terrible facts. My
child or yours? Who shall live and who shall die? (The authenticity of the information I leave
up to the Holocaust researchers).
I dont remember how many people lived in our two courtyards (2 Puzchena and 36
Zegyarska between which we broke the wall) and how many were taken during that horrible
Sperre. It is hard to count the dead. In the meantime we were all busy with our bitter cries,
each in his home (to which he was now allowed to return) with his terrible personal tragedy.
The day began to turn into night and suddenly we saw him at the gate of our house
Yitzush! He ran with all his strength and literally fell into the house, alive and well! We
smothered him with kisses and tears. Yitzush! Yitzush! What happened?! Where did you
come from?! How did you get here?
Pleased with himself, he cried; his face was smeared with mud, he told us:
The deportees were taken to the prison courtyard and divided into groups. After some time, a
German came into the courtyard on a wagon filled with loaves of bread. He commanded that
the loaves of bread be distributed to each person. Anyone who was still alive approached the
wagon, pushing to get the bread. A riot broke out, which Yitzush took advantage of with his
quick feet and sharp mind. He quickly climbed the tall wall and jumped onto the street.
Because there was still a curfew and it was forbidden to be on the street he snuck from
courtyard to courtyard. At one point he almost entered a courtyard where a selection was
taking place (People were still standing there in rows, hoping that if they behaved nicely and
did not break any rules, meaning they did exactly what was asked of them they would make it
out alive) he saw the Jewish officers and the truck, and right at that moment he hid against the
wall so they would not notice him. A moment later, he again took advantage of the fact that no
one was paying attention and he ran ahead. So it continued until he reached home.
When it was finally my turn, I hugged Yitzush and we stood hugging for a long while.
We both cried out of happiness, we went back and forth between laughing and crying, Yitzush,
my younger brother (he was so skinny and pale!) and me, his sister Miriam.
Father said that it was a miracle and we must pray to the Lord thanking him for saving
our family. I am not sure if I participated in the ceremony of thanksgiving. I already had serious
doubts about the existence of God, a God whose job it was (as I understood it then) to watch
over his nation Israel.
That same night, Yitzush snuck out to Israel, our older brothers house. He returned
with good news: everyone was alive and well! To this day I still do not know how they were
saved and if they hid.

Today I can say with certainty that the God to whom my father directed his prayer of
thanksgiving did not heed his prayer, just as the prayers of all of Israel during their dark time did
not help. The curfew which was to end in a day or twoand those who were still alive thought
for now they were savedreturned with greater force. It turned out that the Germans were
short on Jews to send so they decided to have another round.
The news came to us at dawn. Israel came, pale and trembling. He too had already
heard. He had to find a new hiding place. Mother suggested our attic. Aryeh (my friend in the
ghetto) helped to smuggle the girls to us. Hayya, his wife and his two daughters, hid in the
attic, behind a pillar, covered in rags. Father also hid there, behind a pile of old things.
The sign was given and we all went out into the street. This time the selection took
place in the street. All the residents on the street were ordered to come outside and stand in
rows in the direction of the slope and not towards the bridge.
We all stood there, mother, Israel, Rachel, Rosia, Paula, Hanka, Yitzush, and I. The
Jewish officers kept order. One approached us and asked: where is your father? I hope he is
not hiding, because if he is he is endangering his life. The Germans are searching all the
apartments and anyone who is found hiding, will be killed on the spot. Ill ask you again, where
is your father? All of the residents of the house will be killed if they find himWe briefly
discussed the matter and decided to get father. He passed the first time, he has a workers ID
(proving that he is productive) he will pass again this time!
Rachel turned to each of us to go on the mission. We all refused, as did I. Today Im not
sure why I refused, if it was common sense, or because I was afraid to movethe caravan was
moving closer, sure it was moving slowly, but it was moving closer. I was afraid to be absent
In the end it was Rachel who took it upon herself: to save father; literally to save father.
To me she was a true hero. She quickly ran up the stairs into the attic and said: Come father,
come downstairs. It will be better for you. If you stay here you will be in great danger. The
girls may cry and you are all playing with your lives
And father said:
Are you sure it is the best idea?
Certainly, Rachel said, shaking with emotion and from the large responsibility she had
taken upon herself, I am sure you have to come down. God will help!
Father stared at her for a long time and in the end said: If you think so You are my
favorite and smartest daughter!
The entire time screaming and crying could be heard. Everyone screamed: those who
were sent away, separated from their loved ones, the officers, and the Germans. The orders
given in German and their curses deafened the ears. Here and there shot were heard. The
cries of the children became stronger.

On the way from the attic to the row which they joined, Rachel had a chance to
straighten his clothes and clean off the dust. We all gave father encouraging looks and Rosia
said: father pinch your cheeks so you look more healthy.
The selection continued. The street got shorter. The sun was shining with all of its
strength. A trolley crossed Zeygyarska Street in the blink of an eye.
We could already see the big truck. On it stood crowded together the elderly, women,
children, some crying, and some standing silently in shock.
I tightly held Yitushs hand. He looked back at me with a pale smile, his face full of
freckles. There is no doubt that in those moments my younger brother Yitzush was like an old
man whose days are numbered.
The group of Germans is before us.
Mother makes it. Rosia and Paula make it. Hanka is also chosen for life. I was sent with
her. The German grabs fathers sleeve and orders him to get on the truck. Father tries to put
his hand into his pocket; there he has his work ID. The German hits his hand with a stick and
yells:
Quickly! Schnell, Schnell, Los, Los.
A Jewish officer jumps to help father onto the truck.
Another German grabs Yitzush and sends him after father. At that moment a woman
screams. Her young son ran after his father towards the vehicle (before the Germans had a
chance to deal with him) the three Germans turned their attention toward the woman. One
slapper her and the other pushed her towards the truck. Yitzush takes advantage. He jumps
and joins us (on the good side) bending over and standing in the back. No one sees him
In another moment the truck, full to capacity, begins moving. Fathers head stands out
above the others. When it begins to move his entire body shakes and he grabs his neighbors
shoulder
That was the last time we saw father. Where is Srulik? Paula asks. Srulik stood at the
end of the row. When we returned home, mother took out the gold chain father had brought
home that time and said:
Maybe we can bribe the guard? Struck by the disaster, we all stood staring at one
another. Rachel volunteered first. She asked each of us to go with her. No one agreed. I could
not refuse. I had no doubt that our lives were in danger. There was still a strict curfew. (Israel
came running. He was not standing with us and at that moment he was released. He ran to the
attic to bring down his wife and daughters).
Rachel and I ran against the walls of the houses. There was a terrifying quiet on the
empty streets. Frenzied we jumped from the entrance of one house to the next looking here
and there and running forward. If we get caught now there is no doubt we will join the
deportees. It is terrifying. Rachel encourages me: Dont worry; everything is the hands of
God

The day is clear. It is the beginning of September. A light breeze cools our burning
faces. We crawl across the bridge (how daring) to Zeduvska Street, then Zezinks, Vavalska,
Rimarska, Melinarska, Franciskenskawe arrive at Charnitzkigo Streetthat is where the
human baggage was unloaded. An officer quickly approaches us: what are you doing here?
We lay out our request before him. Rachel showed him the heavy gold chain and burst
out into tears: Please, sir, save my father!
Get of here, the Jewish officer yelled, as fast as you can! Have you lost your mind?
Quickly, you dont understand! Quickly get out of her! I wish you welland he pushed us
away.
Rachel and I stood for another second and saw from afar the truck which was arriving.
More cries of horrorwe ran from there, crying, failures. Rachel did not stop crying for many
days.
Screams came from every window. Bitter cries. They took this ones father, mother,
sister, or brother. There were many parents who lost their children. Many committed suicide.
There were many homes from which everyone was taken. There was no one left to open the
door.
Across from us, a woman whose children were taken from her lost her mind. She sat in
the street singing lullabies. They stared at her with pity and move on. One day she was found
dead lying on the sidewalk. It only stirs emotion for a short moment. The spectacle is totally
normal.
Mother cries at night. Rachel cries with her. We all swallow tears. Many people say
that we are lucky. Israel still has his whole family and they only took our father
Hanka takes Ruth, his six and a half year old daughter to the factory where she works.
Little Ruth sews buttons and receives a bowl of soup.
Mr. Rumkowski gives another speech. He promises that from now on everything will be
OK. We are sorry for those who have left us but there was no choice. We have to move on.
The faster we work the more secure our lives will be. The smart people in the ghetto say the
opposite: we must work slowly so that we will not run out of work. As long as there is work, it
is good for us. Either way, even after the pogrom, we must eat.
And so it happened to us, as Hayim Nahman Bialik wrote in The City of Slaughter:
Crouched husbands, bridegrooms, brothers, peering from the cracks, Watching the sacred
bodies struggling underneath They did not pluck their eyes out; they Beat not their brains
against the wall! Perhaps, perhaps, each watcher had it in his heart to pray: A miracle, O
Lord,and spare my skin this day!
We went out to the streets of the ghetto to count our dead. I ran to Lutzia (everything
was ok) I met up with friends from Gordonia and the factory every house was missing
someone and the bereavement was shared by all, the screams and tears of the ghetto did not
stop for long at all.

This all happened before anyone knew anything for certain. There were rumors, very
bad rumors, but no one could point to a verified testimony. The Lodz ghetto which was
hermetically sealed it was still covered in darkness on the subject of deportation and their
ultimate goal. People cried and suffered the pain of separation but it was all with great
uncertainty which created fertile ground for both good and bad rumors. At times people would
be taken with hope, even if it was unsubstantiated because normal people could not believe
what was actually happing, other times they would walk around depressed, immersed in a state
of dark melancholy.
It was only many years later that I found out the truth: the Chelmno death camp began
operation in January 1942. Chelmano is a Polish village next to Dumbya. All those brought
there were buried in a forest called Luchov. Some were killed by shooting and others with gas.
Now it is known, but then? No one had ever heard of or understood the concept of The
Final Solution. The belief strengthened that anyone who worked or was useful had a chance of
surviving. Furthermore, from September 1942 until the elimination of the ghetto in 1944 it was
possible to live somehow in the ghetto.
A short while after the Great Sperrethe most tragic days of the ghettoI wrote new
words to the Slowacki, Polands great poet, masterpiece. His poem, called The Father of the
Plague-Stricken, describes the bitter fate of a man who lives in the desert with a good wife,
three sons, three daughters, and an infant nursing from his mothers breast. He also has nine
camels and life is good. Until the day in which a plague of pestilence breaks out and all of his
loved ones die, only he remains to cry for them
In the winter of 1942 the snow began to fall again and turned the universe white. It covered
the ugliness of the ghetto, its dilapidated houses, its courtyards filled with garbage, the sewage
pipes, and froze the bones of the hungry.
The German soldiers who stood guard at the barbed wire fence received excellent
winter gear. They wore long and warm winter coats, tall boots, wool hats, and wool gloves.
The snow which covered everything did not cover the severe wounds of grief which
followed the great Sperre. Families whose loved ones were taken refused to be comforted;
they were haunted by nightmares, depressing thoughts, and contemplations of suicide. Many
people did, indeed, commit suicide. There was a story of parents who both jumped from the
bridge, one right after the other, to their death. It later became known that their two infants
were taken from them and they could no longer continue to live
The big question: To where were they taken? What happened to the deportees?
Where are they? endlessly disturbed people and no answers were given.
The residents of the ghetto sat shiva according to the Jewish custom, out of lack of
certainty and an assumption of the worst. There was total uncertainty. No one had heard of
Chelmno, or of the concentration camps, about the burial pits or the poisoning and the other

strange deaths created by the German devil. In my most depressed moments I imagined the
deportees being held in Roman catacombs, underground tunnels without sunlightsometime I
thought of a deserted island, with a tribe of monkeys together with the Jews of Lodz, stranded
eating coconuts
The Germans continued with their dance of lies. They wanted industrial quiet,
obedience, with productive work without riots. The food improved (In that September wagons
filled with food entered the ghetto) and the work conditions improved. The factories
distributed extra food rations to exemplary workers in various forms. (I received ten notes for
hot and nutritious meals, which did wonders for my weak body). Wooden clogs were also
handed out at work. The majority of the residents of the ghetto suffered from frostbite which
became boils. There was almost no medication and the common suggestion was to cure the
wounds withurine. I had seven boils on my legs (it happened to many people) and I suffered
greatly.
Despite it all, a better period began, without much shock. In effect we became robots.
In the morning we ran to work (with our wounds, wearing wooden clogs, without warm clothes,
and a stomach growling with hunger). We joined the group of lucky ones who were still alive,
walking, working, receiving soup andwho still did not know the worst.
The troubling thoughts about father did not leave any of us. Despite that, our lives
developed a routine, each moment with its concern. The cold and hunger continued. The
cemetery could not hold all those who died in the ghetto, it expanded and took up large plots
of land. The dead were always buried too late; the waiting room was filled with bodies laid out
in rows in the waiting room until a burial place was found.
Many died in the streets and every morning their corpses would decorate the streets.
They were people who were alone, perhaps searching for help in their last moments. They got
up from their perch, went out to the street and collapsed. There were many children among
them
A wagon filled with corpses was always seen in the ghetto. The wagon went out to
collect the dead. It would always return with a number of bodies laid one on top of the other.
(As I write these words I am not sure a normal person can understand their
significance.)
But we were still alive, right? It seemed as if the survival instinct yearned for life, the
belief it will not happen to me became stronger among the majority of the people.
And there was someone who created a new food in the ghetto: Latkes made of
coffee. The recipe was: coffee (burnt wheat seeds which were bitter) a bit of water, saccharine
(the more the better) you shape a latke and frybetter if there is oil. The food was bitter,
difficult to chew and difficult to digest. But it filled the stomach. In any case, as the smart ones
claimed: it is better than eating rocks
And so we came to the year 1943 the relatively good year.

CHAPTER 4

Lutzia and All the Rest

Lutzia and I are great friends. Our friendship is life-long. She enters my life exactly at
the moment that my friendship with Henya, my first and unforgettable best friend, begins to
dissipate. Lutzia is very beautiful and tall, with a shapely body. She has brunette hair and
straight teeth with a serious look on her face. Despite the fact that many boys try to get close
to her, Lutzia is not the flirtatious type. The opposite is true. She is a serious young woman and
despite her physical development, emotionally she is a bit delayed. She is not into flirting.
She arrives in Lodz with the outbreak of war after her father fled to Russia. Her mother
collects her things and her three daughters and moves to Lodz from the town of Alexandrov,
where they had been their entire lives. Lutzia has some family problems due to the shared
living situation, with distant relatives, inside a small apartment. She does all she can to help her
mother. (Hanna Burnstein, Lutzias mother, is one of the brave mothers left in the lions den,
alone with three daughters, with horrible living conditions).
I am drawn to Lutzia from the first moment due to her great intellect. We engage in
philosophical conversations about the meaning of life, with Lutzia always raising the level of
debate. The better I know Lutzia, the more I am flattered that she chose me to be her closest
friend.
Aside from her attributes described above, Luztia has hands of gold and she can turn
any skein of wool into a piece of art. She embroiders and sews; her sharp eyes are attune to
the aesthetic side of life. Since the days of the training in Marysin, where we chose to sleep in
the same bed (in order to stay warm), our friendship never ceased, with the exception of a few
brief periods.
Lutzia works in a carpet factory, without a doubt she is one of the most talented
workers there. Her mother works in a rubber jacket factory (my sister Hanka also works there)
and Sasha, her sister, works in a straw shoe factory (my sister Paula works there). The youngest
of the daughters, did not work yet due to her young age (Pela was 10 when the war broke out).
After many hardships, the Burnstein family moved to the ghetto, to 15 Zilena Street, a
short distance from the center of the ghetto. Once, when I came to visit her, I found her
mother cooking radish soup. (The recipe: radish, water and salt. You cook it and there you go

dog food). Lutzias mother invites me to the meal. I, of course, refuse but my refusal weakens
do to the mothers pressure. I remember the taste of that soup to this day.
In 1943 (the good year in the ghetto) a plague of typhoid broke out. The three sisters
are bed stricken: Lutzia, Sasha, and young Pela. Its not hard to imagine what their poor
mother goes through in these terrible conditions without medicine or appropriate food. She
spends night and day next to the beds of her three dying daughters, going through all the
circles of Hell. In the end it was young Pela, who quietly passed away, too weak to complain.
Sasha recovered completely and Lutzia was left with a defect in her heart. After some time she
resumed her normal activities. Little 14-year-old Pela merited a Jewish grave, something which
so many did not merit. They even put a beautiful gravestone on her grave.
Lutzias mother had to continue. She knew that she could not give in to despair, despite
the fact that her heart was bleeding from the death of her youngest daughter. I almost never
saw Lutzia during the period when she was sick. But after some time, our friendship was
renewed and we would meet up frequently.
My connection with my friends from Gordonia, which only faded for brief periods, was
also renewed. We continued to meet. The meetings were in our favorite counselor, the man
who knew many songs of the land of Israel, Aryehs house. He also had a beautiful voice.
Aryeh lived in an apartment on Dravnovka Street. The barbed wire fence with armed German
soldiers passed beneath the windows.
We met in a large group: Lutzia, the Botzian sisters, Naomi Sharkoviak, Esther
Greenstein, Miriam Vidislavka, the Fox sisters, their brother Baruch, Shlomo Felm, Chaim Weiss,
Menacem Fogel, Israel Abramson (Tzipek), Aryeh Binka, Tzipora (known as Brank), Avrahamka
Zelig, Avraham Klovski (known as Ompa), Liza Stern, Tzvi Garfinkel, Zvi Gzivovski, Hadasah K.,
Penina Weinberg, Miriam Hornslop, Moshe (known as Loksh), Shoshana Borovska, Mirka
Provizer, Aryeh Koplovitz, Shoshana Krkovska, Avrahmka Fishler, Riva Weissbrod, the Malin
brothers, Aryeh Schwartz, Irka Blomovitz, Aharon Lakretz, Israel Weinberger, Joseph Neuhaus,
Lulik Dodlenik. The counselors: Eliezer, Shmuel, Zeev, Lana Hamburska, Leah Meriovitz, Moshe
Afel, Idesh Alter, Zeev Rabinowitz, Yehiel Tishler, and others.
We sit around the room on the flour and Aryeh leads the meeting. Our powerful song
passes through the walls and the window, reaching the ears of the German below. Aryeh closes
the shade. These moments are beautiful for all of us. The song releases us, relaxes us, and
briefly blocks out the present realityAryeh gives out solos and I receive one, fit for my alto
voice. We have a few singers among us and one Esther Greenstein (she was born in Israel and
her parents returned to Poland) has a very beautiful voice and knows spoken Hebrew. We
learn most of the poems of Rachel, Bialik, Tchernicovsky and most of the Israeli songs of the
twenties and thirties which we knew from the Israeli envoys who visited before the war.
These meetings turned into important sources of light in the ghetto. We were all still
young, relatively healthy teenagers. It turned out that in a roundabout way food packages

arrived from Switzerland. A man named Nathan Shvalbeh, who was living there, organized the
packages. The packages made it to our counselors and they would distribute them to us. I was
lucky to receive: oil, sugar, flour, sardines, and honey. There is great joy in our house. The
package was a good addition. Only mother cries: why is father not here
Loshka is also part of our group, but she rarely participates in the meetings. Loshka is
sick with tuberculosis, and after having been left alone following the death of her sister and
mother she is forced to be admitted to the hospital. I dont know how long she enjoyed the
preferred conditions, but one day something happened (which secretly happened all the time):
the Germans surround the hospital and empty it of its sick. The sick are brought out of the
ghettoLoshka takes advantage of a moment of luck and hides inside the bathroom. She does
not answer the knock on the door and hears the sound of steps moving away from her.
After the evening hunt of those sick with tuberculosis, after the commotion, Loshka
leaves her hiding place and runs with all the strength she can muster (she has holes in her
lungs) and hides inside her wretched house for many days. She is now 18 and a half, with zero
chance of survival. She is still tall and beautiful with upright breasts, shapely legs and light
blonde hair. Only her lungs are defective. She does not meet anyone. I also do not know
anything of her whereabouts.
After some time, a rumor spreads among the Gordonia members: Loshka did something
that is most forbidden: Loshka went to live with a man, much older than herShe lives with him
and his young son! Oh no: It sounded terrible, so inappropriate, so wrong!
I think about Loshka for many days and my mind does not rest. One day I see Loshka on
the other side of the street. Loshka I scream, wait for me! She stops and I run to her.
Loshka looks beautiful. Her face flushed and her body looks solid. She wears leather shoes and
a beautiful dress.
We hug and Loshka cries, resting her head on my shoulder. It takes a long time until she
calms down. Tell me I say, tell me, whats going on with you?
Loshka tells me, as she holds her handkerchief next to her tearing eyes, her voice is
hoarse and her body shakes and she continuously bursts out crying. She met an older man with
a high position. The man offered her his help and she knew: this was her chance to live. He
brought her to his house and from then on took care of all of her needs. At night she sleeps
with him and his son, its true, she says and again bursts out in tears. What can I do, she looks
to me (her eyes filled with tears) I want to live! I dont want to die! I saw my mother and sister
die! I saw them buriedI have no one in this world, I am alone with my difficult illnessAnd
here is someone who gives me food, medicine, and clothingI did not plan for my life to be this
way
Loshka, I say and hug her tightly, you are absolutely right! No one has the right to
disparage you! Im happy that your situation has improved! Calm down, Loksha, be brave! I

stand there hugging her for a long time. Afterwards we part ways. It is time for me to run
home. Soon it is forbidden to be out on the street.
I only saw Loshka one more time. August 1944. I was in Aushwitz-Birkenau. One day,
during a trip near bloc 11 (where I was) I saw Loshka walking towards me. We hugged and
burst out into tears. Loshka says: Im glad that I am seeing you one last time. Tomorrow I will
not be alive. This morning, during the count they recorded my number. Today is my last day.
That is how I saw her on her last day: Her head shaved, her body very skinny, tall and
still wearing the leather shoes, covered with a rag filled with holes, her face without color, her
eyes full of tears. In the sea of tears for the martyrs, there are many tears for the memory of
Loshka.
Riva Weissberg is a black haired girl with dark eyes and a pleasant body. She is gentle,
restrained, and serious. I am not among her close friends, but I know her from Gordonia. She
is part of the Sharon group, the older group.
A few days after the Great Sperre, I meet Riva in the street. She holds a one-year-old
boy in her hands.
Riva, I ask, whose boy is it?
She tells me (holding the boy close to her chest) that his parents were taken on the last
day of the Sperre. It turned out that they drugged the boy so he would sleep and hid him
underneath a pile of pillows. The boy, upon waking up, crawled out from under the pillows and
burst out into tears. She heard his cry (it came from the apartment beneath hers) and she went
downstairs and took him with her. Since then she has been caring for him. I began knitting a
sweater for the boy, but he was sick and good-hearted Rivas dedicated care did not help. The
boy died.
Riva was the only one from her family who remained in the ghetto. The circumstances
surrounding her situation are unknown to me. She survived and came to Israel. She
volunteered during the War of Independence and fell in battle defending Safed.
There is a lot of work in the factory. The supervisors tell us there are many orders,
which is good for the Jews. I received ten coupons for extra food rations. Every evening, I go to
the public kitchen and in exchange for the coupon I receive a hearty meal. In order to get to
the kitchen you have to walk through a large courtyard filled with ditches, mud, and piles of
garbage. But who cares?
My family is very proud of my work achievement, which brought me such joy. I sit in the
restaurant waiting with a fork and knife. And who comes to bring me the food? Hingya!
Hingya, who was my friend on Novomiska Street and who back then was a pale girl,
suffering from malnourishment, is now a tall young woman, with long and abundant blonde
hair and green eyes, the picture of health. She looks like her sister Miri, who was always
beautiful and coquettish. I have not seen Hingya since I was 12 and here she is in front of me, a

beautiful young woman. I have no doubt that working in the kitchen made an impact. I have
no idea how she merited such a wonderful position (perhaps because of her beauty?)
All these thoughts run through my head as she brings me the tray. She smiles at me and
says: How is it that we have not bumped into each other until now? And she runs to serve the
large crowd. I have potato soup, meatballs (horse), and a slice of bread on my tray. A meal for
kings! For a moment I forget about my meeting with Hingya as I am occupied with swallowing
the wonderful food. Hingya appears again.
Come by after, she whispers, Ill give you some peels
I bring the bag of potato peels home and I also eat the portion of soup that is given to me at
home. A net profit for my hungry family. The next day the same thing happens. Hingya is true
to her word. Each day she gives me a bag of peels. One day I even found a meatball (although
someone had taken a bite out of it).
I do not know what happened to her. Her sister Miri was in Auschwitz with my sisters.
They were witness to her bitter end. One day, during the selection, the German ordered Miri to
step out of the row. She grabbed his arm and ripped his sleeve. He slapped her face and she
was immediately sent to the gas chambers.
Brank (Her real name was Zippora, and at home they called her Plunia) was one of the
younger members of Gordonia. She had light curly hair which was the source of her nickname
(Brank in Polish means little lamb). She laughs a lot, revealing her straight beautiful teeth. She
is an only child and in the days of her youth she suffered from excess pampering and constant
worry that she eat. The kids she played with would say: Plunia, swallow whats in your mouth
already!
Brank is sharp-witted and she knows Hebrew. She studied in the Yavneh private
school. She has many talents and is loved by the whole group. Sometimes they put her on a
table and she recites poetry and satires with artistic flare. I love Brank, I really admire her. We
have remained good friends for many years. Today, Brank lives in Israel, she raised a family and
has children and grandchildren. (All of her immediate family died in the Holocaust).
Risha Chaimovitz works with me in the factory. For a brief period we worked in the
same sewing room. We immediately become friends. Risha has devilish curly hair with
beautiful eyes, she is gorgeous. A tall women built like a tower (as is written in the Song of
Songs) she also comes from a good home (according to the accepted definition) she speaks
softly, her speech is polite, she does not use foul language. The clothes she wears are always
straight and clean. Sometimes she comes to work and her dress is adorned with a lace collar.
She wears gloves. Risha brings her small meal from home wrapped in white paper. She opens
the paper only after washing her hands and she eats very slowly, with her mouth closed. Risha
does not pick her teeth and she does not pee. When she has to go, she stands up from her
machine and says: I have to go do something.

Risha has both her parents, an older brother Henyou (Henrick) and a younger sister
Ninka. Ninka is very similar to Risha, she has the same education and she speaks softly. Ninka
comes sometimes to the factory and brings Risha some cooked food. She stands quietly in the
corner of the room waiting patiently for Risha to slowly finish her food. She is a small and very
pale girl, a gentle soul.
Henyou is the oldest in the family and he knows how to play the piano. Risha recounts
that he has even given concerts in the city of Bydgoszcz, it is from there that his family came to
Lodz. Risha is very proud of her brother and she loves little Ninka very much. She wants to
bring Ninka to the factory, but she is told that Ninka is still too young. She has to wait.
Today Risha is the only survivor from her family. She lives in Ramat Gan where she is a
bereaved mother. Her son Alexander fell during his army service, he was 19 when he died.
Risha has a daughter named Ninka and Ninka has a son named Alexander.
Ill return to Risha later.
Henya Binka is Aryehs sister, I met him in Gordonia. Everyone called him Miriams
(my) Groom. He has tried to get close to me since summer camp in Naguzitza. In the ghetto,
he spoils me with many presents, buying me a golden chain with a small heart. On the heart is
engraved: to Mariah. His mother also spoils me. She took me to work in the kitchen (you
remember peeling the potatoes?) and she is very happy when I visit them. Aryehs father died
in the street (from starvation) and his mother held on until the Great Sperre. One day Aryeh
says to me: Lets get married and volunteer to work in the (German) villageI return home with
the news. There is a riot at home: the youngest cannot marry before her older sisters! It cannot
be! Aryeh, at 19-years-old, goes to the marriage registration office and there he is told that he
has to bring permission from his father because he is too young (such is the law). Since his
father is no longer living, they are very sorry. Hell have to wait. He returns to me full of
sadness. Im not sure if I should be sad or happy. On the one hand, his pampering and
constant concern are good for me and its a shame that Ill have to miss out on volunteering in
the German village, working the field and eating fresh produce (that was the lie spread by the
Germans, the truth was they volunteers were led to mass graves and shot). On the other hand,
I wasnt totally sure if I wanted to be his wife. Rosia my sister whispers to me: Dont ask
anyone. Go with your heart. (Despite everything, Rosia remains a romantic). There is a
commotion in my house surrounding the expected wedding.
Henya, his oldest sister, is not a pretty young woman. The lines of her face are
pronounced, her nose is too long and she has dentures. But she is a good soul. After the Great
Sperre in which the mother was taken, she dedicatedly cares for her three brothers. Aryeh has
two younger brothers: Eliezer (who is called Lozer) and Shlomo (who is called Shlamk).
I meet Henya Binka in the jail on Charnzki Street, right before my departure to
Auschwitz. We both leave together enjoying the trip, until the end. Aryeh joins the group of
deportees immediately after I become part of the operation known by the Germans as:

Aussiedlung, displacement. He is sure that he will be able to protect me even outside of the
walls of the ghetto. Here it is appropriate to take note that his actions are extraordinary
according to all opinions. Even during the Great Sperre, it was Aryeh who came to help my
brother Israel, taking upon himself a very great risk. He dressed up as an officer (he got a hat
and officers cuff) running through the empty streets of the ghetto carrying Israels two
daughters under his jacket.
I will return to Henya in time.
Adela is a very pretty 16-year-old (orphan) who works with me, in the same room. She
has big blue-green eyes with curly golden hair, she looks like Shirley Temple. When she smiles
you can see her dimples. Adela loves to sing despite the fact that she never knows the tune.
No one gets mad at little Adela. She is a wonderful girl.
One day she tells us all that she is going to get married. To whom? I ask.
Oh, little Adela says, he is a big man and has a lot of food.
Many are jealous of Adela. She is an orphan, but from now on she will be protected and
will not be lacking anything. Being pretty is a necessity even in the ghetto.
I meet her fiance, who is waiting for her at the gate, as we leave the factory. The man
is very tall, with a quaff, his face is scarred, his eyes are squinted and he looks to be about 45.
He holds Adelas hand and pulls her after him.
The next day I tell everyone: She found herself a beautiful groomMany days pass and
Adela does not return to the sewing machine. No one has seen her and the supervisor does not
know why she has been gone for so long.
The polite married women smile knowingly:
She is tasting honeywhat do you want? She has other things on her mind
I imagine Adela (according to the books I have read) wearing a pink robe, sitting on the
sofa in a beautiful living room, legs crossed as she sits and eats chocolate from an open box.
Her lover sits at her side caressing her and smiling, looking at her lovinglyAdela returns a smile
(with her deep dimples) and strokes the Siamese cat she got as a gift
Poor Adela was lying in a hospital bed the entire time. She was brought there the night
after her nuptials, her vagina torn, bruised and oozing blood. She had to undergo an operation
with many stitches after the act of love of her new husband--the savage.
The man (who was a professional thief) worked in the area designated for vegetable
distribution with the high salary of a distributor. (The king of kings) in Warsaw, before the war
he was also a pimp and a smuggler. In fact, he had been married many times before he arrived
in Lodz. He always left his wives in a different city, without troubling himself to leave a trace.
An elderly aunt came to the hospital and took Adela home with her. Lucky for the childbride, her husband was arrested a short time after having been accused of robbing vegetables
and was deported from the ghetto with a group of prisoners.

Adela quietly returned to work, not speaking very much. She also lost her desire to sing
with her bad voice.
Winter returned to the ghetto. The winter at the end of 1943 and the beginning of
1944. The last winter in the ghetto. Again it was freezing cold and again the wounds of my
frostbite reopened. The clothing stock which was never replenished wore out and it was
difficult to keep the body warm. Upon our return home we would quickly get into bed. We all
became even thinner. Yitzush often cried from hunger and Rachel would give him some
additional bread every day. Rosia coughed and Paula did not speak much. She was
embarrassed by her missing teeth and she was not able to stop them from falling out (due to
the lack of vitamins). There was also serious trouble due to a lack of vitamin A. Many people
suffered from night blindness. When it became dark they could no longer see and needed help
walking.
In the Rosenberg family, consisting of two parents, two boys and a girl, only the father
could see at night. The rest of the family was sick with night blindness, an illness that was
known in the ghetto as the blind chicken. The Rosenberg family lived near our house on 36
Zgyerska Street. Their apartment was relatively spacious. They lived there before the war (they
had seen better days there). The father was an expert in fur processing and his hands were
always busy with work. In the ghetto he actually worked with straw.
Everyone said that the Rosenberg house was always warm. What was their secret? One
day I happened to find out. Mother wanted to cook soup but we had no matches. I rolled up
some paper (as I was used to in such situations) and knocked on the Rosenbergs door. When
the door opened I smelled something very strange. Mrs. Rosenberg (a pleasant woman) lit the
paper for me and I quickly ran home with my hand protecting the flame.
One day I hear someone calling my name. Mrs. Rosenberg stands at the gate. She
wants to go up to her house but she cannot see. I lead her to her house and ask if I can sit
down. You arent in a hurry? She asks. The strange odor is still present in the apartment. A
large pot sits on the stove and something is cooking inside. I curiously look towards the pot. I
take advantage of the fact that Mrs. Rosenberg cannot see at night (it was only the two of us in
the house) and approach the pot. Inside the large cooking pot aretwo leather belts!
Mrs. Rosenberg cannot see but she hears. She guesses that I am standing near the
stove and she says: We cook the belts. Before they were belts they covered the body of a cow
or a bull. Right? After they cook long enough, we eat themwhat can you do? Its better than
rocks(A well-known joke in the ghetto).
(In 1941 about 20,000 Jews arrived in the ghetto refugees of the Reich and the
Protectorate. People arrived from Prague, Berlin, Vienna and other cities where many Jews had
lived. In reality there were many half Jews among them, either married to Jews or
descendents, third generation. These people came dressed in their finest, with luggage and
even beautiful dishes. They did not know of the final solution. Upon their arrival in the ghetto

and seeing the starved population, the skinny people, walking on swollen feet, the young
people walking with canes, the horrible poverty and the fear a bitter feeling overtook them.
There was a wave of suicides, heart attacks, many went insane. Very few of them could live
with the situation. From the time of their arrival in the ghetto you could see them on the street
trying to sell a jacket made of leather in return for a slice of bread, or a lace dress with matching
gloves in exchange for a handful of rice. Every other one was a doctor or professor. There
were famous violinists, opera singers, surgeons, authors, painters.
One day a man, who arrived from Prague was able to bribe the guard and get out of the
ghetto. The man made it to the train station in Lodz and went to buy a ticket. He took out his
wallet and the yellow Jewish star (which he had taken off his clothing upon his departure) fell
from his pocket. Someone saw and the man was caught, brought back to the ghetto and
hanged in front of all the residents with his wife and children watching.
People heard the story and said: he didnt know the Germans like we do. He still had
birds in his headwe were so depressed, deep in the horrible degradation, that his actions
which were human and certainly understandable seemed to be an act of lunacy).
A woman stood next to the bridge near our house (it could have been that she was still
young but she looked old). She had a cane in her hand and she asked the guard to shoot her.
He yelled at her to leave and she begged him: Please, have mercyin the end he indeed fired
one shot and all her suffering immediately came to an end. She lay there for a long time until
men came to collect her and add her to the wagon with the other dead bodies
I caught a glimpse of the small pile, strewn next to the barbed wire with the woman
who was alive only moments ago.
During that incident, a young girl stood close by watching, riveted behind the gate of our
house. She saw and heard everything. At a certain point she saw the soldier pointing his rifle at
the woman. She fainted and did not hear the shot itself.
That night I woke up. I dont know if it was because of hunger pain or because of the
picture of the woman tied to the barbed wire. I went into the small room and lit a candle and
wrote a nave poem to the tune of a well-known childrens song.

