A Partisan from Vilna 9781618111210

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Rachel Margolis

A Partisan from Vilna

JEWS OF POLAND

Series editor: Antony Polonsky

Rachel Margolis

A Partisan from Vilna

Translated by F. Jackson Piotrow The translation of this book was made possible by the generosity of Erwin Greenberg.

Academic Studies Press 2010

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Margolis, Rahel. [Nemnogo sveta vo mrake. English] A partisan from Vilna / Rachel Margolis ; translated by F. Jackson Piotrow. p. cm. -- (Jews of Poland) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-934843-91-8 (hbk.) -- ISBN 978-1-934843-95-6 (pbk.) 1. Margolis, Rahel. 2. Women guerrillas--Lithuania--Biography. 3. Women guerrillas--Belarus--Biography. 4. World War, 1939-1945-Underground movements--Lithuania. 5. Fareynikte partizaner organizatsye (Vilnius, Lithuania)-Biography. 6. World War, 1939-1945--Underground movements--Belarus. 7. World War, 1939-1945-Personal narratives, Lithuanian. 8. World War, 1939-1945--Personal narratives, Jewish. 9. Jewish women--Lithuania--Vilnius--Biography. 10. Vilnius (Lithuania)--Biography. I. Title. D802.L5M2813 2010 940.54’864793092--dc22 [B] 2010012946 Copyright ©2010 Academic Studies Press All rights reserved ISBN 978-1-934843-91-8 (cloth) ISBN 978-1-934843-95-6 (paper) Book design by Olga Grabovsky

Olga Grabovsky

On the cover: Remnants By Samuel Bak Image Courtesy of Pucker Gallery www.puckergallery.com Published by Academic Studies Press in 2010 28 Montfern Avenue Brighton, MA 02135, USA [email protected] www.academicstudiespress.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS BY MARJORIE MARGOLIS INTRODUCTION BY ANTONY POLONSKY

7 11

LALECZKA ( YEARS 1927-1931) Summer in Lanwarów The dacha in Pośpieszki Winter in the city Irka A little brother Anna Pawłowna Wygodzka’s School A Year Without Mama Kazik The Flood The Eliza Orzeszkowa School Anniversary of the Pogrom Posing for a Picture Michałovo The New School Zakopane My Studies The New Dacha A New Girlfriend My New Music Teacher – Anna Feigus The Riywinscy’s Family Major Nuisances Excursion to Narocz Arrests Boria Glezer A Marvelous Summer

53 62 67 75 77 79 87 91 93 96 99 101 103 114 131 142 154 163 166 169 177 181 187 192 196

THE GATEWAY TO HELL The Trip to Zakopane “Matura” – Final Exams Grown Up At Last 1939: War A Change of Regime At the University Germany Attacks the USSR Peregrinations Mrs. Narkiewicz

203 207 211 218 232 234 239 244 270

GHETTO March 1942 The Library Сhaim The Underground The New Year The Train to the Kowno Ghetto Three More Months... September First

283 293 299 305 315 335 344 354

PARTISANS The “Revenge” Detachment Surrounded Maszerow Typhoid The Jewish Detachment The Bag from the Sky Epilogue

AFTERWORD

BY

MARJORIE MARGOLIS

377 388 410 432 463 487 496 501

ILLUSTRATIONS

509

INDEX OF NAMES GEOGRAPHICAL INDEX

527 537

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

R

obert Margolis, my brother, is ultimately the person responsible for bringing the story of Rachel Margolis to the US. It is Bob who has always explored our family background and it is Bob who sent me to Vilnius to meet our famous cousin. But even more important, Bob has subsidized the publication of Rachel’s 2006 memoir written in Russian, which is available for readers in Lithuania, a country that seems to want to forget its Holocaust past. Rachel’s book was published by the Vilna Gaon Jewish Museum in Vilnius, better known as the “Green House,” and it its director, Rachel Kostanian, and archivist, Regina Koilevich, who introduced us to our famous cousin in the first place. When Bob went to Vilnius, he brought Rachel’s book back with him and showed it to Benton Arnovitz and Michael Gelb at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. Michael, a Sovietologist, read the book and encouraged us to bring it here. He recognized Rachel’s contribution to the study of the partisans, especially from a woman’s point of view. Our biggest stumbling block was having the book translated from Russian. This expertise required a great deal of finesse for, while the language must change, the voice must remain the writer’s. Michael introduced me to Jack Piotrow who has translated for the Holocaust museum, and he really connected me with the right man for the job. Later, a second translator, Alexandra Hawiger, edited Jack’s work, making sure that the transliterated proper nouns appeared in their original Polish. To pay for Jack’s extraordinary talent was the next hurdle. Erwin Greenberg generously donated these funds. Erwin is my uncle, and I love him, but I am in awe of the way he puts his words into action. His understanding 7

of the world and what must be done to improve it has been a guiding force my entire life. Another blessing, another gift of good will was the permission granted by the Pucker Gallery to use Samuel Bak’s painting, “The Crossing,” as a book cover. Bernie Pucker, his representative and owner of the gallery, has a special interest in Lithuania, and graciously shared an afternoon showing me Bak’s works from his Vilna collection. There are two people who are the godparents of this book. It was at Brandeis, my alma mater, that the project really came together, and that is because these two people embraced Rachel’s story and directed me on this path to publication. Dr. Shulamit Reinharz, director of the Brandeis’ Women’s Research Center and the Haddasah Brandeis Institute (HBI), envisioned the book in its final form. Shula connected me with two other writers, Lenore Weitzman and Stephan Glantz who, along with her, reviewed the book, and most important, she appointed me as a HBI research associate, availing me all its resources at Brandeis. Because Shula believed in this project I never gave up. After all, Shula is my teacher and what she tells me is worthwhile is worthwhile. Antony Polonsky, professor of Near Eastern and Judaic Studies at Brandeis and a leading scholar of Eastern European Jewish history, devoted almost as much time to this project as I had. I first approached Antony when I returned from Vilnius in 2006 as a Brandeis alum with a Holocaust project. Having worked on the English publication of Ponary Diary: Eyewitness to Mass Murder (Yale University Press, 2004), he already knew of my famous cousin and he offered to write a letter sponsoring my endeavor to have the book translated and published. Antony also introduced me to several other scholars who also endorsed the project. A year later, at Shula’s suggestion, I came to Antony with a larger request: would he write the introduction. And the result, as you see for yourself, is a masterpiece. Most importantly, Antony has guided me in understanding what is going on in Lithuania and why Rachel and her few surviving Jewish friends in Vilnius are being threatened. His approach is measured and I’ve learned to keep my eyes on our goal: a world where everyone feels respected. 8

I would also like to thank Henry Knight, Tom White, and Paul Vincent of the Cohen Center for Holocaust and Genocide Studies at Keene State College as well as the college’s vice-president, Jay Kahn, for hosting an event honoring Rachel’s work both during and after the war. The Cohen Center’s commitment “to remember and to teach” has inspired me to step deeper into this difficult history and eventually find my cousin. It was they who introduced me to Stanlee Stahl and the Jewish Foundation for the Righteous who furthered my studies of the Holocaust. Stanlee was really my first consultant on this project, advising me how to begin promoting the project. Also important in advising me about the promotion and publication process are Sylvia Fried of the Tauber Institute and Phyllis Deutsch of University Press of New England, my former Brandeis professors, Erica Harth and Karen Klein, and copyright attorney, Zick Rubin. My father and brother, Tevis and Bob Margolis, Rachel’s daughter, Emma Teverovsky, and my cousins, Diane and Ed Block, also contributed financially to the publication of this book. Finally, thank you to my husband, Richard Chisholm, whose love and encouragement are with me always.

Marjorie Margolis May 26, 2008

9

INTRODUCTION … We, dreamers, must now become soldiers And into bullets melt down the soul of the lead. And again we broke open the seal Of a familiar, eternal cave. In the cover of shadows, by the glow of a lamp, We poured the letters one by one, Just as in the temple, long ago, our grandfathers poured oil into golden holiday-menorahs. Forged into bullets, letter after melted letter, The lead was luminous with thought. A verse from Babylon, a verse from Poland, Boiling, gushing each like the other. Jewish might hidden in the word With bullets must now blow up the world! And those in the ghetto who saw the weapons Clenched in heroic Jewish hands, Saw Jerusalem struggling, The destruction of those granite walls; Sensing the meaning of the molten words, In the heart recognizing their voice. Avrom Sutskever, ‘The Lead Plates of the Romm Press’, September 1943

T

he Vilna (Vilnius) ghetto, established by the Nazis in September 1941 and the armed resistance movement which developed in it and subsequently continued the struggle in the forests around Vilna has given rise to a large literature.1 However the bulk of this material is not available

1

Among the scholarly accounts, some written by people who lived through these events, one should mention Mendel Balberzyski, Likwidacja getta wileńskiego (Warsaw, 1946); Shmerke Kaczerginski, Khurbn Vilna (New York, 1947); Meir Dvorzhetski, Yerushalayim d’Lita in kamf un umkum (Geneva, 1948); Ruzhka Korchak, Lehavot ba-efer (Tel Aviv, 1965)

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in English. Hence there is all the more reason to welcome the appearance of this moving and detailed account written by Rachel Margolis, daughter of a prosperous and well-established Vilna radiologist. Her native town, the ‘Jerusalem of Lithuania’, certainly has a special place in Jewish collective memory. The capital of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, which had been dynastically linked with the Kingdom Poland since 1385 and joined in a political union in 1569 to create the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, it had been a major Jewish centre from the early sixteenth century, the home of many outstanding Jewish scholars, among them the Vilna Gaon, the principal opponent of early Hasidism. At this time, most Jews lived concentrated in multi-occupied houses in their own quarter which had only one gate, at the corner of Niemiecka (today Vokecių) and Szklanna (today Stiklių) Streets. The center of this area was the shulhoyf, the courtyard of the Great Synagogue, a striking building admired by Napoleon, dating back to 1573. This was the area which was to become the core of the Nazi ghetto. The population of the town grew from around 15 to 20, 000 in 1765 in the last years of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth to around 55, 000 in 1832, after the town was incorporated into the Tsarist Empire by the third partition of Poland in 1795. It grew further to around 155,000 in 1897 and 233, 000 in 1912. The number of Jews rose from nearly 4,000 in 1765 to nearly 21, 000 in 1832, 64, 000 in 1897 and 78, 000 in 1912. This increase was partly internally generated but was also caused by the Russian policy of forcing the Jews out of the countryside.

311-22; Philip Friedman, ‘Jacob Gens: Commandant of the Vilna Ghetto’, in Roads to Extinction: Essays on the Holocaust, (New York and Philadelphia, 1980), 365-80 and Yitzhak Arad, Ghetto in Flames: The Struggle and Destruction of the Jews in Vilna in the Holocaust, (Jerusalem, 1980). In addition there are a number of diaries including Mendel Balberzyski, Shtarker fun ayzn: iberlibungen in der Hitler-tkufe (Tel Aviv, 1967); Yitshok Rudashevski, Diary of the Vilna Ghetto, June 1941-April 1943 (Beit Lohamei Hagetaot, 1973) the English translation of Herman Kruk’s diary, The Last Days f Jerusalem of Lithuania; Chronicles from the Vilna ghetto and the camps, 1939-1944 (edited and introduced by Benjamin Harshav; translated by Barbara Harshav) and two books by Noah Shneidman, Jerusalem of Lithuania; the rise and fall of Jewish Vilnius; A personal perspective (Oakville, 1998) and The three tragic heroes of the Vilnius Ghetto : Witenberg, Sheinbaum, Gens (Oakville, 2002). There is a also a literary recreation of the ghetto in Yehoshua Sobol’s play Ghetto (Tel Aviv, 1986).

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From the late nineteenth century the Jews became the largest of the different ethnic groups inhabiting the town. According to the Tsarist government census of 1897 which asked for religious affiliation and language, 23.6 per cent of Vilna’s inhabitants were Orthodox Christians, 36.9 per cent Catholics, and 41.3 per cent Jews (the remainder were Muslims, Karaites and Protestants). 40.0 per cent of the overall population gave Yiddish as their mother tongue, 30.9 per cent Polish, 20 per cent Russian, 4.2 per cent Belarusian, and 2.1 per cent Lithuanian.2 If anything these figures understate the number of Jews (as well as Lithuanians and Belarusians). In 1861, the restrictions on where they could live were abolished and they now spread out throughout the town. The links with the outside world grew closer after the building of railway lines in the 1860s to Warsaw and St. Petersburg and this also stimulated some industrial development, above all in food and raw-material processing and in the production of consumer goods. The town became an important centre for the lumber, tobacco and liquor trades and was a major producer of hosiery and leather goods, including boots and shoes. Paper was produced in the area which was also home to a number of important Jewish publishing houses, above all the house of the Widow and Brothers Romm. Jews were actively engaged in all these branches and the second half of the nineteenth century also saw a significant move of Jews from trade into artisan trades. It was also characterized by growing stratification within the community and the impoverishment of the large majority. This was one of the major factors pushing the Jews to emigrate. Litvaks could be found over the entire Jewish world. In the nineteenth century the town became one of the main strongholds of the Jewish enlightenment (haskalah). The most important of the Hebrew writers born in Vilna was Yehuda Leib Gordon (1831-1892), who attended the Vilna Rabbinic School where he became a passionate advocate of the

2

Pervaia vseobschaia perepis’ naseleniia Rossiiskoi Imperii. tom 4: Vilenskaia guberniia (St. Petersburg: MVD, 1899), tetrad’ 3, tables XIII and XIV. The total population of the city in 1897 was 154,532. The Lithuanian entry was obtained by adding the ‘litovskii’ and ‘zhmudskii’ entries.

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reform of Jewish life and whose poetry eloquently expressed the ideals of the haskalah. Of the local Yiddish writers, the most important at this time was Isaac Meir Dik (1807-1893) who created a mass audience for Yiddish literature. Vilna was also home to the first significant Russian-Jewish writer, Lev Levanda (1835-1888). In the late nineteenth century Yiddish became still more important and the town was the home, between 1900 and his emigration to the United States in 1911, of the playwright Peretz Hirschbein and of the folklorist and song-writer Elyokum Zunser, sometimes called ‘Elyokim badkhan’ (1840-1913) who emigrated to the United States in 1889. The Jews of the town were strongly attached to the Yiddish language. Even the Margolis family, though quite acculturated and Russian-speaking, sent Rachel to a Yiddish-language primary school although at the age of ten she was sent to the Eliza Orzeszkowa school, an elite Polish-language secondary school. There had been little contact between Poles and Jews in the city, partly because under Russian rule, sections of the Jewish elite had become Russified and were attracted to Russian culture. Polish culture was less attractive although there were some Jews who sought a Polish orientation. The Poles effectively lost power in the region after the Uprising of 1830 and after 1863 the Tsarist authorities attempted to undermine Polish influence in the region. Those Jews who sought to escape from their inferior status saw no reason to take on the disabilities to which the Poles were now subject. The surrounding countryside was multi-ethnic in character, with significant Lithuanian and Belarusian populations which made the attempt of the Tsarist government to undermine the region’s links with Poland easier. In his poem, ‘Vilna’, Moshe Kulbak (1896-1937), a leading local poet in the 1920s, singled out the loyalty of the local Jews to Yiddish, their mystical propensities, their poverty and social radicalism. A tallow candle flutters, dripping, Where a kabbalist sits, tangled into his garret, Like a spider, drawing the gray thread of his life. ‘Is there anyone in the cold emptiness? In our deafness – can we hear the lost cries?’… O city! You are the dream of a cabalist, 14

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ANTONY POLONSKY

Gray, drifting in the universe – cobweb in the early autumn… Stiff men are like sticks; women, like loaves of bread. The shoulders pressed. Cold, secretive beards. Long eyes that rock, like rowboats on a lake – At night, late, over a silver herring… Figures smolder faintly in the restless stone. Lucid white sages of a distant radiance, Small, hard bones that were polished by toil. The red tunic of the steely Bundist. The blue student who listens to gray BergelsonYiddish is the homely crown of the oak leaf Over the gates, sacred and profane, into the city.

In the interwar years, Vilna remained a multi-ethnic town. By 1923 the town’s population had risen to 167,500 of whom 33.5 per cent were Jews and by 1931 to 193,300 of whom 28.5 per cent were Jews (around 55,000). The town was now cut off from its Lithuanian hinterland because of the bitter conflict between Poland and Lithuania provoked by the Polish occupation and the incorporation of the town, which the Lithuanians claimed as their historic capital, into Poland in February 1922. In addition, the poor relations between Poland and the Soviet Union hampered trade over the PolishSoviet border less than 100 miles to the east. This had an extremely adverse effect on the economic life of the town and particularly on the local timber, paper, publishing leather, hosiery and glove industries, in all of which Jews played a prominent role. Before the war, there had been around a thousand Jewish tailoring workshops, many of which employed over forty workers – their number now fell to seven hundred and few employed even five workers. Even worse conditions prevailed in the hosiery and glove trades. The influx of people from the surrounding areas further undermined the Jewish economic position in the town. The percentage of Jews among the artisans of the town thus fell between 1920 and 1932 from 74.5 per cent to 47.7 per cent.3 This contributed to the further impoverishment of the Jewish community. According to one estimate, by the late 1930s least three quarters of

3

E. N. Jeshurin (ed.), Vilna: A Zammelbuch, article by Dr. Jacob Lestschinsky, 374-5.

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the Jewish population were dependent on some form of relief. Certainly in 1938, 25,000 of the 60,000 strong communities applied for Passover relief and Jewish begging became common. This poverty is graphically described in Chaim Grade’s My Mother’s Sabbath Days. At the same time, sections of the Jewish community, like the Margolis family led a comfortable bourgeois existence. Rachel certainly had an idyllic childhood, which she recalls in almost Proustian detail. At the same time, it was the widespread poverty of both Jews and non-Jews and the deep social inequalities she observed which led her as a teenager to become sympathetic to the claims being made in the city by sympathizers of the Soviet Union. Vilna was the home to a number of important scholarly institutions. YIVO, established in Vilna in 1925, sought to investigate all aspects of Jewish life and assembled a large collection of books and documents organized in four main areas, history, sociology, philology and pedagogy and culture, including art, drama, music, and folklore. The Jewish Historical and Ethnographical Society, founded in 1919 by S. An-ski also possessed a large collection of materials on history and folklore, literature and drama, music and art. The Straszun Library, founded in 1893 by Matthias (Matisyohu) Straszun and located in the courtyard adjacent to the Great Synagogue possessed many older books and manuscripts as well as some important documents including the pinkasim of the Lithuanian Council and of the ‘Society of Grave Diggers’ as well as the manuscript copy of a short book by the Vilna Gaon. Vilna had five Yiddish dailies – the most important was the Vilner Tog which published serious literature and saw itself as advancing a Yiddishist political agenda. It was also the centre of a major literary circle, the Yung Vilne group. Founded in 1929, most of its members had all been born in the decade before the First World War and had mostly been educated in the newly-established secular school system in Vilna. Although the group did not adopt a clear political programme its members, of whom the most important were Avrom Sutskever and Chaim Grade, were mostly left-wing, with political sympathies ranging from moderate socialism to communism. 16

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Polish society in Vilna was strongly nationalistic and relations between Poles and Jews here were tense and were exacerbated by the fact that a significant proportion of the Jewish elite here had been Russified in the nineteenth century and that a section of the Jewish leadership had supported the incorporation of the town into Lithuania in response to Lithuanian promises of far-reaching Jewish autonomy. Although violence on the scale of 1919, when Polish troops killed nearly 70 Jews after taking the city did not recur, in November 1931, a clash between Polish and Jewish youths led to the death in hospital of a Polish university student, Stanisław Wacławski, in the course of a campaign to enforce the exclusion of Jews from the University of Vilna organized by the All-Polish Youth which was followed by further attacks on Jews.4 The violence on the first anniversary of this event is described by Rachel Margolis. In contrast, by and large, relations between Poles and Jews were amicable at her school. Although the late 1930s saw an increase in anti-Semitism in Vilna, its expression was strongly disapproved of by the school administration, as is described in the memoir. In fact, Rachel was also able to hide on the ‘Aryan’ side for over a year after the establishment of the ghetto because of the assistance of sympathetic Poles in the city. On 17 September 1939, in accordance with the Nazi-Soviet pact of the previous month, the Soviet Union occupied the eastern part of the former Polish republic including the city of Vilna. On 10 October Lithuania and the Soviet Union signed a Treaty of Mutual Assistance in accordance with which Vilna and the surrounding area was transferred to the Lithuanian Republic which took control of the town 28 October. A fair number of Jewish refugees from Nazi occupied Poland took shelter in Lithuania. The number of these has been variously estimated. According to the Lithuanian authorities on 2 December 1939, 18,311 refugees from Poland had been registered of whom 6,860 were Jews.5 Moshe Kleinbaum, the General Zionist politician estimated their number as 10, 000. As Kleinbaum points out: 4

Jolanta Żyndul, Zajscia Antyzydowskie w Polsce w Latache 1935-1937 (Warsaw, 2000) 10-11.

5

R. Zepkaite, Vilniaus Istorijos Atkarpa 1939-1940 (Vilna, 1990), 49-50.

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The Jews who fled to Lithuania were those who were equally in danger from the German and Soviet occupiers, or, in other words, the Jewish working intelligentsia (imbued with Zionist or socialist ideas), Zionist or Bundist political leaders from Poland, writers, journalists, teachers, scientists and students in the Yeshivot and finally a portion of the Jewish plutocracy that held large sums of money abroad.6

The position of this extremely heterogeneous group, including rabbis, yeshiva students, political leaders and members of Zionist youth movements, was reasonably satisfactory, although the establishment of Lithuanian rule was marked by a pogrom, sparked off by price rises and the belief that the Jews had favored the maintenance of Soviet power, which is described in the memoir. However, the Lithuanian government also saw the Jews as a counterweight to Polish influence in Vilna, where Lithuanians made up only a miniscule proportion of Vilna’s population, and which was now proclaimed Lithuania’s capital. They also realized that Jews were an economic asset because of the funds the refugees were receiving from international Jewish organizations. A certain number of these Jewish refugees also succeeded in obtaining travel documents enabling them to move on to Western Europe, Palestine and the Far East. Lithuanian sovereignty in the country’s new capital did not last long. In July 1940, the city, together with the entire country was incorporated as the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic into the Soviet Union. The new authorities proceeded rapidly to Sovietize the area as they had done in the territories they had incorporated into the Soviet Union in September 1939. The role of Jews in the establishment of Soviet rule in Lithuania is controversial.7 Certainly many if not most Jews welcomed the entry of

6

“Moshe Kleinbaum’s Report on Issues in the Former Eastern Polish Territories,” in Norman Davies and Antony Polonsky (eds.) Jews in Eastern Poland and the USSR, 1939-1941, (London, 1991), p. 4.

7

On this see Saulius Suziedelis, ‘Foreign Saviors, Native Disciples: Collaboration in Lithuania, 1940-1945,’ in David Gaunt, Paul A. Levine and Laura Palosuo, eds., Collaboration and Resistance during the Holocaust: Belarus, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania (Frankfurt am Main, 2004), 329 ff.; Joachim Tauber, ‘14 Tage in June: Zur kollektiven Errinerung von Litauen und Juden,’ in Vincas Bartuseviius, Joachim Tauber and Wolfram Wette, comp., Holocaust in Litauen: Krieg,

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Soviet troops, believing, as is clear from this memoir, that the alternative was Nazi rule with the persecution it entailed. Some, like Rachel Margolis, who had been greatly shocked by the poverty and social inequality in Vilna and its surroundings saw the Soviet system as a more moral alternative to post-1935 Poland. A smaller number of Jews were actively involved in the new power apparatus, although the Soviets put most power in the hands of vostochniki (‘Easterners’ – officials from the Soviet Union). They also wanted to give the new order a Lithuanian face and accordingly limited the number of Jews in prominent positions. In addition, the Soviets suppressed all Zionist and Hebrew language institutions and transformed the well-established Yiddish press into an agency of the Communist party. Jewish political figures and those accused of being part of the bourgeoisie made up a substantial part of those deported from Lithuania on the eve of the Nazi invasion. Jews constituted a high proportion of those arrested by the new authorities and made up 13.5 percent of those deported in June 1941. By this time most Jews had lost the illusions they had previously held about the Soviet Union, although it was still clear to them that their fate would be still worse under the Nazis. This was not however how many Lithuanians saw the situation. They held the Jews responsible for the new order and accused them of treason in a moment of national disaster. These attitudes were to play an important role in the behavior of a significant part of the Lithuanian population after the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union, which took place on 22 June 1941. The growing anti-Jewish mood among Lithuanians created a negative synergy with the major radicalization of Nazi policy towards the Jews which had occurred in the period since September 1939. Anti-Semitism had always been central to the Weltanschauung of the inner core of the Nazi leadership and to Hitler himself, certainly from his entry into political life in 1919. Although Hitler had been slow to move to a more radical policy on the Jews in the last months before the outbreak of the war, from late 1937 Nazi policy towards the Jews hardened. This was symbolized by the outburst of violence in Judenmorde und Kollaboration im Jahre 1941 (Köln, 2003), 40-50, and Alfonsas Eidintas, ‘Das Stereotyp des ‘jüdischen Kommunisten’ in Litauen 1940-1941,’ in Ibid., 13-25.

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November 1938 in which at least 100 Jews were killed and many synagogues burnt in response to the assassination of a German diplomat by a desperate Jewish youth. The regime was now set in its deep-seated hatred of the Jews and its determination to root out Jewish influence wherever it could achieve this. On 30 January 1939 speaking in the Reichstag, Hitler asserted: ‘If international Jewish financial circles (internationale Finanzjudentum) plunge the world into war the results will not be the bolshevization of the earth and thus victory for Jewry but the annihilation of the Jews as a race in Europe.’8 It only required the outbreak of war and the further freeing of the Nazi leadership from the taboos of civilization to open the path to genocide. This war was marked by an open exultation on the part of the Nazis on the possibility for violent and brutal action to destroy their enemies. During this stage of the war, a double process took place, the barbarization of Nazi policy generally and a hardening of policy towards Jews. The barbarization of Nazi policy was seen in the vicious treatment of occupied Poland. In the first year of the war, more than 50,000 people were killed and half a million expelled from the areas incorporated into Germany. In Germany itself there was also an increase in political repression. The death penalty was now introduced for a wide range of offences, including listening to enemy radio broadcasts, economic sabotage, ‘disrupting the armed forces’ and ‘crimes of violence’. At the same time the legal system was brought under much stronger party control. In the ‘Euthanasia’ programme, which was directed against people suffering from incurable mental or physical illnesses, 70-80,000 were killed in Hartheim and elsewhere. In Nazi-occupied Poland, the new regime did not immediately implement the threats of genocide made by Hitler in January 1939, although in sporadic anti-Jewish violence during and after Nazi invasion of Poland in September 1939 about 6,000 Jews lost their lives at Nazi hands. Many synagogues and Jewish libraries were burnt, most notably the famous library of the Khakhmey Lublin Yeshiva.9 Nazi policy for the Jews in occupied Poland 8

Quoted in N. Baynes (ed.), The Speeches of Adolf Hitler, vol. 1, April 1922-August 1939 (London, 1942), 742.

9

On this, see Martin Gilbert, The Holocaust: The Jewish Tragedy (London, 1986), 84-98.

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had been laid down as early as 21 September 1939 by Reinhard Heydrich, head of the Reich Main Security Office (RHSA) which had in that month created a central body under the control of the SS to unite the state and party police. According to Heydrich’s directives, Jews were to be expelled from the area directly incorporated into Germany with the exception of Łódź and concentrated in what was to become the General-Government. In order to control them more easily they were to be concentrated in ghettos. The various Jewish communities would be administered by Jewish councils (Judenräte) which would be ‘fully responsible in the literal sense of the word for the exact and punctual execution of all directives issued or yet to be issued.’10 The freedom of movement of Jews was severely restricted and they were now compelled to wear an armband with the Star of David.11 At this stage, the Nazis had not yet adopted the goal of mass-murder of the Jews. Rather their aim was to impoverish and plunder them, exploiting their labor and being prepared even to consider the possibility of emigration, which was only stopped in practice from the General-Government in the summer of 1940 and prohibited from the Third Reich in November 1941. Jewish conditions were deliberately kept as harsh as possible. By 1941, for instance, the daily food ration for a Jew in Warsaw was 184 calories, compared to 669 for a Pole and 2,613 for a German.12 One aspect of this policy was ghettoization as laid out in Heydrich’s order. This was not necessarily a step towards mass murder and a conflict developed between those who believed that conditions in the ghettos should be as difficult as possible to cause maximum mortality and those who hope to make use of the productive capacity of the Jews for the war effort. The first ghetto was established on 8 October 1939 in Piotrków. In February 1940, a ghetto was established in Łódź (now renamed Litzmannstadt, after a victorious German General from World War I), which before the war

10 For this see Martin Broszat, Nationalsozialistische Polenpolitik 1939-1945, rev. edn. (Munich, 1963), 20-2. 11 The full text of Heydrich’s message to the chiefs of the security police can be found in Władyslaw Bartoszewski and Zofia Lewin (eds), Righteous among Nations (London, 1969), 618-21. 12 E. Duraczynski, Wojna i Okupacja (Warsaw, 1974), 69.

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had contained the second largest Jewish community in Poland. Here more than 165,000 Jews were forced into an area of under 4 sq. km, which was sealed off from the rest of the city in May 1940.13 In March, ghettos were established in Lublin and Kraków and in April in Częstochowa, Radom and Kielce as well as in many smaller towns. In November 1940, the largest ghetto in occupied Poland was established in Warsaw. These years also saw unsuccessful attempts to create a Jewish ‘death reservation’ (Sterbereservat) in the area around Lublin14 and to much effort being devoted after the French capitulation on 25 June 1940 to the question as to whether some sort of Jewish penal colony could be created on the island of Madagascar. The Lublin plan had to be abandoned in spring 1940 and the failure to subdue the United Kingdom ensured a similar fate in the autumn for the Madagascar plan. Yet even as late as 4 December 1940 a memorandum by Adolf Eichmann still talked about the ‘transfer of Jews… to a still-to-be determined territory’15. Such schemes were not clearly illusory and in March 1941 that proposals emanated from Hitler’s office for the forcible sterilization of the Jews in the Nazi sphere of influence.16 Jews with mental and physical disabilities were murdered after July 1940 in the ‘euthanasia’ campaign while in April 1941, the murder of disabled or undesirable prisoners in concentration camps also led to many Jewish deaths. It was the invasion of the Soviet Union on 22 June 1941 that opened the way to genocide. The conflict which followed was seen as an ideological 13 On Piotrków, see Gilbert, The Holocaust, 96, 103. On Łódź, L. Dobroszycki (ed.), The Chronicle of the Lodz Ghetto 1941-44 (London, 1984). 14 First cited in Eichmann’s proposal to Himmler of 4 December 1940 in Susanne Heim and Götz Aly, Bevolkerungsstruktur und Massenmord. Neue Dokumente zur deutschen Politik der Jahre 1938-1945: Beitrage zur nationalsozialistischen Gesundheits- und Sozialpolitik, 9 (Berlin, 1991), 26 ff; Richard Breitman, The Architect of Genocide. Himmler and the Final Solution (Hanover/London, 1991), 201; and Dieter Pohl, Die Ursachen, das Geschehen, die Folgen Holocaust (Freiburg, 2000), 58. 15 Quoted in Shaul Friedlander, The Years of Extermination: Nazi Germany and the Jews, 19391945 (New York: 2007) 92. 16 See the preface in Peter Witte et al, eds., Der Dienstkalender Heinrich Himmlers 1941/42. (Hamburg, 1999), 69 ff.

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crusade and a war of extermination (Vernichtungskrieg). According to Army High Command’s ‘Information for the Troops’ of June 1941: ...anyone who has once looked into the face of a Red Commissar knows what Bolsheviks are...It would be insulting animals if you described these mostly Jewish features as animal-like.17

Hitler and his circle saw the war as the opportunity to carry out an even more radical ethnic reshaping of the areas east of Germany than that attempted in the Polish areas directly incorporated into the Third Reich. General Plan Ost, formulated in early 1941, envisaged massive German settlement in the areas they hoped to conquer which would be made possible by the expulsion or starvation of ‘31 million Slavs’ and, presumably, by the elimination of most of the local Jews. In addition, the awareness that Germany was fighting a war of attrition and the memory of the hardships created by the blockade during the First World War meant that Nazi strategy was based on the rapid conquest of the Soviet Union and the seizure of its resources, above all grain and oil, which would be needed for the war with the British Empire and, in the future, the United States. The strategy of Blitzkrieg meant that the German army would have to live off the land and, inevitably, deprive the local population of food, so that many were expected to die of starvation. Terror would be necessary to ensure the provision of food for the army and the German home front and also because of the shortage of German personnel to carry out the grandiose plans of the Third Reich. Moreover, German military strategy had long been based on the principle that pre-emptive action was necessary to forestall civilian resistance. These conditions made possible the adoption of a policy of genocide. By now the policies adopted by the Nazis towards congenitally ill and insane people and Soviet prisoners of war had led to the development of a technology of mass murder. The gas chamber, the characteristic instrument of

17 Quoted in Das Deutsche Reich und der Zweite Weltkrieg, volume 4, Der Angriff auf die Sowjetunion (eds, Horst Boog et al, Stuttgart, 1983), 442.

23

INTRODUCTION –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

the Nazi anti-Jewish genocide, with its employment of industrial technology, its practice of disinformation and deceit and its avoidance of the need for the murderers to be personally involved in the shedding of blood was first tried in Germany in the ‘euthanasia’ programme. In September 1941 experiments with Zyklon B gas were carried out on Soviet prisoners of war in Auschwitz. There was also much interchange of personnel between these programmes and those later involved in the mass murder of the Jews. Although a policy of genocide had not yet been adopted as part of the planning of Operation Barbarossa, its planners clearly envisaged mass killings of Jews and other civilians. In order to avoid those conflicts between the Wehrmacht, the SS and the civilian authorities which had dogged the September campaign in Poland, agreement between these bodies was reached before the invasion on the abrogation of international norms on the conduct of war.18 The ideological character of the war in the East meant that the Commanders of the Wehrmacht were willing to cooperate with the Nazis’ plans in the East. Thus, in accordance with Hitler’s instructions in March 1941, Reinhard Heydrich, the Head of the RSHA and Kurt Daluege, the Chief of the German Order Police (Ordnungspolizei), was able to reach an accord with the Wehrmacht on their relative spheres of competence in the areas to be conquered.19 This led to the promulgation of a series of orders, among them the Order Concerning the Exercise of Martial Jurisdiction and Procedure in Area ‘Barbarossa’ (Gerichtsbarkeitserlass), the Directives for the Behavior of the Troops in Russia (Richtlinien für die Truppe) and the Commissar Order (Kommissarbefehl). The first of these, issued by the Armed Forces High Command (Oberkommando der Wehrmacht – OKW) on 13 May 1941, abolished the jurisdiction of courts martial in the case of ‘criminal activities of enemy civilians’ authorizing officers to take ‘violent collective measures’ against areas from 18 On this see the new catalogue of teh exhibition, Verbrcchen der Wehrmacht (Hamburg, 2002), 16-36. 19 Hitler on 3 March 1941, OKW, Kriegstagebuch (henceforth - KTB), Bd. 1, 341; Heydrich Statement of 26 March 1941; Hitler on 30 March 1941 Halder KTB, Bd. 2, 336 ff. Quoted in Christoph Dieckmann and Saulius Suziedelis, The Persecution and Mass Murder of Lithuanian Jews During the Summer and Fall of 1941 (Vilnius, 2006), 111.

24

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which the Wehrmacht was attacked. 20 The directives for the behavior of the army instructed soldiers to ‘to take ruthless and decisive actions against the Bolshevik rabble-rousers, partisans, Jews and totally destroy any active or passive resistance.’21 The ‘Commissar Order’ (Kommissarbefehl) issued on 6 June 1941 laid down that the ideological functionaries of the Red Army (Commissars) and Jews in its ranks were not to be recognized as soldiers. On the battlefield, they were to be executed by the Army, while behind the lines they were to be dealt with by the Einsatzgruppen of the Security Police and SS.22 These Einsatzgruppen, which had been used on a smaller scale in the Polish campaign of 1939, were to carry out the ideological tasks of the Nazi regime, above all in relation to Jews. In the spring of 1941, four battalionsize units of these special militarized police, numbering initially around 4000 men, were set up and were given special orders for the liquidation during the campaign of potentially hostile elements.23 They were supplemented by several brigades of Waffen SS troops, subordinated directly to Himmler, and thirty to forty battalions of the German Order Police under the command of the Higher SS and Police Leaders. In the course of the year the numbers of the Einsatzgruppen increased to 60,000. Their tasks were set out in two messages sent by Heydrich to the Einsatzgruppen and

20 Erlaß uber die Ausübung der Kriegsgerichtsbarkeit im Gebiet ‘Barbarossa’ und über besondere Maßnahmen der Truppe, BA-MA, RW 4/v. 577, Bl. 72-74, quoted in Dieckmann and Suziedelis, 111. 21 Richtlinien für das Verhalten der Truppe in Russland, 19 May 1941, BA-MA, RW 4/v. 524, Bl. 13 ff, quoted in Dieckmann and Suziedelis, 111. 22 Richtlinien für die Behandlung politischer Kommissare, 6 June 1941, BA-MA, RW 4/v. 578, Bl. 42-44, quoted in Dieckmann and Suziedelis, 111-112. 23 On the Einsatzgruppen, see Helmut Krausnick and Hans-Heinrich Wilhelm, Die Truppe des Weltanschauungskrieges: Die Einsatzgruppen der Sicherheitspolizei und des SD (Stuttgart, 1981), see also Richard Rhodes, Masters of Death: The SS Einsatzgruppen and the Invention of theHolocaust (New York, 2002); Peter Klein (ed.), Die Einsatzgruppen in der besetzten Sowjetun ion 1941/42. Die Tätigkeits- und Lageberichte des Chefs der Sicherheitspolizei und des SD (Berlin, 1997); Alexander B. Rossino, Hitler Strikes Poland: Blitzkrieg, Ideology, and Atrocity (Lawrence, KS, 2003) and Michael Wildt, Generation des Unbedingten. Das Führungskorps des Reichssicherheitshauptamtes (Hamburg, 2002), 419-485

25

INTRODUCTION –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

to the Higher SS and Police Leaders shortly after outbreak of the war.24 On 29 June 1941 Heydrich wrote to the Einsatzgruppen commanders drawing their attention to the ‘the verbal instructions already issued in Berlin on 17 June’ and reminding them that [t]he self-cleansing attempts of local anti-Communist and anti-Jewish circles within the newly occupied territories should in no way be hindered. On the contrary, they must be encouraged, of course, without leaving a trace, and even intensified, and when necessary, directed onto the right path, but in such a way, that the local ‘self-defense units’ could not later refer to orders or openly proclaimed political goals. [...] The creation of permanent self-defense units under a centralized leadership must be initially avoided; instead it is advisable, as noted before, to encourage local pogroms.25

In his note to senior SS and Police officers in the occupied Soviet Union of 2 July 1941 repeated the terms of the ‘commissar order’ of 6 June 1941 and singled out for execution ‘Jews holding certain positions in the Party and state institutions’.26 These orders were somewhat vague calling for the liquidation of ‘other radical elements and the like’ and they were almost certainly supplemented by an oral briefing to Einsatzgruppen and Einsatzkommano officers in Berlin on 17 June 1941,27 as is suggested by the message of 6 August 1941 from Franz Walter Stahlecker, the commander of Einsatzgruppe A, which refers to the ‘basic orders of a higher institution to the Security Police not expressed in writing’,28 these probably involved the murder of able-bodied 24 Orders Nr. 1 and 2 to the EG Commanders, 20 June and 2 July 1941, published in Klein, Einsatzgruppen, 318-321. 25 Heydrich to the EG Commanders, Einsatzbefehl Nr. 1, published in Peter Longerich, Der Ermordung der europaischen Juden. Ein umfassende Dokumentation des Holocaust, 19411945 (Munich, 1989), 118 ff. 26 Heydrich to the HSSPF, 2 July 1941, BA, R 70 Sowjetunion 15, Bl. 6-10, also published in Klein, Einsatzgruppen, 323-328. 27 There are no statements from that time about this meeting, only the testimonies of the postwar period. See Wildt. Generation, 557. 28 Statement of EG A Commander, 6 August 1941, Latvijas Valsts Vėstures Arhivs [Latvian State Historical Archive, LVVA], P 1026-1-3, Bl. 237-239; cf. Ereignismeldung (henceforth - EM) 17, 9 July 1941, quoted in Dieckmann and Suziedelis, 113.

26

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Jewish men of military service age. Other Jewish men, women and children do not seem yet to have been singled out for murder.29 How was the policy of killing adult Jewish men and commissars expanded during the first months of the war to include women and children? Certainly it now seems that the issue, which was much disputed in the 70s and 80s, of whether genocide evolved piecemeal as a result of the problems faced by Nazi bureaucrats on the ground or was the result of a policy initiated by Hitler himself, set out in an order or orders issued from his Chancellory and communicated to his subordinates, is played out. There is general agreement that Hitler was primary in Nazi decision-making and that it was he, above all, who decided to ‘solve’ the ‘Jewish problem’ by a policy of mass murder. A crucial role was played by Nazi ideology, in particular the idea of the Volksgemeinschaft, (German national solidarity) which gained a substantial degree of popular support in Germany under the Nazis and which paved the way for the acceptance of a policy first of the expulsion of the Jews and then of mass murder by a large majority of the German people. At the same time, local bureaucrats, the most zealous exponents of this ideology, often took decisions without clear authorization from Berlin, knowing that their initiatives would be subsequently approved. Certainly, the killing of Jewish men went well beyond Heydrich’s written order of 2 July 1941 to kill Jews in Party and state positions. In addition, as early as 28 June 1941, captured Jewish soldiers were being executed. Some Einsatzgruppe commanders wanted to go still further, In his first report of 15 October 1941 Stahlecker wrote that ‘While implementing the order, the Security Police was resolved to use all expedient means to solve the Jewish question’. The goal was to ‘to implement the cleansing task as quickly as possible’ … ‘the aim of the cleansing executed by the Security Police was to liquidate as many Jews as possible.’30

29 Tilsit Gestapo to RSHA, 1 July 1941, ZStL, Sammlung UdSSR, Ordner 245 Ag, Nr. 254257, BI. 2-5, quoted in Dieckmann and Suziedelis, 113. 30 Gesamtarbeit der Einsatzgruppe A bis 15.10.1941, Special Archive-Moscow, 500-4-93, quoted in Dieckmann and Suziedelis, 114.

27

INTRODUCTION –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Was the adoption of a policy of total extermination a result of the euphoria of victory? Or was it the consequence of the setback caused by the failure to take Moscow, the first check to the Blitzkrieg and of the view that the Jews should be punished for the failure of the Nazi war, a view most recently advanced by Arno Mayer and the Swiss historian, Philippe Burrin, and earlier by Uwe Adam, Martin Broszat and Wolfgang Mommsen? It does seem that Nazi policy was radicalized in ‘quantum leaps’ in the first months of Operation Barbarossa. The most convincing account of this problem is that provided by Christopher Browning, who argues that between 16 September, when the Germans completed the encirclement of Kiev and 18 October, when the last resistance ended in Bryansk, Hitler approved the deportation of Jews to the east, the first practical steps for the construction of the death camps of Bełżec and Chelmno were taken, the first Jewish transports departed for Łódż and Jewish emigration from Europe was banned. These were clear signs that a policy of mass murder had been embarked on.31 The path was now open to genocide. It was carried out in three stages. In the first, mobile killing squads, the Einsatzgruppen, advanced behind the Wehrmacht, killing Soviet officials and first Jewish adult men and then, after a period, also Jewish women and children. Between 800,000 and one million Jews were killed in this way between July and December 1941. This method of murder was now largely abandoned, above all because of its deleterious effect on the morale of those required to carry it out. It was replaced, in the second stage, by the creation of death camps, where assembly line techniques of mass murder were developed using first carbon monoxide and then an insecticide, Zyklon B. During this period of the genocide, which came to an end in late 1942, the Germans were operating in areas where there was no limitation on their absolute freedom of action, when their power was at its height and the ability of the Allies or the subject populations under the control of the Third Reich to exercise influence on their behavior was minimal. Most of the actual genocide was also at this stage carried out by Germans. It was during this period that at least 31 See Christopher Browning (with contributions by Jurgen Matthaus), The Origins of the Final Solution: the Evolution of Nazi Policy, September 1939-March 1942 (Lincoln, 2004).

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another 2.7 million Jews were murdered. In the third stage of the genocide, which lasted until the end of the war, the Nazis found themselves obliged to persuade or coerce their allies, satellites and puppets in the New Europe to hand over their Jews. By this time, both these governments, the Western Allies and virtually everybody else in Nazi occupied Europe knew that Nazi policy towards the Jews involved genocide and were obliged to articulate some sort of response. The total number of those murdered in this way is now accepted to be around six million. During the first phase of the genocide, it seems clear that the SS, the body entrusted with carrying out policy towards the Jews, was not sure how to proceed. They were eager to exploit anti-Jewish resentments among the local population and to see whether these could be harnessed to their purposes. This was clear in Heydrich’s instructions to the Einsatzgruppen commanders of 29 June and was also referred to in Stahlecker’s already cited report of 15 October 1941 in which he wrote: It was unwelcome that the Sicherheitspoltzei [SS] should be seen involved with actions which were in fact exceptionally harsh and which were bound to create shock in German circles. It was necessary to demonstrate that the indigenous population had taken the first measures on its own initiative as a national reaction to decades of Jewish oppression and communist terror.32

The fateful combination of local anti-Jewish hatred and Nazi incitement led to a wave of massacres from Latvia in the north to Romania in the south in the weeks after the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union. In Lithuania the retreat of the Red Army and an anti-Soviet rebellion created conditions of chaos and lawlessness in which there was considerable anti-Jewish violence even before the arrival of the Germans. Dov Levin has claimed that such violence occurred on a significant scale in at least forty places but remains unproved. As elsewhere, the worst violence at this state occurred shortly after the arrival of the German military and the Nazi

32 Nuremberg Documents, 180-L, 1MG, vol. 37, p. 672, quoted in Christian Streit, “Wehrmacht Einsatzgruppen, Soviet POWs and anti-Bolshevisim in the emergence of the Final Solution” in David Cesarani (ed.), The Final Solution: Origins and Implementation (London, 1994), 104-5.

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INTRODUCTION –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

security police. Systematically organized shootings occurred in towns on the German-Lithuanian border, most notably in Garžgdai, Kretinga, Palanga, Skuodas, Tauragė, Jurbarkas, Marijampolė and other small villages, and were carried out by the German Security Police with the assistance of locals and auxiliary police formations. Large-scale anti-Jewish violence occurred on 25-26 June in Kaunas in the largely Jewish area of Vilijampolė and brutal murders accompanied by the bestial maltreatment of the victims also occurred in Lietūkis garage in Kaunas on 27 June. These were carried out predominantly carried out by Lithuanian volunteers with the encouragement of the German Security Police. Kidnapping and killing on a smaller scale took place in Vilnius, where the perpetrators were also Lithuanian, with the incitement of Sonderkommando 7a and Einsatzkommando 3. In addition several hundred Jews were murdered in Žemaitija, above all in the town of Šiauliai by Einsatzkommando B and local Lithuanian partisans. According to the International Commission for the Evaluation of the Crimes of the Nazi and Soviet Occupation Regimes in Lithuania: During the first two weeks of the German occupation approximately 6,000 Jews were killed in Kaunas. Adding the victims of the early killings in the border areas, in Šiauliai and other places, an estimate of 8,000 to 10,000 victims, mostly Jewish men, seems appropriate.33

Massacres took place in a more organized fashion after the formation of the Lithuanian auxiliary police. They were now carried out by militarized police units, formally reporting to the Lithuanian Commandant of Kaunas but under the command of the German Security Police, particularly Einsatzkommando C. The worst of these massacres, in which perhaps 6,000 Jewish men perished, took place on 4 and 6 July 1941 at the Seventh Fort in Kaunas. The International Commission concludes that although it is impossible to provide exact figures, ‘[u]ntil the middle of August 1941, that is, before the murder of whole communities commenced, the estimate of 15,000 Jewish men and 1,000 Jewish women seems reasonable.’

33 For this report, see Dieckmann and Suziedelis, 277-280.

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Inevitably the Jews of Vilna were drastically affected by these developments. On 24 June 1941, two days after the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union, the city of was occupied by German troops. At this time, the local Jewish community, including the refugees still numbered perhaps as many as seventy thousand, barely three thousand having been able to flee with the departing Soviet forces. The German troops were accompanied by a unit of the German security forces, Einsatzkommando 9. In July 1941, this unit together with a Lithuanian Special Formation, the Ypatingas Burys murdered around ten thousand Jews in the forest of Ponary, close to Vilna where the Soviets had laid the foundations for tanks for storing aviation fuel.34Those murdered were stripped, divided into men and women before being shot into these large concrete holes in the ground. A graphic account of the murder here, over the next three years of at least 60,000 Jews as well as smaller numbers of Russian prisoners of war and Poles is provided in the diary of Kazimierz Sakowicz, a Polish journalist who lived in the vicinity of the killing fields. It was Rachel Margolis who discovered this diary and organized its publication in Polish.35 In the following month, a German civilian administration for the town was set up under ‘Gebietskommissar’ Hans Hingst, to whom were subordinated German and Lithuanian police forces. A series of restrictions were imposed on the local Jews. They were compelled to wear a yellow Star of David and forbidden to use the pavements, the public parks, the larger squares in the town and to travel of public transportation. They were subject to a curfew and could only buy food in certain designated shops at restricted times.36

34 Criminal proceedings of the state prosecutor in Frankfurt am Main in the matter of the murder of Lithunanian Jews 1941-44, sygn. akt 4Js 1106/59; quoted in Ełżbieta Rojowska, ‘The Vilna Ghetto’, article prepared for the US Holocaust Memorial Musuem Encyclopedia of Camps and Ghettos, unpublished. 35 Kazimierz Sakowicz, Ponary Diary, 1941-1943: A Bystander’s Account of a Mass Murder (New Haven, 2005). 36 ‘Gesamtaufstellung der im Bereich des EK 3 bis zum 1 Dez 1941 durchgeführten Exekutionen’, Central Lithuanian State Archive, FR 677 Ap1 B l1 L1… 691 Ap… L 3… R 1436 A… 38 L 91… 689 A… 2 L 19… 691 -s Ap 1, B 28 L 109, quoted in Rojowska.

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In August 1941 the Einsatzkommando 3 began executions in the city According to the report of its commander, Karl Jaeger in the next three month 21,105 Jews, mostly women and children, were murdered.37 This was followed by the establishment of two separate ghettos in September. Nominally subject to the German city government, they were in fact administered by German and Lithuanian security police receiving their orders from Einsatzkommando 3 in Kaunas.38 Anyone with more than three Jewish grandparents, who had one or two grandparents of Jewish origin and had been a member of the Jewish religious community since June 20, 1941 or was married to a Jew was classed as a Jew and obliged to live in them.39 Resettlement took place on 6 and 7 September and Jews were able to take with them only a small amount of household goods. For the most part, the non-Jewish population (overwhelmingly Polish) greeted with satisfaction the establishment of the ghettos, though there were also cases of people who expressed sympathy for the Jews in their plight.40 In the two ghettos, some forty thousand Jews were compelled to live in a territory where about four thousand people had lived previously. The small ghetto was located on Antokolska and Żydowska Streets and on parts of Gaon and Szklanna Streets. The larger included the streets Aszmanios, Dzisnos, Ligonines, Rudnicka, Straszuna and parts of the Arklu, Karmelicka, Lidos and Zawalna Streets. The living space available was between one and two square meters per person. The ghetto was cut off from the outside by a barbed-wire fence and the windows and doors of houses which faced the outside of the ghetto were walled up. There was no telephone or mail contact with the outside world. The only gate into the ghetto was on Rudnicka

37 Maria Wardzyńska, Sytuacja Ludności Polskiej w Generalnym Komisariacie Litwy czerwiec 1941- lipiec 1944, (Warsaw, 1993) 161-169 38 Centralne Państwowe Archiwum Litewskie FR 685 A… 28 L 8… 626 A… 14 L 182, Postępowanie karne Prokuratury we Frankfurcie nad Menem, sygn .akt 4Js 1106/59 w sprawie zamordowania litewskich Żydów w latach 1941-1944, quoted in Rojowska. 39 Centralne Państwowe Archiwum FR 691 A… 2…, quoted in Rojowska. 40 Centralne Państwowe Archiwum Litewskie… 689 Ap1 B 10 L 33,… R 689 A… 10 L 15… 689 A… 10 L 4… 689 Ap1 B 10 L 38 a, FR 689 Ap1 B 10 L 37… 689 Ap1 B 10 L 18… 689 A… 10 L 9… 689 Ap1 B 10 34, quoted in Rojowska.

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Street, which was guarded on the inside by the Jewish police set up by the Nazis and on the outside first by a Lithuanian Self-Defense Unit and from August 1943, the local Lithuanian police force.41 As in other ghettos, the Nazis set up a Jewish council (Judenrat) to carry out their orders. The members of the first Jewish council, set up soon after the Nazi conquest of Vilna were murdered in Ponary (Yiddish: Ponar) and a second council was set up in September. Those who served on the Jewish Council hoped in this way to mitigate the harshness of German rule, but found themselves in a very difficult position, since they had virtually no freedom of manoeuvre and were blamed by the ghetto inhabitants for the harsh orders they were compelled to implement. This was even more the case with the ghetto police which the Germans set up. Food was severely rationed. According to the Jewish Council in October 1941, the daily food ration was one hundred grammes of potatoes, fifty grammes of cabbage, and fifty grammes of carrots.42 Nine months later, on 9 April 1942, on the basis of a ruling of the General Commissioner in Kaunas, the District Commissioner of the city of Vilna laid down that ghetto inhabitants who were working were to receive, in lieu of wages, the full bread ration assigned to the rest of the population. Those working in plants important for the war effort received the entire ration. Those not working received half the bread ration.43 The population of the ghetto was constantly reduced by mass executions, mostly of those unable to work. In some cases smaller groups of around a thousand persons were murdered but there were also larger Aktionen. Thus on 1 October 1941, the day before Yom Kippur, several thousand Jews were taken to Ponary and murdered. In mid-October 1941, the small ghetto was liquidated, and those living there, fifteen thousand in all, murdered in Ponary. Larger and smaller groups of people were murdered in this way, culminating in the large Aktion of 20 and 21 December in which, another fifteen thousand

41 Centralne Państwowe Archiwum Litewski… 689 A… 950 L 518-L519, postępowanie karne Sądu Krajowego w Wuerzburgu sygn. akt Ks 15/49 przeciwko Martinowi Weissowi i Augustowi Herringowi, quoted in Rojowska. 42 Centralne Państwowe Archiwum Litewski… R 614 A… 286 L 70, quoted in Rojowska. 43 Centralne Państwowe Archiwum Litewskie… 626 A… 14 L 120, quoted in Rojowska.

33

INTRODUCTION –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Jews lost their lives.44 Thus By 23 December, of nearly 60,000 Jews living in the city on before the Nazi invasion, 33,500 had been murdered. The large ghetto housed about 20,000 persons in early 1942. The period between July and December 1941 also saw the mass murder of the overwhelming majority of Lithuanian Jewry outside Vilna. From early August, the Nazis and their Lithuanian allies began an escalating campaign of mass detentions and shootings which started with the isolation, concentration and expropriation of the victims which was carried out jointly by the German and Lithuanian civilian and police administrations. The actual killings were organized by the head of the police in occupied Lithuania (SS und Polizeiführer Litauen) and were for the most part carried out by two Einsatzgruppen (numbers 2 and 3), with ‘extensive support from the headquarters of the Lithuanian Police Department in Kaunas, local precincts, German and Lithuanian police battalion personnel and local volunteers’.45 The International Commission concludes that ‘the number of Jewish victims between August and December 1941 to be about 130,000 to 140,000.’ (A slightly higher death figure was given by the German civilian administration which estimated the number of murdered Jews on the eve of the destruction of the Vilnius ghetto in September 1943 as 156,000.) By December 1941 approximately 40,000 Lithuanian Jews survived in ghettos and work-camps and from now until September 1943, a degree of stability was established in the ghettos which, along with that in Vilna, were established in of Kaunas, Šiauliai and Asmena (Oszmiana), although, as in Vilna, there were periodic selections and murders. The International Commission has set out the agencies and institutions responsible for the ‘definition (marking), expropriation, concentration and, finally, the extermination of the victims’. The most important German agencies were: a) The German Security Police and SD structures mentioned above; 44 Postępowanie karne Prokuratury we Frankfurcie nad Menem , sygn .akt 4Js 1106/59 w sprawie zamordowania litewskich Żydów w latach 1941-1944, quoted in Rojowska. 45 “Conclusions of the International Commission for the Evaluation of the Crimes of the Nazi and Soviet Regimes in Lithuania,” in Dieckmann and Suziedelis, 279.

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b) The Wehrmacht, principally the 207th, 281st, 285th and 403rd Security Divisions, and the Feldkommandanturen; c) German Police Battalions, primarily the 11th Battalion; in addition, the 65’’, 105th and 131st Battalions also operated in Lithuania and participated in the detention and murder of Jews; d) The German Civilian Administration (Zivilverwaltung), including the political and economic departments as well as the labor department (Arbeitsamt), were involved in the process of destruction.

The German agencies, which controlled the scale and pace of the genocide, made use of a number of Lithuanian paramilitary, police and administrative organizations in the persecution and mass murder of the Jews. Among these were: a) Elements of irregular forces which arose spontaneously or were quickly organize the outset of the war; b) Units of the TDA (Tautinia darbo apsauga), later termed the Self-Defense Battalions, a known in the literature as the Schutzmannschaften, which played a significant role in the Holocaust, participating in the killings of Jews not only in Lithuania, but in other countries as well especially Belarussia and Ukraine; c) The Police Department headquartered in Kaunas and much of the local constabulary across the country; d) Agents and officers of the Lithuanian Security Police; e) Significant elements of the Lithuanian civilian administration.

Several of the sub-units of the organizational categories listed above played a disproportionate role in mass executions, including the Klimaitis gang during the first days of the war, Rollkommando centred in Kaunas, and the Ypatingasis burys in Vilnius. At the same time considerably larger number of local auxiliaries took part in sporadic actions and served secondary roles – guarding detainees, securing the perimeters of killing operations and hunting Jews in hiding. It is difficult to give figures for the number of murderers, but one estimate gives 4,000 Germans and 10,000 Lithuanians, although this may be too high. 35

INTRODUCTION –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The commission concluded that: While it is difficult to quantify, the attitude and mind-set of the population at large towards the murder of the Jews was an important factor in the progress of the genocide… It also provided a damning assessment of the Lithuanian Provisional Government: The highest Lithuanian civilian authority, the Lithuanian Provisional Government (PG and its cohort, the Vilnius Citizens’ Committee, played a controversial, if less direct role, in the process of persecution and destruction. The PG’s ambiguous position emanated from the paradoxical political morass in which it found itself: the regime, such as it was, claimed sovereignty but never effectively exercised power. However, the anti-Semitic attitudes of the LAF and PG have been well-documented The most comprehensive expression of the PG’s official anti-Semitism was the draft of the ,Regulations on the Situation of the Jews’ (Žydų padėties nuostatai) of 1 August 1941. But the cabinet, even as it approved decrees segregating and expropriating the Jews, avoided endorsing public organized slaughter. The PG, which claimed to speak on behalf of the nation and more than once insisted on its own moral authority, did not publicly disassociate itself from the murder of Lithuania‘s Jewish citizens.46

From December 1941 the situation in the Vilna ghetto stabilized for about eighteen month. Its residents were still subject to savage repression and many were executed for such ‘crimes’ as food smuggling, the use of false documents or attempts to escape from the ghetto.47 The Germans also used collective punishment in the case of such infractions of their regulations. Thus, in October 1943, when David Zalkind with the assistance of a Jewish policeman escaped from the ghetto with his wife, thirty people at the labor camp where he was working, the HKP (Heereskraftwagenpark, Army Motor Pool) were executed along with five Jewish policemen. Zalkind himself was also recaptured and hanged.48 46 Ibid, 279-280. 47 Centralne Państwowe Archiwum Litewski… 730 A… 84 L 112,… 1673 Ap1 B 1885… 1673 Ap1 B 3313… 1673 Ap1 B 526… 1673 A… 1151, quoted in Rojowska. 48 Centralne Państwowe Archiwum Litewski… 1399 A… 2 L 57, quoted in Rojowska.

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Jews hoped that by working for the Germans they would ensure their survival. The hiring of Jews was controlled by the Vilna Labor Administration Office. Jews who had the appropriate documents were escorted by the police who controlled the ghetto to go to their places of work. The police commando in charge of the ghetto exit had to organize each week a list of the number of the Jews requested by different companies. On the basis of these lists, the organized convoys of Jews to their places of work.49 Jews worked in factories producing fur products, in the Army Motor Pool and in two labor camps one close to the military hospital on Antokolska Street, the other under the control of the German Security Police. In addition, Jews were employed outside Vilna digging for peat and by the Giessler company which built and repaired railway tracks for the German military.50 The policy of preserving the ghetto remnant through work is identified with the controversial figure of Jacob Gens, the head of the Jewish police, who was appointed ‘ghetto head’ by the Germans. This made him responsible to the German authorities for law and order in the ghetto. The Jewish Council he now controlled established a number of departments to administer the ghetto, a police department; a labor department to supervise the provision of workers to the Germans, a supply and distribution department responsible primarily for food supplies, a health department, which established a hospital, medical services and children’s care, a housing department, which also included a sanitation and sewage disposal section, a social welfare department, providing aid for the needy in the form of food, clothing and shelter and a cultural department, which coordinated the activities of schools, theaters, an orchestra and choirs. The Jewish council also organized a library, archives, a bureau of statistics, a bookstore, a museum, and a wall bulletin, Getto Yedies, that contained announcements and regulations issued by the council. The ghetto was also the scene of an active cultural and religious life. 49 Centralne Państwowe Archiwum Litewskie FR 1550 Ap… L 198, quoted in Rojowska. 50 Centralne Państwowe Archiwum Litewskie FR 1550 Ap… L 198, quoted in Rojowska.

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Gens saw himself increasingly in exaggerated terms as the saviour of the Jews. This speech delivered in the coffeehouse at the presentation of a literary prize was typical: Many of you think of me as a traitor, and wonder what I am doing here among you at ghetto literary gatherings. I, Gens, order you to uncover your hiding places; I, Gens, struggle to obtain work certificates, jobs, and benefits for the ghetto. I take count of Jewish blood, not of Jewish honor. When the Germans ask me for a thousand persons, I hand them over, for if we Jews will not give them on our own. The Germans will come and take them by force. Then they will take not one thousand but thousands, and the whole ghetto will be at their mercy. With hundreds, I save a thousand; with the thousands that I hand over, I save ten thousands. You are refined, learned people, you do not come in contact with the ghetto scum. You will come out with your hands clean. If you survive, you will be able to say, Our conscience is clear. But, I, Jacob Gens, if I survive, I shall come out of here unclean, my hands dripping with blood. Nevertheless, I shall willingly declare before a Jewish court: I did my best to rescue as many Jews as I could to bring them to the gate of redemption. I was forced to lead some to their death in order that a small remnant may survive; in order to have others emerge with a clear conscience, I had to befoul myself and act without conscience.51

In January 1942 the ‘Fareynikte Partizaner Organizatsye’ (United Partisan Organization – FPO) was established to coordinate resistance to the Germans and their collaborators, It brought together Zionists, Bundists and Communists under the leadership of the communist Izaak Wittenberg. His deputies were the Zionists, Aba Kovner and JÓzef Glazman. The resistance movement had regular contact with the Jewish police from whom it received financial support. They hoped to seize ammunition and armed in this way, break out of the ghetto and lead its inhabitants into the forests around Vilna. In spring 1943, the FPO began to engage in active resistance in the ghetto, a policy which was opposed by Gens. On 5 July Wittenberg

51 Moreshet archive, Givat haviva, Israel, D 1.1. 1920, quoted in Yehuda Bauer, A History of the Holocaust (new edition, New York: 2001), 178.

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was arrested, but while he was being taken out of the ghetto, the FPO attacked his guard and freed him. The Germans threatened to destroy the ghetto and murder all its inhabitants unless he was handed over and the underground ordered the mobilization of all its units in preparation for an all-out clash with the Germans. However, ghetto opinion was against armed resistance, hoping to survive by working for the Germans. After long and difficult discussions within the FPO, Wittenberg was persuaded to give himself up to the Germans and was murdered by the Gestapo. Margolis describes the guilt felt by his followers in the FPO at their role in his giving himself up. His successor as head of the FPO was Aba Kovner, a left-wing Zionist. His deputy was JÓzef Glazman, a right-wing Zionist. The FPO now decided to move to the forests but the first group of fighters attempting to leave was ambushed and the savage reprisals taken by the Germans led the remainder of the group to remain in the ghetto. On 21 June 1943 Himmler ordered the liquidation of all ghettos in ‘Ostland’, the area north-east of the Generalgouvernment. In early July, the camps and workshops at the fur factory, the military car pool (HKP), the Security Police and the hospital were liquidated. The Jews working at these places were murdered in Ponary and the 9th fort in Kaunas.52 On 1 September 1943, the ghetto was sealed off and German soldiers entered the ghetto. The FPO mobilized at once, and fighting broke out in several areas of the ghetto. In one battle Yehiel Sheinboim, whose group had earlier favored fighting in the forests, lost his life. Gens intervened with the Germans and persuaded them to leave if violence ended. Between 1 and 4 September an additional 8,000 Jews were deported to labor camps in Estonia. Around 200 ghetto fighters were able to make their way to the Soviet partisans in the forests. The respite did not last long. On 15 September the ghetto was again surrounded, but the Germans withdrew when they learned that the remaining

52 Arunas Bubnys, Massacre of Vilnius Jews and Vilnius Ghetto/1941-1944/, “Genocidas ir rezistencija “ 2003 Nr.2/14/; Postępowanie karne Prokuratury we Frankfurcie nad Menem, sygn .akt 4Js 1106/59 w sprawie zamordowania litewskich Żydów w latach 1941-1944, quoted in Rojowska.

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FPO fighters were again mobilizing for battle. On the same day, they accused Gens of assisting the underground. To prevent reprisals against the population of the ghetto, he gave himself up and was shot. The final liquidation of the ghetto took place on 23 and 24 September, with the assistance of Estonian, Lithuanian, Latvian and Belarusian police units. At this time the FPO was able to evacuate its remaining fighters, numbering nearly 100, through the sewers.53 The majority of the twelve to fifteen thousand Jews in the ghetto were sent to camps in Latvia and Estonia, An additional five and seven thousand people, mostly women and children, were sent to concentration camps on German territory, where they were murdered, while a fair number of older or sick people were shot in Ponary. The remaining ghettos in Kaunas, Šiauliai and Asmena were also now liquidated. Resistance continued in the forests until liberation. Soviet partisan activity had begun in the Narocz forest some 60 miles east of Vilna in 1942 under the command of Fiodor Markov. The first group of Jewish partisans which reached this group was that of Józef Glazman. Initially, Markov had allowed the establishment of separate Jewish units, but this was opposed by Klimov, Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in Wilejka, on the grounds that partisan formations should be organized on a territorial and not at ethnic basis and the Jewish partisans were thus merged with the local units. In summer 1943, the activity of the partisans in the Narocz forest was strengthened by the arrival of Genrikas Zimanas (Jurgis) and M. Szumauskas, who were parachuted in from the Soviet Union. In Autumn 1943, Zimanas moved to the Rudnicki forest some 25 miles south of Vilna to start partisan activity here. The partisan war here was a bitter three-way conflict between the Soviet Lithuanian partisans who included significant numbers of Jews, the Polish Home Army (Armia Krajowa), which laid claim to the area around Vilna, and the Lithuanian local police force supported by their German protectors. These conflicts intensified from the end of 1943 when there was an

53 Teresa Prekerowa ‘Zarys dziejów Żydów w Polsce w latach 1939 – 1945’, (Los Angeles: 1985) 126, 142-144, The Ghetto Anthology, compiled and editor by Roman Mogilański ,in Jergg Tomaszewski (ed.), Najnowsze dzieje Zydow w Polsce (Warsaw, 1993), 378- 379

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increase in the fighting between Soviet partisans and village self-defence set by German and Lithuanian police in eastern Lithuania. During this period many encounters between partisans and local police from the villages took place, marked by the arbitrary killing on both sides of suspect civilians. No doubt, many of these suspects were innocent. One such episode was the attack by Soviet partisan units on the village of Koniuchy (Kaniukai), a village today in Lithuania, but largely inhabited by Poles. At the time of this attack the Soviet partisans were in a critical position and were being harassed by the local police force and its German superiors. A radio message from Genrikas Zimanas (Lithuanian Communist Party First Secretary of the ‘Southern’ Underground Committee) admitted that ‘[t]hese are difficult days’.54 Antanas Sniečkus, head of the Lithuanian Partisan Movement Headquarters in a radio message of 29 January 1944 observed: The self-defense forces are getting stronger all around us. One of the main reasons is the inadequate response from from our side, which cannot be undertaken because of the lack of arms, and, more particularly, of ammunition.55

A picture of what happened in Kaniukai can be obtained by comparing the report of the local Lithuanian police commander with that of the Soviet partisans. According to the first: On 1944.01.29 at 6 a.m around 150 bandits (Jews and Russians) armed with one heavy machine gun, three light machine guns, machine pistols, rifles and grenades, had attacked Koniuchy village. The village was burnt down, people were killed and cattle were slaughtered. (There were 35 killed in action and 15 wounded in action). Bandits had arrived from the direction of Dauciunai and Salky. They spent one hour there and then retreated in the same direction.56

54 Ibid., F.40, 25-27, quoted in Sarenas Lickis, “What happened in Konuichy,” unpublished. 55 LVOA, F.1 In.410, 152, quoted in Lickis. 56 Report Nr.53 from the commander of the Baltininkų Lithuanian Police defense station to the commander of the 253 Lithuanian Police Battallion Vladas Zibas of January 31, 1944, LCSA F.R-666, In.1, File 7, 29, quoted in Lickis.

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According to this report, at around 7 a.m., 52 men of the 252nd police battalion, armed with machine guns, went to Kaniukai but were unable to intercept the retreating Soviet partisans. In addition several units of the battalion attempted unsuccessfully to ambush Soviet partisans. It is also clear from the diary of another police unit, the 253rd police battalion diary, that Soviet partisans had also confiscated arms in the nearby Lithuanian villages of Klepociai, Butrimonys, Jononiai, Šauliai and Pasalis. In addition, partisans attacked the village of Kiemeliskes where they took provisions. Other sources confirm number of the casualties in Kaniukai and that they were overwhelmingly civilians. Two were policemen. According to Zimanas’s report to Sniečkus, head of the Lithuanian Partisan Movement Headquarters: The joint forces of the Vilnius partisan units ‘Death to the Occupants’, Margiris and General Headquarters Special Intelligence Group (Soviet Military Intelligence- GRU (S.L)) destroyed the most effective self-defence unit in the Eishyshok region that in the village of Kaniukai. Kaniukai had not only objected to the Soviet partisans entering village but contiunally organized ambushes on the roads, were attacking villages friendly to the partisans villages and forcing villages which were neutral to accept arms. The Self-defence unit suffered heavy casualties. We did not have casualties on our side.57

The action was undertaken by all the partisans in the Rudnicki forest. Although subsequently, ethno-nationalists in both Lithuania and Poland have claimed that it was a ‘Jewish’ action, it is not possible definitively to determine the ethnicity of those who participated. A rough estimate of the ethnicity of the members of the different groups can be obtained from the personnel files which have survived. From these it is clear that Jews were a minority in these formations and that the largest number of partisans, who numbered in all around 400, were Russians. Jews probably numbered under a hundred. Clearly what was involved was an attack on a village which harboured collaborationist police and had hampered partisan activity. As so often happen in such incidents, there were also many innocent victims. 57 LVOA F.1, In.1, File 410, p.173, quoted in Lickis.

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It is one of the great strengths of Rachel Margolis’s diary that it provides a detailed account of partisan activity as seen from by a Jewish member of the FPO. She describes the arguments in the FPO between those who wished, like herself, to leave the ghetto and fight in the forests, rather than, like the ghetto fighters in Warsaw, offering armed resistance to Nazi efforts to deport the Jews to their deaths. In addition to her graphic accounts of the difficulties of partisan warfare and the complex relations between the members of the FPO and the Soviet partisan commanders, Margolis provides examples of both the anti-Semitism and sexism which were widespread among Soviet partisans. However, Margolis herself took little part in partisan warfare, partly because she was weakened by a severe attack of typhus shortly after she made her way to the forests. Most of the partisan activity she was engaged in consisted in seizing food supplies from the surrounding peasants. She comments several times on the brutality this involved and condemns the partisans for, on occasion, taking more than they needed. Margolis also describes the brutal justice meted out by partisans to those accused of being German agents. Despite the book’s setting on the precipice of death by Nazi hands, Margolis’ memoir is also the story of her love affair with Chaim, whom she met in the FPO and with whom she fought in the forests. After the war they settled in Vilna. Their marriage lasted 43 years until his death in 1988. In all between 200,000 and 206,000 Jews perished in Lithuania. Of these, approximately 190,000 were Lithuanian Jews, 8,000 to 10,000 Jewish refugees from Poland and nearly 6,000 Jews from Austria, Germany and France. Around 9,000 Lithuanian Jews survived the war. After the war, criminal proceedings were instituted against some of those responsible for the mass murder of the Jews in Vilna. Martin Weiss of Department IV of the Security Police of Vilna, the organizer and leader of the Lithuanian Special Unit whose members conducted the mass murder of Jews in Ponary who was also the commandant of the ghetto in Vilna was tried by a German district court in February 1950. He was found guilty of seven counts of murder and of aiding and abetting in more than thirty thousand murders, and sentenced to life imprisonment and the deprivation of civil rights. August Hering, another member of the department 43

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IV of the Security Police in Vilna, who supervised the tasks of the Lithuanian Special Unit and the Vilna ghetto was tried by the same court and found guilty on one count of murder and of aiding and abetting an additional four thousand murders. He was also sentenced to life imprisonment and the deprivation of civil rights. A number of people were also tried in the Lithuanian Socialist Soviet Republic. Among those accused were nine members of the Lithuanian Special unit Ypatingas Burys, who participated in the murders at Ponary – Juozas Augustas, Borisas Baltutis, Mikas Bogotkevicius, Jonas Divilaitis, Jonas Macis, Vladislava Mandeika, Jonas Ozelis Kozlovskij, Stasys Ukrinas and Povilas Vaitulionis – who were sentenced to death on 29 January 1945.58 Two other defendants – Juozas Svirskis and Vytautas Zemajtis – were sentenced to long periods of forced labor on January 29, 1945. 59 On 15 March 1950, Julius Rackauskas was sentenced twenty five years in a labor camp.60 Somewhat later a number of those involved in the Ponary murders were tried in Poland. Witold Gliwinski was pronounced guilty on 3 June 1977 by a court in Olsztyn for his participation in mass murders, among them personally killing more than three hundred people. He was sentenced to twenty-five years imprisonment, the deprivation of his civil rights for the period of ten years and the confiscation of his personal property.61 Józef Miakisz, Władysław Butkun and Jan Borkowski were found guilty by a court in Warsaw on 30 November, 1973 for the participation in mass killings in Ponary. They were sentenced to the death penalty and the permanent loss their civil rights forever.62 This sentence was commuted by the government to twenty-five years imprisonment.63

58 Litewskie Archiwum Specjalne F K-1 Ap 58 B 27968/3, quoted in Rojowska. 59 Litewskie Archiwum Specjaln… – 1 Ap 58 B 27968/3, quoted in Rojowska. 60 Litewskie Archiwum Specjalne F K-1 Ap 58 B 16944/3, quoted in Rojowska. 61 Akta Sądu Wojewódzkiego w Olsztynie sygnatura IIK 59/76, quoted in Rojowska. 62 Akta Sądu Wojewódzkiego w Warszawie sygnatura IVK 130/73, quoted in Rojowska. 63 Postępowanie Sądu Najwyższego w Warszawie sygnatura akt I KR 37/74, quoted in Rojowska.

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Sadly this memoir, which deals in a moving and passionate manner with these tragic events has become the subject of bitter controversy in Lithuania. It is not surprising that the discussion of wartime issues has proved a difficult and painful topic and has led to bitter exchanges between Jews and Lithuanians. This is the result of the large-number of different factors including the large scale complicity of Lithuanians in the mass murder of Jews in 1941, the traumatic effect of the two Soviet occupations of Lithuania, the second lasting nearly half a century, and the unstable nature of the Lithuanian political scene, with the temptation this offers to demagogic politicians to engage in populist rhetoric. The establishment of an accurate and fully documented record of what had occurred during the Nazi occupation has been further complicated by the call for the independent Lithuanian government to prosecute elderly Lithuanians who had committed crimes against humanity over fifty years ago. Trials of this sort are always complicated and often involve testimony from both perpetrators and victims, which, more than sixty years after the events they describe, are not always in accord with the written documentation. In addition, higher standards of proof are required in a courtroom than in the pursuit of historical reseach, while the spectacle of eighty year old men being put on trial aroused compassion among some Lithuanians who were far from sympathizing with their actions against Jews during WWII. It may also be the case that to see Lithuanian-Jewish history solely through the prism of the Holocaust is to neglect the more complex and long-term aspects of Lithuanian-Jewish relations and the rich and diversified Lithuanian Jewish heritage. Some progress has been made on examining the problems of Lithuanian complicity in the Holocaust. The freedom that came with independence stimulated research into previously taboo topics and made possible greatly increased contact with the western scholarly community. In this situation all aspects of the Lithuanian-Jewish past have begun to be investigated leading to a more nuanced understanding of the events of the Second World War. New studies have examined the anti-Judaic policies of the Catholic Church and the emergence of modern Lithuanian antiSemitism; the development of Jewish-Lithuanian relations between the 45

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wars and the impact of the crises of 1939-1941.64 Jewish scholars also participated in scholarly conferences in October 1993 in Vilna and in September 1997 in the seaside resort of Nida.65 The need to consolidate independence and to ease Lithuania’s entry into NATO and the European Union also made imperative the establishment of better relations with the Jewish world. From the first days of independence, a series of public statements by Lithuanian leaders expressed regret at the participation of Lithuanians in the Holocaust and condemned the genocide. The culminating point was the visit of President Brazauskas to Israel during which, in his address to the Knesset in March 1995, he publicly asked forgiveness ‘for [the actions of] those Lithuanians who mercilessly 64 See Jonas Boruta, ‘Katalikų bažynčia ir 1ietuvių-žydų santykiai XIX-XX a. [The Catholic Church and Lithuanian-Jewish Relations in the 19th and 20th Centuries],’ in Vacys Milius, ed., Lietuvių Katalikų Mokslo Akademya. Metraštis, XIV (Vilnius, 1999), 1-23; cf. Vygantas Vareikis, ‘Tarp Valančiaus ir Kudirkos: žydų ir lietuvių santykiai katališkikosios kultūros kontekste [Between Valančius and Kudirka: Lithuanian-Jewish Relations in the Context of Catholic Culture],’ in Ibid., 81-82; see also Vygandas Vareikis and Liudas Truska, Holokausto prielaidos: Antisemitizmas Lietuvoje XIX a. antroji pusė - 1941 birželis [Antisemitism in Lithuania Between the Second Half of the 19th Century and 1941] (Vilnius, 2004). See for instance, Genovaitė Gustaitė, ‘Vyskupas Jurgis Matulaitis ir žydai Viiniaus vyskupijoje 1918-1925 [Bishop Jurgis Mattilaitis and Jews in the Vilnius Diocese 1918-1925]’ in Lietuviū Katalikū Mokslo Akademija. Metraštis, XIV, 105-113; Saulius Sužiedelis, ‘The Historical Sources of Antisemitism in Lithuania and Jewish-Lithuanian Relations during the 1930s,’ in Alvydas Nikentaitis et al, eds., The Vanished World of Lithuanian Jews (Amsterdam-New York, 2004), 119-154; Raimundas Valkauskas, Žydų tautinės autonomijos klausimas Lietuvoje [The Question of Jewish Autonomy in Lithuania],’ in Lietuvos istorijos studios, 1996:3, 64-71; See the essay Šarunas Liekis, ‘Žydai: ‘kaimynai’ ar ‘svetimieji’? Etninių mažumų problematika Lietuvos istorijos moksle’[Jews as ‘Neighbors’ and ‘the Other’: The Problem of National Minorities in Lithuanian Historiography], Genocidas ir rezistencja, 2/12: 2002, 114-120. Cf. Eglė Bendikaité, ‘Dvi ideologijos - vienas judėjimas: sionistinis socializmas nepriklausomoje Lietuvoje ‘[Two Ideologies and One Movement - Zionist Socialism in Independent Lithuania], in Darbai ir dienos. Lietuvos tautinės mažumos: lenkai, rusai, žydai [Works and Days. Lithuanian National Minorities: Poles, Russians, Jews], 34: 2003, 255-271;The most recent general study of the autonomy issue is the balanced analysis of arUnas Liekis, ‘State within a State’? Jewish Autonomy in Lithuania 1918-1925 (Vilnius, 2003).An impressive compendium of studies is in Alfonsas Eidintas’s enormous volume, Lietuvos žydų žudynių byla [The Investigation of the Murder of Lithuania’s Jews] (Vilnius, 2001), 66-77; see also same author’s Žydai, Lietuviai ir holokaustas [Jews, Lithuanians and the Holocaust] (Vilnius, 2002), 125-147. 65 Emanuelis Zgeris, comp. Atminties dienos: The Days of Memory [Days of Remembrance] (Vilnius, 1995).

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murdered, shot, deported and robbed Jews.’66 This was not universally wellreceived in Lithuania and led to calls for the Jews in response to apologize for their ‘crimes’ against the Lithuanian nation during the Soviet occupation in which Jews were alleged to have played a leading role. The growing mood of self-criticism in the Roman Catholic church also had an impact on the willingess in Lithuania to examine the difficult problem of Lithuanian complicity in the mass murder of the Jews. On 13 March 2000, the Bishops’ Conference of the Lithuanian Catholic Church expressed its regret that during the Nazi period ‘a portion of the faithful failed to demonstrate charity to the persecuted Jews, did not grasp any opportunity to defend them and lacked the determination to influence those who aided the Nazis.’ Since its independence in 1990, international pressure on Lithuania to pursue prosecution of war crimes has created more difficulty and mutual irritation. Thus in March 1997 ninety-two members of the Israeli Knesset sent a letter to the Lithuanian president Algirdas Brazauskas calling on him to arrest Aleksandras Lileikis, who had been in charge of the war-time Vilnius security police and allegedly involved in the murder of thousands of Jews in the Vilna ghetto. (Lileikis was eventually put on trial but died in 2000 before the trial was concluded). Only two other individuals, Kazys Gimzauskas, deputy commander of the Lithuanian Security Police in the Vilna district, and Algimantas Dailide, an officer operative of the Saugumas in the Vilna district, both of whom had been deported from the United States, were put on trial. Gimzauskas was convicted but never punished since he was suffering from senile dementia, and Dailide was convicted and sentenced to five years in prison but the judges refused to implement his sentence on grounds of age. In August 1997 the resentment aroused by demands to try war criminals led Rimantas Smetona, a member of the Lithuanian parliament and chairman of the Homeland Unity Party to call on the Lithuanian prosecutor-general to institute proceedings against Efraim Zuroff, the Israeli representative of the Simon Wiesenthal Center, who had complained of the slowness to take action on this issue. There were also international complaints that among 66 As quoted in Adolfas Eidintas, Žydai, lietuviai ir holokaustas [Lithuanians, Jews and the Holocaust] (Vilnius, 2002), 402.

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the nearly 50,000 people convicted of crimes against the Soviet state who had been pardoned by the Lithuanian government in 1990 there were some who had been involved in the complicity with the Nazi anti-Jewish genocide. Calls were made for some of these pardons to be rescinded. Some progress took place on this last issue and in September 1997, the supreme court revoked the 1991 rehabilitation of Petras Kriksciunas, who allegedly participated in the killings of unarmed persons in Vilnius during the Nazi occupation. Subsequently the pardons of an additional twentytwo persons who had collaborated with the Nazis were abrogated. However, the authorities have remained extremely reluctant to undertake new war crimes prosecutions. It was in an attempt to put these issues to rest that, in September 1998, Professor Julius Smulkstys, a former professor of political science and one of President Adamkus’s closest advisers, who had been appointed the presidential liaison on Lithuanian-Jewish relations, reported that the president had established an international commission to examine war crimes committed during the Nazi and Soviet occupations of Lithuania. It would be headed by Emanuelis Zingeris, a Lithuanian Jew who had played a prominent role in the Sajudis movement, the main force which sought the independence of Lithuanian during the late Soviet period, and its role would be ‘to investigate the Second World War period and the immediate aftermath in order to come up with answers to various questions concerning the Jewish and Lithuanian genocides’. (Strictly speaking, the treatment of the Lithuanians by the Soviets since 1944 does not conform to the United Nations definition of genocide. However the fact that the goal of the Soviets was to prevent the re-emergence of Lithuania as an independent state and that in the immediate post-war years, they deported nearly 120,000 Lithuanians to Siberia where many of them died because of the horrendous conditions makes the use of genocide to describe what was done to them legitimate.) In a series of well-researched and scholarly volumes, written for the most part by Lithuanian scholars, the commission investigated a number of key issues in the recent Lithuanian past. Among the titles were The First Soviet Occupation. Occupation and Annexation; The First Soviet Occupation. Occcupants and Collaborators; The First Soviet Occupation. Terror and 48

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Crimes against Humanity; The Preconditions for the Holocaust: Anti-Semitism in Lithuania; Murders of Prisoners of War and of Civilian Population in Lithuania in 1941-1944 and The Persecution and Mass Murder of Lithuanian Jews during Summer and Fall of 1941. This last volume, by Christoph Dieckmann and Saulius Sužiedėlis gave a horrific picture of Lithuanian involvment in the mass murder of the Jews. It concluded, as we have shown above that ‘[t]he actual killings were organized by the head of the police in occupied Lithuania (SS und Polizeiführer Litauen) and were for the most part carried out by two Einsatzgruppen (numbers 2 and 3)’, with ‘extensive support from the headquarters of the Lithuanian Police Department in Kaunas, local precincts, German and Lithuanian police battalion personnel and local volunteers’. These conclusions were anathema to the more nationalist elements in Lithuania who were also strongly hostile to the post-communists who had returned to power in 2001. They had an important mouthpiece in the conservative daily Respublika which in 2006 published excerpts from the diary of a member of the commission, the former head of Yad Vashem, Yitzhak Arad, describing his activities as a teenage partisan after his escape from the Vilna ghetto and his brief service in the NKVD. On the basis of this, they called on the General Prosecutor to investigate Arad for ‘possible war crimes’. The General Prosecutor did not state that Arad was a criminal suspect but ‘only’ that he was seeking more information. He did however prepare an indictment against Arad and also sought to interrogate several other elderly former partisans, including Rachel Margolis and Fania Brantsovskaya, now in their eighties who had previously been attacked in the nationalist daily Lietuvos aidas. Among the pieces of evidence adduced in these accusations was the claim that Fania Brantsovskaya had taken part in the attack on Kaniukai which has been described above. In the Russian edition of her memoir, Rachel Margolis wrote: A Nazi garrison was stationed in the village of Kaniukai. It blocked the partisans’ way into the region beyond it and was very dangerous for us. The brigade high command decided to attack the garrison and send all our detachments there. Fania went on this operation with a group from Avenger Detachment. Our guys went, too. 49

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In a few days they returned, bearing their wounded with them. It had been a very prolonged battle. The partisans had surrounded the garrison, but the Nazis were exceptionally well armed and beat off all attacks. They broke the flanks of the Jewish detachments, and the partisans withdrew precipitously. Then Magid jumped up on a rock and yelled: ‘We are Jews. We will show them what we are capable of. Forward, comrades!” This sobered the men up; they ran back and won. Fania told a very funny story about Magid, who spoke Russian poorly. As he said it, it came out, “We are Jews, we’ll show them what we have.” [Translator’s note: this is a play on two similar-sounding, but very different, Russian verbs: “umet’,” to be capable of, and “imet’,” to have or possess.] Everyone laughed, and the expression took root in our conversations. Everyone felt uplifted. We had returned with a victory despite the enemy’s superiority in numbers. The Kaniukai garrison no longer existed.

As is clear from the memoir, Rachel was deathly ill when the attack took place and was not among the partisans who undertook it. Her account was based on accounts she heard when she later joined this group of partisans. Fania Brantsovskaya has since strongly denied that she took part in the attack on Kaniukai and her denial has been accepted by Rachel. The goal of those making these accusations seems to be to demonstrate the alleged moral equivalence of Lithuanian and Jewish behavior: Lithuanians behaved badly during the Nazi occupation, but Jews behaved equally reprehensibly during the two Soviet occupations. This is a crude oversimplification given that the scale and form of collaboration were entirely different and given that the Jews faced the threat of annihilation at the hands of the Nazis and their local collaborators. Faced with a storm of protest the General Prosecutor dropped the prosecution against Arad. As we have seen, Rachel Margolis has since confirmed that her statement that Brantsovskaya participated in the attack on Kaniukai was based on hearsay and it has been accepted that Brantsovskaya did not actually take part in this incident. It seems clear Brantsovskaya will not be brought to trial. What the dispute has demonstrated is how difficult it is both for the Lithuanian elite and for the public at large to come to terms with the painful legacy of Lithuanian complicity in the mass murder of the country’s Jewish population. 50

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It is our hope that the publication of this memoir in English will make the heroism of the partisans better known and will make it possible to avoid the politicization of the past which has been such a deplorable aspect of this controversy. Rachel Margolis concludes her memoir with an appeal to the next generation: Keep up the struggle against chauvinism, against terrorism, against human depravity. Life on this earth depends entirely on you, the young. Do not allow this to happen again! Save our Earth! Never allow the horror that I went through to be repeated. Let my grandchildren live on earth in happiness and joy.

51

LALECZKA

SUMMER IN LANDWARÓW1

T

he first thing I remember is the summer spent in Landwarów, when I was three and half years old. A white house with a loft in a fruit orchard with windows facing the highway; behind the house was the Vilna-Grodno railroad. We lived there at a dacha with my grandmother Maria, Mama, Mama’s little brother Mirek, and Aunts Nadzia and Żenia. We spent the whole day in the orchard under the apple trees. Mama – so young, tanned, in a sleeveless dress – read fairy tales to me. Sometimes we went to the town. This was fun and scary: the train dove into a tunnel, and the light disappeared. Sure, little lights went on, but not right away. For a few seconds we sat in pitch-black darkness. My eyes grew even darker with terror. At last, a gleam of light! However, Mirek or Grandmother would say, “Are you still making your tunnel face?” After this it was awkward to burst out howling. The expression “tunnel face” remained in our vocabulary at home as long as we had a home. Two serious events took place that summer. Mirek, who was then thirteen or fourteen, often went with his friends to the lakes at Troki.2 They rode in a horse drawn cart, the whole gang settled in, and they vanished the whole day. Once the horses bolted, and the cart barely managed to slip

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Now Liantvaris or Lentvaris.

2

Now Trakai.

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across the railroad tracks ahead of the locomotive of an onrushing train. It was a miracle that the boys survived. That evening everyone lit into Mirek. Grandmother did not let him out of her sight anymore. Of course, it was difficult to endure this. Mirek’s behavior was a constant topic of stormy discussion. But I liked everything that he did, any of his excesses. I always stood up for him, and it was the highest bliss to play with him, to imitate him. With his long legs, shaven head, and peeled nose, he was my idol and the foremost authority in everything. It was a scorching hot afternoon. Mama and I were sitting under an apple tree. I was digging in the sand, sculpting my “dough.” I loved to eat, and “dough” was interesting to me from a culinary point of view. Mama was tired, and she made her way into her cool room to lie down… Suddenly she let out an awful scream. Everyone ran into the house. It turned out that a swarm of bees had climbed under the blanket, and hundreds of stings had punctured Mama when she tried to lie down. They took Mama, all swollen up, to the city. I stayed behind with Grandmother. A few days later I was invited to visit the patient. We took the train to the city and on the way the regular inquisitions over my “tunnel face” proceeded. The city apartment was so huge and empty after the dacha! They took me to the bedroom. Someone was lying on Mama’s bed; on the person’s round, puffy face one could see eye-slits. This “someone” asked me in a voice that was tender and melodious like Mama’s, “Lalusiu, don’t you recognize me?” Honesty, it must be assumed, is an innate quality. I knew, and well understood, that it could only be my mama lying on Mama’s bed and speaking with Mama’s voice. But you see my mama was so pretty, had such a dark complexion, thin face, green eyes and freckles, such tender lips. I answered as my honest conscience dictated, “This auntie looks like Mama, but this is not my mama.” Grandmother was incensed: “It’s only been a couple of days and already she doesn’t recognize her own mother.” Mama and Father laughed: what a silly little girl. Many years later they still found this story about me amusing. My directness and honesty, my innate striving for justice always complicated my life. 54

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The end of the summer and our move back to the city were linked to monumental experiences. It was the end of freedom, warmth, my mingling with plants and animals, the end of my games in the sand with the “dough.” Our apartment was cold and forbidding. Running was off limits; it interfered with Father’s work and Mama’s rest periods. There were often strange people in the apartment because this is where Father saw his patients. A large room was set aside under the office, and the windows were hung with black cloth curtains. There was a balcony there, but I was not permitted to go out onto it. Along the wall up to the very ceiling were bookshelves full of books. Father’s antique desk and armchair, X-ray prints and papers on the desk. X-ray equipment, a table for the patients, all sorts of partitions and screens. I rarely looked in on Father’s office. It was frightening, forbidding, cold, and smelled of “X-ray.” I was not allowed to pop into the “poczekalnia,”3 where patients were waiting. There were people I did not know there, and I might catch something. When Father saw patients, a maid kept vigil in the hallway. She opened the door, made sure everything was in order, and kept an eye on the coat rack. A few years later the hallway was partitioned off by a door made of ornamental glass that to some extent separated Father’s work from the living quarters in the apartment. The best room was the bedroom. The windows, to be sure, looked out on the well and the courtyard, but this was on the east side, and the morning sun was warm. The yellow curtains on the two windows intensified the sunlight. The room had two beds, Mama’s and Father’s, two bedside tables with little drawers full of all kinds of interesting rubbish. The light of the night lamps on the tables drove away the terrible nighttime apparitions. There was a big wardrobe with dresses in it and drawers below with underwear, including mine as well. An average sized picture hung on the wall: a copy of Wrubel “Pan.” I did not like it. It showed an ugly, hairy old stiff smirking, while all around was a quite dismal forest; I preferred not to look at it. In the left corner of the bedroom was a stove. It was nice to warm oneself on its white ceramic sheathing, but I was not allowed to do so: “You will catch cold!” In the other corner was my little bed with netting around it. 3

Polish for waiting room or reception area.

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From my earliest years I was plagued by nightmares. Whether these were fears from the dawn of humanity or the products of an overwrought imagination I do not know. I was afraid of everything. Afraid to be alone in the room; afraid to stay on the street outside the store that Mama had entered; afraid of strangers. The worst fear of all was when they put me to bed and left the room after putting out the light. Terrible monsters came out from under Mama’s and Father’s beds; once I even saw a devil – of average height, with little hooves and horns – when I was already five to seven years of age. The wallpaper was painted over with greenish colored lianas, and above them were bright, lovely little birds. But what was behind those twists and tangles? Could it be something horrible? It was lucky that the netting around the bed was raised; it saved me and protected me against all these awful things. I could not fall asleep. The terrors mounted, and I started to shout. The apartment was big, so Mama could not hear me in the dining room. A servant came in. Her steps were my salvation. The fears went into hiding. The light came on. “Do you need something?” Depending on the circumstances I asked either to pee or to get a drink. She left the room, the light was on, and for the time being I was not scared. Asking for the chamber pot did not work out so well, since the pot was under the bed. The best trick was to pretend that I was sick to my stomach; then someone would sometimes sit up with me. My dream during my whole childhood was for everyone to live in the same room, for everyone to be at the table while I was asleep at the same time in the cot in the corner. But I had a Spartan upbringing. It took me a long time, but I finally got permission to leave the light on in the hallway. The top of the hallway door had glass in it. Semi-darkness in the room was not total salvation, but it was nonetheless not so terrifying. It was a joy to wake up in the morning. Mama was lying on the bed, Father was rushing to get ready for the things he had to do. He had a massive number of them. In the morning he saw patients with stomach ailments who came fasting. Then he ran to the Jewish Hospital on Zawalna Street.4 After lunch to the Choir Cashier, the hospital cashier and site of 4

56

Now Pilimo Street.

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the radiology lab. In the evening back to seeing patients. I saw Father very infrequently. He was always on the run, in a hurry, eating on the go. Mama would let me climb into bed with her. This was real paradise: it was roomy, I could wriggle my feet, dive under the blanket and look around or lie quietly listening to Mama’s little songs and stories. Mama was a marvelous singer, but she thought she had to sing children’s songs to me: “My little Liza’s so small that after picking a dandelion, she ordered a little sofa, and that’s where she’s sleeping now.” But I liked songs with more complex melodies and words I did not understand. Mirek and Nadzia would sing: “Like a Panther, He Slumbers in a Golden Cage,” “My Bandit Lover is a Thieving Sot,” and other smash hits, love songs with a refrain. It was time to get up. This was not all that pleasant. The apartment was always cold; you went to the bathroom down a long corridor, then a tiny hallway and another little room. The water was cold as ice, and wind blew in through the window. I always did my best to wriggle out of bathing. Combing out my black curly hair was almost impossible, and my cries accompanied the procedure. Finally the bow was tied, the neck washed, the ears as well. We went down to the dining room to eat breakfast. The dining room was really the living room… a big, cold room with three windows and a balcony in the corner. From the two windows to the west the view opened onto the Wilia River.5 its embankment, and the hills beyond the river – the Šikšniu District. Those hills seemed like mountains to me, high and mysterious, on the edge of the earth. From the balcony and the side window one could see the Green Bridge, St. Rafael’s Church, and before it a hillock with a cross overgrown with lilac at its highest point. Sometimes the nurse took me there for a stroll, especially in the spring, when everything smelled so nice. One window faced north, and we would put food out on the shelf between the frames to keep it cold. But the windowsill was part of a family legend from my early childhood. My nurse Józia, whom our distant relatives, the Berzak’s, had relinquished to my young mama, was big and dominating. With one earring in her ear, she terrorized her twenty-three year old mistress, who did not know about life and 5

Now the Niaris River.

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how to run a household. This same nanny sat me on the windowsill and always concocted the same story: “There goes a soldier, there goes Leah the baker, and there is Leah’s husband,” and so forth, and saying this she shoved a spoonful of semolina kasha into my wide-open mouth, considering this the main and most useful food for children. A photograph from that time portrays Lala – that is, me – round as a ball, with a stupid expression in my blue eyes, in a little dress with red cherry prints, from the vent of which a warm robe is peeking out. Józia assumed that this was obligatory children’s attire. The balcony was a marvel. It was raised high above the street, flowing into the bridge on sturdy, green cast iron supports. Down below, in what looked from the fourth story like an incredible chasm, people were moving, wagons were creeping along, cabs with passengers in them were rolling, horses’ hooves were clattering on the cobblestone pavement, and pedestrians were walking down the wooden sidewalk: children in the uniforms of various schools, servicemen in uniforms, peasant men and women with baskets wearing sheepskin coats. During the winter, carriages on sleds came through with the driver in the coach-box and two passengers, their knees covered by a travel rug. The balcony became an oasis for me in the summer. In boxes lined up along all the railings, planted pansies were flowering, exactly like a bush or another flower with a yellow heart. Unfortunately, I was rarely allowed to go out onto the balcony. There were no other buildings in front of our house, just little stores in a long barracks and the ruins of a factory. The wind always blew on the balcony, and I would quickly catch cold. There we were, sitting in the dining room at an oval table. Against the walls were two black buffets: a big one and a small one. They were under lock and key. The Passover china with its gold pattern along a blue rim was kept there. It was for festive occasions, for the entertainment of guests. Mama was not at all religious. She did not observe any religious rituals, and because of that she had some disagreements with Father. But the most important thing was – the buffet always contained various jams and other goodies. Mama did not care about it, but Father and I each had a terrible sweet tooth. Father was always in a hurry, ate little, and did not have much 58

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of an appetite. Mama figured that he was leaving space for sweets. When Father started to hover around the buffet after dinner, Mama always realized that he needed the key to the candy. In the drawers of the second buffet were family photographs, snapshots of my parents’ travels, albums they had brought back with them from abroad. A child “genius” could find in the album – blue with gold imprinted lettering, and I could only very seldom get my hands on it – “The Vatican Gates.” I did not understand what that meant, and, walking with Mama, whenever I saw some intricate gates, I would ask, “Are these the Vatican gates?” Mama would laugh and then tell Father about my nonsensical remark. I was happy. I liked it a lot when people talked about me, no matter what they said. I loved being at the center of attention, and in general I considered myself the center of a huge and little-explored world. Mama and I were sitting on the sofa in the dining room. The sofa was “important” with bolsters on its sides and a carved shelf on top. All the dining room furniture was like this: the wooden parts were black, the upholstery grey stamped with pink little flowers, plushy and smooth. The upholstery was “friendly” and soft, whereas the furniture was very “serious” and severe. Mama read me a Czukowski fairy tale about a crocodile and a “poor little girl, Laleczka”: She was playing with her doll When she suddenly saw an elephant On Tauride Street. Laleczka cried and retreated, Laleczka called for her mam…

All of this was frightening: both the terrible elephant and the crocodile, who swallowed children. I wanted to listen to a kind, gentle, cheerful story, where everything was pretty and joyful – not a horrible story that would engender terrifying visions in the evening and make me dream wild nightmares during the night. I begged Mama: “Tell me about when you were little!” 59

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Mama seldom told me about herself and rarely read stories aloud. To be sure, she loved me and treated me tenderly, but she did not have enough patience with me. When I began to whimper, Mama would get peeved and go off alone to her bedroom: “Go play by yourself.” I got used to playing by myself under the dining room table. The tablecloth hung down and separated me from the whole world. On the floor between the thick table legs was a level wood platform for people to put their feet on. They told me it was “unhygienic” to play there, but this was the floor of my own little house, where my dolls lived. When I played there, everyone knew “I was not home.” I remember playing there when Aunt Dina came to say goodbye. She was going to Archangelsk to be with Uncle Stanisław. They pulled me out from under the table and ordered me to kiss her and hug her, not understanding that “I wasn’t there.” The greatest joy was the trip to Grandmother’s – Mama’s mother – on Podgórna Street.6 Grandmother, Nadzia, Mirek, and Żenia lived on the third floor. All the windows faced south, as did the balcony. Nadzia planted flowers on the balcony, and this was an event in itself. We went to the nursery to buy a seedling, choosing each bunch of pansies straight from the garden bed. This was something to remember all my life. In the summer gorgeous carnations and asters would bloom. Grandmother had a courtyard where one could play with other children and dig in the sand. The Minkowicz family, with its many children, lived on the second floor, and their youngest daughter was my playmate. She and I sat in the tiny front garden under their window. A little table with a bench was located there, and all around us spiraea and lilacs were growing; I adore plants and nature, and I love to play with children. My grandmother was poor: her big room had a round table, a soft old sofa with a removable back and bolsters when you wanted to go to bed. You could do anything you wanted at Grandmother’s – you could play under the table, everyone loved me, spoiled me, and no one reproved me. Geraniums bloomed on the windows; Grandmother took care of them, 6

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Now Pakalnis Street.

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transplanted them, watered them. Two rows of flower pots – sheer beauty – with red flowers, white ones, pink ones, and some that resembled pansies. At our house on Friday they packed everything I would need to stay for the weekend at Grandmother’s: a nightgown, a toothbrush, little slippers. They then drove me down the embankment and across Łukiszki Square. I was bursting with delight. Here were the cobblestones of the square, the little shop where they let me out to get lemonade, here was the turn by the hill. Water from the Chopin Brewery was flowing into the canal – that was unusual and mysterious. The gate on the right – here was Grandmother’s courtyard with lanes and alleys, barns and wooden structures, a four-story apartment house, and the driveway; we rang the doorbell. Grandmother came out, and a merry, cozy life began. Grandmother read Pushkin to me from a little book in a red cover with a gold imprinted inscription. She took a little piece of lump sugar out of the buffet, an exceptionally tasty treat. Mirek had mastered the art of using a crystal radio set; he gave me headphones and we listened to music – what a miracle!. Mirek drew a cottage and a horse, then gave me the pencil, and I, too, drew a little house, a fence, a small bench, trees, flower beds – always one and the same thing. And here I was already taking care of the flowers in this little garden and was going into the house. My imagination was highly developed: I would make up my own games for hours. Nadzia was learning how to ride a bicycle… a significant milestone. In the evening some kids came over to see Nadzia and Mirek. I, already bathed, was lying on Nadzia’s bed when the “concert” began: they opened the folding door to the dining room, and I, in my long nightshirt, standing on the bed, performed all the top hits when asked to do so: “Love is Great and Holy… .” Everybody clapped, I bowed all around, success and enthusiasm. I was a real performer, as everyone confirmed. I had an excellent ear. Although I did not understand the words, the more complicated the song, the more I enjoyed it. I adored “concerts” and did not tire of repeating them. In the morning I climbed into bed with Grandmother. I was the best, most beautiful, sweetest, smartest little girl, her absolute favorite. Total bliss. At home they preached at me, harassed me, educated me; my freedom was restricted there, but here everything was permitted, and everything I did 61

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was good. Mirek and Nadzia horsed around with me. When they did their homework at the table, I played right there, under the table. Now it was already Sunday evening. How I hated the thought of leaving, but everything comes to an end, and I had to go home. This was sorrowful, a tragedy. At home it was cold and gloomy. Sick people, strangers were sitting there. Father was eternally busy, preoccupied, no one paid any attention to me. There were plenty of toys: a hen that could lay an egg, a cow that said “moo,” dolls, little dishes, and all sorts of things like that… a whole white shelf full, but no warmth either spiritual or physical. The updraft in the stoves was bad, and the windows were big – but cold, inhospitable.

THE DACHA IN POŚPIESZKI The sun peeped through the window. Outside the window were tall pine trees with red trunks and fluffy branches. I woke up with a feeling of happiness – how joyous and beautiful the earth was! I threw off my nightshirt, pulled on my black satin underpants, and I was – dressed. I went down the stairs. Mama was waiting there with breakfast. Bathing was not so nice, but I loved to eat. Ahead was a full day of freedom. All life was a sheer delight! My memory of morning in the loft at the dacha is the brightest in my life; it has stayed with me forever. Our house was white, small, and it had a veranda, where we ate. Around us was a stretch of pine woods, and in front of the house a small hill, which I had a very hard time climbing, although descending was even harder since I was a fatso, awkward, and an awful coward: what if I fell down? Also outside was a silted up well – low and filled with sand. We played “babki” there. When a frog climbed out of it once, I assured everyone that it lived in the well and was bored because it was dark down there at the bottom under the sand. In the yard behind us was a large three-story wooden house. Irka lived there with her parents and Roland, a sheep dog. Irka was slender, lively, with large green bulging eyes and a shaven head (she had caught herpes from dogs). She was my best, most attractive, most interesting playmate. She invented everything you could imagine – the most marvelous games, 62

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stories, and antics. I was soon to be five years old, and she was a half year younger, but I did her beck and call with enthusiasm; I was simple-hearted and non-resourceful; Mirek called me a cow. He was fifteen years old and knew everything; he was the authority. A snapshot was kept at home showing the entire hillside swimming in scattered toys. Irka was standing on the hill with her bald head, her thin little legs, and her little eyes in a squint; I was next to her with a bow in my black curly hair, in a brightly colored, sumptuous little dress. We went for a ride on Roland, who was gentle and put up with everything. Irka was a bad eater, and her parents would let her ride on the dog if only she would eat. Irka is on the dog in a snapshot with a spoon in her mouth while around her are myself, Aunt Sonia, her mama, and Cynek her Father. They would think up anything to help them feed Irka some kasha. In the winter Mama noticed a crowd of people on Orzeszkowa Square7 and heard a child yelling. She came up and saw Irka with her nanny and Roland. It turned out that Roland had torn off the trouser-leg of a citizen whose conversation had bothered him. A policeman was writing up a statement, and Irka was screaming: “Someone save me! I’ll be good, I’ll eat my semolina kasha!” They let Mama leave with Irka, her nanny, and Roland. A policeman came into the yard. Irka rushed over to me with a chamber pot and cried: “Lialka, sit on your pot with me.” I sat down and asked Irka sitting next to me: “What are we sitting on the pots for?” Irka proclaimed her revelation with triumph in her voice: “Because he won’t take us away with the pots!” Irka’s inventiveness staggered me. What a smart girl she was! We went to Switzerland Hill to pick cherries. It was close, beyond the forest, and the view from it was remarkable: Antokol was down below, and farther off were hills, forests, and uncharted wonders in the distance. There were only two cottages there, with a tangle of cherry trees by the fence. We 7

Now Independence Square.

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plucked the cherries, putting the black, gleaming, smooth fruit in little baskets. They were juicy and luscious. Later, when we made jam, we were permitted to lick the pink froth. The smell of the jam permeated the whole neighborhood. The beauty of Switzerland Hill – this was the birth of my love for mountains and landscapes. There was another splendid spot in Pośpieszki… a deep depression or ravine, its slopes overgrown with grass and flowers, with a few old willows on the opposite side. A little hut stood right there on the edge, lost in a cherry orchard. We often took a little flannel blanket with us, spread it out on the slope, and played. Such beauty opened out before us that my little heart was filled to overflowing with emotion and happiness. The beauty of nature has had this effect on me all my life. Sometimes – very rarely and only when accompanied by adults, we were allowed to go to the bottom. It was so interesting there – plants that were completely different from the ones above grew there. Sometimes we dropped in at the country home to buy cherries and to look at the cow with its calf. At the top there was a health camp, a TOZ colony (Fellowship to Foster Health) for poor children. Father and I went there. There was a multitude of children there, everyone running about, making a din, and the hospital staff in white robes – in a word, quite formidable. I remember that many doctors and other helpers were laying a foundation under the Fellowship’s wooden building. Many years later I found out that Chaim, my future husband, spent a summer in this camp. There at the age of eight he saw woods and meadows for the first time. Later a white monument was set up for Dr. Cemach Shabad, a public figure who pioneered this charitable action. But what an interesting time we had in the forest! We could sling a canvas hammock with strings on its borders between two big pine trees. You could lie down if you wanted to, or you could swing back and forth if you wanted to. The hammock, incidentally, was linked to one absurd incident. Uncle Grisza came from Belgium, where he lived and worked as an engineer, to see Irka. He was rather short, not very good looking, but he was “from abroad,” not one of our local products. Uncle Grisza was enthusiastic about the dacha and the smell of the firs. He told us about all kinds of wonderful things, and we sat at his feet with our mouths agape. Then, in order 64

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to enjoy the air, he slung a hammock in the woods across from our house and got himself ready to take a nap after lunch, leaving his shoes under the hammock. When he woke up, his shoes were gone; someone had stolen them. “That would never happen to us in Western Europe,” Grisza said. From that time on everyone called him “Western Europe” and laughed. Mirek lived with us. He contrived games and sorties. Once he brought home a live toad in some sand in a little bucket. Its coat was smooth and black, and its eyes were small. We felt very sorry for it, and we asked him to release it back into its toad hole so it could rejoin its children. But examining it was enormously interesting. Vera Lerman often came over to play. She lived in the same building with Irka. Two years older than Irka, Vera was tall with a pink, round face and curly hair. She was a real beauty, exactly like a manikin in a store window, not at all like Irka, still less like me. Vera was a greedy spitfire; she took away all our toys. Her grandmother chased her every morning with a mug of cocoa, but Vera put on airs and was a troublemaker. Capriciousness was something new for me, and it tempted me. But I was an honest person, so I went to Mama and declared: “Take me away from Vera. I am getting corrupted!” I was laughed at for a long time and mocked for my garbled pronouncement. However, my opinion of Vera turned out to be correct. She grew up to be a beautiful girl and enjoyed much success. During the war she collaborated with the Nazis. I remember seeing her in the ghetto with Germans, dressed to the nines and haughty. Subsequently the Germans actually shot her, probably for Rassenschande (sexual race pollution). Quite often I have been able to know that a person was bad right away. This was a day when Father was expected. He would arrive “in a cab.” We would go to meet him. Now we could already see the hackney. We stood and watched the horse labor up the slope. It stopped at the top of the rise and gave us a lift – no more than a hundred meters, but what a pleasure, what an absolute joy it was to take a ride “in a horse-drawn cab” through our woods. Father brought us groceries and treats – candy and lollipops. This was bad for the teeth, but I adored sweets, and so did Father. He understood me. I can see him now – medium height, frail, in a grey 65

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suit, cheerful, energetic. Every morning he and Mama, Sonia, and Cynek ran past Switzerland Hill to a sports ground surrounded by nut trees and the forest. There they did exercises following the Miller system. His book lay on Father’s desk. On it was a photograph of a very muscular man, a real athlete. Father always did these calisthenics until he found out that Miller had died at the age of forty-four. His athletic build did not prolong his life, and Father became disillusioned with physical fitness. Sometimes they took us with them, but more frequently we slept through it and did not see the dew on the leaves, the rising sun, or the beauty of the woods in the morning. In the afternoon Irka and I spent hours fixing food for our dolls (later I did not like cooking at all – it was better to eat potatoes, OK, maybe an egg, but that was plenty) and thinking up the most interesting games, never getting bored. A delightful game would end with the cry: “Lala, to the dentist!” I would then trudge alone across the courtyard to the dentist we knew. This was not terrifying, but it was boring. (All my life I had trouble with my teeth.) In the evening Mama lit the light on the veranda and served supper. I remember digging my heels in one day and refusing to eat shchi [cabbage soup]. Cabbage had worms, I said. They decided to educate me. They served the same soup for supper; when I did not touch it, it was served for breakfast the next day. I ate it mixed with my tears and hated cabbage all my life. I have never cooked shchi the rest of my life. But usually we ate together as a family and conversed merrily, and I absolutely did not want to go up to the loft to sleep. It was boring, dark, and scary up there in the evening. Whenever someone lay down with me there, I would fall asleep almost before my head touched the pillow. A framed photograph hung in our prewar apartment: Father, Mama, Irka and I, Sonia, Cynek, and Sonia’s sister Liza were sitting strewn about the hill at random. Everyone was so young (Father was then thirty-six, Mama twenty-eight). They were tanned, pretty, and joyful. But the prettiest of all was my mama, like a Madonna, slim in her favorite canary sleeveless dress, with a wonderful smile, soft and tender. Of all of them, I am the only one still alive. The photograph itself no longer exists. I only have my memory of them. Liza died in the Vilna ghetto in 1941. Irka and her family 66

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were shot by the Nazis in Lida in the fall of 1941. My family members were all killed in the first week of July 1944. Seven days before they would have been liberated they were transported to Ponary with eighty other Jews from the building of the army hospital at Antokol and massacred. My friend Tamara Żabińska found Father’s tattered snapshots in the former Kailis II camp (on Taras Shevchenko Street across from the pharmacy) and brought them to me. I was able to keep only one photograph of Irka. Musia Kresin brought it to me from the archives, where she was then working. She detached it from a certificate stating that Irka had graduated from the Epsztein School in 1940. Her green, slightly protruding eyes looked at me reproachfully, and I can hear her words, spoken to me in fall 1941 when I was hiding from the Nazis at their place: “I know you will survive, but I will perish because I want so much to live!”

WINTER IN THE CITY This was the day of the big cleanup: we washed the windows and cleaned the floors. Before polishing the floors with wax, they allowed me to ride around the table in the dining room on my tricycle. I concocted expository performances, races, various kinds of competition. The audience on the rostrum clapped, and I bowed, delighted with my success, for I had taken first place, had finished first, had performed the best. It did not matter that the onlookers, the competitors, and the performers were all one person – me. I imagined everything so realistically that to this day I see it all as I did then, in 1927. The performances ended when the caretaker Franciszek came to polish the floors. This is all there would be until spring, when the balcony would be opened, the sawdust that was spread between the doors shaken out, and the windows washed again. But that would be a time of happiness as spring was on its way and the same Franciszek would bring soil for the boxes, and we would plant pansies of various different colors. But now it was late fall, and the days were short: by four o’clock it was already starting to get dark. 67

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Father dozed on the sofa in the dining room for fifteen minutes. Then he rushed to the Choir Cashier on Mickiewicz Street,8 where he ran a radiology office, and when he took a vacation, stout Dr. Krotów covered for him. The nurse Sonia Wojczyk – ruddy and cheerful – worked there with him. Father was still working at the hospital of the Lithuanian Society in Łukiszki and in the Jewish Hospital on Zawalna Street. Our home was also full of patients, morning and evening. The maid opened the door and watched over the coat closet. There had after all been a case when a “patient” donned the padded fur overcoat of a rich man. When the loss of the coat was discovered, Father hired a cab, went to the haunt of a gang of Jewish thieves on Nowogródzka Street and stated that he would not treat them if the coat was not back in the office within a half hour. A half hour later the coat was adorning the hanger in the hall, and the rich patient left, still clueless about the loss. I was not allowed in the office where Father saw his patients. There was a bathroom in the apartment. It was cold, with a window, and was probably detached from the room that was made into a passageway. A little piece of it was partitioned off into a toilet. Once a week a servant heated the water tank for what was our universal bathing day. They washed my hair, and I howled. Then, wrapped in a warm, flannel bed sheet, I was taken through all the hallways to the bedroom and put into my favorite cot with netting around it. If I woke up during the night, Mama would not yet be in her bed since she would have fallen asleep in the bathtub and would wake up from the cold only when the water cooled down. I would linger in the bedroom and the dining room and would go up to the clock standing between the windows. The big hand would be approaching 12 – it would already be five o’clock. The doorbell would tell me that Klara was coming. She was a student, my French teacher. She would put me in a little grey coat with a fur collar, snow boots, a little grey cap, and we would take a walk to the Bernardyński Park.9 She would speak to me in French and I would be silent. I already understood everything and knew a lot of words, but I was afraid to speak – what if I said something wrong? 8

Now Gedimino (Gediminas) Prospect.

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Now the Bernardine Monastery Garden.

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This went on a long time; months passed before I made up my mind to utter a word. Walking with Klara was interesting. She was young, kind, did not nag me, and I liked French a great deal; it was so melodic. Mama and I would walk down Wileńska Street looking in the store windows: on Mickiewicz, where the pharmacy was located, we would go in to see Pietrow. In the window by the front door there was a fat pink pig made of papiermâché out of whose mouth a garland of sausages of the same pink color was hanging. Mr. Pietrow and his wife were in white robes, pug nosed and round, closely resembling the pig, and the ham they sold was pink, sliced into thin wafers, and there was mustard with the mysterious name of “Sarepcki.” We paid at the old checkout stand bearing the inscription “KACCA.”10 I knew Latin letters and I thought the inscription was odd. Why wasn’t it “Kasa,” as it should be in Polish? Instead it had two C’s. A marvelous fruit store was in the cellar, where you could buy oranges, bananas, apples, and strawberries in the summer on green leaves in a bast-fiber bedding. A little closer to Cathedral Square, near the Lutnia Theater, was a small photo supply shop with one window; this was where Father bought X-ray film and a developer. The owner was elderly and very courteous. On the corner was the Tatar café Strahl across the street from the E. Wedel Store, where Mama bought candy, most often white, crunchy caramel snowballs and Albert pastry – round and rolled up. Sometimes I was able to wheedle some chocolate from her. There would be pictures under the wrapper, and if you collected a lot of them, the store would give you a bar free of charge. On Wileńska Street there was the Baniel store, which sold colonial goods. There were always five or six people in line, and it smelled of coffee and cinnamon. Farther on was the Alperowicz pastry shop with delicious rolls, flat cookies with poppy seeds, and thick round bagels with a narrow little hole in the middle. Sometimes Mama bought pirogues, which they packed in a little cardboard box for her; I was allowed to choose them from selections exhibited in the window this was a great pleasure; they were all magnificent, and my eyes darted back and forth among them. I dreamed about Sundays, when we would go to the Green Strahl Café. There were also other cafes: 10 Translator’s Note: This is in Cyrillic script. It would be “Kassa” in the Latin alphabet.