After I finished writing, I thought about writing it fresh in the morning. But upon
second thought, I walked to the window in the large room and stuffed the note in the crack
between the window pane and the stone wall. Since the incident with the Gestapo I kept all of
my scribbled notes there; sometimes they were illegible because of the cold or because of my
weak body.
In the winter of 1944 my path crossed with old Mrs. Fuerstein. Mrs. Fuerstein looked
like she was 100 years old when in fact she was only 50. I met her at the entrance to the
factory when both of us were on our way home. A lot of snow fell that day and the bitter cold

stung the cheeks and froze the breath. The streets were covered with a layer of ice and it was
particularly difficult to walk on them. The old woman slowly dragged her weak feet, leaning on
a cane, walking slowly as if she were stepping on glass. It was already getting dark outside. I
approach her and ask:
Perhaps I can help?
The old woman looks at me from behind her thick glasses, weakly smiles and says:
I will be forever grateful, my child.
I grab her arm and we both walk in the direction of her house. Mrs. Fuerstein works in
our factory. She sews buttons. She receives a meager salary but she gets hot soup and that is
the most important thing. So she says and she is thankful that I am willing to help her climb the
stairs.
The apartment we enter is a single small room which screams misery. A narrow bed sits
beneath the window and on the bed is a pile of clothes. It is cold at night, the woman says, the
clothes make it warmer. There is also a small table with a chair. A night pot sits in the corner
and there are a few pots hung on the wall from their handles. There is also a small closet.
There is a book beneath one of its legs which apparently had broken long ago. A dim light
enters through the dirty window with the paint peeling off of the pane. Mrs. Feuerstein turns
on the electricity. A small naked lamp hanging from the ceiling which is not strong enough to
expel the darkness
Sit, the host invites me pointing to the lone chair, Are you in a hurry?
I have a strong desire to clean up a bit. I say: no, Im not in a hurry. Id be glad to stay
for a bit.
She sits on the bed and we begin a conversation.
Mrs. Fuerstein is Isaac Katzanelsons sister, a relative of the legendary Beryl. She has a
son and daughter in Israel. The son is named Ben Zion and the daughter Is named Bedna. They
both moved to Israel during the good times, she says with emphasized relief. Mrs. Fuerstein
speaks with beautiful literary language. She also knows Hebrew. Her Hebrew is beautiful and
clear. I look at her with open admiration. Suddenly I no longer see the wretched room and the
old woman, the dirty window and the bed filled with rags.
Isaac, my brother, she says, is in Warsaw. She has no idea what happened to him. I
quickly return to the subject of Hebrew. I say to her: I have a proposition. I will come to you
every day and in return you teach me Hebrew.
Very good, the woman smiles, I certainly agree to it, it would be an honor! But you
dont have to serve me
Indeed I made a good deal. From that winter day on, I helped Mrs. Fuerstein on the
snowy roads and upon my arrival in her home I clean up: I empty the pot and make the bed. I
wash a glass or two and take out the garbage (it was not the best task because there were rats
downstairs). I take the food coupons and bring her meager ration to her house. At my house

they were already used to my craziness. Mother was happy that I was doing good deeds but
she warned me not to overdo it. You have to save your strength mother says.
In return, I receive Hebrew lessons. My notebook stays with my teacher. She teaches
me some grammar and teaches me new words. Aside from Hebrew, we talk about many
topics. Mrs. Fuerstein does not believe that she will make it to see her children in Israel. She
believes that I will. She says: As long as you have breath, fight for your life. Do not give in. She
brings examples from Polish literature, she talks of crises, which only truly brave people survive.
Sometimes Mrs. Fuerstein falls asleep in the middle of a sentence. She is very weak and
hungry; she is always cold. In the depths of my heart I know that she has no chance to survive.
I dont know how she even made it past the Sperre. I dont dare ask.
My visits with her continue for many weeks. Until one day a flu epidemic broke out in
the ghetto. Many fell ill. Everyone was sick in my house as well. Dr. Karo came and found me
running between those ill in my house. He looks at me and says: It seems to me, young lady
that you are also sick, please lay in bed. We dont play games with this illness.
When my strength returned I found Mrs. Fuersteins house locked. No one at work
knows where she is either. From then on I never saw her again. I suspected the worst: she
certainly died in the street, or anywhere else, was brought to the cemetery (in the famous
wagon) and buried there
Only many years later, in Israel, when I had the chance to meet her son and daughter
did I find out that their mother made it to Auschwitz and on her weak legs to the entrance of
the gas chambers. And I agonized while still in the ghetto over the fact that I abandoned her
and because of me, without help, she passed awayDuring my last visit with her she suddenly
fell asleep, I covered her and left quietly with a heavy heart. She looked as if she had died.
When I came to Israel I told her son: your mother almost died in my arms(and then it turned
out that he was more informed than I).
During the last spring in the ghetto a decision was made in a certain circle that had a
great influence on me. It was decided that every factory would receive a plot of land (in
Marysin), a few workers would be sent to plant the plot and the vegetables that grew would be
divided among the workers. Those who worked the plot would be paid a salary. (So there will
be no misunderstandings with my monthly salary I could buy maybe half a kilo of rice on the
black market, and I was an outstanding worker).
Thanks to my training in Gordonia, I was chosen from among the employees for the
agricultural work and from then on my life changed for the better. It is hard to say that working
the land (digging, removing rocks, planting on our knees) was easy if we take into account our
weakened condition and the great famine, but the mere fact that we were working in the fresh
air and the sun brought a good chance for some kind of recovery.
Every day I walked far from my house I lived at the beginning of the ghetto and
Marysinthe location of the plotwas on the other end. There we were given tools andto

work! David Hecht (who later became Rishas brother-in-law), one of the senior employees in
the factory, a smart and vibrant man, was in charge of the work. It was only a short time until
many rows of vegetables were planted. We were a group of about ten girls, each one giving
her all to ensure the success of the operation. (One of the added benefits was short work days
only six hours). Had a stranger happened on the location, he would have thought he was in a
peaceful village.
All of the rows began sprouting in abundance, as if the land were happy to return the
favor to the hands that worked it. We had red radishes, carrots, lettuce, beets, green peas, and
strawberries. The first radishes were strung like wreaths and given to the factory workers.
My hands were callused and my knees ached after the planting but I was almost joyful.
The sun and the fresh air (In direct contrast to the stuffy air of the factory) did wonders to my
body. I was very tan, I looked healthy and I receivedimproved food. We were not supposed
to touch the vegetables but we could always find a moment to sneak something into our
mouths from all that was produced
David Hecht guarded the plot (a treasure trove in those days) night and day. He lived in
the wooden cabin that was at the location with his girlfriend (one of the workers who later
became his wife). That was what the summer was like.
with rumors of renewed deportation, suddenly everything came to an end. One
morning we came to work as usual and we founddestruction. During the night men came and
emptied all of the rows of their produce. Everything disappeared and the land was left baron.
It was as if a hurricane passed through and turned the world upside-down.
In the summer of 1944, while working the plot, persistent rumors were spread of new
deportations while at the same time good news for the Jews from the war front was passed
from ear to earWe were told of the fall of the Germans and the organization of the Polish
army under the leadership of Vanda Vasilevska (a Polish author and the wife of a general who
fled to Russia at the beginning of the war). We were told of the Russian army standing on the
banks of the Vistula, ready to cross and release Warsaw and all of Poland
I said rumors, and in fact there were a few people in the ghetto who had radio
transmitters who supplied the rumors. Having a radio was like playing with the angel of death
and it only became known to people after the war. There were some who refused to give their
radios to the Germans when they were ordered, and during all those years they would listen in
secret, in the cellar, in a hiding spot to all that was happening in the world. These people, who
risked their lives, were the only and important source of encouragement and lifting of morale.
The power of the news of the fall of the Germans was enough to forget the hunger and great
suffering; it brought hope to the hearts of many.
Rumokowski, as usual, would fulfill orders from the Germans to provide people for
deportation. Here and there Rumkowski would give them prisoners, various criminals, perhaps
the sick, etc

That summer I was busy trying to fix my teeth. I made a deal with a well-known old
dentist that I would bring her my daily portion of bread and she would fix my teeth.
It was unbearable. Jokingly they would ask me: if you give away your bread, what do
you need teeth for? Occasionally I would see my sister Paula in the waiting room. She had
serious problems, her teeth fell out and she suffered greatly. My situation was much better.
Mother sold her last diamond, apparently, and we were all outfitted with leather shoes. (Was it
because there was a feeling the end was near?) In any case, I remember clearly that my answer
to the question of why I was giving my bread to the dentist was: If they deport us, I dont know
where we will be taken. If I have tooth pain, who will help me?
The summer warmed the houses and eased the known troubles. I remember the blue
skies and the walks with the group of young men and women from Gordonia. We continued
meeting in Aryeh and Yehiels house, with evenings of song and enjoying each others company.
Despite the feeling of relief we had because of the rumors of the fall of the Germans on
the war front, we experienced difficult days in that last summer in the ghetto. Three of our
close and beloved friends died at the age of 19.
Miriam Vidislevka, a descendent of a wealthy family who for some reason was left alone
in the ghetto. She was full of life, vibrant, loved people and was very beautiful. At the
beginning of the war, when I was still invited to her home, I found herwashing her whites with
expensive fragrant soap. She told me that that was how her family had always done it and she
saw no reason to stop. Many boys loved her. She never even had a chance to leave her inner
world, the world of a girl who was pampered by everyone.
Menachem Fogel died almost the same time. Menachem had defective lungs and he
fought his illness with bravery. Towards the end, he was the only member of his family left and
he would host the whole group in his relatively spacious apartment. Menachem had a record
player and in his home we tasted the forbidden fruitwe ballroom danced together!
Menachem was a very masculine handsome man, a real macho, who broke many hearts. He
was tall and flexible, an excellent dancer who, with a white teethed smile, conquered all. You
could say that he was the looker in the group. More than once over the years did I find myself
looking at him and imagining he was a movie star.
Tzipek also died. It was told that he died of starvation. I do not know the details. To
this day my heart breaks when I remember Tzipek, whose real name was Israel Abramson.
As I said, we continued meeting at Aryeh and Yehiels house. During the last July we
celebrated Herzl and Bialik day with great pomp and circumstance, as much was possible
given the circumstances; each of us was given a task suited to his talents. I received two tasks.
I had to sing the song written by Rachel, Perhaps These Things Never Were, and to recite one
of Byrons poems (in Polish translation of course). Esther, as always, stole everyones heart
(she knew how to speak Hebrew and wrote the words of the song in real Hebrew letters, as is
opposed to the rest of us who wrote Hebrew in Latin letters). Esther had a pleasant voice and

her trademark song was to you the Kineret (Sea of the Galilee) We never had enough of
hearing her sing of her Kineret. This was all in the room where through the window you could
see the German soldier with the rifle on his shoulder There was also Naomi, a melodious alto
(there was also Peninah, who had a sweet voice, but she disappeared from the ghetto after one
of the first deportations).
Prania Goldberg belongs on the list among those whose memory will not be erased with
time. We met on the day when we were both chosen to work in the fast sewers group and
were transferred to a small room. Despite having worked in the same factory I had never seen
her before until that day. The young girl had curly hair, green eyes, and a pale face with a
wonderful smile despite the fact that she was conspicuously missing a tooth. We quickly
became friends. We found out that we were both born on the same day in the same year and
we both had a younger brother named Yitzush. Prania had three older brothers who fled to
Russia. She lived in the ghetto with her parents and younger brother.
Prania read many books and had a large library which she claimed she collected from all
of her neighbors who fled to Russia and asked her to watch their books until their return. She
was well-read and knew a lot. To me, Prania was like a overflowing fountain of authority on
world literature. She loaned me many books and filled them with various notes saying: note,
the above paragraph. Read carefully, what do you think? (She was a glimmering diamond in
the depths of despair. I was never satiated by her friendship.) She would constantly tell me
that books are a sweet drug which expels the reality that surrounds you. During the great
Sperre she immersed herself in reading between assemblies and she would calmly walk
outside, her mind wandering between the far away fjords, or the cotton fields of America, as
she heard the songs of the black slaves. She told me it helped a lot and that I should try it.
Prania also had a heart of gold. After I told her that my brother Yitzush was suffering,
how he cried from hunger, and how we all suffered from seeing him in that state, she invited
me to her house. (I remember a huge room with a crooked wooden ceiling, high in the middle
and short on the sides). She gave me a sack of flour and told me her mother helped get it.
When you are able, you can pay us back I couldnt take it and I couldnt refuse. She kissed
me warmly after I took the sack of flour from her hands. We have more, relax. I hid the flour
and would cook thickened soup for Yitzush when it was only us in the house. He received extra
food but he was always hungry. During that time his cheeks filled out a bit and the color
returned to his face.
Sometimes we would walk in the streets of the ghetto and talk. The truth is, only Pania
spoke and I willingly listened. She would tell me about books she read which I had not yet had
a chance to read. We would enter far away worlds I liked holding her hand. For some
unexplained reason she made me feel safe.
Prania disappeared one day. She was probably taken with the others during the
liquidation of the ghetto. She probably traveled on a different train and went to the leftshe

probablyI dont know. (Once when I was in Tel Aviv, with my sister Hanka, I told her and her
husband about Prania. Her husband, Goldberg, jumped: That was my sister! The question
nags me to this day. Who knows? My brother-in-law and his two brothers did indeed flee to
Russia and left behind in the ghetto a younger brother Yitzush, a sister Prania and parents)
The sons who returned from Russia found no remnant of their family. You did not run from
your fate, dear Pania!

CHAPTER 5
One Way Ticket
My sister-in-law, Haya, gave birth to her third daughter in the month of July. I had no
idea that after she became pregnant the matter was discussed with the family and they decided
in the end to keep the baby. My brother Israel thought that an abortion was a transgression of
Torah law. The baby was named Yentel and immediately they changed it to Janette.
There was another pregnant woman in our family: Yachtche, my mothers sister. When
Janette was born, Yachtche was seven months pregnant.
The rumors of the end of the war increased at the end of July. The rumors were
grounded and they became stronger, bringing a wave of optimism to the ghetto. Sun filled the
streets, the skies were blue and people wore light clothing.
On August 1st the mood changed. They began speaking of deportations again. There
were those who said this wasnt just any deportation, it was the liquidation of the ghetto. The
word liquidation hit the ghetto like a giant bomb.
It is August 8th and I am not working (I dont remember why maybe it was a Sunday). I
am walking with Aryeh Binka and we slowly approach our house. He leaves when we reach the
gate. And theretwo Jewish officers enter our courtyard. I start running and catch up with the
officers who are entering our home.
Is that Miriam? Asks one of them.
Its me! I say, looking around. All of my family is standing pale-faced and in shock. My
mother bursts into tears, Yitzush falls at my feet, hugging me and screaming: Im going with
you! Im going with you!
The officers, who are used to the scene, grab my arms and say: get dressed quickly, take
some clothing and come with us.
I start to gather a few essential cloths. Everyone stands and cries, trying to appease the
officers, that I am young, that I
Quickly, quickly, says the officer who grabbed my arm, there is no time.
In addition to the few clothes, Rachel stuffs the large family photo album into my bag.
All of the pictures of our childhood are in it. Take it, my family says to me, you will be far from
home, at least youll have picturesAgain everyone cries and hugs. The officers tear me away
from the arms of my family.
Before leaving I say: Dont worry, Ill be ok, I know how to work. You take care of
yourselves The officers do not let my family members follow me. Stay here, they say. Only
she is coming with us.
My lot is cast.

Outside (I quickly wipe away the tears) a truck stands a few houses away. There are
only young girls standing on the truck. The majority work with me (this time it was our turn) All
of the girls are under the age of 20.
I get on the truck and suddenly someone falls on meRisha! Risha is crying terribly.
What will become of us? What will become of us? She cries.
To tell you the truth, I had absolutely no idea, but seeing her cry uncontrollably (I was
only suffering from a pounding heartbeat) I say:
Risha, dont worry, Ill be with you the whole time! We will help each other! We are
young, we can work! Dont cry! And just like that, with those words Risha calms down.
Truth be told I did not feel like the situation was tragic. My familys sadness caused me
pain. Rosia was crying and kissing me warmly, Paula was crying, Hanka was sobbing, mother
was pulling out her hair, Yitzush was holding my leg, Rachel was shaking from crying. The scene
was not pretty. But, surprisingly I did not feel as if some tragedy took place! (Today I know I
had no idea where I was being brought and what I was going to do my inner calm came from
absolute ignorance)
The truck moves and we are on our way. People in the street look at us with great
sadness. But the trip is not long. We arrive at Tcharniski Street, the ghetto prison. There, in
the courtyard, there are already many people gathered. Risha and I sit in a corner on our bags.
Risha is careful not to dirty the edge of her dress. The number of people grows. There are
whole families with their children. It is very crowded. And suddenly: I see Henya Binka
(Aryehs sister).
Henya approaches us while she carries her things. We fall in each others arms and cry:
they came to take me A few moments pass and Aryeh appears. Still out of breath he tells
me: After he left me, he went home. When he arrived he found the house turned upside down
with no one inside. The neighbors told him that the officers came and took Henya. His two
brothers were not home at the time. He was in shock by what happened and began running
with all his strength to my house. There he found out that the officers took meHe had no
doubt about what to do. He has to protect me
Henya says bitterly: when they took me, you didnt think of that, only when they took
Miri
I leave the two to fight. I go to Risha. She sits quietly with her arms hugging her legs.
Your groom came, she says, and I have no one
Risha, Ill tell you again, I promise we will be together, I will not leave you!
In the meantime they start to move us from the yard to the small rooms. There are
beds with straw mattresses. Risha does not want to sit or lay down. She is afraid of lice. They
bring bread for everyone into the rooms. Aryeh has a pocketknife and we eat the bread until
we are almost full. Our mood improves.

I dont remember many details about that place. That night, at least, I slept. At
daybreak we all came out of the cramped rooms. Many people stood near the fence and called
the names of their loved ones. My whole family was present. They gave me their hands and
spoke to me with tears in their eyes. Yitzush was the only one I did not see. (At that moment
he was trying to sneak inside, climbing the fence, in a far corner). (Stupid) I try to calm my
mother and sisters. It will be OK, I say. Yitzush is caught by the officer, slapped and sent back.
At that moment a different officer approached my mother (he was the son of our
acquaintances) and whispered to her: Get out of here quickly! They are missing people and
they are going to take everyone standing here I see them leaving quickly and do not
understand what is happening.
I dont remember how we got onto the train cars. Did we walk? We were driven?
Where were the trains standing? Suddenly we were all pushed into the cars. Risha, Henya,
Aryeh and I, we were all pushed into the same car. Aryeh grabs a corner and spreads a blanket
on the floor. I sit on it and we lean against the wall of the car. That way it was comfortable to
travel
Here it ends from this point on it is an ongoing nightmare, a nightmare that became a
horrible reality. I am looking for the appropriate words that have the power to describe the
situation we encountered and I realize how meager my language is. Anyone who read these
pages until this point and thought they understood the essence of the Holocaust, will realize
that all which has been described to this point was only a bright corridor leading to Hell itself.
The train car is full to capacity. It is a car made from wooden planks that was used to
transport horses or cows and now it was stuffed with so many people and their things that
there was no room to stand. The four of us stand quickly to let people enter. Women are
holding babies, while others rest them on the piles of belongings. Many are pushed into a
corner; they cannot see or be seen. The heat (of August) is unbearable as all of the windows
are boarded up. When the door is closed only a dim light enters through the cracks between
the boards. It is hot, scary, stifling, the sweat is pouring. People step on each other andthe
train begins to move. Immediately the question is asked: where do people go to the bathroom?
Many people are stricken with diarrhea.
Aryeh takes his blanket and hangs it in a corner (He was always resourceful) someone
else contributed a bucket. Everyone begins to push toward the bucket. There is a riot. Theres
a line! Dont step on me! My mother fainted! The boy is vomiting! Dear God, this man is dead!
Quiet, good people, quiet, dont go crazy! Mother, water! Horrible screams from all sides.
The train races ahead.
There is a terrible smell in the train car. The human discharge overpowers all other
smells. Many begin vomiting. One of the men stands next to the bucket and does not allow
anyone to come near. The bucket is full, he says, there is no more room. The passengers begin

relieving themselves in the pots they brought with them. They quickly eat the food they
brought from their home. Many children cry without stopping.
The train races ahead.
There are already three dead and a woman is comatose. Her daughter screams and
cries: People! We need water! One man gives her some lemon powder (from the last
distribution in the ghetto) put it in her mouth, he says.
The loud voices dim at night. Many fall asleep from exhaustion. Many lie down (if there
is room) unconscious. The stench worsens as do the waves of vomiting.
Aryeh whispers in my ear: How do you feel?
Ok, I say and smile. Aryeh is a good man. It is because of me that he got himself into
this. And all he ever got from me was a cheap kiss.
A Jew with glasses, graying hair, and black clothes sits next to us holding a prayer book
and mumbling:
God, who is merciful and compassionate, nullify the harsh decrees! Our Father, Our
King tear up the evil decree! Take pity upon us, and upon our children and our infants! Hear our
voice, pity and be compassionate to us!
The entire time, without stopping, with a hoarse voice, getting hoarser. Tears flowing
from his eyes.
Henya says: Maybe we should give him something to eat, to this righteous man? Hell
ask God for us too
This is all happening right next to us. I have no idea what is happening in the depths of
the car. I only hear cries, screams, shouting, and curses.
The train races ahead.
I feel like I have to go to the bathroom, but I hold it in. Behind the blanket there is
already a large pile of feces
A small space opens and I sit down. As I sit down I empty my full bladder on my clothes.
I sit in the puddle of urine and Risha does too (maybe she also urinated?) Horrible screams are
heard again. We all look in the direction of the screams. Another woman has died. The child
next to her falls on the pile of belongings.
The train races ahead.
I stand again, my clothes need to dry. The smell of my urine has no effect on the
general stench. My spirits sink. My God? Why am I here!
One man tries to organize the group in the speeding train car. He shouts: people, hold it
together! Soon we will arrive and well be able to breathe! Save your strength!
No one pays attention. The children cry. The vomiting continues, as does the fainting.
A young woman tries to help those fainting. Others bring some water, a pillow to place under
the head.
The terrible heat gets stronger.

And the train races ahead.

Someone pushes the praying man and his glasses fall and he carelessly steps on them.
He picks them up and all that is left is half a piece of glass sitting in the metal frame. He puts his
head down on his chest and cries bitterly. But then he immediately continues his prayers. He
seems sure that his prayers have not been sufficient as of yet. He continues to turn, in his
weakened voice, to his merciful and compassionate God.
There is no doubt that he knows the prayers by heart because now he has no glasses.
And even before that it was certainly difficult for him to read in the dim light of the train car.
For the rest of the world it is still daytime, you can assume. How long have we been
traveling? It is hard to know. None of the people next to us has a watch.
And the train races ahead.
Someone next to me says: there are already seven dead. Who knows how and when it
will end.
I feel terribly weak. The noise is loud in my ear and I am very nauseas. Henya opens the
buttons of my dress. Breathe deep, she says.
Aryeh went to relive himself (People have no other choice but to continue going behind
the curtain). The word to go isnt exactly precise. At a certain point the curtain fell down.
Poor Aryeh stands there with his pants downI dont know whether to laugh or cry
And the train races ahead.
Another girl has died. Her older brother and mother burst out into a heart breaking cry.
I am shocked that my ears can still hear.
And then the smelly sardine can stops. A moment later the doors open. The human
cargo is pushed to the door. Someone says: I saw a small sign a moment ago: it said Owicim
(Auschwitz).
Owicim, says a woman near me, thats a small town where my aunt lives!
In a moment the SS men, polished, fattened thugs, with sticks in their hands and rifles
tucked in their belts, come to the opening.
Rauss (Get out!) A loud scream is heard. Out, out out! Quickly! Quickly! Rauss! Rauss
Rauss! Schnell! Schnell!
People try to grab their belongings, they are quickly pushed out. They only have a
chance to grab their children and to jump onto the platform. We are all in shock from the
screams of the SS. We look around. A platform, many many train tracks.
I am able to grab my bag and jump onto the platform. Risha and Henya are next to me,
Aryeh too. And all of the people with their children, only the dead remain in the car.
There is a great commotion on the platform, the Germans scream, people yell:
Yankaleh, Moisheleh, Rivkah, Mommy, Shmulik, Shmulikeverything bangs on my eardrums
like a hammerWe are all pushed forward. Who is pushing? There is no time to think, or to

look. The Germans are screaming as loud as they can: move it, move it, quickly, quickly!
Quickly! Quickly!
The mass of people are pushed, there is an ocean of tears and screams There is still
plenty of daylight. The sky is above us, like it was yesterday. All of the train cars are emptied
and hundreds of people are pushed like a flock of sheep: Move forward!
Suddenly a man approaches me, wearing stripes (prisoners clothing), with a rake in his
hand, his face is very serious. He whispers right in my ear:
Say that you are already twenty!
I look at him and I dont understand. Say? To who? Why? I ask. Grabbing his sleeve.
Wanting an answer.
Do you want to live? He whispers in my ear. (The poor man, he really endangered his
life to get me the most important information andHe saved my life).
I am short. I weigh about 30 Kilograms and I look like Im about 11 or 12-years-old and
I am in fact not yet 20. I will only reach the good age in NovemberThe only thing that
distinguishes me from a girl with a bad age, is my chest. My chest is quite developed.
The commotion and the screams, the pushing and the terror, everything intensifies,
from one second to the next. We walk. We are pushed. I dont look left or right. Only ahead.
What is going on over there, at the end?
Suddenly I see him. Mengele. A handsome man, with black hair, neatly dressed, his
boots are shined, and he wears white gloves on his hands. He stands at the head of the
caravan and divides it in two. Right, left, right, left.
I see even before it is my turn: to the left are sent women with children, elderly men,
the weak and the lame. Young people are sent to the right. Now I know. I must make it to the
right!
Dr. Mengele bends down to me with his hands behind his back and asks:
Wie Alt Bist Du Mein Kind? (How old are you, my child?)
I push out my chest, smile (just like that) and in a strong voice say: Twenty! (And
immediately I became terrified someone would discover the lie).
His finger points me to the right.
Deep in my heart I know that I was saved. From what? I still have no idea. Risha and
Henya are with me. Aryeh and the other young men are brought to a different place. They also
take us on a dirt road. The sun still shines. The Germans walk next to us screaming:
Quickly, quickly, damn it!
Someone on the side of the road yells: throw us the bread! Theyll take it from you
anyway
No one understands where we are going and what they are going to do with us. Throw
bread? That seems insane.

We are brought to a building with many rooms. This is where the Kapos run things. A
Kapo, as became known to me later, is a Jew who helps keep order in the concentration camp.
In exchange, he receives from the Germans food and preferred living conditions.
Again there are screams. Put your belongings down! Undress! Quickly! Quickly!
Quickly!
Henya and Risha are together with me in the room. We quickly undress. Someone
pushes us to another room. (All that we brought from home was left behind). In the next room
we have to hand over our jewelry. I have a gold chain with a heart on my neck it is engraved:
for Miri Mariah. The Kapo pulls the chain from my neck in one fell swoop.
Quickly! Whores! The Kapo screams. Go! We are now in the third room the barber
shop. Here they shave our heads. They grab our head and shave it with an electric shaver on
zero. They shave our heads and command us to open our legs. They also shave our pubic hair
and our armpits. We all look like prisoners with shaved heads. And we are naked. We only
have our shoes. Surprisingly Risha is left with her hair. Did someone not pay attention? One of
the Kapos wants to check if we are hiding things in our shoes. She yells:
Take your shoes off. I take my shoes in my hand and carry them into the second room.
The dressing room. There is a pile of rags in the corner. One of the Kapos distributes
clothing. I pass in the single file line and the Kapo throws a rag in each of our hands. I get a
flowery dress with two holes where the breasts are located. Luckily, there is a commotion
(there was constant shouting and pushing) and I bend down and take another rag from the pile.
I wear one on top of the otherI am beautifully dressed! Henya and Risha are next to me. I can
only recognize Risha. Henya is indeed next to me and were it not for here dentures I would not
recognize her. With her head shaved and her body draped in a wide black rag, she does not
resemble anyone I recognize. I did not know then that she didnt recognize me
From that room a door was opened to the street. Outside! Yells a healthy young
woman, quickly! Before I had a chance to put my shoes on, I am outside. There is a dirt path
with shards of glass scattered on it. They order us to run. The glass shards cut my feet. Due to
the shock, I dont feel the cuts at all. I know that my feet are bleeding, but Im not the only
one We all have the same fate. The path ends and we are ordered to stand. I quickly put my
shoes on my bloody feet. I check my toes, there is no glass in my feet, just cuts which now hurt
a lot.
More screaming and pushing: Move! We arrive at the gate. It opens and we enter the
womens campBirkenau-Auschwitz! They organize us in groups of fives (which would happen
many times) They tell us to march forward. We look around curiously.
I see flower beds and small barracks, with curtains on the windows. And suddenly:
sounds of music! We move closer and see a group of women (maybe there were men among
them), all of them skinny and wearing stripped clothing (they looked like ghosts) standing on a

small stage with instruments. We are greeted with a joyful Venetian Waltz, at the entrance to
the Auschwitz hotel.
Quickly! Quickly! Scream the Kapos, before we have a chance to pass the (macabre)
orchestra we are in the area with the barracks. Very long barracks stand in long rows
equidistant from each other and a road. We stop next to barrack number 11. (The exact
name: Bloc 11). The street in front of the barracks is hard, black dirt. Thousands (millions?)
of feet walked passed here on the way toI have no idea where the path leads.
That day (August 9th 1944) began to set. Has it only been one day since I left Lodz?
The skies are dark, there is a calm breeze. Someone counts us. We enter the barrack.
The barrack, bloc 11, was made for one thousand women. There are wooden beds along the
walls, meaning there are three levels of wooden slabs. Every bed is two meters long and one
meter wide. 13 residents sleep on a bunk like that!
Risha, Henya, and I get the third floor. We climb up and immediately we hear a scream:
lay down in complete silence! We are 13 women with only room to sleep on our side, like in a
narrow box. One right after another, snug, with no room to move a limb. The three of us sleep
together. There is a deep silence which extends all around.
The Kapo screams: no one goes down without permission. Lay in silence and sleep!
Here we wake up at 4 in the morning. I repeat: Sleep in silence!
(In the Gordonia chapter in Lodz, I once saw a sign on the wall: There is nothing that can
stand against your will. Interestingwhat was the person, who honored humanity with those
forced words thinking. Was he thinking of a bunk with 13 women in bloc 11?)
Its not terrible, I say to Henya, who is crying silently. Its better than the train car, right?
Apparently I fell asleep. A great scream wakes us all. A woman screams with all her
might: they are burning people! I know it! They are burning people!
There is a commotion on all of the bunks. We are all overwrought: what did she say?
What did she say? (It later turned out that only the new residents were asking.)
The Kapo runs out of her small room at the entrance to the bloc. Quiet, she yells, and
pulls the poor woman outside, do you hear me, Shut up! And she slaps her face. She returns to
the bloc and announces: the woman is insane! Dont listen to her. She is crazy!
We all want to accept the simple explanation but we all smell burning bones The smell
is reminiscent of burning the feathers of the chicken for Shabbat, or something like it.
Sleep! The Kapo screams.
She is blonde, tall and strong, well-dressed with leather shoes. (She has experience
here, my neighbors in the bloc tell me, and she is not even the worst).
It is still completely dark outside and they wake us up. Quickly! Quickly! Go to the
latrine! Quickly Quickly!
We are all pushed into the latrine. It is a long wooden beam with holes for collecting
the waste. There are also a few faucets. We are only given a few moments. Everything is done

in great haste. We urinate, wash our hands and run outside. We are shivering from the cold.
The August nights are a little cool. (Maybe we are also afraid?) What will the day bring?
They arrange us in fives after about fifteen minutes. The ceremony where they count
the prisoners is known in the local language as Appel. There is still some time until the count.
(The Germans are still sleeping soundly) The Kapos run about, checking that everyone has come
down from the bunks, are all out of the latrine, and that they are standing to be counted. They
are personally responsible for each person. Any barrack which is missing a person receives a
harsh punishment. The Kapo shakes in fear afraid it will happen to her. She knows she is
fortunate and she cannot be frivolous with it.
There are 30 blocs in the womans camp, each with 1,000 women. During that pale
sunrise there are 30,000 women standing in fives, in a straight line, tense, not moving. The
Kapos are the only ones still running about. The scene is tense, frightening to the point of
imagining the scene of the nation standing at the feet of Mt. Sinai waiting for Moses,
descending with the two tablets in his hands (a thousand times different!)
It is almost sunrise and a group of Germans approaches with their dogs. We again tense
up. (Later I find out that every morning like this could be each of our last). The SS approach.
One stops next to each of our groups.
Wievel has du das Dreck? How much shit is there here? asks the head officer. He turns
to the SS woman (blonde, tall, in military uniform), standing next to our Kapo.
After he hears the answer (she stands at attention with a Nazi salute) he starts counting.
Five, ten, fifteen, twenty
While counting he looks at each one of us and occasionally stops. He measures
someone with his eyes and goes back to her after the count. He takes the woman (who he had
stopped next to) out of the row and they are given immediately to the soldier participating in
the ceremony. I see them taken to a different place.
The different place is the gas chambers; one woman takes the trouble to later explain it
to me. You see, there behind the trees? You can always see smoke and that smell comes from
thereFirst they put the people in closed chambers; they release gas and then burn the bodies.
My entire body feels terribly weak and the woman grabs my arm. Dont play games
here, she tells me, you have to be strong. You cannot be afraid. You are not yet a Muselmann
(A Muselmann is a person, who is in such a deteriorated physical condition that he becomes
apathetic to all that surrounds him, apathetic to death itself).
The noise in my ears becomes louder and the weakness does not pass. Henya stands
next to me and asks: What happened? I burst out into a cry which relaxes me.
That same day the daily life on the planet known as Auschwitz was explained to me. I
listen and think: these people have lost their minds. This cannot be possible!

In the meantime pieces of bread are distributed. The piece must last the whole day.
But only idiots dont eat it immediately. The piece is only safe from being stolen inside your
stomach.
There is some time to walk around among the barracks. I look around. Women from
different countries are brought here. A mixture of languages rings in my ears, thousands of
women. There is also a group of children in one barrack. Later I am told that these are children
for experiments.
I do not see anyone I recognize. It is probably difficult to recognize me too.
Later they distribute soup. Muddy water with a weird taste. It is probably cooked tree
bark, Henya says knowingly, it tastes likeBut we eat everything to the last drop. You cannot
be picky here. There is no food until tomorrow after roll call.
We are again given a short amount of time for the bathroom. Women who suffer from
constipation sit for a long time and do not make room for others. There is shouting and
pushing. After a day I learn: You must grab a hole while there is still time.
They count us again at dusk. (Maybe Im mistaken? Im not sure). In any case, I am
again in the barracks lying down on the shared bunk. This time there is a bit more room. One
woman was taken during the morning count.
I wake up at night and everything that I heard and saw during the day comes back to me
in all of its cruelty. Suddenly I understand the mystery of those deported from the ghettoThe
old, the sick, the children, the orphanage, the tuberculosis hospital, everyone, everyone was
sent here. Not to a green German villageEveryone was killed with gasUntil that day the
concept of gas was always connected to a stove on which you cooked food. Mother always
made a point of checking at night that it was closedAnd here, in this placeThere was no
doubt that our lives were only extended shortly. Living like this, it was only a matter of time
until it was your turn
I am distraught; one thought keeps coming to me as I lay among the sleeping women:
commit suicide! I do not want to get to the gas chamber and I dont want them to burn me.
The very fear of that possibility, which arrives every morning during the count (as I saw with my
own eyes) will kill me anywayThere is no reason to fight this losing battle!
Risha and Henya are sound asleep next to me. I grope around in the dark and find a nail
protruding a bit from the beam of the bunk. I rub the veins in my hand against the head of the
nail. It hurts a bit, but nothing happens. I try and pull the nail from the wood
The woman sleeping next to me wakes up. What are you doing? She whispers in my
ear.
I want to die! I burst out in a silent cry burying my head in my chest. The older woman
(she was maybe 40) speaks to me in Yiddish. She was sent here from Budapest and they
already took her twin 12 year old girls from her at the train platform. She also wanted to
commit suicide, after she found out where they took her, but she made a different

decision.(This is what she whispered in my ear while caressing my head with her soft hands)
you cannot help them with their work, she says. We need to stay alive, to take revenge. You
are still young, you will have children and there will again be Jews in the world. Remember, we
might be the last ones Why help them finish the nation? Only the beginning is difficult here.
Youll get used to it, just like everyone else. You know, she suddenly remembers, about a week
ago there were planes hereThey came and disappeared. Maybe they are English planes or
Russian planes? Maybe it will be over soon? And just like that until daybreak, until wake up
(the run to the latrine, the count etc)
It was only at the light of morning that I was able to see the woman who saved my life.
A shaved head, hanging breasts, two gold teeth on her bottom jaw, green eyes with pock marks
on her face. One does not always find a pure soul inside a beautiful body. The angel who stood
at my head that night was named Marta. Marta was born in Pest and she was a bridal gown
seamstress.
Years later, when I was already on the kibbutz, one of my friends naively asked me: why
did you go to Auschwitz? She had heard gossip about me.
Look, I said to her in all seriousness, one day the Germans came and said: Fraulein Mary,
we have a transport to the French Riviera, Monte Carlo, Las Vegas and we also have a train
heading to Auschwitz. Which do you choose? And I answered without hesitation: I want to go
to Auschwitz
She looked at me, a bit confused. Im not sure if she understood what I was talking
about
The next night something out of the ordinary happened in the bloc. A woman was in
labor. No one understood how she made it past Mengele with her stomach (she arrived with us
from Lodz) because all of the pregnant women were sent to the left In any event, she lay
down on the ground in the middle of the bloc and there was a midwife there. A healthy and
large baby was born and he immediately began crying, as every baby does.
The Kapo called the German woman in charge of her and told her about the incident.
The German reprimanded the woman (who was still on the ground) and called her a big
liar.She later ruled: we will not do anything to you, but the babydo not tie the umbilical
cord! Meaning the baby dies.
There is no time. It is time to get up. Quickly! Outside! It is still dark out. A light is on in
the latrine. There is pushing, screaming, and cursing in many languages. The strong ones
always win; the others must wait to relieve themselves later. You can urinate on the floor, in
the corner, as long as the Kapo doesnt see. She will hit you on your back with a stick. More
whistles and running. Get in line! Quickly! Risha and Henya are next to me. We always try to
be in the same group of five. It encourages us to be together.

The women flow in groups of five from all of the barracks on the road in Birkenau.
Despite the dim light before dawn, you can already see the groups of people ordered in giant
squares.
The dinosaur, the man in charge and one of his cronies are still far from us. There is
quiet all around, silence. Only their steps are heard. The cry of the infant sentenced to death
is heard above everything. He wants to live and announces his desire with his cries, as long as
he can. All 30,000 women clearly hear his plea. His mother, standing next to us, also hears it.
Im not sure if she is cognizant due to the severity of her physical and emotional suffering. Her
blood is still flowing down her legs, soaked up by the black earth beneath her. His blood flows
from the untied umbilical cord, soaked up in the rag he was left on to die. The heartbreaking
cries continue and weaken until they disappear. Blessed is the True Judge!?
I stand in the first line. The Kapo and the SS woman converse next to me. The Kapo
asks, why, dear madam, do you not just let a baby like that live? He would not bother anyone.
His mother could nurse him and you wouldnt even have to give him food? (The Jewish woman,
who beats the prisoners, wears leather boots, and eats until satisfied is still a human being,
with human feelings). In contrast the tall blonde, the representative of the pure race, a
graduate of the Hitler Youth said her opinion which she thought was more logical: Oh, you
arent thinking! All Jewish children are born with shrunken brains anyway!
The baby is now in a better world. There is some relief in the silence coming from bloc
11. I have to recover. There is no time for tears. They are already counting us. Another four
women are not coming back to the bunks. Thats only from this group. There are another 29
blocs along the way. They gather all of the victims. Today there will be a lot of smoke.
The next day I am also witness to a conversation between the Kapo and SS woman.
The Kapo asks: why do they bring Romani women here? I saw some today? They are
also a race that is meant to be destroyed, says the SS woman. As she yawns she covers her
mouth with her gentle hand. (Despite being from the superior race she had to wake up early,
poor woman).
That same day there was a hanging ceremony in our camp. Two are hanged. A Jewish
girl and a young Polish man. They were both caught while trying to escape. The distribution of
the soup was put off because of the celebration. We are all commanded to stand and watch. I
dont remember if I cried or I was emotional. I did not stand up close (I ran to the back) and I
was busy. A woman next to me had fainted. Henya and I lifted her up and one of the Kapos
brought some water from the nearby latrine. When the woman recovered, it was after it was
all over. Afterwards the soup was distributed. We stood drinking our soup. It was dirty water
and there were no spoons. Just a tin plate. The Germans were not crazy about spoiling the
piles of garbage by giving them spoons.
Something wakes me up at night. There are screams in the bloc. A girl gets up from her
resting place, runs outside to the barbed wire fence. The fence is electrified and she remains

hanging as she is stuck to the fence. Her sister screams. There are spotlights outside, a
commotion. Later everything calms down. Despite my exhaustion and weakness I couldnt fall
asleep. Risha is also crying. God, God, its so frightening!
One day they bring us to an unfamiliar place. We are a group of three hundred women.
The location is a field, almost completely empty. The day is clear and the sweet smell of
vegetation is in the air. The Kapo tells all of us to pull up our sleeves (whoever has one). Soon
the tattoo experts will arrive and everyone will receive a number. We still do not have
numbers. Many people in the camp have numbers on their arms. We stand there for a few
hours. Some of us sit down. There is still no German in the background.
The thirst grows. It is terribly dry. The hunger pains are bothersome. We all know what
hunger does to the body. The body shrivels, the face and legs swell and you look like a
muselmann. The path is very short from here to the relief in the overcrowded bunk. Another
hour passes and another hour. The Kapo goes to ask her friend. Nothing is happening.
Before dusk, tired, thirsty, hungry we are brought back to the barracks. Today there is
no soup. We must wait until tomorrow for the bread ration. We also did not receive numbers.
One woman says: its not worth it to them. Were going to be fat anyway (To be fat meant to
be made into soap).
One day I notice swelling around my ankle. Oh God! Im starting to well! How do I
look? I ask Henya, Look at me closely! Do I also have swelling around my eyes?
Henya calms me down: you look fine!
But the swelling does not go down. Its difficult to put on shoes. A great fear descends
upon me: am I becoming a muselmann? I check my face in a puddle of water. It is hard to tell.
The water is polluted.
The Kapo orders for the vat of soup to be brought. Now it is my turn, together with
Henya, Risha and another girl. There is a line next to the kitchen and we have to wait. While
we are waiting a girl approaches me. She works in the kitchen and speaks Hungarian Yiddish.
What do you say, she asks me, if we make a trade. Ill give you bread and you give me
your shoes. Youll take my clogs.
I stand in shock for a moment. My shoes are the only remnant of my home in the
ghetto. They are also an essential commodity, they are a life saver. But the bread is very
enchanting. I take my shoes off and wear the cogs. The girl gives me a half of a loaf of bread
that is like a clump of moist clay. I shove the bread into a hiding spot beneath my dresses. I am
wearing two dresses (from the Pierre Cardin collection). I had found a piece of rope and turned
it into a belt. Since then I had a hiding spot. Anything that I want to keep, I stuff between the
two dresses, beneath the chest and it is held by the rope.
Im not sure if it was due to the exchange or if I just got lucky. The swelling went down
and I am granted an extensionI am alive, breathing. Another day has passed. Risha is very
weak. Henya coughs a lot (later it turned out she was sick with tuberculosis).

During the roll call I stand quietly and confident. (That is what the experienced women
suggest. Stand quietly with a pleasant smile, puff up your chest and think about the possibility
that tomorrow airplanes will come and bomb this cursed placeIts good for your health).
The display of confidence costs me two bottom teeth. During the count, (the German is
still not next to me) I notice a very old woman standing next to me holding her stomach. She
has strong pains. She is very pale. I grab her and push her behind me before the cruel Nazi
arrives. But he clearly sees what I have done. With a quick step he approaches me, extends his
handand slaps me in the face with all his strength. He did not touch the woman.
I feel salty moisture in my mouth. I stand without moving, until the entourage (the
German, the SS woman, and the Kapo) moves ahead. Then I spit. One tooth protrudes from
the small pool of blood. I check with my finger. The other one is loose but still in my mouth.
Some women reprimand me. You dont play games like that! Everyone must fend for
herself! There is no mommy here, there is no one! There is no God! You are lucky they didnt
send you to their house behind the trees!
The woman kisses my hand. God will repay you! (My bill with God is very large).
The Germans are very afraid of contagious disease, they quickly examine us. They move
from place to place ordering the women to undress. We march on the roads of Birkenau naked
as the day we were born. The Germans meticulously scan each of us. Every wound, rash or
mark is suspect in their eyes. The women rub mud on any mark on their skin. It is better to
look dirty that to be suspect of having an illness. They bring the suspicious ones to the
infirmary.
There are various legends about the infirmary in Auschwitz. Terrifying stories. Women
are injected and experimental operations are performed on them. There are some whose
uterus is removed. The Germans want to know about the side effects of various drugs. Jewish
women are turned into lab rats. Anyone who cares for his life stays far away from the
infirmary, known as Royar.
We walk naked and it arouses no attention. Everyone is used to it. We ourselves begin
to get used to it. I put my hand on my lower stomach and in my other hand are my clothes.
Until they have seen enough, we continue in our naked march. The situation could be worse.
Whoever is here in the winter, it is worse for them.
I smile to myself. They still have not succeeded in killing the optimism which flows in my
blood. (When on the kibbutz I once spoke about the naked marches, one woman said to me:
werent you embarrassed? I couldnt do it! -- There is no doubt, there are people who can and
there are people who cannot)
There are persistent rumors that the end of the war is near. One day I even hear the
sound of airplanes from above. We were standing for the count. And in all of our hearts there
was a gigantic prayer: God! Drop a bomb! Please!

In the meanwhile there are dead without the help of bombs. Each day there are piles of
bodies lying in the ditches on the sides of the road. The bodies of women, without names, they
all share the same sign: they cannot take another portion of soup
Marta, the good soul from Budapest, believes in God. She has a small prayer book and
she whispers Psalms before each count. There are many women from Hungary, who were able
to bring prayer books here (something out of the ordinary considering the circumstances).
They stand and pray, confident that it will help.
Marta says (we walk together between the barracks, moments before the distribution of
the soup): you must believe. Thank God, you are still alive, right? Dont you understand?
Despite everything, all of these women, you are still alive. Isnt that a sign that God is watching
you? Have faith in Him, He will help you!
She should be well, that Marta. A million words come to mind, but I am silent. I have
many reasons to think the opposite. But I owe Marta my life (she claims I owe it to God) and I
dont want to upset her. We have an unwritten pact between us.
Henya continues coughing and at night I feel that her body is warm. I dont say
anything. You cannot deliver bad news here. Every day that passes, is ours.
Aside from the Germans, there are other men who come to the womens camp. The
men wearing the blue overalls are maintenance personnel. They themselves are prisoners, not
Jewish. The men are strong, apparently they receive better food. That is the difference
between life and death.
During one walk among the barracks a strong gentile approaches Risha and asks (in
Polish): do you want a present? Ill give you a spoon! Risha still has beautiful curly hair, she is a
beautiful young woman, despite her frightening emaciation.
Thank you, Risha politely replies, that is very nice of youI am suffering without a
spoon
The man gives her the (tin) spoon and asks: when can we meet?
She throws the spoon from her hands and runs.
The next day the following happens to me:
A young man wearing short and tight overalls, with a thick head of hair comes to me on
the street: I hear that you are speaking Polish, he smiles to me (he is missing two teeth).
Yes, I say, I am from Lodz.
Oh, Im also from Lodz, nice to meet you!
He puts his hand into the pocket of his overalls and takes out some object wrapped in
paper (bread? A potato ? Some kind of utensil ? A spoon ?) Take this gift, he says, I always liked
the Jewish girls in Lodz, before I had a chance to take his gift he asked me: do you want to
meet up? Lets go to the latrine(Only later was I told that there were trysts that took place in
the latrine. Im not sure if its true)

Instead of responding, I quickly retreat into the crowd. The man (with the desire) looks
for me. I start to be afraid. And suddenly, Marta is next to me.
Marta, I say quickly, hide methat manIm breathing heavy.
But I had no reason to be afraid. From a distance I see that he is engaged in a
conversation with another girl. Interesting, I think, how will his charm work on her?
Another day passes. There are women who leave us forever and there are those who
come from the outside. Everything continues on its horrible track. The smell of burnt bodies is
always in the air. It is hard to get used to. The bunks empty out and fill up anew. The hunger is
terrible. Our Kapo suffers from schizophrenia. One time she will be passive and another time
she will beat with all of her strength. It is as if she derives pleasure from breaking her stick on
the back of some poor girl. She asks for quiet and beats anyone who breaks her rules. But she
also devotedly deals with a woman who has a boil on her foot. She heats up a knife in a flame
and opens the puss-filled wound. Afterwards, she dresses the wound with a piece of cloth. In
the morning she reminds the woman to take off the bandage. It is forbidden for the bandage to
be seen during the count.
During the count you have to stand at attention without moving. Sometimes the
German notices some movement and beats the offending party with his stick and kicks her
with all his strength. In these moments I think to myself: I am blessed that I am here alone.
Just to see them beating mother or a sister, without being able to help That is even worse. I
only have myself to worry about. And that is a fundamental difference.
I dont know the exact date (we live without clocks or calendars) but there is a
commotion in the yard in Birkenau. New women arrive in the camp. One of the women says: I
think they are bringing a transport from Lodz. I run outside. There are women marching in the
middle of the road. Their heads have just been shaven, they are dressed in rags, tall, short,
beautiful, ugly; they are all very skinny. Dozens walk past and then suddenly: I thinkcould it
be? I am standing next to my mother and my sisters! We hug with tears in our eyes, they are
shocked, I ask and ask, and receive few answers What? How? When?
I walk with them to their bloc. They are still in shock, they tell me: Haya (my sister-inlaw) and the three young girls (eight-year-old Ruth, six-year-old Gushka, and six-week-old
Janette) were all sent to the leftYitzush and Srulik went with the men.
My mother. Despite her shaved head and wretched appearance, one can still identify
signs of her beauty. We sit while hugging and mother cries: who knows? Where did they take
them? Who knows?
Mother still doesnt know. (I am wiser in the ways of Auschwitz). I remain quiet and my
heart breaks for the memory of the sweet girls, the pure souls.
Israel and Yitzush, her two loving sons, where are they? Maybe they found a better fate,
I think to myself. Paula and Rosia look very bad, Hanka and Rachel a bit better. But the general
impressionI hold back the tears. I have to be brave. Now is not the time to cry.

They tell me that after I left, they began liquidating the ghetto. They went from place to
place, together with Israel and his family so they wouldnt find them. In the end nothing
helped.
Today, mother says, is exactly a week before Rosh Hashanah(Deep in my heart I think
about the miracle that happened to mother. She was sent to the right, despite her age, her
many births, and her hardships in the ghetto) We all sit hugging and suddenly the whistles
start, get into the barracks! Quickly!
I have a few second to think: should I stay here and join my family or go back to my
bloc? What do you think, I ask mother. No one answers. They do not know what is good and
what is bad. They are afraid to take my fate in their hands. I have to decide on my own. I
decide: I run to my bloc. Well meet up tomorrow.
I run with all my strength. The distance between bloc 30 and bloc 11 is significant. I
barely make it, before the Kapo catches me with the stick in her hand. I get on the bunk,
panting heavily. It turned out that Risha also ran to find her mother and Ninka. She did not find
themWere they sent to the left? Henya did not go to search. There was no one left for her to
find.
At dawn the whistles and shouts began again. Wake up! Quickly! Quickly! Outside! The
stick hits hard. We are already standing and ready for the count. But something is wrong.
There is running and intense discussion among the Germans: one woman is missing!
30,000 women (minus one) are standing at attention and waiting. Do not move! The
Germans perform a meticulous search in all of the barracks. They search every corner, under
every bed. Nothing. The Germans are very angry. They, the wizards of the collective
punishment, command all of the thousands of women to kneel and not move until they hear
further instructions. Whoever did not witness the scene will never understand it.
Row after row of thousands of women in groups of five, kneeling for seven hours! They
do not distribute bread, water, a drop of water! The search continues. In truth, today I dont
remember if they found her? Maybe she wasnt even missing? Maybe she hid and they didnt
find her? One or the other. There is no third option. Otherwise we would have seen her put to
death. That is the minimum punishment should one dare try to escape.
It was only at dusk that we received our bread and soup ration. Each of us sits in her
corner and eats quickly. We all have no energy. After eating the bread and the soupI am so
hungry. If I only could, I would eat my hand!
The next morning, there is again a feeling that something is happening. The Kapo runs
in and out a few times. In the end she says: everyone down from the bunks.
Quickly, we come down and the Germans enter the bloc. We stand next to the bunks.
We are called outside one by one. My knees wobble. (What did I do, what did I do, I weep to
myself. Why didnt I stay with my family?) I too have to exit. The Germans finger points at
me. Henya and Risha are sent outside. Marta stays inside.

There are about 200 young women standing outside. We all tremble in fear. Some
mutter prayers. Risha whispers to me that she has a stomach ache. Henya choughs quietly.
The selection is completed and we are commanded to march: Forward!
The women who remain in the barrack stare at us as they stand in the doorway. Many
hands wave goodbye. Goodbye bunk! Goodbye life!
But we are next to the gate. Walk outside! We look around, we are actually outside.
Forward march! The German screams. A number of soldiers with rifles on their shoulder escort
us. The path leads to the train station!
Suddenly a German on a horse appears. He stops the caravan and an argument breaks
out between him and those escorting us. We are commanded to stand at a distance. We do
not hear the argument; we only see the hand gestures.
No one moves from her place out of fear. We are afraid to breathe. From some hidden
sense we know: at this moment our fate will be sealed.
We are relieved when the sign is given and we continue moving. We arrive at the train
station. It is completely empty and we enter a small waiting room. Another moment
and.Mengele appears! He orders us to half undress. I remove my shoulder straps and reveal
my chest. Mengele passes by each of us and stops next to each of us. He removes one girl
from the line, and another, and another, six girls. I am the seventh. I want to screamBut I
smile. Mengeles eyes are on my bare chest; my perky breasts are still in good condition.
Why are you laughing, says the head murderer.
I raise my shoulders as if to say I dont know and continue smiling.
Mengele kicks me and puts me back in the line.
We walk outside and enter the waiting train. Before we enter they give each of us a loaf
of bread, a piece of sausage and a piece of yellow cheese. We enter and the train sets off.

CHAPTER 6

Dont Look Back

We are all in the same train car: 200 young women (a few are already married) and one
German soldier. He sits on a chair next to the closed door. We sit along the walls of the car, it
is crowded, but no one is thinking about that. Even if we had to lie on our side, as we did in the
bunks, without being able to move, we also would not complain. What more, with every turn
of the wheels of the train and whistle of the engine we are further from that Hell.
No one asks, and perhaps no one was bothered enough to ask, where are we going?
There are moments in life when there is only room for one thought in your head. The rest of
your brain does not work. We had bread, sausage, and a piece of cheese. You cannot eat the
sausage quickly, nor the cheese. You can only eat very slowly with tiny bites, one after another;
making sure you can digest it.
The soldier watching us is a round middle-aged man, with small eyes and the face of a
bulldog. He is not scary, he even smiles sometimes. He sits with his legs spread and he holds
his rifle in both hands between his feet. It seems as if he is more confident here among us
rather than there, among his younger arrogant compatriots, who make fun of a man his age.
He has simply been sent to accompany the human cargo and has nothing to do with the
festivities going on.
Many other soldiers accompany us from the outside, on the roof and the bridges
between cars. No one on the outside knows the nature of the cargo. As is known, the Germans
do not divulge information.
No, we dont complain and we dont cause trouble. Its only in the movies that you see
one brave soul fighting against a gang of robbers, beating them all, and then when he is done
he straightens his tie and enters the closest bar for a cold beer.
Due to our stupidity and ignorance about our destination we all finish the bread before
the landscape changes through the cracks of the speeding train. But the stomach is full and
blessed exhaustion spreads throughout our limbs. Risha, Henya and I fall asleep in shifts.
The train speeds ahead. After a few hours one of us dares to ask the bulldog face what
to do: nature is calling. The first sign of humanity appears in his eyes: Hell work something
out.
He informs his compatriots of his desire to stop the train with the butt of his rifle. It
indeed stops and we all exit onto the deserted platform. The soldiers jump from the roofs and
all around and surround us in a tight circle. They point their rifles at us and one of them yells:
Shit, but do it quickly!

Without any ceremony, two hundred representatives of the beautiful gender squat on
the tracks, lift their clothing and relieve themselves before the guards surrounding them. A
grotesque thought enters my mind: I remember a park photographer who would stand in
Stasicha park photographing the visitors. His head was covered with a black cloth and the
picture was taken with a threatening flash. If he were here, his picture would be the scoop of
the century
The celebration ends. No one forgets. Auschwitz is still sitting behind us. We quickly
enter, the door is closed with the bolt on the outside and a different soldier sits on the chair.
He is also not young, but he is long and skinny and tight like a spring.
Soon night falls and we race ahead into the dark night, at full speed with the whistle of
the train.
At dawn only a few of us have food remaining to eat. One girl sleeps on her stomach.
When she wakes up she finds a large piece of bread under her. We look at her with jealousy.
She eats quickly, without looking at anyone. We are all thirsty but we do not dare approach the
wound up spring. You cannot test your luck. We are not princesses. Here, they dont bring you
a glass of water to your bed
It is still August and the sun warms the roof of the train car. It is hot and suffocating, it
is crowded and the thirst is extremely bothersome. We hesitantly speak to each other quiestly.
The fear of the Appell (roll call count) still hovers over us. Our fear commands us to sit and not
stand out. Because the end goal is unknown there are those who supply various speculations.
It would make sense, says one girl, that they are bringing us to clean Lodz, after the
liquidation of the ghetto.
No, another chimes in, they would take men
They already murdered all of the men, says another bursting out into tears.
No, its not true, says another girl sitting right next to me, they brought us past the
mens camp when they tattooed our arms, right? Didnt you see men?
Slowly the conversations cease. The hunger is piercing and exhausting. Yesterdays
celebration is forgotten. Those who fall asleep sleep from weakness and in the morning they
continue, semiconscious. There is also a silent cry from those who still know how to cry. The
hunger is deadly. The suffocation and lack of movement result in a loss of connection with our
surroundings. Only the strongest are still capable of speaking.
Prania is a very tall young woman; she was mysteriously spared from hunger during the
war. She is the bravest among all of us and she tries to start a conversation with the guard.
(This time it is a farmer boy, his face sunburned, his hands callused, short and chubby, around
30-years old). He has nothing to do with the masters up there, or with the book Mein Kampf.
He has no reason to love Jews; he is employed in the army as a caravan escort on the train,
probably because of his low IQ and his limp. Its just work. Prania succeeds in getting a few
drops of the alcoholic beverage he has in his possession, she wets a cloth and rubs it on the

temples of those who have fainted. The farmer also helps us get rid of our waste twice during
the day (our third). His friends again stare at the bare bottomsThe landscape is now very
different.
On the morning of the fourth day, the train stops and we all get out. We see homes and
streets at a distance from the station where we have stopped. The signs around us are
writtenIn French! We are in France and after a bit it becomes clear that we have arrived in
the city of Mulhouse.
Arranged in fives we are pushed forward with our last bit of strength. Our feet refuse to
move, some of us drag those who have fainted. I dont know how long we walked for or what it
looked like. There were apparently people on the street (residents of the conquered French
city) who stared at the march of the half dead women. I saw the German soldiers standing on
each side, surrounding us like a tight ring.
We stop again. There is a building in front of us and we are brought into a large room
with benches, like those in a school. We each grab a seat. We sit tensely and we see
gentlemen, wearing civilian suits standing at the entrance speaking with the officer of our
caravan. In another moment a vat of soup is brought inside and everyone receives a bowl. We
have no idea what the buttoned masters are speaking about, but we smell soup. One of the
gentlemen looks curiously at the dinersHe has really never seen such uncivilized behavior!
The eating is barbaric! It is not polite to eat so quickly and to lick the bowl!
I sit in front and I have the pleasure of being the subject of the gentlemans attention.
He stares at me, slightly amused, and asks:
Why did they shave your head? Did it get caught in cheese?
Oh, no sir, I say, in the place where I came from having your head shaved was the
easiest thing I had to endure.
Everyone listens to the conversation. (My German is correct, without stuttering). Until
today I have no idea if the man pretended that he was nave or if he really had no idea what
was happening. The gentleman apparently used to be a German industrialist and he was sent
to oversee a French factory. As I said, I dont know if he knew exactly what his countrymen
were doing in the ghettos or the camps, but he definitely knew what kind of manpower was
needed to operate a factory (apparently for weapons).
After he saw the two hundred people in front of him, he came to a logical conclusion: he
refused to take us and after we returned the (licked) plates to the large trash in the corner we
were sent back to the train car
It was an unexpected shock. Dear God! Are we going back to Auschwitz?
A girl sat on the platform and screamed: Kill me, kill me! Im not leaving here! After
being picked up by two soldiers she was pushed into the car. We again sat along the walls and
we sank into a depressing misery. A silent cry was heard from all sides. Henya coughed until

she gauged. Risha sat pale, holding her head. Something deep inside me whispered: It cannot
be, that we are returning to Auschwitz
Either way, the train speeds ahead and Prania, the tall brave woman, tries to fill us with
a bit of optimism: I saw through the cracks, we arent going in the same direction! After about
two hours she says: we are in Germany, I swear to you! I even saw the name of a German
villagethe first stop. We are spit out on the train tracks which run through a thick forest.
There are many thick pine treesthose who squat to relieve themselves do not fit the pastoral
landscape. The calm which surrounds is inconceivable.
The hunger torments us. We are thirsty and hungry and the fainting begins again. The
weak soup only stimulated the salivary glands and the empty stomachs ache.
Outsidethe green fields are divided by rows of trees, straight as a ruler. In the distance
there is a stream flowing which shines in the rays of sun.
We sit quietly, there is no strength to move, no strength to speak, it is impossible to
sleep because of the hunger and suffocation. But one can faint. Prania has her hands full.
After a trip of about a day and a half we stop and when we step out of the car we are
met with a group of men in civilian clothing. There is a vehicle next to the platform with a red
cross! A few of us are able to steal a word with the Red Cross workers. Quickly, in order to
pass on the most important information, as tears stream from the eyes, we tell them about our
great suffering and most importantly: the starvationthe good people have a crate of apples.
They distribute an apple to each of us and try to calm us down. They speak a strange language,
German with a French (?) accent and they quickly disappear. The soldiers make sure to put us
in the cage. There is a commotion. Some feel cheated. They already touched life itself, we
spoke with free people and received an apple, something that their eyes had not seen for many
long and terrible years. Some maintain that the Red Cross workers were only Germans in
disguise. Others dont think so, they dont speak, they dont remember, they dont understand.
They lie in their unconscious misery and the feeling that death is nearby rests in their heart.
Risha chews her apple very slowly, she enjoys every one of her tiny bites. She holds it in
both her hands, like someone holding a life raft in the stormy ocean. We all search with our
tongues to see if there is a small piece lodged between two teeth
The sound of the wheels of the train is monotonous and continues endlessly. The train
speeds ahead, without stopping and it seems that the trip will never end.
On the sixth day of the trip, we lie unconscious, we feel as if life is escaping each of us.
The voices are very low, the eyes do not see, the hands have no strength. A strange fog clouds
our vision.
Apparently another day has passed and on the seventh day, since we left the gate with
the words Arbeit Macht Frei the journey comes to an end.

We are in Hannover. A group of filthy people, falling over, deathly pale, with shaved
heads is surrounded by a ring of armed German soldiers. The scent of the sea hits the nostrils.
No one is around. The Germans made sure to distance the curious.
After a few minutes we begin moving. Whoever has not seen the strange procession (I
called it: the hike of the dead souls) will never understand. We walk between mountains and
hills, dragging our feet with bottomless despair. I am not sure if the simple thought where are
we going? bothered me. Only this: the pain, the weakness, and fear of fainting and being left
on the side of the roadAfter some time a truck catches up with us. The German throw two
sacks from the trucks. We stop. In the sack are two piles of used shoes. The soldiers escorting
us allow us to choose from the piles. Henya and I (we both have small feet) have a dilemma: do
we choose shoes with taller heels (which can in certain situations save your life) or comfortable
shoes with which we can continue the trek?
It was not a normal situation, in a store, when the merchant tries to find what you are
looking for, going up and down the ladder with a smile on his face Here we had a pile of
shoes of women who were killed (yesterday? A week ago ?) and the screams of armed soldiers.
(Who themselves were tired from the long walk on the path). In the end I chose comfortable
flats. Henya chose shoes with a heel and immediately began to complain about how they hurt
her legs. As I saw her suffering, I would trade with her occasionally. Risha had no problems.
She was the tallest among us and she chose comfortable shoes.
While we are still walking in the depths of the forest, two girls fall completely
exhausted. They are both very pale, dragging their feet, they have dark rings under their eyes.
Prania, the tall and strong woman, jumped and picked them up:
Dont make a scene, she yells in Polish, do you want to die? When they start shooting at
us, no one will make itthey can finish us off here and not be punished for itshe dragged
them with her. They drag their feet, shaking from their tears, the two keep marching.
The soldiers continue screaming: Quickly, quickly, quickly!
We arrived at a large open area. The sun beat down and walking became even more
difficult. Before we left the open area I suddenly saw a large sign, tied to a large tree, it read:
Schiessplatz firing range. The letters were gothic, curvy (unlike modern German). I knew how
to read them thanks to my mother who used to embroider (when she was younger) napkins
and tablecloths as was the custom in those days, the napkins were decorated with educational
sayings like: whoever respects others he is respectedWhen I saw the sign, in the forest,
surrounded by armed soldiers, I was terrified. They are going to shoot us! My legs became
even weaker; I saw black spots in my eyes: how stupid was I to be happy that we left Auschwitz!
They are going to bury us here!
I looked around. No one else looked any more frightened and I was sure that I was the
only one who saw the sign with the arrow pointing the way. Immediately we heard shots fired
nearby. Many heads turned in the direction of the shots Should I tell them, or not? It was my

personal problem. Should I warn them? Maybe someone will try to run? Are these my last
moments on earth? I am shaking from fear and I decide to keep it a secret. I knew very well
that no one would succeed in escapingAnd if its not true, and we arent being brought to our
death, people will die in vain (As if those who are sent to their death died justly)
(It later turned out that the place was meant for training soldiersa shooting range.)
The exhausting march continues. We are thirsty and very hungry. We left Auschwitz
seven days ago and in the following six days we ate one plate of soup and one apple. The effort
involved in the many kilometer march, on the dirt path and the fear of what was to come
clouded the senses.
Henya whispered in my ear (she was no longer able to speak out loud) We will go
crazyIt doesnt matter where we gowe will all be crazy when we get there. Do you
remember what they did with the insane asylum in the ghetto?
Henya, I say taking her hand, keep walking. Dont talk nonsense. Well get there soon
Where? Her eyes ask. I have no answer and deep in my heart Im not sure if we will
ever get there and if we will at least be given the chance to sit
Apparently we marched about 30 kilometers, maybe even more, in the end we arrived
at a huge field, completely empty, a field surrounded by a fence and many guard towers. The
gate opens and we are told to enter and sit on the ground. The ground was sandy with prairie
grass. The whole field was like a huge bald spot in the thick forest.
We dropped to the ground. What is this place? Are we in a concentration camp? But
this place is unlike any other we have seen. An empty prairie with blue skies above. Again
there is more fainting, as is the case when people hold on until they reach their goal. From the
moment when the physical and mental exertion is no longer necessary the energy escapes.
The day begins to end. Crying, miserable, we sit apparently forgotten. Suddenly out of
nowhere a vehicle appears and a soldiers steps out. Two other soldiers take a small table and a
chair off of the vehicle. The soldier sits behind the table and our escorts stand us up on our
feet.
Stand in a single file line! We apparently have to go through a meticulous registration.
Each of us gives her name, age, profession, and place of birth. Again everything seems like a
grotesque macabre play. Like dead souls, skeletons we stand next to the table and in a weak
voice answer the questions. 200 young women, with their last bit of strength it was horrible
torture.
Only after the registration, did a truck appear with a vat of soup
Prania (the one with chutzpah) spoke with the man distributing the soup (a tall and
properly fed soldier)
--where are we?
Welcome to Bergen-Belsen!
The date: The beginning of September 1944.