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the Red Strahl and the Yellow Strahl, the name derived from the color of the upholstery and the furniture, but we did not go to these. Mama and Father and I would sit down at a little table, drink coffee with cream, and I always ordered cake meringue pastry white, light, with custard. What a pity that I could not eat more than two of them. I did not have room for more. People were sitting around us reading newspapers attached to long sticks and were also drinking coffee and talking. All of this was very interesting. And it was so delightful to sit at the table with Father and Mama, but that seldom occurred. Once we had some guests over. Mama was getting upset – she said we had nothing special to serve them for tea. She sent Father on an urgent mission to the Strahl store to get “Stefania”… delicious, oblong, layered chocolate cake. Father ran in about twenty minutes later while Mama was engaging the guests in conversation. “And the cake?” Mama asked. “I forgot the name of the chambermaid,” Father explained sheepishly. He had never had to buy anything before. The family chuckled about this incident for a long time at our house. But I sympathized with Father – what else could he do if he had forgotten Stefania’s name? Mama and Father often quarreled: she did not have enough money to live on, Father was so miserly. But after all, they had to help Grandmother with Nadzia and Mirek, who were going to school. Mama and Father were very different people. Mama was young, slender, very pretty, full of joie de vivre, well educated, and she loved music. Father was short, not good looking, and he was far from perfect in his command of Russian and Polish. When she finally succeeded in dragging him to a concert, he asked Mama, “Why don’t the violinists tune their instruments at home? It’s very unpleasant to listen to them!” This amused Mama. She had received a good education at home, played the piano, and spoke French. But Father had ten brothers and sisters. They lived in the town of Moletai. He had a stepmother, because his own mother died when he was five, and his younger siblings Petia, Liza, and Dina were still at home. His grandfather owned a drug supply store. Father slipped away to Vilna when he was fifteen because 70

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he did not want to become a rabbi; he wanted to study engineering instead. And he took correspondence courses, passed his secondary school exams, and worked for his sister Pauline at a pharmacy in Vilna. “Even though I had a hard time studying and working, I earned a grade of “excellent” in all my subjects,” Father reminded me. I had little sympathy for him. I preferred to listen to Mama’s tales about her childhood. Mama told about playing piano duets with Aunt Annuszka, who was plump, cheerful, and resilient. When Mama made a mistake, Aunt Anna punched her in the side with her elbow without missing a beat of the music. That was funny. In addition, they tried to force her to play with little Mirek, but she wriggled out of it. More than anyone else Mama liked her girlfriend Pola, who stayed in Russia. Pola’s health was very delicate; she was brought to school in a wheelchair and was carried into class, but Mama helped her, and they became very good friends. Life parted them, so they did not meet up with one another again. After the war I looked up Pola in Leningrad and clung to her with all my heart in my orphaned state. Christians decorate a tree at Christmas. I did not have a tree, and I regretted that very much. Our cook Maria Kondratjewna, who loved to tell all about serving her pastor, went to the market and brought back a tiny little fir tree decorated with bright, dry little everlasting flowers. “I also bought you a little brother, but I lost him on the road,” the cook said. I had begun to be delighted with the Christmas tree, but hearing that terrible news, I burst out crying: “What’s going to happen to him now? He can’t say anything. Go look for him!” They had a lot of trouble making me understand that the whole thing was a joke. I was imagining this lost baby lying in the snow, and it took them a long time to comfort me. Mama asked me to play with her, and she gave me scissors and paper. Mama and I glued together strips of different colors and made a long chain. I threw it over the big oleander that stood in a tub next to the door to the balcony in the dining room. It came out looking somewhat like a Christmas tree, but only somewhat. It was too bad that Jews could not have a tree at this time of the year. Would it really be a sin if I had a Christmas tree? Later, by now grown up, I always decorated a tree with my little daughter Emma; she and I enjoyed it together. 71

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They took me to the theater for the first time in my life. It was the Lutnia on Mickiewicz Street (they performed musicals there at the time, but now the building has been rebuilt and is the home of the Lithuanian Theater of Dramatic Arts). The show was called “The Saxon Porcelain Doll” (Laleczka z saskiej porcelany). I was dressed up in a little white dress with flounces and a bow was tied on my black curls. I felt like a queen, and happiness filled me to overflowing. I understood the entire plot and memorized the music (I remember it to this day). Afterwards I told everything a hundred times over to Grandmother: the beautiful doll, the evil abductor, and the gnomes. I sang her the marvelous songs to the music of Grieg‘s “Hall of the Mountain King.” Grandmother could listen tirelessly; she did not get bored, and she praised me: “What a talented little girl!” I exulted. They took me to other concerts as well – the solo performances of the five-year old ballerina Musia Daikes. Here was this child genius dancing the whole evening: waltzes, a sailor’s dance, a Cossack dance, the dance of the little toy soldier, and she quickly changed her costume between dances. There could not have been a prettier performance. I envied Musia and her talent. I could never dance like that. Did I ever clap for her! It was boring at home alone. My parents put me in a “group.” The governess was Lubov’ Lwówna, a kind, middle-aged woman, and seven children: Alik Sedlis, Miła Zeldowicz, Adik Brodski, and Ola Szejniuk. Ola was a neighbor; she lived on the floor beneath us, and I used to call her “my mouse.” We often played together. The classes were conducted at the children’s homes, one month at each home. It was easy to go to Ola’s. All I had to do was scramble down the stairs. A grey and pink rug was on the living room floor, and we could do somersaults and frolic around on it… a huge delight. We did not have a carpet, the floor was cold, and the whole apartment was freezing. It was even worse going to Alik’s on Mickiewicz Street or to the other kids: I would have to put on snow boots, a winter overcoat, and wait to be taken there and then picked up. We sang simple little children’s songs, and every day we played the same games. It was interesting to sculpt things out of plasticine… a little 72

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basket with apples or mushrooms in it. Alik, an agile kid, made a plasticine piano; the governess praised him and took his work to an exhibition. I envied him. My creation was not worthy of distinction. At home, especially in Grandmother’s eyes, I was the best, but here it was not the same. On the other hand I knew how to sing everything except that the songs they were singing here were simple, uninteresting ones, not at all like Mirek’s and Nadzia’s hits. The classes were conducted in Russian. We rehearsed a concert, with songs and dances. I danced like a little bear – fat, curly, with a big bow in my hair, but I liked it nevertheless. We learned verses, and we put together a stage in Ola’s living room, rearranging the chairs. A row of flower pots with flowers in them separated the stage from the onlookers. Everything went smoothly, our parents applauded, and we bowed to the audience. Our youngest kid, three-year old Adik Brodski, who wore a mushroom costume, ruined the performance. He recited a verse ending with the words “The moss stirred, and a mushroom was born into the world.” Just at that moment a big puddle appeared under him owing to the nervous tension. The governess put a flowerpot in the pool and said, “Never mind. After all, mushrooms love moisture.” Everyone laughed, but I felt ashamed for Adik, who crept off and hid, red all over. The following year the leader of the group was a Polish teacher, Ms. Zosia, inasmuch as Polish was to be our future language of instruction. The classes were not so entertaining. Especially boring were the same old games over and over: “The little bird flies and picks up the grain.” At the end you had to catch one of the others in the group or else you would stay in the circle. I could not stand games in which you had to be skillful and quick or they would outrun you and you would lose. I was slow and cautious. And they would do the same exercise again and again. The only interesting thing they did was the stories they read, and here there was no tension. You just had to try not to cry in the sad places. I came down with chicken pox, as did Ola. Being sick was very boring. I could not read. Everything hurt, and my body was covered with black little pustules. I begged Mama: “Mama, come sit with me!” 73

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But Mama was too busy. She had shopping to do… Finally I got better. So did Ola. They brought her to my room, and we reveled in our games so much that we howled when Ola had to be taken home. I loved going to Ola’s: she had a living room with a carpet, not an office with patients no one knew, as we had. Sometimes her mama took Nina, a big porcelain doll, down from the cupboard. She was a “picture of beauty,” an aristocrat. She had curls and a rich, luxurious pink dress. One had to be careful handling her, and that dampened our pleasure in the game. Ola was thin and blond. Her mama limped slightly after an operation, and her Father, Kola, was tall, stout, and full of fun. He was the manager of our building and several other buildings, and I could not understand what he did for a living. In the evening I was sometimes allowed to have supper at Ola’s. Everything was delicious at her place – the sandwiches with sprats and egg, the ham sandwiches, and the tea – not the cocoa we served. Ola’s mother told her: “Don’t eat too much or you’ll get fat like Lala.” That offended me. Was it better to be like Ola? My mama was annoyed: “What kind of child do we have? Food always tastes better at other people’s houses.” And she was right. It was different elsewhere, more interesting. In a few years Ola and I entered different schools and saw each other less frequently. Their family moved to another apartment, on Kalwary Street. I went over there to visit, and we arranged rooms for dolls on the bookcase; every little shelf was another room. We needed little dolls for this game, so we pestered our parents to get them for us. Ola’s grandmother, who was very friendly and quite young, asked me to pour out forty drops for her; I was flattered by her trust and carefully measured out the tincture. When I was about thirteen I was invited to Ola’s birthday party. It was March 19… a day when there was no school because it was the name-day of JÓzef Piłsudski, the head of state. Mama let me put regular shoes on; the sidewalks had dried out, and it was nice, liberated from my heavy boots, to walk across the entire city to the Sadovaya, where Ola lived at that time. I remember not playing with the children there at all, but only browsing through some books, and Ola’s grandmother commented: 74

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“Lala is a serious young lady; she will probably be a scholar.” This surprised me because I never imagined myself having a future of that kind, all the more so since my school record at that time was quite mediocre. But, as it turned out, I was a serious young girl and loved books very much. Later, when I discovered that Ola’s grandmother had died of heart disease, I missed her very much. During the war I found out that the whole family had perished: Ola’s mama, because she was handicapped, was pushed into the pits at Ponary, but they spared Ola. But she did not want to part with her mother and went to her death with her. Modest, grey Ola Szejniuk became a heroine; her love for her mama was stronger than her desire to live. No one anywhere remembers my first close friend any longer, my “mouse who lived under the floor.”

IRKA I had known Irka since I was a toddler, when we lived together at the dacha. I adored her and did her bidding although she was half a year younger than I was. Irka herself and everything associated with her differed from the customary design of the world as I knew it. Irka was petite, frail, extraordinarily lively, and clever. It was always fun to be with her, but in the city they lived far from us – on a hill near a Lutheran cemetery. In the winter we saw each other infrequently, but every single meeting was a celebration. I remember once when I talked Mama into taking me to visit Irka. We dolled ourselves up, hired a cab, and drove a long way through the city to the hill. We finally reached their cottage, which had a garden. My heart was filled with joy. I climbed up onto the coach box and kissed the cabbie on the cheek. Mama told Irka’s mother, Aunt Sonia, about this, and everyone had a good laugh at my expense: what a silly little thing, she kissed the cab driver. Irka had a wonderful Father, always cheerful, who played with us. And they had Roland, an enormous sheepdog, who was allowed to go out into the garden with us; he loved us and ran along with us, licking our faces. In the winter they gave us sleds and let us go out alone on the street, which was set against 75

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the little hill with the cemetery wall. We rode down the hill, merrily laughing and hot. But then a strange lady came up to us and growled indignantly: “You should be ashamed of yourselves, sledding in a cemetery!” I was in tears, but Irka replied, “The cemetery is on the other side of the wall, so it’s OK for us to slide here.” We ran to Irka’s house to see who was right. Irka was a good girl to talk back to the old lady, whereas I was a coward and a crybaby. Irka’s mother told us about a time when Irka did not behave so well. She had gone to see her grandmother and grandfather on Trotsky Street.11 They loved her and spoiled her, as she was their only granddaughter. But suddenly she up and asked: “Grandmother, when you die who will get all these glasses in the buffet?” The grandmother was offended: “Is that the way people talk at your house? They are already dividing up my property!” I, however, understood that Irka did not have anything bad in mind. Her mind was always full of questions and ideas. Later Irka and her parents moved to Kraków. Her father could not find work in Vilna, but in Kraków he became the manager of a glass factory that his brothers owned, and my playmate’s family began to live prosperously. I missed Irka a lot and always considered her my dearest friend. We saw each other again in 1934, when I became quite ill again after a bout with measles, and I was taken away to recuperate: by way of Kraków to the mountains, to Zakopane. We spent the whole summer there together, and our friendship became even closer. We always sat down to write letters to each at four in the afternoon on Saturdays, so our thoughts would be written down simultaneously. The letters would then reach us on Monday, and we would open them after school on this most abhorrent day of the week. Sometimes Irka would go to Aunt Liza’s for the winter holidays, and the days spent with her were the happiest days of my childhood. Now, in the 1990s, going to work at the Jewish Museum, I often pass by Irka’s former home and remember the joyful moments of childhood. My joy 11

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is darkened by the knowledge that all of them died a horrible death in the fall of forty-one. The Nazis killed them all in Lida. I remember you, my dear, beloved friend, and I bequeath your image to my granddaughters Ania and Mika [Mikhal]. You did not live to see either children or grandchildren.

A LITTLE BROTHER Lately there had been a lot of talk at home about my having a little brother soon. I was not at all glad about that. Earlier, when I was four, I loved to give little Elik Baruch rides in a baby carriage on Orzeszkowa Square, and I remember his slim, red-haired mama. Father called the boy “checkered” and said that he would have a checkers pattern – black like his father, red like his mother. I pushed the carriage with pride. All the other children envied me, and Mama and I bought toys for the boy. But now, when I was six, I was accustomed to being the only spoiled child in the house, and a rival was of no use to me. A girl, on the other hand, a little sister, would be acceptable; I could dress her in various outfits and play with her, but boys were mischievous troublemakers! What did we need them for? I was so naive and stupid that I did not notice the changes in Mama’s figure. Life went on. I went to Ms. Zosia’s group, and three times a week dear Klara came and took me for a walk while speaking French to me. On Friday I went to Grandmother’s and enjoyed playing games with Mirek and Nadzia. I also had fun with the crystal radio set that Mirek built. There was only one headset, and sitting on the sofa we listened to music or voice broadcasts, each of us with half of the headset. This was a great marvel: people were talking somewhere while we listened here at home. What a smart fellow Mirek was; he could do anything. Grandmother and I were delighted. Outside the window it was winter, February, freezing. They left me with Grandmother for a few days. I was deliriously happy; this was indeed something that I could enjoy all my life. The only bad thing about it was that Mama got sick, and Father took her to Dr. Sedlis’s hospital on Zwierzyniec Street. And suddenly the news on February 10, 1928: “Lalusiu, you have a new brother! Everyone has been waiting for him to arrive! Aren’t 77

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you glad?” I knew what I was supposed to say: “Yes, I am very glad, I am happy.” I had already reconciled myself to the idea of a brother, and I even thought up a name for him: Misza. But they gave my brother the name of Joseph – “Józio” in memory of Grandmother’s husband, my grandfather, who died during the First World War. What kind of a name was that – really asinine.12 I was very curious, however, to have a look. We went to the hospital in Zwierzyniec13 despite the frosty weather outside. Mama was lying in a large single room. At the door were baskets of flowers, clusters of blossoming lilacs in tubs, pink azaleas – as pretty as they would be in a garden. Next to Mama in a tall, little crib a tiny little child was lying wrapped in a diaper – snub nosed and ugly. He was all wrinkled up and crying, red as a beet. What could I do with him? Even playing with him was impossible! Owing to the severe frost outdoors (it was thirty degrees below, and it stayed that way for several weeks – the winter turned out to be unusually cold), they did not bring my tiny little brother home for a long time. At home they prepared a room for the little one with windows facing the alley. He was to live there with a new nanny, who was dignified and decked out in her white apron. As usual, having weighed all my feelings and realizing that I was now in a secondary rank at home, I announced honestly and openly, “Don’t leave me alone in the room with him because I am going to throw him out the top window pane.” Everyone laughed, but I felt malice toward him and was speaking candidly. Even now I remember my state of mind. Everybody congratulated Father on having a son. Was it really so bad to have a daughter? My little brother came home, and everyone made a lot of fuss over him. They took him to Mama to be fed, and for a long time he lay next to her breast; I mourned that she loved him more than she loved me. Mama explained that after all he was so little and so weak. His diapers were hung up to dry everywhere, and the apartment was cold. The infant cried a great deal, and Mama was tired. He had eczema on the skin of his 12 Translator’s Note: This is a play on the name Jozio (Osia), related to the Russian “ossiol,” meaning ass or donkey. 13

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Zwierzyniec, a district in Vilna.

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face; this was probably a result of Father’s X-rays, but at that time no one understood that; the site itched, and the child slept badly. They gave him lots of toys that interested me more than him. When no one was looking, I gladly inspected them and even played with them a little bit. In the spring Józio’s eyes began to follow the rattles all by themselves, and it became more interesting to play around with him. We went to the dacha in Pośpieszki. We climbed up the tall hill and looked at our white cottage in the pines and Mama with the little baby carriage. Józio, already in his seventh month, was bigger; he could laugh and babble at something. I tried not to think about having to go to school in the fall for the first time. This was something terrible that I absolutely did not want to do. But now the summer was coming to an end. We were moving back to the city.

ANNA PAWŁOWNA WYGODZKA’S SCHOOL My parents decided to enroll me in Anna Wygodzka’s new school. It was a modern school with Yiddish as the language of instruction. Anna Pawłowna herself, the wife of the well-known doctor and Jewish public figure Jakób Wygodzki, taught pedagogy for many years in Switzerland. Her school was considered very advanced, and Father had always been a strong advocate of Yiddish. He thought children had to be taught the Jewish way of doing things. Jakób and Anna Wygodzki were the parents of the outstanding writer Aleksandra Brusztein, author of the book The Road Disappears in the Distance. The leader of the famous Birch Tree choreographical ensemble, Nadezda Nadezdina, was their granddaughter. The Nazis threw Doctor Wygodzki into Łukiszki prison for protesting against the persecution of the Jews in August 1941; he soon died there. Anna Pawłowna stayed in the Vilna ghetto and perished there in 1943. They took me to the school on September 1, 1928. The day before, Mama and I went to the store and bought a cap to go with the uniform – blue, velvet with gold braid, and with earflaps which were tied together on top. I 79

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was incredibly happy: the cap was proof that I was already a schoolgirl, and altogether the prettiest little cap on earth. I put it on right away and would not consent to taking it off, so I slept in it until morning. The school was far from home on Wiwulska Street. There were several elementary classrooms there and an assembly hall. A pleasant teacher and the director greeted us, showed me my desk, and I met the nice little girl, Nineczka Aronowicz, with whom I was supposed to share the desk. Mama did not go away, so things were not too frightening. But difficulties began as soon as the next day: in the first place I had to change shoes, but I did not yet know how to tie my shoes with a bow. In the second place, Mama wanted to leave. At that I made a commotion and Mama had to stay outside in the hallway. Whenever there was a break I ran to her to make sure she had not left. They explained to me at home that I had to remain by myself at school, without Mama – after all, the other mamas also left. They tried for a long time to teach me how to tie my shoelaces. I mastered this wisdom, but did not agree to staying at school without Mama; I cried and woke up early fearing that they would not come to school to get me and I would not find the way home. I have always been shy and cowardly, and I found it very difficult to overcome these characteristics in myself. All the pupils at school had little shelves with a colored sticker of some kind – in my case one with red cherries on it. I found it fun to study unfamiliar Yiddish letters. Then they began to give out cards with words and corresponding pictures on them, bright and nice looking. We sang a lot and did calisthenics. For Hanukkah we put together a musical. I was chosen to play the part of a cuckoo. This was one of the principal roles. I sang solo, vanished somewhere, then they found me, and the choir sang: “Di kukavke iz do!” (the cuckoo has been found!). Mama sewed me a dress with scraps of cloth and feathers. I was overjoyed by the musical and the fact that I played a part in it. Mornings at home were a constant turmoil. Father saw sick patients before leaving for work; he was in a hurry and did not have time to eat; Mama got me ready for school and fixed breakfast for Father. We ran down the staircase, got a cab, and I bellowed that I would be late for school, where Father was taking me. And then right at the beginning of Zawalna Street, where the street was very narrow, a traffic jam occurred. Carts and a few automobiles, sometimes 80

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a bus, could get through on only one lane. This often happened in the morning; I called the spot “semolina kasha,” since I hated that dish, which my parents stuffed into me from my earliest days. Finally up the hill and we arrived. I quickly changed into sneakers, and Father took me to the classroom. He explained to the teacher why we were late. I, of course, was sobbing. Later on in life I was almost never late for anything. I was afraid of this very feeling of humiliation. In class I was the tallest girl. They had me in the first pair of pupils with Braz, a boy. We went to the Maccabee playground on the same Wiwulska Street that the school was on. There we could run and jump without running out of room! We played various games, but not the kind where you had to take someone else’s place, push someone out, or seize anything from someone. Sometimes kids from the Epsztein School, which was located a bit farther away, played on the same playground. Their uniforms and caps were brown. These kids were older and taller than we were, and when the opportunity presented itself, especially on the street when teachers were out of sight, they teased us. I was afraid of them and tried not have anything to do with them. Later I lived for thirty years on Wiwulska Street. Apartment houses were now standing on the site of our playground. Toward spring I could already read, and I greatly enjoyed taking picture books out of the little school library. The library was a temple to me. I experienced all the events described in the books and woke up early in the morning to finish a story I had begun the day before. Spring arrived. Small buds appeared on the lime trees near the school, and I longed for the woods, for the fields. Then it was the last day of first grade. The maid came to get me. I remember nearly exploding with joy at the thought that I did not have to go to school anymore, that we were on vacation. We walked down the street. All around us the grass and the trees were turning green. Tomorrow we would go to our dacha, a different one this time – Wołokumpia!14 The trip to the dacha was a significant event. Mama took a long time packing our summer gear in suitcases and spreading mothballs around our winter clothing. She hid the basket in the room. The smell of mothballs 14

Now Valakampiai, a suburb of Vilnius.

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signified spring to me. Then we got the bed and our toys together, and we started to carry everything downstairs and out the front door. I was told to stand down below and make sure that nothing was stolen. I was very proud that I was carrying out an important assignment just like an adult. A big cart rolled up, and we loaded all our items and furniture into it. Our servant sat next to the driver; they left, and Mama, Józio, and I sat “in the cab” and followed them. This was a long and complex journey, quite unlike the former trip to Pośpieszki. First the wagon turned left away from Antokol, then it got stuck in the sand on the low hill. The wagon driver and the cabbie unloaded a few things, but the horse could not move the cart at all. They unloaded something else. Finally the cart became quite light, the horse moved forward a slight amount, and the men, swearing, put everything back onto the wagon. I was already getting set to cry, as in the case of any misfortune. We drove up to a white cottage in a pine forest. A yellow acacia, a full hedge, and a bed of flowers in front were growing near the veranda. The owner, Dr. Pauline Brodska, and her fat husband, Uncle Misza, were living in the other half of the house. The nanny put Józio to bed, and she and I went down to the brook while Mama was putting everything away in its right place. There had not been a river in Pośpieszki, but here we had a view out onto the Wilia, a beach with yellowish sand, and the white church in Trinopol beyond the turn in the river. It was a very pretty place, but in my heart I had a lingering nostalgia for Pośpieszki with its old pine trees, its ravines with dark, old willows on its slopes, and where we could see Switzerland and the distant hills. I never really liked Wołokumpia. There was no green grass and no little flowers that you could use to make dinner for the dolls. The forest was young and dry. There were no country cottages engulfed in cherry trees, no cozy loft with a view of the old red pines illuminated by the sun. Once, while we were sitting on the veranda, we suddenly saw a man wearing white trousers coming up from the river. It was Uncle Israel Lipe, Father’s oldest brother. He had arrived from Palestine. Uncle Israel told us all kinds of marvelous things about the pardesy,15 where oranges grew,

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Plantations (Hebrew).

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about the shomrim16 who guarded the kibbutzim, about the heat, and many other things that seized the imagination concerning that far-off and mysterious land. They talked incessantly and served the visitor refreshments while sitting at the table and talking, arguing heatedly. With my love for sweets, I focused on the pastries, which Mama and the cook had baked in prodigious numbers. My favorite activity was digging in the sand on the beach. After breakfast Mama packed a towel, extra underpants, and a broad-brimmed hat, while I got my play shovel, pail, and sand molds, and we set out for the brook. The long beach was surrounded by a fence. There was a restaurant on the stream bank and cabins to change in. We had a month’s permit, and children who did not have tickets but tried to go around the fence through the water were chased away by the son of the owner, Borowski. The Borowskis also had three steamboats: “Pan Tadeusz,” a big one with a deck, and two smaller ones, “Vilna” and “Grodno.” It was a delight to sail on the big steamboat, especially if you sat forward on the deck. From here you could see everything. The bow wave surged through the water, the forest stretched along the shore, and you could see people swimming. The voyage on the steamboat was an event. Sometimes we went to Werki place.17 It was mysterious and very pretty there with completely different vegetation – hazel trees, lime trees, and oaks. On the wharf was a small cafe at the foot of a hill. Rarely, but all the same it happened, they bought treats for me there. On the hill there was an ancient park and a palace. Of course at this time it was a boarding house, and some of Mama’s friends were staying there, but at one time in the past counts and countesses certainly did live there. From the top of the hill one had a magnificent view of the Wilia River, forests, a second beach, and in the distance one could even see Antokol and the city’s churches. I greatly enjoyed these faraway vistas, and I adored the hills. Beyond Werki there were a mill and a children’s camp (that’s what they called a TOZ [Fellowship to Foster Health] “colony” at that time). We went 16

Volunteer public safety patrols (Hebrew).

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Now Verkiai.

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there several times. Poor Jewish children lived there in the summer. I was very sorry for them because they were among strangers, without their mothers, yet the kids there were cheerful and noisy; they squabbled, did somersaults, and did not look unhappy. All the same, I thought to myself, I had it better: I was at the dacha, and I was home with my family. I could go on a walk with Mama and collect beautiful rare flowers and herbs; I could sit in the sand and build a fortress right there at the river bank. The fortress would be surrounded by a moat (Mirek helped design it). Or I could construct a whole household: a house with a garden and flower beds, a fence, and barns. I would then imagine that I was living there in a sand cottage, sitting on a bench made of wood chips, watering the flowers, drawing water from a deep well. It was a pity that the walls of the well were falling in all the time and it was getting shallower, but at the same time you could put your whole arm in it up to the elbow, and there was real water on the bottom. It was also fun to dig out a little bay; the water in the bay would be quite warm, and you could stand in it and splash by kicking your feet in the water. We played with Mima, a little girl in the neighborhood, and we gave way to each other a very interesting game, but just then Józio would come in and begin to wreck everything with his shovel and then stamp on it with his feet. What a curse it was to have a little brother! If he were older, we would be happy to play with him, but this little dope was growing so slowly that he would never catch up to me. Although Mirek joked that: “You are five years old, and I’m fifteen. That means I’m three times older than you. When you are ten, I will be twenty –then I’ll be twice your age. The time will come when you will be sixty, and I’ll be seventy, so I will be older by your age and a little more. That’s how you are going to catch up to me.” I did not know that this would never come to pass: uncle Miron would not live to be thirty-two. He would be killed at the front near Jelec in the USSR. I did not want to go home at all. It was hot and our feet were sticking in the sand. We climbed up the hill; the house was cool, and the servant served us aspic salad made with sorrel and potatoes – incomparably delicious. They put Józio to bed. 84

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July 10th was Mama’s birthday. I set the alarm clock in the evening, yet nonetheless got up every half-hour during the night. I had to get up very early. Finally the sun rose. I dressed surreptitiously and quickly went outdoors. I went to a damp clearing in the woods; in the past there had been a small lake there, but now strawberries and flowers were growing. I hurriedly picked one bouquet of strawberries with twigs around it and another bouquet of blue bells and chamomiles. I had to have time to get back while Mama was still sleeping and get the surprise ready for her. I was lucky to find a wild rose bush that was in full bloom. The thorns on the stems were prickly, but I tore off the crimson blossoms – this was for Mama after all. I ran home. It was eight already. There was no sign of Mama. I put the flowers in vases and decorated the strawberries and the flowers in a braided arrangement. It was so pretty. It truly looked like a throne, with flower vases all around. Mama pretended that she did not see anything, that she was “sleeping.” Now everything was done, so I woke her up. Mama came into the room and saw the “throne”! I beamed. Mama liked it, everyone was glad. They baked a strawberry pastry. In the evening there would be guests. We went to the dock to meet Father. There coming around the bend in the river was the “Pan Tadeusz” with Father on the deck waving his hat. The gangplank was lowered, and Father ran over to greet us with an armful of orange chamomiles and violet delphiniums: “I didn’t get any others since the peonies, narcissi, tulips were already out of season.” In my opinion my bouquets were prettier. In the evening we all sat out on the veranda. The samovar, heated by pine cones, was simmering; pastries and candy were set out. Everyone was joyfully excited – my favorite grandmother Maria, Mirek, and Nadzia. Mama was the prettiest woman in the world – dark, tanned, her swept-back hair gleaming. Even Józio behaved decently on Doba’s knees. She convinced him that he was a dare-devil scout. Józio was already a handsome little boy: curly headed, black eyes, and the eczema around his mouth not so noticeable anymore. Nadzia was a real beauty in a tan-colored blouse with a brown pattern. People praised me for the flowers and the “throne.” How much I loved everyone, and how happy I was. All my life I have remembered this summer celebration. A day of great happiness came: Father bought a boat, a remarkable twoseated kayak. Every morning Father would get up at dawn, pull the kayak to 85

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the water, and would paddle up and down in the current for an hour. In the afternoon Mirek would take me for a ride; Mama was afraid that I would drown; Mirek was only seventeen, and you could not rely on him. But Miron swore that I would not stir, that I would sit quietly, and he would be on his best behavior. After all he could swim like a fish, and if anything happened he would rescue me. It was impossible to teach me how to swim; I was dreadfully afraid of choking, and no matter how much everyone around us tried, I screamed at the top of my lungs and resisted all their efforts. Mirek and I were paddling upstream in the kayak. Right after the beach, across from the Trinopol church, there was a bend in the river. Close to the bank it was shallow; there were stones on the bottom, and we could not make it through. Where there were no stones it was deep, very deep, and the current was powerful. But Mirek was strong. He paddled quickly, and we carried the rapids and went upstream to the second beach, even as far as Werki. The water was green. Long strands of algae appeared, and in shallow spots water plants with white little flowers and dragonflies, transparent or black, were darting back and forth over them. How beautiful it was and how wonderful it was to be on the water with Mirek, the epitome of strength and skill. Then Mirek got tired of watching over me. He landed me on the first beach, near our home, and took someone else on board the kayak, but I was not offended. I enjoyed the boat ride and the society of my adorable Mirek. ...Summer was coming to an end, and Mama was packing up our things; everything was going back to the city. Józio had grown a lot, and one could play a bit with him. He had a seesaw in his room, and he and I took turns seesawing. They gave him a little bicycle, and I, too, loved take rides on it. When we went to Bernardyński Park for a stroll, or more rarely to the Bernardine Monastery Gardens, they put him in an upright stroller while I rode down the lime tree pathway along the river. This was very pleasant; I was not unlike an adult, and he was a child. At home we played with blocks sitting on the floor and rolled a ball. I taught him all kinds of games and was an authority in his eyes. That flattered me.

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A YEAR WITHOUT MAMA We got the news that Mama was going to Berlin for coursework in radiology. When she returned she would be helping Father, who had a great deal of work to do. Sonia Rywin, Aunt Anna’s daughter, would be coming from the countryside to be with us. Her sister Raja and her brother Władek, an agronomy student, lived in Michałowo with her. Sonia was to manage our household for us. She was short, skinny, and smoked a lot. She was assigned the “little room,” which was at my disposal prior to her arrival. My toys were moved to the children’s room, and Sonia unpacked her mats and knick knacks, a multitude of all kinds of interesting things. Occasionally a tall gentleman came to see her. His name was Tobias, but the servant and I called him “Autobus,” which infuriated Sonia. She was altogether a grouch, and she frequently shouted, ordered us to do things, and explained it by saying it was all for my own good! A teacher called Miss Hanka also came to us from Warsaw. She and I read and wrote in Polish together. I loved drawing, and we wrote Mama letters which we covered with pictures. A picture of a tree with a bird on one of its branches – very bright and cheery – came out especially well. Mama wrote that she was lonely without me, that she loved me and was showing the drawing to everybody. I was elated. I also missed Mama, but not excessively. Every day after dinner Hanka and I took a walk to the Bernardyński Park. She showed me the leaves of various trees and their seeds. I really enjoyed that. Then we would draw “noses” at home. These were maple seeds, two globes with little wings on them, and we would cut little baskets with handles from the bark of lime trees, fill them with seeds, and play. The only trouble I had was with the multiplication table, which I could not memorize no matter how hard I tried. I was barely OK up to six times, but multiplying by seven, eight, and nine was hopeless. Every day we hammered away at the same thing. If I had been shown everything in a single table, I would have mastered it. I had a fine visual memory, but Hanka was teaching from a textbook which had the columns on different pages, and it just did not work for me. Incidentally, that is how it is with me to the present day. 87

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Reading was the most fun of all. I learned to read quickly and was carried away reading Polish and French. I remember reading little French books when I was still in a crib covered by a net in Mama’s room. Now I was sleeping in a new bed, a grownup’s bed which they bought for me when I was about seven. It was on some netting, with a mattress, and in the morning, lounging in the bed, I would look under the mattress and see the inscription “Konrad Jarnuszkiewicz, owner of the firm.” (In 1944, after the liberation, I was told that the bed, sofa, and my wardrobe from the children’s room were located in the apartment of our former servant Bronka on St. Philip’s Street.18 (I recognized my bed, told them about the inscription, and they gave everything back to me.) In this bed I felt totally adult. While lying in it I read many, many books right up to 1940, when we moved to our own apartment in the building on Wileńska 20, where I had a small room with a sofa. My childhood books absorbed me completely, and I thought the whole day about what I had read, lived out the fates of the heroes, and dreamed about happy endings. I even read at night under the blanket, hooking up a lamp with a little metal lampshade. The blanket heated up, and the red light broke through and illuminated everything around. Since there was glass in the top of the door and the bedroom across the hall had the exact same door, Mama, noticing the light, got up and came over to check up on what I was up to. Hearing her steps, I quickly extinguished the lamp and pretended to be asleep, but the warmed-up blanket betrayed me and in the morning Mama gave me what-for about it. “Reading is for daytime, and you’re ruining your eyesight and not getting enough sleep,” she scolded. “Besides, you’re going to start a fire. Everything in its place. What a strange little child!” In the winter of 1929 I was taken for the first time to the Children’s Library of the Central Committee of Education located far away on Zawalna Street across from the fish market. We climbed up the dirty staircase. The bright large room was full of worn out books which filled the tall shelves up to the ceiling. And all of them could be borrowed! The library seemed 18

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Now 16 February Street.

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to me to be a temple, and the ladies working there – elderly Mrs. Zakheim and young Dina Abramowicz – were the omnipotent priestesses. Whether I would get a book promising me delight depended entirely on them. From that time onward I had a source of happiness in my life. In books I found friends. I experienced joy and grief with them, the opportunity to forget all that was bad or burdensome. I devoured books in a single day, and the librarians, dubious about me, checked whether I had understood everything: “Tell me what is the book about?” Indignantly I recounted the content to them and everything that I thought and felt while reading it. I rapturously devoured books about poor little girls, Cinderellas; I understood them and empathized with their misfortunes, and asked the librarians: “Give me a book about a little girl, but with a happy ending.” When all was said and done the librarian got angry and declared, “There aren’t any more books like that. The only one I can give you is about a boy, but it doesn’t have a happy ending.” I remember this book and the tears that I shed over it. Miss Hanka went to the library with me three times a week, and I was infinitely grateful to her for this. The tedious route down the Zawalna with its narrow passage – “semolina kasha” – and dirty houses seemed wonderful to me, for I would be taking out a new book soon and would derive so much pleasure from it! Kind Miss Hanka never found fault with me, never screamed at me, and she explained everything patiently. At home, after school, she taught me how to put my books and notebooks away scrupulously in good order, frequently played with me, and sewed clothing for my dolls. She was not at all like Sonia, who was angry all the time: “How slovenly you are! Again you’ve made a mess on the tablecloth,” she lamented. “And you’re such an ill-mannered child; you don’t even say thank you. I left my home to look after you so your mama could go to school. No one appreciates it!” The servant and I took revenge by making fun of her suitor: “Sonia, Autobus is here for you.” 89

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The gangly Tobias was also morose. Sonia married him, but soon divorced him and lived alone until the end of her life, working as a nurse in Moscow. I was never able to understand why Sonia found it so hard to get along with us, and with our servant, and I really was not grateful for her devotion to our household. In the evening I suddenly had an earache. The pain was intense, unbearable. I had never before had anything that hurt so much before; previously a stomach ache or scratchiness in the throat would come on and then go away. But this was like being cut with a knife. Father came home from the Choir Cashier, was alarmed, and called up the ear, nose, and throat specialist, Dr. Libo. I liked him. He was gentle and kind, but he could not eliminate the pain. Long days full of terror went by. Compresses, drugs, high temperatures. Lying on Mama’s bed, I cried and called for Mama. The infection spread to the other ear, and it was necessary to lance abscesses in both ears, after which things got better. Miss Hanka went downtown and bought me a new book with a blue and gold binding, not one of the worn-out library ones, but one that was all my own, that would stay with me. The author was Joanne Gould. The title of the book was Guiding Star. I started to read it and forgot about everything in the world. It was autumn, and there was a downpour... An unknown man put a little girl in a stagecoach. She was traveling to meet strangers. She did not have either a father or a mother. Then some rich people took her in. Their son mocked her. She fell out the window and lost her memory. A beggar woman picked her up and forced her to beg for alms, beat her. And then kind, beautiful Virginia found her and let her go to school. And so forth, the whole fate of the little girl, who at the end learns about her family and falls in love with Reginald, who helped her get through her hard times. I liked the book so much that I read it over many times. Even after the war, after everything that I had to live through, I found it in the library and read it over. But then, in my childhood, my fascination with this story and its pure, noble heroes coincided with my recovery from a bad illness, with early spring, and it stayed in my memory. I see myself as an eight-year old girl in Mama’s bed with the book in my hands. Everyone was sorry for me and indulged me. 90

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The main thing was that nothing hurt. All my troubles were behind me. Ahead was nothing but joy, because Mama would come home soon – my beloved, pretty, kind mother.

KAZIK In the first days of March the weather changed abruptly: at night it was still cold, but during the day the sun was warm, the snow thawed, and we had to wear galoshes. On March 4 there was an outdoor fair at Łukiszki Square. This was St. Casimir’s Day, the day of the patron saint of our city, so people called the market “Kazik.” I loved going to the bazaar, and early in the morning began to hound everyone: “Let’s go, let’s get going right away. If not the shelves will be empty. It’s so much fun there!” Mama was not home that year, so we went without her. It was easier to talk Hanka into going. She simply warned: “Be careful. Don’t run off without me, or you’ll get lost. And don’t get your galoshes muddy.” We walked down Mickiewicz Street. You could hear the hubbub from far away. Paper blowouts squeaked, and the square was full of stalls and stands. There was a throng of people. We wedged into the crowd. What wonderful things were being sold here! Garlands of fragrant, thin dried vanilla flowers brought from Smorgonie, a small town east of Vilna. There were “palms,” arrangements of dyed everlasting flowers which Catholics took to church on Palm Sunday to be blessed. I wanted so badly to buy the small clay pots for sale. They were absolutely tiny, like something for dolls. And here was a stall selling gingerbread hearts with a multicolored frosting on them. “Miss Hanka, buy me a heart – that one, with the lilies of the valley and roses drawn on it!” Miss Hanka bought me everything I asked for. Unlike Mama. Mama said that the paint on the gingerbread could poison you, but that was impossible – it was so pretty. I also begged for a little monkey on a rubber band. The 91

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street urchins were calling out: “Małpy, małpeczki. Dla syna i dla córeczki, nie jedzą, nie piją, a skaczą i żyją.”19 Indeed they did seem to be alive. I had a paper blowout: you blew into it and the tail stretched out, only to curl up again when you stopped. It was hot, the sun was baking, and our feet got stuck in filthy liquid manure. All around us laughter, shouting, songs, and recorded music. With bagels and globes hanging around our necks, we had trouble extricating ourselves from the crowd. We just did not want to lose the toy whistles or break the little pots. Sheer joy! What blessed minutes these were! ... Father and I met Mama at the train station platform. The locomotive appeared in the distance followed by a long line of cars. Wearing a little hat with a short veil, Mama was smiling out of a window. She was so nice, so beautiful. Mama was carrying a lot of presents – black patent leather shoes, French books, chocolate from abroad. But the main thing was the horse, a huge horse made of genuine horsehide with real hair in white and brown patches. It was taken out onto the platform and brought home with difficulty. It was so much fun to sit on it and rock. Józio was rather afraid of the horse, but I fell in love with it right away. It was my great friend. I was a bit sorry when Miss Hanka went back to Wyszkow, her home near Warsaw. I had become quite attached to her. She instilled a love for nature and for painting in me. I saw Miss Hanka only once again, on my way to Zakopane in 1934, when I was sick and was traveling to the professor. Miss Hanka walked around Warsaw with us then. In the fall I entered third grade at school, where the instruction was all in Polish. They took me down the Mostowa,20 across magnificent Cathedral Square, then down University Street… a long way. Sometimes the mother of another girl would pick me up at the door, and my friend and I would go together. 19

“Toy monkeys and marmosets for your sons and daughters! They don’t eat or drink, but they jump and they’re alive!” (Polish)

20

Now Tilto Street.

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Before the end of summer they hired a tutor from the Eliza Orzeszkowa School to help me get ready for the entrance exams. They had decided to send me to the Polish state school. The entrance exams would take five days, like regular school days. I was not used to working at the dacha. I also had to study a book on the Jewish religion, but this was interesting – so many unusual tales about Adam and Eve, Abraham and his wives and sons, about Lot and the depraved people of Sodom and Gomorrah, about Noah and the flood. It was a little absurd, and it did not make total sense, but these were fairy tales after all. In no case did I want to solve arithmetic problems at the dacha. Here I was surrounded by the forest, freedom, and I was supposed to study for hours at the table. Something terrifying was looming over me in the future, something with the outlandish name of “examinations!” They took me to stay with Grandmother as long as the exams lasted. It was a good thing, but this time fear of the examination was greater than the pleasure of living at Grandmother’s.

THE FLOOD The winter of 1931, when I was going on ten, turned out to be unusually snowy and was very pretty. Then it suddenly warmed up, and the snow quickly melted. The sidewalks were covered with a dirty porridge-like mixture, and Mama did not allow me to go out without boots on. Finally things dried out, and I could wear shoes. It was easy to walk in them. My feet fairly ran down the smooth, dry sidewalk. Several days passed, and I had already forgotten about the wintry snowdrifts, when suddenly there was talk that our Wilia River had risen substantially. We walked out onto Nadbrzezna [Embankment] Street21 close beyond our building. The brown water was madly rushing past us, sweeping branches, boards, even fences with it as it went. Once I saw an entire barn floating by. There was a great deal of water, and at times it reached the top of the tall bank. This was from the snow that had melted to the north, in 21

Now Zigimantu Street.

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Belorussia, where the onrushing Wilia had come from. It looked as though there would be a big flood, they said at home. On Friday I went to school as usual. No one accompanied me any longer now that I was a big girl! After school I turned as always onto Cathedral Square from University, admired the cathedral with its white columns, and gazed at the sculpture of Moses with “horns.” I wanted to make the turn onto Mostowa, but a policeman was standing there. “You can’t go that way. The street is submerged. Take another route.” I was struck dumb with terror. I did not know any other way. It was true that I often took walks down the avenue, but the way home from school was a special route by way of the Mostowa. I went up to a policeman and asked in a voice of desperation: “How can I get to the corner of Wileńska and Mostowa? My route is flooded.” The policeman politely explained what I should do. To this very day I remember how frightening it was to walk down the avenue alone. It seemed completely foreign to me. But I came to familiar Orzeszkowa Square, where I often played, and the turn onto Wileńska. The area was full of gawkers, and a large pool had formed at Mostowa. It was shallow, but this was out of the ordinary. I crossed it on some boards and reached the entrance to our home. At home I set about reporting everything to Mama: “The river has risen so high that it has overflowed its banks and has even flooded Embankment Street. What is going to happen? After all, we are living almost at the water’s edge!” All that evening the only topic of conversation was the flood. There was no school in the morning – it was Saturday. Father woke me up with the shout: “Look, the whole courtyard is under water!” I ran to the window: the courtyard and the flower bed, surrounded on three sides by four-story buildings, were flooded. People swarmed in waist-high water pulling bags and boxes out of stores on the first floor – Bastacki from his paint store, Teitelboim from his grocery store. Suddenly Bastacki yelled loudly: he had burned himself on some slaked lime that formed when the lime came in contact with water. Father rushed down 94

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to help. Mama grieved for the people on the first floor, who had suffered losses. But the whole scene occupied my attention. This was not an everyday occurrence! Father returned with news: the driveway was flooded, you could not go out on the street, and what was more, the street had turned into a river; the water had risen so high that it would soon go over the planking on the bridge and then the bridge could collapse. From the balcony we watched people in taxis crossing the wet street-river and going across the bridge, to Kalwary Street. We had no reserve supplies at home. In order to get to work Father went through attics and another building that was not yet flooded. “Buy some fruits and vegetables, canned goods, but without any salt in them,” said Mama. “The plumbing doesn’t work, so you need to get drinking water from the next street.” Father came back in about two hours carrying a full basket of food. Mama to her horror discovered containers of spicy pickled sprats and screamed at Father. “You ordered me to buy salted canned goods,” Father said in his own defense. He was always so busy that he never did any of the household chores and did not fully appreciate what Mama was telling him. The next day the water had risen still higher. Mama decided to send Józio and me to Grandmother’s since the plumbing did not work; we could not wash or drink. I was very glad to make the trip to Grandmother’s, but it was a pity to tear myself away from such interesting events. We packed our things and carried them to our attic. I had never been there before. Everything was so mysterious – the roof directly above us, some pipes, and dust. From there we crossed to the attic of the neighboring building and then to the next. There we went down the staircase and found a boat waiting at the front door. We were taken to a dry area and from there by cab to Grandmother’s. I rapturously told my adorable grandmother about all our exploits, and Grandmother listened to me with interest. Then Mirek, Nadzia, and I went to Cathedral Square, more accurately to Mickiewicz Street, since there was a great deal of water on the square. The entire grounds of the Bernardyński 95

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Park were flooded, water even surrounded the bell tower on the square, and many people were paddling boats among the chestnuts and maples, even around the cathedral, and it was like something out of a fairytale! In a few days the water began to abate, and we, unfortunately, went back home. The cathedral was discovered to be undermined, its wall on the point of collapse. An appeal for repair contributions was launched, and the cathedral was surrounded by scaffolding. It had forfeited its beauty and grandeur… In the course of the repair work, the remains of the Polish-Lithuanian kings and Queen Barbara Radziwił were unearthed, and everyone talked about this. So many events, so many adventures – just like an enthralling book!

THE ELIZA ORZESZKOWA SCHOOL Early in the morning they took me to the new and unfamiliar school on Orzeszkowa Square. I had played in the square next to the school throughout my childhood, and in the early spring I had walked on the street bordering it when the snow was thawing and happy little streamlets, gurgling, were running down the pavement. I shook with fear. Mama went with me no farther than the cloakroom. I was supposed to leave my coat there and walk up the stairs alone to the assembly room. There were lots of girls, strangers to me, in the area. Some were laughing and carefree, others were just as frightened as I was. The staircase was gloomy, and so was the assembly room. They formed us in a line and began to call out our surnames. For some reason my surname was not there. The teachers broke us up into groups of twenty for various classrooms, but I stood there alone in the middle of the auditorium. I began to cry. A teacher I did not know came up and wondered why I did not have a classroom. “What is your last name?” “Margolis,” I answered. There was no such name on the list. The teacher was puzzled, but suddenly she focused on the fact that the Gordon girl was not present. I remembered that Father had two surnames: Margolis-Gordon. 96

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They took me to a classroom where twenty girls were sitting and the real schooldays began. The teacher asked questions, and we answered. Then they assigned us the task of writing a little story in which four words would appear: summer, children, forest, and thunder storm. This was quite easy and fun. In addition we solved examples, and at the end the Jewish pupils stayed in their seats and the teacher Friedman came in. I had an excellent knowledge of all the Old Testament, and the teacher praised me. When I came home to Grandmother, I spent the whole evening telling her about the school, and my dear grandmother listened and oh’d and ah’d with me. The next morning I was again seized with fear, and, as I usually did in such circumstances, came down with a stomach ache. Nadzia was taking an exam at the university that same day. Both of us were jittery and had to rush to the toilet. Grandmother laughed at us: “What a couple of silly monkeys you are! Don’t be afraid. You absolutely have to take the exam.” The exams continued all five days, and we were given grades. We got to know each other. For the first time I was in a group of non-Jewish Polish girls. Earlier I had gone to Jewish schools and associated only with Jews. Except for our servant, I did not know other non-Jews. Their surnames were striking, as was the sound of their first names as well as their behavior. Although all of us were around the age of ten, a certain alienation was sensed. I tried to be polite, and between classes hung around the door fearing that I would become distracted and not find the classroom. The exams were finally over. I felt relief. Nadzia came for me. We walked down Wileńska Street to building number twenty, which Father had bought a few years before. It had a big garden with lots of trees: apples, pears, cherries, and plums; strawberries and radishes were growing there. The caretaker Franciszek maintained and was in charge of the garden and the yard. We picked a big bunch of large, pink radishes and a head of lettuce and hurried home to Grandmother down Portowa Street. Both of us had done well, and we felt on top of the world. Nadzia bought ice cream at a little store – that was happiness indeed! Grandmother greeted us enthusiastically. We had lunch together and chatted. I recounted my exploits, and Grandmother praised me. It was one 97

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of the most delightful days of my life, and I have always remembered it. I was proud that I had learned everything well and that I had overcome the fear and shyness which have always stood in my way. And back to the dacha, unlimited freedom, no homework. I could play all day, and either with my friends or alone could play at examinations and school. I made lists of the new, previously unknown surnames of the pupils and the teachers. My friends did not have any real experience with these things, and I was the main person in the game. A garden house with a little table in it was in the woods behind the house; we spent whole days there. Sometimes Mama sent me into town to buy some things. I would take the steamboat, walk down Wileńska Street, and buy everything on the list – ham at Pietrow’s, coffee at Baniel’s, cotton wool at the pharmacy, rolls at Alperowicz’s. I considered myself completely grown-up. In the evening I would come back on the steamer with Father to the dacha. How nice it was there, especially with the city so empty and weird in the summer. On the first of September I went to the new school, now as a pupil, in a blue uniform with a white collar, a black apron with pleated flounces underneath and on the shoulders. I already knew some of the teachers, but all the same it was somewhat scary. There were fifty-four girls in the class! Some people I knew were among them: pretty Betja Chładnowicz (Dr. Libo’s niece), cheerful Lila Amdurska, fat and dull-witted Luba Arons, the little grind Zuzia Arkin. They were Jewish, and there were quite a number of them in the class – ten girls! There were also two Lithuanians, two Russians, and the rest Poles. I got along well with Danusia Gumowska; we were born on the same day. There were “aristocrats” in the class: rich Krysia Burchat, tall and beautiful, and her cousin Iza Oskerczanka were from the nobility; the janitor’s daughter, Chelia Brzozowska, hung around with them and carried out all their whims. The smallest girl, puny little Chelia Jarmołowska, sat at the first desk. I was at the third one on the right, near the door, with Ala Szczęsnowicz. We made friends and helped one another. Many of the girls were noisy and sprightly. Between classes they would run to the snack bar or to the rest room, where they would sit on the window ledge and exchange gossip. In the best case I would stroll down the hallway with another girl or would stand outside the classroom door. In class I 98

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would never raise my hand – for fear that I might say something wrong… My terrible character made me my own worst enemy.

ANNIVERSARY OF THE POGROM It was already fall, and the days were becoming noticeably shorter. The school building looked gloomy. Thank God school would soon be over, and I could run home. It would take five minutes to go home down Wileńska Street to the corner of Mostowa. But the class went on and on. I did not yet have a watch. Suddenly the headmistress came in, whispered something to the teacher, and left. And the teacher began reading to us aloud, obviously trying to take up as much time as possible. The bell had not rung yet. Finally they allowed us to run around the hallways, but we were not allowed to go home. A few parents came to get their girls, but they had to sit in the cloak room. What was going on? Why couldn’t we go out onto the street? The girls found out from the people waiting for them that a crowd of nationalist students was going down Mickiewicz Street. They were yelling, and they could hurt or even kill someone. Mama sent our servant for me, but she, too, had to wait downstairs. Finally the cries and the roar of the crowd died down, and we went home. The street emptied. “What was that on the street? Why were the students and the crowd yelling and throwing stones?” I asked. Father explained. In the previous year Polish students had attacked Jewish students and demanded that they sit on benches on the left, in a “Jewish ghetto.” The Jewish students refused to do that. A fight started in which the insolent Polish student Wacławski was killed. Today was the anniversary of that incident. The ND’s, members of the right-wing National Democratic Party, organized a demonstration, beat Jews on the streets, tore down the signs on Jewish stores, the offices of Jewish lawyers and doctors, smeared them with green paint, and urged Poles not to buy from Jewish shops. A violent action of this kind is called a “pogrom.” In Tsarist Russia they were often organized against the Jews. Poland, however, was considered to be a democratic state 99

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in which all ethnic groupings were equal. It turned out that these were only words, Father said as he finished. I felt betrayed and insulted. How did this injustice toward the Jews arise? Earlier I had gone to Jewish schools and in general knew little about inequality and anti-Semitism. The classes continued. The main affliction was needlework. The teacher, Ms. Wrześniewska, called out people’s names from a list at the first lesson and asked what their parents did for a living. When she came to me, she asked: “Does your father have a store?” I answered that he did not. What was her reason for asking this? Could it be that her attitude toward a pupil depended on whether her father was rich? I put off the embroidery homework to the last day, did not have time to finish it, and ran to Mama to implore her: “Mama, dear Mama, please embroider these patterns on grey cloth with a red thread for me!” Mama joked: “I always got fives in school, but your teacher is going to give me a four. I’m going to go and complain about this injustice.” I was terribly afraid that Mama would carry out her promise, and Ms. Wrześniewska would find out who did the needlework for me. The other snag was sports. I was clumsy, could not walk on the narrow balance beam of the upended gymnastics bench, lost my balance, slowly scrambled up the Swedish wall ladder, and lost my breath when I ran fast. In general I did not like competitions and contests, ball games. Whenever I put on my black shorts and white tank top, I sank into depression. So I was awfully glad when I broke my left arm above the wrist and for a long time could not go to gymnastics. This is how it happened. After the flood the water washed out a big hole in front of the stairway at our doorstep. That morning I hurried over to Grandmother’s to plant flowers with Nadzia on the balcony. I ran downstairs quickly, slipped on a board tossed across the hole, and fell on my arm. The excruciating pain forced me to go back upstairs. They put cold compresses on me, but I moaned and yelled. Father came home, took an X-ray, and put a splint on it. I cried 100

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all night. In the morning we went up Nowogródzka Street in a cab to Dr. Zarcyn, a well-known surgeon. The doctor came out. He was bald, gruff, and had a big moustache. I, of course, was scared. Then he took me into his yard and showed me his chickens in their cages and a bunny. This was very interesting – domesticated birds and animals in the city! But the pain in my arm prevented me from being jubilant. Back in his office Dr. Zarcyn, while talking my head off, pulled my hand by the fingers, manipulated the bones until they were in the right place, and put a cast on it – from the wrist to the elbow, since both bones of the wrist were broken. The pain subsided a bit, and we drove home. In a few days I went to school and showed off my bandage, displaying it to everyone in succession. It was spring, and the girls in the schoolyard were playing classics. The arm in the cast did not hurt, and I started to jump with them. Suddenly I fell and the cast broke. It had to be replaced, and my father read me the riot act. At this time I did not do any writing in school although it was the left arm that was broken. I pretended that I was suffering a great deal and did not even do my homework. Everyone took pity on me both at home and at school, and this pleased me greatly. Then for a long time, for years, I wriggled out of sports owing to the pain in my arm.

POSING FOR A PICTURE Once Father declared that we should help the needy artist Lejbowski and therefore Father ordered portraits of the children from him. Every day I had to sit in an armchair while the artist painted me. I was very glad. It was so interesting to have my portrait hanging on the wall. But it turned out that posing was very boring. I had to sit motionless. I could neither fidget nor laugh, and sometimes could not even talk. The artist was wellinformed. He told me about his life in Paris, and he and I talked French with one another. I had plenty of time to learn all about him – from his bald spot, framed by grey curls, and his blue-grey eyes to his worn-out boots. The portrait came out successfully, in soft tones. It was hung in the 101

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dining room next to Józio’s portrait in a gilded frame. Both portraits were lost in the war when we did not have time to carry them to Polish friends for safekeeping. I was very sorry about that! Summer arrived, and classes were over. Thank God, because I had no special liking for school. I made friends with some Jewish girls – quiet Sima Rabinowicz, red-cheeked Ania Kaczergińska, and Luba Kronik, who was lots of fun, but I cannot say that these friendships were everything in my life. I was delighted to be with Lila Amdurska. She always knew everything, received nothing but fives in her grades, and she played music to boot – at sports she played marches and other invigorating music. When it was still early in the school year my parents bought a piano, a beautiful Bechstein baby grand. They put it in the dining room by the window. Musical torture began for me. A repulsive teacher named Rosa Belous taught me (she did have a moustache, but it was black).22 I was lazy, I had a hard time reading musical notation, and Rosa would hit me on my fingers with a ruler. Owing to her bad temper and rudeness, I lost all desire to learn. Hatred filled my appointed hour at the keyboard. There was a clock with a pendulum in the corner behind me. Every three or four minutes I turned my head to see how many minutes had already gone by. I even noticed the phenomenon that from 12 to 6 the arrow crawled down the face of the clock slowly, but then went back up to 12 faster. From the constant turning of my head, my neck even began to hurt. The heartless, hostile teacher almost killed my interest in playing, almost robbed me of my love for music. On the other hand I had an excellent ear and memory for music. I loved to sing and gladly sang in the chorus. Just at that time Mirek and my mom won third prize in a musical radio quiz. On the day that I came home with a cast on my arm and still undried tears, Mama went to the radio station which transmitted the award of the prizes. I was proud to hear Mama’s name on the radio and her changed voice thanking the host for her records: Beethoven’s “Egmont” and the overture to the opera “Carmen.” At home we all took turns touching the foreign records 22 Translator’s note: this is a play on the teacher’s last name, which is literally “white moustache” in Russian.

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with the logo of a dog in front of a Victrola. I loved listening to serious music. Mirek helped me in this. Subsequently he took me to concerts, humming the passages of symphonies and concertos in advance so that I would be familiar with them. All my life I greatly loved music, especially by the romantic composers. Now, while I am writing, the Tchaikovsky Fifth Symphony is being broadcast on the radio, and I remember my youth and the concerts that Mirek took me to. However, the piano lessons were torment: my small hand could not cover a full octave, I played quietly to hide my mistakes, I procrastinated on memorizing the difficult passages, I put off scales until later, and all evening the unfulfilled music lessons gradually tormented me. Father’s office was next to the dining room, and Father did not like me to pound the keys while he was working. In the first year of these lessons I got as far as Schubert’s “Musical Moment,” but I did not like it. In general I enjoyed pieces in the minor key. Once Father, listening to Rubinstein performing a composition on the radio in the dining room, opened the office door and said, assuming that I was the one playing it: “You’re making good progress.” I blushed with shame.