CHAPTER 7

Bergen-Belsen
I only know the essence of Bergen-Belsen from my own perspective. I never researched
how many people were killed there, how big it was, how they killed the victims, who was sent
to Bergen-Belsen, etc It is likely that I always wanted to run away from the clear fact that I
was very close to my death and how grave a danger we were in, what was planned for us,
etcMy eyes saw and my ears heard what was in my immediate surroundings and nothing else.
After the soup, we were brought to the tents. We were divided into small groups and
were told to pitch the tents. We did the best we could and our tent was given number 11.
Later, when it was already night time we were given straw. The straw was spread out on the
floor, under the tent and we immediately dropped on it. Henya and Risha next to me.
Blankets were distributed in the morning. Everyone received her own blanket and the
three of us made a partnership. One blanket was laid on top of the pointy straw and the other
two were used for cover.
The commandant of the camp appeared before us that very day, he was a middle aged
German, on the verge of being elderly with a large belly and gray hair. His face was that of a
farmer and he had dentures. Despite his intense step and strong voice, he did not seem like an
especially dangerous person. He may have even had a speck of a good heart. The evil that was
emitted from those who preceded him, the young ones, it was as if it disappeared within him.
He was a Nazi soldier, without a doubt, but he was perhaps not a Nazi who was devoted to his
Fuhrer.
All that has been said until this point may give the impression that we reached the
Garden of Eden. It was not so.
Sarge Fritz (we called all the Germans Fritz) was lazy about getting up early, so the
morning roll call actually happened in the morning (not at dawn like in Auschwitz) he would
appear wearing boots and swollen pants over his knees, armed with a small stick (which he
almost never used for evil). We again had to stand in fives, when Ms. Rand (we called her
Randova) would give him the count of those present, as was the practice.
Randova was in charge of us. She herself was born in Prague, the capital of
Czechoslovakia. She was an older woman (maybe around 40) and she had a 15 year old
daughter who to all of us looked like she was 20. Her name was Maya and she was a giant.
Maya had a Christian father who was a professor in one of the colleges in the city of Prague.
After the Germans entered Prague, his new masters came to him and offered him to keep his
job and they told him that people like him were essential for continuing normal life in the city.

With the utmost caution the distinguished professor sent his Jewish wife and their daughter to
the village where his elderly aunt lived. The arrangement was extremely successful until the
Germans found out about his unforgivable sin marrying a Jew. They summoned him and
offered him a way out of the situation: he was to turn over the location of his wife and
daughter and divorce his wife, which would guarantee a good life for himself. Due to their
appreciation of his degree, they gave him time to think.
The distinguished professor heard their offer with solemnity and promised to do as they
asked. He travelled as quickly as possible to the village and moved the family to a different
hiding spot. He gave all of his savings to the kind people who were willing to hide the two
hunted souls and he promised to pay more as soon as he made more money. He kissed his wife
and daughter and returned to Prague.
When he did not appear in the university the next day, no one was suspicious. It was
only after three days that two of his friends knocked on his door. His body had not yet begun
decomposing
Forty year old Randova had gray hair and weak legs. But she was fluent in German and
she knew that if her mental strength left her neither she nor Maya would make it out alive. She
was very brave to step out of the line, stand before the commandant, salute and say: Yes, Herr
Commandant, I speak German and I am a nurse (after the question was thrown out during the
first count).
She was a good and compassionate woman. She did everything she could to look tough
in the eyes of the Germans while being good to us. Her status demanded constant vigilance,
organizational ability and decision making skills. As payment, she was given extra food.
Two days after we arrived, everything was filled with more prisoners. The place became
a refuge for hundreds of women all graduates of other concentration camps. The tents we
pitched were populated by prisoners from Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Greece, Holland, Belgium
Sarge Fritz had many helpers in the form of young soldiers. Faucets and troughs for
washing were put up. A cabin was erected which was used as an office for the commandant
and there was also a small infirmary. Despite his nearsightedness Fritz was able to pick out tall
Prania from among the groups of five at the roll call and he called for her to come to his office.
Her experience over the years of the war taught her that Germans had bad intentions
and Prania entered the commandants office with a heavy heart and great fear. We were all
agitated on the verge of tears. Poor Randova didnt know how to calm us down.
Prania spent a very long time with the commandant and when, in the end, she escaped
she approached our tent with a coquettish step, flushed and radiant. She told all of us that the
old man is a kind and harmless man. He offered her a respectable job, to be responsible for
the tents, meaning, Ms. Rand would from now on be subservient to her and she would do her
best to make things easier for us during our stay.

It perhaps would have turned out well were in not for the masters from the SS who
would make surprise visits, coming in groups and imposing great fear. On those days our Fritz
would lose his importance, trailing a group of those faithful to the Fuhrer whose one purpose
was to make sure that the Jewish women here were not enjoying themselves too much in
Bergen-Belsen. On those days the soup was weaker, all of the ill women were on their feet and
we all stood for many hours, tense and in fear. Fritz would be furious after those visits,
screaming about every small offense, handing out punishments left and right.
We did not do any work except worry about our personal cleanliness and the cleanliness
of the tent, being present for the count and counting the minutes untilthe soup was
distributed. The hunger tormented us. The spark of hope that flickered in the hearts of all of us
got smaller and smaller since our arrival; there was only a slow death from starvation and
depression ahead of us.
Only Prania bloomed like a rose among the thorns. It seemed as if she grew even more,
became rounder, she was always wearing beautiful clothes with leather boots. Her visits to the
cabin of the commandant increased; there was no doubt about the nature of the relationship
with the old man with the large belly and the young Jewish woman in her early twenties. There
are those who felt they made a good deal. The German was rejuvenated as he got older and
shea full stomach and a good chance to live until the end.
Aside from the hunger and the fear of the visits from the SS another enemy appeared
in our midst. The month was September and the rains were not delayed in their arrival. The
rains which brought blessings to man and animal became a great curse. The tents were old and
filled with holes and with the rain we would find ourselves sleeping in puddles wet to the bone,
shivering from autumn cold of North Germany.
Henya, Risha, Guta, myself, and another girl (I dont remember her name) were a fixed
group of five and we made sure to stand together during the count. Standing together during
the count meant sticking together, meaning we shared the same fate for anything that may
come. It was important to always find yourself in the company of someone willing to help, to
support during a time of weakness, to warn during a time of danger, to split the last crumb of
bread. The Germans would always take from here to here among the groups of five and the
belief was the keeping together was the best way to survive.
We also slept together in the wretched tent on the pile of straw, five young women on
the same blanket covered in four blankets (that way it was warmer). The rain fell directly on
our head because there were two large holes over our heads, so we took turns. Each night two
of us would sleep under the holes making sure that the soup bowl would be above our head
right beneath the dripping rain and we would be sure to empty it when it filled. It was
obviously impossible to sleep on nights when it was your turn. And if it should happen that the
hole watcher would fall asleep her friends would wake her up with a tug at the hand. The
rain! The rain! Most days we would wake up wet and the blankets would be heavy on us. We

could dry out the blankets during the day (if there was sun) but the straw remained wet and
rotting. Then we would cover it with three blankets and cover ourselves with two. It was
serious trouble. Many began coughing, had back aches and a high fever. All without complaint
for fear of being sick in such a cursed place.
(Guta was born in Lodz like us and she was a tall and thin girl with tan skin. We had
many arguments with her about the fate of Judaism, about Israel and the Zionist movement.
This was all a result of the fact that her parents were members of the Bund and she accepted
their view without question. The members of the Bund opposed the Zionist movement and
thought that the Jews should stay where they are born and live their lives there with their own
culture. Despite our differences of opinion, we were good friends. We parted ways only upon
our return to Lodz after the war. Guta remained in Lodz and according to the rumors she
studied in high school and completed her academic studies).
The earth in Bergen-Belsen was also soaked from the rain and turned into mud. Large
puddles were formed between the sparse vegetation. Walking around in our mud filled clogs in
the harsh autumn winds made things even more difficult. Additionally we had to bathe next
to the trough in the open air in front of the guards in the surrounding towers. None of us, who
were still sane, would forgo bathing in spite of everything. We would stand in front of the
trough and first bare our upper body. We would wash in the freezing water (without soap) and
dry off (sorry, not dry off) then we would lift one leg, put it into the trough and that is how we
would wash our lower body. By the time we finished washing our lower body, our upper body
would be dry thanks to the strong windsIt was a bit unpleasant to walk with wet legs until we
were completely dry but we had no complaintsWe never washed in Auschwitz with the
exception of our face and hands (if we were able to push them into the sink in the latrine). In
that way the situation in Bergen-Belsen was like heaven on Earth. I dont remember if I ever
caught a cold. I continued washing each day in the trough, in the cold wind, without drying off,
walking for an hour in my wet dress and my muddy clogs. (The clogs were distributed by Fritz
upon our arrival. The shoes we acquired along the way were left behind. After a short walk
there was nothing left of them).
One day I met a woman who fell upon me with kisses and tears. It was Mrs.
Zilberbogen, one of my first teachers, who also taught my sisters on 19 Filsodski Street. I did
not recognize her because of her shaved head (like mine). She looked old, her eyes were
swollen, she was very thin and pale. She recognized me and called my name.
You are the youngest of the Goldberg sisters, right? She said and burst out into tears.
She had many reasons to cry for she was married, with children and here she remained alone,
left to her fate, with very slim chances of survival. She was also mentally lost. When we met
during the trip along the muddy plain beneath the gray sky covered with heavy clouds she
was already deep in depression, which was the mother of all evils and eliminated any chance of
survival.

Do you see the mud here, she said pointing to the ground; Im drowning here. Its a
swamp. Trust me. I know what Im talking about. With another day or two of rain we will all
die in this swamp.
I tried to argue with her, unwilling to join the group of the half insane. But she
continued: we are going to drown. What we see now is only the beginning.
With a heavy heart I parted from Mrs. Zilberbogen. I could not forget the respect we
had for her when she stood before the class, a source of authority, a teacher with experience
always dressed nicely, the vice-principal
In addition to Mrs. Zilberbogen I met a young girl, who was born in Hronda, whom I had
not known before. We began talking by chance and when she found out I was from Lodz she
asked where I lived and I said 36 Zabacheka Street.
Oh, she said, my older brother lived in that very houseHe was training to be a pioneer.
Yes, I said, the training was across from our window. They were Grossmanists, part of
the Beitar movement.
After a short conversation with her it turned out that her brother, Hanan, was the same
Hanan who was in love with my sister Hanka. He would spend hours standing in the window
calling her name(She would laugh at him because of his crude Lithuanian accent).
The young woman was so excited by the fact that she met me and could talk about her
family, that because of her excitement she gave me two things of great value: she gave me a
needle and a nit comb. It is difficult to explain how valuable a needle was in that place. (The
comb had no use. I had no hair, so I had no lice).
We stood for a little while longer and she told me her brother returned to Lodz when
the war broke out and tried to convince Hanka to run away with her to Russia. Hanka would
not agree and he indeed ran away alone. Of all the family left in Hronda (because of her elderly
grandmother) she was only one still alive.
After I was given the needle I began to search for materials with which I could sew.
Quickly, I found pieced of torn fabric (the material the tents were made from). With the help of
a nail that I found I cut the fabric and I stripped another piece of fabric from which I made
thread. That is how I sewed my first bra. First I made a bra for myself, and then for Henya,
Risha, and anyone who asked. It was a tremendous reliefThey were not modern bras but they
held up the chest
I also began to fix the holes in my dress. I always held the needle in my hand. I was
afraid I would lose it. There were girls who were willing to give me better clothing than what I
was wearing, warmer and in better condition all for the needle but I vigilantly guarded it.
As the autumn continued we were given shoes again. This time it was the SS men who
came for a visit and two soldiers dumped piles of shoes in the middle of the yard. We were
commanded to quickly choose a pair. There was no time to choose. Quickly! Yelled the SS
men.

The Hungarian girls were the most unfortunate. The majority of them were tall and
they had large feet. The shoes in the pile were small and they couldnt find a pair that fit. The
Germans would hit them with the butt of their rifle and send them away
Crying, unfortunate, cursing their bad luck, they stood on the side watching the pile get
smaller and smaller
I was able to grab a pair, one size to big, but I didnt pay attention. I quickly wrapped my
feet in a piece of fabric (which I found in a garbage pile) and life again smiled upon me
The Hungarian girls were in tent number 9. The number 9 in Hungarian is kilenc so we
called them the kilencers. They called us lengyel zsid which means: Polish Jew.
I found a good friend in tent number nine who was one of four sisters, her name was
Srianne Farkesh. She was my age and we quickly found a common language. We spoke Yiddish
and she laughed at me. Her Yiddish sounded funny to me because of her Hungarian accent,
and my Yiddish made her laugh because of the many Polish words I mixed in. In spite of it we
became good friends and liked being together whenever it was possible.
Her three sisters were sick with tuberculosis. She, the youngest one, was the healthiest.
She was always happy each time I would visit and she would keep a piece of bread for me (Her
sisters did not have an appetite due to the illness). Srianne would recognize that her sisters had
leftovers and she would shove some of it into my hand when we sat together in their tent
(which was next to ours). There was only one thing she asked from me: to sing. She was very
musical with a good ear but her voice was rough and she did not like to hear herself.
The moment I came she would make the girls sitting around be quiet and she would ask
me to sing anything that I wanted. When you sing, I forget where we areit is good for the
soulit flattered me greatly. It was a long time since I had that kind of attention and
appreciation and the very concept that I was able to raise spirits in such a place encouraged me
and it would show through the song. Indeed, most of the songs I knew were in Polish, but it
quickly became clear that most of them were songs from movies which had made it to Hungary.
In short, many of the Hungarian girls would join in the song with me singing in Polish and they
in Hungarian, which did not clash in any wayOn those nights we felt that the guards
surrounding us were listening closely
I sang all of the Hebrew songs that I know which caused everyone to cry. Many of the
girls dreamed of Israel and the Hebrew caused them to become very emotional. And that is
how we came to Yom Kippur. The date was known to the Hungarian girls and they informed all
of us we had to fast.
In truth none of the 200 Jewish women from Lodz fasted. It seemed to us to be an act
of suicide and even Randova demanded we eat! It is a commandment! Even God Himself does
not want us to die here, in this place.
In the evening, at the time when many generations of Jews throughout the world would
gather in synagogue for the Kol Nidre service we went to tent number 9 to be near the

Hungarian girls who had prayer books seated on the piles of straw deep in prayer. There was a
group who decided to observe Yom Kippur in Bergen-Belsen in a way that would separate the
holy from the profane.
Many girls volunteered to sing or recite and there was a great silence. The evening
quickly took on the character of a Sabbath celebration in the Zionist movement wherein the
Hebrew and Yiddish songs were sung mixed together. Here and there a cry was heard. Before
each of our eyes we could see the homes of our parents on Yom Kippur eve: the white
tablecloth, the candles, the meal, the walk to the synagogue and the holiness of the
eveningthe mass of worshipers who filled the synagogue and the children who frolicked
around them
A young woman came out of one of the corners, she was slender, beautiful, and
delicate, despite her poor appearance, her shaved head and her torn clothing which barely
covered her long body. The lines of her face were noble, her neck was long and her eyes were
full of tears, she stood there, close to the group that was gathered and asked:
What are you celebrating? What is today? Is it a holiday?
Yes, they said, it is a Jewish holiday.
What holiday is it? She wanted to know.
It is a religious holiday, they said to her, on which the Jews ask God for forgiveness
I would like to contribute a song of my own, she said, if you please let me (The woman
was a Christian who was brought here because she was married to a Jew. She had been an
opera singer in Budapest and she had a lyrical soprano voice).
After a moment she opened her mouth and sang to us on Yom Kippur Eve, in BergenBelsen the most religious song she knew: Ave Maria, Santa Maria, Schuberts well-known
composition which would accompany church services on Sunday mornings.
The crying increased. Suddenly a hush came over the crowd and we all looked toward
the entrance. The commandant stood at the entrance with Prania all made up next to him. He
made a sign for us to continue, he did not want to interruptthe magic was already gone.
I approached the opera singer, who knew how to express her participation in the
celebratory atmosphere in such a moving way, and hugged her. Without saying a word (she
only knew Hungarian) we felt that we shared the same fate, this time the fate of a Jew and a
Christian together
It rained that night. The next day we went to visit the women who were fasting and
found them sitting next to the plate of soup, praying, their lips white and their voices hoarse.
Many other times I would return to visit Srianne Farkesh. She would hug me and
whisper in my ear: Promise me that when all this passes we will never part from each other.
She really wanted us to be friends all our life
Lifespan in that time was very relative. One day the girls from tent 9 disappeared.
When I ran there I found only piles of rotten and rain-soaked straw on the ground, the ripped

fabric hanging from the tent poles waived in the autumn wind. To the credit of the people of
the Aryan race you can say this: it is not necessarily the case that these tent dwellers were sent
to their death. It is possible they were sent to another location, something which happened
many other times. The evenings of song and the warm relationship between me and a girl
whose language I did not speak, yet knew I had a true and unconditional friendship with, came
to an end. I also no longer saw Greta, the slender singer with the lyrical soprano who was
baptized at birth but had to share her fate with the fate of the Jews during this time of
darkness. The extra rations of bread also came to an end, those which Srianne shoved into my
hand as I sang about the Kinneret, where the acacia trees grow
Waiting for the daily ration of soup became more difficult with each day. The signs of
illness which we knew in the ghetto returned, such as teeth falling out, body pain, coughing and
night blindness. Lying in wait near the entrance of the tent in the hopes that the wagon with
the vat of soup would appear on the horizon became a daily ritual. One time I even dared, I did
something out of the ordinary (perhaps I was insane due to hunger, when I saw Sarge Fritz
coming close, I stood erect, saluted (in submission) and asked:
What is the time, sir?
The man had an opportunity to show that despite everything he had a sense of humor.
He looked at me and said: for the lucky time is unlimited! Dem Gluklichen Schlagt Keine Stunde.
There were still days in October when the good sun shone, a stingy sun, occasionally
hiding among the heavy clouds. On a sunny day like that, close to the afternoon (the life saving
soup had yet to be seen in the horizon) as I sat in the opening of our tent, I suddenly felt weak
with strong stomach pain. I was so hungry that I lost the will to stand. I knew that my situation
was close to its tipping point and after that only death would save me
A distant memory of holidays in our home suddenly popped up before my eyes. I was
again in the sukkah that my father built in the courtyard. Yitzush and I were busy decorating
while the rest of the family members were helping mother and the housekeeper prepare the
food for the holiday
My longings for my home, for my loved ones, gave me life. I enlisted all of my remaining
strength and stood up. I remembered tall Mayas story of the blackberries she found among
the small bushes that grew in the area. The wind blew the seeds from the nearby forest and
here and there it was indeed possible to find a lone berry or two. I was overcome with a desire
to find berries and I began walking among the bushes. My eyes searched for the sweet seeds.
There was not a single one! I kept walking, bent over, for a while knowing that the soldiers in
the towers clearly saw me.
Precisely at the moment when I gave up hope and stood up to retrace my steps, I saw a
man, pushing a wheelbarrow walking from the barbed wire fence towards me. I stood and
stared at him. I could identify from a distance the yellow badge on his clothing. He also looked
at me, with great attention. He could not have known who I was, because my torn dress and

wooden clogs could only mean that I was a prisoner. I knew when he came closer that he was a
French Jew based on the shape of the badge and the word JUIF. He came in order to hand out
sandwiches to the sentinels. There was a large bowl in the wheelbarrow with sandwiches
wrapped in white paper. I saw this all from afar (a distance of about 5 meters). While still
standing and looking at him I suddenly heard him whistling. He was whistling HaTikvah!
While still in shock from what I heard, I whistled back at himwe have still not lost our
hopethe man bent down and looked both ways andthrew me a sandwich. He made a sign
for me not to pick it up yet. I understood how dangerous it was for him. He could not help a
Jew! Not only did he endanger his good job but also his life.
I saw him stop at each one of the surrounding towers, climb up the ladders and give
each of the Fritzes their meals. It was only after he disappeared from my sight that I dared pick
up the sandwich. I put it under my dress and as if I was in no hurry at all (as if the treasure was
not in my hands) I slowly returned to the tent. I only then opened the sandwich wrapper and
before me there were two thick pieces of bread spread with butter and jellyeach of the girls
got a bite.
I quickly found another source of extra food. Rondova found me singing with my friends
and stayed to listen. I told her that I knew a few song in Czech and she was happy to hear
them. (I was taught the Czech songs by two friend from Prague who were in Gordonia and
died in the ghetto). Randova would burst into tears any time she heard me sing songs from her
childhood and she would give me small pieces of bread saying: so that you have energy to sing,
my child
One of the songs she loved the most was, in a free translation:
Drink, Fefitzko, drink, drink the wine until it is gone, who knows if we will ever meet again
In the beginning of November strong rains fell and it seemed as if the prophecy of Ms.
Zilberbogen was coming to fruition. We trembled from the cold at night. The straw we slept on
was wet, the blankets were wet. The torn fabric of the tent did not stop the cold winds. We
trembled from cold during the morning count, waiting in the line for soup, during our daily walk
around the area. During our youth our mothers were always sure to give us warm clothing,
sweaters and scarves, hats and mittens, running after us in the morning to remind us to close
our jackets tighter on the way to school so that God forbid we would not catch a cold. From
here it all seemed like a distant dream. (Deep in my heart I thought that my mothers fears
were unwarranted. I never even got a runny nose, and as long as I didnt have tuberculosis I did
not cough. The cold was bothersome, like the hunger, the fear and the memories of home, but
nothing more).
The winds of autumn also brought with them, one day, a group of SS men wearing tall
boots, long winter coats, wrapped in scarves, with their hands in warm wool gloves. They
commanded us to quickly assemble for the count and without any ceremony told us to march
quickly ahead.

And so in a group of five, Henya, Risha, Guta, I, and another girl marched together to the
unknown. I dont remember the path, the direction, or the distance. We stopped. There was a
group of small cabins in front of us and we were divided according to our tents. All 200 girls in
tent 11 were sent to one small cabin, we were shoved inand the door was closed behind us.
There was barely room to stand. Now we could be thankful that we were all so skinny! Body to
body we stood stuck together trying to take small breaths, without knowing what would
happen in the next moment we stood like that for many hours, only those who fainted no
longer stood. With nightfall (we did not receive our daily soup ration) it seemed as if we
became a mass of the half-dead. Without being able to control myself, I rested my head (which
became heavy due to exhaustion) on the shoulder of the girl next to me. She immediately
shouted: Take the truck off of me!
That night a new term was created: the head of someone fainting was called a truck.
The sun rose the next morning and suddenly we heard that the door was open. We
poured out, pale, weak, tearful, some thanking God for giving them one more day of life.
Sarge Fritz appeared and distributed bread. Pranya whispered to us that we would
remaining here and thateverything would be OK.
But nothing was OK. Immediately after the morning count we were returned to the
tents we had left. We returned to the wet straw and the holes through which the rain fell upon
us
No one explained to us the meaning of what had happened. We also did not know
whether or not to be happy or sad. During those times we were pushed forward and backward
like blind people. The cold returned and the hunger hit us hard. The gray skies added to the
grim atmosphere and caused depression among many of us.
One day we were told that many women were on their way to our camp. (Again it was
Prania who would whisper to us first hand information). We began running toward the fences.
Due to the fact that there was another fenced in camp close by, there was a narrow strip of dirt
between the two camps. We moved close to the fence and then we saw them. Women,
covered in blankets. A mass of people moving closer. It was already the afternoon. In a little
while the evening would descend. We could not differentiate between the women, or really
see their faces; they were only gray images, wrapped in blankets. The caravan of women grew
and it seemed as if it would never end.
Where are you coming from? Some screamed.
From Auschwitz!
While standing among the crowd of observers suddenly I saw, Lucia!
I could not see her face, just her walk, her tall image, were reminiscent of her. To be
sure I screamed:
Lucia!

She turned her head because she recognized my voice (she also could not see me
among the crowd in the darkness).
Mary! She yelled and she pointed to her sister Cesia walking next to her.
I ran with all my strength after the caravan of women which had just entered the camp.
Their fate was no better than ours. They too were ordered to sit on the floor, in the cold and
rain, until the first count.
I could not get close to Lucia, they sat isolated from us and I was on the other side of the
fence. I ran to (the kind-hearted) Rondova and presented my request:
Two of my cousins have just arrived. Please let them come to our tent! They are sitting
there in the rain!
Rondova did not think long. She gave me permission to join the girls from my family.
The next morning we were together. We made a new group of five: Risha, Henya, Lucia,
Cesia and me. Guta and the other girl joined another group. We made room next to us (on the
straw) and from then on we never parteduntil the end.
Lucia reported that her mother was sent to the left. She and Cesia went through their
hell, all of the selections as they suffered from hunger and fear. They were in Auschwitz from
August (with the deportation from the ghetto) until the beginning of October. One day the
Germans gathered them and sent them on a train to Bergen-Belsen.
Among those who came to our camp was a young women named Lola Rosenthal. Lola
was the daughter of affluent parents and until the war she was unaware that there were things
in the world that were unattainableLola had a handsome brother, whom many girls loved. His
name was Lulik and he was an excellent dancer who enchanted many girls with his geniality and
lovely voice. When he turned twenty, during the first year of the war when we were already in
the ghetto, Lulik became ill with pneumonia and died, despite great efforts, a lot of money and
prayers to God. We lived nearby in the ghetto and Lola and I quickly became friends. I would
go to their house often, not only to visit my friend Lola but mainly because there was a good
chance I would eat until satisfied when I was there. The Rosenthal family was able to bring
large quantities of food into the ghetto. They willingly fed me and asked me to stay longer.
They always asked me to sing for them. Flushed and excited (Lulik was staring) I would clear my
throught and sang many songs including the many I knew in German.
Lola was the only one still alive (until that point) and I met her in Bergen-Belsen. She
cried and told me of her loneliness. They took her parents immediately with the opening of
Auschwitz and she herself, she said, was unsure if she would last. She did not believe she
would make it out alive.
Lola, I said, you cant talk like that! You cant lose hope! You are the only one from your
family who remains? You have to do everything you can to survive! (Where did I get the
strength to say those things? Did I actually believe what I was saying to others?)

We sat together for many hours, when we were both somber and I tried to send off
negative thoughts. There was no escape from remembering the home, parents, and everything
that was gone.
Do you remember, Lola asked, when you would come to us and sing and how father
always loved listening to you with no end?
Should we sing together? I asked her, it will help you. She was excited by the idea and
the two of us began to sing together. Many other girls joined us and it was as if we were
lightened. I remember one song in particular, a love song that we sang in the ghetto, a nave
and simple song about the disappointment that comes with love.
The romantic character of the song caused us to briefly forget where we were. That was
a source of the strength; being there and knowing how to fly far away on the wings of our
imagination.
One day we were transferred into the cabins and it was a great improvement. We no
longer suffered from the rain and the wet and cold clothing and blankets. Another day we were
brought to a shower (a real one) and we showered in hot water, we were given soap, and our
clothes were deloused in a steam room. We really enjoyed the opportunity to batheit was
the first time we bathed in warm water since the elimination of the ghetto.
An older soldier guarding us smiled pleasantly as he saw the abundance of breasts and
buttocks of the young women.
And so continued the life of degeneration, the great hunger, the weakness and death,
which became the scenes of daily life. October passed and November came. Again, there were
heavy rains, cold nights and heavy skies. Until one day an enemy that was a hundred times
worse arrived typhus.
It all began, as I remember it, with a lack of water, which until that point had flowed
from the faucets into the troughs. No one could say what happened and when the water would
start flowing. People began suffering from thirst, trying to drink water from puddles. Prania
(the commandants Jewish friend) returned and promised that it was only temporary and that
there was a problem with the plumbing. But days passed and the situation worsened. Then
everyone remembered that there was running water in the latrinesthere was a swarm
towards the latrines. Heads bent down into the toilets. Trembling hands gathered the water
that flushed human feces and they drankI dont know why I didnt join the miserable group. I
was certainly as thirsty as they were. Did my willpower overcome the desire for water? I was
certainly disgusted by it, but the others must certainly have sensed the smell of feces and urine
and still?
In short, at first there were only a few cases of typhus. In a short time there were many
cases and the ill were transferred to a corner of the camp, it was fenced in with barbed wire
that was covered with tent fabric. Simple wood beds were brought and a Jewish nurse was

sent to care for the ill. The ill were given better food but with a high fever and diarrhea they
were not able to eat.
One day I went for a walk and my feet brought me close to the camp of those ill with
typhus. While I was walking I heard a voice calling, it was the nurse (dressed in a white coat)
and she told me to come close.
Do you want soup? She asked, the soup is for the sick, but they cant eat.
I stood there for a long time without knowing what to do. I knew very well that there
was a danger of being infected, which was the fast train to the World to Come. On the other
hand I was so hungry that I knew that if not from typhus I would die from starvation.
Yes, I said, thank you very much.
The nurse brought me a bowl of soup and told me to come again tomorrow. Dont tell
anyone, she warned me, I cant turn this into a gatheringAnd anyway if the old man sees that
there is leftover soup he will decrease the ration.
The next day I also received soup and so it continued for many days. Occasionally I
would check myself: am I sick? Do I have a fever? I think I have stomach pain.
It was only after many days that I dared to ask the nurse why she chose me.
Yes, she said and looked at me for a long time; it took me a long time until I was sure it
was you. I followed you for a long time. You were the one who tried to hide my mother during
the roll call in Auschwitz and you were beat up by the SS manI stood close by and did not dare
do for my mother what you did, without thinking about what would happen to you. My mother
lived for another two weeks and was then taken to the gas chambers. During those two weeks
she kept reminding me to find you
And then as I feared it came. I had a fever and I felt that my strength was leaving me.
Randova suggested that I go to the infirmary in the nearby camp (she handed me a note); there
I could get some kind of medicine. I could not play around with a fever, the good woman said,
its probably nothing, go, go
I approached the soldier who stood guard between the two camps; I stood at attention
and said: I humbly request to go to the infirmary. I gave him the note.
Quickly! He yelled.
I ran with all my strength and when I got to the infirmary there was a surprise waiting
for me. The doctor in the infirmary was Dr Spushnick, my mothers good friend who was a
dentist in Lodz.
She immediately recognized me. I couldnt recognize her. She was very thin, her face
was sunken, her legs swollen and her eyes were covered by glasses.
I lay on the bed and she brought be a glass ofmilk! Dr Spushnick took my temperature
and examined me. She was sure that it was the flu and that I would recover in a day or too. I
also received a decent amount of food rations. After two days, before I was to leave the
infirmary (I already felt better) I told Dr Spushnick about my tooth ache. She checked the tooth

and recommended that it be removed immediately. There is no reason for you to walk around
with a tooth ache. The tooth was in the lower jaw and it would not be seen. She said that she
had nothing to numb the area so I would have to suffer a bit. I also agreed to that. The
moment before I sat down in the chair, an SS soldier entered and asked Dr Spushnick what was
going on and she gave him the list of those who were ill as he requested and she said that she
was about to remove a tooth. The SS soldier expressed his desire to be present.
I sat on the chair; my entire body trembled with fear. Dr Spushnick whispered to me not
to scream, even if it hurts. An SS Soldier can get very angry.
It was terribly painful. It pierced my brain. My hands turned white from grabbing the
arms of the chair. The tooth broke and Dr Spushnick worked hard to clean the area from all the
pieces. The SS soldier stood over me, next to the doctor, looking at me with a mixture of
disbelief and curiosity. I did not utter a sound! I once heard that you can go insane from pain.
I was certainly close to going insane.
After it was all over, the German praised the doctor. Was he himself a dentist? Or just
curious? I, in any case, gave him an example of an iron will and I was secretly proudof myself.
Dr Spushnick kissed me and hugged me and said I behaved extraordinarily. She gave me a piece
of bread and two carrots.
Go and rest a bit, when you are in distress, come to me. I will try and help you. (And
apparently she knew very well what she was talking about).
The problem which arose was that Risha was stricken with diarrhea. She was already in
a situation in which she could not control her bowels and I saw there was blood in her stool. I
ran to discuss it with Rondova. She suggested that we dry out the slices of bread we were given
to make them into dry toast. I remembered the iron stove that I saw in the infirmary. I again
stood before the soldier and requested, with great humility, to pass. (After he gave me
permission to pass, I was always sure that he was going to shoot me from behind).
And so it was day by day. The slices of bread we were given were practically unbaked,
they look like a clump of wet clay. The theory was that maybe after drying it over the fire, it
would help Rishas diarrhea. Poor Risha! She became even thinner and there was no sign that
the diarrhea would stop.
Many days passed, November passed and December came.
I stood next to the fence dividing the two camps (this time on the North side) and
suddenly I heard a loud conversation in Polish. I looked closely at the women speaking and saw
they were not Jewish. They were two older women, dressed in colorful civilian clothing, they
wore heels and they both had perms, bleached hair and penciled eyebrows. It surprised me.
Dressed up women, here, in this place? Polish? Where did these women come from? From a
distance I saw many others like them walking the grounds. Some even had purses; they all had
sweaters and kerchiefs on their head. Some had tall boots. They looked fat! The difference
between those women and us was vast.

I walked to the fence and asked aloud:

Good women, where did you come from? (One was fat and another skinny).
They immediately turned to me and stared in curiosity. What they saw was a small and
pale creature, dressed in rags full of holes, wearing wooden clogs. They also saw my shaved
head. They could not guess that I was Jewish. We are from Warsaw, the fat one answered.
From Warsaw, I asked, why did they send you from Warsaw to here? (I knew very well
that they were not Jewish and it was strange to me).
You dont know? The fat one said, there was a revolt in Warsaw and we were captured
on the street!
A revolt? I raised my eyes, A revolt against whom?
What do you mean, against whom? Another entered the conversation, against the
Germans!
Who revolted against the Germans, I asked, thrilled, against the German army? (It really
seemed fantastic to me).
The Poles! The women answered, the brave Poles revolted against the German
invaders!
Only the Poles? I asked naively (How was I to know what was happening in Warsaw,
what happened in the ghetto, what the fate of the Jews was?)
What kind of question is that? The fat one said, of course the Poles!
And the Jews? Were the Jews also part of the revolt?
Jews, the fat one chuckled, what Jews? The Jews were burned long ago in the ghetto!
We, the Poles stood outside the walls and were happy. We saw how the Jews were burning like
fleas(I thought I would fall over).
I raised my tear filled eyes and managed to ask before I burst out in tears: Why do you
speak like this? What did the Jews do to you? Why were you so happy that they were burned?
What do you mean why? The woman asked, the Jews killed Jesus!!!
I ran from there while I was still standing. Dear God! What hatred in the hearts of the
cursed Poles! Even now, after they saw the murder of an entire nation! The innocent infants
killed her Jesus! My brother Israels six week old daughter killed Jesus
I could not calm down for a long time. From the stories I heard in the ghetto, I knew
there was no place to run. First you couldnt escape the ghetto which was hermetically sealed,
and second there was no place to run! The Poles are a nation of anti-Semites who were ready
to cooperate with the Germans; against a young Jewish childvery few of them were righteous.
So few! And I was such a great patriot. I studied Polish literature with such love, and I admired
the Polish national heroes!
Cursed! You are cursed!
My friends listened with curiosity to what I told them. They also marveled at the fact
that I took to heart what they said about the Jews being responsible for the death of Jesus.

Dont you know them?

Yes, of course, when I was a young girl, I participated in a pogrom in a public park,
which I was only saved from by a miracle thank to my sister Paula.
In the meantime the number of cases of typhus increased. Risha continued having
diarrhea and Henya continued coughing.
In any event, something changed. Here and there people in civilian clothes popped up
and they chose young women to work in the factory. We had frantic deliberations. Should we
volunteer to work, or stay here? Who knows if volunteering will lead to death? Our
experiences with the Germans told us not to believe them.
And then a small group of women returned, after spending about two weeks out of the
camp. The group that volunteered to work in the factory. They returned ill, on the brink of
death. They spoke of harsh conditions, the starvation and forced labor with no end. Today I
know that those women left Bergen-Belsen before the typhus outbreak, without knowing they
were already infected. That is why they were sent back in such a state. A birdie on my
shoulder whispered to me that the situation they described did not have to be as such. They
returned alive, didnt they? Meaning, they werent sent to their death as we may have
suspected.
Over and over men in civilian clothing arrived and asked for volunteers. Rondova
decided: we must get out of here. Only death waits for us here. There is no employment here.
Whoever does not work will receive increasingly less food. Go to work! That is the goal! That
is what Rondova claimed and her words entered my heart.
I started to convince my friends we had to volunteer. I was of course unsure if I was
correct. It was only an intuition, which fought against reason, which told me to go. Common
sense said: Dont believe the Germans. Their goal is to kill us all. We decided to listen to our
intuition.
Another week passed and it came close to the end of the year. 1944 was coming to a
close with 1945 on the doorstep.
The day came when there again was a rumor in the camp that civilians came to ask for
volunteers. We had a short deliberation. Lola Rosenthal was also with us. She decided to stay.
We decided to volunteer. I still had a chance to run to Dr. Spushnick to dry out Rishas bread.
Her situation was terrible. We saw them approaching. Three burly men dressed elegantly.
Men who spoke politely and quietly. We stood in a very long line. They already began
selecting. The girls who were chosen were taken to the side. The three approached our group
slowly. And then Risha whispered to me: I cant. Leave me. Let me sit
I looked at her in panic. Now shes making a scene! There was a pile of feces mixed
with blood beneath her. I kicked some sand to cover her excrement. I slapped her face with
my right hand. Stand up, I yelled in her ear. You hear me! Stand in silence!

Her red cheek (from my slap) was actually appealing to the fat German and Risha was
chosen first, followed by me, Lucia, Cesia, and Henya. (As I already mentioned always
standing in a group of five, with close friends, you want to share a fate thats the idea!)
We still didnt know whether we should be happy or worried. But we didnt have much
time to think. We were immediately put in a train car and began on our way. Again to the
unknown. That night, while we were still on the train, it was Christmas.
During the selection, while we were still standing at attention, hoping we would be
chosen, one of the Germans bent over towards one of the girls who was already standing on
the side and graciously asked: where are their belongings, they dont have any luggage to take
with them? The poor girl almost fainted upon hearing the question. Is this man normal? Is he
pretending? The story was spread around. We didnt know if we should laugh or cry

CHAPTER 7

Bergen-Belsen
I only know the essence of Bergen-Belsen from my own perspective. I never researched
how many people were killed there, how big it was, how they killed the victims, who was sent
to Bergen-Belsen, etc It is likely that I always wanted to run away from the clear fact that I
was very close to my death and how grave a danger we were in, what was planned for us,
etcMy eyes saw and my ears heard what was in my immediate surroundings and nothing else.
After the soup, we were brought to the tents. We were divided into small groups and
were told to pitch the tents. We did the best we could and our tent was given number 11.
Later, when it was already night time we were given straw. The straw was spread out on the
floor, under the tent and we immediately dropped on it. Henya and Risha next to me.
Blankets were distributed in the morning. Everyone received her own blanket and the
three of us made a partnership. One blanket was laid on top of the pointy straw and the other
two were used for cover.
The commandant of the camp appeared before us that very day, he was a middle aged
German, on the verge of being elderly with a large belly and gray hair. His face was that of a
farmer and he had dentures. Despite his intense step and strong voice, he did not seem like an
especially dangerous person. He may have even had a speck of a good heart. The evil that was
emitted from those who preceded him, the young ones, it was as if it disappeared within him.
He was a Nazi soldier, without a doubt, but he was perhaps not a Nazi who was devoted to his
Fuhrer.
All that has been said until this point may give the impression that we reached the
Garden of Eden. It was not so.
Sarge Fritz (we called all the Germans Fritz) was lazy about getting up early, so the
morning roll call actually happened in the morning (not at dawn like in Auschwitz) he would
appear wearing boots and swollen pants over his knees, armed with a small stick (which he
almost never used for evil). We again had to stand in fives, when Ms. Rand (we called her
Randova) would give him the count of those present, as was the practice.
Randova was in charge of us. She herself was born in Prague, the capital of
Czechoslovakia. She was an older woman (maybe around 40) and she had a 15 year old
daughter who to all of us looked like she was 20. Her name was Maya and she was a giant.
Maya had a Christian father who was a professor in one of the colleges in the city of Prague.
After the Germans entered Prague, his new masters came to him and offered him to keep his
job and they told him that people like him were essential for continuing normal life in the city.

With the utmost caution the distinguished professor sent his Jewish wife and their daughter to
the village where his elderly aunt lived. The arrangement was extremely successful until the
Germans found out about his unforgivable sin marrying a Jew. They summoned him and
offered him a way out of the situation: he was to turn over the location of his wife and
daughter and divorce his wife, which would guarantee a good life for himself. Due to their
appreciation of his degree, they gave him time to think.
The distinguished professor heard their offer with solemnity and promised to do as they
asked. He travelled as quickly as possible to the village and moved the family to a different
hiding spot. He gave all of his savings to the kind people who were willing to hide the two
hunted souls and he promised to pay more as soon as he made more money. He kissed his wife
and daughter and returned to Prague.
When he did not appear in the university the next day, no one was suspicious. It was
only after three days that two of his friends knocked on his door. His body had not yet begun
decomposing
Forty year old Randova had gray hair and weak legs. But she was fluent in German and
she knew that if her mental strength left her neither she nor Maya would make it out alive. She
was very brave to step out of the line, stand before the commandant, salute and say: Yes, Herr
Commandant, I speak German and I am a nurse (after the question was thrown out during the
first count).
She was a good and compassionate woman. She did everything she could to look tough
in the eyes of the Germans while being good to us. Her status demanded constant vigilance,
organizational ability and decision making skills. As payment, she was given extra food.
Two days after we arrived, everything was filled with more prisoners. The place became
a refuge for hundreds of women all graduates of other concentration camps. The tents we
pitched were populated by prisoners from Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Greece, Holland, Belgium
Sarge Fritz had many helpers in the form of young soldiers. Faucets and troughs for
washing were put up. A cabin was erected which was used as an office for the commandant
and there was also a small infirmary. Despite his nearsightedness Fritz was able to pick out tall
Prania from among the groups of five at the roll call and he called for her to come to his office.
Her experience over the years of the war taught her that Germans had bad intentions
and Prania entered the commandants office with a heavy heart and great fear. We were all
agitated on the verge of tears. Poor Randova didnt know how to calm us down.
Prania spent a very long time with the commandant and when, in the end, she escaped
she approached our tent with a coquettish step, flushed and radiant. She told all of us that the
old man is a kind and harmless man. He offered her a respectable job, to be responsible for
the tents, meaning, Ms. Rand would from now on be subservient to her and she would do her
best to make things easier for us during our stay.

It perhaps would have turned out well were in not for the masters from the SS who
would make surprise visits, coming in groups and imposing great fear. On those days our Fritz
would lose his importance, trailing a group of those faithful to the Fuhrer whose one purpose
was to make sure that the Jewish women here were not enjoying themselves too much in
Bergen-Belsen. On those days the soup was weaker, all of the ill women were on their feet and
we all stood for many hours, tense and in fear. Fritz would be furious after those visits,
screaming about every small offense, handing out punishments left and right.
We did not do any work except worry about our personal cleanliness and the cleanliness
of the tent, being present for the count and counting the minutes untilthe soup was
distributed. The hunger tormented us. The spark of hope that flickered in the hearts of all of us
got smaller and smaller since our arrival; there was only a slow death from starvation and
depression ahead of us.
Only Prania bloomed like a rose among the thorns. It seemed as if she grew even more,
became rounder, she was always wearing beautiful clothes with leather boots. Her visits to the
cabin of the commandant increased; there was no doubt about the nature of the relationship
with the old man with the large belly and the young Jewish woman in her early twenties. There
are those who felt they made a good deal. The German was rejuvenated as he got older and
shea full stomach and a good chance to live until the end.
Aside from the hunger and the fear of the visits from the SS another enemy appeared
in our midst. The month was September and the rains were not delayed in their arrival. The
rains which brought blessings to man and animal became a great curse. The tents were old and
filled with holes and with the rain we would find ourselves sleeping in puddles wet to the bone,
shivering from autumn cold of North Germany.
Henya, Risha, Guta, myself, and another girl (I dont remember her name) were a fixed
group of five and we made sure to stand together during the count. Standing together during
the count meant sticking together, meaning we shared the same fate for anything that may
come. It was important to always find yourself in the company of someone willing to help, to
support during a time of weakness, to warn during a time of danger, to split the last crumb of
bread. The Germans would always take from here to here among the groups of five and the
belief was the keeping together was the best way to survive.
We also slept together in the wretched tent on the pile of straw, five young women on
the same blanket covered in four blankets (that way it was warmer). The rain fell directly on
our head because there were two large holes over our heads, so we took turns. Each night two
of us would sleep under the holes making sure that the soup bowl would be above our head
right beneath the dripping rain and we would be sure to empty it when it filled. It was
obviously impossible to sleep on nights when it was your turn. And if it should happen that the
hole watcher would fall asleep her friends would wake her up with a tug at the hand. The
rain! The rain! Most days we would wake up wet and the blankets would be heavy on us. We

could dry out the blankets during the day (if there was sun) but the straw remained wet and
rotting. Then we would cover it with three blankets and cover ourselves with two. It was
serious trouble. Many began coughing, had back aches and a high fever. All without complaint
for fear of being sick in such a cursed place.
(Guta was born in Lodz like us and she was a tall and thin girl with tan skin. We had
many arguments with her about the fate of Judaism, about Israel and the Zionist movement.
This was all a result of the fact that her parents were members of the Bund and she accepted
their view without question. The members of the Bund opposed the Zionist movement and
thought that the Jews should stay where they are born and live their lives there with their own
culture. Despite our differences of opinion, we were good friends. We parted ways only upon
our return to Lodz after the war. Guta remained in Lodz and according to the rumors she
studied in high school and completed her academic studies).
The earth in Bergen-Belsen was also soaked from the rain and turned into mud. Large
puddles were formed between the sparse vegetation. Walking around in our mud filled clogs in
the harsh autumn winds made things even more difficult. Additionally we had to bathe next
to the trough in the open air in front of the guards in the surrounding towers. None of us, who
were still sane, would forgo bathing in spite of everything. We would stand in front of the
trough and first bare our upper body. We would wash in the freezing water (without soap) and
dry off (sorry, not dry off) then we would lift one leg, put it into the trough and that is how we
would wash our lower body. By the time we finished washing our lower body, our upper body
would be dry thanks to the strong windsIt was a bit unpleasant to walk with wet legs until we
were completely dry but we had no complaintsWe never washed in Auschwitz with the
exception of our face and hands (if we were able to push them into the sink in the latrine). In
that way the situation in Bergen-Belsen was like heaven on Earth. I dont remember if I ever
caught a cold. I continued washing each day in the trough, in the cold wind, without drying off,
walking for an hour in my wet dress and my muddy clogs. (The clogs were distributed by Fritz
upon our arrival. The shoes we acquired along the way were left behind. After a short walk
there was nothing left of them).
One day I met a woman who fell upon me with kisses and tears. It was Mrs.
Zilberbogen, one of my first teachers, who also taught my sisters on 19 Filsodski Street. I did
not recognize her because of her shaved head (like mine). She looked old, her eyes were
swollen, she was very thin and pale. She recognized me and called my name.
You are the youngest of the Goldberg sisters, right? She said and burst out into tears.
She had many reasons to cry for she was married, with children and here she remained alone,
left to her fate, with very slim chances of survival. She was also mentally lost. When we met
during the trip along the muddy plain beneath the gray sky covered with heavy clouds she
was already deep in depression, which was the mother of all evils and eliminated any chance of
survival.

Do you see the mud here, she said pointing to the ground; Im drowning here. Its a
swamp. Trust me. I know what Im talking about. With another day or two of rain we will all
die in this swamp.
I tried to argue with her, unwilling to join the group of the half insane. But she
continued: we are going to drown. What we see now is only the beginning.
With a heavy heart I parted from Mrs. Zilberbogen. I could not forget the respect we
had for her when she stood before the class, a source of authority, a teacher with experience
always dressed nicely, the vice-principal
In addition to Mrs. Zilberbogen I met a young girl, who was born in Hronda, whom I had
not known before. We began talking by chance and when she found out I was from Lodz she
asked where I lived and I said 36 Zabacheka Street.
Oh, she said, my older brother lived in that very houseHe was training to be a pioneer.
Yes, I said, the training was across from our window. They were Grossmanists, part of
the Beitar movement.
After a short conversation with her it turned out that her brother, Hanan, was the same
Hanan who was in love with my sister Hanka. He would spend hours standing in the window
calling her name(She would laugh at him because of his crude Lithuanian accent).
The young woman was so excited by the fact that she met me and could talk about her
family, that because of her excitement she gave me two things of great value: she gave me a
needle and a nit comb. It is difficult to explain how valuable a needle was in that place. (The
comb had no use. I had no hair, so I had no lice).
We stood for a little while longer and she told me her brother returned to Lodz when
the war broke out and tried to convince Hanka to run away with her to Russia. Hanka would
not agree and he indeed ran away alone. Of all the family left in Hronda (because of her elderly
grandmother) she was only one still alive.
After I was given the needle I began to search for materials with which I could sew.
Quickly, I found pieced of torn fabric (the material the tents were made from). With the help of
a nail that I found I cut the fabric and I stripped another piece of fabric from which I made
thread. That is how I sewed my first bra. First I made a bra for myself, and then for Henya,
Risha, and anyone who asked. It was a tremendous reliefThey were not modern bras but they
held up the chest
I also began to fix the holes in my dress. I always held the needle in my hand. I was
afraid I would lose it. There were girls who were willing to give me better clothing than what I
was wearing, warmer and in better condition all for the needle but I vigilantly guarded it.
As the autumn continued we were given shoes again. This time it was the SS men who
came for a visit and two soldiers dumped piles of shoes in the middle of the yard. We were
commanded to quickly choose a pair. There was no time to choose. Quickly! Yelled the SS
men.

The Hungarian girls were the most unfortunate. The majority of them were tall and
they had large feet. The shoes in the pile were small and they couldnt find a pair that fit. The
Germans would hit them with the butt of their rifle and send them away
Crying, unfortunate, cursing their bad luck, they stood on the side watching the pile get
smaller and smaller
I was able to grab a pair, one size to big, but I didnt pay attention. I quickly wrapped my
feet in a piece of fabric (which I found in a garbage pile) and life again smiled upon me
The Hungarian girls were in tent number 9. The number 9 in Hungarian is kilenc so we
called them the kilencers. They called us lengyel zsid which means: Polish Jew.
I found a good friend in tent number nine who was one of four sisters, her name was
Srianne Farkesh. She was my age and we quickly found a common language. We spoke Yiddish
and she laughed at me. Her Yiddish sounded funny to me because of her Hungarian accent,
and my Yiddish made her laugh because of the many Polish words I mixed in. In spite of it we
became good friends and liked being together whenever it was possible.
Her three sisters were sick with tuberculosis. She, the youngest one, was the healthiest.
She was always happy each time I would visit and she would keep a piece of bread for me (Her
sisters did not have an appetite due to the illness). Srianne would recognize that her sisters had
leftovers and she would shove some of it into my hand when we sat together in their tent
(which was next to ours). There was only one thing she asked from me: to sing. She was very
musical with a good ear but her voice was rough and she did not like to hear herself.
The moment I came she would make the girls sitting around be quiet and she would ask
me to sing anything that I wanted. When you sing, I forget where we areit is good for the
soulit flattered me greatly. It was a long time since I had that kind of attention and
appreciation and the very concept that I was able to raise spirits in such a place encouraged me
and it would show through the song. Indeed, most of the songs I knew were in Polish, but it
quickly became clear that most of them were songs from movies which had made it to Hungary.
In short, many of the Hungarian girls would join in the song with me singing in Polish and they
in Hungarian, which did not clash in any wayOn those nights we felt that the guards
surrounding us were listening closely
I sang all of the Hebrew songs that I know which caused everyone to cry. Many of the
girls dreamed of Israel and the Hebrew caused them to become very emotional. And that is
how we came to Yom Kippur. The date was known to the Hungarian girls and they informed all
of us we had to fast.
In truth none of the 200 Jewish women from Lodz fasted. It seemed to us to be an act
of suicide and even Randova demanded we eat! It is a commandment! Even God Himself does
not want us to die here, in this place.
In the evening, at the time when many generations of Jews throughout the world would
gather in synagogue for the Kol Nidre service we went to tent number 9 to be near the

Hungarian girls who had prayer books seated on the piles of straw deep in prayer. There was a
group who decided to observe Yom Kippur in Bergen-Belsen in a way that would separate the
holy from the profane.
Many girls volunteered to sing or recite and there was a great silence. The evening
quickly took on the character of a Sabbath celebration in the Zionist movement wherein the
Hebrew and Yiddish songs were sung mixed together. Here and there a cry was heard. Before
each of our eyes we could see the homes of our parents on Yom Kippur eve: the white
tablecloth, the candles, the meal, the walk to the synagogue and the holiness of the
eveningthe mass of worshipers who filled the synagogue and the children who frolicked
around them
A young woman came out of one of the corners, she was slender, beautiful, and
delicate, despite her poor appearance, her shaved head and her torn clothing which barely
covered her long body. The lines of her face were noble, her neck was long and her eyes were
full of tears, she stood there, close to the group that was gathered and asked:
What are you celebrating? What is today? Is it a holiday?
Yes, they said, it is a Jewish holiday.
What holiday is it? She wanted to know.
It is a religious holiday, they said to her, on which the Jews ask God for forgiveness
I would like to contribute a song of my own, she said, if you please let me (The woman
was a Christian who was brought here because she was married to a Jew. She had been an
opera singer in Budapest and she had a lyrical soprano voice).
After a moment she opened her mouth and sang to us on Yom Kippur Eve, in BergenBelsen the most religious song she knew: Ave Maria, Santa Maria, Schuberts well-known
composition which would accompany church services on Sunday mornings.
The crying increased. Suddenly a hush came over the crowd and we all looked toward
the entrance. The commandant stood at the entrance with Prania all made up next to him. He
made a sign for us to continue, he did not want to interruptthe magic was already gone.
I approached the opera singer, who knew how to express her participation in the
celebratory atmosphere in such a moving way, and hugged her. Without saying a word (she
only knew Hungarian) we felt that we shared the same fate, this time the fate of a Jew and a
Christian together
It rained that night. The next day we went to visit the women who were fasting and
found them sitting next to the plate of soup, praying, their lips white and their voices hoarse.
Many other times I would return to visit Srianne Farkesh. She would hug me and
whisper in my ear: Promise me that when all this passes we will never part from each other.
She really wanted us to be friends all our life
Lifespan in that time was very relative. One day the girls from tent 9 disappeared.
When I ran there I found only piles of rotten and rain-soaked straw on the ground, the ripped

fabric hanging from the tent poles waived in the autumn wind. To the credit of the people of
the Aryan race you can say this: it is not necessarily the case that these tent dwellers were sent
to their death. It is possible they were sent to another location, something which happened
many other times. The evenings of song and the warm relationship between me and a girl
whose language I did not speak, yet knew I had a true and unconditional friendship with, came
to an end. I also no longer saw Greta, the slender singer with the lyrical soprano who was
baptized at birth but had to share her fate with the fate of the Jews during this time of
darkness. The extra rations of bread also came to an end, those which Srianne shoved into my
hand as I sang about the Kinneret, where the acacia trees grow
Waiting for the daily ration of soup became more difficult with each day. The signs of
illness which we knew in the ghetto returned, such as teeth falling out, body pain, coughing and
night blindness. Lying in wait near the entrance of the tent in the hopes that the wagon with
the vat of soup would appear on the horizon became a daily ritual. One time I even dared, I did
something out of the ordinary (perhaps I was insane due to hunger, when I saw Sarge Fritz
coming close, I stood erect, saluted (in submission) and asked:
What is the time, sir?
The man had an opportunity to show that despite everything he had a sense of humor.
He looked at me and said: for the lucky time is unlimited! Dem Gluklichen Schlagt Keine Stunde.
There were still days in October when the good sun shone, a stingy sun, occasionally
hiding among the heavy clouds. On a sunny day like that, close to the afternoon (the life saving
soup had yet to be seen in the horizon) as I sat in the opening of our tent, I suddenly felt weak
with strong stomach pain. I was so hungry that I lost the will to stand. I knew that my situation
was close to its tipping point and after that only death would save me
A distant memory of holidays in our home suddenly popped up before my eyes. I was
again in the sukkah that my father built in the courtyard. Yitzush and I were busy decorating
while the rest of the family members were helping mother and the housekeeper prepare the
food for the holiday
My longings for my home, for my loved ones, gave me life. I enlisted all of my remaining
strength and stood up. I remembered tall Mayas story of the blackberries she found among
the small bushes that grew in the area. The wind blew the seeds from the nearby forest and
here and there it was indeed possible to find a lone berry or two. I was overcome with a desire
to find berries and I began walking among the bushes. My eyes searched for the sweet seeds.
There was not a single one! I kept walking, bent over, for a while knowing that the soldiers in
the towers clearly saw me.
Precisely at the moment when I gave up hope and stood up to retrace my steps, I saw a
man, pushing a wheelbarrow walking from the barbed wire fence towards me. I stood and
stared at him. I could identify from a distance the yellow badge on his clothing. He also looked
at me, with great attention. He could not have known who I was, because my torn dress and

wooden clogs could only mean that I was a prisoner. I knew when he came closer that he was a
French Jew based on the shape of the badge and the word JUIF. He came in order to hand out
sandwiches to the sentinels. There was a large bowl in the wheelbarrow with sandwiches
wrapped in white paper. I saw this all from afar (a distance of about 5 meters). While still
standing and looking at him I suddenly heard him whistling. He was whistling HaTikvah!
While still in shock from what I heard, I whistled back at himwe have still not lost our
hopethe man bent down and looked both ways andthrew me a sandwich. He made a sign
for me not to pick it up yet. I understood how dangerous it was for him. He could not help a
Jew! Not only did he endanger his good job but also his life.
I saw him stop at each one of the surrounding towers, climb up the ladders and give
each of the Fritzes their meals. It was only after he disappeared from my sight that I dared pick
up the sandwich. I put it under my dress and as if I was in no hurry at all (as if the treasure was
not in my hands) I slowly returned to the tent. I only then opened the sandwich wrapper and
before me there were two thick pieces of bread spread with butter and jellyeach of the girls
got a bite.
I quickly found another source of extra food. Rondova found me singing with my friends
and stayed to listen. I told her that I knew a few song in Czech and she was happy to hear
them. (I was taught the Czech songs by two friend from Prague who were in Gordonia and
died in the ghetto). Randova would burst into tears any time she heard me sing songs from her
childhood and she would give me small pieces of bread saying: so that you have energy to sing,
my child
One of the songs she loved the most was, in a free translation:
Drink, Fefitzko, drink, drink the wine until it is gone, who knows if we will ever meet again
In the beginning of November strong rains fell and it seemed as if the prophecy of Ms.
Zilberbogen was coming to fruition. We trembled from the cold at night. The straw we slept on
was wet, the blankets were wet. The torn fabric of the tent did not stop the cold winds. We
trembled from cold during the morning count, waiting in the line for soup, during our daily walk
around the area. During our youth our mothers were always sure to give us warm clothing,
sweaters and scarves, hats and mittens, running after us in the morning to remind us to close
our jackets tighter on the way to school so that God forbid we would not catch a cold. From
here it all seemed like a distant dream. (Deep in my heart I thought that my mothers fears
were unwarranted. I never even got a runny nose, and as long as I didnt have tuberculosis I did
not cough. The cold was bothersome, like the hunger, the fear and the memories of home, but
nothing more).
The winds of autumn also brought with them, one day, a group of SS men wearing tall
boots, long winter coats, wrapped in scarves, with their hands in warm wool gloves. They
commanded us to quickly assemble for the count and without any ceremony told us to march
quickly ahead.

And so in a group of five, Henya, Risha, Guta, I, and another girl marched together to the
unknown. I dont remember the path, the direction, or the distance. We stopped. There was a
group of small cabins in front of us and we were divided according to our tents. All 200 girls in
tent 11 were sent to one small cabin, we were shoved inand the door was closed behind us.
There was barely room to stand. Now we could be thankful that we were all so skinny! Body to
body we stood stuck together trying to take small breaths, without knowing what would
happen in the next moment we stood like that for many hours, only those who fainted no
longer stood. With nightfall (we did not receive our daily soup ration) it seemed as if we
became a mass of the half-dead. Without being able to control myself, I rested my head (which
became heavy due to exhaustion) on the shoulder of the girl next to me. She immediately
shouted: Take the truck off of me!
That night a new term was created: the head of someone fainting was called a truck.
The sun rose the next morning and suddenly we heard that the door was open. We
poured out, pale, weak, tearful, some thanking God for giving them one more day of life.
Sarge Fritz appeared and distributed bread. Pranya whispered to us that we would
remaining here and thateverything would be OK.
But nothing was OK. Immediately after the morning count we were returned to the
tents we had left. We returned to the wet straw and the holes through which the rain fell upon
us
No one explained to us the meaning of what had happened. We also did not know
whether or not to be happy or sad. During those times we were pushed forward and backward
like blind people. The cold returned and the hunger hit us hard. The gray skies added to the
grim atmosphere and caused depression among many of us.
One day we were told that many women were on their way to our camp. (Again it was
Prania who would whisper to us first hand information). We began running toward the fences.
Due to the fact that there was another fenced in camp close by, there was a narrow strip of dirt
between the two camps. We moved close to the fence and then we saw them. Women,
covered in blankets. A mass of people moving closer. It was already the afternoon. In a little
while the evening would descend. We could not differentiate between the women, or really
see their faces; they were only gray images, wrapped in blankets. The caravan of women grew
and it seemed as if it would never end.
Where are you coming from? Some screamed.
From Auschwitz!
While standing among the crowd of observers suddenly I saw, Lucia!
I could not see her face, just her walk, her tall image, were reminiscent of her. To be
sure I screamed:
Lucia!

She turned her head because she recognized my voice (she also could not see me
among the crowd in the darkness).
Mary! She yelled and she pointed to her sister Cesia walking next to her.
I ran with all my strength after the caravan of women which had just entered the camp.
Their fate was no better than ours. They too were ordered to sit on the floor, in the cold and
rain, until the first count.
I could not get close to Lucia, they sat isolated from us and I was on the other side of the
fence. I ran to (the kind-hearted) Rondova and presented my request:
Two of my cousins have just arrived. Please let them come to our tent! They are sitting
there in the rain!
Rondova did not think long. She gave me permission to join the girls from my family.
The next morning we were together. We made a new group of five: Risha, Henya, Lucia,
Cesia and me. Guta and the other girl joined another group. We made room next to us (on the
straw) and from then on we never parteduntil the end.
Lucia reported that her mother was sent to the left. She and Cesia went through their
hell, all of the selections as they suffered from hunger and fear. They were in Auschwitz from
August (with the deportation from the ghetto) until the beginning of October. One day the
Germans gathered them and sent them on a train to Bergen-Belsen.
Among those who came to our camp was a young women named Lola Rosenthal. Lola
was the daughter of affluent parents and until the war she was unaware that there were things
in the world that were unattainableLola had a handsome brother, whom many girls loved. His
name was Lulik and he was an excellent dancer who enchanted many girls with his geniality and
lovely voice. When he turned twenty, during the first year of the war when we were already in
the ghetto, Lulik became ill with pneumonia and died, despite great efforts, a lot of money and
prayers to God. We lived nearby in the ghetto and Lola and I quickly became friends. I would
go to their house often, not only to visit my friend Lola but mainly because there was a good
chance I would eat until satisfied when I was there. The Rosenthal family was able to bring
large quantities of food into the ghetto. They willingly fed me and asked me to stay longer.
They always asked me to sing for them. Flushed and excited (Lulik was staring) I would clear my
throught and sang many songs including the many I knew in German.
Lola was the only one still alive (until that point) and I met her in Bergen-Belsen. She
cried and told me of her loneliness. They took her parents immediately with the opening of
Auschwitz and she herself, she said, was unsure if she would last. She did not believe she
would make it out alive.
Lola, I said, you cant talk like that! You cant lose hope! You are the only one from your
family who remains? You have to do everything you can to survive! (Where did I get the
strength to say those things? Did I actually believe what I was saying to others?)

We sat together for many hours, when we were both somber and I tried to send off
negative thoughts. There was no escape from remembering the home, parents, and everything
that was gone.
Do you remember, Lola asked, when you would come to us and sing and how father
always loved listening to you with no end?
Should we sing together? I asked her, it will help you. She was excited by the idea and
the two of us began to sing together. Many other girls joined us and it was as if we were
lightened. I remember one song in particular, a love song that we sang in the ghetto, a nave
and simple song about the disappointment that comes with love.
The romantic character of the song caused us to briefly forget where we were. That was
a source of the strength; being there and knowing how to fly far away on the wings of our
imagination.
One day we were transferred into the cabins and it was a great improvement. We no
longer suffered from the rain and the wet and cold clothing and blankets. Another day we were
brought to a shower (a real one) and we showered in hot water, we were given soap, and our
clothes were deloused in a steam room. We really enjoyed the opportunity to batheit was
the first time we bathed in warm water since the elimination of the ghetto.
An older soldier guarding us smiled pleasantly as he saw the abundance of breasts and
buttocks of the young women.
And so continued the life of degeneration, the great hunger, the weakness and death,
which became the scenes of daily life. October passed and November came. Again, there were
heavy rains, cold nights and heavy skies. Until one day an enemy that was a hundred times
worse arrived typhus.
It all began, as I remember it, with a lack of water, which until that point had flowed
from the faucets into the troughs. No one could say what happened and when the water would
start flowing. People began suffering from thirst, trying to drink water from puddles. Prania
(the commandants Jewish friend) returned and promised that it was only temporary and that
there was a problem with the plumbing. But days passed and the situation worsened. Then
everyone remembered that there was running water in the latrinesthere was a swarm
towards the latrines. Heads bent down into the toilets. Trembling hands gathered the water
that flushed human feces and they drankI dont know why I didnt join the miserable group. I
was certainly as thirsty as they were. Did my willpower overcome the desire for water? I was
certainly disgusted by it, but the others must certainly have sensed the smell of feces and urine
and still?
In short, at first there were only a few cases of typhus. In a short time there were many
cases and the ill were transferred to a corner of the camp, it was fenced in with barbed wire
that was covered with tent fabric. Simple wood beds were brought and a Jewish nurse was

sent to care for the ill. The ill were given better food but with a high fever and diarrhea they
were not able to eat.
One day I went for a walk and my feet brought me close to the camp of those ill with
typhus. While I was walking I heard a voice calling, it was the nurse (dressed in a white coat)
and she told me to come close.
Do you want soup? She asked, the soup is for the sick, but they cant eat.
I stood there for a long time without knowing what to do. I knew very well that there
was a danger of being infected, which was the fast train to the World to Come. On the other
hand I was so hungry that I knew that if not from typhus I would die from starvation.
Yes, I said, thank you very much.
The nurse brought me a bowl of soup and told me to come again tomorrow. Dont tell
anyone, she warned me, I cant turn this into a gatheringAnd anyway if the old man sees that
there is leftover soup he will decrease the ration.
The next day I also received soup and so it continued for many days. Occasionally I
would check myself: am I sick? Do I have a fever? I think I have stomach pain.
It was only after many days that I dared to ask the nurse why she chose me.
Yes, she said and looked at me for a long time; it took me a long time until I was sure it
was you. I followed you for a long time. You were the one who tried to hide my mother during
the roll call in Auschwitz and you were beat up by the SS manI stood close by and did not dare
do for my mother what you did, without thinking about what would happen to you. My mother
lived for another two weeks and was then taken to the gas chambers. During those two weeks
she kept reminding me to find you
And then as I feared it came. I had a fever and I felt that my strength was leaving me.
Randova suggested that I go to the infirmary in the nearby camp (she handed me a note); there
I could get some kind of medicine. I could not play around with a fever, the good woman said,
its probably nothing, go, go
I approached the soldier who stood guard between the two camps; I stood at attention
and said: I humbly request to go to the infirmary. I gave him the note.
Quickly! He yelled.
I ran with all my strength and when I got to the infirmary there was a surprise waiting
for me. The doctor in the infirmary was Dr Spushnick, my mothers good friend who was a
dentist in Lodz.
She immediately recognized me. I couldnt recognize her. She was very thin, her face
was sunken, her legs swollen and her eyes were covered by glasses.
I lay on the bed and she brought be a glass ofmilk! Dr Spushnick took my temperature
and examined me. She was sure that it was the flu and that I would recover in a day or too. I
also received a decent amount of food rations. After two days, before I was to leave the
infirmary (I already felt better) I told Dr Spushnick about my tooth ache. She checked the tooth

and recommended that it be removed immediately. There is no reason for you to walk around
with a tooth ache. The tooth was in the lower jaw and it would not be seen. She said that she
had nothing to numb the area so I would have to suffer a bit. I also agreed to that. The
moment before I sat down in the chair, an SS soldier entered and asked Dr Spushnick what was
going on and she gave him the list of those who were ill as he requested and she said that she
was about to remove a tooth. The SS soldier expressed his desire to be present.
I sat on the chair; my entire body trembled with fear. Dr Spushnick whispered to me not
to scream, even if it hurts. An SS Soldier can get very angry.
It was terribly painful. It pierced my brain. My hands turned white from grabbing the
arms of the chair. The tooth broke and Dr Spushnick worked hard to clean the area from all the
pieces. The SS soldier stood over me, next to the doctor, looking at me with a mixture of
disbelief and curiosity. I did not utter a sound! I once heard that you can go insane from pain.
I was certainly close to going insane.
After it was all over, the German praised the doctor. Was he himself a dentist? Or just
curious? I, in any case, gave him an example of an iron will and I was secretly proudof myself.
Dr Spushnick kissed me and hugged me and said I behaved extraordinarily. She gave me a piece
of bread and two carrots.
Go and rest a bit, when you are in distress, come to me. I will try and help you. (And
apparently she knew very well what she was talking about).
The problem which arose was that Risha was stricken with diarrhea. She was already in
a situation in which she could not control her bowels and I saw there was blood in her stool. I
ran to discuss it with Rondova. She suggested that we dry out the slices of bread we were given
to make them into dry toast. I remembered the iron stove that I saw in the infirmary. I again
stood before the soldier and requested, with great humility, to pass. (After he gave me
permission to pass, I was always sure that he was going to shoot me from behind).
And so it was day by day. The slices of bread we were given were practically unbaked,
they look like a clump of wet clay. The theory was that maybe after drying it over the fire, it
would help Rishas diarrhea. Poor Risha! She became even thinner and there was no sign that
the diarrhea would stop.
Many days passed, November passed and December came.
I stood next to the fence dividing the two camps (this time on the North side) and
suddenly I heard a loud conversation in Polish. I looked closely at the women speaking and saw
they were not Jewish. They were two older women, dressed in colorful civilian clothing, they
wore heels and they both had perms, bleached hair and penciled eyebrows. It surprised me.
Dressed up women, here, in this place? Polish? Where did these women come from? From a
distance I saw many others like them walking the grounds. Some even had purses; they all had
sweaters and kerchiefs on their head. Some had tall boots. They looked fat! The difference
between those women and us was vast.