MICHAŁOWO It was summer vacation, and the music lessons ceased. My parents decided to send Józio to a boarding house in Wołokumpia with a governess, and me to the village of Michałowo, where Grandmother’s friend and Mama’s acquaintance in Minsk, Anna Rywin, lived with her husband Szaja, her daughters Sonia and Raja, and her son Władek, a student. They sometimes came to stay with us as guests. I really loved the old couple and Raja, their pretty, quiet, youngest daughter (there were a total of five children). Raja read me stories in the winter and told me about the village, the big house, the front garden, the cows, the dog, and other marvels. Sonia lived with us while Mama was going to school in Berlin. I did not like her very much, but now I was impatiently waiting for her, for she was going to take me to Michałowo. 103

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Now we were sitting in the train, but a five-hour trip was ahead of us… a real journey! Then from the Oleknowicze station, which was right on the Soviet border, it was thirty kilometers to Michałowo by carriage. I kept peppering Sonia with demands for stories about their house and its inhabitants, about the flowers, cattle, horses, dog, the cow and its calf, about the turkeys and chickens. Finally the train stopped. A carriage waited on the other side of the platform, a tan horse hitched up to it. “This is our Deresz,” Sonia said, saying hello to the driver. Thus began a three-hour journey through the roadless Polish sticks. The horse trudged at a walking pace along the sandy pathway, and only in small towns did the carriage roll on the cobblestones of the main street, where Jewish children were playing. All around us were green fields – with rye, oats, and buckwheat. Sometimes single oaks towered in a field, or our pathway ran through the rye. How I longed to run through this narrow boundary-strip and gather a big bouquet of cornflowers. It was a hilly area, and the horse often had to pull the carriage uphill. When the ride became tedious, in spite of the beauty surrounding us, we would go deeper into a shaded thicket. “It’s not much farther,” Sonia consoled me. “What, are you very tired?” We were covered with dust, and we were thirsty, but the beauty of the area and the late afternoon air gave me added strength. We drove onto a little bridge across a stream. There was Ms. Zosia’s cottage, which Sonia had told me about. Beside it was a little garden and a little bench. Beyond the river was a big meadow, and farther on some woods. By the road were some enormous oaks. I have never seen anything like them since. And acorns, there would be so many acorns here! I had never had the opportunity to gather them. The only thing I was familiar with was chestnuts. Now we were riding along a tall fence. We turned and rolled up to the little porch of an old clapboard house. Aunt Anna, Uncle Szaja, and the old servant Zosia ran out to greet us. They were simply beaming with joy. “We have been waiting such a long time for you! Go get washed and change your clothes. Zosia has baked some rolls. It’s all on the table.” I was slightly disappointed. The house was altogether ordinary. The rooms were whitewashed, and the furniture was simple: an old sofa, a table with 104

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chairs around it, a clock ticking on the wall. There were small windows with white little curtains. I had imagined that it would be like a fairy tale there. They gave us food and something to drink. Everyone interrupted everyone else talking and talking, whereas I wanted to run off and inspect everything as quickly as possible. Supper was finally over, but it was already dark, and I was shooed off to sleep in Raja’s little room, in which the only decoration was a tapestry on the wall embroidered with colored thread on a grey cloth background: a boy and a girl were picking flowers in a meadow. Later I went through whole winters longing for Michałowo and this tapestry. It survived by a miracle, and I sometimes see it at Anna’s granddaughter’s in Haifa… The sunlight flooding the white room woke me up. I slipped out of my night clothes and pulled on a dress. Aunt Anna was setting the dining room table. “So you’re up. Did you sleep well in the little feather bed?” I had never before had the experience of sleeping on something so soft. Mama thought that children should sleep on a hard mattress. “Go out to the garden and pull up some onions and radishes for breakfast.” I ran out to the garden. Everything was covered with dew. The water drops were transfused with the colors of the rainbow. I ecstatically began to pull pink, round radishes out of the ground and tear off onion leaves. After breakfast they pulled a white broad brimmed hat down over my eyes, and Uncle Szaja took me to see the mill. Dust from the mill surged upward in clouds, the grain was poured out onto the millstones, and white flour flowed out from under them as they turned. Peasants put them into bags and carried them to the wagons. This was very interesting. It all smelled richly of flour. But even better was the smell of the sawmill. Here thin saws cut into a block of wood, cutting out boards of varying thickness. The sawdust fanned upward while the machinery whined and sang. This was so much out of the ordinary, new, and beautiful! I found the enormous weights at the mill striking. “So let’s weigh you,” Uncle Szaja said, “and then we’ll sell you back to Mama by the pound. I hope you will grow up with us here in the fresh air and will regain your health.” 105

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Aunt Anna cooked some little pierożki fried in butter – little pancakes. I, of course, could not resist eating an infinite number of them, with sour cream, no less. Everything here was exceptionally tasty: strawberries, red radishes, potatoes. I picked eggs out of the hens’ nests myself, still warm and brown. We went into the nearby forest to pick berries. There were extraordinary numbers of mushrooms: maślaki [boletus luteus], chanterelles, and brown caps [boletus scaber], even white ones. Pine trees, birches, and among them thickets of hazel still sprinkled with little nuts in green little helmet-like shells, grew in the forest. Behind the kitchen on the fringe of the forest was a little table with a small bench, and here I could play for hours with my doll: there were plenty of twigs and little leaves and flowers, and many different herbs for the doll’s mattress, for meals, and for the construction and decoration of its dwelling. To tell the truth it was boring to play alone, and I decided to introduce myself to the children of the very poor farmhands who lived in barrack dugouts and worked for Uncle Szaja at the sawmill. These children ran around barefoot, in long, washed out dresses. They were skinny and looked dirty. I brought them candy, a tin box of lollipops, and they were overjoyed at this rare delicacy. I had never before come in contact with poverty, but here I found myself side by side for the first time with what I had been reading in the books of Victor Hugo and Charles Dickens. There was unemployment in Poland. In the eastern rural regions, for the most part inhabited by Belorussians, there was no construction work, no industry. Seasonal laborers, who had many children and not enough food, hired themselves out to Uncle Szaja. The work was temporary, and the shelter was something like a kennel. The people were ragged, shaggy, and downtrodden. The children could not play my games; they had never had dolls or toys. They begged for candy all the time. “I’ll bring it later. Uncle is sleeping now,” I explained. A girl with big, black eyes looked at me in amazement: “Do you mean he’s sleeping on the candy?” she persisted in asking. They all slept in one little den and could not understand that one could not go into a bedroom when someone was sleeping there. I started to pester Uncle with questions: 106

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Why are they poor? Why aren’t they paid more? Why do they live like animals in hovels?” “I don’t have the means to pay them more,” Uncle sighed. “You see, the land where the house is standing and where the garden plot and the field are located belongs to the landlord, Mr. Heine, and I have to pay him rent for it. They don’t sell land to Jews in Poland. If I had the money, I would build houses for the poor migrant workers, but now, in 1932, there’s a crisis everywhere in Europe. Everyone is badly off.” He sighed sorrowfully, my kind and gentle Uncle Szaja, whom I loved very much. There was no justice on earth, I thought. I had so many dresses, pairs of slippers, all kinds of bows and bobby-sox. When Mama came to visit, I would ask her to give part of my things to the poor little girls. I was greatly distressed and dispirited at the sight of these children. I could not look at an ownerless dog without feeling sorry for it, and here right next to me so many half-starved children were living! My favorite game was to play at concerts and put on shows. I would produce them in empty barns where earlier, before the crisis, when Uncle’s business was doing well, stacks of lumber were piled up, but now they were totally empty. I invented playmates – Nina and Irka, whose father was an officer. Mentally I dressed them in white little dresses with polka dots and played with them as if they were real children. We danced and sang for hours at a time. I played their parts and mine, forgetting about everything else in the world. Today was Friday. They hitched Deresh up to the carriage. Sonia was going to take me with her to the hamlet of Raków to go shopping. They let me sit in the coach box next to the driver. We passed the bridge and drove into the forest. They let me take the reins. I sat there proudly, guiding Deresh and feeling grander than any general – see, this big horse was obeying me. I imagined that we going to celebrate a name-day, to the dacha of my fictional playmates Nina and Irka. We would drive up to the front door and everyone would rush out to greet us, even their father the officer. Here the forest turned into green underbrush, and the first buildings appeared. Farther on was a street consisting of little wooden houses 107

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with three little front windows set close together. In the park beyond a hedge was the landlord’s manor house and a church. In the center of the hamlet was a square with rows of tradesmen’s stalls. At the bakery we bought cookies with poppy seeds, at the butcher’s shop a chunk of beef, at the grocery shop grain and salt. Our bag was getting full, and we were in a hurry: on Friday the shops closed early since all the shop holders were Jews. Finally we dropped by Altka’s shop. A completely slovenly, disheveled woman stood behind the counter. “So this is Emma Lewinson’s daughter,” she said, staring at me. “Emma and I were in the same class at school.” I remembered Mama’s stories about school and the plump Altka, who considered herself a beauty and assured everyone: “Look at the way I walk! What a good stride I have!” The girls laughed and said she could fit a samovar and a tea tray on her posterior. And this was where fate had driven her: to a little shop in a poor little town, whereas my mother lived in the city and went abroad and to the theater. It was even hard to believe that this hussy had been Mama’s friend. It could have been out of a book by Dickens! (But the same fate was in store for both of them – both killed at the hands of the Nazis!) Thoughts about the friend at whose house I had to play the piano for half an hour on every visit to the town so I would not forget what I had learned dampened my joy. But I even agreed to do this if they would take me to Raków. I hammered out the scales, etudes, and Schubert’s “Musical Moment.” Having finished my assignment, I gained my freedom. We stopped by the white cottage with little white window curtains to invite the doctorowner to come over for a visit. Unfortunately, he did not have children. On the other hand he did have a loquacious wife. The crowning moment of our trips was our visit to the post office. I read a great deal quickly, especially in bad weather, sitting on the sofa in the dining room, where the edge of the stove stuck out. “Why don’t you take off your big hat?” Sonia asked, “It’s hot in here.” But I, remembering the horrors of my ear infection, pulled a hat over my ears everywhere and always. People laughed at me: 108

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“Shouldn’t you put your fur coat on, too?” The Raków library had hardly any children’s books. Mama was required to send big packages of books from the Vilna Jewish Library on Zawalna Street. I loved going to the post office to pick up these voluminous packages of bedraggled books, unwrapping the paper, and enjoying the jackets and the illustrations. Finally we took care of everything. We returned by the same route, and I proudly took my place on the coach box. We drove up to the entrance. My aunt and uncle met us and exclaimed, “What a marvelous driver!” All the purchases and books were brought into the house, and I recounted at length everything I had seen and heard. There were enough memories to last us several days. Many framed photographs were hanging in Aunt Anna’s and Uncle Szaja’s bedroom. One of them showed three girls in bonnets with little muffs on their hands. These were their oldest girls – Flora, Zina, and Pola, Mama’s closest friend. They all lived in Russia. And this sweet little blonde girl was Ineczka, Aunt Anna’s granddaughter, and next to her Garrik, her brother. I did not remember him, but I knew that he was five months younger than I was. When I was two years old, Aunt Pola came to visit her mother and spent some time with Mama. At that time I thought I should prove to myself that Garrik was real, so I pushed him and he fell over and yelled at the top of his lungs. (Later, when I would meet him after the war, he always jokingly reminded me of this.) Poland’s border with the USSR was closed, and Aunt Anna no longer was able to see either her three oldest daughters or her grandchildren. She pined for them a great deal. I often stood in front of the photographs and imagined how nice it would be to play with them and how much fun we would all have. Now I had to play by myself the whole time. By evening I was very tired. After supper they prevailed upon me to walk around the garden some more since I was very bored. It was already getting dark, and I was afraid but didn’t let on – they already teased me enough anyway about being a clumsy coward. I left the bright, warm dining room and wandered over to the chicken coop, where the chickens were already sitting on their perches. I picked up a young white rooster, soft and warm, and walked around with him, telling him everything I was up to. Then I 109

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carried him back to the chicken coop, put him back on his perch, and went to my bedroom to turn in for the night. People smelled out my secret and began to chuckle over my friendship with the rooster, but they did it kindheartedly and not at all maliciously. At the end of June, after the feast of Saints Peter and Paul, the peasants began to cut the fields above the stream. Uncle Szaja took me with him, and I watched the young men of the village standing in a line with the hay lying at their feet under their scythes. The impression was one of waves on the meadow. This was pretty, but I was sorry for the tall white chamomiles, bluebells, clover, red carnations, and the thin leaves of the “teardrops.” Then the women tossed the hay with pitchforks, and it was dried. In a few days carts drove onto the field to be loaded with bales of hay and taken to the barn in Michałowo. I was allowed to climb up onto the cart. I sat on the hay and inhaled its wonderful fragrance. But then came some terrible news: my playmate Nina Aronowicz fell off the cart, landed on some rocks, and was fatally injured. I often thought of her afterwards. I was forbidden to ride on the hay, which deprived me of a great pleasure. Once Uncle Szaja took me on a long trip to Iwieniec, a town where he often went on business. We traveled together, both of us sitting in the coach box. The whole route my uncle told me about nature, peasant life, and about the Jews in the townships. We traveled through the forests and the fields of rye and buckwheat. We rode through villages where the huts were covered with straw. Old women sat under the shop windows. Mallows, dahlias, and marigolds bloomed in the garden plots. There were many Jews in the town – in shops, on the streets, on the square. Barefoot urchins ran around; goats and dogs wandered through the streets. The manor house of a Polish lord, a nobleman, was located in the town. Uncle went about his business, and I gazed at the unheard of wonders. The way home was long, and I was getting sleepy. There was our familiar fence and the lights in the windows. Aunt Anna gave me milk, and Raja put me to bed. How nice and cozy, how pleasant it was that people loved me. We were delighted when Mama and Father arrived. And not just anyhow, but in a car. That was a great rarity in this part of the world. The fact was that Father’s friend, Uncle Misza Brodski, had bought a car, so 110

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it had to be tried out, taken for a ride. Father suggested a drive on our miserable roads – rocks, sand, potholes: if the car survived the trip, that meant it was good. We waited for them for a long time on the road, but when they did not appear, we went back home and had lunch. Still they did not come. Suddenly we heard the loud roar of a motor and saw a cloud of dust. All of us spilled out onto the front porch. A car had stopped at the gate, and tired, dusty travelers were emerging from it. It seemed that they had become mired in a bog on the road. Some peasants had struggled to pull them out, getting a bottle of vodka in return. A horde of little boys surrounded the vehicle. For this was one of the first automobiles in these parts, an unheard of miracle. The guests washed up and sat down at the table. They showed me what they had brought – my favorite foods: canned goods, fish, and candy. I had had enough of country dishes consisting of potatoes and flour, and I was glad to have the gifts. Mama brought a lot of books from the children’s library, and I looked forward to their delights. But the most important thing was that Mama was going to stay with me. Father, who rarely had the chance to rest, went for walks, enjoyed the air, slept, and chatted with Uncle Szaja, who greatly loved him. In the little front yard garden beds on both sides of the path leading to the house, Sonia’s flowers were blooming. Suddenly Father ran in from the yard crying: “Sonia, run out and water the flowers or else the cloud will go past us and you won’t have time – it’s going to rain!” Everyone laughed, but Sonia got angry over being made fun of. In the evening we sat out on the porch. Father poked fun at the Rywińs’ only son, Władek, an agronomy student at Vilna University. All winter Władek lived in town, where he rented a room. He lived impecuniously, and at home tried to make up for the food he had missed. His mother fed him pancakes and other items. Władek, so it happened, suffering from indigestion and with a one-track mind, passed gas. Father feigned “delight over the smell of matejka,” the night gillyflower that Sonia was cultivating. “What a wonderful fragrance from the matejka!” Father exclaimed, and Władek was embarrassed. 111

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A funny incident occurred with Władek. In Aunt Anna’s bathroom, which was also the pantry, sausage which had been stored for the winter was hanging from overhead beams. Somehow the ends of the sausage links had been shortened in some way. Obviously someone was gnawing on them. Aunt Anna was sure that mice were the culprits. Mama disagreed: why should mice gnaw at the ends and not on the part that was closer to the beams on which they were scurrying? Mama concealed herself behind the cupboard and waited there. Władek quietly came in, got a chair, stood on it and took a bite out of the nearest hanging sausage. The guilty “mice” had been discovered. No one could understand why Władek felt he had to climb up on a chair and ruin the sausages. After all, his mother would have put the moon and the stars on a plate for him, not to speak of sausage. Evidently it was more fun for him this way. I loved Władek. He was a kind and quiet young man, very modest and shy. He was two years older than Mirek and sometimes got together with him. His friend Leon Zukerman used to come over to see him. Leon was referred to as “very capable,” and he strutted about and swaggered. Władek chatted with me, but Leon did not pay me any attention. Once Mirek turned up for a couple of days out of the blue. The boys whispered to each other, went away somewhere, and then Mirek left. Much later I learned that they were looking for a way to cross the Soviet border. In Poland at that time, in 1932, there was unemployment and poverty. An economic crisis had enveloped the whole world, and for young people, especially Jews, there was no future in Poland. But I did not reflect on anything in those days and did not see anything except my own life – one of books and toys. Mama did not stay long in Michałowo. She loved me and treated me tenderly, but she never had the patience to stay with me for a long period of time, interpret everything for me, show respect for me. I remember her – beautiful, tall, tanned, with her hair braided in back, a large one-liter jug in her hand full of fragrant raspberries. Mama discovered it in the underbrush among some old boards; she picked berries every day and was pleased with her harvest. We hunted for mushrooms in the woods, went to Raków, and paid a visit to Altka, our conversation with whom did not go well. Through the woods and across the bridge we came to the mill. There, in an old house, lived the family 112

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of the Jewish miller. They had a black-haired, curly headed daughter named Esther, who went to the Epsztein school in Vilna; in the fall she left for the entire school year. Now she showed us the pond, the ducks in it, and the garden. It was achingly beautiful there: the lonely old house, the garden, the silence. It was surrounded by a giant forest, tall pine trees, moss, large violet bluebells, in places big ripe strawberries – it all reminded me of a fairy tale. Nine years later this family, like almost all the Jews of Belorussia, was killed by the Germans, in 1941. Sometimes the doctor and his wife stopped by for a visit. I found it boring to sit in the dining room with the grownups. Father had left earlier, and now it was time for Mama to take her leave. The summer vacation was coming to an end, and my heart was heavy. I did not want to go back to the disagreeable state school, all the more so since it had moved to a new building – from Orzeszkowa Street to Mickiewicz, across from Łukiszki Square (the Music Academy is now in this building). It was a long way away on foot, a whole kilometer. And the building was unfamiliar. Earlier the Julian Słowacki boys school, which was soon closed, had been housed there. Our headmistress was the wife of the university rector and obtained this building for her school through his influence. The old school had mysterious dark nooks, and you could play hide and seek. And the feeling that the school was close to home was also pleasant. Since it was only a five-minute walk, you would not be late. But here it took nearly half an hour to walk all the way down Mickiewicz or on the embankment past fences and lumber yards, past St. James Church, and across the stone-paved square. It even made me cry that the school had moved.

THE NEW SCHOOL The first day of classes in the new building. I was in third grade. I walked through the front door. On my right were the cloakroom, long hallways, and a grand staircase going upstairs. The classroom had three enormous windows, each of them with white tulle curtains and a pot of asparagus. At first it was frightening to walk down the hall: the parquet floor, in a 113

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herringbone pattern and polished until it gleamed, seemed covered with little pyramids of wood planking. I occupied the third desk with Ania Kaczergińska. This was a safe place – it was not too much in plain sight. Ania was a smart girl with ruddy cheeks who wore a baggy uniform dress. It was fun to talk to her. She read a lot, was intelligent, and did better in school than I did. Her family was very poor and lived in a tiny little house on Wiłkomirska Street.23 Her father, a dentist, had an office on Wileńska Street. Everything was very neat there, but the home was filthy, messy, with no amenities and nowhere to wash your hands. They were either too poor, or her mother was sick, and Ania was never taught how to pick things up and take care of herself. The best pupil in class was Lila Amdurska, who was intelligent, tall and blond, had a splendid knowledge of everything, and played the piano. She was absolutely brilliant. I admired her and looked upon her as a bright star in the sky, but I felt uneasy with her because I was so much dumber and uglier than she was; she did not even look in my direction. Zuzia Arkin also did well in school; this dark-complexioned little girl was quiet and modest. Her mother compelled her to work hard and get fives in all her subjects. Zuzia was so engrossed with her schoolwork that she had absolutely no free time; even in recesses she continually crammed and rehearsed the material. She also was a splendid student, but she did this without brilliance; instead, it was owing to her memorization, and we did not respect her for this. Other girls in class included Sima Rabinowicz, Luba Arons, and Luba Kronik. The first two were gentle, ordinary, and quiet. But Luba Kronik was a lively dark-eyed beauty with a thick pigtail. She went home by train to Rudziszki, and this was uncommon. But Sara Zawadzka had darting little eyes, and she snitched to the teachers about everything that happened in the classroom. I avoided her. She was mean and unreliable. Another pupil in the class was Rivka Milejkowka, who was small and scrawny with smooth, greasy hair. She came from a very poor family. The parents’ committee helped her and her two older sisters by paying their tuition. Rivka was terribly afraid of doing something wrong, which would have left her without 23

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means to stay in school. She was modest, quiet, colorless, and she lived far away, on Szuboch Street near Ostra Brama. This was the former gate in the wall that once surrounded the city. The icon of the Virgin Mary was there; it was gold, but the face and the hands were black. The people considered it a miracle-working icon. Our common people were very superstitious; they prayed a great deal and believed in all kinds of supernatural wonders. When I went through the gate, I would see people, more often beggars, praying on their knees. Jews tried not to walk down the street through the gate; they frequently would be ordered to remove their hats or they would even be torn off their heads. The class suffered a misfortune when the father of Betja Chładnowicz, the niece of Father’s good friend, Dr. Libo, died of a heart attack. I had known Betja for a long time, ever since the dacha in Wołokumpia, and I had gone to her birthday party. She lived very far away on Archangel Street24 on the grounds of the Epsztein School, where her father was the director. All the Jewish girls in the class went to the funeral. At home, dressed all in black, Betja’s mother was crying. Her female relatives held her by the arms and comforted her, but it was all dreadful. Poor Betja, how could she live without her Father? I remember him. He was short, kind, and a young man. This was the first funeral I had ever attended, and the death of Betja’s Father saddened me deeply. We waited for a long time in the courtyard and looked at the windows of the building facing us (I have now been living in that same apartment house, rebuilt after the war, for thirty-four years). We did not go to the cemetery and only attended the removal of the body. Under Jewish law children are permitted to accompany only close relatives to the cemetery, but as long as all family members are living, other children are not supposed to go to the cemetery. A few days later Betja came to class wearing a black armband on her sleeve. Everyone sympathized with her. How were they going to get along? Her mama did not have a job! My Father always urged us to be thrifty and save money. Except for my uniform I rarely wore anything dressy, for example, dress shoes. Father gave money to Mama reluctantly, sighing when he did it: 24

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“What will become of you if I die? What are you going to live on? We have to save up for a rainy day and not throw our money to the winds!” I wanted very much to have a pretty dress and patent leather shoes; the image of our family sunk in poverty haunted me throughout my childhood. We had unpleasant scenes at home on account of money. You see, Father needed to help out Grandmother’s family as well. This meant paying for Nadzia’s and Mirek’s schooling. Father was able to arrange Nadzia’s admission to medical school. Mirek also wanted to be a doctor, but the powers that be turned Father down: for thanks to his influence one relative had already been admitted. After all, not all Jews could be doctors! With no particular enthusiasm Mirek entered law school and suffered, taking Roman law from an anti-Semitic professor. At that time the Stefan Batory Polish university in Vilna had a quota – only a certain small percentage of the students enrolled in a course could be Jews. This was called the “numerus clausus.” There were always more applicants than places to be filled, yet Jews never skimped on anything to give their children an education. Earlier, of course, even this would have been impossible. Jews were not admitted at all to the higher educational institutions, and they did not have enough money to study on their own. My parents’ disputes clouded my entire childhood. I even asked Aunt Anna to persuade Mama to live with us children separately so the home would be quiet and Mama would not cry. I did not want to see my dear, beautiful mama in such misery. Józio had many different governesses at our home. As a child Józio was heavy (owing to the eczema?). But now Miss Raja announced her presence – she was quite pretty, not well-educated, and insolent. She succeeded in gaining access to Józio, and she was constantly at home with us: she walked the little boy, fed him, and taught him the alphabet. Raja became so impudent that she began to talk back to Mama, demanding separate meals for herself. Father took her on as his assistant and taught her how to develop Xrays. Raja felt herself to be little short of a doctor. I did not understand what was going on, but I observed that she was sassing Mama and was trying in every way to humiliate her. On Raja’s birthday I asked sarcastically how old she was and when I got the answer, “twenty-four,” spitefully remarked: “You’re not getting any older at all.” 116

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I tried to demonstrate her ignorance, posing her tricky questions about music and about books, which Raja did not read at all. Breakfast was always torture. Raja sat at the table and was hard to please; Mama was indignant. I hated Raja. The atmosphere at home heated up. How much I dreamed about a quiet house, tender treatment, about evenings in a circle of close, mutually affectionate family members: the children sitting at the table doing their homework, Father reading the paper on the sofa, Mama sewing, everyone treating everyone else tenderly and peacefully. But it never turned out that way. Mama talked to us in a disgruntled tone and scolded us for the least little slip-up. I had dropped my cup (my hands had holes in them), I had spilled on the tablecloth (I was clumsy), and had made the bed badly. In short I was a messy child. I was sure that I was dimmer than anyone else, that I had hooks for hands. If everyone considered me a nice child when I was little – curly headed, roly-poly, blue-eyed, pink-cheeked, when I began to grow and to change, they criticized me all the time. Grandmother said, looking at me: “But your mama was so beautiful!” This meant that I was not like her at all. Or: “You’re a Margolis carbon copy.” And Father had such ugly sisters – Pesia, Liza. Mama compared me with Dina: “You’re just like Dina.” However, she never said that I was clever like Dina, who had won a gold medal at school graduation and had earned her medical degree with distinction. She had run a clinic at Arkhangelsk in the USSR vigorously and outstandingly; later she was accorded the title of veteran midwife of the oblast. No, everyone pointed out that I had a long nose, like Dina’s, and small eyes like Father and all the Margolises. Mama did not like Father’s family, and she hated Dina for bringing her stockings to be darned at some time in the past and for her contemptuous attitude as long as Mama did not work. Indeed my nose began to grow at a headlong pace. I could see its tip when I squinted. Every year at school they measured how tall we were. I was proud that I was growing. When I was little I always admired Mama’s tall height and dreamed of being like Aunt Genia, our tallest acquaintance. Yet suddenly they told me that over the past year I had grown only one centimeter. In the dining room at home I crept into 117

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the little corner between the stove and the buffet and cried bitterly. Not only did I have a long nose and resembled Father, but my stature would be short… a real freak. The strained relationships at home, my parents’ quarrels, and the everlasting critiques of my behavior and personality engendered a deep inferiority complex in me. My grades began to drop, I slogged through gym clumsily, and without Mama’s help my needlework did not turn out well. And just at this point lessons at the manual labor office on the corner of Zawalna and Mała Pogulanka25 also started up – it took longer to get there, and there was no one to help with the work projects. We sewed nightgowns, shaped and embroidered linen dresses. The poor girls tried to finish them off nicely, as they were subsequently going to wear them, but for me these were useless items. At school I never raised my hand… I was afraid to give a wrong answer, even if I knew my answer was right. My memory was always bad. I had not been taught to study hard, to rehearse the material, to summarize, to compose tables with data in them. For some reason Mama despised people who did a lot of studying, who “crammed.” She did not have the patience to sit down and work with me, to persuade me that things could turn out well, and Father was always busy. At school I loved Mrs. Maciejewska’s Polish lessons. She wrote novels, had a fat husband who was a judge, a son “Bimbal” who was just as fat, and a lover – the prominent photographer Bółgak, who took marvelous pictures of the city of Vilna. All the pupils knew the domestic details of Mrs. Maciejewska’s life, especially myself, since she lived on Podgórna Street in the same building as my grandmother, the next floor down. Her classes were unique and very interesting. She read us poetry and produced shows with us in class about the works we had read. I never took a part in them, but watched them enthusiastically. Sometimes we begged her to read us excerpts from the manuscript of her latest story, and then our reaction was one of enthusiasm. We did not have to answer any questions; we just sat and listened – it was about feelings, about love. I can hear her maxim: “A woman dresses to please men.” 25

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Later I reflected on what I had heard. It was not true: take me, for example. I loved new bobby-sox, blouses, and I put them on without the slightest thought about men. Everything that Mrs. Maciejewska read aloud to us was still unintelligible to us, but entertaining. And she assigned us compositions on interesting topics. Once I received a grade of “fair.” I was delighted, for I did not know how much this counted, what kind of a mark it was; the important thing was that Mrs. Maciejewska had praised me. Unfortunately, she had favorites in the class who wrote well and spoke eloquently. I envied them. She particularly praised the new girl in class, Jagienka Gulewicz, who was pretty, black-haired, and had a swarthy complexion. Jagienka lived with her father, a broadcasting director, without her mother. Evil tongues said that the teacher was “sucking up” to Jagienka in the hope that Father Gulewicz would allow her to read her creations on the radio. I thought that Jagienka’s essays were wonderful, and she read verses like an actress. After classes in which pupils wrote essays, Mrs. Maciejewska allowed one of the pupils to help her carry the notebooks to her apartment. Once I was given the honor and hauled a heavy pile of notebooks accompanying the teacher to her Podgórna Street home. I tried to carry on a conversation with her, but I was so embarrassed that I could not say anything except “yes” and “no.” I see Mrs. Maciejewska standing before me in her long dress made of soft fabric, her frizzy, curly hair, and her pleasant manner. There I was next to her – disheveled, in a blue uniform and black apron, bewildered, with downcast eyes and a pile of notebooks in one hand and a briefcase in the other. “So you are the little girl who played in the courtyard with my son, Mrs. Lewinson’s granddaughter?” Mrs. Maciejewska asked in surprise. “Why I did not even recognize you.” And here we were talking enthusiastically. I was sorry to leave. Other teachers taught Polish language and literature in our upper classes since Mrs. Maciejewska did not have a graduate degree. But to me their classes were dull, dry, and official. I also loved Mr. Kulesza’s drawing classes. He was a real artist; the portrait of Piłsudski from his brush hung in the auditorium on the third floor: there he was standing in his grey overcoat on Łukiszki Square where our 119

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school was, and a parade was passing in review. Mr. Kulesza’s classes were fun: first we would draw a pitcher, then a woven fabric hanging down, and I received good grades. Mr. Kulesza smoked the whole class period, lighting one cigarette after another in the corner; he would turn away from the class while we sniggered. The days were short in the fall; it was already dark after the sixth class. I walked home down Mickiewicz Street in my blue beret and overcoat with a grey fur collar, in boots, carrying a heavy briefcase. I had nothing joyful to look forward to: there were many homework assignments, and I still had to play the piano. In the beginning, when we bought it, I was even pleased. Mama played some long forgotten pieces, and Grandmother came over sometimes to play a little. She had a marvelous ear for music, and at one time she had studied at the conservatory. Many years had passed, she did not have an instrument, and her fingers were bent with arthritis; nevertheless she played well from sheet music and from memory. Instead of appealing to me with pretty lyrical melodies, I was continually given etudes by Czerny and Bach, scales. When Father had patients, I was forbidden to play owing to the X-ray radiation on the other side of the wall. The teacher was always displeased with me. She complained to Mama, and my parents punished me by putting movies off limits. I loved the movies. Sometimes I was permitted to go to the cheap Luxe movie theater on Mickiewicz, close to home. Mama did not care what films I saw, and I went to terrible horror films, erotic films. Mirek sometimes took me to films featuring the black actor Al Jolson. A boy who sang beautifully also played there. I remember the film “Sonny Boy.” The films did not have happy endings, so I would cry at night. On one occasion he took me to see “The Mummy,” the plot of which was extremely creepy: a scientist had brought an Egyptian mummy to a museum. He studied it during the night, and suddenly it opened its eyes, got up, and pursued him. I began to be afraid of the dark and was terror-stricken climbing the stairs. I actually got sick from fear. When I was in first grade at school, Grandmother moved in to live with us. We shared the same stairway exit, but you had to take the back entrance. The new apartment had no amenities. It was dismal, and the windows looked out on the well of our courtyard and the narrow alley between two buildings. I 120

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was happy that Grandmother, Nadzia, and Mirek were living next to us. But I missed the apartment on Podgórna Street and its courtyard. My Saturday getaways and my weekends at Grandmother’s were over. It was tremendous fun running over to Grandmother’s through the kitchen. Owing to her poverty Grandmother did not have much, but her apartment was cozy: She had the same buffet that contained her treats – sugar lumps. The same sofa was there with its collapsible bolsters on the edges. Grandmother always heard me out, comforted me when I received bad grades, hated my music teacher, and understood my fears. I often slipped over to see her secretly, without permission, unable to stand the tensions at home. There I found sympathy and repose. It was simply too bad that I had to return as quickly as I could so my absence would not be noted. Mama rarely visited Grandmother. She could not bear seeing the poverty in her family – the patches on the sheets, the darned socks, the wretched circumstances of their life, but there was no way she could help. For Mama did not work. She suffered a great deal from this. There was unemployment in the country, and it was very hard for a woman to find a job. Father gave Grandmother only a little bit to live on, and this was not enough for them. Nadzia and Mirek had no place to earn any extra cash since their job was to study. This was the day that Nadzia had a holiday. She got a bucket of white paint, and we set out to repaint her old furniture. Her little black table was now a brilliant white. Nadzia baked a cake, and we arranged a tea party with her friend Sonia Kacenelenbogen, who was homely and pock marked. I could not understand why Nadzia had made friends with her, but Nadzia said that friends should be selected for their spiritual qualities, and Sonia was kind and very loyal. Perhaps she was right, but I still do not know how to evaluate people; I am often disappointed in my friends. My tenth birthday was totally dull, and the eleventh was only a mite better. But the presents I received were uninteresting. Even Mama did not give me what I wanted. I had seen a big doll in the store and very much wanted someone to give it to me. The evening before a birthday I was always in a happy mood. I knew that I would see presents by the bed when I woke up. I woke up when it was still only dawn. I did see the presents, and after first feeling them, examined them and took delight in them. Across from my 121

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windows a brick wall was shining. Now my parents were up: Father ran in to kiss me and then fly off to work. Mama sorted out the presents with me. What a happy day it was, my birthday. Then the kitchen door opened, and Grandmother came in the back entrance. She had a present, too. It was modest, but I could tell she had put her whole heart into it. This time, however, after feeling the presents, I felt bitterly disappointed, so much so that my heart even ached. There was a two-person sled. It was a beautiful, painted wooden sled. But I could not stand engaging in sports of any kind. I did not have any friends who could go with me to a hill, and besides, there was no nearby hill. I had wanted the doll so much, to sew its clothes and knit jackets for it. But Mama thought that I was too big to be playing with dolls. My dream did not come to pass, and never again would I have any dolls – only later, when my daughter Emma had them. One of the gifts was a light blue wooden lamp with a light blue shade. Once they had given me a metal lamp, with birds on it. But this one was modern and attractive. Fate preserved it, and now it is standing at home with me in my kitchen. It turned up among the items that our housemaid Bronka picked up and took home with her when the Germans arrived. Things have their destiny just as people do. I did not go out very much at all, so they forced me to go out in the air. That winter my parents thought up the idea of teaching me how to skate. They had already put it into my head that I was clumsy. But how could they teach me to skate when they knew nothing would come of it? They hired an instructor, and Mama took me to the skating rink at the Bernardine Monastery Gardens. They bought me a fluffy new sweater that was white with a red design on it. Strange as it may be to say, the lessons were successful, and I began to skate well. They began to let me go to the rink by myself. I donned the new sweater jacket and a warm hat, took the skates, and reluctantly made my way to the rink. I did not enjoy skating because I did not have any friends to come with me. I did not dare to disobey Mama, but walking to the rink was one of my most onerous duties and spoiled all day Sunday for me. After a couple of years I rebelled and stopped these worthless excursions. One of my wellsprings of joy was the radio. First they bought a receiver and put it next to the balcony door in the cold dining room. There they listened reverently to the radio. I remember when Boito’s opera “Mefisto” 122

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(about Faust) was broadcast, and my parents even invited guests over to listen to the transmission from Italy with them. We sat solemnly, as if it were a concert, but the music did not enthrall me although it was interesting that the opera was being performed at La Scala while we were listening to it in Vilna – nothing less than miraculous. Even before this Mirek had mastered the headset and the crystal radio set at Grandmother’s. It was frequently necessary to stick the wire into the crystal to catch the sound. Grandmother and I or Mirek and I shared the headphone – one ear apiece – and sitting cozily side by side on the sofa, listened to Polish hits. It was both fun and interesting. But then I was able to prevail upon Mama to put an outlet into the wall by my bed and give me earphones. In the evening I went to bed, put on the earphones, and listened to the evening concerts from Warsaw restaurants. Sometimes I went to sleep and woke up again at 11:30, when the program ended. These concerts and the reading at night under the blanket with the metal lamp attached to the book were the most pleasant moments of the day for me, all the more so because it was forbidden. They read me the riot act if Mama discovered the “sins” I committed. The school assigned a lot of homework. On the way home I computed how much time the preparation of each subject, playing the piano, and my French lesson would take up. Now a serious tutor, Mrs. Garbacka, was giving me lessons at home. I studied grammar, we read the novels of Pierre de Coulvain and translated Turgenev’s “Songs without Words” into French. I loved the lessons as well as the language, and I read French books with great pleasure. I tried to steal as much time as possible for reading, if only a little half-hour, and I thoroughly enjoyed cutting myself off completely from everyday cares and tribulations. My favorite day was Saturday. After school and dinner I could read the whole day, not letting anything else trouble me. I sat down at the table and forgot everythin… was transported into the world of the heroes of the book. I read Jules Verne, Stevenson’s Treasure Island, and other adventure novels. I adored Dickens and Hugo. But then along came Mirek, the greatest of all authorities, and declared: “That’s enough reading nothing but romantics and fairy tales about “Marysia the Little Orphan.” Let’s go to the library!” 123

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He took me to the “grownups” library, the Mefitsei Gaskal on Straszuna Street.26 If only I had known how many links to this library I would have! For afterwards, in the ghetto, I would work here as a librarian for one and a half years. Training classes of the underground partisan organization would take place here. The guns of the First Battalion were hidden here, and the person in charge of them was my friend at the time, later my husband, Chaim. We went up the clean staircase to the second floor and came to a bright, spacious hall. The library had many readers. We sat down at a little table and took down a torn handwritten catalogue. Mirek took out some narrow strips of paper (he wrote his articles for newspapers and the radio on these strips) and began to leaf through the catalogue. The paper showed the titles and numbers of the books that it was my duty to read. Hamsun’s short stories “Victoria” and “Hunger” were there as well as B. Kellerman’s “Tunnel” and the stories of A. Conan-Doyle and the great classical writers of world literature. I began to read grownup books. I developed a love for literature, and Mirek guided my reading over the course of many years, just as he had with attending concerts and developing familiarity with music. I experienced everything I read, relayed the content of the books to my school friends, which no one developed any further in this respect. With my heart in my mouth I went to the library, handed in my list with numbers on it, and, having obtained my book, ran home to immerse myself in reading as quickly as possible. Father agreed to pay the library an enormous price – four zlotys a month – and I was happy. Sometimes I took out French books. The library offered a broad selection of books in various languages. The old librarian Szapiro served all the readers. To me he seemed a high authority; he knew everything about all the books. He was serious, courteous, and I took his place when I went to work for the library ten years later in the ghetto period. A document was found in the archives stating that Szapiro was sent to work in the city, and “Rokhl Margolis” replaced him. I followed his hand when he crossed a book off the list and gave it to me. When he 26

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made this movement I observed the title: how delightful – here it was, the book that I wanted to read. So many wonderful moments, and looking to the future – what a joy it would be to read it! I sped home down Zawalna Street, somehow or other finished my homework, and settled down with the book, neither hearing nor seeing anything else. “Lala, go to sleep,” Mama’s voice rang out. Rats, more of this boring life, school, homework! When I was twelve Mama took me to the Lute Theater on my birthday. Lehar’s operetta, “The Count of Luxembourg,” was playing. The music was captivating, and the story, naïve and trashy, seemed magnificent: counts and countesses, luxurious balls! Primadonna Janina Kulczycka was simply dazzling: beautiful, haughty, with an enchanting voice. I worshipped her passionately. My enthusiastic character and transitional age proclaimed itself in this. In life I often divided people into “beauty” and “beastliness,” as Grandmother phrased it. I identified Kulczycka with the persons whom she played, with the noble flower girl, the poor, unfortunate little girl, the kind princess. She herself resembled a princess out of a fairy tale. It turned out that besides me, she had several other devotees in the class (today they would be called fanatics). We collected all of our money, bought flowers, and took them to her room at the Vilna Hotel, where she lived with her daughter and sister. We were admitted only after the third try, but how remarkable this was – spacious apartments and Kulczycka herself, in a peignoir, amid baskets of flowers from admirers of her talent. A fairy out of a fairy tale, noble and beautiful. Mama would have punished me for going around to hotels, so I kept it secret. Then there was a concert at school at which Kulczycka sang. Again we bought a pot of violet cinerarias and solemnly presented them to her. At recess the girls and I discussed all the shows we had seen. We envied her daughter – what a lucky person! At home I was constantly begging for one zloty to go to a performance at the Lute. Sometimes the request for money worked, and I bought a ticket in advance in the last row of the orchestra stalls for the Sunday matinee. I became an operetta connoisseur and saw a large number of shows: Lehar’s “Merry Widow,” “The Carewicz,” “Frederica,” and “The White 125

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Mazurka.”27 I was thrilled by “The Czardas Princess,” and Imre Kalman’s “Countess Maritsa” charmed me. And “The Cottage of Three Girls,” set to the music of Schubert and Offenbach’s “La belle Hélène”…I listened to operetta music on the radio, knew a huge number of arias, overtures, and was constantly humming them. Mama also loved operettas, but she joked about my lunacy. All my thoughts were engrossed with Kulczycka. This was also a burden for me, but I could do nothing with myself to change it. Late in the spring Kulczycka left the city, and my crush on her came to naught. To this very day, however, I love operettas, their simple, harmonic, soulful music, and I remember many arias. The obligation to attend school poisoned all the joy in life. Sometimes a few girls skipped school: they would leave home in the morning in a school uniform, with their book bag, but instead of going to classes, they went into the forest or to the beach. I remember Ania Kaczergińska not coming to school once. She did not have a telephone, so I could not call her. The next day she secretly told me she had gone swimming at Wołokumpia. Now this was an exploit: she was not afraid to play hooky or even to go swimming at the beginning of May. But I would not have decided to do something like that for anything in the world – yes, from fear, but also from a feeling of responsibility. A new uniform was instituted at school. Pupils in the four classes of the lower school wore a blue blouse with a light blue hem on the cuffs and collar, whereas the two lyceum classes were supposed to wear a kilt and a maroon blouse; on special days it was white. For everyday classes we had black satin gowns. Our white dickey had to be changed every day. They inspected us at school to make sure we were wearing the uniform under the gown, the uniform being an ugly dress designed by the government’s minister-priest. Since our class was the first that was taught under the new program and we were not yet in the lyceum, there was a great deal of confusion about

27

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Translator’s Note: The first three are all Lehar operettas; Lehar, however, composed “The Blue Mazurka,” and as far as the translator can determine, no operetta bearing the title of “White Mazurka” was composed or performed in the early twentieth century prior to 1934.

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the instruction. All the textbooks were new, and girls from poor families had no possibility of acquiring cheap used books. The teachers were not completely up to date with the new programs. I had my regular miseries with sewing. I went to the dressmaker to sew an ordinary nightgown and jacket, but nothing turned out right for me; the machine spun off in reverse (and that is the way it has been all my life). I do not understand why Mama did not teach me how to sew. That would have come in handy later in life. Obviously Mama did not care to do it. She became rather passive, did not work, was constantly out of sorts, and paid little attention to us. When winter was almost over, we had to take a biology exam. I liked this subject a lot and knew the material well. The teacher was kindly, plump Mrs. Pekszin. She explained the topics well, did not harry us, and did not scold us, unlike the geography teacher, Mrs. Domaniewska. I remember sitting at the third desk by the door. The questions were on the blackboard, but I, normally so conscientious, for some reason was not doing anything. The teacher walked up to me: “Why aren’t you writing?” I thought about what I should say in reply. “I have a headache,” I answered absently. “Go see the school doctor.” I wandered down the empty hallways, over the gleaming herringbone parquet floor, past the windows with the asparagus plants and the tulle curtains. It was so quiet and unusual. The school doctor knew Father and was well-disposed toward me. She examined my throat and took my temperature, which was thirty-seven. She observed red spots behind my ears and in my mouth. “You have measles, child, and it’s not the first day. Go home immediately and tell your dad about this. You will need bed rest for about two weeks.” I was amazed, for my headache was just an invention. I just felt rather strange. I went back to the classroom, told everything to the teacher, got my briefcase, and left with a permission slip to go out on the street. It was two or three degrees below zero. Everything outdoors was white. I was in a cheerful mood – just think, a couple of weeks lying home in bed, 127

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reading, not going to school! I remember that day in 1934, the walk home, Mama’s surprise. Then I was lying in bed. The windows were covered with dark shades so that my eyes would not hurt. I was not allowed to read – measles can damage your eyesight. I was bored. I had hardly any temperature. The radio and my beloved earphones came to my rescue, but they did not broadcast hit songs during the day, only in the evening from a restaurant. Nadzia’s visits were delightful; she sometimes dropped by to visit me. She sat on the bed and read a little book to me that she had brought with her. Mama did not have the patience to chat with me; just then Józio also caught the disease from me and lay in bed with a high temperature, so he had to be looked after. When no one was looking (Mama had gone downtown, Father was at work), I got up and wandered about the apartment, which was big and empty. I called the girls and talked for a long time on the telephone. When I began to get better, my knee swelled up and began to hurt. Father took an X-ray and gave my knee some diathermy heat treatments, but that did not help. My parents were alarmed, as Mama’s sister Żenia had already been laid up for two years with tuberculosis of the bone, also in the knee, after a mild case of scarlet fever. The surgeon ordered us to apply compresses and keep me in bed. I was already finding the bed to be plenty boring. The knee hurt somewhat, but it did not stop me from running stealthily around the apartment. In order to keep me from falling behind in the classwork, my parents engaged a teacher, Liza Zalmanson. She was nice, young, and intelligent. I went over all my subjects with her, entrusted my secrets to her, and altogether fell in love with her with all my heart. Liza also taught Vera Lerman, Dr. Lerman’s spoiled daughter, whom I had once played with at the Pośpieszki dacha. Liza finished university about that time and soon married Alex Meller. I was jealous of her. Liza praised me for studying so well. I tried very hard and I never had such a good command of my subjects and the school program as I did at that time. People usually criticized me, but Liza assured me that I was capable, that I should have faith in my own strengths, and then I could do anything. For me this was entirely new and unexpected. She even reported only the best things about me to Mama, and Mama was very pleased with 128

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me. The apathetic, indifferent teachers at the school, in addition to Mama’s constant criticism, intensified my inferiority complex; I was certain that I was stupid, incompetent, and ugly. Liza saved me, inspiring me with faith in myself. She told me about the lazy, spoiled, and malicious Vera and said that when she was offered the opportunity to work with me, she was apprehensive about tutoring a girl from a wealthy home. I, however, turned out to be completely different, Liza said, and she enjoyed teaching me. In our breaks my dear new teacher would tell me about the horrors in Germany, where Hitler had come to power, about our social inequalities, about the gifted but poor children who could not get an education, about the paupers and the unemployed in Poland and in our city. I began to dream about the time when there would be no poor people, when all children could go to school and there would be no unfortunate people living in poverty, where they would come down with tuberculosis and mange. I recalled that Father often went to small towns to struggle with this disease and how the children would scream when they tore their hair out of their heads before they were cured. Much was also written about the poor and the destitute in the books that I read. Liza and Mirek formulated my outlook on the world. At home Mama and Father now and then gave me to understand that I was lucky. They talked about children who had no books or toys. Everyone around me was striving for justice all the time, and this became my primary goal in life, so that everything would be honest, so that evil would be punished and good would triumph. I decided that I would have to devote my life to this cause. Outside the window the snow had melted a long time ago, the buds had swelled on the lime trees and then little leaves had unfolded. The whole time I was lying down at home and dreaming about going out in our garden. Mama went to the school, and the teachers agreed to give me grades since I had studied at home and had covered the institution’s whole third grade program. Abominable Mrs. Domaniewska was the only one who did not believe that I had learned enough, and she ordered Mama to bring me to school to take a geography test. For the first time in four months I put my uniform on. I was carried down from the third floor, Mama and I took a taxi, and we went to the school. All around us thick lime trees were 129

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turning green with gleaming, fresh foliage, and pansies were blooming on the lawns. It was the first week of June. So much beauty surrounded us that it was a pity I was not allowed to run down the garden pathways. We arrived at Łukiszki Square and stopped in front of the school entrance. Classes were over, and silence reigned at the school. With the help of the janitor, Franciszek, I was lifted out onto the platform. Two chairs were set down on the first floor staircase. Mrs. Domaniewska appeared, attired as always in a long violet dress. She took a seat across from me and began to ask questions about the boring economic geography of Poland. Suddenly Mrs. Stanewicz, the school headmistress, came down the stairs. All of us loved and admired her, although we were also a bit afraid of her. I jumped up to greet her. “What is going on here?” the headmistress asked. “This pupil came in for a geography test. She has not done well in class, then she missed several months, and I required her to study everything and then respond to questions,” answered the geography teacher. “How could you take it upon yourself to summon a sick child to school and furthermore on a subject such as geography?! In her other subjects she was given grades in absentia.” I rapturously took in the headmistress’s words: She had done a great job giving the repellent Domaniewska a slap in the face; hitherto the teacher had only dealt with girls in the group studying the local economy, and she scorned the rest of us. “Let her recite her answers to me. I am sure that she has learned everything thoroughly,” the headmistress said. I had gone over all the material with Liza, and I answered the questions brilliantly. Domaniewska sat with a strained expression, but she gave me a four (since in the first quarter I had earned a three in geography). Mama thanked the headmistress, and we returned home in an excellent frame of mind. The school year was over, which was sheer joy for me. Father decided that I would have to travel to a professor in Warsaw and from there to Zakopane. The mountain air was very beneficial for joint ailments. “Stay there with Mama for a couple of months,” he suggested, “and you’ll come back completely recovered.” 130

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My knee almost did not hurt at all now, but it was swollen, fluid had collected there, and they treated me all the time with heat, compresses, and incessantly took X-rays to discover whether I had tuberculosis. The journey to Warsaw was eventful. We traveled seven hours by train, took a room in a bad hotel, which, even though it lacked amenities, was in the city center on the Marszałkowska. Miss Hanka showed us around the city. I well remember that we went to see the professor, had lunch at a café which sold remarkably delicious fried chicken, walked through the noisy city, which had lots of vehicles and people, and gazed at the towering fifteen-story Phoenix building, the highest of any that I had seen in my life. Then our train rumbled on to Kraków, to Irka.

ZAKOPANE The family of my favorite friend lived in the suburb of Podgórze on the third floor of an old building. It was fun to chat and play with Irka. She read a lot. We never quarreled. I was convinced that she was really my best friend. This was wholly aside from Ola, not to mention the girls in my class. We ran to the nearby park. Once we took the road through the fields to the glass factory where Irka’s father worked. Cornflowers and poppies were in bloom all around us. Everything was a beautiful red. Poppies did not grow where we lived. It was extraordinarily beautiful, and the factory itself was very interesting – transparent glass was produced from a kind of sandy porridge. Our mothers decided to spend the summer with us. Mama and I went to Zakopane to rent a wooden house where we looked forward to living with Irka’s family – what a pleasure this was going to be. The train stopped, and I saw mountains in the distance – their incomparable beauty made my heart ache. We drove around looking for a place to live. The driver of the carriage was a native of this mountainous area, in a round black hat adorned with shells and dressed in the finery of an embroidered fur vest and a white shirt. We finally stopped at a private villa that took in boarders, in an orchard overlooking a stream. The surroundings were as wonderful as a dream. Fir trees, the local variety bearing the 131

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name smreki, and other special trees grew here. We rented a room on the second floor with a balcony overlooking a quiet street. I often sat there reading a book by Eliza Orzeszkowa, Wacław’s Diary. I really liked this writer – she was kind and humane. The whole summer was ahead, and Irka was coming. So everything was pleasant and nice. My leg did not hurt at all. Mama and I traveled to the valleys of streams that flowed down from the mountains. We found accessible, cozy trails that followed the streams past cliffs and through forests. We visited the Strożysko, Kościelisko, Za Bramą, and other valleys. We roamed far and wide, enjoying all the new sights that opened to us around every turn, drank the delicious, transparent mountain water, and collected wonderful flowers that grew only here in the mountains. Tired, we would drive back in a fiacre driven by a local man in fancy, dappled attire. We ate dinner in the common dining room below. I declined many dishes not knowing how to eat them, for example, fish. I heard that it should be eaten with two forks, but how to do it I did not know. So I told Mama that I was afraid to eat fish because I might choke on a bone. Mama was surprised, but she did not force me to eat it. Much later I confessed to Mama the true reasons for my strange behavior. I was very inhibited and was afraid that people would laugh at me. Look at that uneducated girl, they might say, she does not know how to eat properly. One of the guests at the inn was an elderly woman from Germany. Mama socialized with her a great deal. They conversed in German, and I announced that I would have nothing to do with this lady since she was German. Hitler had already come to power in Germany, and I hated him since he persecuted the Jews. It never occurred to me that Mama’s acquaintance was in fact Jewish and had fled the Nazis. “But she speaks German!” I marveled. I was still incredibly ignorant. Mama laughed at me and so did the lady. The following year at school I refused to subscribe to a journal from Germany. The teacher ordered Father to come in to see her. He came and told her that he had brought me up this way. On days when all the girls were supposed to read and talk about articles from the journal, I did nothing and was very glad. This was the first manifestation of my outlook on life, a certain kind of heroism. 132

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Mama greatly loved new places and traveling, and so did I. We visited and thoroughly investigated the entire surrounding area. Once we came upon a ski jump in the mountains from which skiers jumped in winter. We climbed high up the wooden stairs, the sun was warm, and a magnificent forest and view of the mountains surrounded us. Mama told me stories about her childhood. These were happy days. That summer we were the best of friends. She did not get irritated and never once yelled at me. We liked being together, and I loved her so much. Sometimes we went downtown and strolled down the Krupówki, the main street of Zakopane. It had luxury stores and cafes; well-dressed ladies and mountain people in colorful costumes were on the sidewalks. I could stand for hours in front of store windows where the handicraft articles of local artisans were sold. They were made of wood, leather, and ceramics. Mama bought me souvenirs – small wooden clogs on a pin, bookmarkers with dried Edelweiss in cellophane, a beautiful carved alpenstock for walking in the mountains. This afforded me great joy. We stopped in at the post office and got remittances from Father with notes saying that we were spending too much. Oh, if only we had had more money, how many different ravishing things I would have bought for myself: a fancy blouse and a traditional kiptar jerkin, elegant braided bast sandals, all kinds of brightly painted vases, and a little frame for a photograph of a carved mountain sow thistle flower. But there never was enough money; we had to pay seven zlotys per person a day for the inn. The long-awaited day arrived: Irka came with her mother and Tusik (her little brother Artur). The moms took it upon themselves right away to hunt for a dacha; this would be cheaper than the inn. Our intention, after all, was to live here about two months. Meanwhile Irka and I ran into the garden and poked around the whole house. So we climbed up to the attic, where we found a box full of toys and dolls. The mistress of the house did not have children, and she was always sad and wore a black dress. Whose toys were these? Irka badgered the housemaid for a long time until she told her the story. In fact the mistress did have a daughter, but she died; they hid the toys so the woman would not cry looking at them. It was a real mystery of the kind that one might read about in books. Poor little girl! Her poor mama! 133

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They let us buy cheap books by Dumas, without covers; we were engrossed by him at that time. It was captivating to go to the bookstore, rummage in books, and discover books that no one had read yet. We spent all our free time in the little yard behind the house; a fastflowing brook ran through it. The pure, clear water rushed over the stones; we could soak in its beauty for hours on end. Irka was good at inventing various interesting games involving princesses, knights, and abductions. Absorbed in our dream world, we forgot about everything else. At this very time a major upheaval in my life took place. Irka told me where children came from. I was shocked. My whole world changed. I began to see the books of Dumas in a completely different light. His heroes now seemed dissolute and vile to me. On a boulder by our creek we took a vow never to get married. After many decades, in 1956, I went to Zakopane, found the wooden house, the little brook and the rock, remembered our vow and cried for a long time – for Irka had been killed in 1941 without having time to learn anything about life. You will exist, Irka, as long as I remember you. There is no one else in the world who will think about you. Mama found a wonderful house in Skibowka – rather far from downtown, but a completely new wooden house, not even painted yet. All around the site were tall piles of shavings and sawdust, and it smelled like fresh wood. The owners were young, cheerful mountain men. The windows looked out on Giewont Mountain, the outlines of which reminded one of a sleeping knight: you could make out his eyebrows, nose, mouth, neck, and chest. Below it stretched hills covered with forest, the Polish term for which was regle. There was a shop in the little building next to us where we bought lollipops and notebooks with the money we wheedled out of our mothers. Irka was absorbed in drawing beautiful women in fine clothes. She constantly invented new dresses, hats, and sketched for hours while I sat next to her and admired her creativity. She could have become a fashion designer. Mama and I lived in the garret, Irka’s family downstairs. My only chore was to sweep the floor and the stairs, but I contrived to delay even this activity until Mama made a comment. 134

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In the middle of the summer we had a flood. After a downpour a torrent of water surged down the mountains, and the streams overflowed their banks. Flour and other food products were not delivered to the city shops. Irka and I ran to the store to buy rolls. The fear of hunger gave us an excellent appetite. Irka spent hours drawing designs of exquisite dresses in thick notebooks while I extravagantly admired her thin, elegant ladies, none of whom ever resembled the other. Out of boredom we set out to compose a detective story. We thought up a title: “The Yellow Gazebo,” but we could not find any ideas acceptable to both of us – I would propose one, Irka another. We argued and even quarreled. Thus the thick, handsome notebook, for which we obtained the money from our mothers with such difficulty, remained almost empty. On sunny days we encamped in chaises longues by the house and sunbathed, but this was boring. We ran on the lawn and thought up games. Tusik pestered us, and I was tormented by the thought of the unswept room and stairs. Then to everyone’s delight Irka’s dad Cynek arrived; he was handsome and full of life. Right away things became raucous and lively. We took the fiacre to the mountains, went for walks, laughed. Once Cynek and both moms went on an excursion into the mountains. There they were overtaken by rain. My mom put on Cynek’s waterproof poncho, while he wore her black coat. Everyone in the villages took him for a priest, said hello to him, and he blessed them. They came back home soaked and then laughed for a long time remembering Cynek’s pranks. The wonderful summer came to an end, a summer of companionship with Irka, sorties into the mountains, new impressions and passions. My knee was completely healed. I did not even remember that anything was wrong with it. The time for departure had come. Irka and I promised to write each other every Saturday at four PM and mail the letters that same evening in order, having received them, to brighten up that first day of the week, tiresome Monday. Once again the lectures dragged out, and it was back to rising before dawn, walking past the lumber yards and across Łukiszki Square, getting bored in class, trembling before tests, and enduring the tragedies of phys 135

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ed. We hired a new music teacher, an old maid again, finicky and boring. I learned Peter Tchaikovsky’s “Snowdrop” with her. Christmas came, but Irka did not come to stay with her Aunt Liza, and I longed for her. I wanted so badly to tell her everything about my life. Letters did not take the place of personal contact, although we wrote one another every Saturday as we had agreed. On Mondays I would tear out of school knowing that I would find Irka’s letter on the table. These were minutes of staying in touch with my friend, who was the ideal answer to my dream. We read a lot, personally experienced what we read, and shared all our thoughts and impressions. In the spring a tragic event occurred: Józef Piłsudski, the president of Poland, died. The Jews grieved, because he had treated them well. They feared an outbreak of anti-Semitism, which many people had talked about in connection with the events in Germany. They decided to bury Piłsudski in Kraków, in Wawel Castle, where all the Polish kings and eminent Polish figures were buried. In his will Piłsudski ordered his heart to be buried next to his mother’s body at the Rossa Cemetery in Vilna. Guests from all over the world were invited to the farewell ceremony. Preparations got underway. The streets leading to the cemetery were put in order and were widened. A few ramshackle buildings were torn down. Posts were put up on the streets with long flags bearing the colors of the ribbons denoting Piłsudski’s medals. On the day that the heart was buried we went to the apartment of my teacher Liza and from her balcony looked out on the procession of generals, ministers, bishops, ambassadors, and the delegates of foreign states. I was sorry for Piłsudski – “dziadek” (grandfather) as we called him – but everything that was going on in Poland was alien to me. All of it mattered to them but not to us. There was no school for a few days, which overjoyed us despite the fact that we were sincerely in mourning. For many years in succession thereafter, the whole school went to the cemetery every spring on the anniversary of Piłsudski’s death, carried snowdrops, and stood in a long line on the hill across from the cemetery. The 13th of May remained a day of remembrance. Father said that Piłsudski’s death was a great misfortune for the Jews. General Rydz-Śmigły was appointed to take his place (“rydz” was a kind of mushroom in Polish), but we did not have any respect 136

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for him. There was an upsurge of anti-Semitism in Poland. The economic situation worsened, many people were out of work, and in Germany the Hitler regime grew stronger; in a few years it would result in the deaths of millions of people. The school planned an excursion to Kraków to include a visit to Piłsudski’s grave. “Mama, let me go with the class,” I begged. “all the girls are going. I implore you! I have never yet gone on a school excursion.” It was spring. I began to dream about the trip as soon as I knew that it was being planned. It would be a chance to see Irka again. Mama went to the school, spoke with the class teacher, and conferred with Father. I was shaking with impatience: would they or would they not let me go? They let me! We traveled in the lead car singing “Mountain man, aren’t you sorry?” and “How quickly life passes.” I could not understand any of this at the time, but it sounded good. It was fun; we ate food that we brought with us from home, and we slept on the hard seats. We changed trains in Warsaw. In Kraków they housed us in a dormitory. We climbed up Wawel Hill, went down to the mausoleums of the Polish kings, stood over Piłsudski’s tomb (without his heart, which he had stated in his will should be buried in Vilna), and shed a few tears. I had talked on the telephone earlier with Irka’s mother. She came to the dormitory and invited me to spend the whole vacation with them. I of course accepted, but I did not know what Mama would say. Would my parents possibly give me permission? “I will take care of that; I’ll call your mom,” Aunt Sonia said. I could not have dared to dream of anything better, but it was hard to believe that everything would be settled. In the meantime Irka and I strolled through Kraków. Trees were blooming, and in the square near Sukiennice (old-fashioned trading stalls) masses of flowers were for sale. Irka could take hours looking at flowers and then choose a tiny bouquet. In the background the towers of St. Mary’s Church with its magnificent carved wooden altar by Wit Stwosz rose above the city. It took a long time for Aunt Sonia to persuade Mama to 137

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let me stay with them. The school was paying for transportation, there was no need to rent a dacha, Józio would be at a daycare center, and Aunt Sonia would take the whole family to the mountains, including me. Mama was greatly offended. She concluded that I had intended from the beginning to “escape” from home for the whole summer. Nevertheless she gave me permission and promised to send the money for my upkeep. Aunt Sonia explained to the teacher that she was my aunt and that Mama had allowed me to stay. This was it, paradise: complete freedom, without orders or schedules, the whole time with Irka; I did not have to study or play the piano. All problems were solved. I lived at Irka’s on Podgórze Street on the other side of the Wisła. We would go to a shady park on the hill with a lot of benches where we would read ecstatically; we would take the books out of the library – I read many French books. Once I took out Rostand’s “L’Aiglon,” and read about Napoleon’s son. Irka bragged to her father, “Lala can read French fluently.” Uncle Cynek answered that scholarship did not consist in knowing a lot of languages but in being able to speak these languages. At first I was insulted, but after thinking it over decided that he was right, and I remembered his words all my life. We played ball in the park, ran around, and then sat down to read a little. “Let’s go up the mountain,” Irka said. Wheezing, we climbed up to the bare top of the mountain. Here were white chalk cliffs and some kind of masonry, the remains of a wall – in all probability a castle. A splendid view of the valley, little houses, and hills opened up, and on the horizon even higher mountains rose. Irka and I sat on a fragment of the wall and dreamed about the future. Irka had many plans: She would be an artist or perhaps a doctor or perhaps a fashion designer. We would all fight for justice, for equality and fraternity and would live until there were no more rich and poor, and everyone would be kind, intelligent, and, well, ideal in every way. Such were our socially utopian dreams. How beautiful everything around us was! And how magnificent our dreams! Sometimes we went downtown on foot. There was a bus, but it was better to save our pennies for a pretzel… a salted bagel that was sold on the bridge 138

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across the Wisła. Here they charged a fee to cross the bridge. We did not do that in Vilna. The walk downtown took forty-five minutes. But on the way we could see imposing churches, parks, Planty Avenue and the theater! Of course we also went to a show … . On the way home we spent a long time painstakingly selecting a bouquet from the flower girls. Irka adored flowers, and the whole way she examined each little flower in detail. It was getting dark. We returned by way of the Kazimierz district, where devout Jews lived. Candles were lit in the windows, which meant that it was already Friday evening, and women pronounced blessings over the candles. The little lights in all the windows were so pretty. What a fine day it had been. We never quarreled, we deferred to each other, and it was so much fun to chatter away. Irka had a remarkable memory. She told me about all the books she read. We advised each other on what we should read. But soon it would be even more fun…I would be going to the dacha with them. Aunt Sonia had already rented a cottage in Muszyna close to Krynica… a well-known spa on the slopes of a mountain. It would be pretty there. Artur, Irka’s little six-year old brother, spoiled everything. He was naughty and impudent; furthermore he continually told on us to his mom. We took the train to the dacha. The gentle mountain slopes flashed by outside the window. A cart pulled us uphill from the station. It was a big brown wooden house. Irka and I, Tusik and his nanny, a very nice young lady, occupied one room. The view out the window was wonderful. Irka quickly found the gardener, and we went to him to buy flowers. We could cut them ourselves from the flower bed: carnations, big bluebells, chamomiles from the garden, and sometimes even roses. This was more fun than buying ready-made bouquets. Boys our age began to hang around Irka. She attracted them like honey. The boys were uninteresting, stupid, and their conversation was foolish: all about parties and dances. Irka enjoyed chatting with them, but I found it nerve-racking. We gathered for a walk to the top of the hill. At first there was a stretch of forest and cottages with gardens. Higher up came pastures with cattle grazing. The view was astounding. I would have liked to take it back to Vilna! We have forests and pastures also, but we don’t have mountains since it is on a plain. But I love mountains so much! 139

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On Sunday we went down to a small town. We hurried to the park past the church and the post office. A brass band played here on Sundays. Muszyna was a spa although not as elegant as Krynica with its mineral springs, sanitariums, and clinics. Well-dressed people were sitting on benches: moms and dads with their children, old women, and old men with canes. In a pavilion the band was playing familiar melodies by Strauss, Lehar, Kalman, and Kreisler. I told Irka the titles of the works since I was an experienced connoisseur of operettas and light music which I listened to on the earphones in my bed at night. Irka was delighted – Lala knew everything, and what a good ear she had! I was pleased that she thought highly of me although my memory was worse than hers, and I was not as skillful as she was. But as far as beauty was concerned, there was no comparison: she was elegant, she had big green eyes, and the boys liked her very much. Several times we traveled to Krynica. There was a spa there where spiffily dressed ladies and gentlemen went to drink mineral water. There was dancing in the evening, and the band thundered. Krynica was the site of fashionable inns and a select clientele. The latest news – the famous Polish tenor Jan Kiepura built the magnificent hotel Patria here. We went there to look it over – the ballroom, the carpets, and the staircase! Pictures were taken of us. The snapshot came into my hands in 1981, when I was visiting Aunt Nadzia in America. Masza, whom I came back with after the holiday in Muszyna, gave it to me: there is Aunt Sonia, dressed up and smiling, Irka and me… both of us timid and on guard. How long ago that was. I am the only one of us still alive. It was time to think about leaving. The question was, how to send me home? I would need to change trains on the journey, which would take about one and a half days. Mama was miffed by me: what kind of a daughter was I not to miss her in the slightest! All the same Mama looked after me and sent me a package of summer clothing. And now she informed me that a girl was coming to get me whom I shall name Masza with whom my parents had worked in a group engaged in learning English. She too had spent her vacation in the mountains and was coming back to Vilna. She would pick me up on the way and keep me company. 140

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How sorry I was to go, to take my leave of the summer, Irka, and freedom. But Mama’s friend was coming; she turned out to be young like Nadzia and Mirek, and was very pleasant and lively. “We’ll go by way of Lwów,” she told me. “I have to look in on some friends there. I imagine you won’t have anything against that. You’ll be seeing another city.” And how! I really adored new places. The news erased my grief over the parting with Irka. Masza’s student friends met us at the station in Lwów and took us to their dormitory. I was struck by the uninhibited life they lived. The students took us to their rooms, showed us their very cheap cafeteria. My money was almost all gone. Then we inspected the city: the beautiful theater building, the rich buildings downtown, and the memorial to Mickiewicz, which was outstandingly beautiful. I reflected that in Vilna, where he lived and attended the university, there was no memorial to Mickiewicz. You would certainly not call the idol standing on the riverbank a memorial. The pedestrians in the city were elegant, the stores fashionable, the store windows bright. We climbed up to Stryjski Park and wandered down its mysterious avenues. Then we went to the mound (kories) commemorating the Union of Lublin – it was so high, yet manmade. The panorama of the city and Lwów in general filled me with delight. It strongly differed from Vilna, which formerly was Russian. Here one felt the Austro-Hungarian atmosphere. Masza and her friends tried on dresses, bought suede gloves, and dress shoes. I went with everyone, and they treated me as if I were an adult despite my thirteen years of age. In the evening we stopped in to see Masza’s friend, the music teacher. She suggested that I play something. I hesitated, but nonetheless sat down at the piano and played. It was “Tango,” by the Spanish composer Albeniz, which I had thoroughly studied that spring. The teacher liked my performance very much. “You need to practice. You are capable,” she said. And I thought: if I had had such a pleasant and kind teacher, how hard I would have tried! I needed to persuade Mama to look for another teacher. 141

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After all, I loved music, I had an excellent ear and musical memory, but I hated to practice. In the dormitory I was shocked that we would be spending the night in the same room with boys. This was quite out of the ordinary, but everything was completely respectable. We left the next day.