I walked to the fence and asked aloud:

Good women, where did you come from? (One was fat and another skinny).
They immediately turned to me and stared in curiosity. What they saw was a small and
pale creature, dressed in rags full of holes, wearing wooden clogs. They also saw my shaved
head. They could not guess that I was Jewish. We are from Warsaw, the fat one answered.
From Warsaw, I asked, why did they send you from Warsaw to here? (I knew very well
that they were not Jewish and it was strange to me).
You dont know? The fat one said, there was a revolt in Warsaw and we were captured
on the street!
A revolt? I raised my eyes, A revolt against whom?
What do you mean, against whom? Another entered the conversation, against the
Germans!
Who revolted against the Germans, I asked, thrilled, against the German army? (It really
seemed fantastic to me).
The Poles! The women answered, the brave Poles revolted against the German
invaders!
Only the Poles? I asked naively (How was I to know what was happening in Warsaw,
what happened in the ghetto, what the fate of the Jews was?)
What kind of question is that? The fat one said, of course the Poles!
And the Jews? Were the Jews also part of the revolt?
Jews, the fat one chuckled, what Jews? The Jews were burned long ago in the ghetto!
We, the Poles stood outside the walls and were happy. We saw how the Jews were burning like
fleas(I thought I would fall over).
I raised my tear filled eyes and managed to ask before I burst out in tears: Why do you
speak like this? What did the Jews do to you? Why were you so happy that they were burned?
What do you mean why? The woman asked, the Jews killed Jesus!!!
I ran from there while I was still standing. Dear God! What hatred in the hearts of the
cursed Poles! Even now, after they saw the murder of an entire nation! The innocent infants
killed her Jesus! My brother Israels six week old daughter killed Jesus
I could not calm down for a long time. From the stories I heard in the ghetto, I knew
there was no place to run. First you couldnt escape the ghetto which was hermetically sealed,
and second there was no place to run! The Poles are a nation of anti-Semites who were ready
to cooperate with the Germans; against a young Jewish childvery few of them were righteous.
So few! And I was such a great patriot. I studied Polish literature with such love, and I admired
the Polish national heroes!
Cursed! You are cursed!
My friends listened with curiosity to what I told them. They also marveled at the fact
that I took to heart what they said about the Jews being responsible for the death of Jesus.

Dont you know them?

Yes, of course, when I was a young girl, I participated in a pogrom in a public park,
which I was only saved from by a miracle thank to my sister Paula.
In the meantime the number of cases of typhus increased. Risha continued having
diarrhea and Henya continued coughing.
In any event, something changed. Here and there people in civilian clothes popped up
and they chose young women to work in the factory. We had frantic deliberations. Should we
volunteer to work, or stay here? Who knows if volunteering will lead to death? Our
experiences with the Germans told us not to believe them.
And then a small group of women returned, after spending about two weeks out of the
camp. The group that volunteered to work in the factory. They returned ill, on the brink of
death. They spoke of harsh conditions, the starvation and forced labor with no end. Today I
know that those women left Bergen-Belsen before the typhus outbreak, without knowing they
were already infected. That is why they were sent back in such a state. A birdie on my
shoulder whispered to me that the situation they described did not have to be as such. They
returned alive, didnt they? Meaning, they werent sent to their death as we may have
suspected.
Over and over men in civilian clothing arrived and asked for volunteers. Rondova
decided: we must get out of here. Only death waits for us here. There is no employment here.
Whoever does not work will receive increasingly less food. Go to work! That is the goal! That
is what Rondova claimed and her words entered my heart.
I started to convince my friends we had to volunteer. I was of course unsure if I was
correct. It was only an intuition, which fought against reason, which told me to go. Common
sense said: Dont believe the Germans. Their goal is to kill us all. We decided to listen to our
intuition.
Another week passed and it came close to the end of the year. 1944 was coming to a
close with 1945 on the doorstep.
The day came when there again was a rumor in the camp that civilians came to ask for
volunteers. We had a short deliberation. Lola Rosenthal was also with us. She decided to stay.
We decided to volunteer. I still had a chance to run to Dr. Spushnick to dry out Rishas bread.
Her situation was terrible. We saw them approaching. Three burly men dressed elegantly.
Men who spoke politely and quietly. We stood in a very long line. They already began
selecting. The girls who were chosen were taken to the side. The three approached our group
slowly. And then Risha whispered to me: I cant. Leave me. Let me sit
I looked at her in panic. Now shes making a scene! There was a pile of feces mixed
with blood beneath her. I kicked some sand to cover her excrement. I slapped her face with
my right hand. Stand up, I yelled in her ear. You hear me! Stand in silence!

Her red cheek (from my slap) was actually appealing to the fat German and Risha was
chosen first, followed by me, Lucia, Cesia, and Henya. (As I already mentioned always
standing in a group of five, with close friends, you want to share a fate thats the idea!)
We still didnt know whether we should be happy or worried. But we didnt have much
time to think. We were immediately put in a train car and began on our way. Again to the
unknown. That night, while we were still on the train, it was Christmas.
During the selection, while we were still standing at attention, hoping we would be
chosen, one of the Germans bent over towards one of the girls who was already standing on
the side and graciously asked: where are their belongings, they dont have any luggage to take
with them? The poor girl almost fainted upon hearing the question. Is this man normal? Is he
pretending? The story was spread around. We didnt know if we should laugh or cry

CHAPTER 8

1945 The Beginning of the End

This time the train is not crowded. You can sit on the floor, spread out your weary legs
and lean against the wall. Our guard is even bearable, although from the Aryan race, inside he
is a regular guy who has long ago grown tired of the Fuhrer and his gang. He doesnt say it
explicitly, he only hums Christmas tunes and was very happy when one or two of the women
joined in the song. It wasnt for naught that we lived with the Polish Catholics and it was no
surprise that we knew their songs. The man is about 50 years old and he has small eyes and a
double chin. His army cap sits on his head in a way that mocks the third Reich and after a few
kilometers we already know: he is from the Sudetes and he speaks Czech and understands
Polish. He even challenges one of the girls in his knowledge of Polish.
Oy, he says moving his cap further back, this war is hard, hardThe entire world, on that
Christmas in 1945 already knew of the fall of the German army, the retreats, the captives, the
poor state of the Fuhrer who promised to conquer the world (as the famous song says: Today
Germany is ours tomorrow the whole world). The Fuhrer himself was on the verge of insanity
and the armies of the world began to encircle his illustrious army.
Only we were in the death trap without knowing it was the last winter, the fifth winter,
this was to bring about the downfall of the Germans.
We still live in darkness, dragged by higher powers who determine our fate, the powers
who just want to kill as many Jews as possible.
The train speeds ahead and the dark night surrounding us instead of putting us to sleep
kept most of us awake, worried and doubtful about our decision to volunteer. Despite our
fondness for the guard, we could not get even a hint from him about the nature of our journey
and its final destination. A few of us tried to be friendly with him, they sat close to him but he
just smiled and continued singing. He only occasionally said, oy, oy, the war is difficult,
difficultand as if to confirm his words suddenly the train stop and we all heard the siren wail.
The Americans are bombing us, the man said, lay down quietly.
The Americans? We are in the heart of Germany? Dear God, what is happening?
And so the swallows of freedom are felt with great difficulty, but still felt. Apparently
every turn of the wheel distances us from the death camps, the smell of burning bodies, the
morning selection at dawn. Apparently.
The night is long and gets longer. We stop many more times each one accompanied
with the wail of the siren and explosions in the distance. Our man from the Sudetes curses. He
apparently is afraid. Indeed it is not fitting for a German soldier but he does not want to die for
the Fuhrer. All he wants is for it to end and go back to his wife and her delicious strudel.

During the siren he apparently feels a bit of closeness to the persecuted Jewish women. He
strokes the face of the girls standing near him, calming her down: shhh, it will soon pass.
It was only in the early afternoon that our journey came to an end. We walk from the
train station through the narrow streets of a clean and well-kept town, on shaded avenues and
we stopped near a two story building with a large chimney on the roof. It is a factory chimey, a
factory which had once been use to make fabric and was turned into a factory for plane parts.
The picturesque town was called Miltvayer. We immediately enter and receive hot soup
with food. It is the first day of Christmas, thus the festive meal. German women, dressed in
uniform, some young, some less young greet us. They push us to finish eating quickly (as if we
needed prodding) and they lead us to the living quarters. We rub our eyes: we each receive our
own wooden bunk! On the bed there is a straw mattress with a folded blanket. They are bunk
beds made of white wood, to us it seemed fit for a king.
All 200 women sleep in the same room. There is even space to walk between the bunks.
In the corner of the room there is a spacious glass box. That is where the guard sits. They
rotate in shifts. They job is to ensure there is quite, lights out and giving permission to go to the
latrine. The latrine is long and narrow, the floor is made of gravel and there is a long wooden
board the length of the wall. There are 10 holes in the board. One sits above the hole and
empties the bowels. There are 10 vessels beneath the holes which collect the waste. We must
empty the vessels. Two at a time, we hold the handles and bring them to the pit on the
outskirts of the land. The snow which covers the town also covers the waste pit and the plank
which covers it. Each time we must lift the plank and pour the contents of the vessel into the
pit. It was a dangerous activity. One could easily slip and fall in. One could also slip along the
way and pour the contents on the fresh snow (something which happened more than once as
we were not experienced in transporting excrement and we were not physically strong) The
punishment for not being careful was extra work. We had to carefully gather under the watch
and screams of the German on duty. Sometimes she would get so angry that she would punish
the girl who was not careful by making her do it many more times.
The living quarters were in the basement of the building. There were small windows
through which we could see the train tracks which passed nearby. The small windows with
bars our first contact with the outside world.
There was something else new in living quarters. There was heating. Apparently the
prior owner of the factory was enlightened and provided his workers with adequate conditions.
There is also a shower, a long room, next to the glass box. The guard could see what
was happening in the washing room. Every Sunday we were given washing powder, an extra
teaspoon of sugar, and an extra piece of sausage. This was all in addition to the piece of bread
and the soup.
Those were all of the benefits.

An older woman among us, from Germany, was chosen to be responsible for the
communication between us and the Germans. Her name was Ms. Lerner and she was very
motherly, she was still full-bodied and tended to hunch her back. I dont know any details
about Ms. Lerner, as is opposed to Rondova (what a shame she did not join us!) she would not
talk about herself. Presumably her pain was too deep and she knew that in order to survive she
had to suppress her painful memories. Her duty being responsible for 200 Polish women (not
all of whom were born in Lodz) was to ensure there was obedience and order. Ms. Lerner
herself was a good woman, haunted as we were, her one attribute was her knowledge of
German.
The next morning we are brought to the factory, one floor above us. There are
engraving machines and other similar equipment. 30 machines on each side of a long row. In
the corner of the room there is a partition where the German supervisors, known as meisters,
rest. The meisters are dressed in blue coveralls and the majority of them have the Nazi symbol
on the lapel. (Not all of them). There are circular stands next to the heavy machinery laden
with raw materials: pipes, various spare parts, steel bars. There are also garbage bins which
hold the waste of the engraving machinery, which looks curly steel wool. We are divided into
two groups. 100 girls work from 6am to 6 pm, the others work from 6pm to 6am. After a week
of morning work, the groups switch. 12 hours of serious work.
The meisters are divided between good people and dogs. The ones who wear the party
symbol are rude and angry. The others explain patiently. They understand that until that day
none of us had any experience with engraving.
There is simple work and complicated work. We are given a test and afterwards each
person is assigned to a machine according to her natural abilities. I did not do or say anything
special, which is why I am not sure why I was put at the machine which had seven steps for
each action such as: inserting a pipe, strengthening, open the water, use the knife, push the
button on the left, at the speed of the machine.
My machine was the last in the row. Behind me there was a wall which gave me an
advantage (more on that later). Inside the hall of machinery, aside for the meisters, there were
always SS women, sometimes armed soldier, sometimes two soldier, one on each side. The hall
was very long. This planet also followed the degrading directive of the Nazis which required
one to ask for permission to use the bathroom. Again we had to go to the head guard, stand at
attention and say out loud: I humbly declare that I request to go to the latrine. It should be
noted that permission was granted based on the mood of the representative of the regime. In
essence the majority of the Germans in that place were pretty passive, with the exception of
one older woman who we gave the unflattering name Zaydlova. The name belonged to a Polish
woman who murdered her children at the request of her lover. She drowned her infant was
caught, tried and executed. The story was famous in all of Poland during the 30s and our
parents would say: something like that would only happen among the gentiles

Our Zaydlova had a sour face, she was tall and thin and she had flat feet. She had a
chirpy voice which always scared us. She was evil and looked down on us; she was sadistic all
the time. It seemed as if there was no human spark living inside the repulsive, skinny woman.
It was said that she is the mother of children fighting on the Russian front. She would be at her
worst when she did not receive a sign for some time from her children. We of course were
responsible, we had to hold it in and wait with a full bladder until the end of the shift.
The night shift was the hardest. The torture was double. The hunger was more
bothersome and the fatigue was exhausting. Our eyes could not see anything it was dangerous
near the machinery which was operated by pressing buttons, running transmissions, knives and
iron being thrown into the various large bins. In addition, it was hard to sleep during the day.
The sound of the trains beyond the windows and the noise from people and cars all kept us
from sleeping. After a week of work at night we felt exhausted, dragging our feet with great
difficulty.
The exception to all of the Germans (aside from Herbert Schreider) was a meister
named Paul. Paul was old and hunched over; he was short and was missing many teeth. If you
were to put all of the gold that the Germans stole from the Jews on one side of the scale and on
the other side you were to put Paul, I would have no doubt that just his heart would be heavier.
Paul had no Nazi symbol on his lapel. We all knew that he was persecuted for that sin,
his food ration was smaller and he and his wife suffered from many restrictions because they
were viewed as enemies of the state. None of this broke Pauls spirit. Despite being born and
educated in Germany, fighting for them in the First World War, bringing children into the world
that joined the ranks in the current war, he could not understand why the Germans had to kill
children, the elderly, millions of citizens and to conquer the whole world. He was a German but
he deviated from his compatriots and the leadership of the country.
There were times when he would express his thought aloud and he suffered from the
wrath of the representatives of the New Order. He quickly understood and believed the
stories. He wished for the fall of Hitler independent of the official notice which told him his
first, second and third son fell in combat. Despite being German, an Aryan, he did not lose the
humanistic ideas he was taught growing up. The hooligans (and even the government)
remained hooligans to him. The victims were victims and he shed many a tear for them,
suppressing his anger and shame, he already clearly recognized the sign of shame which his
homeland of Germany would bear for generations. He was embarrassed to be German. He
would stand silently next to the fat, arrogant, bulling meisters, making his point succinctly and
heading to his machine to work. While at work, he would forget his personal and collective
grief.
There was one thing which he could do and did. He tried to help us. Any time we
approached him. He brought Lucia a pocketknife, an apple, a piece of bread. I was even given
a small gift. (For him perhaps it was a small gift, for me it was priceless. Paul brought me a

pencil and a sharpener. When I told him my request, he looked at me for a long time, was quiet
and in the end just nodded his head. The next day, when he pretended to fix my machine, he
stuck the two treasures in my pocket). After the pencil came other things: a needle, two
carrots, half a sandwich, a lemon candy.
The remembrance that I am a creating here for Paul the German are in merit of his
heroic act which I will not forget until my final day. And so it happened:
One day we saw the German we called Zaydlova was running in anger through the hall.
She yelled and slapped a girl and fought with one of the German meisters. It was a day, you
could not have doubts, and you had to work quickly and quietly, not drawing any attention
from the shrew. The rumors were that she received a letter from the front with unhappy news.
Nothing was clear, except that we had an impossible 12 hours ahead of us. And on that day
when my bladder was completely full I had to approach her. I stood at attention, raised a hand
to my brow and with great submission I declared that I need to use the bathroom.
No exit! She yelled, to work, quickly!
I went back to my position behind the machine and I continued working. After an hour
when I could no longer stand it, I dared to again approach crazy Zaydlova.
I was again yelled at. Her finger pointed to my machine: Quickly! She yelled, to work!
After another hour I thought I would die, my face turned crimson and my eyes began to
pop out. The pain in my stomach was horrible. All of the girls saw my condition and were
afraid to look in my direction. Zaydlova stood in her place the entire time without moving. I
knew that it was forbidden for me to urinate in my coveralls. I also didnt want to spend the
entire day in spoiled clothingthe situation got so terrible that I began to cry. I was crying so
much that I could not see anything in front of me.
Suddenly I felt someone touch my hand. Paul was standing next to me.
What happened? He asked. His kind eyes looked at me with the mercy of a father.
She wont let mepee. I said and wiped the tears. I think Im going to die!
Wait, said the kind man. He went and came back with a bucket half full of oil from the
machinery. He placed the bucket behind me, standing with his back to me so that no one
would be able to see me and he said:
Quickly, quickly, go
As I mentioned, my machine was the last in the row with a wall behind me. I started
opening the buttons on my blue coveralls; I had to take it off. Paul tried to hide me as best he
could. I bend over the bucket of (German!) oil and emptied my swollen bladder. It took a long
time, too long for good Pauls nerves. He would whisper to me: quickly, quickly. The poor man
put himself in harms way. He let a Jew urinate in German oil. It was a crime! If Zaydlova had
seenboth of us would have paid the price. I did not have a watch, but the urinating ceremony
lasted for a few long moments. Paul was pale with fear. Luckily, she was occupied with an

argument with one of the German girls (we heard the screams) and I was able to fully empty my
bladder.
Paul took the bucket outside with him. He poured the whole thing on a pile of waste.
Everything went well. Upon his return to my machine I was already dressed and buttoned up. I
took his hand (smeared with oil) and brought it to my lips. That was my silent thanks to that
man.
(The good man did receive some kind of recompense from us after the end of the war.
We traveled to the nearby city of Plauen and brought him a sack of canned food we received
from American soldiers. Paul cried out of thanks. One must not forget: he lived in poverty
during the war because of his opinions that went against the party line).
One of us who was very curious about the type of equipment we were manufacturing
once asked one of the meisters. Toys, the man replied, we are manufacturing toys!
It was Paul who informed us about these toys. They were replacement parts for the
German Messerschmits. In truth, the Germans were not satisfied with our work. In the
beginning we were learning and practicing and when we finally were adept, we knew where the
toys were going. So there were many (purposely) defective parts. The meiesters would
measure the parts and curse. Of course we had to hide our intentions to ruin the parts. So
there were parts that were made correctly.
Returning to Paul, I remember that once when I asked him what time it was he said: 5
minutes to 12! 5 Minuten vor 12. It was a set sign. Meaning: soon work will be finished.
Hang in there a little longer. In truth, it was 3 in the afternoon. It was not only with a piece of
bread or an apple that he helped. He also filled us with hope.
During the break, which lasted fifteen minutes, when we were allowed to doze on the
floor, next to the machine, the male and female meisters would enjoy themselves behind the
curtain in the corner. It is hard to know what happened there, but you can guess. We would
hear laughter and kissing, etc There is no doubt that during the war, there was free love
among them. The young women would emerge from there red in the cheeks and fixing their
wrinkled clothing. The men tried to fall asleep but their snores were loud
Zaydlova, during one of her outbursts would yell at us: whores! Jewish whores! Work!
Quickly!
In the living quarters Lucia, Cesia, Henya, Risha, Guta and I chose the corner furthest
from the glass box, near the door. Henya and I were on the top bunk next to each other. Next
to us slept Lucia and her sister Cesia, Risha and Guta. Beneath us slept an older woman (it
turned out she was 32) named Paula Nelkan. Paula was married and her husband was sent to
the unknown. She had kidney problems and suffered greatly from the lack of medicine and
food. Her sighs and cries would often wake me up at night. Paula had blood in her urine and
lived constantly in fear. She would also occasionally have a fever, fighting valiantly in her
difficult situation.

After we got used to the good life in the old trouble returned: hunger. We were
always hungry. Dont forget that we were starved for many years and most of us were going
through puberty and our bodies screamed for nourishment. It was terrible to loaf around (as
we did in Bergen Belsen) but working for 12 hours a day, without enough food, began to make
its mark.
At night, after lights out, we would remember the delicious food we ate at home, before
the dark days. There were those who described in great detail how to make strawberry jam or
how to roast a duck, how many raisins, how much butter and cocoa is included in a Shabbat
cake, a yeast cake with butter drizzled on topthose descriptions made the stomach contract.
The hunger would worsen. Henya always had a bit of a fever which I felt sleeping next to her, I
just didnt know why. Meaning Henya already was sick with tuberculosis and when the fever
came, she would lose her appetite. She would hide her piece of bread under the mattress and
ask me to eat it. Im not hungry, she would say, eat; you can and are so hungry!
The girls would say: what a great sister in law you have! I would indeed take her bread
and eat it. (After the war, Henya travelled to the United States and married. When she became
pregnant the doctors found the TB nesting inside her they advised her to abort the fetus. She
gave birth to her son, belatedly, when she was healthy)
It wasnt long until we started organizing socially. We created a group whose unofficial
role was to organize nights of song, and Sabbath evenings We received permission from the
Germans to sing, but not in Hebrew or Polish. Only in Yiddish! They wanted to understand the
words. Perhaps they were afraid we would sing songs of rebellion?
No one kept the promise. On Friday nights we tried to look a bit more festive. Our hair
began growing back and most of us looked like porcupines. The 2-3 centimeter hair stood
straight up and it was funny and prickly. I was able to fashion a kind of Hindu turban, with a
piece of fabric I found in the shower and on Friday nights I would adorn myself with the turban.
Some of us were given the German womens leftover lipstick. There were also artists among
us. A girl from Cracow name Lushia was once a ballet dancer and she would dance in the
middle as we sat around her in the open space between the rows of bunks. I was the choir. I
would sing the famous song from before the war called: Catch the Tiger, a song with a fast
beat, that would get faster and faster and the girl from Cracow would spin, throwing her arms
in the air, jumping and making the motion of a bird flying. The girls stood around very pleased.
Even the German, in her glass box, seemed pleased. Ms. Lerner would keep order and track of
when it all had to end. We would also sing a lot of songs, nostalgic songs which were like an
elixir, Hebrew songs. Lucia and I knew many Hebrew songs and there were others who happily
joined in the singing.
There were also evenings of storytelling. I was one of the main storytellers. I would
draw from my memory of movies that my sister Rachel had seen and told me about. I would
also recount books that I had read. I would writeagain nave poetry that would express my

feelings, my longings, my hopes. The girls would be silent and listen. Even Ms. Lerner did not
stop me even though it was time to sleep. On a night like that I really felt like I was a
messenger. I dont know where I found the strength to entertain, or to raise the morale of all
of those starved hunted souls, without knowing what was going to happen in a day or twoI
myself was hungry and I knew that as long as we were in the hands of the Germans there was
no promise we would survive.
Risha was again a beautiful girl. Risha recovered from the terrible diarrhea and seemed
as if she grew even more. Of course she was hungry and suffered like all of us from exhaustion.
But her general situation was much better than it was when she was in Bergen-Belsen (I had no
reason to feel bad about the slap to her face that I gave her in that critical moment in BergenBelsen).
There was also a gifted painter among us who knew how to turn her talent into extra
food rations. Since we arrived on Christmas, which was the first of a series of holidays, the
Germans asked her to draw greeting cards for the loved ones (the majority of whom were on
the front). Our artist was given colored pencils and postcards and with the stroke of her hand
she would create glorious artistic pieces. She drew pink cherubs, colorful flowers, doves with
blessings in their beaks, wreaths, etcThe extra food she received was a blessing.
We also had a seamstress who would sew clothing for the Germans (in exchange for
better food). More than once would the Germans yell Zeicherin, Naherin! (Artist, seamstress)
and they would run to fulfill their requests.
These were the flowers, the raisins in the cake. But that was just on the surface. With
all of the benefits, some of us lost our ability to fight disease, physical or mental. There was a
woman among us who we all admired because of her extensive education (she certainly was
beautiful before the flood). She suffered from an unidentified gastrointestinal disease. She
tried (for obvious reasons) to hide her illness but her painful attacks would drive her crazy. We
didnt know how to help, aside from talking to her, bringing her some hot water, or caressing
her pale face. We all discovered a great fondness for her and she was grateful and even
encouraged at times. But her illness worsened and she was in a bad state. I keep her memory
in my heart. She was special human being, whose fate was particularly cruel.
There was another German woman who was among as who we mockingly called a jewel
schuckstuck, a hapless woman destined for failure. She was a very skinny older woman with
swollen legs, dentures which did not fit her mouth; she looked bald with an ugly face. She
would also whiney (she had a thousand reasons to be unhappy) and many of us seriously
thought that she was an unbearable bother. It turned out that under normal circumstance the
hapless woman was a wife, the mother of healthy children, a homemaker who loved people.
Here, in this place, she had no luck. The Germans recognized her like flies know how to sit on a
sick horse. They bullied her, hit and kicked her. The poor woman went from bad to worse. No
one helped her. To my embarrassment I must admit that I also did not find time to help her.

But she managed to make it through and survive. Did she find her happiness? Did her smile
return to her tortured face? Who knows
There were a few women among us whose children were taken from them in Auschwitz.
They would cry a continuous silent cry at night. Sometimes I would put coveralls over my ears
so I couldnt hear. I couldnt think about why they were cryingAnd there would no words to
comfort a mother like that.
There were also two sisters who made it past the selections together and were chosen
with the rest to go to the factory. They sat near me and Henya. They two merited freedom,
but only one of them merited life. Regina, the older one, met an American soldier who fell in
love with her and decided to take her home with him to the United Stated. She also loved him,
he was a very warm Jewish man. One day he sent a car with a black driver to the camp where
she had been staying in order to bring her. Along the way there was an accident and Regina
was killed. She was twenty. Her sister Hanka, a few years younger than her, lives in Israel, in
my neighborhood.
There were also two lesbians. They loved each other, physically as well, and everyone
whispered about what they heard and saw, wholeheartedly condemning their actions.
There was also a madam among us. She was 37 years old and claimed that in the Lodz
ghetto she ran a brothel. She said that she had a number of very pretty girls and a list of
regular clients. The men enjoyed themselves, the young women ate well and she enjoyed.
They were all happy. (I walked away from her in disgust. If she did what she did because of the
situation in the ghetto Im not the person to judge her. But to brag about it?...)
One day, during work, while standing next to my machine, I saw that the old German
was staring at me the whole time. At that time I was busy with work, whistling Montis Csrds.
The German, with his rifle over his shoulder, approached me and asked quietly:
What are you whistling?
Montis Csrds, I answered red with excitement.
How do you know that composition? He asked (Apparently he thought we came down
from the trees, part of some wild tribe.)
Oh, I said, my uncle had a piano and he would play it for me often
You like music? He continued asking.
Yes, I answered, I like music very much. I also know how to whistle many pieces of
classical music
Id be happy to hear, he said putting down his rifle.
Encouraged by his friendly voice and gaze, I whistled (there was noise from the
machinery in the hall. People who were not standing nearby could not hear). I whistled the
Blue Danube, Shuberts Ave Maria, Selvaags song from Peer Gynt, selections from operas. He
stood next to me, looking at me the entire time, with the smile of a good-hearted man on his
face. That is how the strange friendship between me and the old German soldier began. He

revealed to me that before the war he was a fabric merchant and he dreamed of being a
pianist. The next day I already knew his life story.
He was from Hungary, married to a Jewish woman. He was the father of three children.
(They all had dark eyes and black curly hair I saw the family portrait). The Nazis told him to
separate from his wife and promised immunity for his young family. But they lied to him. They
sent his wife and children to Auschwitz. Maybe I saw them there?
I stood next to the machine, holding the picture. He sat among his family, with his large
moustache and nice clothing. His wife a typical Jew: abundant dark hair, with a full body and
three children. Two girls and a boy around 9 years old.
I stared at him again. In front of me was standing a German soldier with a rifle in his
hand. I never thought for a moment about sparing him from the pain of the report of what was
done (by his friends). Sir, I said staring straight at him, your wife and children, Im sorry to say
are no longer living. If she by chance left the children and denied her relationship, perhaps she
is still alive. But if she was a good mother she went with her children to the leftthe left, I add,
to ensure there was no doubt, is the side from which one does not return. Everyone was sent
to their death. The Germans called that path, the road to the heavensHimmelstrasse.
I saw a tear in his eye. I had no mercy in my heart for him. Randovas husband, Mayas
father also heard a similar offer from the Germans but he did not give in to the murder of his
loved ones. He preferred to die and did everything he could to save his wife and children. The
man that stood before me took the easy way out. He wore a uniform, received a salary and the
benefits of a soldier in the Third Reich. It is much easier to swim downstream.
He gave me a candy. He also told me to look out for myself; there were difficult days to
come. The war is still raging and no one knows what will come. Nice, very nice. He would
come and stand next to me for a little bit every day. I continued whistling, disconnected from
everything, the loud noise of the machinery.
The winter of 1945 was the first winter since the war began that we did not suffer
terribly from the cold. Closed off inside the basement or the hall of machinery, we were distant
from the piles of snow outside and the freezing cold. But every week on Sundays, the day of
rest, we were enlisted to remove the snow from the sidewalks. We would go out in groups.
With guards, we would go out and remove the snow with wooden shovels or we would sweep
the snow with straw brooms. It was physical labor not easy for people who were starved as we
were but the fresh air was a blessing in itself. The German guards would joke:
Work, work, its good for your health!
They themselves would stand on the side closely watching all of us.
There was an additional benefit to going outside: we saw people. Residents of the
town. We saw women pushing strollers. We saw a man delivering newspapers. We could see
flowers in the windows of homes. We also saw the Americans.

Directly across from the place we were, beyond the train tracks, there was a large POW
camp. It was a group of large cabins with a large red cross painted on the roof. At first we had
no idea who the men on the other side of the tracks were, wearing prisoner overalls. Once it
was my turn to take out the refuse with another girl and as usual (in order to raise moral a bit) I
was whistling. It was quiet around and my whistle was loud. Suddenly I heard a whistle form
the camp of men. I looked in that direction and saw a young man standing and singing with
another person next to him. They were whistling the song that many of us already knew:
My Bonnie is over the ocean, My Bonnie is over the sea
We both returned the whistle and then we saw the symbol the whistler made in the air: USA. I
made a sign of a star. I dont know if he understood. From then on those men would come out
occasionally to watch us. (When we would carry the load to the pit).
During one of the rare moments of a shift change I picked us a (German) newspaper
that I saw on the ground near where we were removing the snow. I shoved the newspaper
under my dress, pleased that no one saw me. When I returned to the living quarters I took out
the newspaper and saw a sensational report: Lodz, my city, the place the Germans invaded in
September 1939 was freed by the Russian armythe newspaper was from January 1945!
The news hit us like thunder. The city was freed! Who merited to see the release of
the city from the hands of the German murderers? Was there a Jew who was still alive in the
city where a quarter of a million Jews had lived? Many tears were shed on that piece of news.
The city was freed, but we were still locked in the basement, with each passing day still in the
hands of the murderers, waiting for the GREAT unknown.
One of the meisters, a young and rather silly woman, heard me singing once (this time it
was a song in German) and she stood next to me to listen. After a moment she asked me to
sing the song again. It was a silly love song, with trivial words and an easy tune. She asked me
to write the words for here and I did not refuse. I took the pencil old Paul gave me and wrote
them on a piece of paper she gave me:

There is no doubt that if I knew what kind of trouble would come from it I would have stopped
singing completely. So it happened:
The young girl (who was in love?) wanted very much to display her satisfaction so she
took off a silver ring from her hand and gave it to me as a sign of thanks. There was a small Star
of David engraved on the outside and on the inside were engraved two words: Mazel Tov. (She
told me she got the ring from her fiance who was a soldier far from home).
Two days later one of the German women who was guarding from the glass box saw the
ring on my finger; she grabbed my hand and pulled me to the commander.
The commanding officer was on older woman in the SS service, full bodied with blue
eyes and short, straight blonde hair. She would walk in the hall of machines with the heavy

step of a tired woman. It turned out she was not the symbol of evil, under normal
circumstances, she would raise blonde grandchildren with blue eyes, feed the cat and water the
plants daily, taking care of all matters of the house (making due with her husband the baker,
carpenter, or train workers salary) after she put on the uniform and swore to obey all of the
commands of the all powerful Fuhrer, she tried to justify her monthly salary (and nothing
more). She would only act harshly only in front of her fellow members of the Aryan race. Deep
in her eyes, almost unseen, there was a human, motherly, look. She certainly would not go to
the trouble of saving the life of a Jewish girl, but she would not initiate any act of evil.
Marysin (the tattler who dragged me to the commander) in contrast, was always angry
and evil hearted. She herself was a German born in Czechoslovakia and she understood every
word we said. She apparently spied on us. (We didnt know she understood Polish). Marysin
limped and it turned out she was haunted by frustration and her lack of self-confidence, made
her aggressive. In any event, we all knew there was no good that would come from Marysin
(Marysin is the knickname for Maria).
The commander raised her eyes from her papers and asked Marysin why she brought
me to the office. (The office was near the exit door in the machine hall, close to the machine
where I worked).
Marysin showed her the ring I was wearing and shouted:
She, the cursed Jew, has no shame!
The commander got up from her chair, approached me and slapped my face. Where did
you get that ring?
She asked and told Marysin to leave the room.
I couldnt betray the meister (who was in love with the soldier her gave her the ring) so I
said:
I found it in the street when I was cleaning the snow, Maam.
Are you lying? She asked and I heard the change in her voice.
No, I said shaking from fear, Im not lying, I found it
You should have brough it to me, she said, dont you know that it is forbidden for Jewish
women to adorn themselves? She said and winked at me.
I stood contrite; I didnt know what was happening, despite the fact that I clearly heard
the sensitivity, the change in her voice. It was silent in the room for a long moment and in the
end she said:
I have to punish you (as if to say: otherwise they will punish me for loving a Jew, its
dangerous) So Im going to command you to go to your latrine and remain there until you
have permission to return to work!
Thank you, I muttered, thank you maam. I knew that she was staring at me as I exited
her room and I was sure she had some mercy on me.