MY STUDIES Mama greeted me coldly: “You don’t love us at all. How could you go away for such a long time? It didn’t occur to you at all that Aunt Sonia would have to feed you. It’s wrong to be a burden on people.” “I love you a great deal,” I replied, “and I thought about you the whole time. But you did send money to Aunt Sonia. The vacation was so wonderful, and I saw so much that was new. I behaved well, I read, and I missed you. I did not bother Aunt Sonia; I hung out with Irka. I found it very beneficial to be away from home and independent.” I persuaded Mama that I did not forget anyone and did not stop loving anyone. I spent a long time telling her about everything that I saw and experienced. During my absence Józio became an adult. They fixed it up for him to enter first grade at the Epsztein School. The instruction there was in Polish, but there was no school on Saturday afternoons. The pupils were the children of Jewish merchants, intellectuals, and prosperous tradesmen. It left a bad taste in my mouth; it was petit bourgeois, and besides, it was far away, on Archangel Street. Józio was a sensitive little boy, quiet and polite. I had become more and more attached to him; I told him all about the books I had read, and I played games with him. The next year I began to urge my parents to transfer him to a grammar school with instruction in Yiddish, one that was very progressive. The children there felt more at liberty, and the teachers stood out by reason of their advanced views. Classes started up at my least favorite school, and so did the boring lessons, walking by twos down the corridor at recess, the prayers before and 142

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after class. I got along with the Polish girls on a formal basis, but I made friends with the Jews. I sat at the third desk with Ania Kaczergińska; after classes we walked along the embankment and discussed all sorts of topics, even political ones. In the fall a terrible misfortune befell us. Uncle Szaja became gravely ill and was admitted to the Mishmeres Khoilim Hospital on Kiev Street.28 My parents took me to visit him. I was very sorry for him. I understood that he was dying, yet my still pre-adolescent heart could not reconcile itself to it: this very kind, gentle, quiet, and unpretentious man was dying. Uncle Szaja loved everyone and was kind to everyone. I remembered that he took me to the sawmill and the mill by the stream, that he would not allow me to be punished. He always defended us. His death was the first event that took a much loved person out of my life. I remember Mama and myself returning from the hospital. How would Aunt Anna get along by herself in the village? Sonia had married Tobias, Raja had left to join her sisters in Russia and also had married someone. And Władek was “mixed up” with the daughter of the owner of an apartment house where he had rented a room; she was divorced and older than he was. His parents were very upset by this. The conversations of the grown-ups that I overheard kept turning in my head. The cozy house in Michałowo that I so loved to visit in the summer was no more. Something had fallen out. Something had disappeared forever from my so unshakable world. I cried, but tried to push all of it out of sight, to forget it. It was extremely painful, but children can put a great deal of effort into avoiding pain. Mama and I listened to a lot of music on the radio, especially the Chopin piano contest in Warsaw. The performers included even Soviet pianists and the blind Imre Ungar from Hungary. Ever since that time I have adored Chopin’s music, which I have continued to love to this day. I eagerly awaited the outcome of the contest and was happy that my favorite players shared the prizes. The school was getting ready for Christmas. I loved this holiday, the winter vacation. In class we made little presents for each other, something 28

Now Kauno Street.

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funny, letters which Grandfather Frost read from the stage on December 22, and everyone laughed while sitting on the gymnastics benches. In German class we gave Mrs. Freinat a little fir tree. The teacher, deeply moved, did not ask us any questions and did not assign anything, and all of us harmoniously sang German Christmas carols: “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht” (Silent Night, Holy Night)… I remember it to this day. Going to our different homes, some of us carried a little bear, some a dog, a rabbit, or another souvenir, and a light, empty briefcase. A light snow was falling, and my heart was full of joy – two free weeks were ahead, we were going to greet the New Year, and on January 6 there would be a carnival procession down the street in honor of “the Three Magi.” Heaps of joy. And somewhere in the depths of my soul there was a glimmer of hope: could Irka be coming? I woke up late. The room was bright, but outside it was overcast and there was a scattering of snow. I remembered: today was the first day of vacation. What a blessing! It was warm under the blanket, and no one was bothering me. I could lie around as much as my heart desired. It was good that Mama allowed me to sleep in on days with no school, even as late as one in the afternoon. There were no thoughts in my head. My soul was radiant. How wonderful everything was! The telephone rang in the dining room. I broke away and ran into the awfully cold room. Something told me that the call was for me. I lifted the receiver and heard the voice of… Irka. She had arrived! My enthusiasm was unbounded. “Up to the last minute I did not know if I would be coming to Vilna. Come on over right away.” Now I was really happy! I hurried as fast as I could. I washed my nose and grabbed a piece of bread on the run. I put on a blue winter coat with a gray kangaroo collar and some boots. “Where are you off to?” Mama asked. “What happened?” “Irka’s here!” I shouted as I ran to the staircase. The walk took only twenty minutes, but it seemed like an awfully long time to me. I ran down Wileńska, down Jagielońska and Zawalna. The streets were quiet now that everyone had gone to work, and the youngsters 144

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were still sleeping. After all it was only nine in the morning. Now the turn on Trotsky, the second building from the corner, the stairway to the second floor. Outside the window stood a bare maple tree powdered with snow. I knocked on the door to the right. It opened, and I collapsed into Irka’s arms. She was already as tall as I was. She had grown taller and prettier. Her green eyes looked at me full of life. “Do you know how much I whined and nagged Mama to let me come to Vilna for the winter holidays?” Irka asked laughing. “Well, now we can walk around as much as we like and talk until we’re dizzy.” A wave of unlimited love for her engulfed me. “Thank you for writing me on Saturdays,” I jabbered. “At four PM I felt as though our souls were together then and there, and I wrote you then, too. And it was good to come home from school on Monday knowing that your letter was waiting for me. We were smart to think that one up.” Aunt Sonia inquired about my activities and about Mama. She was rather short and elegant; she had makeup on. Altogether it was even unattractive, but she took care of herself, unlike Mama, who was a real beauty, but who had put on weight and never even wore lipstick. She did not care how she looked. Father betrayed her with a succession of “Rajas,” and he often quarreled with Mama. Enough of that! I banished my sad thoughts. We went to the living room, where a stove was lit; we opened a door, sat down on the light blue carpet by the fire, and gabbed. We confided in each other all our experiences, griefs, the offenses committed against us, everything that had happened since we last saw each other. I told Irka about the constant unpleasant scenes at home: Father did not give us enough money to live on. I did not have anything nice to wear when we went out, including dresses and pretty shoes. There was an economic crisis in Europe, and people were not up to going to doctors. Mama helped develop X-rays, but basically Miss Raja was boss in the office. Repulsive Raja! She checked up on me and reported whom she saw me with on the street. What a hussy she was, what a blind, ignorant fool! What did Father see in her? Father reproached Mama: he was feeding the whole family. Yes, of course, he worked a lot, but how much could he say about that? I would never forgive him for the humiliations he was subjecting Mama to; I mentally affirmed this over and over again. Mama 145

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often cried, but she was withdrawn; she had no friends and no one to complain to. It hurt me that Mama so seldom went over to see Grandmother. After all, she was her mother and was exceptionally kind and cheerful, despite the poverty which she could never overcome. Despite her ailments: owing to her “angina pectoris” she had a very difficult time climbing the steep stairway to the third floor. You see, I noticed everything! Mama should have talked with me, but she kept her grievances to herself. I could not tell Grandmother about my troubles either. Yelling and unremitting pressure were my upbringing. Things were bad for everyone at home; everyone lived apart. It was such a cold, inhospitable home with white arm covers on the chairs and a parquet floor polished until it gleamed. Sometimes I just wanted to go up to Mama, put my head on her knees and talk to her heart to heart, but I was afraid: what if she rejected me, banished me, yelled at me? How could all this be changed? I did not have any close friends, just companions at school and you, Irka, but you were far away. On the other hand Irka understood everything, and we discussed my concerns for a long time. But she had her own problems: her mother was trying to make herself look younger, she could not get enough of looking at suitors, and she concealed the fact that she had such a big daughter because it would give away her real age. When walking with her children, she would not admit that Irka was her daughter. Recently they had met an acquaintance on the street. Her mother told him about Tusik: “This is my son; he is seven.” Irka was standing there next to them, but her mother stepped away from her. They did not understand Irka at home, and everything turned into a terrible scene. Irka confessed that she had cut a vein on her hand when she was twelve years old. Her mother found her in the bathtub covered with blood. They bandaged her hand and then gave her a thrashing. That is what it had come to! I was horrified. No, I would never have done such a thing! Irka and I walked around the city and talked without getting tired. There was so much that had to be discussed. I decided to reveal my secret. I had not been allowed to utter a single word about it to anyone. In the fall the girls in the class and I had spoken a great deal about inequality in society, about the purpose of life, and about politics. Then Luba approached me. 146

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“We have a circle of school-age youth,” she informed me. “Both girls and boys belong to it. We study various questions and read newspapers. Our goal is to reform society, to get rid of poverty and misery. It is a secret society known by its initials ZMS (Związek mlodzieży szkolnej).”29 Come and listen and think about it. You will find it interesting. Given your outlook on things, you will fit in well with us.” My whole body began to tremble. This was exactly what I was looking for. Lately I had talked a lot with Mirek about the future, about the bourgeoisie and the workers, and about the fact that society was structured wrong. Mirek sat me down at his old writing desk covered with cloth and for hours expounded Marx’s theory of surplus value to me and the other basics of economics. At the time he was a law student at Vilna University. He himself was reading a great deal and writing articles for left-wing newspapers, and he talked on the radio. Ah, those long narrow strips of paper on which he drafted his articles… “It’s too bad that Marx did not write in a popular vein for those fourteen-year-olds. It means that I will have to explain everything to you.” My favorite uncle, who was more like a brother to me, laughed. I listened to him with rapt attention. The puzzling thing about it here was that the factory owners paid the workers very little; the labor of the workers constituted the factory owners’ profit; and the bourgeoisie took it for themselves. But society had to be restructured so that all production belonged to the state, and profits would go to the needs of all the people, not into the pockets of the factory owners. Then everybody would be able to study, get healthcare, and make progress free of charge. Gifted people would develop science, and society would become healthy, civilized, and powerful. Geniuses would appear who in a class-based society were often unable to obtain an education owing to their poverty. Progress would develop at breakneck speed. The bourgeoisie would not want to be deprived of their plants, factories, land, and wealth. But when the consciousness of the workers and peasants was fully developed, they would stage an upheaval, 29

Union of School-Age Youth (Polish).

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a revolution, and all production would pass into the hands of society at large. That is what happened in Russia. In fact they were now creating exactly this kind of society, and this was being done for the first time in human history. If it succeeded it would be an example for the proletariat of the whole world. What about hunger and poverty in the USSR? This was temporary, Mirek explained. Things would improve later, and farther along they would be quite good. All that was needed was time, and there must not be a war. They did not have the experience of building a society. The road was hard, but they were trying. Right now they had already established free health care there, and in localities where superstitious, filthy people lived, they were waging a struggle against epidemics. They were teaching literacy to everyone, and all the ethnic peoples inhabiting the country were equal. I believed that they would build a classless society. That is what Mirek said, and I believed him. It meant that I would find my goal in life: I would organize the revolution, strive for the creation of a society in which everyone would be equal, in which there would be no anti-Semitism; everyone could study, every member of the workforce would be needed, and there would be no more unemployed or poor people. “Miron,” I asked my greatest authority figure, “I have been invited to join a circle of left-wing young people. What do you think: should I do it? After all it’s dangerous. We could end up in prison.” “Join it,” Mirek answered. “For now you will study theory; they will elucidate the political situation in Poland in the world for you. This will be useful and interesting to you. You are a thinking person. Just having a good life with a husband and children is not attractive to you. You will always look for a higher goal and will strive to reach it.” Thank you, Mirek, you understood me and guided me. Never in my life have I regretted the path I chose in my early youth. However, I greatly despaired, suffered, and wept seeing what kind of scoundrels took over this noble cause, how they distorted its high ideals, how many people they eradicated. Belief in the idea helped me survive during the Holocaust. I could have saved Father and little Józio, but Father did not believe the Bolsheviks, and everyone perished, my whole family. 148

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“I have been going to the circle since October,” I reported to Irka. “We meet at the home of one of the girls on Piłsudski Street.30 One of us stands watch on the street to make sure there’s no danger. Basia comes to us. She’s a splendid young woman. She has kind, clear eyes and a tender face. She explains everything simply and intelligibly: economic theory, the theory of class struggle, and politics. We read newspapers together. We meet once a week. There are some boys there from the state school. One of them is really ugly, but he’s intelligent – Rudik Berdyczewski.” I expressed my views about the school itself: “Frankly, the education at the girls’ school is good for nothing. You know that I am afraid of boys and, like a savage, am unable to get along with them at all. Our circle, Irka, is a secret. We could be betrayed, and we’d be stuck in prison. The group is a conspiracy. No outsider knows anything about us. I tell Mama that I’m going to a friend’s house to study, and I warn my friend that if Mama calls she should say that I have just gone home. I am nervous every time that I go to the circle. But I like being there a lot.” We were given the task of posting flyers against the Polish government: plants were closing, more and more people were unemployed, poverty was widespread. It was so frightening to stick flyers on walls and fences. I did it with another girl, and we were always glad to return home safely. I hid the flyers under the wardrobe; this was where I stored candy, pastry, and apples for the MOPR (International Society for Aid to Revolutionaries. This is how packages were made up for prison inmates). “That is my secret, and I have told you everything, Irka. What do you think – have I done the right thing?” To my great surprise Irka said, “I have the same convictions that you have, and I also go to a circle that studies Marxist literature. About ten school-age kids attend the meetings, and we have discussions, but we haven’t distributed flyers yet.” We began to share our thoughts. I was happy that Irka’s thoughts were the same as mine. We were real friends, and our thinking was identical. It was so easy to be with her. We talked about everything, even about love… 30

Now Algirdo Street.

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a topic which I was very reluctant to touch upon. I was ugly and had a long nose. My figure was only so-so. With my shy nature I was unable to get anyone to like me. I stayed silent in the company of others for fear that I might say something stupid. “That’s not right at all,” Irka protested. “You’re still growing, and you’ll get prettier. And you’ll become more assertive when you know more. Just wait, but the time will come when you and I both will fall in love with someone.” And we circled the streets for hours, or, sitting next to the stove, we had conversations without end. Now it was New Year’s. The sun was shining brightly that day, and fresh snow had fallen. Irka and I had agreed to meet on the other side of the entrance to the Zakręta,31 our beautiful woodland park. Irka was to bring a sled, and we would slide downhill. I walked down the Mała Pogulanka and the Zakrętowa.32 The snow was sparkling in the winter sun, and my heart was full of joy. I reached the entrance. The old pines stood like a wall. Their trunks were dark red, and their branches were covered with snow. I waited at the agreed-upon spot, but Irka was not there. I walked deeper into the woods. I did not go there often since it was far from home. I came to a downhill slope: Irka was sliding on sleds with some boys and laughing. I turned around and made my way back. She had forgotten! She was having fun and to heck with me. The previous summer in Muszyna I had noticed how Irka was attracted to the company of males. It made a bitter impression on me, and I was overcome with disappointment. I had created an ideal companion in my mind, but she was not at all the person I had dreamed about. It was three days before her departure. Irka and I would meet again, but the bitterness would not go away. My heart was heavy: the school vacation was ending, and Irka was leaving. Soon the boring state school would start again. I did not want to prepare homework assignments and sit through classes for six hours; and the music, the finicky teacher, scales and more scales, sonatas; Mama’s and Father’s quarrels… One pleasure remained: the 31

Now Vilgis Park.

32

Now Ciurlionis Street.

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circle! And I was still being tutored by Liza Meller. I had been very friendly with Liza ever since she worked with me back when I could not attend school after I had measles. I had liked her very much right away; she understood me, valued my capabilities, praised me for my successes, and helped me surmount my inferiority complex, which was nurtured by the soil of my education in the spirit of “humility.” I thought that Liza knew everything. She brought me salvation when I did not completely understand something at school or when I suffered from the miseries at home. I would complain to Mama that I could not cope with my school work, and I would flee to Liza. She became an authority figure for me of no lower standing than Mirek. She not only explained to me what I could not understand – mathematics, physics, chemistry – but she helped me write an outline of a complicated essay, finish a German assignment, and memorize a grammatical rule with the help of some doggerel verse that she made up. She was a miracle, not a woman! Liza remembered the entire middle school curriculum, and she could still counsel me on how to cope with our domestic turmoil. And our views coincided. I could converse with her about politics. She helped me understand everything that was happening around me and in the world at large. I not only loved Liza, I trusted her and admired her. She was my mentor and “lightning rod.” I do not know how I could have survived that difficult period of maturation – at a transitional age – without her help. I was very uncompromising: a maximalist, romantically inclined, and I went through everything tempestuously (I have remained like this, by the way, all my life). When things became completely unbearable, I rushed to Liza. I remember the route to the hill down Teatralna Street, past the Na Pogulance drama theater, across Wiwulska Street, where my first school was located, to Piłsudski Street. When I got there, I would ring the doorbell. Liza would open it and would be glad that I had come. She entrusted her two little daughters to her mother. Her home was in disorder. Things were tossed around every which way. She could not cope with housework and little children. She was the scholarly sort, with brilliant capabilities but unsuccessful in her work. With unemployment so pervasive in Poland, it was not at all easy for a woman to get a job. I was very sad when Liza married Alex. He had finished the institute and was much less well educated than she was. He was simple but 151

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good looking and, I thought, successful with women. And why did they have a child right away (they named the little girl Rachel like me and called her Lala) and then another? After all, many married women do something to avoid becoming pregnant right away. Alex was the only one in the family who had a job. Every day he traveled to the lumber works in Kena and came home late. I somehow sensed that he was chasing after women and that something was wrong with the relationship at home. Whatever had become of Liza’s competence and elegance? Now she was a typical brood hen. It was true that she tried to bring up the girls according to some kind of system, not following the example of spoiled little Jewish brats. I sat down in her room and told her about developments. The circle met on Wileńska Street, at the periodontics office of Ania Kaczergińska’s father. (She and I often walked together along the embankment. I revealed to her the bits of wisdom which I had derived from Mirek. She also decided to join the ZMS circle.). The doctor rented the office, and his patients came here. The Kaczergińskis lived far away, and after school, when there was no other activity, Ania stayed there to finish her homework. So we were having our meeting when suddenly the door opened and Ania’s father appeared. We were all struck dumb with horror. But Dr. Kaczergiński grabbed some papers and withdrew. It had not occurred to us that her dad did not suspect anything. It was a big tempest in a teapot: the boys and girls had to come together to dance, to have a party! Nevertheless, we quickly scattered, unsure about what was coming. After all, he had seen all of us! Ania decided not to go back home. She was afraid she would be punished. “Liza, what should we do? How should Ania react? She can’t spend the rest of her life at my house with me,” I beseeched her. Liza advised Ania to go back home as if nothing it happened and immediately ask for something to eat. Parents react very positively to their offspring when they have an appetite. If they ask about it later, say, “We just got together for a little entertainment since school was so boring!” Father would believe it. Ania, her legs trembling, returned home, and everything turned out exactly as Liza had predicted. Who could have thought that respectable children from good families could amuse themselves with ideas of 152

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a revolution in Poland? “What a smart woman this Liza is,” Ania exclaimed in surprise. Liza’s authority rose even higher in my eyes. Later, after my exit exams, I began to study mathematics employing an intensive method jointly with Wenia Pumpiański, and I saw Liza less and less frequently. I heard rumors about Alex’s adventures, and I felt offended on her behalf. Her failed marriage became one of the examples for me of the bitter experience of life. A woman must be independent, I decided – an authority in the eyes of her husband; he must respect her. Again I had seen with my own eyes what I read in my books: love is not eternal. In the meantime, however, I ran to Liza with all my troubles, domestic and school related. Once, coming home, I saw a girl of about fifteen at an entrance on Piłsudski Street. A young man came up to her. They greeted each other warmly and walked along at a slow pace engaged in conversation. Happy girl, she had a friend! I wanted very much to have a friend myself, but obviously this was not fated to be. I remembered this scene all my life (just as I remembered that I was not given a doll on my twelfth birthday). I grew sad and my heart was empty. I went down Wileńska past Officer House and tried to comfort myself: I had a mother and a father; a home where I lived; Mirek, whom I could talk to; and Liza, my savior. I also had Irka’s letters and the hope of seeing her. That was more than a little! It was even more than many others had. The last time I saw Liza was in the ghetto. During the winter I discovered that she had survived a German action. I looked up her address and dropped in on her at her home on Szawelska Street.33 She, both of her little girls, and her aging mother were living in a dirty little room. I had learned about Alex earlier. He was living in a separate apartment with a beautiful lover, and he had a job at the Judenrat.34 We talked about our dreadful fate, about the weather, and about our hopeless situation. If she had been alone, I would have recruited her for the FPO. But the way it was – children, and an old mother whom she loved – she could not leave them. She and her whole family were fated to die. Who could have saved them? I realized that I was seeing Liza for the last time, and my heart sank. They evidently perished 33

Now Siauliu Street.

34

The Jewish council appointed by the Germans to administer the ghetto.

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when the ghetto was liquidated. Alex stayed alive and went abroad scotfree. How tenaciously scoundrels cling to life. They have no consideration for anyone else; they walk over corpses and are capable of any betrayal and base action. Miss Raja also survived in this manner.

THE NEW DACHA Father made up his mind to build a dacha on the land he had bought earlier in Wołokumpia next to Dr. Brodski’s dacha on the little hill closer to the river. It was a pretty spot with an excellent view of the bend in the Wilia and the Trinopol church, of the green banks and the fir tree forest on the steep bank on the other side of the river. Mama and Father drove around with an architect to look at various wood cabins. They liked one at Zwierzyniec that had a red tile roof with a sharp bend in it. It was built in the so-called Zakopane style with triple windows, a porch, and a veranda on pillars. They added a semicircular room with five windows facing south. In addition to the semicircular living room, there were three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Stairs led up to a loft with a room over the living room, a balcony, and a tiny little room measuring four square meters with a view out onto the forest. I was very interested in the drawings, the laying of the foundation, and the construction project. We went to Wołokumpia and rummaged around the foundation, which was covered with planks serving as flooring. This was necessary. There wasn’t anything yet, but it would be a home! But on the other hand I was afraid that, having a dacha, my parents would never let me go away on vacations, whereas I was already accustomed to wandering off somewhere. The past two summers I had been to Michałowo, then to Zakopane, at Irka’s in Kraków, and finally at Muszyna. I was so anxious to see beautiful new places, especially in the mountains. Miron finished law school but could not find a job, so he went to Warsaw, where he earned spending money at a left-wing newspaper. He informed Grandmother that he had acquired a girlfriend named Stefania. She was a Pole, and the news pained Grandmother deeply. Now I had no one to whom I could pour out my soul or with whom I could discuss politics. 154

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I felt completely isolated. Mama was completely wrapped up in herself. I tried to talk to her, but she pulled me up short reminding me of my obligations or declaring: “Don’t interfere! You’re still too young to make comments and teach others!” Winter was over. Irka sent a snapshot taken in February during an excursion into the mountains: a smiling Sonia, Artuś, and Irka with pussy willow branches in their arms. The pussy willows had fluffy cattails. It was already warm where they were, but we still had snow on the ground in places. How much I wanted spring and warmth, how much I wanted to go see Irka. As it turned out, they were coming to the dacha they had rented in Magistracka Colony, four kilometers away from ours. We could talk to one another again. Easter and Passover were approaching. We rarely observed the Jewish Passover. Father was not averse to observing Jewish traditions. He even went to the synagogue on special days, but Mama did not like Jewish holidays at all. This time they invited Father’s stepmother over. The guests included Grandmother Gitl, Father’s sister Paulina (Pesia) with her son Sasza, and Aunt Sonia Lenzner’s son Sema. Sema came in from Paris, where he was trying to establish a career. He joined us and told us all about how to earn money and marry rich, but Mirek made fun of him. Their debate turned into a shouting match, and I was always on Mirek’s side. Mama warned me that day: I had to be on time to the evening meal. It was the first Seder; I could not be late. But just then I had to go to a meeting of the circle somewhere on Nowogródzka Street in someone’s wretched apartment. At that time, in the process of delivering MOPR packages or clothing and money that we had collected, I had visited the dwellings of many poor and unemployed people. I had read about poverty before, but what I saw with my own eyes surpassed everything that I had read. I was even more firmly convinced that it was necessary to overthrow the kind of ruling order in which conditions such as inequality could exist. I could not leave the meeting before it was over. When it was adjourned, I took off running down the Nowogródzka. It was already dry, and the snow was melting. I hurtled at full speed down the hill and up Zawalna and Wileńska. It did not matter… 155

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I was still late. Mama looked at me disapprovingly, but did not upbraid me in front of the guests. Father, sitting on the pillow at the head of the table, read the “Haggadah.” The men wore hats, and everyone was dressed for a festival. Józio, the youngest person present, was assigned the duty of reading the four questions in the ritual space (thank God I was no longer the one who did this!). We hid the “afikemon,” and Father had to buy it back from the children. Mama’s mother, my only, beloved grandmother Maria, smiled quietly to herself the whole time, and we whispered to each other: just look at these simpletons; they believe in all this rubbish, unlike us atheists. Then Father, who had no singing voice at all, sang ditties about a little goat and so on, which his father had sung at their Seders at home. Father was deeply moved, his eyes moistened, and I became sorry for him – he was laboring so hard, he was overstraining himself, and the house was cold and forbidding; he had no support! And I did not even remember his birthday; I only knew it was in November. Aunt Pesia – all dressed up, her face unpleasant and arrogant, made cutting remarks about the stuffed fish, the matzo balls, the soup, the desserts, the ginger candies, and the cake made with matzo flour. I did not like these delicacies, but I adored matzo, which we stored in a pillow case in a wicker basket. Every spring I greeted the day as a holiday when the matzo we had ordered was delivered. Mama brought the starched pillowcases, we took the matzo out of its paper packaging, rewrapped it in the rustling fabric, and hid it in a large wicker basket in the bathroom. It was the beginning of spring, and I felt more cheerful. Now I could pull the rectangular sheets of redolent matzo out of the basket and listen to the crackle as I chewed it (in general Mama did not permit snacks between meals). What a delight it was to lie on the sofa with a good book and a sheet of matzo in my hands. Toward summer the dacha was renovated. I did not like Wołokumpia – the forest there was dry, there were not any meadows, and there were no flowers in the vicinity. Prosperous Jews and their children, youth of the same ilk, settled there. However, I did like the dacha itself. The exterior was painted green, the doors and windows were cream-colored, and the roof was suitably tiled and red. You could see the dacha from far away since it stood on a hill over the Wilia. Old pines grew on the riverbank. Steps went 156

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directly up to the veranda on beige columns. There were two back entrances: one to the kitchen and the other to the porch with two benches on it; from there one entered a round hall with an oval dining room leading to two rooms – my corner room with two Venetian windows and next to it Józio with one window. The windows had shutters on frames with transverse strips like Venetian blinds, and every evening they were closed from the outside by inserting a pin in them and adjusting a rod. From the veranda you went into a little corridor and from there into Mama’s bedroom, which had the very same windows as in my room, then into the bathroom and the kitchen. Water was carried up from the well. The outhouse was in the courtyard and was locked with a key. From the hall you took a staircase up to the next floor. Father’s room with a round sun porch was there. Where the sun porch joined the room, the roof leaked, and when it rained, water dripped into the hall. A small four-meter room with a window facing north and toward a stand of trees was for guests, but I loved sleeping there. The walls were made of rough boards and packing material. In time, when it dried out, we would sheathe it with planking, Father said. There was the sharp smell of fresh pine pitch. Father used material of good quality. The rooms had excellent tile stoves, and they put a large basement under the house… a refuge in case of war, but in the meantime, it served us as an icehouse. It seems as though I can hear Mama’s voice now: “Lala, take the pots with soup and stewed fruit down to the cellar.” I took them, but did not want to very much. Mama and I began to buy simple furniture for the dacha. Each room had a sofa and a little table, while a wicker table, armchair, and chairs went into the dining room. Furniture of this nature was made by the Society for the Blind. Each bedroom had built-in closets. A table and chairs were placed on the veranda. The dining room table had a tablecloth with pins to keep the wind from blowing it off. Invariably there were wildflowers in a vase. Kilims – hand-woven carpets – adorned the rooms. Father had them shipped from the Carpathians with a red poppy theme for me, while Mama had carpets with a blue and light blue geometrical pattern. They bought a carpet with yellow sunflowers for the dining room. All of them were hung on the rough boards of the walls. They also bought simple lamps and curtains. 157

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Finally we could move into the dacha. A wagon, with two horses hitched up to it, pulled packages of bed linens, mountains of kitchen utensils, and summer clothing. The gardener arrived. He planted lilac and spiraea bushes by the veranda and on both sides of the steps. He also made garden beds where Chabaud carnations reddened in an edging consisting of blue lobelias. We had to order a truckload of black-earth topsoil for the flower garden since it consisted of loose sand, and nothing wanted to grow in it. Watering the plants was very complex. Someone (frequently myself) had to bring water from the deep well – up to twelve caissons (cement rings) – that we shared with the Brodskis. The flowers repaid the effort. In the center of the yard was a table with an opening in the middle where we put up a large bright canopy for shade from the sun. All of this was new and entertaining. Life at the dacha, however, was constantly boring. Tanning myself at the beach and lolling about in the sand were not my favorite activities. Young people gathered here: Lilka Amdurska (she lived nearby in a little cottage), the Lidsky brothers, Alik Sedlis and Miła Zeldowicz, and others. They discussed the figures of the girls walking by and talked nonsense, although many of the kids were educated and smart. I considered myself ugly, clumsy, and I avoided them. I went over to Lilka’s a few times – the youngsters there discussed fashionable theories and contemporary social topics. Everyone drew a lot and bragged about how much they knew. Lilka had an excellent understanding of Freudian psychology. I wondered how she could possibly find time to study all that. But after reading Stefan Zweig’s monograph Freud, I understood that the source of Lilka’s information was not the works of Freud, but a popular biographical book about him. The hordes of snobs at Lilka’s annoyed me, but I envied the aplomb and courage with which they presented their thoughts. Mirek compiled a list of books for me which I was supposed to read over the summer. In addition, I decided to learn how to read and write Russian. I sat on the steps for hours and read Chekhov’s short stories, the alphabet in front of me the whole time. My French “Larousse” explanatory dictionary had the alphabet with French transcriptions under the word “Russe.” The stories were boring, the topics old, and the plot moved slowly. If I had 158

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selected a detective novel or one with emotional content, I would have learned to read much quicker. Working according to plan, I scheduled a hundred pages of fiction per day. In addition, although not very enthusiastically, I read the political literature and the journals that Mirek brought to me. Sometimes I walked around the neighborhood with Mama. In this way we covered all the forests around us. I was especially taken with the steep riverbank at Turniszki where a project to build a hydroelectric station was going to shut down the road. Mama pointed out a grove of trees on the other side of the river and said: “There’s where we lived at a dacha when you were one and a half years old. You had just learned how to walk, and we had to watch you like hawks. It was out in the country, and Father had to bring groceries from the city in a hansom cab. I was still young and inexperienced and did not know how to cook or run the household. One time you vanished. I looked for you everywhere; I ran around and cried. But then I saw you. You were looking at me out of our watchdog’s kennel. You adored her and took her any kind of food you could find from the house. How long ago all that was. You loved dogs ever since you were a toddler. You kissed them on the muzzle. What a sweet little imp you were: curly, pudgy, pretty, and tender.” There it was, a hint that now I was the complete opposite of what I had been! A magnificent view opened up from the high shore in Gelwadishki. I had known the spot for several years. Irka and her family and I had come here for a walk when they visited us at our dacha early in the 1930s, before their departure for Kraków. The Folkmans always knew how to find pretty places to live. Even in the city they lived differently from the other people I knew: not downtown, but in a house with a garden next to a cemetery. And when they took a dacha, it would be in a wonderful place. Behind the house stretched a meadow with huge chamomiles, bluebells, and wild carnations. Beyond the meadow was their own little beach without any repulsive, cheeky boys, and there was a boat on which the whole family rowed down the river. And from a hill you could see the bend in the river, the fields, pastures, and copses. Now Irka had already been in Kraków for many years, and I came here with Mama to contemplate the beautiful scenery. 159

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We wandered down the forest roads for hours and talked about topics in which we both had an interest. Once Father brought famous guests to the dacha. They came on the steamboat. They climbed up the little hill and then appeared at our door: A graying man short in stature and a frail woman apparently the same age as he. Father introduced me to them. “This is Marc Chagall,” he told me, “and Mrs. Bebba Chagall. You know his pictures, Lala. We have an album with reproductions. His pictures are world-famous. Remember this meeting. Our guests have arrived from Paris, and you can talk to them in French.” I was completely carried away – I had met a real artist and a famous one to boot! And I could talk to him in French! The renowned guests turned out to be humble, affable people. We all sat down together at a round table under a bright canopy. In the garden bed red carnations were blooming inside a border of deep blue lobelias. The day was astonishingly serene. Mama served pie in addition to tea. We talked about the magnificent view out onto the river, how dark the willows were on the opposite shore, and how the Trinopol church stood out. The guests praised Mama’s flowers. They liked the new, fresh smelling wooden house. I could not resist asking the artist where he found his animals since there were no cows or goats in Paris. “You must draw them from memory, right?” I persisted. “Also, why are people often flying in your pictures? That doesn’t happen in real life!” Marc Chagall and his wife smiled. “My wife always poses for me,” the artist replied seriously. “I look at her and imagine everything that I need. Even a cow or a speckled rooster. Bella is my best friend and assistant.” The grownups broke out laughing. My questions shocked Father, but Chagall himself considered them completely normal. But what he said did not sink in with me, realist that I was. The whole time Bella covered her shoulders with a white knit shawl. It was getting cool. The guests got up to go. Such nice, unassuming people, I thought. If I had been in their place, I would have put on airs. 160

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I was informed that we were going to continue to have an active ZMS chapter in Wołokumpia… a student, Grisza Berłowicz, was going to continue the discussions with us. We met in a thick grove of green trees. The composition of the circle had changed – there were many kids who had come here for the summer whom I did not know. We had interesting classes. Griszka told us a lot about the history of the workers movement and utopian socialism. Each of us was given a report topic. I prepared a report also and read out my topic despite considerable stage fright. I had not yet learned that I would never be able to give a report without a fully written out text in advance. I made friends with a girl from the Jewish school, Fania Jokheles, who lived on a dacha in Werki and came to all the sessions of the circle with her younger little sister Riwa in a rowboat from the other side of the river. (I met her later in the ghetto and was with her in the FPO,35 in the partisan detachment in the Rudnicki Wilderness. Currently, when I travel to Vilna every summer, I walk around our old city with Fania, and we recall the days of our youth). I was always afraid that Mama, in the course of wandering around the neighborhood, would come upon us in the forest, so I begged Grisza to take the group a little deeper into the forest thickets. Otherwise, I could not avoid her questions later – what kind of kids were these and who was I meeting there? Joyous news: Irka arrived. Her Aunt Liza had rented a dacha at Magistracka Colony. I was glad that I was able to see my best friend and have some interesting conversations with her although there was a considerable distance between our dachas, about four kilometers if not five. Sometimes Irka came over to our place and we went together to the beach. Here, however, it turned out that we had different things in mind. Irka was a good swimmer, she joked around with the boys, ran, and had a good time, whereas all I wanted to do was chat the whole time, and what was more, only with her. After lunch I customarily got together with Irka, but Mama often did not allow me to do this… I should not make a pest of myself to Aunt Liza; Irka could come over to see me. Irka and I squabbled over who should come to whose house. Once the words escaped her: 35

FPO (Fareinikte Partizaner Organizacje - United Partisan Organization).

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“But you are closer to me than I am to you!” We laughed at her words, but all the same I was offended. Mama thought that Irka was using me, ordering me about. “Irka again,” she exclaimed. “You and she are never going to agree who is going to go to whose place. It’s all Irka, nothing but Irka.” My enthusiasm irritated Mama. I well remember the hikes to Irka’s dacha: the whole road through the forest, past the Eliasberg Inn, diagonally up the hill through the forest tract. We talked and talked as we strolled. The sun was low, and the days became ever shorter. But it was scary to walk through the woods in the dark. It was good that the road was downhill. Irka went with me. We said goodbye, and I ran downhill, my sneakers carrying me home on wings since I had to get there before it was completely dark. They had already switched on the light when I ran in the door. Mama grumbled: “Couldn’t you possibly get here any sooner? Who ever heard of a girl running through the woods alone in the dark! I will not let you do that again!” And if Mama said something, you could be sure that she would carry out her promise. It was too bad that Aunt Liza rented a dacha so far away from us. Summer was ending, and Irka was going away. We would resume writing letters to each other on Saturdays at four o’clock after lunch and would continue to hope that they would let her come to Vilna over the winter break.

A NEW GIRLFRIEND I was walking alone through a grove of trees along a new board fence. Lisiczki mushrooms were growing there, and I gathered them as though I were picking them in a garden. I knew all the spots here, but this was boring; it would have been more fun to find something new. I met an elderly couple that I knew, the Jewish language teacher Haimson and her husband Bastomski. “Are you wandering about alone?” the teacher asked. “Don’t you have girlfriends? Would you like me to introduce you to one of my pupils? She’s an interesting girl. She writes poetry.” 162

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I agreed to the teacher’s suggestion. We went to the Krubiczewa dacha. I had gone to the tennis court there several times. It was not far away and was close to the bus stop. A girl of about fourteen came up to us. She was slim, cheerful, with a pretty little face and light blue eyes. “This is Ela Feigenberg,” the teacher said. “Meet Lalka Margolis. Her father is also a doctor, and she lives nearby. You go to different schools, and you come from different environments. Talk and get to know each other; you’ll find it interesting.” We inspected each other with curiosity. Ela was a fragile girl, unassuming, pleasant, and did not have anything strange about her. It looked as though we would find something to talk about. She had an unusual first name; I had never heard anything like it before. Their dacha was in a noisy place right by the road. Books, newspapers, linen, and shoes were strewn in disorder about the veranda. A five-year-old little girl came running up. “This is my little sister Sana,” Ela clarified for me. The little girl made faces and mimicked Ela’s words. “I also have an older sister, Bella. She’s a medical student. Bella, come and get Sanka, I want to talk with my friend,” Ela said in Yiddish. A serious, stout girl in glasses came out, looked me over critically, and took Sana by the hand. The latter began to squeal like a stuck pig, but Bella led her away nevertheless. We sat down together and began to tell each other about our families, schools, and our friends; then we switched to political subjects. It turned out that we had similar views. It was interesting to listen to Ela. She was so direct and open. She complained about her health; she was on a diet, and her stomach hurt. Besides, she often had a headache. There arose in me the kind of protective attitude that a strong person feels toward someone weaker. “What do you do all day at the dacha?” Ela asked. I told her about my walks with Mama, the books I read, my Russian language classes, and Irka’s departure. I loved to pick mushrooms, and I knew all the places where they grew there. “Oh, I enjoy picking mushrooms, too,” Ela brightened up. “Let’s do it together, and I’ll tell you about our classroom, the boys and girls in the class, the teachers, and the excursions we take. In addition to ‘our’ guys 163

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in the class, there are also some Bund sympathizers. They are against the Soviet Union, but they’re in favor of class struggle here in Poland. And there are also individual left wing Zionists, who think that all Jews should settle in Palestine and found their own socialist state there. We have debates with them, we swear at each other, and we argue. We also put on shows. In the M. M. Gurewicz School, which I attended earlier, there was a great teacher named Rabinowicz. It was really interesting to work with him because he staged literary trials of the heroes of books, and he organized soirées.” Ela rattled on irrepressibly and effusively. It was very interesting to listen to her, but then it was time to go home. I told Mama about my new girlfriend. Mama was glad that I was not bored. I looked forward impatiently to the next day. Ela and I went out into the woods, and I showed her all the places where various kinds of mushrooms were growing. Her eyes burned. She and I found that we spoke a common language, and it was so interesting to talk with one another. “You mean there are nothing but girls in your school?” Ela asked in astonishment, “that’s boring. Boys squabble and yell, but they’re fun. Many of them are already beginning to like girls. I have a friend, too: his name is Boria Glezer. He and I have been in school together since first grade. He is serious and writes wonderful essays. We work in threes at our school, so there’s also a girl in our group; we help each other in the subjects which come easier to one of us than to the others.” Ela entrusted me with the secret of her love for Boria. I was convinced that she was kind and devoted to her friends. Ela recited from memory her favorite Jewish poems as well as her own poems. The whole world that she was talking about was completely unknown to me; I had a poor knowledge of Yiddish. I could understand it pretty well, but I was unable even to read it fluently. After all, the only time that I had studied Yiddish was in first grade. Ela introduced me to the world of Jewish culture. She promised to introduce me to her close friends: Zuzanka Rozenszajn, the smartest and prettiest of them all, the solid Lejka Rekhes, the serious Musia Stupel, the small and capable Danek Lubocki, Danka Kupo, and others. They were such remarkable kids. We agreed to meet downtown. Ela smiled happily: 164

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“You know what they called me in class? ‘Capella,’ which means goat in Latin. They think I’m naïve, but I relate to people well, and I want everyone to feel good. You and I are going to be friends, just wait.” I liked walking with Ela, looking for mushrooms, and listening to her. I had never seen a girl like this – gentle, thoughtful, enthusiastic, and poetic. She taught me many Jewish songs, which she sang in a thin voice, Yiddish verses, and in the fall I started visiting Ela at her home. She lived far away, on Kiev Street, then on Chopin Street. I met Jewish youngsters and entered a Jewish milieu. Ela came to love me, and I felt the same about her. My environment was very much lacking in warmth. But I was more critical about everything and everyone. Ela adored a pretty friend named Zuzanka, whom many boys in the class had fallen in love with. But when I met Zuzanka I did not like her at all. She talked arrogantly and in a peremptory tone as if she were talking to a junior. Once she called my unpretentious classmate Sima Rabinowicz a hen. I was indignant, flared up at her, and did not have anything more to do with Zuzanka. Boria, to whom Ela introduced me, was in fact both intelligent and serious. But it seemed to me that he still did not understand Ela’s ardent love for him. A mighty passion burned in the heart of this thin, feeble girl. She wrote exceptionally grown-up verses, and she was ready to go so far as to throw herself in the fire for him. Ela dearly loved her family, especially her mother. She talked about her enthusiastically and dwelled on how much her mother understood her. Ela told her everything, even about the ZMS, and her mom allowed the members of the chapter to meet at their house. I visited them regularly. Disorder reigned in their home. Loads of socks and underwear that needed patching were heaped on windowsills and beds. The table was covered with oilcloth, and everything was out of place despite the fact that it was a big apartment. A housemaid kept it clean and did the cooking. I envied Ela: she had no need to hide anything at her place, which was cheerful, noisy, and teeming with young people. No one corrected anyone else or nagged them. But I could not have lived like this. I was used to our coldness and strictness, and our orderly way of doing things.

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MY NEW MUSIC TEACHER – ANNA FEIGUS A pleasant change occurred in my life: I was going to have a new music teacher. My parents went to Poland and to Romania, where they met some tourists… a doctor from Vilna named Feigus and his wife Anna. Mama told her about me and the problems I was having with my music lessons. It happened that Anna Feigus was a music teacher. She agreed to listen to me play and said she would fix the problem. Mama took me to the Feiguses. We came to a building next to the market on Zawalna Street with large windows looking out on the commercial heart of the street. Anna was a nice looking, elegant woman. We talked about everything and then went up a few steps to a bright room which had a piano in it and beautiful pictures hanging on the wall. Mrs. Feigus worked here. She often performed and taught at the Jewish Conservatory. Her daughter Halina was also a pianist. The teacher assured me that they had a close knit family, and she asked me to play something. Trembling with embarrassment, I played several pieces. “You give the impression of liking romantic music. Chopin, right?” – the teacher asked. “So let’s start with one of Chopin’s waltzes, the Third.” Anna played it for me brilliantly. I doubted that I could ever learn to play it that well. “You don’t play badly,” Anna encouraged me. “I believe in you. And your mother does, too. She told me a lot about you, how serious and thoughtful you are, how much she loves you.” My mom loved and appreciated me? This was hard to believe. Did that mean that Mama was afraid of spoiling me with excessive praise, but in her heart thought highly of me? Anna did not know that her words had brought about a sharp turn in my emotions. Mama was proud of me and praised me to other people. I wondered on my way home and that evening in bed if this meant that I had not understood her until that moment. I began to look upon Mama completely differently. I remembered the occasions when she looked at me tenderly, when she secretly, so that Father would not see her, wrote notes to my teachers when I missed a class or did not have time to finish my homework, the presents she brought back to me from her travels. Mama Emma, my Mama! 166

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Why were you so withdrawn and secretive! (How much of her there was in my daughter Emma’s character: she also did a lot of criticizing, became irritated, raised her voice, and berated people; and one rarely heard a tender word from her despite a vast reservoir of love inside.) The music lessons gave me a great deal of pleasure. I tried, and wanted very much, to get Anna to praise me. I realized that she was not being entirely honest in her praise, and I felt that it was a bit forced. All the same it was encouraging. I never got enough approval or compliments because I was used to hearing criticism and loud reproaches so often. Sometimes Dr. Feigus, a man of enormous bulk, would come in during a lesson and say: “Anuszka, I see that Lala is learning to play beautifully!” “She is a very musical girl,” Mrs. Feigus seconded. “Our Lala has a wonderful ear. How well she learned the Chopin waltz, and now we can go to another waltz, the Eighth.” And Anna began to play it marvelously herself. I sorted out the new notes with delight: this was the middle portion, so full of anxiety, sadness, so tragic. Something was urging me onward, to a place of misfortunes and sorrow. What lay ahead for me? What was going to happen to me? I was not so bold as to dream of playing like her daughter Halina. Hala was a magnificent pianist and a beautiful woman. Her fiancé was the epitome of masculine good looks. Everyone, and especially Anna, liked him very much. I gladly hurried to the lessons and came to love practicing at home. The amount of time I spent on it increased in proportion to my love for the music. I studied with Anna only two years. In my last year at school there were too many classes and too much work to prepare for the final certification exam, so I had to interrupt the music lessons. All my life, however, I remembered the excitement of my experience with the piano, especially when I recognized pieces that Anna Feigus had selected for me: I had played them! Dr. Feigus related how he had visited his patient, Countess Puszkin, at her suburban home in Markuchiai near Vilna. Barbara Puszkin, the wife of Grzegorz, son of the poet, sent a carriage to pick the doctor up. She lived at the estate with her favorite little dog and her female attendant. 167

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Nowadays, when I visit the A. S. Puszkin Museum, I always stop at the humble graves of Grzegorz Aleksandrowicz Puszkin, his wife, governess, and dogs – and I remember the Feigus family. During the war I found out what their fate had been. They had been in the Kailis camp outside the ghetto. And they perished along with the other inmates of the Kailis camp, including my dear parents and Józio, who were taken there on July 4, 1944. They are resting with them in a common pit at Ponary, where in the summer of 1999 I set up a granite memorial. Immediately after the liberation of the city, when they unearthed the pits at Ponary, they recognized the corpse of Dr. Feigus from his mighty figure and buried him separately, the only one of 100,000 dead for whom this was done. But his grave, too, became overgrown with wild vegetation, and now it is not visible. Will it perhaps be put in order this year? When that happens, I will put a tablet with his name on it by the grave – the only one who could be identified out of a mass of nameless victims. I placed a poster from the Vilna ghetto on a stand at the Jewish Museum: a concert by Luba Lewicka and pianist Anna Feigus – both atrociously killed at Ponary. This will not allow their names to be forgotten. My dear teacher, I remember you.

THE RYWIN’S FAMILY In the winter of 1936 Mama sent me to stay with Aunt Anna in Michałowo for a week. This was my long-time dream – to see the landscape I loved – in the winter. I had not been there for several years, and I had never been there in winter. It was a long but captivating train ride – to Oleknowicze (a few kilometers from the Soviet border). I did not even touch the little book in my bag. I kept looking out the window at the open spaces covered with snow, at the white powdered pines and fir trees. Here was a sledge with a little peasant driving a mare; here were peasant women in wool head shawls tied crisscross on their backs walking mincingly to the bazaar in town with bags. Occasionally the sun peeked out and illuminated the snow with a pink luster. How marvelously beautiful nature was, while we sat in the city and 168

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did not see anything! The short stops at stations with familiar names: Nowa Wilejka, Mołodeczno, Krasne. Clouds of steam rose from the mouths of people, which indicated a hard frost outside. Columns of smoke rose to the sky from chimneys. A brilliant white blanket covered the lake. There was not a single dark spot, not a single trace of an animal or bird footprint. Sonia was waiting for me on the platform of the dilapidated station. “We’re glad that you arrived, and we’ll do our best to make sure that you rest up well,” she stated. Sonia looked older. There were wrinkles on her face; her shawl concealed her hair. Since Uncle Szaja passed away (she called her father by the same name I did) everything in the home had taken a turn for the worse; the household was in a state of decay. Aunt Anna cried all the time. She found it hard to manage the sawmill and the regular mill. In general, you could tell this by looking at it. We stopped at an inn, or an akhsania as the Jews call it, to drink some tea before going back on the road. Father, who used to stop here on the way to Michałowo, had lunch, and talked with the owner’s wife. “I guessed right away that you are a relative of the Rywin’s in Michałowo,” she said to him. “You eat compote with a roll just like them.” She served Jewish dishes to Father: bouillon with “a farfalle” (starchy dumplings), tsimes, a caserole made of carrots with apples and a famous compote. This became a legend among us at home. Deresz as hitched to the sledge that was waiting for us. How decrepit he had become; he had turned completely gray although in the past he was a frisky and fabulous steed. Our usual driver put sheepskin jackets on Sonia and me –enormous, shaggy, fur coats made of sheepskin. We struggled to hunker down in the sledge, our feet in leg wrappings enfolded in sheepskins. It was so hot we could barely breathe. The horse slowly trudged down the dirt country road although the potholes were not so deep as they were in the summer – the snow made the going smoother. It was exceedingly beautiful. The white glare made our eyes hurt. We came to a village. Smoke was shooting straight up out of the chimneys, meaning there was going to be clear weather. Only rarely did people run by. Fundamentally everyone stayed home in their 169

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warm huts. No cattle or chickens were in sight. Very occasionally we came upon sledges moving toward us. This was Poland’s frontier region, a poor, somnolent territory. We rode for one, two, then three hours. The coachman dozed off and did not goad Deresz on. Then he suddenly roused himself. “Giddy up!” The horse ran at a trot on a level stretch of the road, but then in front of us loomed a hill, and again our pace slowed to a walk. I was getting tired of it. Sometimes Sonia and I exchanged a word or two. We were freezing. The frost was penetrating all the fur coats we were wrapped in. Dusk was upon us and the evening was approaching. Finally we passed Zosia’s home and crossed the little bridge over the stream, which was raging because it had not frozen. Big, bare oak trees stood along the road and the fence. We drove into the courtyard. Light was shining from the house windows. Aunt Anna ran out onto the front porch wrapped in a thick shawl. They extracted me from the sheepskins. My legs were numb, and it was hard to take a step. Aunt Anna was weeping: “You’ve finally arrived! Szaja was still alive then, but now we are all orphaned. How big you are! The last time you were here, you were eleven… girl – and now you’re already fifteen, a young lady. But you are nothing but skin and bones!” We went into the dining room. Władek’s slovenly dressed wife, Mania, was there. A dirty two-year-old little girl, snotty nosed and unkempt, was playing under the table. The room was in disorder. Logs tossed carelessly about were strewn around the stove. It was entirely different from the way it had been before. We sat down to drink tea. The housemaid Zośka, well along in years, brought a samovar in and also began to give me an earful: “Now Rajka has gone to Rasha (Zoska’s pronunciation of the neighboring country Russia) to get married and won’t be back anymore. Władek is still a student and gives no sign of getting his degree, so he sent his woman and child here. Sonia got a divorce and came back home (aha, so Sonia divorced her repulsive Tobias). But there’s still not enough money to take care of everything. And the owner, poor man, died. He was worth his weight in gold. May God rest his soul!” 170

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Uncle Szaja is indeed standing before me in his canvas Russian shirt with a little cross embroidered on the neckband. I see his gentle smile, and tears roll down my cheeks. “Lalusiu, eat another pancake,” I hear his voice. “We were ordered to deliver you to your mother by the pound. Let’s go to the mill and weigh you.” Uncle Szaja’s empty bed is in the bedroom. I remember how he loved to lie down in the afternoon to rest. And I explained to the poor children from the barracks why I could not give them any lollipops: the candy was in the room where uncle was sleeping. They were astonished: ‘You mean he sleeps on the candy?’ After all, their whole family lived in one room. On the dresser were photographs that I had long been familiar with: three sisters with hand muffs – Flora, Zina, and Pola. The little girl with a ribbon was Pauline’s Ineczka with her brother Garrik. And there was a new photograph: Raja’s Witka, Aunt Anna’s granddaughter. Everything seemed to be as it was in the past, but the glow of kindness that Szaja radiated had disappeared. Instead, complete despondency. Mania, Władek’s wife, could not get along with his mother, the baby irritated her, she was not busy doing anything, and she was unhappy with everything and everyone. Could she possibly have dreamed that rural life would be like this? She must have thought that Władek was rich, but it turned out that the family was poor and could barely make ends meet. However, they had to send money to pay Władek tuition at the agriculture school. Mania was crying over her living arrangements, but I did not sympathize with her. Rather than whine and slander others, she would have done better to go to work. That fool Władek, mama’s little boy, was a slug. He was kind, tender, and decent, but he fell in love with a cunning divorcée about eight years older than he was. Lacking material resources, he should not have brought children into the world. I have accumulated a great deal of lifetime experience, enough of it to go around. During the day I helped set out food for the cow, looked after the fowl, and fixed meals. I went out for walks. It was so pretty in the forest – snow on the branches and white everywhere. The branches of the oaks close to the house, as well as Sonia’s little garden, where there had been so many flowers in the summer, were also covered with snow. The mill was closed; the destitute 171

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workers from the barracks had gone away to look for other work. Silence. In the barn it was warm, and you could hear the cow breathing. A dog that resembled the old sheep dog ran after me, but it was not the same one that had been here several summers ago; dog tracks were imprinted on the snow. I talked for a long time with Aunt Anna and tried to console her. “Here are all my grandchildren, Pauline’s children: Garrik, Ineczka, little Shali in Leningrad, and Raja’s daughter Witka – near Moscow, all of them far away. If at least Emma, your mother, were closer to me. I cannot come to visit you. Everything here would fall apart. Zośka is already old,” Aunt Anna sighed. I was very sorry for her. Even little Deli playing under the table could not comfort her. In these surroundings children were regarded as no more than a burden, not as a joy. A strange state of affairs! I had brought the book Microbe Hunters by Paul de Kruif with me. I found biology to be very interesting. I, too, would have liked to become a scholar, make a discovery, become famous like Louis Pasteur, and save people’s lives. As usual I had put off to the very end the homework assigned for the vacation – I would study it on the train since we would be traveling for five hours. After getting myself settled in the car, I plunged into the assignment and completed everything, my industriousness arousing the admiration of my fellow passenger in the compartment, a Polish lieutenant. “This is going to make a real person of you. You are persistent,” he told me. I remembered his words. I left Michałowo with a heavy heart – nothing remained of the magnificent farmstead, of its feeling of peace and joy. I did not suspect, however, that I would not go back there. Only once after the war did Chaim and I drive to Michałowo in our car. I found the foundations of the house and picked some yellow everlasting flowers there. In front of the house, where once there had been a field of rye, a main highway was now located. Everything had changed and was unrecognizable. Near the forest a luxurious sanitarium had been built surrounded by a stone fence. Behind the foundation of Uncle Szaja’s house, by the road, two oak trees as well as Zosia’s cottage and the bridge over the brook had survived. 172

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I often remembered Michałowo and the kindness and friendship which were the rule there. Sometimes even now, at night, when I am unable to sleep, I try to call forth in my memory the house, the hazel tree beyond the kitchen, the huge lilac bush under Sonia’s window, the meadow covered with bluebells, carnations, camomiles, and the thin leaves of “teardrops of the Mother of God,” the clean sand at Swislocz, the little bridge, and the mysterious forest on the opposite bank. The days that I spent there were the happiest, the most serene in my entire life. You can sleep, I tell myself, now everything is quiet, everything is fine, just as it was in those minutes at Michałowo. The fate of the Rywin family is well known to me. Unlike the members of my own family, all of them survived except Władek, who was drafted into the Red Army in 1941 and was missing in action near Lwów. Aunt Anna sold everything that she owned in 1939 – at that time the farm was still in Polish Belorussia – the house, cow, horse, tools and utensils, the mill. With her bags and boxes she crossed the Soviet frontier near Stołbcow. She set out to find her daughters. She stayed for some time in Moscow with her rich oldest daughter Flora, the wife of commercial worker Zalman Różański, and then with poverty-stricken Raja in Podolsk. Following that, she was with Pauline, my mother’s friend, in Leningrad. Sonia had already stayed with Flora when she worked as a nurse. Zina lived in Petrodvorets with her husband and son Enrique, but Aunt Anna seldom stayed there. She distributed the things she brought with her as presents: fur coats, lingerie, and tableware. No one could buy things like these in Soviet Russia, where there was great deprivation. She lovingly prepared all of her presents; they were after all for her daughters, whom she had not seen for a long time. I remember when she traveled to see us in Vilna: after discussing her problems at the table, Mama went with her to buy everything. But in the course of time their old mother became a burden. She annoyed everyone, and her adored daughters began to pass her back and forth from one to the other; they kicked her like a football from one daughter to another. They made it clear: if you live with one of us for three months, it’s time to get moving and go live with the other daughter. Raja treated her well, but she lived in a tiny little apartment in Podolsk with her husband and her little daughter Witka. War broke out. Aunt Anna 173

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was evacuated with Pola and her two grandchildren far behind the lines. Pauline’s husband stayed in surrounded Leningrad with his aged parents, Garri served near Leningrad in the air corps, and Aunt Pola was terribly worried about them. No one had enough to eat, and everyone suffered. Aunt Anna worried about Władek, but she received no word from him. They knew that he had been near Lwów, but Mania and the girls (a second one, Lenochka, had been born before the war) were evacuated. In 1948 Chaim and I drove to Leningrad and Narva to meet Pola’s family (she had been Mama’s best friend) and to see my favorite Aunt Anna after being parted for so many years. She wrote to me at the gorkom, where I was working as a technical secretary, right after the liberation of Vilna. How happy I was to learn that they were alive, that Pola, about whom Mama had told me so much, existed somewhere. I met Inna in Leningrad. She was Pauline’s daughter and was several years younger than I. They had kept a three-room apartment which they also shared with Garri and his wife, an obtuse woman whom he “hooked up with” during the war, and with their toddler Nadenka. Inna treated me very cordially, and she and I became close with one another. She showed us the city – the Newa River, St. Isaac’s Cathedral (I have kept a snapshot of Chaim there hanging on my wall), and the Alexander Nevsky Monastery, where famous composers are interred. Then we traveled the whole day: one hundred fifty kilometers on a completely shattered road. Rusty military equipment was strewn along the roadsides; it looked as though a battle had just been fought there. At night we drove up to the only wooden house that was standing in the wasteland among the ruins. A light was shining through a window on the second floor. It was Pola waiting for us. We climbed up the creaking staircase. The door opened, and we fell into the embraces of small, slender Pola. And behind her, all in tears, stood Aunt Anna. Heavens, how she had changed: a hunched-over old woman with her face lined with deep wrinkles – the result of her grief over the loss of Władek, missing in action, about whom we never learned anything. All of us cried and kissed one another. There was no end to our conversations. They received us so warmly that I felt at home. 174

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The next morning Aunt Anna undertook to tell me about her ordeals, that wherever she stayed she did not have her own nook, and her daughters passed her from hand to hand. They were rude to her, and neither did they have the patience to really listen to their mother. I was amazed: how could this be? After all, she was their own mother. She had sold off everything and had brought them so many expensive gifts over a long period of time. She had given birth to them, brought them up, and taught them. Maybe it was all for the good that Szaja had not lived to endure such shame. Even Pola was conducting herself this way. And she was refined, sensitive, and a lover of poetry. Could no one be believed, shown respect to? It came down to the fact that one had to try to stand firmly on one’s own feet, rely on nothing but one’s own strengths, and never depend on anyone else. Otherwise it would be impossible to avoid humiliations. That was what life was all about. I decided to talk this over with Aunt Pola although I understood that it did not behoove me, a young person, to give instructions to someone like her who was twice my age. “I know that I did not treat Mama fairly,” Pola answered, “but how could she not understand that all of us experienced a lot during the war and when we were evacuated? It was the uncertainty, the eternal fear for David and for Garrik, who could have perished any day. But now the devastation, the hunger. We can’t make ends meet, yet she begs us again and again to buy her a black dress so she will have something to be buried in.” I could not agree with Aunt Pola. If it had been my mother, if she had been alive… Many years later, after Anna had died at the age of seventy-seven and Flora had buried her in Moscow, Aunt Pola told me that she dreamed of her mother reproaching her during the night. Pangs of conscience were tormenting her, belatedly. Spring, a time of hope. You always believe that something good, pleasant, new is going to happen. Spring that year was marked by uncle Miron’s arrival. He was living then in Kraków, where he was employed by a Polish left wing journal. He wrote well, and his contributions were intelligent and interesting; they valued his work, but they paid him pennies for 175

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it – where was a left wing journal going to find the money to pay him anyway? In Vilna Mirek could not find a job. Sometimes he worked part time, for example, as a radio reviewer of new films. I was horrified at the sight of my idol: his worn-out suit and overcoat, his shapeless hat, his tacky briefcase, and he himself so emaciated. Obviously he was living in poverty. I would have dressed him in good clothing. Then he would indeed have been a handsome man – tall, well-built, with intelligent eyes. I clung to him like a leech and went with him everywhere. On the way we discussed the full range of political questions, and he opened my eyes to the horrors in Germany, Hitler’s preparations for war, and the victory of the leftist Popular Front in France. I remembered that he had brought me with him for a “viewing” of his next young lady when I was nine or ten years old. Right now on Jagielońska36 Street I was supposed to stand on the sidewalk and look into the window of the apartment which he entered. Then he asked me: “Well, how does she look to you – okay? Or won’t she work out?” How I miss you, Mirek, and how hard it was to figure out what was going on in Russia. What happened to transform the heroes of the revolution suddenly into enemies of the people? The mind could not grasp it. Criticism of the Soviet Union was like a knife in my heart. Father gave Mirek some money, and we went shopping for a new hat and a briefcase. Mirek tried on hat after hat, and each one made him look more handsome. We stopped at a big leather goods store on Niemiecka Street.37 The sour smell of leather bags, briefcases, and purses lingered there. We spent a long time going through them and finally bought a shiny, well-made brown briefcase with locks on it. Enough money was left over for dress shoes. Mirek was transformed; he could not have been in a better mood. “Lalka, don’t be sad. Everything will be fine. We’ll take capital from the bourgeoisie, distribute it to the poor, and we’ll make out beautifully,” he laughed, and I, too, was happy. I just wanted to buy him another suit and 36

Now Jogailos Street (ed. note).

37

Now Vokeciu Street (ed. note).

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overcoat! All my life the smell of leather goods reminded me of the day I spent with Mirek and the joy of being together with him. “Come to the dacha this summer,” I begged him. “We’ll ride in the kayak and talk about everything. And pass on my letter to Irka. I miss both of you so much.” Mireczku, my dear, beloved brother, I do not even know where your bones are lying.

MAJOR NUISANCES An event took place at school that hit us like lightning from a blue sky. Our classmate Luba was arrested for communist activity. She was a universal favorite, a fun-loving, black-eyed girl who wore her hair down to her waist. Her parents lived in a small town about forty kilometers from the city; her father had a wooden house and a sawmill. Luba went to school in Vilna and lived with relatives on Kowno Street. Five girls in the class took the train to school: they, including Luba, were often late since the train was not on a regular schedule. How terrible – Luba sitting in a cell, waiting for a trial. Then in all probability she would be kicked out of school and would no longer come back to us. It was dirty there in prison; they would be hungry, and her cellmates would be thieves. Luba’s parents were in despair; they brought her parcels and hired a lawyer. My mom and dad could not figure out how a girl from a good family could do something like this. I began to throw out all the illegal flyers and brochures that I was keeping at home. I put a portion of them in the toilet. The toilet stopped up. I was terribly worried that the workers who cleaned it out would fish out the underground literature. No one, however, investigated the contents of the sewer pipe. The other girls and I whispered in the corridor during recess. At night I imagined horrible things about Luba: she was sitting on her bunk in a moist cell with rats swarming all over her and the slop bucket stinking. Schoolwork never entered our minds. Luba and I were in different sections and on 177

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different levels of our organization: she was an active Komsomol member, whereas I was in the self-education group. Nevertheless I could not get rid of the thought that they might arrest someone else. Then the trial was held. Luba was given several years in the juvenile camp at Mława near Warsaw. Her mother came to see her. Luba had come down with spinal tuberculosis and was lying in the prison hospital. Her parents managed to get her released on bail and took her home, but the sentence was not lifted and she was forbidden to go to school. On her birthday, April 11, we decided to buy her a present and send our congratulations. We secretly collected a few zlotys from the Jewish girls in the class and went to Arkuski’s stationery store on Niemiecka Street. We did not have enough money for a good permanent pen (fountain pens were novelties then; we were still writing with steel pens, which were placed on a stand with caps on them, and each desk had an opening for a delftware inkwell – the source of smudged fingers, clothing, and notebooks). We selected one of the less expensive pens, a purple one. We begged Arkuski for a long time; he finally took pity on us and lowered the price for us. We put the fountain pen in a pretty little box, and all we had to do was present it to Luba. Two of the girls summoned up the courage to congratulate her in person, but not me… I was scared of my parents. Of course we had Miss Raja with us; she reported every step that I took… The girls were very moved when they returned. Luba and her mother thanked us for not forgetting her. From that time onward I have always, when the opportunity presented itself, remembered Luba’s birthday either with a letter or by telephone. Even now I never forget to congratulate her. Shortly after this Luba’s mother came down sick. Even before all this she had a weak heart, and doctors at that time did not yet know how to treat heart disease. Luba’s troubles aggravated the disease, and her mother died. Pangs of conscience tormented our friend, for she considered herself the cause of her mother’s death, and to this day she cannot forgive herself. Luba stayed home as head of the household. She became an adult right away and turned melancholy. She had to take care of her heartbroken father and her little brother, and she managed the home. She was admitted to the Epsztein school, a private Jewish school where classes were taught in Polish, but school was the least of 178

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her concerns. When I was sixteen, Mama allowed me to visit Luba for several days when vacation was almost over. We strolled around the sawmill; piles of boards and timber were lying everywhere and exuding a smell of cleanliness and freshness. We sat for hours on the veranda, which was entwined with wild grape vines, and we chatted about life. We understood each other perfectly and became close friends. In the morning we would sun ourselves in a wooden cabin that had no roof; it was built so that Luba could heat her painful back in the sun. An excellent shower was also installed there. Once we took the train to a faraway forest. Ten kilometers from Luba’s small town, the Rudnicki Wilderness began; it consisted of an unlimited number of pine forests. We wandered into a thicket. Once in a while we met some countrywomen gathering berries they wanted to sell. Suddenly a forester popped out from behind the trees and grabbed a bag full of berries from one of the women. “Do you have a permit to pick berries here?” He bellowed. “Did you pay the tax?” “No, sir. I am poor, and I have a houseful of kids,” the peasant woman began to wail. The forester tipped the basket over, and the berries mingled with the sand and the pine needles. “Go away. I will not detain you. Don’t show your face here again. You have to pay for everything,” the fellow said. The woman retreated weeping. The basket, an entire day’s labor, and the hope of earning a few pennies were gone. It was not so easy to bend over for each single berry all day. “What a nasty thing to do!” Luba cried. “You should be ashamed of yourself. The berries are miserable. They’re overripe and nobody would want them. The woman spent the whole day picking them, and maybe her kids are dying from hunger!” “That does not concern me,” the forester replied. “I was hired to keep order.” All the charm of the forest was gone. The slender pines, the soft moss, the intoxicating air, the squirrels jumping from branch to branch – everything had vanished. 179

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“We have to take the forests away from the landlords and get rid of those scoundrels as well,” I blurted out. “What an awful state we live in!” Distressed, we went back home. About seven years later I was compelled to live in a dugout in these woods and go out on partisan missions. And in April ‘44 I walked about ten kilometers to get a letter from Luba in Moscow! I walked along the “French Road” (Napoleon’s soldiers had built it in 1812 during their escape through the Rudnicki Wilderness) and a “dugout” space was cleared in 1936 so that Hermann Goering could go hunting with Polish bigwigs. I stretched out my hand for some flowers in the bushes, and the partisans, who took me for a spy, nearly shot me. An old acquaintance from the prewar gorkom handed me an envelope with writing in green ink on rough paper addressed to: “Jurgis, for Lala Margolis.” Despite this absurd address, the letter arrived. Luba was working as a radio operator in Moscow at the headquarters of the Lithuanian partisan movement. As it became clear later, she had written to me care of all the Lithuanian brigades. In the detachment I became the person of the day… I had received a letter from the free world! We learned from Luba of the death of many of our comrades: Miki Weiner, Danka Kupo, Zelek Wołożyński, and others. We learned that Ela was a university student and had given birth to her son Alik – an absolute miracle. This seemed totally impossible to us: here we were in the forest, but somewhere else our girlfriends were having children and were studying! Luba and I are now old women in our eighties. We are helping to raise our grandchildren. Stay healthy, live a long time, and hold out until our long-awaited grandchildren get married. As always, bring in a carload of old ladies for my birthday in October – Marysia, Sima, and Ela – so that we can sit at the table for many more years and chat, remembering the past. Lying before me now is a gray little album with the first little postwar photographs which you gave me on my birthday, October 28, 1944. And you inscribed on it: “Starting your life anew… ” What a heavy burden that new life turned out to be!

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EXCURSION TO NAROCZ I finished high school! What joy, what happiness! Now instead of light blue, there would be maroon stripes on our sleeves and the collars of our uniform dresses. I would now be going to the lyceum, which was just about to open. We would be the first to study under the new program. Of course there would be complications. There were two tracks in the lyceum – one for humanities, the other for mathematics. Mama wanted to consult with Ms. Turkowska, who had been our class educational director for many years, and I loved and respected her a great deal, more than I did the other teachers. She treated people fairly and did not like empty headed girls; neither did I. “Mrs. Margolis,” Ms. Turkowska said, “your daughter cannot be admitted to the humanities lyceum since she doesn’t talk with others during class and lie. She is not the humanities type. But she is making good progress for me in mathematics. Think it over.” We laughed for a long time over Ms. Turkowska’s verdict. She talked jestingly this way in class, too. For example, when the girls were talking and not paying attention, she handled it by saying: “Please do not explain yourself following the diagonals of a rectangle.” Once Riwa Milejkowska left a crib sheet with formulas in her test notebook. She fell into a panic and cried. If Ms. Turkowska told the headmistress about her, the poorest girl in the class, the parents’ committee would stop approving her tuition payments. The whole class waited tensely for the corrected notebooks to be handed back. It turned out that Riwa had left not just one crib sheet in her notebook, but two of them. The teacher had written carefully on one of them: “I am saddened.” And on the other in larger handwriting: “I am greatly saddened.” Ms. Turkowska gave Riwa a three for the test; she had earned that much, but more important, she did not say anything to anyone, and Riwa could stay in school. That is how terrific our Ms. Turkowska was. I visited her after the war in Kraków. On a table in the corner stood a portrait of her son Jurek, who had fallen in the battle for Vilna, and a candle was burning. Gray and stooping, Ms. Turkowska was giving math lessons even at the age of ninety. I even brought my daughter 181

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Emma over to meet my favorite teacher. I remember what she proudly communicated to her own daughter Danusia: “Now Lala is teaching biometrics at the University – this involves an application of mathematics in biology. She is the only one of my pupils who is teaching math. It turns out that I did something good for someone after all!” I was afraid to enter the mathematics lyceum. This was not because of the math, but the physics, which I could not stand, nor could I stand the teacher, Ms. Rudnicka. In the mathematics lyceum, you see, there would be physics every day. But over six years I had become used to the order in our school, to the discipline, and to the girls, so I decided that I would stay; I would not go to the natural sciences lyceum although the subjects there were interesting to me. Later I really had to apply myself, and it was difficult especially because of the physics. I never mastered that science. They introduced a new subject at the lyceum: descriptive geometry, and my parents hired a teacher, Wenia Pumpiański, to tutor me. I adored him; he explained everything so that I could understand it, and I received fives in the program. On one occasion Ms. Turkowska approached me: “You have a splendid knowledge of descriptive geometry. Your teacher is better than mine. We were not taught this subject in our Bestuzhev courses.” I was thrilled by Ms. Turkowska’s statement. Of course she was such a wag and was just joking; as she laughingly confessed to me, she was also working with the teacher. I came to love her even more than before. But now spring had arrived, and the school year was ending. I decided not to torture myself with thoughts about the mathematics lyceum since summer vacation was upon us; there would be almost three months without school! The first item on the agenda was to get permission from Mama for a five-day sortie to Lake Narocz. After completing six years at the school, each class organized some type of long excursion under the supervision of a teacher. Mama had no trouble agreeing – after all the whole class was going, and Ms. Kuncewicz, who was going to accompany us, was reputed to be a serious and demanding French language teacher. I did not know her 182

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well since I took German in school; I decided, however, to bend her into submission by talking French with her. We were experiencing some very hot days for June. I packed my essentials, put on the skirt that went with my uniform and a white blouse, my casual low oxfords, and grabbed a jacket. At this point a conflict with Mama flared up. “Take the blue overcoat with you,” she insisted. “The weather is going to change, and you will freeze in nothing but your jacket.” “Mama, what are you talking about?” I started to cry. “The girls will make a laughing stock of me. I’ll be the only one who has to drag an overcoat with her (people then did not carry jackets and there were no light artificial fabrics yet). We will have to drive to the station, then ride on the train for almost four hours, transfer to a narrow gauge train, and finally go on foot to the “hostel” tourist home. And the whole time carrying a suitcase and lugging an overcoat along with it. Just look: no one else is taking an overcoat!” This did not help. Mama began to talk with Ms. Kuncewicz in French and convinced her that it was necessary to take an overcoat. We started up, and I was blubbering, furious at the whole world. We finally took our seats in a compartment of a decrepit suburban train, stuffed all our belongings into a bin on top and started singing: “Jak prędko mija žycie, jak prędko mija czas. “Za rok, za dzień, za chwilę razem nie będzie nas.”38

I did not fathom the meaning of the song: there was still so much time ahead, a whole long life without limits. However, Jadzia Tchórzanka would not be going with us to the lyceum. She was of the Lutheran faith, her big family was poor, and her parents had arranged her marriage to a priest. How strange it was – she would have a middle-aged husband, children, she would be managing the household, cleaning up, doing the

38

How quickly life passes, how quickly the time passes. In a year, in a day, in a moment we are suddenly not here (Polish).

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laundry, and bringing up the children. Jadzia was already an adult, while I still felt myself to be a child. In my lyceum there would be many girls from the B Class – Basia Goldman, Lelka Lewińska, Rala Katsenelson, but my special friends Sima Rabinowicz, Betja Chładnowicz, and Luba Arons were going to the humanities program. I began to dream about Lake Narocz. I had heard so much about it. It was of course the largest lake in Poland, it was nine kilometers long and eight kilometers wide. It was said to be incomparably beautiful – forest, sand, and you could go swimming. But how could everyone live there together in one room? I had never been to camps and was slightly intimidated. The girls got into mischief, began to jump on the benches, and then started a conversation about boys: soon excursions from boys schools would arrive here, and we could flirt with them. I disliked these conversations: I had no need for boys!’ And this was at age fifteen and a half. Ms. Kuncewicz ordered me to wake her up before the Lyntupa station, where we needed to shift to the narrow gauge line, while she went to a separate compartment to relax. We were tired of her old wives tales about her daughter Ninka, not to mention her broken Polish. Time dragged on slowly. Outside the window it was dark, and the small lamp in the “hard” car was rattling slightly. It was quiet. Suddenly the door flung open, and a head in curlers made its appearance. “Have we missed Lyntupa?” Ms. Kuncewicz was afraid that she had slept through the transfer. We reassured her and she disappeared. The head with curlers emerged several more times. The girls shouted: “It’s not Lyntupa, it’s ‘dupa’ (fanny)” – laughter. During the night we finally spilled out onto the platform and began to wait for the train to Lake Narocz. Then we took our seats in the little cars. Our destination was the final stop, at Kupa. And then came a repetition of the Ms. Kuncewicz adventure; now she wanted to know: “Have we reached Kupa yet?” Again we laughed: “It’s not Kupa, it’s… ” 184

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It was daybreak, just after five in the morning. We got out onto a dusty road. We saw peasant huts with straw thatched roofs, reeds along the road, and behind them tall poplars and a two-story wooden house – the “hostel.” We were admitted to a large room containing approximately twenty beds covered with gray rugs. We stowed our suitcases, and I threw down my hated overcoat. We washed up in the courtyard, drank tea in the cafeteria, ate kasha, and bought the heels of several loaves of bread – they tasted a lot better than sliced bread. We hurried to get to the lake. The sun came up, the water was smooth and pink, and weak waves slapped gently on the shore. We could not see the other side of the lake. I of course had never seen the ocean, and the unlimited breadth of the water stupefied me. And the fragrance of the reeds, the wet sand. My love for Narocz has lasted me a lifetime. A breeze rustled the tall, thin reeds. The silky sand on the shore, the beach strewn with shell fragments. The water was so transparent that one could see the smooth stones on the bottom. Schools of darting little fish swam by, and sometimes a larger fish streaked past. It was too cold to swim, and there was dew on the grass. By the way, the overcoat came in handy at night: I put it over my blanket to keep warm. We went on an excursion through the meadows and the forest. The stupefying smell of pine needles. The reddish moss was like a spring under our feet. There were fishermen’s huts on the shore, nets were drying on poles, whole labyrinths of nets, while black, tarred longboats hardened on the water. In the evening the fishermen took down the nets, stowed them in the longboats, and cast off to fish all night. It was quite a sight to see the fishermen returning with their boats full of fish! They explained to us that they did this at dawn. Secondhand dealers picked up the fish and took it to the outdoor market in Vilna. All the hostesses there were familiar with the tiny selyavka,39 terrible looking eels that resembled snakes, along with pikes and other Lake Narocz fish. It tasted better than any other kind since it lived in especially pure, transparent water.

39

Translator’s Note: A type of bleak.

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In the evening I learned that there was a terrace and an observation platform on the roof of our building. I climbed up there and could not force myself to come back down. The sun was about to set, the smooth surface of the lake was a bright blue, and to the east the sky was entirely covered with pink waves. Silence. Peace. The opposite shore could be seen as a narrow gray strip of land. I stood on the platform for one hour, then another. The colors grew dim. All that remained was silence… Suddenly a strange, faraway sound came to us from the west, as if stones were rolling somewhere. I realized right away that it was a thunderstorm someplace in the distance. I loved observing nature and meteorological phenomena. I had already had some experience with them. After a long heat wave, a new front had formed, and a squall line was moving in on us, a strong thunderstorm; afterwards the weather would be cooler. The storm was rushing toward us. A flash of lightning lit up half the sky. The claps of thunder were louder and louder, but still there was no rain. There were silver flashes of lightning, the sky became blood red, then purplish. Never before had I seen such a magnificent thunderstorm while standing in the open. The rain poured down. How I regretted having to leave the roof. Remember this beauty, remember it, I adjured myself. All the girls were lying on their cots and trembling with fear. I, too, lay down and went to sleep with thunder crashing in my ears. My senses were saturated with everything I had seen. Ms. Kuncewicz woke me up: “May I borrow your overcoat? I need to go to the toilet outside. What a clever person your mama is; she said all this would happen!” In the morning the rain continued, and all the girls borrowed my overcoat. The wisdom and sagacity of my mother bolstered my reputation. I was praised from then until the end of the trip and was singled out in school afterwards. All the teachers acknowledged how intelligent I was and what a kind friend I was, and how well I spoke French. The excursion, however, turned into lying on beds. I had Yellow Cross, a book by A. Strug about the First World War, and I spent the whole day reading. “What a smart girl this Margolisòwna is,” everyone marveled. “She brought a book with her! The other girls lounged about the building. They 186

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were glad to have a group of visitors from the school for boys, and the girls discovered an activity they liked – making passes at boys who were three years younger than they were. They played ball in the assembly hall, sequestered themselves with them around corners, and afterwards discussed the successes they had achieved in the subjugation of male hearts. I was outraged by this. The fools did not want anything but boys, no matter what kind. They were small fry after all, and despite everything, we were grownup girls! It was far more interesting to delve into pacifist literature. When we got home I told Mama all about it, and she was glad that she had supplied me well and that everyone had appreciated it. And I began to dream about new trips, new excursions. For there were other seas, mountains, and interesting cities! That passion is still alive in me to this very day even though I am now over eighty.

ARRESTS The news of the arrests in the schools in the fall of 1937 spread like wildfire. The leaders of our organization ordered us to destroy everything at home that could arouse suspicion: illegal literature, posters still on hand that had not been put up, even left-wing newspapers and journals, lists with the names and addresses of comrades. Teachers at school talked about the arrests in tones of horror – not only students in Jewish schools had been picked up, but also in Polish state-run secondary schools. Among the students arrested, I learned, were Ela, her classmate Danek, and Ezriel Żabiński in the graduating class of the technical high school, and many other kids we knew. Searches were conducted in their homes, and at any moment the police could show up at my doorstep The bad fall weather with its rains and wet snow intensified my anxiety. I had to go to school, do my homework, and pretend that I did not know anything… I was just supposed to say that none of this involved me. Was I prepared for an arrest if it occurred? How would I bear up under questioning? Could I endure a filthy cell? Thinking about Ela did not give me peace of mind: fragile and weak as she was, could she bear up under all 187

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these horrible ordeals? How was she doing now? And what about her parents? How could they live through all this? It always seemed to me that the members of the ZMS spoke too openly at school about their ideological views. Everyone knew them – other pupils, teachers, and of course, the secret police. Later it was revealed that there was a provocateur in the organization. He squealed on everyone he knew as soon as he was arrested for show. I finally succeeded after considerable difficulty in meeting with Ela’s mother. “We hired a lawyer,” she told us. “We are doing all we can to get her and the others released on bail before the trial. They are juveniles after all. But you know, so far we’re not getting anywhere.” Danek’s situation became worse: they confused him by threatening to castrate him, so he told them about his connections to the Communist organization – that he knew people there. They beat Danek and mocked him. And he got scared and spilled the beans on us! The organization declared Danek a traitor, and we were forbidden to have anything to do with him. Daneczek, who was so smart, had an inferiority complex resulting from his short stature, and he also had an unrequited passion for Zuzanka Rozenszajn, but he could not see through the cunning tricks of the police. I could not sleep at night. I kept listening for a knock at the door – had they come for me? And I was afraid in class: would they take me right out of the school? I talked hardly at all with my friends – one could judge by the expressions on people’s faces what they were talking about. We had to pretend that we did not know anything and were not interested in anything except our tests and flirting with boys. The empty-headed girls from privileged families strolled in pairs around the circular parquet floor and twittered about the weather and their admirers. Earlier, when Luba was arrested, we were also concerned about her, but now the threat was hanging over us. It could happen at any minute, even in school. All arrests were now occurring directly in our organization, and every day we learned about the confinement of more of its members. “Well, now we know what your new girlfriend is like,” Mama said indignantly, referring to Ela. “She is so demure and tender, a poetess, and then 188

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she had to do this. Don’t dare to meet with any of these people. Their lives are already ruined, even if they let them out. They will be blacklisted, and they won’t let them back into school. Ela will have to go to a trade school. She will be lucky if she can get a job as a seamstress or a hairdresser. How ashamed their parents must be to see their children written about in the newspapers. If you attempt to find out anything about Ela, we’ll give you the punishment you deserve.” The lawyer was able to get the defendants out on bail. But I, completely unbeknownst to the rest of the world, went over to visit Ela on my trembling legs. She was even thinner than before, her clear blue eyes were red, and she had the appearance of a corpse. “I could not sleep at all in the cell,” Ela sighed. “There were four of us girls there. We conducted ourselves bravely; we didn’t expose anyone, and we denied everything. They bullied us, but they didn’t beat us. Did you hear about Danka? Poor guy, he couldn’t stand the torture. But at the trial he decided to renounce all of his testimony, so the police could not use it. I don’t envy him. But what is going to happen to us? Will they let me go back to school? I cannot imagine my life without school. I am so grateful to you for coming, for not being scared away. I wanted so badly to talk to you, to tell you about everything. I saw so much misery. Somehow I have changed completely over these months.” I made several more secret visits to Ela. She summoned up the strength to work on her school program. Her trial took place in April 1938: Ezriel and another boy received minor punishments; Ela, Danek, and others were released. They were not even sixteen years old. They were readmitted to the technical school. In the course of this difficult school year I drew closer to Ania Kaczergińska, who shared a desk at school with me. Our third desk together was my constant location – not too close, but not too far in the back either, a place that was hard to notice, where you would seldom be called upon to give an answer. But I had frequently not done the homework, especially when oral responses were required. I could not stand going over the material repeatedly and cramming for tests. My memory was visual, which requires me to go back to a certain place in the textbook or the notebook 189

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several times at one sitting. Ania was more capable than I was and she worked harder. Starting when we were fourteen, we had no secrets from each other. We often came back from school together and would stand for a long time at my entrance on Wileńska Street near the Green Bridge discussing all sorts of questions and problems – domestic, school, political. Thanks to Mirek, who explained everything that was taking place in the world to me, I could convey a lot of interesting information to her. Sometimes, if we did not have much homework, we met next to my building and went down the embankment and the Mostowa discussing all the questions that exercised us, and, dreaming, mused about the future. “I’ll definitely get married,” Ania said, “and I’ll have two or three children. But I will bring them up without shouting at them or punishing them, not the way our parents did it. We are going to live in friendship and harmony. Just look at my cousin Sonia, who yells at her little boy and beats him when he doesn’t want to take his medicine. I am going to persuade mine that it’s necessary for his health. I cannot put up with constant altercations at home. And in our house everyone is going to get along with everyone else.” But I am going to fight for the happiness of humanity all my life, I thought to myself. I will have to sit in prison, and my boyfriend and I will see each other only rarely. I will not get married; families are relics because they prevent someone from devoting all his strength to the job. But my life will be splendid, and so will love. That’s how it was in “The Maggot” or the Peoples Will in Russia. At that time I was reading the book recommended to me by Liza Meller – Brzozowski’s The Flame (Płomienie in Polish), about revolutionaries. Their life seemed exceptionally worthy to me. After all of our daydreaming, we came back home, ate our fill at supper, and got ourselves ready for bed having spent the afternoon in the fresh air. Ania’s situation in her poor little wooden house on Wiłkomirska Street was a lot worse than mine. They did not have even the most elementary conveniences there. My friend walked about in an un-ironed dress and worn-out shoes. Her father, a dentist, was saving their money to buy their own home. He finally built it in Zwierzyniec. When they moved, their lifestyle improved. However this was in 1940, and the war was already underway. 190

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My mom could not understand my friendship with Ania: “What a slovenly person, what a slob. How could you sit at the same school desk with her?” For me a person’s intellectual level was more important, the chance to talk about everything with them and have an interesting conversation. When the arrests began in the schools, Ania and I talked about them for hours and speculated how it would all end. Thank God this wave did not catch up with us. No one betrayed us, not a single provocateur turned us in, and we ourselves observed the strictest conspiratorial discipline. Ania had a hard life. During the war she was evacuated by a miracle: two whole days without food, barefoot (she lost her shoes in an air raid), and she sat for a long time on the former Polish-Soviet border – she was not admitted as a citizen of the areas that were united with the Soviet Union in 1939. Later a soldier in the frontier guard took pity on her and seated her on a train. In the Soviet rear Ania worked as a teacher, went hungry, and lived on the alms doled out to her by the parents of her pupils. She taught a girl from a prosperous family how to play the piano. After the liberation of Vilna, she returned to our native city and discovered that her whole family had perished. Ania moved in with the former partisan Senya R. In the forest a tree fell on him during a thunderstorm and crushed his arm and leg. The leg knit together, but the arm stayed turned outwards. The crippled Senya knew how to talk beautifully, and he was a person of intelligence. Ania fell in love with him. She was pregnant when she found out that his lover was about to go into labor. That was a grievous blow for Ania. She had an abortion and broke up with Senya. Later she married Zelik G., an exfighter in the Lithuanian division, who was not well educated or a sensitive individual. They had nothing in common. Ania went to the theater and to concerts by herself; there was nothing that she could talk to him about. Her two children, a spoiled son and daughter, brought her nothing but grief. She worked in Glavlit,40 but derived no satisfaction from her work. Ania became sick, but she had no money for an operation. She could not get out 40

Translator’s Note: Glavlit is the acronym of the Main Administration for Safeguarding State Secrets in the Press, an agency formerly under the USSR Council of Ministers.

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of bed at all, and she lived in one room with her grown-up grandson. I occasionally came to see her and brought her journals and books; she read a lot. She greeted me with a smile. Her ruddy cheeks and smile created the impression that she felt well, but I knew how much she was suffering. Every now and then she succeeded in getting a permit to a sanitarium near Vilna. They gave her a massage there as well as some treatment. Soon she was in no condition to do even that. She was given a wheelchair in which she could move to the kitchen and the bathroom. We recalled our walks overlooking the river and our conversations about the future. Her dreams did not come to pass. She derived no joy from her children, and the social atmosphere which they constructed did not resemble our dream. Later, after I had gone to Israel, I was told that Ania had died. I recalled her words when we said farewell before my departure: “I shall try to wait for you to come back. I want so badly to talk with you, to look over my old photographs – the only thing that I was able to save from our house. For none of my old friends are left. Only five members of our class are still alive: Danusia Gumowska, Lusia Aleksandrowa, Lusia Doroszkiewicz, and you and I.”

BORIA GLEZER Ela was grief-stricken: her friend Boria had come down sick. Since he was getting continually worse, they put him in the Mishmeres Khoilim hospital. Ela visited him and told me that he was getting weaker. At our age we did not once think about death. We were so young. An entire lifetime was ahead of us! It was rumored that Boria had cancer. Cancer? At his age? Our minds could not grasp this. How was Ela going to bear this? After all, he was the only one she talked about – about his essays, his talents, his nobility. The whole class loved Boria. He was an excellent student, he played a prominent role in discussions, and he belonged to our organization. A brilliant sun was shining outside the classroom window. It was spring, April of 1937. On the day he was buried everything was in bloom. 192

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I went up to the person in charge of the class: “Please let me leave class to attend the funeral of my comrade who died of cancer,” I asked in a trembling voice. It was still hard to believe that he was no longer here, that it had been impossible to save him. A funeral was a sacred matter; the teacher let me go to it. I walked down largely unfamiliar streets to the Mishmeres Khoilim hospital. Already many people were gathered there in the courtyard. From the edge of the crowd I made out Ela, who looked embarrassed and lost. My God, how hard she was taking this! Then we walked behind the cart carrying the coffin to the Jewish cemetery. The sun was shining, and buds were popping out on the trees. None of this was consistent with death. I realized that even at such a young age one could die. We stopped on a little hill. Someone spoke; good words were uttered. Ela approached and quickly dropped her diary into the grave. How well I understood her and sympathized with her. For she genuinely loved him, such a kind, noble, intelligent boy. And then she thought about him the rest of her life. A surge of joy broke into my monotonous schoolgirl existence – the Chopin piano competition opened in Warsaw. I adored this composer. Mama often listened to records of the romantic composers on the radio with me and hummed various melodies in her pure, resonant voice. Now we listened to all the broadcasts of the concertos together on the Polish radio. We followed the performances of the pianists in each round. Who was going to win? Mama and I were great fans of the Russian musicians. Sometimes, when I was sitting down and doing my homework, Mama would run in and call out to me: “The contest is on the radio.” We waited for the results excitedly and sat by the receiver until late at night, but the jury did not announce the names of the prizewinners right away – they could not agree on awarding the first prizes to the Russians. It was not strictly speaking just a matter of prestige – Poland stood to lose a great deal of money. A dispute reminiscent of a battle was obviously going on there. “Lie down and go to sleep. You have to get up early tomorrow and go to school. As soon as they make the announcement I’ll wake you up right away,” Mama said. 193

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It seemed to me that I had only just gone to sleep when Mama joyfully informed me: “The Russians won all the first places, and they deserved it! Now go to sleep – it’s three o’clock in the morning.” I think I can see Mama standing in the open doorway to the hall; I can hear her voice, which was rarely infused with joy. All my life, when I listen to a Chopin piano concerto, I remember Mama and me listening together to this divine music created by a genius in his twenties. We did not have many chances to be together like that, Mamusiu. I loved you. You were beautiful, and you had such a fine feeling for music and everything that was gorgeous to look at and to hear… The specter of war was already looming. Mama left for the World’s Fair in Paris. I envied her – she would be seeing so many interesting things, and Paris itself was well worth the money. Mama sent enthusiastic letters home; she especially liked the Soviet pavilion. A postcard arrived with Mukhina’s sculpture of “The Worker and the Collective Farm Woman” adorning it. He was holding a hammer, while she had a sickle in her hands. What marvelous, powerful figures they were! Here they were, the builders of socialism. I kept the postcard on the table for a long time. We did not have anything like that in Poland because the country was waging a campaign of vicious anti-Soviet propaganda. I was grateful to Mama that she liked everything Russian, and at this time in our lives she did not argue with me or try to convince me otherwise. Spring arrived and with it the Passover-Easter season. Irka came to Vilna! Her arrival was memorable to me not just because my friend rarely came here in the spring. The spring of that year coincided with our adolescence. It was warm, and all around us flowers were blooming and birds were singing. Both of us wore similar blue demi-season coats. And our shoes were new, made on a heel last. Mama brought me two transparent and light as air kerchiefs to go around my neck. They were colored light blue and apricot. I gave the apricot kerchief to Irka because it matched her complexion exactly. My friend had become prettier. Her prominent green eyes had become even bigger; her high bust and her thin waist stood out. She and I strolled down the clean springtime streets; we bought snowdrops 194

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and talked, talked tirelessly. And of course, whatever we thought of ourselves, especially Irka – the boys looked her over. This was our main topic of conversation, but we also focused on the victory of the Popular Front in France, the Spanish Civil War, and the political situation in Poland. Hitler was intent on war; he demanded Austria, Czechoslovakia, the Sudetenland, and he was stirring up trouble with Poland over Danzig/Gdańsk. Russia was contending with Trotskyism and many opponents of the regime. Sometimes we met at the garden of our building at 20 Wileńska. Jonquils and tulips were already pushing up, but they had not bloomed yet. And the springtime earth smelled wonderful; it was so moist and black! We certainly did not want to go back to school now in the spring. I was able to spend the whole day with Irka, even past nightfall. But there was one obstacle – there were always more than enough boys around when she drove up. Dodik F. was especially tiresome; he was skinny, short, and ugly. He showed up several times a day and accompanied me to my house begging me to: “Talk with Irka, and tell her to pay attention to me.” He should have been ashamed to be so persistent! Irka made friends with Sima, a girl a bit older than we were, who played the piano. Irka was delighted with Sima’s playing, her friendship with a young man, and her “adult” conversations. I was jealous because Irka would be leaving in only a few days, but she took me to an old apartment on Skopówka Lane; Sima played Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” for us there. I knew the sonata very well, and I liked the way Sima played it, but I was irritated by Irka’s enthusiasm. Okay, she played it well, but that was her specialty. “Irka,” I asked, “Let’s wander off somewhere else. Let’s talk. Spring is so wonderful.” Vacation was over, and I, pining away with melancholy, said goodbye to Irka. When would we see each other again? April 18 was Ela’s birthday. Mama permitted me to go to her house – she had after all been acquitted, and she, like everyone else, could go back to school again; she was not considered dangerous. Ela invited many boys and girls from her class, and I had a good time with them. But a problem arose: I did not have anything to wear. I had outgrown my brown party 195

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dress with two-layered white collars, a very old uniform dress with patches on the elbows. Father did not give us any money for clothes, only for food: He was afraid that if he died, we would be left with nothing to live on. I put on a blue pleated uniform skirt and a little blue blouse with small white spots on it that Mama had recently bought for me at the Plichal store on Mickiewicz Street. The blouse was made from a new artificial fabric; it was smooth and slick to the touch. A lot of people were at Ela’s party. They were all chattering away and animatedly interrupting one another. I was not used to such an uproar, so I remained silent, not participating in the argument. Unlike the girls at the technical school, I did not know how to get along with boys. After all, they had all grown up together. We sat on the balcony on Chopin Street. Prostitutes were darting about on the street below, and here, near the station, there were more than enough of them. How terrible. There were so many of them, and how disgusting and at the same time pitiful they were! I felt out of place. It was stupid to send children to a female school. My clothes were ridiculous, out of style, yet I was already sixteen, and I would have liked a pretty dress and elegant party shoes. I remembered that day. I remember how hard Ela tried to acquaint me with her classmates and how she praised me to them: in her words I was erudite, serious and had high principles, yet I became shy and felt myself alienated and superfluous.

A MARVELOUS SUMMER The summer of 1938 began. I finished the first class of the lyceum with satisfactory grades, for the first time without any threes. My uniform was now decorated with maroon stripes, and on the sleeve of my coat the maroon emblem of school number 925 was displayed. Everyone could now see that I was a grown-up lyceum student. Nevertheless, one year of school remained. It was going to be very difficult, but for the time being it was all right not to think about it; the final examinations were a long way off! I had temporarily abandoned my music lessons (as 196

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it turned out, this would be forever) and French as well. I needed to rest up and then mobilize all my powers for the “assault” on the school’s final requirements. Everything that was happening in the outside world (the situation in Europe was exceptionally worrisome) was somewhere far away and did not concern me. In 1937 the underground Communist Party of Poland and Western Belorussia was dissolved. Many members of the organization did not agree with the basic ideas proclaimed by the Soviet Union. Our ZMS also automatically ceased to exist. I was so overburdened with schoolwork that this did not upset me. Our whole family was at the dacha. In the morning I would wake up breathing in the smell of the fresh timber and the pine forest. I would read, glumly hanging around and trying to persuade my parents to let me go to a youth camp in the mountains. I had come upon an advertisement in the Warsaw Jewish newspaper Nasz Przegląd (“Our Review”): the “Gwiazda” youth camp in Jaremcza –a spa in the Eastern Carpathians. How nice it would be to attend such a camp, go on hikes, admire the natural beauties around us, and mingle with contemporaries. However, they would not let me go by myself. It was my good fortune that Dr. Kalman Szapiro and his psychologist wife, Maria, both of them good friends of my parents, had decided to take a trip to breathe the mountain air. They agreed to take me with them. I was indeed happy! Right then and there I could somehow get away and go to the camp! We took the train to Jaremcza and settled down in an inn. All around us were green mountains covered with forest next to the turbulent Prut River, a bridge, and stupendous beauty. Right away I took on my “siege” mentality: there were nothing but old people at the inn, and I was bored. The camp was quite nearby; I had read about it in the newspaper, a very reputable paper. It was not expensive either. Dr. and Mrs. Szapiro visited the camp. It was on a big meadow on which two-story wooden houses were scattered. Beyond it were a field, the river, and mountains farther of… steep drop-off to the river, the so-called “Elephant.” There were lots of young people, all of them cheerful and laughing. 197

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The group was getting ready for a hike: they all had backpacks, were standing in line and listening to instructions. Szapiro worked out an agreement with the leader, a strong young man with a luxuriant head of hair. “We can take your ward. There’s a place for her.” Schapiro hesitated; after all, my parents had put him in charge of me, and he was responsible for me. And here a miracle took place: It turned out that Sonia Wojczyk was on the square. She was Father’s nurse at the Choir Cashier. She recognized the doctor and me, found out what we were talking about, and undertook to bring the doctor around: “It’s okay to leave Lala here. She’ll have fun. I’ll look after her; you can rely on me.” They allowed me to call Father. I was trembling all over with impatience: would they let me or wouldn’t they? Sonia explained everything to Father very persuasively, and I jumped with happines… could stay! We would pay for two weeks in advance, and they would put me in the same room with Sonia, who was cheerful and energetic. She was a friend of my favorite teacher Liza Meller. I knew that she had a husband and a little daughter at home. (Fate was to bring us together again on several occasions.) But now I took a lively farewell from the tedious doctor and his wife. Ahead of me there was nothing but sheer pleasure – hikes, songs by the bonfire, and the rare beauty of these parts. I filled a pillow case with straw and spread two sheets and a blanket on the bed – this is where I would sleep. Sonia woke me up in the morning. The sun was rising. How badly I wanted to sleep, but I had to obey Sonia in all things. I put on a bathing suit, and we ran to the river through the dew-covered grass. Mist had risen over the turbulent water, and the sun was behind the “Elephant.” We threw our robes onto boulders and inched our way into the icy stream. The water rolled over the rocks and in places reached only to our ankles. “Look for a spot that’s deeper, under the cliff, and dive in! You’ll get used to it quickly; it’s very good for you.” We jumped and splashed, squealing from the cold, and then we did our calisthenics. More tourists joined us, and the fun began. I was glad that I had overcome my sleepiness and sloth. I felt invigorated and was hungry as an animal. 198

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Everyone sat down at the long tables and began to dig into eggs, kasha, bread and butter, and barley coffee. Then we ardently began to schedule our future hikes. I met the camp leader, Bob, whom I liked a great deal. He was jaunty, bold, and appeared open and sincere. Bob turned out to be a Bundist born in Warsaw. He and his wife Gilda were old friends of Sonia. Subsequently I went on quite a few hikes under his guidance and became very good friends with him. In the winter I went to see Bob at the settlement in Zakopane together with Lilka Amdurska and met Irka there. But on the eve of war, in August 1939, after graduating from school, Irka and I descended on him again in Krościenko near Krynica. Bob came to Vilna with some friends as a refugee. Then he disappeared, and I lost sight of him forever. I often thought of our entertaining hikes into the mountains, his directness, honesty, and the useful habits which I picked up from him. Later they came in very handy for me. I spent a few days at the camp. In fact, I loved to work. I gladly helped out in the kitchen, set the table, and collected bouquets of flowers, which I placed on the little tables in the mess hall. Everyone praised and liked me; I was the youngest of all the tourists. The “old folks” and… a Vilna scholar Moshe Lerer and his wife, the artist Uma Olkenicka, and other vacationers greeted returning hikers with jocular little songs: “Oi iz dos a kalike” (Oi, what a clumsy oaf you are) and the like. In the afternoon Sonia and I stretched out on the meadow with our books. The mowed grass was fragrant, the waters of the Prut gurgled, and all around us gleamed the particular beauty of the Carpathians. We hired carriages and rode around the neighborhood: mountains, meadows in the dales, peasant huts with their roofs in a broken line. The poverty in the farmhouses was horrifying, and there were many disabled people (a result of the syphilis the army had introduced during the First World War). The local population called themselves Ruthenians. They worshiped in Catholic churches and spoke a Ukrainian dialect. They all dressed in brightly colored native outfits: speckled skirts, white embroidered blouses, and jerkins decorated with beads. The men wore fancy white canvas britches and white shirts. Their hats were adorned with rows of shells. At church on Sundays and at the market, their colorful attire was strikingly beautiful. 199

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We drove to local resort towns – Worochta and others. They had fashionable sanitariums and hotels. During our walks and our drives we talked to each other with a great deal of interest. For the tourists came from a variety of places. They were people of different professions and different convictions about things. In the evening they sat at the table for a long time and, while drinking chicory coffee, sang as long as their voices held out. We preferred Soviet songs. I knew many of them and taught the others. “Oh, it is good to live in the land of the Soviets,” “Okay, now sing us a song, gay wind” – these were popular songs from the movies. Once Szapiro and his wife came to see us in the evening – to check up on my welfare. “My God, what you’re singing – that’s the “International,” the doctor exclaimed horrified. We had trouble persuading him that we were singing the flyers’ song, “Go higher and higher,” buoyant and resonant. Things in general were lusty and free, without sanctimony; lovers embraced each other, and no one cared who was making friends, going for a walk, or sleeping with whom. Some beautiful girls stood out among the other young people. For example, Betja Sz. – dark complexioned and tall – and her blond friend Kicia. There were always crowds of young men around them, but these beautiful women maintained their independence. A Warsaw violinist tried to court me. He was struck by how I could recognize so many musical works after only a few measures. He played me fragments of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto. I did not like the fellow at all. But there was no one else whom I liked either, and this was something I slightly regretted. A friend from Drogobycz came to visit Bob’s wife. “You should make friends with her,” Bob advised, “she is educated and knowledgeable, a person you can rely on. Everyone loves her, although she is not good looking.” That is just my fate, I thought to myself. I also related well to people, thirsted to bring benefits to them, and was also unattractive. Could there possibly be someone who did not think I was ugly? But I could only make friends with people who shared my likes and dislikes, and I did not like 200

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myself. Therefore, my prospects did not seem to be bright. Nevertheless, the beauty of nature, the invigorating surroundings, and our group hikes crowded out all my sad thoughts. The marvelous summer weather continued, and we hiked into the mountains. We received instructions concerning mountain tourism, were taught how to pack our backpacks, and learned the rules – walk at an even pace and take regular breaths, do not overtake others in line, place the weaker hikers at the head of the line, right after the guide, and the ones in front should choose a strong walker to help stragglers. We were told not to lie down while resting. The ground in the Carpathians was damp, so a person who perspired while hiking could damage his back, and so forth. And here we were standing in line facing the instructor. Bob accompanied us and gave us advice. My backpack held a blanket, a bottle of water, and extra socks. My feet were shod in athletic boots distributed from the storeroom inasmuch as we were heading out on a three-day walking expedition. To put it simply, I had already done sorties of this kind. A throng of “armchair” tourists accompanied us singing “Oi iz dos a kalike.” I was nearly bursting with joy and pride setting forth to accomplish a feat. We got moving. At first on level ground, we left the small town and then began to climb the mountain up a trail through a green meadow. Below us were farmhouses, barns, stacks of wood that the peasants had stored up for the winter. Cows and lambs were grazing. Alpine flowers of unprecedented beauty – they were bright, tall, and fragrant here. It was not hot yet, but I was beginning to sweat: I was short of breath (Father even examined my lungs and took my pulse every morning at home). With great effort I reached the top of Priest Ivan Mountain, the second-highest peak in the Eastern Carpathians. I had overcome all obstacles. My reward was a magnificent mountainous landscape. The next time out we climbed Goverla, the highest mountain in this district. For part of the way we took the lift. We spent the night at a youth hostel. I was in an upper bunk. I was somewhat afraid of the last stage of the trail, but the incline was gentle, with good footing. 201

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We were at the summit. It was a quiet day, and the view was excellent… a circular panorama disappearing into the haze opened up before us. On the top of the mountain, which was round like a bald head, we met some Czechs. We embraced them and wished them success in the struggle with Hitler – for they had already suffered at his hands. “The same thing is waiting for us,” flashed through my mind. But at this splendid moment no one wanted to think about a possible war. Around us was such magnificent beauty that joy and happiness filled our hearts. We returned in formation, singing. We received a festive greeting. Then came lengthy stories, sometimes pretty funny ones. Everyone sat down on the mowed meadow; we lit a bonfire and sang into the night. These were remarkable moments. It seemed to me that all people were brothers; I loved all of them and was happy, infinitely happy. The happiness was fleeting… Now it was time to go back. A letter had come from my parents: they were getting ready to go abroad, and I had to return urgently. We stood on the platform of the little wooden Jaremcza station – my new friends were seeing me off. We exchanged addresses and devised new meetings and new hikes to go on. It was a bright, sunny, and still quite summery day at the end of August, and our surroundings were so magnificent! My heart was heavy and bitter. How much I regretted that everything was now in the past, that I had to go home and back to school. And the coming year would be difficult with cramming and final exams – nothing but trouble. Nothing could comfort me. In the distance the train from Worochta appeared. It stopped. Now I was in the car. I could still see my friends on the platform waving their arms. Everything vanished in the distance. I sat down on a bench and dissolved in tears. At the same time I did not even suspect that I was riding into the last year of peace, that one year from the coming September 1 war would begin, that it would take from me my family, my home, and the joy in my life.

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he greatest trial in my carefree life (I created all my troubles myself in profusion) was the ‘matura’ – the final examinations at the lyceum. They hung over my head like a horrible apparition from the beginning of my last year at the school. I studied superficially and lived for the day, just to avoid getting marks of two or three, just enough to write decent preliminary exams. I received passing grades and was a serious student. I behaved well in school, my collar was always white (ever since the first year, Mama had ordered six of such collars at one time, attached by three buttons in back and two in front), and during recesses I modestly walked down the brightly waxed parquet floor of the hallway with someone else. At school I was considered to be a model girl and a good pupil. I had no background knowledge, except perhaps in the Polish language and the natural environment; in all other subjects there were gaping holes. My laziness, bad memory, and inability to study and memorize got in the way. I had to get down to studying in earnest. The summer vacation was still alive in my memory: The magnificent views of the mountains, and the smell of fresh leaves and dry hay. I did not want to study, and I could not force myself to go over material repeatedly, hoping to keep up with my classes. Europe was seething – the Munich Accord had been signed. Hitler seized Austria and part of Czechoslovakia. He gave some horrendous 203

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speeches. But all of this was far away; my exams, however, were close at hand. Sometimes I was gripped by total depression and a premonition that the world was coming to an end. At the class on military preparedness, I declared to the teacher in the auditorium in front of the whole class – despite my shyness: “Why are we studying gas masks when we are all going to be killed anyway?” The orders rang in our ears: “Lay out your stretchers, lift your stretchers, put on your mask (gas mask), take off your mask!” There was no one to talk to about this. Our youth organizations lacked support and leadership. Miron was in Kraków; I would have liked to see him and have a good talk. I was severely downcast! In my gloomy room with two windows looking out onto the blank wall of the next house, with our furniture in white covers, I cried a great deal and distracted myself by reading novels, but I still studied poorly. No, my last year with the world at peace was by no means a happy one. Sick patients walked down the hallway of our apartment. Father had two jobs as a doctor, and he also received patients at home. Father and Mama had frequent quarrels. It was painful to observe the transformations in my beautiful mother. She often cried, put on weight, and lost her good looks. Grandmother was already living on Tatarska Street, and it was not so easy to run over to see her and Nadzia. But I loved the minutes that I spent at Grandmother’s; as always, she sympathized with me and understood my concerns. Józio was going to the Jewish school on Rudnicka Street. He was happy, busy with schoolwork, and filled with admiration for me. He was ten years old. I was delighted to receive occasional letters from Irka, but she was a year behind me; she was not through with school yet, and she did not understand my tension and anxiety. Earlier she and I had planned to get together in the winter, and I began lay the groundwork with my parents on the subject of spending the winter vacation at the Gwiazda Camp in Zakopane. I persuaded Lilka Amdurska as a blind to travel with me. Mama was adamantly opposed to letting me see Irka, but Lilka was the top ranking student in class and an exemplary girl. Winter vacation began. My parents bought me a light blue ski jacket and skis, 204

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and sewed up my ski pants. I remember sitting down in the train by the window with Lilia and wiping the frozen glass with a wet salt water rag (Mama did not forget to give us even this to take with us). We changed trains for Kraków at midnight in Warsaw: there was jostling and turmoil in the grossly overcrowded train. It was Christmas Eve, and everyone had a few days off. Early in the morning we hired a porter in deserted Zakopane (the taxis were not working) and made our way on foot to a villa that was quite luxurious for a work camp. Coal had been spread on the street, not sand as was customary with us at home. Irka had arrived ahead of us. Bob, the head of the camp, offered us a room on the second floor, but it had only two beds. We selected a small attic room for three. We had a great time there. Seeing Irka was always a pleasure for me because she understood everything, and one could tell her anything. We chatted until late at night, and in the morning it was hard to get up. I felt obliged to go skiing with an instructor. We proceeded to a faraway, gentle hill, but going downhill did not work for me: I fell. Aside from being unattractive, I was also untalented and slow. All my shortcomings were revealed in full measure. I jealously watched others swish through the snow skillfully and graciously. I came back exhausted from my sporting activities. My irksome duties were over, and my hours of high spirits could now begin. But there was a cloud over them, too – Irka and Lilka enjoyed their success in making eyes at some boys and were laughing, but I wanted to stay longer with Irka since we had so little time. Ela’s older sister Bella, a medical student, ran the cafeteria, which was bathed in the winter sun. She was not pretty, but she acted like a queen. She was a self-confident girl, without complexes. She sang well, accompanying herself on the piano, and all the young men circled around her. I envied her ability to “present herself.” We often gathered in the cafeteria and sang songs – Polish, Jewish, and Russian, and we had a great time. We made energetic preparations for the New Year, but I was sad: I did not know how to dance and had never been at the center of attention. If only I had known that this was our last chance to greet the New Year in peacetime! I did not have any presentiments of disaster, and my petty afflictions seemed universal in scale. 205

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On the morning of the second day of the New Year there was a knock on the door. We were horrified to see that it was my father. He cast a disapproving eye on our broom closet and said that we had been deceived and our inexperience had been taken advantage of (he did not understand that being together was more important to us than hot water), but he soon substituted kindness for anger and invited us to sunbathe on the Gubałówka, a high, gentle mountain opposite the ridge of the Tatra Mountains, at the foot of which lay the town of Zakopane. We were having wonderful weather as we took our seats in the light horse-drawn carriage and dashed through the freshly fallen snow. I was glad to have the opportunity to spend money without taking thought, because my parents always cut me off short. Lounging in a chaise longue on the sparkling snow, I delighted in the magnificent panorama of the Tatra Mountains. Father was more easygoing than Mama. He found things he could talk about with Irka, and he did not put on superior airs with her. He treated us to sweets, went for a walk with us, and quickly departed. Bob had promised that summer to take me up into the mountains. And now all four of us got our boots ready – we attached felt strips to our soles to keep from slipping, and we set forth on our hike. We climbed low hills covered with forest. A white mound of snow lay on every branch; we shook it and jumped away laughing. We climbed up high: all around us were fabulously beautiful forested mountains with chains of mountains on the horizon and snow-covered forests. Then it was time to come down. Our boots, despite the felt strips attached to them, slipped, but Bob did not permit us to sit down on the ice and slide to the bottom. Soon he got tired of messing with us. “What a miserable bunch of tourists you are!” he cried contemptuously and darted forward. But the three of us flopped on our backsides and comfortably slid down the spiral trail, turning on the bends. We laughed until we dropped. I had never enjoyed myself so much before. We “arrived” at the cottages this way, jumped up on our feet, shook out our wet jeans, and tumbled into a snack bar, where Bob was waiting for us. He was full of contempt and at first would not even talk to us. Then his anger passed, and he laughed along 206

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with us when we described our descent to him. This was one of the most delightful days of my youth, and I have remembered it all my life. Only a few precious days remained. In January…it was back to school. The specter of the exams was ineluctably advancing. On the way back I stopped off at Irka’s in Kraków. Miron arrived in a threadbare suit and an old coat, but was as slender and elegant as ever. I related my troubles to him. We argued about politics and talked about the possibility of war, which was hovering somewhere close by. Miron asked Cynek, Irka’s father, for money to publish a newspaper. Cynek was the director of a glass factory, which his brothers owned. At that time they lived in a luxurious apartment on Słowacki Avenue. The furniture in Irka’s room was ordered custom made, and it was all in shades of light blue. For the first time in my life I slept in an armchair. They drove us around the town in a new automobile. Irka had already been to France with her parents. Obviously, things were going beautifully for them, and after their wretched, beggarly existence in Vilna, they were not denying themselves anything. Who could imagine that they would have fewer than three whole years to live! It was unbelievably difficult to leave – farewell Irka, Miron, freedom. I walked Miron down to the street. His receding back stayed in my memory.