Were the matter to stay in the hands of the commander I would have made gotten out
of it, but evil Marysin question the commanders actions. She also took advantage of the fact
that the living quarters were under the complete control of her and her friends. The
commander did not go down to our basement.
Marysin added her own punishment: to bend down on my knees on the sharp gravel
floor holding two heavy stones in my hand over my head. She said that if she caught me with
my hands down she would increase my punishment seven-fold.
So I bent on my knees and felt the sharp stabbing in my skin. (Only in the beginning,
after a while I lost feeling) I lifted my heavy hands above my head and burst out in tears. I
didnt care that she heard me and enjoyed my sufferingI lost all sense of embarrassment or
feeling of self-respect (something which I really tried to maintain) I cried and criedAnd then I
was relieved and I started to hear the noise around me. I didnt hear anything. I saw that the
door was closed, so I put down my hurting hands. I knew that the moment Marysin would
approach if I just heard the rush of the door, I would have time to raise my handsBut my
situation got worse. The girls would come to relieve themselves, mercifully look at me and
leave. I was hungry, thirsty, and weak. I stayed in the putrid space that entire time, which
together with the hunger I felt like I had to throw up. There were moments when I gave into
my weakness. I put my head and my hands on the floor, I felt dizzy and there was a strange
noise in my ears. I knew that I was fainting and I wanted to give in to the fainting so I wouldnt
feel anythingbut the physical will to live, the decision to live was apparently stronger, I
returned again to the songs I remembered, I tried to sing to myself. There were times where I
thought they would hear me sing, they would think I went crazybut even if I kept singing, the
sweat poured from my face, I was weak and suffocating
Lucia she found her way to me. She kept returning to the latrine (she asked each time
with great submission). She would shove pieces of bread in my mouth of feed me water which
she was able to sneak in. Lucia also went to Ms. Lerner to ask for mercy. I dont know if Ms.
Lerner helped or if it was Marysin herself who released me from my punishment. I only know
that I was allowed to returned to the living quarters, I ran to shower, I washed myself and
vomited profuselyMy legs were bruised. It took a long time for my pus filled wounds to heal
when the only medicine I had was clean water with which I washed the wounds. Ms. Lerner
released me for some time from gathering the snow on the sidewalks. Henya gave me her
bread ration (so I would heal quickly) and Lucia did everything she could to raise my spirits.
Luckily, my spirits did not fall and after a short amount of time I was optimistic again looking
forward with hope and were it not for the wounds on my knees I would have forgotten about
the incident with the ring immediately.
The winter was beyond the windows. The snow fell without stopping. About 350
women were brought to work in the factory. They were all from Hungary and lived above us.
We almost never saw them. They worked in another hall and they maintained separation

between us. Sometimes we were able to talk amongst ourselves and we heard about their exit
from Auschwitz, their deportation on snow-filled paths, on women who died on the way and
the many different hardships along the way. I dont remember most of it.
And so it continued without any change. The 12 hour work shifts, during the day or
night, cleaning the streets from snow on Sundays. Removing the excrement, hoping for soup,
the constant exhaustion, the weakness, the hunger, the evenings of song and stories, the lack
knowledge about what was going on in the world.
The time passed quickly in the hall of machines during the day shift. During the nights it
was torture and it would threaten our sanity. The eyes would close and the fear from the
Germans on guard and the machine itself (work accidents) created disarray. Working at night
while standing next to the machine, when the stomach was empty and the weakness and
exhaustion increasing was an act of heroics. Sometimes we would hear that one of the
meisters was recruited to the army and would not return to work with us. It was an
encouraging sign for us. Recruiting men who were necessary for the war effort, some of whom
were older and others who were younger than army age told us one thing: the situation on the
fronts is bad and getting worse. No other information crossed the walls of the factory. During
that winter which was the last of the cursed war, a short time before the fall of the Germans,
when many places throughout Europe were alredy freed we were immersed in total darkness.
There were only faint signs: recruitment of meisters or old Pauls comment: the time is five
minutes to 12.
And then the bombings began. They came during the days and nights, sometimes very
close by and other times we just heard the echoes of the explosions from afar. At that time,
during the sirens, the Germans would close the door to the basement from the outside and
escape to the shelter. We were left locked in like monkeys in a cage. We were very scared.
Some would lie down on the bunks and cover their head with a blanket. Some would pray.
Others would just sit quietly, silent with fear.
The bombs caused power outages so we would stop working. The angry meisters would
fix the electricity until the next outage. Any sort of workflow stopped. The bombings increased
as did the outages.
One day work was stopped for an entire day. On that cold day they did not bring the
soup. We sat starving on the bunks, hoping. Later we were given bread, a piece to everyone.
Ms. Lener told us that there was no more salt in the kitchen which is why we did not receive
our daily soup.
The next day we were told that two nuns came to the factory and brought salt with
them. The soup was cooked and distributed. At night, before everyone was able to fall asleep,
there were groans of pain coming from all sides. The majority of us were attacked with strong
pains, horrible stomach aches, and diarrhea. The run to the latrine began. There were cries
and screams and people fainted. It lasted the entire night. Was it because of the salt the nuns

brought? Maybe they tried to poison us? (Do I sound paranoid?) It continued until morning.
The next day we lay exhausted, still in pain (The electricity was not yet fixed).
No one explained anything.
The bombing continued. We were all put up to a difficult test. The fact that we were
locked in added to the fear. Every siren made us afraid to death. What will happen if a bomb
falls on us? How will we escape? The door is locked and the windows are closed
Many weeks passed on standby: the heavy bombings, irregular work and fear of the
next moment.
The snow no longer fell in March. On Sundays we remained on the bunks. Outside it
was almost spring. When work stopped and did not restart it was decided that we would be
taken to work in the city. Every morning we left the building, we marched in fives towards the
train station and from there we travelled to Plauen which was about 8 kilometers away. When
we got out of the car, we were told that we had to repair the tracks that were destroyed by the
bombs. Everyone was given a shovel. We were to fill in the holes (from the bombs) and
remove the broken pieces, putting everything in piles on the side.
The work was mean for strong men and despite our reason to be happy we suffered
from exhaustion and overexertion, barely dragging out feet. While malnourished, we were
forced to carry heavy boulders, to rake, to push and to work quickly.
The reasons to be happy were many: first, although the bombings could kill us, they
were also a clear sign that the end was near. The skies of Germany were no longer protected.
The enemy of Germany was our friend. Second, work in the fresh air, despite being difficult,
was better than work in the closed, suffocating hall of machines which reeked of oil and
welding. Third, there were people around us, residents. Peoplethey looked at us with
curiosity, some with scorn, but they were civilians and non-Jews, something which had a
glimmer of the nearby freedom.
Lucia was released from the work. Ms. Lerner explained to the Germans that two or
three girls should stay behind in order to clean and tidy up the place. I was happy about it.
And so it continued, with no change, with no end, with no light at the end of the tunnel.
The bombings increased. At night, through the windows, we could see the sky lit up with the
light of spotlights, we saw flashed and heard explosions. Everything seemed more terrifying,
depressing, endlessat night. The bombs feel right near us, on all sides, only we remained in
the middle unharmed.
One of us had the theory that if the pilots were American and they know that there is an
American POW camp near us, so we are protected because of our good neighborsIt is not
possible, she argued, that they did not see the gigantic Red Cross symbols on the roof of the
bunks. Before each bombing, she said, they photograph the area, develop it and then choose a
target. In our case, we were lucky; we were close to American prisoners. If she was correct or
not, Ill never know. In any case each bomb brought with it a new wave of tears and fear.

In the meantime, the snow disappeared, the puddles dried up, the sun shined and the
tree with many branches which grew nearby was covered with green buds. The spring arrived
and burst into our lives. The Germans turned off the heat. They also tried to reconnect the
electricity, without success.
On March 28th we all celebrated Rishas birthday. We sat around her bunk and each of
us brought her a gift: a teaspoon of sugar, half a slice of bread, some washing powder, two
pieces of potato from the daily soup. Risha was brought to tears.
I wrote a poem for the event. I wrote the poem on a piece of paper that I found near
the glass box of the guard. It was the size of half a piece of notebook paper. (Risha kept the
creation for many years and brought it to Israel when she came from Czechoslovakia. 47
years later, I received a letter from Paula Nelkan who today lives in the United States and inside
was the poem I wrote for Risha on her birthday, March 28th 1945. Paula kept the majority of
the poems that I wrote and after she coincidentally found out that I live in Israel, she sent me
all of the notes).
Among other things, in the poem I list all of the gifts she got from us. The list of the
gifts: Henya paper for wrapping bread, Guta lent her the comb, Cesia sewing thread,
Prania washing powder, Lucia allowed her to use her penknife (the gift from meister Paul).
Me: some saliva to shaper her eyebrows.
At the beginning of the poem I note that Risha is a pretty young woman dressed with
great taste. She wears elegant clogs, fashionable work pants, and a pretty dress. I also note
with great sorrow that Risha has an ugly side to her: she refuses to eat. Only after many pleas
she agrees to swallow 80 grams of bread a day.
In a festive manner we sing many beautiful songs and the artist among us draws a pretty
postcard. We all hug and kiss and Ms Lerner says: Enough for today. You have to go to sleep,
tomorrow we return to work in the city on the train tracks.
The next day we again head out. During the trip, while speaking with one of the girls a
man dressed in an engineer or conductors clothing sits next to me. He heard us talking in Polish
and asked where we were from.
We started a long conversation; he was a Polish worker who worked in Germany for a
salary. He had already seen a lot, he said, and he wanted to warn us:
The Germans are kaput and they are losing on all fronts. But before they retreat they
kill the prisoners. He saw and heard with his own ears and eyes. We must believe him. The
Germans are not leaving witnesses, footprints, so we have to do everything we can not to fall
victim in the final hour. And the final hour is within reachHe knows, he reads the newspaper
and talks to the local population. He isnt lying. He has pity on our young lives.
He doesnt look at me during the entire conversation. He acts as if he is talking to
himself and he asks that we dont talk to him. He is afraid that they will catch him for relaying

information. He wants to live. He doesnt want the Germans to find him guilty oftreason.
But he has pity on the girls from his Polish homeland.
In the meantime we continued our daily travel to Plauen to work on the train tracks.
The bombing also reached us there. The moment we heard the siren we were told to leave all
of the tools and run to the nearby forest. We all ran with all our strength. The German guards
ran with us. Among them there was a very young soldier, Im not sure he was even 16 yet. He
was tall, pale, and thin as a rail with scared blue eyes. He had thin blonde hair and crooked
teeth.
The young man terrified the entire time. When he walked passed us with the rifle in his
hand he would raise he head to check the skies. He was afraid of the bombings (justifiably) and
he would recognize the arrival of the bombers before anyone had thought of it. The moment
there was a siren, he would be the first to run to the forest. His long legs carried him in a flash.
He would also curse. He would curse Hitler. He would curse the national-socialist party,
the Nazis, the leaders of the nations, the older Germans who brought this trouble on his head.
He would lie on the ground, in the forest, with his hands covering his ears and curse. He would
repeat one of them all the time: Verfluchte Hitler! Zum Teufel! Verfluchte Hitler (cursed Hitler,
what the hell! cursed Hitler!
The commander would come with us to the work and she tried to put an end to his
frightened rampages. She would slap his face and scold him:
You should be embarrassed! How dare you talk like that! I dont want to hear it again!
Since she understood his fear (she too was scared) and she felt motherly towards him,
she would hug him immediately. He would then place his head on her (full) bosom and he
would sob silently. And she would whisper:
Quiet, quiet, it will soon pass
That was the first time that I thought about the possibility of escaping. On the one
hand, we were in the forest, spread out, and it was during the time when all of the German
guards were themselves scared, lying on the ground looking up with afraid eyes.
On the other hand, where would I run to? If I succeeded in escaping, getting out of
range of the possible fire storm, where would I go? Who would hide me, here, in Germany?
And if I dont find a place to hide, could I live alone in the forest, at night? What would I eat? If
I dont die from the bullets, or the hunger, Ill die from fearthe thought of running was
ultimately refuted by the concern for my friends, Lucia, Cesia, Henya, Guta, and all the others
who went through the seven circles of hell. I knew very well the German approach of collective
punishment and I knew that I couldnt endanger other. And maybe I was also afraid of making
such a daring move? I was wearing a torn dress, with wooden clogs, and a shaved head how
would they not know from afar who I was? What chances do I have?
During one of the bombings, when everyone was on the soft ground, I heard the sounds
I had heard so many times before but suddenly the ground began to shake. In another second

the tree that was next to me was uprooted andfell. A bomb fell close by! Clods of earth flew
in the air, together with the tree roots and covered my legsI couldnt move and I started to
scream. All of the girls gathered around me and began to remove the dirt from my legs. It took
time, but in the end they succeeded. I got up and I was happy to see that I could walk.
The armed Germans stood in a tight ring around us watching the rescue
operationafter I stood up, I tried to smile and immediately I started to walk. I clearly
remembered the holy rule: You cannot be sick with the Germans! It doesnt matter how much
it hurts, you have to straighten yourself, not draw attention to any weakness. Luckily I didnt
feel any severe pain.
That same day, we again ran into the woods and we had better luck. This time the
bombs were far from us. Because we were told to stay and not move we continued to sit
beneath the trees waiting for a sign of calm.
I took advantage of the lack of attention and started walking towards the other side of
the forest, walking slowly, with no intention. I myself didnt know why or where I was walking.
Suddenly from among the trees emerged apriest. He was tall, middle aged, wearing priests
garb, with a pale face and his hands tucked into his sleeves. Suddenly he took a piece of bread
from his pocket and gave it to me: take it, he said. Eat quickly, dont tell anyone who gave it to
me
I took the bread from him and put it in my pocket.
You arent going to eat it? He asked.
Thank you, I said, but I have a friend who is very sick. I would like to save some for her
He looked at me for some time and then I saw tears in his eyes. He stood there for a
long moment and then turned around and disappeared into the trees. I stood there in a trance,
staring and not understanding what had just happened to me. A German gave me a piece of
bread! The heavens were beginning to smile at me!
We continued to travel on the train to Plauen every day. It seemed as if we were doing
the work of Sisyphus. We would fill in the holes and the bombs would come and destroy the
tracks again. It seemed as if there was no end. Together with that, our nerves began to betray
us. The bombs, the running, the terrible fear, the armed guards surrounding us, the constant
hunger and the unknown it all joined together. There were girls among us who wished: If only
a bomb would fall on us and we would finish with this cursed life!
I once heard the following conversation (by chance I was standing next to two Germans
who didnt hear me):
Why do they bomb this cursed place all the time?
You dont know? The other one was shocked, here, on the other side of the forest on
the north side there is a large army camp. They want to destroy the soldier morale. Those
Americans! They have unlimited bombs!

Among the Germans, there was one who never bothered us. I dont know if it was
because she knew the war was going to end or if she was kind and did not agree with the
actions of the Nazis. I dont remember her name. She would sometimes enter into
conversations with us (while laying on the ground in the forest) and she would encourage us.
Occasionally she would quietly say (so the other Germans wouldnt hear her): Das ist schon das
Ende. Noch ein bisschen Deduldist schon das Ende Meaning, its already the endjust a
little more patienceits already the end
Once I found myself next to her, as we ran toward the forest. Both of us fell to the
ground, with no strength. That time we were far from the forest while working and the siren
caught us at a distancewhen the bombs began exploding around us, I felt her hand, covering
my hand. I dared to grab her hand. She grabbed my hand back. When we got up to return to
work, she did not look at me. I knew that she was afraid to be nice. But she knew that she
was another sign of the freedom that was close.
The heavy bombing did not hit the house, where we were, but they destroyed the tracks
beyond the window. One day the traffic stopped and the train cars were stuck in place.
Apparently the Germans decided that there was no longer a reason to fix the tracks. That same
night something very scary happened.
From somewhere far away we heard cries, loud screams, unidentified voices, but very
scary. It lasted a whole night until the light of day. We were sure that somewhere not far from
us, people were being murdered and its not hard to guess who the killers were
It was Ms Lerner got detailed information and told us: one of the train cars brought pigs
for slaughter. When the cars stopped the local residents took advantage of the situation and
they ran to the cars. They broke the door with the pigs andslaughtered them on the spot.
The looting was wild, apparently there was not a single resident who stayed home that night.
The people came with buckets, sacks, suitcases and took everything they could carrythe
screams we heard we the cries of the slaughtered pigs.
There were also cars filled with food that was sent to the front, packages for soldiers,
mail sacks, rationseverything was looted by the hungry German mob.
Right across from our windows there were two cars of German soldiers on the way to
the front. They did not seem sad to us, or upset that the enemy from overseas blocked their
path to the front where they were to spill their blood for the beloved Fuhrer. The opposite was
true. They seemed overjoyed, happy, amused by the situation.
The soldiers stared towards our windows and would send uskisses in the air. I wasnt
able to smile back. I knew that they were only yong men, fresh cannon fodder who were going
to save their homeland from certain defeat and it was their duty to obey without any thought. I
also know that they would not hesitate shooting a group of Jewish children, without hesitation
or second thought. The poison of the Nazi propaganda was deep in their blood. For years they
were fed slander, absorbing distorted truth about their superiority and the inferiority of others.

The Jews, they were told, are a nation which is to be destroyed. Only after all the Jews are
destroyed can the German nation flourishes, only then will Germany become the Garden of
Eden
The woman, a native of Lodz, who told us, among other things, that she ran a brothel in
the ghetto would spend her free time near one of the windows and blow kisses to the young
soldiers. She would tell us we are stupid, a man is a man. She knows what he wants from every
woman. There is no significance to the fact if he is German or not; in bed everyone is the
same
We were again sent to Plauen to work. This time we had to remove ruins which blocked
the road. The work was very difficult; furthermore the sun was strong during that April. We
sweat a lot and were thirsty all the time. When we found a water fountain, a long line of
residents stood waiting.
We saw many streets where the rows of houses were destroyed from the bombs. We
even saw people burrowing in the ruins. Finally the Germans were on the brink of total defeat.
They were no longer rulers of the world, no longer the superior nation, which they had
promised to the world. The Germans in their defeat fell very quickly to their rank as one of the
inferior nations. They pushed, screamed, fought, blocked, hit and burrowed in trash. The
illustrious German order disappeared as if it never existed.
When the siren came, we were told to run to the shelter together with the locals. So we
ran with all our strength and were swallowed into a deep tunnel. We collapsed with no energy
with German families with their children and dogs. There too, inside the shelter, we were
surrounded by armed Germans. The children stared with curiosity, the women and men stood
silently. Some of them asked us where we came fromthere was fear that hovered around us
and as strange as it sounds I felt great joy in my heart!
An outsider would not understand! There I was, a persecuted Jew still under the nails of
the Nazis who could kill me at any moment seeing with my own eyes Germans who were pale
and afraid, praying for mercy even cursing their leader!
At a certain point I felt a hand touching me. It was an older woman in a fur coat with a
hat with a feather in it. She looked like an actress who had just come off stage. The Gretchen
(many Germans are named Gretchen) was definitely a house wife who enjoyed the new order
of the past few years. She wore a fur on a spring day because she didnt want to leave it at
homea fat woman, with a double chin and cold blue eyes. It turned out that she wanted to
endear herself to one of the inferior nations when she saw the direction the new winds were
blowing. So she whispered in my ear, standing very close by: Mein Kind, wir waren doch immer
gegen Hitler! Meaning: my child we were always against Hitler. (We heard that sentence many
times in the weeks following the war). I had no reason to believe the celebratory declaration.
Whoever was really against Hitler in those times was already buried under the
groundcertainly not wearing a fur

The albino women, with the flat feet and white mouse face who brought a bucket of
coffee to the factory and distributed it among the meisters, when it stopped was also always
against Hitler. (Only after the Americans conquered the town). Aside from her flat feet she
had long and thin fingers. She would appear carrying the steamy bucket and kick each one of
us if we dared to stand in her path. In her chirpy voice she would flatter the meister all for ten
pfennig (German money) which they would place in her hand in return for the hot liquid
sweetened by saccharine. She was almost bald and very emaciated. She always wore polka dot
dresses with a floral apron tied from behind. She had a heavy step and evil eyes. The hatred
and disgust she felt towards the cursed Jews poured out from all of the orifices of her albino
skin. More than once a small amount of warm black liquid remained in her bucketif one of
the girls dared to come near her and ask for something to drink (extending the cup in her hand)
the rat face would pour the contents of the bucket in the sick in the corner and say with an evil
heart:
Das Ist Doch Eine Grosse Frechheit! Eine Grosse Frechheit!!
Meaning: what great chutzpah! What chutzpah! (After the Americans came she was quick to
come to us, smiling as much as she knew how saying: I was always against Hitler! One girl
quickly slapped her with all her strength)
The state of the girl sick with diarrhea worsened and she came to a static state of almost
unconsciousness. The poor girl would lay and mumble the names of people she was close to,
before the dark days, calling them and telling them about her pains, in her quiet unclear voice.
Each of us tried to lessen her suffering, with a caress of her face or a wet cloth on her burning
forehead. We would also warm her stomach, according to the widespread opinion that a hot
water bottle was good for stomach aches. There were those of us who sat next to her and
talked to her to keep her alert, to keep her from fainting. And she would open her eyes and
come back to reality now and again. She also had better days where she didnt feel pain and
the diarrhea stopped (temporarily) and she would smile, thanking all of us in her weak voice for
our good hearts full of hope that the day would come where she would recover.
The poor jewel the victim of scorn faded, her weakened body refusing to survive from
the weak portion of soup. Her legs swelled (luckily she was no longer in Auschwitz where she
would have been considered a mussellman and she would not have lived out her day).
A day passed and another. The bombs, just as they came disappeared and were no
longer heard. The surrounding quiet hit us with mixed emotions. On the one hand the
chance of dying under ruins of the house and even from American bombs was no longer
attractive. At night it was possible to sleep more or less if the starved stomach or nightmares
didnt stop you. On the other hand we were bothered by the unhappy thought: Are the
Germans winning again? Did they expel the enemy and now have clear skies? Where did the
freedom crusaders go? Have we been left again in the hands of the German murderers?

Locked in the basements, moving between the latrine and the bunks, without a hint of
knowledge of what was going on outside the walls of the basement, we again went, and we
almost lost the spec of hope that was always present deep in our hearts. When the night came
we passed out with no zero energy. There was no soup distributed that day. All we ate was the
wretched piece of bread and nothing else. Ms. Lerner procured information that the cook
didnt show up for work.
What did that mean?
One of the girls began to sing in a fine and weak soprano voice a beautiful song in
Yiddish that my sister Rosia used to sing:
A beautiful day, a golden day/ I remember it
The day remains in my memory/ from my childhood
Mother warns me/her heartfelt smile
Be careful my dear son/from getting close to the river
Slowly we all joined in the quiet and melancholy song. In the meantime, we saw that the glass
box was empty. Where are the guards? Whats happening here? One of the girls got off of the
bunk and approached the door. It was locked from the outside. Later Marysin arrived and sat
on the chair. Later we all fell asleep, only Henyas cough was heard occasionally.
The next day there was no soup again. We ate the slice of bread and again sat on the
bunks. No one had the energy to sing. Some did indeed stand near the windows looking
outside with the hope of seeing what was happening in the big world. The soldiers who were
lying down in the standing train cars across from the window were no longer there. It was a
clear, spring day with the sun shining.
I was on my way to the latrine. Suddenly there was a siren. Scared, I looked around.
There were two Germans standing right next to me (Marysin and the good one whose name I
dont remember) In my ears I heard them say: Mein Lieber Gott! Said Marysin, Das ist Feind
Alarm! Das ist ganz moglich answered the other. Meanign: Dear God, that is the sound of the
enemy (the enemys siren). Yes, it is definitely possible.
Instead of going to the latrine, I ran to Ms. Lerner. I told her what I heard. She became
pale (just as the two Germans did earlier, obviously for a different reason) She said: are you
sure, did you hear correctly?
Yes, I am definitively sure, those were the words I heard.
Ms. Lerner said: That is good, that is very good. That means that the area is already
under the control of the conquering army. They are getting close and were ordered to sound
the alarm(she said as her entire body shook).
We continued to lay on the bunks in shock, for a few long moments. The terrible fear
that the cursed Germans had engrained in us silenced us, like a vice. It was almost 11am. Ms.

Lerner request, in her quiet voice for us to remain on the bunks, behave nicely and not to make
noise. Nothing was certain, she said, we cannot show happiness, or to act reckless. Remember
what the Germans did to other prisoners right in the final moments. I repeat, stay quiet!
Another few moments passed. The two Germans disappeared and were not seen again.
We could see the area was clear of people through the windows and we heard the great
silence. There was only a dog or cat that ran by here and there.
I sat on the edge of the bunk holding my head in my hands. Dear God! They are going
to kill us! The thing the siren and the talking, it was all a big show! They are trying to test our
reaction to have a good reason to finally kill us! We cannot smile! We cannot say a word! We
are going to die!
I have no doubt that I went into hysterics and my nerves betrayed me. The moments
crawled by. We were still on the bunks, excited, overwhelmed without know what would come
next.
Suddenly people ran to the windows. One of the girls yelled: Tanks! I see tanks! They
all started to push toward the windows, yelling, crying, and screaming. I also screamed with all
of my strength. But I screamed out of fear. (As I said my nerves betrayed me at that critical
moment). I stayed on the edge of the bunk and screamed my lung out: No! We cannot be
happy! They will kill us! They are German tanks! It is a terrible trap! Girls, please, sit back
down quietly! God! They will kill us now! I cried and scratched my face.
No one heard my cries. They all ran like crazy in the basement and screamed: The
liberators have arrived! We are free! Good God! The liberators have come!
I was still scared to death but in the end I approached one of the windows: And then I
saw him, the big black man, wearing an American army uniform, standing on the tank with a big
smile! A black man? A black soldier? It cannot be German tanks
In the meantime the girls began streaming outside. It turned out all of the doors were
open. Only the main door was closed from the outside. As a group we pushed the heavy door
and it opened We broke outside like a flood. We ran to the row of tanks. The soldiers, who
saw us running, stopped the tanks. Gum and boxes of chocolate rained down on our heads.
Some of us fell at the feet of the tanks and screamed: Shma Yisrael! Dear God! We are saved!
We are saved!
It was April 16th, 1945 at 12 pm.
I dont remember exactly what happened that day and it wasnt particularly important.
The celebration continued but it was laced with sadness. (Apparently that is the nature of
man). The moment we merited the great day we could not forget our loved ones who did not
make it. Therefore it was joy laced with tears and great sadness. (But everything that
happened it was if it was happened next to m. My senses only processed the liberation).

Ms. Lerner continued to fill her role. She spoke with the American officer. She
organized the food delivery. Everything seemed very blurry. I didnt have the strength to live
with happiness! (Im trying to collect the facts that transpired on the ground).
In the final moments of our stay in the locked basement, we encountered the long
hallway which we would pass through to the stairs which lead to the machine room. There in
the hallway we what remained of the German strength: two men, dressed only in their
underwear, shaking with fear, begging us to give them something to wear. They were the two
soldiers who until then would wander among us with their rifles. One of them old (the man
from Budapest, who loved music) and the 16 year old who had already hated the Nazis and
cursed his Fuhrer during the bombings. They were miserable! I had mercy on the young man.
(Who during his childhood they taught him to hate Jews and to be happy when Jewish blood
drips from the knife according to the famous Nazi song). We couldnt delay. We left them
begging and crying. The fear of the Americans fell on those pessimists. Apparently they knew
very well the punishment they were to receive.
Outside, after the tanks continued on their way, some of the girls tried to loot homes of
the local residents. I dont know if something bad happened to the Germans. I wasnt with
them. One girl also suggested capturing a German boy and carrying out justice. Another went
to uproot vegetables from a family garden. But for the most nothing happened to the locals.
The nation of Israel is not a vengeful nation against the Nazi methods. No German child was
harmed. The residents closed themselves in their homes and waited for the rage to pass. We
returned to the basement which until then was our only home.
A kitchen was set up where the American soldiers delivered the goods. In their great
wisdom they supplied pudding in different color. A giant vat full of pudding (pink, yellow,
white) was set up in the center and we were all asked to eat slowly, in portions, to give time for
the intestines to adjust to amounts of food. Many of the girls became sick immediately, there
were not able to control themselves and the devoured the sweet, thick food with no limit.
Lucia, Risha, Henya and I watched each other. Carefully! Carefully! Eat a spoonful and another
spoonful and rest
The woman with the diarrhea was taken to the hospital. I dont know if she lated
another week or two, but she died a short while after the liberation.
The victorious army which marched forward reached a picturesque place on the banks
of the Elbe River not far from us. There on a hilltop there was a building similar to a cast (or
perhaps it was a hotel?) Previously, Nazi officers would spend their vacations there, in a place
called Ranchmilla.
We were moved to that picturesque location a few days after the liberation. There
were also many bunks set up, in large halls and each of us was given her own space. Below, in
the foyer which was originally a dance hall there was a corner with drink and music, we

gathered to hear the speech of the tall and handsome Jewish officer from the United States
Army:
Jewish children, the man began in American Yiddish; I must be the bearer of bad
news! I am sorry that I have this terrible duty: you are the only Jews we have met on German
land! There are no Jews alive! You, girl, are all orphans! I have brought you prayer books and I
would like to say the Kaddish prayer in memory of your families! We found many dead, you are
the only one who have survived!
He said and began distributing prayer books.
There was tears and screams heard from every corner. Despite knowing what
happened in Auschwitz and after, each of us hoped that some kind of miracle happened and
their family was saved one way or another. The American Jewish officers words reopened the
springs of tears. The man also cried together with us and the other soldiers who were present.
I took the prayer book that was given me andthrew it on the floor.
I dont want to pray, I screamed, I dont want to know that there is a God in heaven who
saw and heard and was silent! Why should I pray to a God like that? For keeping me alive?
Why am I better than the infants who were killed? Than my father who prayed day and night?
(I already said: I was able to be brave and optimistic all the dark years, but I couldnt live with
happiness when I was the only survivorIn any case not in that early time.)
The great cry continued and continued. Each of us suddenly stood before the faces of
the dead, before the sorrow filled eyes of the children, holding out their hands begging for a
last crumb of bread. The voices of the children screaming: Mother, mother, give me a small
piece! We were again in the racing trains and again pushed towards Mengele the judge who
chooses life or death.
The Jewish captain who fought the Nazis and arrived with his army to the gates of our
prison, stood on a tall chair and began to say the Kaddish. We all stood sobbing, wiping the
tears with our sleeves.
For a short time the captain huddled with Ms. Lerner, said goodbye and got up on the
army jeep and drove away.
Later we were given a lot of food. We received pasteurized milk, bread, rations and
clothing. We were each given a pair of pants and shirt and shoes.
Many Germans gathered at the gates begging us for food. I dont remember what our
reaction was. Until one day someone told me (I was on the top floor at the time) that the evil
Marysin arrived with her elderly mother begging us to give her food. I quickly ran down the
stairs. I grabbed a pair of scissors on the way which I put into my pants pocket. I saw her,
standing in the courtyard surrounding by (former) prisoners smiling putting her hands out to
each of them

I approached the circle and Marysin put out her hand. I slapped her face with all my
strength and grabbed her by the hair. I took out the scissors from my pocket and quickly began
cutting her hair.
I didnt have a chance to do much. As she screamed an American soldier ran over took
her out of my hands and said: Stop it! Stop it! We will take her with us! Ok?
The sobbing Marysin was taken to his army vehicle. A number of girls ran after the
vehicle trying to hit Marysin with stones. The entire time, her elderly mother stood by the gate,
leaning on her cane staring at all of us with fear in her eyes.
Neither she nor her daughter, who faithfully served the Fuhrer, had any reason to fear.
No one did anything to them. The blond man from Minnesota or Oregon did not feel the need
to wave the flag of vengeance for what was done to the Jews. It did not take long until we
heard that the Americans do not stop German women or deny their freedom. In the meantime,
the world which was silent during the entire period of the genocide, continued in its ways after
the war. Would God avenge the blood?
All of the girls shook my hand for my bravery. It wasnt an act of bravery. It also wasnt
an act of vengeance. One less curl for Marysin wouldnt change anything. It was a spontaneous
act, an urge which I could not stop. My heart beat quickly during the act. It was only a few
days earlier that our roles were reversing. Now she was in my hands but it was nothing to brag
about.
Years later, I met a childhood friend Hanka Margulies (who today lives in Ramat Gan).
She was liberated by the Russians found a Jewish, Russian soldier who promised who to find
one of the meisters who was particularly cruel. The meister would punish the lazy workers by
using a flame thrower. He would grab his victims and spray them with fireHanka knew his
address in the city and she led the Jewish-Russian soldier to him. After searching his house his
was not inside. Moments before he was going to leave he noticed a dog standing without
moving next to his dog house. He bent down andtook the hiding German out from there. He
gave his gun to Hanka and said: Here you go!
Hanka, pale and shaking, shot him. The man fell to the ground and died.
For that one can wholeheartedly say: Blessed be the True Judge!
Slowly we began gaining weight, the swelling in our legs went down and we began feeling
stronger. Henya did not stop coughing but she gained weight and would go on walks with us on
the grounds. After a week and another week and another a young Jewish man arrived whose
story of survival is still difficult for me to digest to this day.
When I saw young man Im not speaking truthfully. What we saw wasa tiny
creature, crawling, wrapped in torn and putrid rags. He was more like an injured animal, a
starved mammal, unidentifiable, than a human being.
He stammered and cried. He spoke in a mixture of Yiddish and Polish, fainting and
waking.