“MATURA” – FINAL EXAMS The people at home greeted me with their customary frigidity. I remembered the winter vacation. I composed a kind of activities plan, but the ongoing homework filled up all my free time after school. In March I tried to study something, but this was a drop in the sea of gaps in my knowledge: chemistry, physics, mathematics, literature. I tried first one thing, then another. The math lessons with Wenia Pumpiański were my salvation. They were both useful and interesting. Everything turned out all right when I received a hail of nothing but fives in math at school, especially in the new subject – descriptive geometry. Wenia was a thoughtful, clever, and 207

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unusually handsome young man. We (Zuzia Arkin and I both worked with him) knew everything about him: that he was married and had a lover… a vulgar beauty named Gieńka, who was a marvelous ice skater. I was just a bit in love with him, and this distracted me from my pressing cares. At recess Zuzia and I chatted and gossiped about him. I almost never saw Ela; she was getting along a bit better with her schoolwork. Sometimes I helped her somewhat in organic chemistry, which I liked. I was amazed at her lack of knowledge in the exact sciences – her school had a humanities bias. The impending finals poisoned my existence and deprived me of sleep. We went through an enormous amount of new material; the teachers had no experience with it since our graduating class was the first to be exposed to the new program. Absolutely no time remained to go over what we had already done once. In politics there was a great deal of tension since Hitlerite Germany was just across our western frontier. Pogroms were taking place there, and Jews were fleeing to other countries. Father’s brother Piotr and his family were no longer living in Berlin, but in Paris. At that time this was still safe. At times we were overcome by despair. Why should we bother about all this schoolwork if war was going to come soon and everyone was going to die? At school we were indoctrinated with Polish patriotism. On one occasion all the pupils of the Lyceum were gathered in the gymnastics hall for a lecture: England, France, Holland, and Belgium have them. Are we any worse than they are? The lecturer developed his theses with pathos. We, members of the graduating class, had taken seats in the last row, in the corner, and were playing games of tic-tac-toe; we let loose some commentaries, and were openly laughing. When we came back to the classroom, an incident occurred. Julka Jaroszewicz, the favorite of geography teacher Ms. Domaniewska and a member of the geography club, got up and declared: “I always knew that Jews were against the Polish state and were its enemies. Just now at today’s lecture the Jewish girls were laughing and making fun of our aspirations for colonies. My opinion is confirmed.” We considered Julka’s speech to be an anti-Semitic statement. It was important for me to know how our teachers reacted to her challenge. Without 208

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saying anything to anyone else, I went to the headmistress’s office between classes and told her what had happened. The headmistress was outraged. She summoned the class director, Ms. Archemowicz, the literature teacher, who immediately organized an educational class with the headmistress present. “For eight years you have studied together in the same classroom and have sat next to each other at the same desks,” our class director said. “We thought that we had imbued everyone with a sense of fraternity. All the peoples of Poland must be equal. They must work together and respect one another. All of us will stand before God one day, and we will all be equal there.” Many of the girls cried. I enjoyed the show that I had produced; it was a good distraction from our tedious life. All the more so when the headmistress declared: “The individual who informed me of the facts of this case acted nobly; she did not identify the bad girl who did this. She acted in a worthy manner. I would like the girl who is guilty to stand up and admit it.” Julka stood up, and more salt was rubbed in her wounds. The next day Lusia Aleksandrowa, an Orthodox student, told us: “I met Rondomańska on the way to school. She lives next to a priest, and he explained to her that the headmistress was wrong; since Jews are not baptized, they do not meet Christians in the presence of God when they die.” That is all that our classmates got out of the sermon by the headmistress, who had acted honorably. We all knew full well the feelings that many teachers and pupils harbored toward us. I felt completely alienated at this school. During a math test, the girl sitting behind me, Irka Selicka, slipped me a note: “Send me the answer!” Irka was a zealous anti-Semite who often proclaimed anti-Semitic slogans. I wrote on her note: “Jewish swine do not send answers to anti-Semites.” Ms. Turkowska saw me demonstratively place the piece of paper on Irka’s desk; she walked up, read the note, and put it back. In this way she showed her support for me, and I remembered what she did. She was an honorable teacher. Episodes like this made us feel less isolated in a foreign environment. 209

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In April Basia Goldman, who lived in a suburb near the “gazownia” agreed to study in the morning before school with me. I set my alarm for five, got dressed, and ran diagonally across the street. We reviewed physics and chemistry, but our knowledge of these subjects was not well grounded; they were very difficult to remember. Basia’s mom brought us each a piece of homemade pie, some tea, and by eight we were at school. I did not know that the Germans had occupied Czechoslovakia. Politics were not on my mind at that time. Lilacs were blossoming; spring was here. I pored over my books. There were two written examinations in the last week of May. I wrote an essay on eighteenth century Polish literature. They gave me a four for it. This was considered a good grade at that time. In math I received a five. We took the exams in a large auditorium. The chairs were arranged in a chessboard pattern. A commission was seated on the front of the stage. It was solemn and frightening. In the math exam I was not sure about something: what should I put in the formula… a plus or a minus? I asked for permission to approach the commission. They were all surprised, but they let me come up. I went up to my favorite teacher, Ms. Turkowska, and asked her. She answered me: “And what do you think?” “Minus,” I said. “You think correctly,” the teacher nodded diplomatically. The dreaded stage of oral exams remained – all on the same day: mathematics, physics, chemistry, astronomy (they relieved me of the need to do Polish). In studying for them I switched back and forth from one discipline to another. I went to the exam in tears. My worried mother even came to the school herself. I got a three in physics. My knowledge of astronomy came to my rescue: I earned a five for a combined grade of four. I announced to the chemistry teacher that it would do me no good to cram data about the elements into my head… I would forget it regardless. He resented this, so he gave me a three. I left a happy girl and reported to Mama that I had passed everything. Deliverance from the hated official school was an indescribable delight. The other Jewish girls and I decided to mark the event. We dropped in at 210

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Talejkiński’s shop that sold Jewish sausage products, and we all sat down to eat sausages with mustard. After our “orgy,” we moved on to (Wspomnienia Wilenskie)Bernardyński Park, where, it turned out, the chestnuts were fading. But I did not even notice the spring. Freedom! Summer vacation! All my troubles were behind me. However, I was always open to disappointment, but to joy, never. I put away the hated textbooks. What now? After all, I needed to decide what I was going to make of my life… The only thing they were talking about in Europe was war. This was still far removed from us, however! No one wanted to think about anything bad.

GROWN UP AT LAST I finished the lyceum. I noticed that everyone, even Mama, began to relate to me differently. I was no longer a girl, but a young lady. Mama turned to Father: “Samuel, give me some money. Lala needs something better to wear. Look at her – she doesn’t have any decent shoes or dresses. She’s already a grown-up; she may be going to France to study. Do you want the town to laugh at Dr. Margolis’s daughter, the one who dresses so badly?” Without giving her an argument, Father laid out a wad of paper Polish zlotys. We went to a shoe store on Wileńska Street. I had not been there before: It was a Polish store that sold good shoes made by the owner himself in his workshop. Nadzia strongly recommended the shoes to me; elegant ladies patronized that store. There I was, sitting on a soft bench. Mama asked for brown pumps with low heels. The owner put some boxes with wonderful shoes in front of me. I am so much in love with the smell of leather. But some shoes that we saw here were better than others. All of them were marvelous, soft, gleaming, and comfortable. Which of them should I select? “Go for a walk on the street, Miss, and you will see that the price matches the quality.” 211

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How nice it was that people were looking after me and fitting shoes right on my feet. I liked the pair of brown oxfords very much, but some maroon shoes with tongues were also good. “I don’t know what to buy!” And just then a miracle occurred: Mama bought both pairs – one for everyday use, the other for special occasions. I had never had two pairs of new shoes before, not to mention such expensive ones! Mama and I went to fabric stores on Niemiecka Street. “You said you wanted a suit to wear on the street like Ela’s. We’ll select the material and order a suit from a good tailor. It must be elegant.” Bolts of soft wool were laid out for us on the counter. One, two, ten of them. Nothing was exactly right. We went into the Noza store. I was dreaming of a certain color, but until now was unable to find anything like it. And then the salesman took a bundle off the top shelf under the ceiling, brought it down, and unfolded an edge of material on the counter. This was exactly what I wanted. A pale blue soft fabric, with occasional black and white threads in square patterns – beautiful! But the price was double the customary price for such materials. Mama asked for a telephone, called Father, and Father agreed. The salesman measured out two meters eighty, cut it off, and handed it to me. I was radiant. (When the war began, we were always poor, and what was more, no choices were to be had.) A male tailor sewed me a jacket – which came out superbly; a dressmaker sewed the skirt. I began to show off my elegant suit, and this gave me a great deal of pleasure. When war broke out, Mama packed my suit in one of our suitcases. Dr. Piotrowska, who had previously worked with Father, returned it to me. Father, Mama, Józio, Miron, and Irka were no longer alive. In the dormitory on Wiwulska Street, where our partisan detachment was stationed on the day after the liberation of Vilna I, wearing kersey boots, a German flight jacket, and a rumpled skirt, took the beautiful suit out of the suitcase. It smelled like home. Could it be that I had once worn it? This soft, rich suit, which after three years in a suitcase was not even wrinkled? After the war I wore it again, and it was the most beautiful article of clothing that I owned. I kept it until my departure for Israel. 212

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I am looking now at a photograph on the wall taken in Leningrad in 1947: I am wearing the very same suit, Chaim is wearing Father’s, and St. Isaac’s Cathedral is on the other side of the river. How young we were then, and how delighted we were at our first sight of Leningrad! ...The summer and summer vacation were ahead. With the nonchalance of youth I did not think about the fall. It was true that Father ordered me to go to the courthouse, make copies of the diploma and my birth certificate and translate them into French so that I could go to France in the fall to continue my studies. For some reason I wanted to go to Montpellier. It was by the sea and close to the mountains, thus a beautiful landscape, and the city was not such a large one as Paris, where it would probably be difficult to get my bearings. But Father’s brother Piotr lived in Paris with his wife and their son Arik, and Mama thought that they would take me under their wing. The main thing was that I so passionately dreamed of studying in France that I agreed to go to medical school, which did not interest me in the slightest. (I have kept my birth certificate with its French translation.) It never occurred to me that I would have to leave home and go to strange places for a long time, or that my command of French was less than perfect, and it would be difficult to study there. Is harebrained recklessness one of the privileges of youth? But for now I was living at the dacha, and pine trees stood outside the window. I read, bathed in the river, and was bored. Miron arrived, and everything was transformed. We talked. He bought some left-wing Polish journals, explained the international situation to me, and frightened me with talk of war. The Hitler-Stalin pact burst upon us like thunder from a cloudless sky. Everyone was outraged. Even communists thought that the Soviet Union had betrayed mankind and had taken the side of fascism. I was in despair and could not figure out what was what. I believed implicitly in the Soviet Union and considered everything correct that took place there. Miron explained to me: the Western powers were playing with us like a cat with a mouse, trying to incite Hitler against the USSR. Hitler was very powerful. The Soviet Union was not yet ready to fight a war. The treaty would postpone the outbreak of war. 213

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The threat of war became a reality, fear was intensified, and it drove away any desire to think about the future. One had to live for the present day. I arranged with Irka to meet her at the Gwiazda Camp in Krościenko. We planned the meeting without telling our parents. They let me go, wishing to encourage my interest in sports and my natural curiosity. The house at the camp was dilapidated, right in the town. The view was dismal, not like Jaremcza. Bob met me and let me know that Irka had arrived earlier, but she was not alone; she had brought a friend. That was a blow. I thought that I had exclusive rights to Irka. We were allocated a dark, two-person little room. Julek, whom I was seeing for the first time, was not to my taste… a tall blond-haired guy, with a thick, curly head of hair and a slightly “goat-shaped” face, but modest and polite. He came over in the morning and spent the whole day with us. But Irka and I spent our evenings chatting well into the night. Oh, those happy minutes! The wife of my teacher Wenia, who had tutored me in math, was also there in the camp. She was languid, “old” (about twelve years older than we were), and talked incessantly about her fashionable life at her father’s house; the Spartan life at the camp was not her cup of tea. We made fun of her among ourselves whenever we could. Ela arrived, her appearance pale and sickly. She was hurt by my friendship with Irka and the small amount of time I was prepared to give her. I was sorry for her, but I could not overcome my attraction to the brilliant Irka. I did not spare of minute of time for Ela. After supper, sitting at long tables under a canopy, we spent hours singing Jewish and Russian songs and drinking barley coffee; we were happy. Meilakh, Bob’s fat, good-natured brother-in-law, sang exceptionally well. He had a velvet-toned baritone voice, and he knew a large number of songs. Bob’s wife seemed mediocre to me. A young man like Bob, athletic and Jack of all trades, could have done better with anyone else. I was even a tad jealous of her. We drove to Krynica, a fashionable health resort: A smartly dressed public, dance halls, hotels, and a spa. Irka and Julek danced together: he was blond and wore a black suit; she was elegant in a white dress, with long, wavy black hair. They were so handsome together that everyone looked at them! I enjoyed Ira’s success and regretted that I did not know how to dance and act as spontaneously as my girlfriend. 214

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We went into the mountains, to Gorlani and Bieszczady, clambered over the moss-covered boulders, vaulting from rock to rock, and went through a sparse growth of trees, where herds of sheep were grazing. The mountains here were not so beautiful as the eastern Carpathians, but walking in tennis sneakers was comfortable. It was nice to feel the lightness of my own body, and Irka was beside me, even if Julek was also there. He did not get in the way at all and was tactful and accommodating. Bob suggested a night hike to the Three Crowns. It was a moonlit night, bright and cold. Bob led us “old” tourists, his friends from previous camps, progressively higher up the marked trail. The bushes and trees were silver in the dew, and the moss sparkled. Quickly, lighter than in the heat of the day, we climbed to the summit. Below us glittered the Dunajec River, and the mountains were enveloped in fog. The moon illuminated the remote mountain ranges; everything around us was beautiful and mysterious. Thank you, Bob, for your love of beauty and for introducing us to it. We floated down the Dunajec on rafts with seats hollowed out of the logs. The river rushed onward headlong, and it seemed as though the raft was going to break up on the shore, but the native mountain helmsman knew how to steer it at the last moment, and around the bend stupendously beautiful vistas again opened up. And the castles in Czorsztyn and Niedzica were mysterious, so different from one another, and were permeated with legend! We roamed through the ruins, among the broken-down walls, and imagined the feasts, the receptions of envoys, and the intrigues of the counts and countesses here. The vacation was quickly becoming a thing of the past. The three of us decided to top it off with a magnificent excursion. We packed everything we needed in our backpacks. We sent the other things home in packages and said goodbye to our friends. We started up the mountains, finding our way with a map and a guidebook. We had a good laugh reading the description of the road and the road signs: “steeply uphill through the bushes.” We strayed from the path and found it again, and we spent the nights in youth hostels. We exited at Nowy Targ, and took the train from there to Zakopane. We had many friends there at the Gwiazda Camp. Everyone 215

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greeted me at supper, and I was glad that they remembered me from the previous year in Jaremcza. We chatted. Then we went backpacking in the Tatra Mountains: by way of Hala Gaşienicowa, where we slept on bunks in tourist cabins. Then we went on to Zawrat. All night I was nervous, terrified thinking about trying to climb using “klamry” – iron bolts hammered into the cliffs. In the morning we passed a lake in a valley. We left the big stone “schroniska” building [inn or hostel] behind. We started to climb the mountain and got as far as the iron bolts in the cliff; we had to overcome this obstacle and climb the cliffs holding onto a chain. Beneath us a chasm yawned; around us were mountains. Terror seized me. Julek helped; he gave me a hand. I scrambled up, so scared that I was covered with sweat. “This is the easiest trail for neophyte mountain climbers,” Julek reassured me, but the only thing I was thinking about was out to reach the summit. Finally we were on the saddle. On all sides of us cliffs, here and there overgrown with mountain pine, plunged steeply to the bottom. We sat down gasping, especially me. I found it especially hard to ascend a mountain because I ran out of breath. We caught our breath and walked along the bare mountain tops – there was no longer any vegetation here. We descended into a valley; under us against the grey background of the cliffs was a gleaming blue lake, one of five in this area. Cheerless beauty. Pale and dark brown cliffs along the sides of a narrow, brighter trail and in the distance the sight of five dark blue lakes. I was proud that I had mastered my fear, that I had climbed to the summit of the Zawrat and had demonstrated will power. This was one of my first victories over my own cowardice. One after another the lakes revealed themselves in the narrow defile. It was no longer so difficult to walk here. The sun was hidden, and the views were forbidding and solemn. We descended to the Morskie Oko.1 Here all was radiant; the lake was bordered by forest, and Mnich Mountain was reflected in it – like a monk in a white cowl of snow. Beneath us was a tiny “schronisko” (inn) building with its cafeteria and lodgings for the night. We spent the night here on cots in a large 1

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common room, had something to eat in the cafeteria, and strolled around the lake. Above us were mountains covered with fir. To the left was the transparent frigid water of the lake; one could see rocks, water plants, and a white wedge of snow dropping next to the trail down to the lake itself. Every step revealed new items of beauty, bright greenery, Alpine flowers, and in the distance – white peaks. We went down to Zakopane over piles of fallen trees and a sledge track. It was so hot that we took off our blouses. I was wearing Irina’s shorts (from her mom), and she was in mine (Józio’s); we were not too shy to do this in front of Julek. Irka had a wonderful figure. I was distressed because I had a fold of flesh on my stomach and had not slimmed down at all. Proud of our achievements and laden with impressions, we returned to the camp. Everyone asked us about the route; we rapturously described the wonders we had seen. Now and then friends waved or beckoned me. These were our last days of joy, freedom, and peace. I had to take leave of Irka. Julek also turned out to be a good comrade; he always helped out on the path, was calm, even, and kind. Irka went home with him while I traveled by myself. My parents wanted me to hurry home. They were traveling to France and England. They were making preparations to rent me a room and make arrangements with Uncle Piotr for him to look after me. I went home with a stricken heart. I was sorry the vacation was over. What was lying ahead? I would certainly have to leave home. Earlier all of this had been somewhere in the distance; now it was advancing so quickly. I did not find anyone at home. My parents, displeased by my long absence, had not waited for me. Józio was at the dacha, where Grandmother and Miron were also staying. I stayed there with them for a few days and intended to visit Luba at Rudziszki. It was boring at the dacha, but I would enjoy talking with Luba. The day of August 31 was especially troubling. All the neighbors were leaving their dachas; finding a wagon was impossible. On September first came the announcement that the Germans had attacked Poland. The Second World War had begun.

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1939: WAR I do not remember how I found out that this was war, the real thing. It seems that mobilization had been declared the day before. We transported part of our things back to the city on boats. Since our apartment was next to the Green Bridge and we were afraid of air raids, we decided to stay with Grandmother on Tatarska Street. The radio broadcast incomprehensible words: “Uwaga, nadchodzi, przeszedł” (Attention, danger approaching, all clear). These were announcements about German aircraft. Food products vanished from the stores. At night people had to stand in line for bread. Simply from the realization that there was not enough food, we constantly wanted to eat. I remember, having stood next to the bakery on Wileńska Street all night and, obtaining a half-loaf of white bread, I ate almost all of it on the way home. We had sugar at home, and before they left, Mama had bought a bag. So we ate bread with sugar. The news from the front was horrifying. The Germans were advancing on Warsaw. We realized that Poland had lost the war and the Germans would win. What would become of us? Throngs of refugees and a mood of dejection. I met a friend from school. “We are all going to perish. Our life is over. I have known this for a long time,” I told her. Miron did not report for mobilization. He thought there was no point in fighting for a bourgeois Poland. We had no news about our parents, and this was frightening. Could it be that in the West they did not see the approach of war? Where were they? On Orzeszkowa Square people crowded around loudspeakers: France and England had declared war on the Germans. This was a shot in the arm for everyone – together we would be victorious! But these were only words. No one came to Poland’s aid. The Germans entered Warsaw. Bombs began to fall on Vilna. We dug trenches on Garbarsky Street behind Grandmother’s building, and at night we hid in the hallway. There were no windows there, and debris could not fall on us. Grandmother was worried about Miron and about my mother. I do not remember what day of the war it was when Mama and Father suddenly arrived. They were able to cross the frontier before the war began, 218

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and from Białystok they picked up rides on carts. At least one of our concerns had fallen by the wayside. Father ordered me to withdraw the money in the savings account that had been deposited in my name. I stood in line for it all day, but soon the disbursements stopped. After Father’s arrival a load was to a certain extent lifted from our hearts. We had great faith in his intelligence and abilities. We children continued to live at Grandmother’s. How things would be down the road no one knew. The war was now into its third week. Sitting in the dark hallway at night with Grandmother, Nadzia, and Józio, I often thought that I had absolutely nothing to look forward to in my future. Could everything really be over? The walls shook from the explosions and the gunfire. That night no one in the city knew what would happen the next day. The shattered Polish Army, the air raids – everything pointed to the fact that the end was near, and the Germans would burst into the city. What would happen to us? What would happen to all of Europe? Why did no one come to help? Instead, they were throwing us to the mercy of the Nazis. The bombardment boomed ever louder. It was impossible to go out on the street to learn the news; the radio was silent. Toward morning Miron ran in. We had not seen him for many days. He cried out joyfully from the threshold: “Soviet troops are in the city!” No one believed him. This would be an unthinkable miracle, greater than we could imagine. For the Nazis were already quite close; humiliation and death awaited us, the Jews. The Polish Army turned out to be absolutely incapable of fighting – it had neither the technology nor the weapons. We were despondent over our helplessness, our hatred for Nazism and fascism, and the military might of our enemies. Soviet troops had in fact occupied the city! That meant we would not perish. We would see the Soviet warriors! We had a future now – could this really be true? I was not allowed to go out on the street. Things were still uneasy; occasional shots rang out, and the neighbors were our only source of news: “Tanks, huge tanks, are coming; they are towing cannons behind them.” “They” were all in grey overcoats; there were many Kałmycy and various others with slanted eyes among them. Then it quieted down, and we went out onto the street. On the corner of Mickiewicz, near the bank, 219

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two enormously tall soldiers with rifles were standing guard. They were as handsome and motionless as statues. I thought to myself: “Soviet people are wonderful; they are markedly different from us.” Then came columns of trucks and tanks, which one never saw in the Polish Army, soldiers in cloth overcoats, not hemmed on the bottom, and one caught the acrid smell of machorka, gasoline, and burning. Crowds of people were on the streets; everyone was interested in examining the “Bolshevik savages” about whom people talked as though they were walking around all but stark naked. Oh, what might, what an army, what a powerful force! I could not believe my own eyes. My heart was breaking with joy – here it was, the army of the working class, of the country of triumphant socialism. I never thought of living in the Soviet Union; I considered it necessary to struggle for justice in Poland. My destiny was to serve in the underground, to go to prison. But now, after so much apprehension and the utter certainty that disaster awaited us, there suddenly opened before us such a happy life, one so full of hope! Throngs of people on the streets surrounded the Soviet commanders, who tried to answer their questions. But there was no end to the questions, for Soviet people were like Martians to us, visitors from another planet. The Soviet commanders were polite and well-educated. To us they seemed to be intelligent, remarkable, magnificent people. They willingly spoke with everyone, for they had come to free the people of our region from the yoke of the Polish aristocracy. They all appeared to me to be handsome and noble. I could not imagine that they might have any shortcomings since they were brought up in the Soviet Union. Subsequently, however, I experienced great disillusionment… The commanders were peppered with questions: “Can you own a house?” “What about land?” “What about livestock?” “And do you have oranges?” “We have factories that produce oranges,” answered a soldier, not understanding the meaning of the word and not wanting to fall on his face in the mud. I stood there for hours and, listening to the conversations, heard a vast amount that was interesting and new. It was possible to study and work. 220

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There did not have to be unemployment or poverty. Everyone could have free medical care – just as in a fairy tale. An underground organization was not necessary, and there was no threat of prison. Depressing news came in from Poland: The government had run away, abandoning the people, and the Nazis committed atrocities. But we were saved by the Red Army! All the former Komsomol members looked for work. Miron enlisted in the militia and put a red armband on his sleeve; I liked that. Grandmother begged him not to get involved in someone else’s business. “Don’t get mixed up in politics!” she urged him over and over. The entire cultural life of the city was under the control of Commissar Klimow, a flabby man in a military jacket and wearing glasses. He was an educated person, and people turned to him on all sorts of matters. Soviet films were trucked in, something we had not seen since 1936. Soviet films and books were forbidden in Poland. Life was interesting and fun. We former Komsomol members were in demand. But suddenly rumors began to swirl: The Red Army was pulling out; it was handing Vilna over to bourgeois Lithuania! This was too awful to be true. I did not believe it. For the Red Army officers had assured us that they had freed Western Belorussia and annexed it to the Soviet Union. How could they give the bourgeois regime a new lease on life? A group of young people assembled in the auditorium of the present-day Ministry of Education to meet and take issue with Klimov. They posed a great many varied questions, including some that were provocational. Klimov answered confidently, along Marxist lines, but one sometimes felt that he did not understand our problems. As to the question of transferring Vilna to Lithuania, he answered that someone had made this up. We left the meeting excited and happy. But after a few days it was announced officially that the Red Army was leaving Vilna. The “ELEKTRIT” plant that manufactured radio sets was supposed to be evacuated to Belorussia. The workers gladly moved to Minsk with their families. A queue of many thousands of people seeking exit permits to the USSR formed on the square where the recruitment office was located beyond the park of the governor’s palace. Many people decided to leave for 221

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the Soviet Union, where no one was unemployed, and all hands were needed. Miron searched among all his comrades looking for the chance to sign up as the fictitious husband of any of the girls who worked at Elektrit, so that they could leave together. His luck finally turned – he found someone! She was a worker and was traveling with her little brother and her sick mother. His name was entered on the list. Her name was Fania. But what should I do? I believed that I was obliged to make my way to the Soviet Union, where I would help to build communism. Fania Jokheles left for Białystok, as did many of our comrades. But I could not make up my mind. How could I live alone? Where? I had never yet forsaken my native home. But it was necessary to make a decision. I despised myself. I considered myself a traitor to my own ideas, a nobody, but I did not venture to go. My parents did not even want to hear about my going away. I had no close friends except Ela. I cried for days on end; my moods frightened Mama. They watched over me so I would not slip away. The last Red Army soldiers left the city on October 10. For me a period of complete apathy and self-loathing began: I could not endure tribulations; I preferred a warm, full life; I was a nonentity, an egghead intellectual. Indeed, workers who were Komsomol members said that for people like me ideology was only a diversion. I sobbed, burying my head in a pillow. Miron had gone; no one understood me. The Lithuanians were in no hurry to enter the city. It was said about them: they drove places, but slowly; the only machines they had were for sewing.2 Finally on October 28, a joyless day in my eighteenth year, we saw from the balcony a group of civil servants in automobiles leaving Wiłkomirska Street. They proceeded across the bridge and were welcomed by a small knot of local Lithuanians. All of this looked quite pitiable. A pogrom broke out the next day. We had never seen a pogrom before. Anti-Semitism existed in Poland; the Jews were supposed to know their place; they worked in their own Jewish organizations; only a few of them were admitted to the university, but all the same they were not killed. To be sure, there 2

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were professors at the university who permitted the ND’s to organize “ghettos” at lectures, i.e., to seat the Jews on the left. The Jewish students, however, stood throughout the lecture as a sign of protest. The nationalists staged processions with slogans, but these did not reach the level of pogroms. Father took me with him to his workplace at the Jewish Hospital: “Observe this and commit it to memory!” he said. Windows were broken in houses on the narrow Jewish side streets. Papers and feathers were scattered about. A woman with broken ribs was brought to the hospital; she had been thrown from the second story of a building. Some fatalities were recorded. And we had to live under a regime like this? Whom were we being handed over to? Why did the Soviet authorities not take better care of us? A group of hefty policemen appeared. Owing to their heights they were called “eighty meters.” They wore caps with pink cap bands and prominent operetta-style decorations. After the stern and strict Soviet Army, the new authorities seemed less than serious, and their language was outlandish. Doggerel Polish couplets were composed from indecent combinations of Lithuanian words (kur važiuoja and others). Father went to work, where he was compelled to learn Lithuanian in classes. One evening he came out with: “Iki pasimatymo (see you later).” Mama, thinking this was obscene, pulled him up short: “Samuel, in front of the children!” A policeman hit Father with his rubber truncheon because he crossed the street at the wrong place, and this solidified our views about the government. The Polish university was closed. In the heat of the establishment of Lithuanian authority in Vilna, Irka showed up with her family and Julek. They had illegally crossed the Soviet frontier, had been in Lwów for a while, and, again illegally, found themselves in Vilna after crossing the Lithuanian border. They were at the home of her Aunt Liza. Irka and Julek told about the miserable things they had been through, about famine, throngs of refugees in Lwów, mud, and lice. They were able to save only a small portion of their belongings. They were not at all interested in what I cared about. Why should they be? I was just sitting at home and had not lost anything yet. Irka could not grasp what it 223

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was that was tormenting me. She was happy that she could take a bath, eat her fill, and continue her studies. She had been admitted to the graduating class at the Epsztein School. Our interests had diverged. But I loved her as much as ever and our disagreements greatly saddened me. Julek began working as a cashier at a bathhouse since he needed money. Russian words that he had never heard before made him laugh (for example, rabotat’ – to work – sounded to him like the Polish word chrobotać – to rustle). A Lithuanian university was opened in Vilna, but only the linguistics and law departments were based there; the others were in Kowno, and a few people went there to study. Pulling myself together somewhat, I began to attend Lithuanian languages classes with Ela’s friends from school – Danka Lubocki, D. Kupo, and others. I found this extremely distasteful. They argued with me in vain that when the Soviet Union returned Vilna to Lithuania, this was forever since it was the historical capital of Lithuania, which the Polish legionnaires had taken by force. I hated bourgeois Poland, but even more so I hated Smetona’s Lithuania with its strange language. In these transitional months it was difficult to find any food products. The merchant at a wholesale shop teased Mama: “In the old days you ordered sugar in five kilogram bags. Now you would like to buy a big bag of it, but we don’t have any!” Father’s relatives in Kowno, his cousin Zarkhi, sent us packages of food. This did not bother me so much. What killed me was my treachery, my cowardice. I did not read anything, I walked around like a fish out of water, and I sometimes cried in front of Ela, who reassured me that even here we would be all right. I wrote Miron and begged him one way or another to copy out an order sending me to Minsk. The huge lines for permits to the Soviet Union grew longer and longer. They had reasons to leave – relatives in Western Belorussia, and I envied them. People were living a full life there, working, creating things… The planet was at war. Our enemies were the embodiment of evil. The Soviet Union concluded a treaty with Hitler’s Germany and in so doing helped the Nazis subjugate the Western nations. Yet another shock was the 224

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USSR’s war with Finland. How could a socialist country declare war? I did not know how to answer these questions, but my heart was heavy. Frightening news came in from the West. We went to the post office on Wielka Street to send packages to Mama’s Uncle Leon in the Warsaw ghetto. But what was really going on there never entered our heads. Miron wrote to Grandmother; I hung around at her place for days on end. It was all right to tell everything to Grandmother. She was sorry for me, but she did not understand. Miron wrote that there was no unemployment in Minsk, that there were help wanted announcements everywhere: workers and people of various specialties were in demand. He was working at a radio manufacturing plant, was living in a dormitory, had married the girl he had left Vilna with, and was expecting a child. But life was difficult; there were not enough food or electrical appliances, and the winter turned out to be unusually cold. A group of leftist youth from Kowno came to see Ela at school. She was absolutely enthusiastic about them: “They are so smart!” After conferring with our comrades, we decided to travel to Kowno to forge a link with the underground party and explain our situation. Maybe they could give us some assignments and forgive our sins. Immediately after New Year’s, Ela and I set out for Kowno. It was forty degrees of frost outside. Ela was hoping to link up with the Kownoyouths who went to her school. Father’s cousin Zarkhi put me up at their building and pharmacy on Wileńska Street. Their nephew Wiktor, a medical student, lived with them. Zarkhi thought that I would make a good bride for him. Ela and I agreed to meet at the Levas sisters’ place on Laisves Prospect, where their gourmet food shop was located on the first floor. They were cheerful, outgoing girls, and young people crowded into their home. We decided to look for like-minded people there. Wiktor volunteered to accompany me. When he found out where I was planning to go, he was indignant: “You have come under bad influences. Don’t you know that they are leftists?” He cramped my style. So what if he was a knock-out? One’s political convictions were far more important, and he was only a self-satisfied petit 225

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bourgeois from Jurbarkas. We could barely get away from him. Wiktor contritely informed my uncle that I was meeting leftists. Uncle let this go without comment. We were invited to a party at the Sholom Aleichem School. We had a good time there, but I did not know how to speak Yiddish, and that greatly embarrassed me. We focused our attention on Dodik L. a kind and attentive young man who was very ugly and skinny, and also on stocky Leon Mackiewicz, a student in his second year at the poly-technical institute. I conferred with Ela. We had to say frankly that we needed a “contact” (which at that time stood for a link to the communists). I was taking a risk, relying on my intuition after a lengthy conversation about politics. Leon did not say anything in reply, and we did not know whether we had spoken persuasively to him. Or would he turn us in to the authorities? On the way home we ducked into the entrances of buildings to warm up; it was hard to breathe the frosty air, and my frostbitten cheeks burned. The next day Leon invited us to an apartment on the top floor of a building in which the police occupied the ground floor. Ela and I went. A friendly girl welcomed us. We were talking with her when the door opened and a man of average height with a shaven head, wearing a jacket, appeared and conducted a serious conversation with us. He addressed Ela, whereupon she translated his questions for me from Jewish. The man was interested in our opinions about politics and working with young people. Then he shifted over to Russian and spoke correctly, without an accent. When I confessed that I felt guilty about not leaving for the USSR, he said something that very much astonished me: “To go cravenly to the Soviet Union is not heroism. We need people to stay here and work. We have so much going on.” A mountain fell off my shoulders. This meant that we were not deserters; so we had acted correctly and could stay! The man (the others called him Sergey) was intelligent and serious; obviously he had been through a great deal. His shaven head clearly revealed that he had spent time in prison. He praised me for my understanding of work with youth, and I was flattered. He specified: 226

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“You must enroll in the university and involve yourself in organizing a leftist group at Vilna University. In addition, you should bring together all the Komsomol members and sympathizers in the schools, and also recruit a mass organization in the University. Student corporations already exist in Lithuania. Organize, the same as at Kowno University, a Sholom Aleichem society. Discuss political questions as well as cultural issues; educate the youth. We will stay in touch with you and check up your work. Get started on the job.” We left inspired: they had believed us, they did not reject us! They did not blame us for not leaving the country. We had a goal, a field of activity. On our return from Kowno, I spent the night at Ela’s since she lived next to the station and it was late. We were so caught up with the plans for our work that we could not sleep. Ela noticed that I liked Leon: “He is kind and serious. I think you are going to be close friends.” I doubted this, not believing in myself at all. I was too humble. However, my mood was upbeat. When we are young, there is little enough of this. The most important thing was that we could tell our Vilna comrades that the connection was established and we had a mission to perform. My parents were glad that I had cheered up, that I wanted to continue my studies. I submitted my application to the universtiy and was accepted by the Romance Languages Department (French); Ela was admitted to the Germanistics Department (German language). I attended the lectures of the fourth class in nineteenth century literature inasmuch as they were reading French there. The lower level classes were given in Lithuanian, which I did not know. I became acquainted with Feiga Sh., a student in her third year at the Athletics-Humanities Department, and Zelda K. in the law school. The other disciplines were located in Kowno. Feiga rented a room on Tatarska Street with an entrance off a long passageway. We met at her place to discuss our projects. We gave Rector Mykolas Biržiška a petition to permit the founding of a Sholom Aleichim Jewish Society. We collected more than thirty signatures and obtained authorization. They gave us the key to the auditorium, where we could meet for two hours provided that we informed the administration 227

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of the topic in advance. I remember Miron’s report to us “On the Role of Personality in History” (written in capital letters on invariably narrow lines). We discussed various topics, including, of course, political topics. Labor unions were explained to us. We needed to organize a united front of leftist students to occupy positions in the union and help low-income students find dormitories and meals. We conducted conversations with students in order to identify like-minded people and involve them in our front. At the same time we worked in the schools. I was at the “Oświata” (Enlightenment) School on Wileńska Street, where I led circles with our former comrades. I was nervous on each occasion, since I did not know how to talk smoothly, got agitated, and was afraid of not appearing smart enough. The situation was complex: war was being waged in the West, and many people found the Hitler-Stalin Pact to be incomprehensible. I, too, did not know its true rationale. There were no Soviet soldiers on the street. They were located on bases set aside for them. I remember canoeing with Miron in the summer and encountering them in Trinopol and Werki. They were washing laundry and singing “Oi, ty Galyu” or “Katyusha.” They were poorly dressed. Our hearts shuddered: what would become of us if we lost the war here… . For we knew that this was only a breathing spell, and a mighty clash with the Nazis lay in store for us. At the end of April Ela and I went to Kowno. I remember that the snow was melting, and in places the ground was already bare. David L. showed us the funicular and Green Mountain. Ela urged me to go to Mariampol, where Leon was serving in the army (he had been called up in his second year at the poly-technical institute), but I decided not to go. This would have clearly demonstrated that I was attracted to him. Józio helped me write him letters in Yiddish, and Leon replied. Our thoughts were swallowed up by events in the West. For the Nazis had occupied Norway and Denmark, followed somewhat later by Holland, Belgium, and Luxembourg. Would our peaceful life last much longer? On Irka’s birthday in April, Sergey came to see me; we walked through Rossa, went over developments at the university, and I was late to her party. Irka was completely swept up with preparations for her school certificate 228

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exams. After everything that she had gone through, she had no time for politics. Our interests had diverged. I burst into her place, sweaty and tired. It was radiant springtime, buds were swelling on the trees, grass and snowdrops were pushing up out of the soil. It flattered me that Sergey, who was so serious-minded, whose wife had been killed in prison and whose baby had died, should talk things over with me like an equal, did not consider me stupid, and in general seemed to like my company. I saw this, but I did not have any tender feelings toward him. Then it was the First of May with flyers and a demonstration. Irka passed her exams. We moved to the dacha. We lived a quiet life at home, in comfort and plenty. I could not understand Irka, for everything they owned had disappeared – their chic apartment, car, furniture, friends, and jobs. A person is able to understand only what he himself has experienced. In the winter we took in a family of refugees from Warsaw… a rich banker and his two daughters. They occupied my room, lounged about, and luxuriated half the day in bed. Their plan was to go to America by way of Japan. Our guests acted as though they owned the premises. The messy, capricious girls stuck their noses in everywhere. I roved all winter from room to room. Messengers from Kowno who came to see me often stayed overnight – Leon, Imka, and others in our organization. Mama was angry that she had to change the sheets now and then. At home, of course, the X-ray office functioned, physical therapy procedures were conducted, and yet another room was occupied by refugees. They finally left, hoping to save their own precious hides, and we sighed in relief, as in the story about the Jew and the goat. Things were free and clear at the dacha. I read a lot. Sergey brought me N. Ostrovsky’s book, How the Steel Was Tempered, and I gradually mastered the Russian text. I was not a speed reader. Once Sergey asked me to read aloud and was disappointed. He read better. I spoke fine because Mama and my father conversed in Russian, but my grammar was worse. Sergey took a room from a landlady on the outskirts of Antokol under the guise of a student and asked me, in the event that something happened, to say that he was out of town. From his lodgings to our dacha was only two kilometers, and he sometimes walked over to us bringing books. We 229

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wandered through the forest talking. Being with him was tiring. I had to try to answer intelligently. His knowledge of Marxism and his political sophistication weighed me down. I listened enthusiastically to Sergey’s discourse on the happiness of future generations, about houses and kindergartens, about free medical care and education. But I, of course, thinking about ourselves, reasoned that our destiny involved suffering and struggle, prisons and exile, like the People’s Will in nineteenth century Russia. It appeared that socialism would bring brotherhood and joy, which we never even dreamed about. A completely different world, a different future revealed itself to me. My parents grumbled: “A scruffy older student is here for you (Sergey was three years older than I was), with a sour expression on his face, crude, and he looked at me sullenly.” Miron was in Minsk. His son Józef had been born. They did not have the most essential things for the baby, not even an electric hot plate. We sent him whatever we could. Increasingly disturbing news came from the West. Hitler had conquered France and was bombing England. It seemed that no one had the power to resist him. At the end of June our friends ran in and told us about the note from the Soviet Union to Lithuania: the bourgois authorities were not carrying out their treaty obligations, they had expressed their views unacceptably to the Soviet state, and a Soviet soldier had been killed at their base. It was very disturbing. Meanwhile Wiktor Zarkhi, my nephew in Kowno, turned up. Mama had forced me to be attentive to him, to take first a blanket, then a pillow to him in the forest. This was reprehensible to me; there was no need for me to idolize him. I wanted very much to have a boyfriend, but not a corporate-minded suitor, alien to me in spirit. My parents would not let me go downtown, so I “exploited Vitenka [Wiktor].” I would go with him, show him the city. Mama was overjoyed and let me go. We went to Ezriel Żabiński place in town, where our friends were meeting; I left Wiktor down below on the street and sent someone out to talk to him, in order to get rid of him. I did not see him anymore and did not return to the dacha. Sergey decided to collect all the guys and give them instructions. It was a beautiful early summer day. We met in Werki, went on foot to the 230

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Green Lakes, and paddled our boats to the other side, where there was a café. We ordered something, ate up our provisions, and Sergey explained the situation to us. We tried to memorize everything – taking notes was forbidden, but we had to repeat everything in schools and at the university. Then we got back in our boats. Sergey went from boat to boat and talked with us again. Unusual beauty surrounded us. The fresh foliage turned bright green in the sun. We got home on foot and heard the news there: there had been a coup d’état – the government was overthrown. The authorities immediately bared their fangs. Many were arrested, including Sergey. I had to go to his apartment and tell his landlady that he had, as it were, gone away. I remembered trudging to Antokol anticipating an ambush there. But no one was there, and the landlady thanked me for walking over and alerting her. We were worried about our comrades, who could be killed. Without Sergey we did not know what to do. The bourgeois government, feeling that they were at the end of their rope, would stop at nothing. We were afraid there could be shootings and executions in the prisons. Crowds of people gathered on the streets and held meetings. People of various political stripes, well-known writers and journalists, spoke out. Workers hung red flags on overhead wires and fastened them so strongly that only firemen on long ladders could remove them. A new Lithuanian government was formed. The former president, Antanas Smetona, fled abroad. Justus Palecki and Salomeja Neris spoke at meetings. Every day a crowd of protesters headed toward the Soviet embassy on Basanavicius Street to demand the union of Lithuania with the Soviet Union. On Łukiszki Square crowds of people with streamers listened to speeches in several different languages. Policemen beat up Miszka, who was hanging up a banner. But Paweł was still imprisoned, and we thought with terror about all that was irretrievable.

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A CHANGE OF REGIME Soviet tanks entered the city down Zawalna Street. Youngsters scrambled up on the tanks and yelled triumphantly. Sergey appeared and told us that they had beaten him in prison and threatened to shoot him, but he had carried himself with dignity. I noticed a change in him: he had become nervous and short with people. Ela assured me that this was the result of everything he had been through, and she came to his defense. I never went home at all. There was no time either to sleep or to eat. The power of the Soviets had finally been proclaimed. It was the revolution, short and stormy, but victimless. I went with Sergey to select a home for the Komsomol gorkom. I could not grasp all that had occurred, could not believe that this was for real. We dropped in at a bank building on Gedimino Prospect – some older employees were working there. Abruptly and sternly, Sergey demanded that everyone leave the room. We chose an office for the secretary, and I became his assistant, his right-hand person. There began a series of difficult work days. My parents did not allow me to go to the Komsomol. “Everything is in transit,” they argued, “don’t get mixed up in politics; otherwise it’s going to be worse. The world is at war, and the Bolsheviks are adventurers; you can’t rely on them.” Father tried to persuade me: “You are a fool. They are carrying out their revolution with your help. They are exploiting you, and you are all acting like brainless sheep.” I had to move in with Grandmother; she allowed me to do anything I wanted. Father did not give us any money, and he did not pay us any wages. There was nothing to eat, and I would not allow myself to be fed by grandmother. Toward the end of the summer my menu consisted of bread with tomatoes that were very cheap at that time. Once Father came in, called me, and took me to the restaurant across the street to have lunch. This was the only time I ate my fill that whole summer. Father tried to sniff out my plans and persuade me to go back to the university. It was summer now, and we were having a heat wave. When I left home, I was wearing a single light blue, garish dress with a stiff collar which I washed every other day, but I did not return home. Paweł had the silly habit of working day and night. 232

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Everyone was a bit afraid of him. If someone urgently needed to summon him out of his apartment, they turned to me. Then the party gorkom, which occupied all the rooms in the former bank, began to put pressure on us. We moved over to a building on Orzeszkowa Square next to my former school. Here there was no magnificent parquet floor as there was at the bank; by the way, we succeeded in thoroughly trampling it underfoot, and a commission of the Komsomol central committee chalked this up against us. They did not especially value our unstinting labor or the sleepless, unpaid nights that we devoted to our task; rather, they focused solely on the disorderly state of the premises. Leon came over; he had already been promoted to lieutenant and was going around in a greatcoat that reached down to his heels with buttons in back. The other girls gaped at him, and this flattered me. He lived at a hotel, worked at an army newspaper, and frequently stopped by to chat. A Red Army song and dance ensemble came in to give concerts; tickets were handed out at work. Father and Mama obtained seats in the eighth row, Leon in the first. I remember Father and Mama being already dressed and ready to go to the concert while I was sitting and waiting for my “date.” He was held up at work, and I was getting nervous. Finally Leon ran up, and we rushed to Philharmonic Hall, but we were late. We were ushered in after the concert had begun. I was wearing Mama’s black velvet dress with a lace collar and lace cuffs. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the young lady with the Soviet officer. I was embarrassed and proud at the same time. People in the audience began to bombard my parents with questions. Who was Lala going out with? Was the officer Jewish? This would not happen under the Poles. Once the mother of Onia B. saw that we had a greatcoat on a coat hanger in the hall. A young MGB officer was seeing Onia. They had met at the elections. Onia’s mother asked sympathetically, “And do you have a greatcoat?” I laughed merrily. I did not love Leon, but it pleased me that he was pursuing me. He was serious, his hair was smooth, he conducted himself well, he was not importunate, and the other girls envied me. By fall we had moved into our building on Wileńska 20. Lithuania did not have a law safeguarding the rights of tenants, and Father finally evicted 233

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Vaiman, the owner of an electrical shop in the building across the street. We occupied two apartments: in the one with an entrance on Wileńska Street we set up the x-ray office and a waiting room; our living quarters were in the one on Gdánsk Street: my small seven-meter room, the dining room, where Józio slept; beyond it was the bedroom and a kitchen to the right with an exit onto the courtyard and the garden. I could not get used to the new apartment, but I was seldom home, and domestic activities were not especially inviting to me. Even back in the days of independent Lithuania, a Soviet bookstore was open, and I often dropped in there to look around. I bought The History of the VKP(b) (Communist Party History AH), Atlas of the USSR, and How the Steel Was Tempered. These were the first books that I owned. I greatly loved going into this little store on Tatarska Street; you could smell the special kind of glue they used there. I also borrowed books from the library under the mistaken assumption that all Soviet books were valuable; I would jot down thoughts and quotations, and I would frequently be surprised that there could be books which were totally uninteresting. We bought the dachshund Willy and kept him at home. Józio called him Wilhelm. Black with brown burn marks, he was very entertaining. When we let him out into the garden for the first time, he dug a hole with his paws and fell into it himself; he yelped and wallowed around in it. We loved him very much – even Father, the strict adherent of hygiene, who braved Mama’s wrath and secretly fed him under the table: “You will teach the dog bad habits!”

AT THE UNIVERSITY In the fall the whole university moved to Vilna. I applied for admission to the biology department. I was not admitted right away (my father was bourgeois, and he owned a house), even though I was on the admissions committee. Dr. Sedlis came in on behalf of his son. This flattered me although I was indignant and would not submit to “pull.” 234

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When I resumed my studies, my father forgave me. Our home and dacha were nationalized. We had to take all of our furniture out of the dacha and load it into the attic. This was a blow to my parents, but it did not bother me. I found it hard to study in the Lithuanian language. I liked botany, zoology less so, I hated physics, and I did well in chemistry despite the “three” marked on my certificate. I enjoyed sketching chemical models in the laboratory classes. Crystallography and mineralogy were completely incomprehensible to me although gradually, after taking supplementary classes from Professor Kaweckas, I got the hang of it all and was able to explain it to others myself. I am reminded of Kaweckas’s lecture in Polish in our large auditorium owing to the professor’s touching linguistic mistakes. Thus, having drawn a line, he called it “ordinary” (ordynarna in Polish, meaning crude, untidy). Realizing that the auditorium was laughing, the professor turned to the students and said sadly: “You have unlearned your Polish, but you have not yet learned your Lithuanian.” This was characteristic of many of our local intelligentsia who wanted to be considered Lithuanians and who forgot their Polish origins. We gave a New Year’s Eve party at our house. Mama and our housemaid Bronka sat down in the bedroom, and Bronka looked through the keyhole. We were putting on a show, “The Komsomol in Paradise.” Sergey was Almighty God (Ezya played him), and Ela was the bench under his feet. I was a machine gun, and so forth. Ezriel came up with some very funny lines, and we rolled with laughter. Sergey took offense and ordered Ela to leave. Bronka looked through the keyhole and whispered to my mom: “They’re leaving, Ma’am.” But we were having fun, although not without a bitter aftertaste. The moor had done his duty, the moor could go. It turned out that Father was right when he said: “They are using you; they are raking up the fire with your hands.” It was true – many Jewish underground activists had already been pushed aside at work and Lithuanians had been appointed in their place. They were called “national cadres.” 235

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It was a severe winter. A flock of us visited Leon in the George Hotel, where he was living. Here he and a friend, confident that their pistols were not loaded, had begun to fire at the wall and through a hole. At least they had the good sense not to aim at anyone. We heatedly discussed the incident. Then we walked around casually for a long time, and my knees got frostbitten in my silk stockings. This caused me a lot of pain later on, but at the time the most important thing was to keep up with fashion. Elections were held in the winter, and I was appointed a member of the commission (I considered it an honor). The polling place was on Komunaru Street. This was by and large a bourgeois area, and a few nuns lived there also. None of them appeared at the voting. The percentage of voters was pitifully small. In the afternoon the communist Alma descended with her commission members and commanded us to go around the neighborhood inviting people to vote, but many residents boycotted the elections. Father taught me how to count the votes in groups of ten houses each. At night we totaled up the votes and came up with about an eighty percent turnout, whereas the chairman had ordered us to report ninety percent. I angrily refused, considering myself responsible for accuracy and adherence to the rules. Therefore, we (our voting precinct) turned out to be one of the worst areas of the city in terms of voter turnout. I dragged myself home to catch up on my sleep. It was blessedly close by. In the morning I started to read about cells and tissues. I would have to take seven exams. It was hard to study. I had taken only five exams, and in no way could I make up my mind to take the one in Lithuanian. They struck me off the list of students owing to this overdue obligation. Father had to go see the rector to appeal my case. In view of the services I had rendered, and thanks to my “fives” in other subjects, they readmitted me. But I had had a previous conflict with the curator, Professor Jonas Dagis. At the beginning of the year the students had elected me class chairman. Professor Dagis protested at an assembly in the botany department auditorium that I would not do since I did not know Lithuanian. I reported this to Sergey, who accused the rector: “This Komsomol girl was elected chair, and now you are sabotaging the elections.” 236

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The next day Dagis addressed me in front of the whole auditorium: “I did not know that you were such a high-ranking personage,” he stated in everyone’s hearing. “You may continue to serve as chair.” I declined and nominated Alexander U. instead. He was elected. I was actually afraid of the extra load that the chairmanship would place upon me. Dagis’s assistant, Shopauskene, was delighted with my sketches and the work I turned in, and she could not stop laughing: “He’s so ingratiating toward you. He’s afraid of getting into a conflict with you.” It was cozy in the laboratory, with snow on the ground outdoors. We were sketching a microscopic section of a stalk in three colors. This enthralled me. We discussed the numerous Soviet films which we saw; our ears were ringing with the tunes from the fairy tale “Vasilisa the Beautiful.” We liked all the movies, which were completely new to us. They glorified our most sublime emotions. I remember “Three Tank Soldiers” and “Four Hearts.” Children’s films and romantic films with stirring music were also good. I stopped going to the gorkom. New people were there, and I took it as an affront that we ex-fighters were simply pushed aside. We were fine for the job when it was necessary to work without pay day and night, to quarrel with our parents, to go hungry, to travel around the city districts. Then they began to promote the national cadres, that is, to get along without us. So I went off to complete my studies, but the resentment lingered. My studies were difficult, and exams were approaching. Without particular trouble I passed the Introduction to Biology course given by the formidable Professor Ivanauskas, but I was not well prepared for the entire term. It tormented me, and I could not sleep. Urgent daily matters absorbed my attention although I knew that a war was being fought somewhere in the world, that it was right at our doorstep, and only a few precious months remained in our peacetime life. Just before the exams I was shaking. Irka was also a student in the biology department, and we drew closer together again. We planned our vacation. Leon was at the army camp near Pabrade. Irka and I decided to get a room at a private inn there in the summer. We would all see each other. 237

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I studied thoroughly for the exam on the anatomy and morphology of plants on the assumption that they would find fault with me. Professor Dagis brought an armful of herbs to the exam and began to ask for their Latin names even though they were not in the syllabus. I knew them by heart, for example taraxacum officinale, and received an “excellent-plus.” This was important; I wanted to prove to him that I was a serious student. I was fully immersed in the exams. Irka and I studied chemistry together on the balcony since Professor Dauksza knew Lithuanian, not Russian. In the exam I wrote out formulas for him, and we jointly decided that I definitely had a “good” knowledge of the subject. I passed Gorodnicius’s physics exam in Polish with an “excellent.” Geology and invertebrate zoology remained to be done. I feared these exams most of all. Irka, Julek and I decided to study zoology together. They had better memories, and they did not doubt that they would pass, whereas I was afraid of getting a “three.” We crammed from morning to evening, but somehow we did not cover all the material. We got mixed up over the simplest ones of all, the arthropods. I did not come out well: Julek remembered it, and so did Irka, but I did not. Early in June we met up with Luba. She was a student in the economics department and worked on Wileńska Street until four. I often dropped in on her. She lived with her aunts on Saltoniskiu street, and we would walk her there in the evenings. We took our Marxist textbooks along so that we could study together, and picked up some food and Leon (for company). We went to Belmont; she knew all the places there. We climbed a tall hill. Flowers were all around us. The meadow was absolutely covered with white anemones, reddish blue forest peas were blooming, and the trees were clothed in lacy foliage. In the distance a young pine forest darkened. We read the history of the Soviet Communist Party, then had lunch, never ceasing to exclaim over the beauties of Pavilnis. Green hills and trim little houses were seen through the branches. The fast-flowing Wilejka babbled. It was a cold spring. This was then the first time I got out of the city and was happy. It was so remarkable to be able to spend some free time. Because of our studies, of course, we missed every springtime, 238

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the most beautiful time of the year. Everything was set up so stupidly. I adore blossoming trees, buds, and grass, but my job was to sit at home and cram. And it also seemed to me that Luba was making passes at Leon. I was not in love with him, but I considered him my admirer and somewhat resented it. After dinner the sun began to sink, and we walked down the hill. We crossed a little bridge and climbed a hill where the small wooden railroad stationhouse was located. I so distinctly remembered that whole day; later I thought of it many times looking out the window of Mrs. Narkiewicz’s house, where I hid throughout the first winter of the war against the USSR. The Belmont forest could be seen in the distance, and I yearned for Leon’s friendship. How ridiculous my former troubles now appeared in the light of everything that had happened since. It was the last bright day of my prewar life. We were overcome with grief – Grandmother died. Maria, my only grandmother, good-natured and all-understanding, died at her home on Tatarska Street, where she was living with Nadzia. It was a sunny morning. Grandmother had risen early, in a good mood as always, and she began to dust and to sing a little song. Suddenly Nadzia heard something fall. She ran into the room; Grandmother was lying on the floor with a smile on her face. Her heart was not beating. It was angina pectoris, as they said at the time. She had not suffered. Recently Nadzia had been taking care of her. Grandmother had diabetes, and her feet suffered from trophic abscesses. They had to have dressings on them, and Grandmother needed medication. Nadzia loved her very much, spoke with her as she would with a child, brought her food, picked up after her, and herself slept in the connecting dining room. And they had rented an apartment for her on the first floor so that Grandmother could go out into the courtyard easily. Mama cried, and they asked me to run over and say goodbye, but I was afraid of the departed and wanted to remember her as she was when she was alive. Everyone resented my heartlessness. Miron came from Głęboki for the funeral; he lived there with his wife and their son Józio. He was working there as a lawyer, but was unhappy with the living conditions and wanted to return to Vilna. Aunt Żenia, who had managed to return from 239

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her Swiss sanitarium before the war, also came. She had tuberculosis of the knee. Her leg had recovered there in Lausanne, and walking did not require much effort on her part. However, her husband Zygmunt had left her. Żenia was always an unlucky loser. Then the funeral was held at the Jewish Cemetery, far away on a hill. Everyone stood up, not realizing that Grandmother was no longer with us. Nadzia grieved more than anyone. It was on Friday. On Saturday Miron had to go back home. He had succeeded in signing a contract as an attorney in Vilna. He and I met on Ludwisarski Street by a blank wall, next to which lived a knitter who had knit me a suit, blue with red and light blue, and a light blue-gray dress. I remember that Mama took me to see her, but I balked at the idea. I had to study. (I wore that dress later when I walked into the ghetto). Miron said: “I’ll be back on Monday with the family.” But he added: “If war doesn’t start first.” It was funny to hear him say that. I was so far removed from any thought of political concerns. But Miron read a lot and knew a great deal. We kissed goodbye, and I, in spite of the pain and grief that I felt after Grandmother’s death, ran off to my studies. I did not know that I was seeing him for the last time. War broke out two days later. As I found out later, he was evacuated and perished near Jelec deep in European Russia in the winter of 1942-43. He served with the troops of an army tribunal, and Jelec changed hands several times. Aunt Lusia Lewinson told me later in Moscow that he had come to see her: he was courteous, elegant, and as “Western European” as Lani, the hero of the novel she was reading then. Flora Rywin likewise remembered how poor he was at the beginning of the war, and she helped him out. After me, no one will remember him. When Aunt Nadzia came back from America in 1961, we went to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Moscow – for me this was Miron’s tomb; his wife and small son probably died in Głęboki. Chaim and I drove there, but could not discover anything. I often come to stand by the stone wall where we said farewell, and it is as though I were seeing his shade there. I loved him more than if he were my own natural born brother, my own flesh and blood. 240

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GERMANY ATTACKS THE USSR I got up at five in the morning to study a little and go over the easiest material. The sun was shining through the window of my little room early in the morning, and I sat down on the window sill, where it was warmer and cozier. It was Sunday, and there would be an exam in three days. Then I would go to Irka’s and Julek’s to cram some more, I thought to myself. A loud ring at the door tore me out of my place. At such an early hour this could only mean something bad. Irka’s father, Cynek, was standing on the threshold. War. He had just heard it on London radio: the Germans had attacked the Soviet Union. And we were right on the border. I froze with horror. Somewhere the crazy thought flashed through my mind: I don’t need to study anymore! My parents came in, and panic set in. They sent me out to a store we knew on Wielka Pogulanka Street to get a casserole. Irka’s parents, who had already lost everything as refugees, thought that we needed to leave for the east urgently. My parents hesitated – they had an apartment and an x-ray office. They were well acquainted with the condition that destitute refugees found themselves in. And yet we had been continually assured that we would defeat the enemy on the enemy’s territory. Was there any way they could stop the Germans? The Soviet Army, after all, was not the same as their Polish counterparts. I rushed to the gorkom. They were in a state of panic, too; no one knew what to do. Air raids on the city started in the afternoon. This was genuinely terrifying. Bombs fell on the streets adjoining Wileńska Street. Many of our colleagues immediately began to get ready to go east. It was clear that things were going badly at the front. At noon Molotov came on the air and officially reported Germany’s treacherous attack and the heavy fighting that was occurring. Should we really run away? Would this not be treason? I got out my backpack and began to pack things, such as a sheet, in it. God, how much we were going to need; we could not think of sleeping without bed linens. What about winter clothing? No one knew how long the war would last. 241

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Father bent down close to the radio set and listened to foreign stations. He heard nothing that would raise our hopes. On the contrary, they were saying that the Russians were fleeing. How could this be true? After all, we had sung, “We won’t give up an inch of our own soil” and other equally buoyant, supremely self-confident songs. All night we sat in the gorkom burning papers. We could not leave them behind; the Germans would find the Komsomol documents and kill us all. Toward morning a bomb destroyed the building across the street from us. Judith was killed there; I knew her. All the windows in the gorkom were blown out. I ran home. We sat in the basement. The bombings cast a pall on us; we were too scared to stick our noses out. Something inscrutable, unavoidable was advancing on us. Luba rushed in carrying a purse and urged me to leave with her: this was our last chance; later would be too late, and we would not make it. After a sleepless night and the terror of the bombings, I was in no condition to think about it rationally. How could I leave my parents, Józio, and our family home? Where would I wander off to in the outside world? If I had had even a day to think it over, I might have hazarded it. But we did not have an extra day. Everything was suddenly crashing around us; it might as well have been an earthquake. We merely took a step out of the basement when more bombs exploded on Wileńska Street, on Dobrocin Lane – no more than a hundred meters from us. Luba escaped. If only I had known that I would not see her again until after the war, that I would receive a letter from her in the partisan detachment… a piece of news from the home front! Luba was energetic; if I had escaped with her, we would have wangled our way into the Soviet Union. She of course survived. And my life would have turned out differently. Other Komsomol people ran in and said that Sergey and all the party workers had left the city. Had they run away? That could not be true! And without transmitting any instructions? At four o’clock Lithuanian fascist thugs with white armbands appeared. It looked as though they had just been waiting for this moment. Soviet troops were withdrawing eastward, returning fire as they went. They said that a real battle was underway with the white armband troops on Buffalo 242

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Mountain. Trains were no longer running. We were all caught in a trap, and this was only one whole day after Molotov’s speech. That afternoon Leon Mackiewicz ran in to say goodbye. He and I took seats in my room. His platoon was withdrawing to the north; there was just barely enough time, but we could not part. Although I knew that I did not love him, and did not even kiss him goodbye, I was sorry to lose my friend. The minutes that Leon was in my room belonged to the past, which disappeared at a headlong pace. For a few moments I disengaged from the nightmare around us. I squeezed his hand – go, fight for our country. He was expecting me to utter some tender words, but it seemed to me that I did not have the right to say them, to give him any kind of hope for the future; I considered him simply a friend. I was certain that we would all be dead soon, that there was no future. Mackiewicz left. I never saw him again. After the war I found out that Leon and his unit had withdrawn to the north of Vilna and that he was killed a few weeks later. Sometimes I would notice a rather short young man with smooth, evenly cut black hair on the street and would follow him – in some way he would remind me of Leon, whom no one remembers anymore. Later there was shooting on the street – this was Soviet soldiers defending themselves against their enemies with the white armbands. Our neighbors hurried in: it turned out that our custodian Franciszek Lewanowicz, a man who had worked for us for twenty years, whose children Father had treated and had sent to summer camps, Franciszek, who came in to polish the floors, who brought us apples and pears from the orchard, and in general was nearly a member of the family, was on the verge of telling the Lithuanian police that I worked for the MGB (KGB secret police). It seemed to him that this would carry greater weight than to say that I worked for the Komsomol. All our cares landed on Father’s shoulders as usual. After all, he was always in charge of everything. Where was I going to go? I would have to leave home immediately. I knew that I would be leaving for good, that I would never again see my little room with its window looking out on the big building across from it, where Dr. Jakób Wygodzki lived. I smoothed the map 243

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hanging on the wall and glanced at the new books in the bookcase – books that I had bought, that belonged to me. I said farewell to them. Father led me down side-streets to Dr. Legejko’s apartment on Chestnut Street.