Two girls picked him up and brought him to the second floor. They removed his rags.
Under the pile of torn fabric they found a young man, a terrifyingly emaciated skeleton,
basically a bag of bones, with a terrible smell, covered in scabs, stinking of feces with
overgrown nails.
The man was only able to stand up after two weeks. He was a young man, even
handsome, who spoke fluently, with his beautiful eyes expressing thanks to us all.
His story was one of a Jewish boy. After he was sent to the right he was sure that the
angels themselves pushed Mengeles finger and gave him the path of life. He stayed alive for a
few weeks when the majority of men in his bloc were sent during the morning count to the
place of no return. He made it to the train with a group of Jewish pigs as they were called by
those accompanying them, and made it alive out of Auschwitz. The new Garden of Eden
where he was brought was slightly different from the previous one. He did not see chimneys
and assumed there were no gas chambers. It was called a work camp. The work was carrying
heavy stones from place to place. He never understood the benefit of moving large stones from
one place to another. After a short while the mortality began to set it, people fell exhausted
and the numbers dwindled. The survivors were forced to double their efforts. This pile needs
to be over there quickly!
Fed diluted soup and one piece of bread a day they became the living day wishing a
quick and painless death for themselves. Many just sat on the ground unable to move. The
Germans didnt even shoot them. There was no need to waste the German bullet on a man
who became a corpse in an hour or less.
Our young man, when he decided to run, didnt know where he would go and he had
nothing in his hands. He succeeded in hiding among the thick tree, where he ran at night from
the tent. A moment before he had no idea he was going to carry out such a daring act. He just
got up to empty his bladder. While looking around in his half-closed eyes he saw in the light of
the moon the small opening in the fence. There was no guard in the area and hejumped and
crawled under the barbed wire fence. The Germans didnt even look for him. They didnt send
their dogs after him. Apparently they assumed he was one of those who died that day (or he
would die tomorrow).
It all looked very promising in the light of day, when he found himself walking among
the trees, hearing the songs of the birds in the forest, smelling the sounds of spring. But as he
moved deeper into the forest, paving his way with great difficulty through the branches heavy
with foliage, he quickly understood that the forest is a good place for birds and animals. He
needed to eat in order to live. His weakness increased and he quickly regretted his reckless act.
He didnt dare leave the forest. What if the Germans are looking on the surrounding paths?
The entire environment was hostile in the heart of Germany, the moment his ears heard the
sound of a horse or the noise of a wagon traveling on a distant path he would deep in the
forest, digging for himself a ditch to hide inDays passed without him knowing how many. He

suffered at night from the cold and during the days from thirst, in addition to the great hunger.
He lay on a bed of leaves for many hours, semiconscious, muttering prayers, which he
remembered from his days in elementary school. He had visions in which he would return to
his childhood home at the Shabbat table, to his parents and younger sisters with the smell of
good food. He would extend his arm and mutter: mommy, mommylater he stopped hoping
that he would make it out alive from his hiding place which became a death trap. In the
moments of sanity he longed for the terrible work camp where he would everyday receive a
piece of bread like a lump of clay. If he only knew the way, he would crawl there and beg for
them to allow him to return to the Garden of Eden of carrying stones, the size of his tortured
body
Without being aware he crawled in the direction of a path and found himself in the
proximity of the traffic artery between the forests. He heard a jeep coming close and he was
able to get a look at the soldiersthey werent German! Who are they, he didnt know, but
they werent German and he knew: here, in this place, the war ended! He yelled: help (in
Yiddish of course) but they walked past without noticing him. (If they had seen him, they
probably would have thought there were monkeys in the forest).
The sight of the soldiers on the jeep gave him the courage he needed to come out into
the light of day. It took him another day of crawling and fainting, on and off, but he remained
lying on the ground next to the road when he heard a wagon approaching. A German farmer
picked him up. His wife fed him, without uttering a word. The farmer was quick to remove him
from his house, he told him about a camp of Jewish woman not far from there. He told him to
stay on the train tracks which read there. Keep walking straight. He indeed arrived.
The girls who took care of him did all they could. They fed him the famous pudding and
took care of his pus filled wounds. He refused to go to the hospital. Apparently the memory of
the hospital in the ghetto, and the fate of the sick, was too fresh. He was probably once a
healthy young man because his body responded nicely to the food, the soft bed the glasses of
milk and the blessed rest. The wounds scabbed and his shaved head was covered with light
curls.
(Later the love stories beganbut thats a different and not so interesting story).
Another young man arrived. This time he wasnt crawling, he was walking but he
seemed for like a scarecrow than a human being. He only knew Russian and at first we looked
at him with suspicion not because he was Russian but because of his insistence that he was
Jewish. Ya Yebri, he would repeat with tears in his scared eyes, Ya Yebri (meaing: I am a Jew, I
am a Jew).
He was given food and he devoured the cereal without using a spoon, he tilted his head
towards the played and with the quickness of a dog he swallowed everything, helping himself
with his fingers.
Suddenly he remembered: Znayish Yom Kippur?

The word Yom Kippur we knew and the first word, which means do you know we
knew because of its similarity to Polish. That was the door through which he entered our
hearts. Now we had no doubts that the man before was another hunted soul.
His story was different from the one before.
This Tobaris fought in the Russian Army and fell captive to the Germans. The latter did
not treat Communists kindly and the Jewish prisoners among them were immediately put to
death upon their arrival in the POW camp. Luckily, the Germans did not know he was Jewish.
His comrades were also unaware, until the day when he fainted from weakness and his
comrades carried him to a pile of hay where they undressed himand saw the evidence of his
Judaism. From that day began his desperate battle for any crumb of bread he was able to put
in his mouth. His comrades, the Communists (crusaders for fellowship, equality, mutual aid and
unity of all oppressed peoples) his friends from the Komsomol, his classmates stole his daily
bread ration, threatening to turn him over to the Germans. He paid them the price for his life
each day with his bread ration. Sometimes he would succeed in burrowing in the kitchen trash
to find a piece of beet which the rats left behind
And so until that day when he was brought to the camp by the liberators. While
everyone was still shouting he crossed the gate and went on his way, not looking back, refusing
to look even one more time at the face of his comrades. Until his came to us, he would knock
on doors and ask for food. He got the same response from everyone. A door slamming and a
gesture to get outHis typical Russian look and his mutterings in Russian scared the Germans.
There were those who chased him away with their dogs. He was too weak to stand up for
himself, too scared and himself too embarrassed by his appearance. In any case, he succeeded
in stealing some vegetables from a garden until he came to us.
The Jewish captain (who handed out the prayer books) did not forget us. One day he
sent us a soldier with a typewriter. The tall blonde young man, with a drooping belly, with the
strong march, chewing gum, sat in the courtyard on a chair; he put the typewriter on a small
table in front of him and said that he came to collect testimonies about the Germans actions.
Because he (only) spoke English and we did not exactlywe had grotesque conversation, were
it not for their tragic subject they could have been excellent material for a successful comedy.
The person who stood before him was our jewel the poor girl without teeth,
emaciated and almost bald, who was the most haunted out of all of us. The soldier could not
hide his aversion to what he saw.
The poor girl really wanted to tell her story and as fast as possible about her suffering,
the murder of her children and the disappearance of her husband in the ghetto. She spoke
Yiddish (the one language she knew well) but because she was so emotional she would shove in
Polish wordsShe also demonstrated before the shocked and embarrassed soldier the actions
of the Germans and when she said (in Polish) he kicked me she lifted her leg and kicked
something unseen in the air. She demonstrated gestures of strangulation, gestures of

decapitation, she demonstrated hunger pains as she rubbed her stomach making sounds of oy,
oyThen she moved on to describing her poor children, showing how tall each was with her
hand, measuring the distance between her hand and the ground. She made a gesture of
shaving a head and added the buzzbuzz sound from her toothless mouth which sounded like a
weak whistle as she sprayed spittle from her mouthI dont know what the soldier wrote, if he
wrote anything. For the most part he sat with a look of complete lack of understanding with a
mixture of anger and despair on his red face. And it was not surprising. He did not understand
any of the words that came from the poor character the hero of his story one of those he
saved from the Nazis. He was not hoping for that and in his heart he certainly cursed his
captain. Perhaps he was himself Jewish and was upset that he didnt learn a little Yiddish from
his ZaydeIn any case, in light of all the circumstances, all he did was stare with total shock,
sometimes looking to the sides as if he were checking if all Holocaust survivors were similar to
our jewel.
There was one among us who spoke (very broken) English and she removed from his
face the expression of aversion and despair. He increased his writing but quickly stopped. The
girl who stood before him (she was born in Cracow graduated from secondary school and had
good grades in English) had difficulty expressing her life story under the Germans and we were
all sure she was just bragging about knowing the language
What actually happened was that our intelligent representative could not find the
appropriate words to describe the horror. She had studied a lot of grammar and wrote a good
report of one of Shakespeares plays, but she was not capable of describing in simple words
what happened in the ghetto or Auschwitz. She repeated words like: murder, hanging, small
children, fear, hungerand she stopped. (Until today I know people who are not capable of
talking about it). The man sitting across from her, chewing gum, it seemed as if he was from
another planet, and all of her senses said to her: he doesnt understand, he doesnt understand,
there is no point She stood for another few seconds and then just left.
Ms. Lerner also attempted to speak in English, but the American attempt to document
the events of the Holocaust from the survivors ended quickly. He stood up, gathered his
typewriter and went to the gate. The jewel ran after him, on her weak legs, asking to add
another detail or two from her reservoir of suffering but he didnt even turn around.
Apparently he was happy to finish his duty as fast as possible.
Other soldiers as well, young and healthy men visited our womens camp. But their
intentions were different. They were looking for women. Far from home, starved, they did not
remain indifferent to the fact there were young, single women, hungry for chocolate, a pair of
stocking, a cheap piece of jewelry close by It was not difficult to find a common language
(unlike the man with the typewriter) with those who finally wanted to taste life. There only a
few of the girls who went to meet the soldiers, but they would return late and whisper for a
while amongst themselves, showing each other what they received in return for their kindness.

In short, the place known as the womens camp became a place that it was pleasant to
belong to.
We also found a common language. Lucia, Risha and I decided to leave as soon as
possible. The fifth week following the liberation was coming to a close and after we felt strong
enough to travel we did not see any reason to stay on cursed German land, more so in the
womens camp.
We decided to return to Lodz. Of course we had no concept of what was involved, but
after the decision was made, we began to prepare. We had to leave Henya, she was not
capable of traveling. She always had a low fever but her illness progressed. Paula Nelkin was
also very sick. Many tried to convince us to stay. They argued that as long as they are
distributing food and caring for our primary needs, there is no reason to rush. Who is waiting
for us in the destroyed ghetto? They continued to ask, who is waiting for you in Lodz? (We had
no idea how right they were) others decided to stay with the plan of arriving in the United
States. We were not convinced to stay.
We indeed went on our way, 16 young women, without money, food, a change of
clothing or even a vague idea about what we would do along the way, on the roads of
destroyed Europe, left in chaos after the terrible war. It was: Risha, Lucia, Cesia, Guta and me
along with another 10 girls who we lost contact with along the way. The five I listed remained
together the entire time.
Even before we left I promised Lucia: when we arrive in Lodz we will look for relatives
(Lucia had no one to look for. Her mother remained in Auschwitz, her younger sister died in the
ghetto and her sister, Cesia was with us. The only person who remained, if he was still alive
was her father who fled to Russia.) Therefore, I said to her: if we find no one, I will travel with
you to Russia to find your father.
It is difficult for me to describe the journey back to the lost world. Maybe because
today it has little significance. You can many similar descriptions of destroyed homes, burnt
villages, singed land, casualties, handicapped people, many people searching for the remains of
their home and families after the war in many books like: War and Peace, books by Ilya
Ehrenberg, Erich Maria Remarque, Stefen Heym, Norman Miller, Ignazio Silone, Boris
Pasternak, Franz Werfel, and many others who tried to describe the total destruction and killing
for no reason or value after each and every war.
We did not travel in sleeper cars or eat in restaurants. We had no sanitary conditions,
no food or water. The trains also did not travel in any direction for more than an hour and two
and then they stood stillAfter many hopes there was some unseen hand that would take the
conductor and move him to another train.
The world that we saw from the windows of the train as it moved or stood, was a world
of blown up houses, of burrowing cats, of crazed dogs, of drunken soldiers (mostly Russian) of
disabled, with severed limbs wrapped in bandages oozing blood and puss. Rats accompanied us

for the entire tripthe majority of food that came into our mouths was food we happened
upon by a miracle. Sometimes we found train cars with a forgotten bag of potatoes. We would
light a fire and sit like a group of gypsies, smeared with soot, without any chance to rid
ourselves of the filth.
The spring was almost behind us and the summer was arriving. The heat in the crowded
train cars was unbearable. Due to our filth we were more like coal miners than young women,
with light skin from Poland.
In any event, we traveled East. East from Germany, there was Poland and in Poland
there was a city called Lodz and in Lodzperhaps there was someone waiting for us. I imagine
meeting Yitzush. Oh, I could cry just from mentioning his name. Maybe Israel and his children,
my sisters? My mother? The rest of my relatives who were still alive when I was already on my
way to Birkenau bloc 11? Who knows, maybe Ill meet Henya who I agreed to meet on
Zamenhoff street? Maybe Prania Goldberg, the girl who I loved and admired so much? Good
God, and entire world has disappeared. Maybe Ill still find them? (I didnt dare think about my
brother Israels daughters any thought like that kept sleep from my troubled eyes). The lies of
the Germans were already known to me and there was no place for illusions. But in any case
The in any case gave me strength for another day. We traveled East.
The Russians also traveled East, both prisoners (who had rebuke and harsh punishment
awaiting them for falling captive as was said by Joseph Stalin) and the brave soldiers. Long
caravans of husky, filthy drunk men, with joyful eyes and light hair singing racing forward, if
they only had an engine which worked and did not stop. We were almost attached to those
caravans, something which wasnt always to our benefit. For the most part we were happy to
hear their sad song, bursting from all of their throats, their kindness and willingness to give us
some soup from the big pot, which was located in their kitchen car. Sometimes we would have
conversations with one soldier or another about the essence of life, human values, the life of
the collective on the vast Russian land where (according to the song) people live very happy
lives.
It turned out that the same young man who knew how to orate so well (in front of Lucia
and her sister Cesia) about the brotherhood of nations and love of a man for his brother 0 got
on the train at nightfall drunk, and tried to rape a scared Lucia and little Cesia. They succeeded
in driving the drunkard away and they quickly moved to another train. Afterwards, they
stopped befriending themselves to Russians, who were basically just looking for women, raped
them and even shot the rape victims. (You can also find descriptions of that in world
literature).
It also happened that I had an opportunity to meet the anti-Semitism that beat in the
heart of a young, blonde, 19 year old, Russian tank soldier, who by chance sat next to me as the
train was moving. He spoke to me politely and in simple Russian, but I understood everything
he said. It is not for nothing that Polish is a Slavic language. He seemed like a pleasant and

serious young man, a brave fighter, a straight man. It seemed as if he was happy to meet me
and he said a few times: I am very happy I met you. Very happy. We entered into a long
conversation moving from one topic to another. He read many books and was a good student,
while he was able to study. He was enlisted too soon because of the circumstances and he was
going to enroll in a music program. He knew how to play the accordion and people said he had
a nice voice. So he decided to continue in that direction. I told him that my future was a bit
hazy but I have no doubt I will continue my studies, first I have some searching to do, which will
certainly influence my plans. (He still had not guessed what I was doing in Germany). To him I
was a young, friendly, smiley Polish girl who understood quickly. He even touched my hand
once or twice and when he saw I wasnt encouraging him he stopped and remained seated
politely and he was still pleasant.
So, I casually asked him if he enjoyed his tank (he had a leather cap with long ear straps,
a tanker soldiers cap) and if there were Jewish men in his crew. He looked at me as if I escaped
an insane asylum from the dangerous patient ward.
What? He asked turning his head, Jews in a tank? Jews? Dont you know them? Jews in
combat? Thats really funny! Jews dont like combat! They hide, they lie, and if they shoot,
they only shoot in the air! They are afraid, they are sick cowards
The blood rushed to my head, I stood in front of him and said:
Ti Zaynish, Ya Yavrika! (Do you know? Im a Jew) Who told you that nonsense? Arent
you ashamed? (I shook with anger)
He turned red, lowered his head as if he lost his tongue. Later he muttered: Im sorry,
Im sorry, you dont have to take what I saw seriously, I was only kidding
I didnt hear the rest of what he said. Without hearing another word, I moved away
from him. I moved to a different train and sat next to Risha and Guta. They asked me what
happened. I was too upset to answer.
And in order to prove his words, the next day we met an officer a Russian general
who spoke vivacious Yiddish and was happy, with tears in his eyes, to meet Yiddishe Kinder.
He got off the train that was right next to us onto the parallel train tracks and smiled at
us. He was fifty or older, he was short and stocky, his army uniform was stained with oil and he
had two gold teeth (he also had a heart of gold).
After he smiled at us, I whispered to Guta who was sitting next to me: he looks Jewish to
me, 100%
Right, she said, Im sure of it. After a few moments we were deep in conversation with
him and he immediately hugged us and said:
How can I help you? Are you hungry?
Are we hungry? That was the question and immediately he brought us good thick soup,
which had more pieces of meat in it than potatoes. We were also given plates and spoons. He
watched us eating with tears in his eyes, he ran to bring us more and more, both soup and

bread spread with pig fat. He actually chose me for his heart. He asked me to go with him on a
short stroll. I got off of the car. I walked a short distance from my car. (All of the cars stood for
a long while without moving). He began to tell me about himself: his two sons who were pilots
fell in battle. One in the battle for Stalingrad and the other here on German land. His wife,
who received word from the army had a heart attack and died at the age of 45. He was
successful in the army, had the rank of general and a few signs of excellence (which hung on his
dirty shirt) nowhe has the great nothing before him. He returns to an empty home (unsure if
it was bombed) to the three graves of his loved ones. He feels cheated. True his homeland of
Russia defeated the fascists, true he was prepared to die for the victory, but now, when
everyone is returning home, he(he burst into tears). I put my hand on his shoulder truly
feeling his pain. He was shaking. An older man, whose entire life was almost behind him with
nothing in front. What remains for him? (He added) Visits to the cemetery? No one will bring
his Natasha, Yuri the older boy and Burka the younger boy back to him
Now he got to the point and said: since I am an orphan and my house is destroyed and I
have to place to return to, he asked me: Please, come with me to Kiev. I will be your father
and will take care of all your needs Because he had a high ranking, he said, he had no doubt
that he will have many privileges upon his return home. (He was not yet aware of Stalins
treatment of his Jewish generals I didnt know either). What does he have priveleges for and
what will he do with them? If I were to agree to his proposal he could give me everything!
Studies, a nice place to live, clothes, books and whatever else!
I said to him in the best Yiddish I know: I want to go to Palestine! I am now traveling
home. I may find someone alive in any event I am headed to Palestine. I thanked him for his
desire to be a father to me and God only know how much I wanted him to be my father! But I
made my decision long ago, I will not live in the Diaspora any longer. The man looked at me for
a long time and in the end said: I am jealous that you have a dream. Maybe you are right. You
are still young and the beginning is important. My parents, of blessed memory, also wanted to
make it to Jerusalem. Instead, they were exiled to Siberia.
When I returned to the train car, I said to the girls: I just gave up a chance to be a
student in a Russian college, to live in a nice house and to have an adopted father who is a
general (I was very say to part from the Russian Jewish general who came to Germany, took
part in the occupation of Berlin and all despite his cowardice, a part of Jewish nature). I met
another Jewish coward when I was already in Israel. Yehoshua, my sister Rachels husband.
Yehoshua fought in the Red Army, fought against the Germans, received the rank of officer, was
wounded in the difficult battle for Leningrad. He also received a letter of excellence.
After a day or two we had another emotional meeting with a Jewish Russian general. He
was handsome, tall, with black hair, tall boots and the face of Rudolph Valentino(We again
stood in place and the train cars next to us stood waiting for the engines to arrive). They were

three Russian officers walking between the standing train cars. They saw young women and
entered. The handsomest from among them asked cautiously: Are you from the camps?
Yes, we said almost in a chorus.
Jewish? He asked. Yes!
It turned out that the young handsome officer was Jewish he knew songs in Yiddish and
had a nice voice. He broke out into spontaneous song and burst out from our throats like
volcanic lava.
I looked at Lucia, her eyes shined from emotion. She was close to crying. The Jewish
officer also did not stop his tears. And so we sat in the middle of Germany, in a crowded train
car, among many Russian soldiers on one side and refugees returning home on the other and
we sang: When Rabbi Elimelech Belz, Belz A Yiddishe Mame The song carried us far
away, brought us to tears and united us. Today when I remember that train car where we sat
on benches with the Jewish officer sitting among us, rocking to the rhythm of the sweet
tunesI still get very emotional.
It also happened that we stood on the tracks, next to a destroyed house, built close to
the tracks. Risha and I decided to take advantage and try to wash up in the house. We were so
filthy that we didnt think twice. We left our backpack that we each had and ran outside.
Getting into the house was complicated, the majority of the stairs were broken, part of them
hanging in the air. IN any case we succeeded in getting up and found a working faucet. There
was also a torn curtain hanging on one of the windows. We quickly washed up and dried
ourselves with the dusty curtain. The moment we made it down from the broken stairswe
saw our train was running away! We went through many hardships until we found our group at
the next station. There was also no reason to panic. We knew the train would go to one or two
stations and then stop
The girls were so happy when they saw us. We were so worried! Lucia hugged us. I
thought I would go crazy.
We also met nuns in one of the places who gave each of us break and a glass of milk. All
of the paths of Europe turned into a large ministry of relief. The wanderings of people from
place to place were endless. Everyone was looking for everyone.
At one of the stations we met two Poles, who had just now come from Poland and were
on the way to Germany. They heard us speaking Polish and approaches. After they knew who
we were they warned us: Dont travel to Poland! There are Russians there who rule with an
iron fist. If you think you are going to go back to your apartments, forget about it! The tenets
who invaded are prepared to kill! They wont let you pass the doorway; there is a real danger
to your lives! That is what the men who had just run from their homeland of Poland told us.
And we said to them: We arent looking for a home. We are looking for sisters,
mothers, brothers life! They said, be careful, they will kill you! They said and crossed
themselves.

Lodzwe arrived at night time, after a journey of many das. We took the tram from the
strain station and arrived in the center of the city. We already know where to find the Jewish
absorption office. There we found empty rooms, just mattresses spread out on the floor.
The first night in liberated Lodz. The next day we went to the food distribution office.
It was on 18 Fumoreska Street. We stood there in line to enroll. A young woman who
immediately recognized me sat at a typewriter. She was a good friend of my sister Paula and
she would visit us often, she knew my whole family. She said: Im sorry. You are the first and
only one from your family. I have been here for a long time. No one has returned. Just you.
I took my food ration which included bread and pig fat. Lucia stood behind me and
gently caressed me. I did not cry. I dont know if I understood exactly what I had just heard.
Afterwards we went to the ghetto. The apartment at 2 Fudcena Street was destroyed to
its foundations. I found only a few pages my father wroteI didnt stay long. There was no
reason. I also did not cry there. I just left and walked with Lucia to her apartment, 15 Zialena
Street. She also only found a destroyed ruin. Afterwards we returned to the gathering place.
We did not find Risha. She met acquaintances and went with them.
Afterwards we went to 36 Zabacheka Street. Lucia stayed downstairs. I went up the
stairs to the third floor. I saw the stain from the furniture polish which had spilled years before,
when we restored our furniture. I saw the front door. The wood door that led to the kitchen
and the glass door that was the main door to the apartment.
I held myself so that I wouldnt fall. I was dizzy. I heard noise in my ears. On the metal
name plate which had said Gabriel Goldberg there was a note that had three words on it: .. TU
MIESZKA POLAK (A Pole lives here). I stood there in a trance, without moving. I approached
the door and looked in through the glass. I saw the inside of the apartment! I saw the long
hallway. It still had the beautiful red wallpaper and further down I saw the door to my parents
bedroom, which was on the wall furthest from the entrance in the large dining room. In my
parents bedroom my murdered parents there was green wallpaper with a finish of carved
strips of gold, a work of art. I thought I saw the big painting hanging on the wall. The picture
was painted by a Dutch painter and it was called the Island of Death. (Im not sure if I saw it,
the distance was too great). Afterwards, I went downstairs, my heart broken, my eyes red with
tears. That house!
So many memories! So much joy! So many good days! Now there is a strange quiet in
the courtyard which was always full of the sounds of children, radios, mothers calling their
children to eatit was all as if it never existed. There was such neglect of the great courtyard!
Lucia didnt say much. She understood the storm in my heart. We walked silently in the
street. Lodz, my love, was foreign to me. The people who walked in the street were terrifyingly
foreign. Among all of the thousands of eyes, I did not see a single pair that I recognized. This
was the city in which I was born, raised, where I knew every corner, every tree, every alley.

Now- I did not have the city that my heart was drawn to for so many years! It was strange not
to find even a small trace of what was alive and tangible, so effervescent
I went to another place of gathering which I had heard of before. I found two rooms
with many people who came backit was a special place. All of the walls were filled with
graffiti written in pencil or with a burnt match:
The graffiti read: I am looking for my sister Malka Yaakov Cohen. I am looking for my
father Moshe-Aryeh Rosenberg. I am trying to find my two sisters Esther and Miriam Yosef
BlumI stood and read every line from the top down. Nothing. No one was looking for me.
Suddenly I felt a hand touch me. I turned my head: Next to me stood Aryeh Tishler (The
counselor from Gordonia).
I clung to him with a great cry. He said: Come with me. We have our own place. A few
members have already come back. Come, we are planning a move to the land of Israel.
I was in the foreign city of Lodz for five days, during which we had to wander to the
wretched ghetto, the loss, slowly but surely. Five days to part from all which was once
beautiful and close to my heart. Five days of wandering the streets full of strange faces,
Russian soldiers, closed and abandoned shops, piles of garbage that no one bothered to collect
it seemed as if all the tree on the avenues lowered their branches out of sadness asking:
where is my love, you who strolled here, rested in our shade, laughing, kissing, swearing to love
forever? Where are they?
For five days I searched for an echo of the past, my good childhood, the girls from my
class, the sounds of the excited hora we danced in the Gordonia courtyard, the mothers
walking with their infants, the man selling balloons who stood on the corner, I searched. The
ice cream shop and the smell of yeast cakes on those streets every Friday, the house wives who
prepared food for Shabbat, I searched. The thousands of children who hurried to school every
morning, the young kids who filled the streets in their high school uniforms, fooling around,
laughing, romping. The lights of Lodz at night from the packed coffee shops, the stylish street
lamps, I searched. The lit up signs of the many movie theaters, the coaches harnessesd to the
horses which filled the streets and the fast trams with their joyful rings all that and more.
The many strangers who I encountered were Jewish refugees from all the cities of
Poland who for some reason all flowed to Lodz. The people who walked in the street would
ask: Amcha? (Are you from the nation of Israel) and they would know who was in front of
them. But everyone was strangers.
Five days. I went to Zamenhoff Street every day. Henya, my love, did not make it to the
meeting. She had a meeting with the angel of death.
The first group who arranged for aliyah to the Land of Israel also included me. Lucia and
Cesia remained in the meantime. Risha went to live with acquaintances on 15 Zabacheka
Street. Guta decided to stay in Poland. I began my journey to Israel.

We arrived in Cracow. At the gathering point we found many others and joined them.
Our counselors (who were basically border smugglers under the watch of the Russians and
then the British) to care of all of our needs. We waited for a train to be set up (there were only
a few cars) which would bring us to the Czech border. We were told not to stand out in the
city. We knew the Polish population is hostile
Before we left Cracow, we walked all of us, in small group, to stroll through the city.
Tzipora (nicknamed Brank, was one of the members of Gordonia today she lives in Israel) and
I walked around the walls which surround the castle of the Polish kings. A priest walked
towards us and even stopped to ask with a pleasant smile if we lived in the city. After a short
conversation he already knew that we were graduates of the German hell and we told him
that there were no survivors left in our family.
He lowered his head in sadness and in a dramatic voice expressed his sorrow over what
happened to the Israelites on the holy land of Poland. He is sure, he said adding another
layer of sorrow to his voice, that human beings cannot play the role of God. God is the one who
gives life and only He can take life away. Many unpleasant things happened and there is what
to be sorry about. He is also sad for two young girl like us who were left orphans with nothing
(the army shoes we received in the womens camp and the shirt and pants which had seen
better days testified to that fact) He was very, very sorry he said and he put his manicured
hand on this chest. He was silent for a moment, a dramatic silence, and then he said that in any
casethere is a way to get out of the circle of disasters that have befallen usand it is to forget
our Jewish past and come through the gates of the Catholic Church. There is still hope for our
young souls; two heretics like us certainly have hope. The church will accept us with open arms
and we will be able to change our poor luck and from that moment forward live a life in the
shadow of Jesus the merciful. Many heretics, he said raising his voice slightly came and were
saved from the fire of Hell, something which is waiting for all those who do not recognize the
one God his master Jesus. He himself was ready to be our spiritual father and bring us back
to the right path. He added that the Jews are responsible for all that happened to them
because they killed Jesus, but the good God, the merciful Jesus, is a forgiving God
I dont remember exactly what we said to him, who said what and in what order. One
thing is certain: we did not convert to Christianity and we gave up on being saved from the fire
of Hell. But we said to him all that we were thinking in clear, well styled, literary Polish. Did the
father ever try and save the life of a Jewish child as he tried to save our souls? And what does
the father know about the fire of Hell? Certainly only what he has read in book, right? We can
tell him about how hot the fire iswe just came back from there! We also asked him: why
should we pretend to be Christian? At least now we can live as we were born and in the faith
we were taught and was passed to us by our tortured parentsnow we can both live and
crythere is no need to pretend! And if we were to judge based on the good deed performed

by the Polish nation, the Catholics we have not seen any mercy in the hearts of Catholics
We were both very emotional and could not contain our rage.
The soul hunter stood silently. He apparently was not expecting two poor girls like us to
respond like that. He apparently also did not fully understand what we said because he was
locked in to his narrow view of the world, completely lacking the objective ability to judge as it
deviated from religious studies. He apparently learned to hate heretics more than the principle
of religion. In any case, he did not have enough courage to response to our arguments. Maybe
he was even not intelligent enough. And if from that point on he stopped bothering Jewish girls
with his solution to their problems, even better.
The next day at dawn, we went as a large group from the temporary shelter to the train
station. The streets which had been empty, quickly filled with a threatening mob, yelling,
throwing stones, chasing after us but it kept its distance. Jews to Palestine, they yelled,
cursed Jews! Too bad Hitler didnt finish the job!
Our leader moved us faster and muttered: Dont answer! Dont turn around! We cant
get dragged into a fist fight! Go quickly and get on the train! Quickly! Quickly!
A rain of stones did not delay in its arrival. We ran. We heard the instructions and new
the reason not to respond. Escaping from Poland was illegal, crossing borders was illegal.
Everything was done by bribing various officials. Secrecy was a condition to allow for the
constant flow of Jewish refugees towards Israel, any fight or government involvement would
endanger the entire operation. We wanted to leave very quickly. There was a lot of wisdom to
the words of our leaders. Do not answer! Do not stop! Keep walking as fast as you can. (This
all happened about a year before the pogrom in Kielce when the Poles killed many Jews).
Close to the Polish-Czechoslovakian border we were all alert. We are finally leaving this
cursed land! I dont remember who gave the symbol. When we about to cross the border, a
moment before hand we went to the windows and burst out in tears of joy The Polish
hooligans were behind us and wewere on the way to Israel.
I had to wait another two years and then another year until I arrived on the shores of
Haifa. That is a rich story with many varied and strange events. But here is not the place to tell
it.
I was delayed in Italy for a long time. There were kibbutzim which were set up there
as a final station before the aliyah. Three months before my arrival in Italy, in the end of August
1945 I received word, the first sign of life from my two sisters who survived. They were in
German, in a place called Fallingbostel both of them after having typhus.
Instead of getting on the immigrant ship I returned to Germany in a roundabout way
until I arrived there. It was a large DP camp with refugees from all over Europe. I got to a small
cabin and stood near the door. Before I knocked on the door, I bent over. I looked in through
the keyhole. Maybe I didnt have enough courage? My heart was beating like crazy. I saw
Rachel, my sister. I knocked on the door and entered. Rachel fainted upon seeing me and

Hanka fell on my neck. We cried for many hours, the three of us cried and cried and could not
calm down. (Along the way I knew that only they survived. Now it was time to hear their story).
After I was taken from our home, the family remained in the apartment for a short time.
The evacuation had only begun but the trend was clear. The ghetto was to be entirely
liquidated. Everyone is going to leave the ghetto so the notices screamed, anyone who does
not obey will be punished severely! They decided to hide. They took what they could in their
hands and left the apartment in order to blur their footsteps. The officers who came to take
me found no one there.
Of course there was a problem with food and whoever did not have a large food supply
their chances of survival were nearly zero. They also did not find a hiding place. Just another
address. That address made it to the officers and in the end of August they were on their way
to Auschwitz.
My mother, my four sisters, my two brothers were all sent to the right. My sister-inlaw Chaya and her three young daughters were immediately sent to the left.
On the right the men and women were separated and my brothers disappeared into
the horizon. No one ever saw them again. There were rumors from here and there. One said
that my brother Israel committed suicide. What happened to Yitzush? What happened to the
freckled boy with the large eyes? (Yitzush is the reason I see every movie about the Holocaust. I
am searching for him. I always think I will see him in one of the pictures).
My four sisters and mother arrived in Birkenau. After they went through the humiliating
ceremony of having their heads shaved, their closed ripped off, beaten, pushed, terrified.
Despite it all they had one reason to be happy: my mother who had given birth to many
children and was a grandmother of three seemed young enough to Dr. Mengele in order to
keep living and maybe even work.
We met in Birkenau. Only for a few moments. I returned to bloc 11 and they remained
there My sisters dont remember how long they were in Auschwitz. But they remember
many details, small details about life in the shadow of the great fear that today was their last
day. They helped each other and constantly cared for each other. Heads shaved, wearing rags,
fighting for a place in the latrine. Seeing the decline of the other, falling from despair to
despair. My sisters also dont remember exactly when it was that my mother, Rosia, and Paula
were taken to the gas chambers. They did not describe the moment. They were afraid to
return to the vision. They cried and could not finishJust this: mother, Paula, Rosia were sent
to the gas chambers. It possibly was on Yom Kippur, so they remained alone, both trying to
help the other, their chance of survival lessening.
The day would come when they were taken from Auschwitz and pushed on a long, long
journey. They took them with many others to Matthausen, Grosrozen, and in the end BergenBelsen. They dont remember how long they were in Bergen-Belsen until they became ill with
typhus. And from that moment everything became blurred. They were very sick, on their

deathbed, without any medical care, food, or hope of getting out. They were immersed in
delusion, no longer feeling their head or stomach aches, not knowing if they were on earth or in
heaven.
But they defeated the illness which took down thousands (the soldiers who liberated
the camp found the gigantic pile) with their last strength. Hanka was the first to return to
consciousness. She heard the sounds of Rachels delusions. She also heard the English which
came from the small window. She said quietly: Rachel, the Germans arent here. I hear English!
She wasnt sure if Rachel heard or understood. She herself wasnt sure if she heard clearly.
They suffered for many more weeks from terrible weakness, dizziness and a faint heart.
Three months later we met. In that meeting our fate and the fate of the generation we
established was set. It was decided that we would never separate again, meaning my sisters
immigrated to Israel. They both merited to raise a family, with children and grandchildren.
Lucia and Cesia actually found their father in Israel. He arrived already in 1943 with
Anders army (a Polish general who gathered Polish exiles). Lucia and Cesia married, had
children and grandchildren. Aryeh Binkeh, who did everything to make things easier for me
during those terrible years, lives in Israel, has a family with children and grandchildren.
My brother-in-law (Hankas husband) Shraga and his two brothers also came to Israel
with Andres Army. It is also very likely that Prania Goldbergy, my great friend from the factory
in the ghetto, the girl with many virtues and a noble spirit, was their sister.
Of all my friends in Gordonia who survived, only a few wandered to other countries.
The majority immigrated to Israel.
I cannot finish the book before mentioning this important detail: The day after the
liberation the local commander, a Nazi officer (in civilian clothing), came to us and went to
speak to Ms. Lerner. He took out of his pocket an order he received from his commanders to
kill the women who remained there. As a German officer he was required to follow orders and
he may have even done it without any problem with his conscience, were it not for the fact that
the city of Flossenbrg had recently been occupied. The high command of the region sat there
and it pulled the strings of our fate. The clever guy knew that they would not be able to catch
him and he knew that the important document would save his skin when the time came. I did
not see it and the content of their conversation was only known to me at a later date. I dont
know what happened to the man.
And so it happened that right at the doorstep of redemption we almost joined the six
million.
These pages are dedicated to my children and grandchildren, who as a result of this final
act of grace and all the miracles that happened to me along my path of suffering, were able to
be born. Similarly, to my family, friends, and all those who know me.