PEREGRINATIONS Legejko worked with Father at the hospital, which the Lithuanian Society supported, and he had a working relationship with Father. I hardly knew him at all. Legejko considered himself Lithuanian although all his relatives were Poles. As far as I was concerned, he was a total stranger, an old bachelor. My heart was breaking with grief. This was what I got for not leaving with Luba and our other comrades. Father and I walked past the Buffalo Mountain down Portowa Street. Lithuanians wearing armbands were driving abject, frightened Soviet soldiers down the street. What an indescribably awful sight! The doctor was not home when we knocked. His brother, a judge, was in the apartment. There was nowhere for us to go; going back was impossible. “Kiss the honorable judge’s hand and ask him to allow you to stay if only for one night.” Father had experienced a great deal of humiliation in his life. “I would rather die than kiss someone’s hand. I have never done that in my whole life!” At school they called me stuck up. Besides, I was safe standing behind Father’s back. The judge liked my reply. “It’s all right for the young lady to stay. We’ll see about things tomorrow,” he nodded. Father rushed up to thank him. I had not known before what parents were capable of doing for the sake of saving their children. Then the doctor arrived. He was in an excellent mood. “They’re finally driving the Bolsheviks out,” he stated, “and the Germans will get here. They’re a civilized people, and they’ll soon reestablish order. Just look 244

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what was going on here: people worked their heads off to earn money, they bought houses, and those deadbeats took it away from them and built kindergartens...” The doctor owned several penthouses on Mała Pogulanka and Serakowski ... I kept silent, crushed by being in a strange house, with strangers who among other things supported the Nazis. “We’ll have supper,” he addressed his old nursemaid, the servant Veronica, “and then set up a cot in my office; mademoiselle can spend the night there. Dr. Margolis is my old friend; if he asks me for something, I can’t turn him down.” I could not swallow a single bite. Sitting by the window in the big office, I looked at the dim lights outside. I heard gunfire far away. During the night bombs began to fall, and everyone rushed to the basement; I wanted to stay where I was so the neighbors would not see me, but the doctor did not observe any of the rules of a conspiracy. He placed a high value on his own skin and the lives of the people entrusted to his care. The building was fashionable, the residents knew each other, and they looked at me inquisitively. When we emerged from the shelter, it was already dawn. We looked out the window; German tanks were rolling down Łukiszki Square, and soldiers were making a ruckus; the Nazis had taken the city of my birth almost without a fight. My life without a future had begun. All people on earth think about the future. This is a great boon, but no one understands it; they think this is how it ought to be. I was living in the present moment. Plundering had started in the city. Hardly a day passed without new laws being announced: for example, about the registration of communists and Komsomol members. The doctor brought in some information regarding Jews: they were forbidden to appear on downtown streets, to walk on the sidewalk, to shop at the bazaar before eleven in the morning, to shop at Christian stores; they were ordered to wear white armbands with the shield of David on their sleeves – and a bit later yellow stars on their chests and backs. Rich Jews began to be arrested. After about the middle of July there was fleeting news about Ponary. I sat in the room behind the dining room and looked through theology books. For some reason this was the only kind of books that the judge owned. From time to time the doctor popped in leaving the patients he was 245

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seeing at his home (their number did not decrease; as before, they came in from the countryside) and flung banknotes into his dresser drawer or shouted to old Veronica: “Come get the roosters!” He was referring to the barter payments they gave him. My parents decided to rent a dacha and conceal me there. Mama brought me in a cab to Nemenčinė Highway – to rent a room in the country, a quasi dacha, and settle me there. How much longer could I presume upon Dr. Legejko’s hospitality? The landlady turned us down when she discovered that we were Jews. Mama and I roamed through the woods for a long time. Finally I turned up in Wołokumpia at the cottage of our neighbor, Szymon Chirug. He was a queer, lonely person who people said had formerly been a revolutionary. He rented out his wooden cottage for the summer and lived on the income. Chirug agreed that I could live at his place for a few days. I sat in a room with the blinds closed. Through a small chink I could see green grass and pine trees; it was high summer after all. I lay on the bed and cried; I thought of Miron, my friends, Irka. Szymon came in bringing me some sorrel soup cooked with strawberries. I had never eaten anything more repulsive in my life, but he cooked everything the way he liked it. Sometimes he tried to cheer me up. Mama came back, and we searched for a “dacha” again. Mama left me in the woods and canvassed the houses. I sat on the moss and remembered running through this same clearing recently on my way back from Irka’s dacha in the Magistracki colony; I was hurrying to get home before dark because the woods were very terrifying at night. But now the sun was shining, and the bees were buzzing; it was a magnificent summer day, but if anyone saw me and recognized me, I would be taken to the authorities and everything would be finished. Mama appeared again. She had found a room in the village where Rutka, my lively, beautiful girlfriend, had once lived in a dacha. Mama had paid in advance; I found myself in a room with a veranda and a stove. I had some food and some jam. I chatted with the landlady’s children. We collected lime dye and even went across the river to pick strawberries. No Germans were 246

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in sight there. Nothing was different. The landlady was astonished that I was living alone, but Mama was afraid to leave Father and Józio : the city was being pillaged, and they were picking up young men and older ones, too. I said that I was sixteen years old, and did not have a passport yet; I was trying to conduct myself accordingly and think like a child. A neighbor came in: a soothsayer had told her it was written in a holy book that a black cross would fall, and the Russians would win the war. Of course then they would be subjugated. I remember feeling elated, although I did not believe in holy books and prognostications. But in those scary times cognition grasped at a straw – the swastika cross would fall! To be sure, we would not be around to see it, but Nazism would fail! In the morning I slept a long time with the blinds drawn. Regardless of the danger, youngsters sleep soundly. I got food out of the cold stove (there were not any refrigerators) and some strawberry jam. For the first time in my life I could eat as much as I wanted (of what was available) and when I wanted to eat it. There were masses of time, which for me was unusual. I was always busy, and during the school year I could not find even fifteen minutes to do my reading. I diligently made the bed and picked up my things. In the yard along the fence old lime trees were blossoming. Our neighbor came back from town and brought the news: Germans and their sympathizers were jeering at the Jews and setting ambushes for Jewish men. Early in August a directive was issued: Jews were subjected to a five million ruble indemnity payment. The total sum was not collected, so hostages were killed; the names of L. Kruk and S. Petuchovski were mentioned. Pogroms took place on Nowogródska and Kalwary Streets. The whole time I was deathly afraid of the Germans. All of a sudden a car would appear on the road, I would be snatched away like a sheep under the knife, and I would not be able to do anything about it. There was a breathing spell when we had a thunderstorm and rain. For some reason I thought that they would not come for me in bad weather. Once my cousin Fania Katz came over. She was a blonde, she did not look like a Jew, and she could move safely around the city. Fania brought some food items with her and said that Mama would not leave home; she feared for Father and Józio and was worn out from her fear for me. A day 247

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or two earlier they had picked up Szymon Chirug , who had surreptitiously given me shelter, and they had carried off our friends, the engineer Kawenoki and his son Meier. This had happened no more than three kilometers from me, and I knew nothing about it. Someone had turned them in; they could come and get me, too! How many times I had gone over to their dacha in my childhood and played with Meika and his little dog Daisy. They were such nice people. What was going to happen to them? Later I found out that the Lithuanians with white armbands (Jews called them “mercenary thieves”) caught the men and said they were taking them to work projects. None of them ever returned. After the war Jewish escapees who were forced to cremate the corpses in Ponary in 1943 found a pit where massacred Jewish men apprehended in the summer of 1941 were lying. They identified them from the bundles of underwear and towels they had been ordered to bring with them. “You know, Samuel was listening to London radio,” Fania said. “Stalin gave a very powerful speech. This was the first time he had done that since the war began. He said the Russians would win. The people were inspired.” I caught my breath; tears sprang to my eyes. That meant our men had recovered from the suddenness of the attack. Stalin had spoken. He would lead us to victory. The Germans would be crushed! Fania looked at me in astonishment. “Do you believe in Stalin? What a fanatic you are!” Yes, I believed; I was happy that Stalin was alive and on the job; now everything would be fine. We would just have to be patient. I walked Fania to the steamboat that would take her back to the city. We walked through a field of rye toward the second beach (now there is a meadow there and pine groves). I reflected that Fania would see Mama and Father, could listen to Stalin on the radio, whereas I was in exile, and there was no prospect of relief. A few days later the landlady ordered me to leave: it was too dangerous to keep Jews in one’s house. I begged her to let me wait for Mama, who had promised to come, but she ordered me to clear out immediately. The landlady’s daughter accompanied me to the bridge. I walked through Antokol 248

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on the sidewalk, despite my lack of yellow “armor plates” and the directive ordering Jews to walk on the pavement. On the way I met the girl Rocha Baran. She and I both pretended that she was not at all Jewish. At any moment a German or a policeman could have approached me, and everything, my whole life, would be over. Forty-six years have gone by, and I still remember that whole road leading to Miss Raja’s on Zawalna Street. I could not stand Raja ignorance, insolence, fat crooked legs, and the fact that she had wrecked our family. She had been with us for a long time, first as Józio’s governess, then as Father’s “nurse” in his office. She spied on me and reported what I was up to, including telling Father that she had seen me “with suspicious-looking” boys. She was always “twenty-five.” She depicted herself as one of the intelligentsia, yet she tangled up the terms and words that she used. I always wondered what Father saw in her. How could he find her comparable to Mama, who was beautiful, educated, and noble in her conduct? I was compelled to live at her place on Zawalna for some five days – in a room on the fifth floor that she rented from a landlady. Father came over. I found her food and her beneficence suffocating. I went to the toilet when the landlady was not looking. We could see passers-by on the street near the Protestant-Reformation church and Germans in their hated uniforms. Then I was lucky that Aunt Liza allowed me to come and live with her family. Irka and Julek, Aunt Sonia, and Uncle Cynek were all there. I could share my thoughts and experiences with them there; they loved me, and we all pitied one another. It was only a stone’s throw from Miss Raja on Zawalna to Irka’s on Trocka. I left just before evening, but it was frightening to walk even those few steps on the busy street. I went through the entrance to the building up to the second floor, where the door to Aunt Liza’s apartment was on the right. A familiar huge maple tree was in the courtyard outside the window. So many times I had stood at that spot so happy that I could not breathe when I came over to see Irka after her arrival from Kraków. They opened the door for me, and I found myself among people who were close to me. After my peregrinations among strangers in the city and the 249

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countryside, over almost two months, I was in heaven, even under the conditions of the hell that surrounded us. It was a quiet, if temporary, backwater. There was no need to think about what lay ahead of us, the fact that there was no future. That day we were allotted a few moments of happiness. I settled down in Aunt Liza’s connecting room with a window facing the courtyard. Irka slept in a dark den. A light blue carpet lay as before in the living room; long ago in peacetime we used to sit on it in front of the open hearth of the stove and revealed our secrets and our feelings to each other. Father came over. Everyone had a radio despite the prohibition on them; there was a general discussion of the situation at the front and the news, each item more upsetting than the last one. The Nazis were driving our forces back to the east; there was no relief, no hope of any description. We believed that the Germans would be beaten; otherwise it would have been impossible to live. However, it was clear to everyone that we would have to wait a very long time, and who could say whether we would live to see it? I was sure that I would perish. I was always a pessimist and could not imagine that I would survive the war. Something outlandish was being cooked up in town. Raids were conducted. They were killing communists and Jews. Each day Nazi directives appeared on the walls announcing new restrictions on the Jews. Any hooligan could strike them, spit in their faces. “Activists” broke into houses, stole possessions, and killed. Ira went to a job in the German district on Buffalo Mountain where she washed windows and floors. She came back tired and dirty, but she always brought a loaf of gray bread and sometimes a piece of fatback. An elderly German in the administration took pity on the young Jewish “slave” and wanted to fatten her up. It was the only thing keeping us alive: prices were rising on the black market; three men lived in the apartment, and the family was in dire need. Cynek, always cheerful and indefatigable, found work somewhere, and he found work for Julek as well. I had previously underestimated this young man; I considered him kind but rather lightweight. In these difficult days, however, he proved to be businesslike and wise. Irka, who shared everything with me, told me about her conversation with her father. 250

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“Is Julek your husband?” her father asked. “No, Father, I love him, but I have never yet lived with anyone.” “We have very little time left. You need to experience everything in life. Become man and wife and be happy.” How badly my parents were mistaken in their feelings about Irka; they considered her dissolute, frivolous, and they feared her bad influence on me. At this difficult moment, when I had nowhere to lay my head, and everyone shied away from me, Ira and her family were willing to take me into their family, to share all their miseries and give me a piece of bread. It was cozy at their home; everyone lived amicably with one another, and there was no squabbling. Cynek tried to encourage all of us. I remembered Zakopane in 1935, when he put on Mama’s black raincoat in the rain, and the peasants thought he was a priest. Cynek did not lose his composure and blessed them. And there were his continual jokes and exclamations: “Girls, life is beautiful!” Ira inherited not only his looks, but his buoyancy as well. Youth is youth. Regardless of everything else, I slept marvelously, even though each night could be my last. I always wanted to eat because there was not enough to eat. During the day I picked up, darned, and sewed things for everyone. We had long conversations in the evening, examined ourselves in the mirror, and tried on dresses. I disliked my external appearance, but Irka, who maintained that I was fine and could improve things just by changing my hairdo, ran to get Julek to confirm her words: “Julek, isn’t it true that Lalka is attractive?” Julek was tall and thin with curly fair hair. Well-educated and affectionate, he nodded his head in affirmation. He always tried not to hurt anyone’s feelings, to give pleasure to people, and to me as well. The pleasant life that I had at Ira’s lasted for six weeks. Six weeks in wartime, when disaster lay in wait with every step one took. They seemed an eternity, and I remember everything, each day, all the bright moments in the black night of universal misery and fear. My friendship with Ira grew much stronger in this period of time. We knew that we could lose each other at any minute. I marveled at the maturity and the serious quality of my friend’s judgments. She was older than I was in terms of experience. 251

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After all, she had to go through the ordeal of fleeing Kraków, losing her native home and all her property, suffering hunger and deprivation. I had not had experiences of this kind, but the constant anxiety, the wanderings from one strange dwelling to another, the grief which I imposed on my parents – all of this had an influence on my psyche. These were the last days that we spent together. My parents were always displeased whenever I saw Irka. They considered her a clever, but shallow, person, and they were jealous of my association with her. If only they had known the elevated discussions she and I had together on moral and cultural issues, how we discussed all books and films, how we worked out our views on the world, and how both of us in different corners of Poland simultaneously arrived at our common ideas. The depths of Ira’s thought processes did not at all correspond with her external image – her saucy little eyes, her bright little scarf, and her seductive smile. It was the end of August. The premonition of disaster grew ever stronger. The end of vacation and the start of school had darkened my previous Septembers; now these were the petty griefs of a long past and exceptionally peaceful life. Rumors about Ponary circulated around the city. One of them was that a servant woman had run after a group of men who were being led off to unspecified jobs. She went all the way to Ponary to deliver a package to her boss’ son. But she did not get there in time; all of them were already shot. Father knew that killings were taking place at Ponary. Some lightly wounded women crawled out from under a pile of bloodied bodies. Peasants covered them with straw and drove them to the Jewish Hospital. The women told everything. But Father kept silent; he did not want to frighten us. It is possible that he did not completely believe it himself: the women could have made something up, become confused, or gone crazy. In the dark of the night on September first, a noise on the street woke us up – it was the tramping of a large number of feet accompanied by sobbing and loud cries. Without turning on the light, we rushed to the windows, which looked out on Trocka Street. A crowd of people was moving down the street: They were women with children in their arms, with baby buggies, with their belongings tied up in 252

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bundles, old people, and many children – toddlers and kids a bit older; they were badly dressed, as though they had come straight out of bed. They were walking and walking. It seemed that there was no end to the line. Surrounding them were policemen with carbines and dogs. Or were they Germans? The crowd wavered, and with it certain sounds floated in the air – could they be sighs, or were they groans? Children were crying, and the guards abruptly issued some rough commands. What sort of people were these, and where were they taking them? “Move away from the window; they could shoot right at us or break into the building!” Cynek said in a tone of alarm. We drew the curtain and continued to look in horror. Finally the procession moved off out of sight. Scraps of cloth and strips of paper were scattered on the pavement. Silence… None of us understood what it was all about. “They were Jews, peaceful law-abiding Jews,” Cynek said. “You can tell by their outward appearance, by the way they act. Where did so many people come from?” We did not go back to bed; we were waiting for the next calamity. Father hurried over in the morning: “They removed all the Jews at night from an old Jewish district. How thankful I am that you’re alive! Basically Jewish poor people and a smattering of Poles lived on these dirty, narrow byways with ramshackle houses. The Jews were to be resettled to other apartments; they said that they would transfer them to a camp outside the city in the Ponary neighborhood. The road there goes through Wielka Pogulanka and Legionowa streets. They told people to get ready immediately; they weren’t given enough time to pack their things. It’s all very strange.” Father was disturbed because these side streets led directly to Trocka, where Irka’s family lived: people had been driven out onto the street right next to our building. Father was afraid that they had picked us up, too. “This is somehow suspicious,” Father shook his head. “In my opinion, something terrible is lurking behind it. How can one live with children in the camp, especially when they don’t have clothing, a bed, dishes, or food? It will probably be our turn soon.” 253

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Father, who had had a hard life, was always a pessimist. “Thank God that disaster passed us by this time!” Aunt Sonia countered. She was already used to living for the present day. Father hurried to the hospital, and everyone got down to work on their own affairs. I did not have anything to do, so I immersed myself in thought. I felt that calamity was lying in wait outside the door. Later we learned how they cleared the territory on which the ghetto was formed: The Jews who lived in the area of the former Middle Ages ghetto were exterminated – Jews from Gaona, Glezer, Jatkowa, and Żydowska Streets, the side-streets near Zawalna, as well as from buildings 32, 38, and 40 on Zawalna Street. Several anxious days went by. Every day brought new accounts of massacres, persecutions, and murders. A Jew was beaten to death for walking on the sidewalk… Another was driven out of the market and beaten up because he wanted to buy food for his children… The Germans killed anyone whose yellow stars were not sewn on exactly as was prescribed... Meanwhile “Aryans” continued to walk down the streets – peacefully and decorously going to work, shopping, and attending to their business. We, however, had no rights at all. We could be beaten up; people could spit in our faces and trample us underfoot. How could we endure all of this? How much more did we have to put up with while they killed and exterminated us? The Red Army was retreating all along the front. There was no salvation. My days were filled with unending fear and desperation. I did not think about struggle, about resistance. Nothing would help, we would all perish. Sometime it would rise, the sun of victory, but not for us; we would not see it. Nevertheless a spark of hope remained, for we were quite young, and living without faith in the future was impossible. The Jews in Vilna began to whisper that civilian residents were being shot at Ponary, the same people who were driven out of the ghetto alleyways in the middle of the night. Incredible! There had been five thousand of them – women, old men, and children. They were promised that they would live in natural surroundings at the camp and would work. But the people in surrounding villages heard shooting. One boy succeeded in running away. He asked some peasants for help. No one wanted to believe these horrible rumors, but they became even more horrible. Where were the 254

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men who had been seized on the streets, dragged out of their apartments, and driven off to perform some kind of urgent work project? There was no news of any type from them, yet there were several thousand of them, all unaccounted for. Among them were our friends in the Kawenoki family, who were snatched away in Wołokumpia. So it was not the ghetto that was threatening us. Not concentration camps, not starvation, not degradation, but death. And we were defenseless, helpless, and would be going to our deaths like sheep. Why had I not tried to run off to Russia? Why had I not been able to make a decision, to overcome my fear of difficulties? It is true that many who tried to be evacuated failed to carry it off. They were detained on the former Polish-Soviet frontier, and there were communists among them. My friend Tolka came back with a wound on her cheek; she had tried to go north, to Polotsk, and likewise had been unable to break through. What about our other friends: Ela, Leon, Lubka, Ezriel? Could they no longer be alive? If only I could be at home with my parents and Józio and share all their sorrows and their terrible fate with them! Even this was not granted to me. On the evening of September fifth Father ran over. He was visibly, unrecognizably upset. Dr. Wygodzki, our neighbor, had been killed in Łukiszki prison. He had gone to lodge a protest against the inhuman treatment meted out to the Jews. They had been ordered to hand in all their valuables and money, after which each Jew was left with 300 rubles. Father could no longer rely on the official documentary guarantees from German administrative agencies that permitted him to retain his x-ray office and furniture. The boundaries of the ghetto were defined at a meeting in the magistrate’s office – on both sides of Niemiecka Street, which was not included in the ghetto. The next day all Jews would be relocated with a minimal amount of hand luggage. Father’s “Aryan” friends had secretly revealed this to him. Mama sold her Bechstein piano for a pittance. Polish friends agreed to take her melted down butter and her jam in the watering cans. Mama began to pack suitcases; our servant Bronka and Bronka’s sister Zośka helped her. They had taken a few things for storage at Polish friends’ houses, but the rest, of course, was lost. 255

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“If only you could have remained together in this upheaval,” Cynek said. “We are not going to move into the ghetto; we are going to the peat works in Waka,3 where Jews have been working for several months now. There is more freedom there, and it’ll be easier to escape. It’s surrounded by woods.” “What’s going to happen with Lala? She can’t go home. Gather your things. I’m going to ask Dr. Legejko for help again. We had enough trouble as it was, and now this,” Father said. “Ask about Józio also. Who knows what else there’ll be during the move?” Aunt Sonia tried to speak calmly, without panic. Everything began to spin around in my head, and fear, which had slightly subsided while I was living at Irka’s, again took over my whole being. Again I would face a nomadic existence, loneliness, and fear, fear, the impossibility of answering mockery and torment. I quickly folded my knit wool suit into a small black suitcase (Mama had gone with me so recently to try it on at the knitter’s shop on Ludwisarski Street, but I had not wanted to go, claiming that I had no time, the university term was so pressing, exams were looming). I took the summer dresses, underwear, and shoes which my parents had bought for me as an adult on my graduation from school. Right away I put on two dresses, a skirt, and my long blue coat. Father’s friend arrived: “I must accompany you to the meeting place. From there they will drive you to Legejko’s dacha. Say goodbye and let’s go.” Everyone dropped their work, their packing, sorting out things, and came out to say goodbye to me. “Bless you, Laleńko, it’s harder for you than for us,” Aunt Liza said. “At least we are all together. Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime. Farewell.” Irka fully understood the gravity of the situation. But I did not imagine that I was saying farewell forever, that I would never see her again. I was completely in the grip of fear… I would be out on the street again, among strangers, Germans, policemen, in a strange house where there was no one to turn to in case of need. 3

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Currently Voke, a Vilnius suburb.

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We went out on the street. Until then I had not left the apartment for six weeks. I looked back into the windows of the people who had sheltered me. They themselves had no more than a few hours left to stay there. Farewell, Irka, your family, all of you good, kind people who have been so dear to me. We walked down Trocka Street, and I thought about the dacha in Pośpieszki where I would have to hide. “You forgot your suitcase! Shall we go back for it?” my escort cried out horrified. I decided not to go back. In any event those things would no longer do me any good. We would not be alive much longer, so what did I need dresses and shoes for? No one was waiting for us at the appointed place. The situation was desperate. Where could I go? We decided to set out for Dr. Legejko’s home. A new period of wanderings and debasement lay before me. Later I often thought about the role of chance in life. If we had succeeded then in getting to the dacha, it was possible that in time Dr. Legejko might have ferried my whole family there, and all of us would have been saved. Indeed, the Zabłocki were able to live at the dacha throughout the entire war. Things turned out differently, however. We walked along the busy downtown streets of the city. At any moment I could have met someone who knew me, yet Father had told everyone that I had been evacuated. Right now someone could come up and say: “Let’s go to the police.” And I would have gone! I was well aware that I would be going to my death! I was not walking on the pavement, but on the sidewalk, without yellow stars. This in itself was a crime. And what if they also recognized me? Now we were at Dr. Legejko’s house. Silently, fearing that someone might see me, I climbed up to the third floor. Veronica opened the door. The honorable judge was amazed: “But you were supposed to go to the dacha. Never mind, wait for my brother.” The doctor arrived and decided to allow me to spend the night at his apartment. He called Father: 257

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“Bring your son with you. Let him also stay here for a couple of days. Because there’s going to be a hullabaloo. It’ll be easier for you to make a move without children around.” Józio arrived shortly. We had not seen each other for several months. He had grown up, had become a man, for he was now thirteen years old. Józio was frightened and downcast. We spent the night in the office together on the sofa and a cot; we tried not to bother anyone. We even washed up in the bathroom at the same time so that we would not occupy the room too long. On the morning of September 7, Legejko left for work. He had many friends and acquaintances in the new fascist government, which he fully approved of. “I’ll find out how your parents are doing,” he nodded on his way out. The two of us sat down in the small bedroom beyond the connecting dining room. The bookshelf contained all of the same theological books; there were also spiritualistic works about life after death and whirling disks. In the half-open drawers of the dresser lay a welter of banknotes that had been thrust there – compensation from the doctor’s patients for their treatment. There was no news from our parents. On that day Legejko did not see them. They fed us lunch and supper; I battled quietly with Józio, whose behavior was not particularly exemplary. We spent another night in the office. Drunken Germans were carousing on the street. The light from the street lamps and possibly also the moon flooded the office, and I could not go to sleep. In the morning Legejko made the following arrangements: “Veronica, fix up some buttered sandwiches with meat and sausage; wrap up each one separately and attractively. I’m going to the ghetto to drop in on some people I know; since in their new circumstances they’re not going to be able to eat well, and they’ve had so much trouble with their move.” There was something silly and comical about his words. These were people who had lost everything. They were being mocked and forced to live in some sort of pound. They were threatened with total ruin, yet Dr. Legejko was concerned about how they were dining. He could not even imagine that the inconveniences of daily life were not their only problems. Toward evening Legejko came home tired but with a feeling of duty accomplished. 258

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“I saw your parents and Dr. Feigus,” he reported. “There were crowds of people in the ghetto. I, of course, was admitted right away through the Rudnicka Street entrance. I treated all my friends to sandwiches. It was a pity that I didn’t bring a thermos. Just as I feared, they had not had lunch, and everyone was very grateful to me. Colleague Margolis and his wife are at the hospital for the time being (the hospital of the Jewish Community was situated on ghetto territory – at the corner of Zawalna and Szpitalna); later they’ll get an apartment. Given time, order will be imposed, but in the meantime it is still very noisy and unsettled.” Thank God that Father and Mama were alive, were thinking about us, and were settling down; everything was going to turn out all right. Later, much later, when I entered the ghetto in the spring of 1942, I found out how much my parents had to go through on their first day in the ghetto. By no means all Jews were given the honor of admission to the ghetto. The Nazis and their fascist allies had prescribed in advance who was to be driven directly into one of the two ghettos and who was going to Łukiszki prison (and from there to their deaths in Ponary). In the course of the move into the ghetto all the Jews from Kalwary, Pogulanka, and Antokol were killed. First they were taken by force to Łukiszki and from there to Ponary. The Jews from Wileńska Street, where we lived, were all driven into Lida Alley, which was outside the ghetto. The exits onto Aryan streets were walled off. Father was able to make his way into the hospital. He proved that he was a doctor and worked there. In addition, he had an excellent command of German. The rumor went the rounds in the ghetto that the Jews from Lida Alley faced death. How could he get Mama into the ghetto? Otherwise she would perish! Father came back with paramedics and a stretcher; they put Mama, who was overweight and whose legs were ailing, on the stretcher, and the Germans let them through the gate. Mama was admitted to the hospital and for the time being was safe. That morning Lida Alley was emptied – all the Jews were carried off to Ponary, to their deaths. It was an act of routine cunning and villainy by the Nazis. But at this time I did not know anything about this, just as I knew nothing about all the horrors of the ghetto resettlement, the mocking, the beatings, the 259

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fierce struggle for survival, for dwelling places, for space – forty thousand people now had to fit into an area from which four thousand Jews had been carted off to Ponary. Christians faced death for hiding Jews. For a few days Józio stayed with me; then he was taken to the ghetto. No one wanted to hide the boy in the city; it would have been too dangerous. I stayed at Dr. Legejko’s. He settled the family of the tradeswoman he knew, Ms. Zabłocka, who had supplied him with something in peacetime. I was languishing from fear and loneliness. As before, the doctor called for Veronica to pick up the roosters, tossed money into the dresser, and braced me up with optimistic statements. Outside the window the birch trees gradually turned yellow. The ghetto entrances were closed, and the doctor could no longer visit Father, except that sometimes he would get scraps of news from him via Jews who were driven out into the city to perform work. The latter would pass on notes to Poles they knew, who in turn would send food into the ghetto. No one knew about my stay at Dr. Legejko’s except his brother the judge and Veronica. I lived one day at a time and tried not to think about the future because there was no future anyway. In the afternoon we all had lunch in the dining room, and the doctor, the only one of us who worked in town, told us the news and exulted over the fascist administration. “What clever, sensible people the Germans are,” he exclaimed. “They are all precise, they know what they want, they are organized and demanding. It’s hard, but sacrifices and victims are unavoidable. But this is a transitional period. That’s why they are persecuting the Jews. Later, when everything is smoothed over, when communism is over and done with, they will understand that the Jews... well, that’s only rational. But how well the new authorities understand the interests of the Lithuanian people!” I listened with dread and bitterness to the doctor’s speeches, but I did not have the right to reply; I was completely dependent on him. I wearied of idleness. I was schooled to perform labor my whole childhood and youth: read, play the piano, do your homework, study your French, 260

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get ready for the class project, pick up your things, go to the store! Not for a minute could I sit with my hands folded; during the school year there was not even enough time to do a little reading. Yet here there was the torment of idleness; there was nothing to read except the judge’s mystical literature. The yard man brought bags of apples over from the dacha, and we had several nice days; I cut up some sweet smelling green sections for red bilberry jam and marmalade. Even now I remember the pleasure I had from working in the kitchen. Time flew by quickly, and things were not so scary. The doctor brought home a short letter from Father. Life was settling down; they had obtained a little room, and the three of them were living in it with Sonia Wojczyk’s family. Sonia had been Father’s nurse at the hospital accounting office, and I had known her at the tourist camp in Jaremcza in 1938. They were not starving, and Father was working at the hospital. But I needed to go to Dr. Legejko’s sister’s apartment on Dobrocin Lane to bring her the suitcase with our things in it. It would be difficult for the elderly Legejko brothers to do this. A wild fear of the street shackled my heart. For such a long time I had been sitting indoors while out there on the street were policemen and Germans. Toward evening I put on the coat that belonged to Irina’s mother – made of artificial fur in a “tiger” pattern with brown spots. It was dark out on the street, and there were lots of people. Streetlights were burning brightly on Mickiewicz near the George Restaurant, and drunken Germans with painted ladies were singing “Lili Marlene,” a favorite German hit. For no good reason I had chosen a route down the main street, but this was the shortest way, and I wanted to reach my destination as fast as possible. I remember this foray with the suitcase as if it were today. Now came the turn onto Wileńska; people could recognize me here since I had lived my whole life on this street – in building 39, later 20. Perhaps the darkness would hide me. I turned down an alley and went to the second building from the corner; a garden was in front, and a wooden home stood deeper on the property. I went up to the second floor; the doctor’s sister opened the door for me and took me to a room. On a little table at the head of the sofa, a lamp with a silk shade was shining, and an open book was lying on the sofa. It 261

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was cozy, warm, and quiet, just like peacetime. Nothing had changed in their way of life. They were stretched out on their sofa at home reading an interesting book! But I did not have a home or even a lamp; I had no possibility of walking freely on the street, no right even to exist. I left the suitcase and thanked her: keeping Jewish things was dangerous, and there was severe punishment for doing this. I came back on side streets and arrived safely. The open book, the shining lamp, and the coziness of the strangers’ apartment stayed in my mind. And whenever I thought of peacetime life throughout the war, I saw this picture. After liberation, when we returned to Vilna, we pulled a sofa up from the courtyard and placed by the headboard a small wooden lamp that we had found – we could read, and it was quiet, cozy, and peaceful. We were sitting at Legejko’s table when the door opened and in came a tall man and a woman. I was stunned – it was our strict art teacher. She had completed her pedagogical practical training in classes given by the teacher, Mr. Kulesza. The art teacher recognized me, too, and smiled. It turned out that the couple was the doctor’s nephew and the nephew’s wife. What would happen now! Now third persons knew about my presence at the doctor’s house. Now they would chase me away, but where could I go? After dinner everyone dispersed to various rooms, and the teacher came up to me. “Don’t worry,” she put her hand on my shoulder. “We won’t tell anyone. We Poles hate the Nazis. They’ve enslaved our homeland. None of the Polish intelligentsia will be of service to them. Now we – I, my husband, who is an engineer, and others are working on the construction of the movie theater Helios, but we are working only for the sake of an “Ausweis” (a certificate). Even earlier we knew that a Jewish girl was living at my uncle’s place, but it never entered my head that it was you.” Again the identical, anxiety-ridden days stretched out with news about the “just retaliation” meted out to the communists and the prisoners of war, about the might of the German Army and the rout of the Bolsheviks. “Soon the war will be over; they don’t have an army anymore, and they’re running like rabbits,” exulted the doctor. Yet my heart was welling over. Could injustice possibly triumph? Was obscurantism actually going to win? What would become of humanity? 262

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September ended, and it seemed to me that I had been living this way a whole year. In early October it came out that a female yard worker had seen me in the window looking at some golden birch trees. I would have to change to another hideout. Many years later I thought about this: was it possible that the doctor had simply tired of having an outside person in the house, and, what was more, one who was Jewish, and that there was no “yard woman”? It made no difference. The doctor wrote to his cousin, a woman, in Kowno. She and her husband agreed to take me in if we paid them and as long as I had satisfactory documents. People were found who forged false documents of this kind. I selected a name that had no “r’s” in it (I spoke with the guttural “r” characteristic of Jews), so there I was – Ludwika Makowska, a refugee from Warsaw. A church, subsequently destroyed along with its files, concocted a baptismal certificate for me. I gathered all my things, and accompanied by the son of the pharmacist Augustowski, an intelligent, slim, and good-looking youngster, went for a drive to Kowno in a car rented for a large amount of money. Again I had a strange house to look forward to, more strangers around me, and a strange city even farther from my own family. In Kowno the car passed the cemetery on big Vitauto Street, which went from the railroad station to the center of town. Then we turned onto Traku Street, went uphill, and stopped at a new three-story building. We did not have elegant modern buildings in Vilna, which was an old-fashioned Polish province. But here were new buildings everywhere around us – nothing less than a capital city. We climbed the stairs to the third floor. A sprightly old lady in glasses opened the door for us and conducted us into a room resplendent with crystal and carpets. Rich people, their own home, built from the income earned by a store that sold ecclesiastical accessories – cassocks, church banners, all sorts of gear – “devotionals” in Polish. “You will live here,” the old lady opened a door to a room with a balcony. “There are carpets on the wall and on the floor. My grandson Zbyszek is eighteen,” she babbled on. “We are very much afraid they’ll ship him off to Germany. He and his cousin Zygmunt got jobs together. We Poles don’t like Nazis, but here in Lithuania you have to adapt. My daughter and sonin-law are at the studio, but they’ll be back soon.” 263

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The old woman was talkative, but pleasant. I had to spend the whole day with her. My traveling companion disappeared after dropping me off at the right address. The kitchen window looked out on a yard, or more accurately the garden of the mansion next door. The leaves were turning yellow and dropping – it was the beginning of October. Everyone treated me politely. I had trouble persuading them to let me polish the floor and help out in the kitchen with grating potatoes and molding pelmeni dumplings. However, the grandmother thought it an improper activity for young lades to iron men’s underwear: “The time will come when you can do the ironing for your own husband.” I knew that this time would not come for me. In the evening, lying on the sofa, I looked out the window; in the windows of the building across from us people were moving, setting the table, living a normal life – they were Lithuanians. Why did I have to be such a transient? Death was waiting for me regardless, so what good did it do to put it off? The Red Army was retreating farther to the east, and there was nothing to hold onto. Zygmunt strode in wearing high “Polish” jackboots. He and Zbyszek whispered together; clearly they were underground activists. Zygmunt’s parents owned an estate. He recounted how they would beat sluggish workers with the knout; under the Soviets they were simply dismissed. He and his friends would get rid of the Germans and create a Polish monarchy; then they would show these cattle who was boss here. On Fridays they fasted and cooked potato dumplings called “knedle” or flour “łazanki” However, they had to observe the commandments; if so, God would forgive them everything. Business at the store was indeed splendid. The seamstresses were sewing cassocks and banners; everyone prayed – they had more than enough people and things to pray for: the Germans shot the Poles, too, and clapped them in prison. The Kowno Jews were confined to a ghetto in Viliampol, on the other side of the Niemen River, where they lived in wooden shacks. The ghetto was surrounded with barbed wire. I was registered as a Polish refugee. I was there legally, but I never left the building. Sometimes at night I would go out on the balcony and breathe the clean fall air that smelled of decayed leaves. 264

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But this happened rarely; it was better to keep out of sight of the neighbors. The first of November was approaching – the Day of Remembrance. I was twenty years old on October 28, 1941. I was far from home, all alone, being hunted down, living with complete strangers. Only a year before I had been happy, but it was better not to think about that; my heart was breaking with grief anyway. How were Mama, Father, and Józio doing there? And where were my friends roaming? Who among them were still alive? Where were Miron, Nadzia, Irka? And suddenly I received what you might call a birthday greeting from that other world. Everyone was alive, but in grievous circumstances; Father was working; greetings from Liza. It had been difficult, but now things had improved. Later I learned that on the night of October 24 the “yellow card” action had been carried out. All specialists who had yellow certificates and the members of their families written in on them (each of them had the option of writing the names of their wife and two children on the certificate) were taken out of the ghetto to their work site, and all the people remaining in the ghetto were caught like rats, carted off to Ponary, and shot. More than half the population of the ghetto was wiped out. And I, sitting in warm surroundings, well fed, well dressed, was complaining about my bitter lot! I read and reread the little postcard that Father cunningly contrived to send me. They were alive! I believed that Father could do anything; he was the smartest person in the world, and he would find a way out. I looked out the window and saw candles being lit in the cemetery below – hundreds, thousands of live sparks of light on people’s graves, amid snow, mud, autumn. Normal people were walking to a normal cemetery, where their ancestors were lying in repose, interred in flowers and wreaths. The people placed their candles on the graves, and the flames flickered in the wind. It was All Souls Day. No one would come to visit our graves. There would be no one left to come, and anyway there would be no graves. Russian POW’s – barefoot and in rags – appeared in the garden of the mansion next door. That was how the owners obtained their work force. The prisoners dug into the snow-covered earth and pulled out logs. Sometimes they discovered a frozen little carrot and devoured it. A terrible sight – ragged, exhausted men with eyes burning from starvation. The 265

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boss goaded them on with his whip. And I watched them for hours from the kitchen window and did not have the right to throw them a chunk of bread…I was forbidden to draw attention to myself. “You can’t do anything to save them,” the grandmother said, “and anyway they’re going to die from hunger and disease, completely naked and there’s already snow on the ground.” Fall had come early that year, and it was cold; the longtime residents predicted sharp frosts. Our part of the world can have quite warm weather even in December, but that year a big freeze arrived in early November and hung on. The prisoners in the garden outside the window, their total submissiveness, passivity, their wretched appearance were testimony to our helplessness vis-a-vis Nazism, to our immeasurable distress. But I believed that a reversal of fortune was coming. Otherwise it would be impossible to live. Once the old lady decided to take me out into the city. “You’ll get sick without some fresh air. Besides, your documents are in order, you speak Polish better than we do, and no one will recognize you.” I greatly feared going out on the street during the day, but I did not know anyone in Kowno, and I certainly wanted at least a little change in my surroundings. We took side-streets toward the Niemen River, where one of the old lady’s friends lived in a little wooden house on a downhill slope. We saw Lithuanian policemen, but few Germans. Suddenly a crowd came into view far away on the pavement – somber, despondent people, beggarly in appearance. It was Lithuanians driving Jews back to the ghetto after work. I looked into the skeletal, tragic faces of people who were guilty of nothing, who, shuffling their feet with difficulty, were slowly moving forward – poverty, hopelessness, apathy....These were my brethren! For the first time I saw the depths to which a person could be lowered. There was no hope, no future. Cattle who could be driven wherever their rulers ordered. The people on the sidewalks paid no attention to them – it was a scene they were used to. No sympathy, complete indifference. For these were not people, they were Jews. Nothing threatened the Lithuanians; they lived at home, worked, bought, sold, and bartered. It was a hard time, but many were able to earn a handsome living. 266

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After walking the length of the city, we came to the home of the old lady’s friend. As I usually did, I played the role there of Ms. Ludwika, the unlucky refugee from Poland. We were served tea and bemoaned the prices of meat and lard. “Over there on the other side of the Niemen River is the ghetto. They keep the Yids behind barbed wire there and every day they shoot some. But they are as docile as cattle; they are not going to run away anywhere. Many of our people earn a good deal of money handing them food through the fence. They are dying from starvation there, and they pay well for food. Those, of course, who have something to pay with,” our hostess concluded. I looked at the gently sloping opposite bank, at the huts and the tiny figures of the inmates – this was it, the Viliampol ghetto. But what was it like in Vilna, and where was my family? These were the outskirts; beyond the ghetto stretched fields and orchards; escape was possible. But our ghetto was in the center of the city, and exits to the outside world were closed off by guarded gateways. We returned in darkness. Days are short in November. There were lights in the windows and traffic on the street. I was suffocating with anxiety. I had no one with whom to share my thoughts and afflictions. I could not risk going out again. I sat down with “Grandmother” in the kitchen darning all the socks and mending underwear. It was quiet and warm; our stomachs were full, and we were cooking “knedle” and “łazanki.” There was plenty of lard. Everybody at the house knew about me – including both Zygmunt and Zbyszek, but they kept quiet about it. They were Polish patriots, and they were not going to betray me to the Germans! I had to assume that my parents were glad that I was at least out of danger, but I also knew how fragile my security was. At night on the sofa in the cozy room with the balcony I remembered everything that was happening at this time last year – the university, discussions, debates, meetings, working at the Gorkom, Ira, Ela, my comrades.... One morning early in November Zbyszek ran in – announcements were posted on the street: all refugees were required to register; they would be resettled in a separate area. Yet another ghetto! The deadline was one week. 267

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And I was already registered as a refugee; if I did not show up, they would come looking for me. I had to leave – but where could I go? Panic set in. The authorities would search for me, but my hosts had already concealed so much at their place. We were able to communicate with Legejko, my benefactor. I put all my things in a small suitcase and began waiting ... It turned out that I had time to get used to the situation. The people there thought well of me, but now everything had to start over from the beginning: wandering in exile, fear, danger, strangers. But what if Legejko was unable to help? What was to be done? On November 10 Mr. Augustowski drove up; he was tall, slender, and had his Polish jackboots on. “I’ll look for transportation, and we’ll go to Vilna, to the home of the doctor’s godson. Of course you know the Narkiewicz family?” Mr. Augustowski could not imagine that Dr. Legejko would be in such a stew over a girl who was an outsider – she was probably a family member of one of his close friends. Arrangements were agreed upon: we would travel in the back of a truck. Mr. Augustowski and his friend, our traveling companion, took my suitcase, and we said goodbye. The old lady made the sign of the cross over me. “May God save you. You are a good girl.” We went downtown. Walking was scary; it would be even more frightening ahead. The body of the truck was full – women lugging bags, redcheeked, tipsy peasants. Everyone squinted at me suspiciously. We found places for ourselves on the last bench, and the vehicle started up. We rode for a long time. My legs got stiff, and the cold air pinched my cheeks. One of the passengers suggested dropping in on a relative to get a snack and warm up. And there would be something to drink there. All the more appealing because they themselves had bootleg liquor in the truck as well as food products; they would be inspected on the road, and these things might be confiscated. We turned up a road leading to a farmhouse. It was slippery and the ground was freezing. Darkness was falling. We drove up to a house standing alone. Everyone jumped out noisily, hurried into the hut, got some food and bottles, and sat down at the table covered with oilcloth. They also 268

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invited us “three Poles” in. They gobbled down their food, clamored for more, extolled their new life. Food remnants and bones flew onto the table; glasses rolled around. Then they sang idiotic songs and became offensive. I thought it better to go into the adjoining room. I sat down on a bench by the window and looked longingly at the field powdered with snow, at the bare bushes, at the faraway hills. Mr. Augustowski sat down next to me. He understood my feelings and suddenly said words that stuck in my memory for a long time: “Just wait, you will see Soviet soldiers chasing the Germans away on these very fields. You just have to be patient; it will happen.” His words so overwhelmed me, and I was so touched by his understanding of my thoughts and his sympathy that tears gushed from my eyes. But on the other side of the wall our drunk traveling companions were raising a din, demanding that we join them in their dancing: “Hey, you, Polish gentry, won’t you deign to join us?” Throughout the war, whenever I dreamed of victory, I mentally pictured that frozen field and soldiers with five-pointed stars on their fur caps racing toward us. We spent the night in a neighboring hut to the accompaniment of the wild goings-on in the first one. In the morning we again climbed into the truck and drove on. As we were driving past Ponary, our fellow travelers loudly proclaimed the virtues of the Germans, who at this very place were killing the Yids: “Soon they’ll get rid of them all, and everything they have will be ours.” I tried not to listen to them, not to fathom their meaning although my whole heart was bleeding. Both Poles supported me the entire trip. We entered the city without any inspection or other adventures; then we turned into the courtyard of a large building on 12 Wileńska Street. The women with carpetbags jumped out onto the ground; armed Lithuanian police in uniforms scurried around us. Mr. Augustowski left the scene to get some information; I stayed in the back of the truck looking at some POW’s and shaking from the cold and my fear of the future. We moved off on foot. 269

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“Do you know where we were heading?” Mr. Augustowski asked. “That was Ipatingi Yard, the local fascist headquarters, their lair. You might say that we were lucky; everything turned out all right.”

MRS. NARKIEWICZ We walked for a long time through the entire city – past Ostra Brama, toward Rossa, to a district that was new to me. We reached Rossa…a former monastery on a hill, a mansion, the Pimenov dairy plant, and the residential streets of the Bank Development. Bank officials had built these little houses for themselves at the end of the nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries. This was the first time that I had been there. Dusk was falling. We went up to a single-story house on a side-street – the front door in the middle and two tall windows on either side. We rang the bell. My heart pounded and froze at the same time: what would I encounter there? A middle-aged, tall, blond woman with thin laps (mean-looking, I thought) opened the door and greeted us in a loud voice. “Miss Ludwika has arrived! Come into the dining room.” Some teenagers were sitting at the table in the room under a silk lampshade. They rose from their seats, and each of them came up to me to kiss my hand. “Olgierd, help carry the young lady’s things into the bedroom. You will be living with us.” I began to feel very uneasy. So many people had seen me, yet I would be there without a permit. And I would be living in the same room with the hostess, in plain sight the whole time without a minute to myself! There were so many young people in the house! I said goodbye to Mr. Augustowski and was sorry to part with him; our long and dangerous journey together had to count for something. Mrs. Narkiewicz and her sixteen-year old son Olgierd lived in their own home with a garden. Dr. Narkiewicz, the chief health officer of the city, had been deported to Siberia by the Russians in June together with a group of prominent Polish civil servants. She had no means of subsistence, 270

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so she accepted the proposal of Dr. Legejko, who was Olgierd’s godfather. This was dangerous: if someone reported them to the authorities, they could all have been killed for hiding a Jewish woman. But my father paid her five gold rubles a month to keep me, and this was enough to provide food for all of them. Mrs. Narkiewicz turned out to be not mean at all. She was active, she managed the housework well, she was a decent person, and she and I found that we spoke a common language. I tried to help her as much as I could: I cleaned up, did the laundry, ironed, and mended clothing. The landlady objected…I was paying and was not obliged to work. But ever since childhood I was accustomed to working, and idleness was too much of a burden to bear. Since the start of the war, roving from one strange house to another, I tried to stay busy wherever I went. Now for the first time I appreciated the emptiness of idle hands, something to which I could not become accustomed. I helped Olgierd with his homework; he was taking courses given by the Polish underground. I still remembered everything well from school and the first year at the university. A kinswoman of theirs came over, and I helped teach her German. A major development for me was Mrs. Narkiewicz’s teaching me how to knit with knitting needles. Mama always said that I had “hands of clay,” and the needlework classes at school drove me to despair. But in several days here I learned how to knit mittens and a scarf for Olgierd. I have been grateful to her the rest of my life for her patience and systematic knowledge. A lieutenant in the former Lithuanian army also resided at the house. In his room with windows looking out onto the street were many Lithuanian books and … a shortwave radio set! All mortals had to surrender their radios on the outbreak of war, but they let him keep his. Olgierd and I crept up to his room, noticed the correct positions of the arrows on the dial, found London and even Moscow, and listened greedily to our hearts’ content. When we heard his steps at the front door, we quickly put everything back in its place and scurried off to our own rooms. There I listened for the first time to wartime songs: “Two Maxims,” “Arise, Vast Country,” and others. My heart pounded with joy – our guys were singing songs and fighting. Once there was a real event – Father came by. I had not seen him for far too long, not since the day that I left Irka’s apartment: September, October, 271

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November. Each day was as long as a year; around every corner death was waiting. I ran out into the hall; Father was standing there short as ever, unpretentiously, with his hat in his hand. He had grown a big, chestnut-colored moustache that made him look like a minor Polish aristocrat. I rushed up to him and hugged this person so dear to me; tears welled up in his eyes. “What a well brought-up daughter you have,” Mrs. Narkiewicz said. “Does she do what you tell her? Is she polite?” Father asked, beaming. “Yes, but that’s not all! I meant to say – hard-working; she doesn’t let a minute go by without doing something. She helps me, and she helps Olgierd with his schoolwork; she reads. I appreciate her very much.” Father was out of time. He had come with a group of Jews who were being forced to work at Pimenov’s dairy plant. He had to melt back into the group without being noticed. “Papochka, come more often. I miss you so much.” “It’s very dangerous – for you as well as for me. May God grant that no one notices.” Father told us about life in the ghetto and about Mama and Józio . Not a word about Irka. I could not imagine what life was like there. Father was glad that I had plenty to eat and was living in clean surroundings and in relative safety. I asked him to bring me letters from Mama and my friends – also some wool yarn; I would knit mittens for them... Father left somewhat reassured. They were treating me well here, and no one suspected anything. But I became more dreary. Olgierd left to go to his classes and the library. He brought me books that I had not had a chance to read before: Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain, Sigrid Undset’s Kristin Lavransdatter, and others. Our landlady left; I loitered around the quiet rooms of the house and wondered where Wenka Wołożyński , Ezriel Żabiński , and Leon Mackiewicz were now – were they fighting or six feet under in the ground? Where was my friend Ira, that cheerful, happy, intelligent girl? And Ela, what about her? After all, she was pregnant. On Monday, June 23 people said that she and Sergey had driven off somewhere in a car. Were they able to make it behind the lines in the Soviet Union? Behind me around the room, his claws scraping the floor, went Psialsia, a high-strung brown dachshund with drooping ears, to whom I recounted 272

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everything. I kissed and hugged her; she was my friend, and she reminded me of our little dachshund Willi, whom everyone adored. We had a big load of laundry. I helped as much as I could with rinsing and wringing it out. Then I had to take the linens and the underwear to the attic to hang it out to dry. Carrying a full basin, I climbed up the stairs and stopped at the little attic window. In the distance were the hills of Belmont, blue fir trees, grayish green pines, bare oaks, and below them the Wilejka creek. Smoke was rising from the chimney pipes of snowed-in cabins. There, on the hill, Luba, Leon, and I had sat on grass carpeted with snowdrops, anemones, and other flowering herbs sixteen days before the end of our peacetime lives. Above us the little green leaves of birches and hazels and the still wrinkled pink leaves of an oak tree were unfolding. I was worried then that I would not have time to memorize everything for the examinations. And we had no premonition of anything; we did not know that only a few precious days of living like human beings remained to us. I hung the clothes on laundry lines and continued to look into the distance that stretched out above the sheets; there was freedom there and a nature whose beauty did not vary, all the while indifferent to our misery. From that time onward I often climbed up to the attic and looked morosely into the distance. The hills and the trees sparkled under the snow; a wisp of blue smoke rose far away, and a straight column of smoke from chimneys lifted up into the frozen sky. One evening in December Olgierd called out to me. “Let’s go as fast as we can to the lieutenant’s room. The Russians are beating the Nazis outside of Moscow. London Radio is reporting this.” For a long time we turned the dials of the bulky receiver. Finally we caught the words of the broadcast from London. It was all true; our men were chasing the Nazis away from the area around Moscow; they were taking prisoners and liberating villages. For the first time in history the Nazis were fleeing the battlefield. We nearly went crazy with happiness; we jumped, cried, and squealed at the top of our lungs. Now we had only one concern – to keep watch on the lieutenant and sit down with the radio set when he left the house. And even more joyous news came in. In the depths of our hearts hope revived – they would be expelled from the USSR 273

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completely and we would be liberated! For the attack was remarkably successful. The Germans blamed everything on the cold – the early, fiercely frigid winter, the snowdrifts, the unusual conditions they had to deal with. So where was their much-touted “Blitzkrieg”? We – Poles and Jews – were jubilant despite our different political viewpoints. Christmas was drawing near. They brought in a Christmas tree. Food was cooked for Christmas Eve. “Miss Ludwika, you sing Christmas carols so nicely. Please teach Olgierd how to sing them or else he won’t learn them at all.” My education in a Polish school came in handy in every respect. I knew how to conduct myself among Poles; I knew their holidays, their prayers, their sacred chants. Olgierd and I decorated the tree in the dining room and sang “Silent Night,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” “Away in a Manger,” and “We Three Kings of Orient Are.” Mrs. Narkiewicz appreciated my salutary influence on her son. On Christmas Eve we sat at the table, ate fish, small little nuggets of dough with poppy seed milk, borscht with mushroom pelmeni (small dumplings), and the traditional twelve dishes. The good thing about it was that we would have at least one meal without beet salad (we had a large number of beets owing to a good fall harvest from the vegetable garden). The next day Mrs. Narkiewicz and Olgierd went to see elder brother Andrzej, who lived in Zakręt with his wife and little boy. I stayed home alone all day. Psiapsia (the dog) was sorry for me and protected me. Suddenly a stranger called out and began to knock on the door. The dachshund ran to the door like a ferocious tiger. I turned cold with terror. When they left, the owners had bolted the house shut from the outside as if no one was home. The lieutenant had gone to the countryside having first taken a bath in the bathtub (he usually came out of his room to ask Mrs. Narkiewicz to start the water heater): “Ponia, galima vonią?” We called him “Vonia.” But what if it was burglars? And what if they broke in? But the knocking stopped, and I relaxed on the sofa. I continued to listen to the radio and read. The reading did not sweep me away. In comparison with my torments and with the tragedy of our times, the problems of the heroes seemed unworthy of a writer’s pen. Thomas Mann’s hero in Magic Mountain suffered 274

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from tuberculosis, was living in an expensive sanitarium, and sent his undershirts home to be laundered because where he was, after all, they ironed them poorly. It was even comical to read. Silence, twilight. Where are you, my family? Where are you, my friends? I began to remember songs, then Tchaikovsky’s romantic lyrics. “We were sitting together by the dark river.” How pleasant it must have been there and how nice the air; and they did not say anything to each other. But what if something happened, if war broke out, for example, and she did not realize the great love in his heart for her? Then I sorted through in my memory the symphonies of Tchaikovsky and Beethoven – what magnificent music we had in the world; what natural wonders, what beauty. But people were killing each other, engaging in rampant destruction, exterminating everything that lived. And by what right was I just sitting there, not doing anything, not resisting? It was sheer villainy and cowardice. At any moment I could be betrayed to the Germans, by the wife of the yardman, for instance. She was so devious. She would come to see me and strike up a conversation with me about Jews in hiding and would try to see how I reacted. She was not able to catch me in a misstep. I was such a typical Pole, devout, innocent, indeed, just like one of Mrs. Narkiewicz’s kinfolks. But all the same... They all finally came back in the evening, and I no longer felt quite so isolated. While doing the laundry I had left my wrist watch in the bathroom. When I went back for it, it was not there. I asked the landlady, who turned white as a sheet and ran off somewhere. She returned with a tear-stained face: “It was Leon (her oldest son) who stole it. He came by in the afternoon and snatched it.” I did not know that he was a drunkard and robbed his mother. I was not too badly upset although Father had given me that watch on my sixteenth birthday. It was a Swiss “Zima” watch. Mama and I had shopped for it on Mickiewicz Street next to the George Hotel. We did not have enough money, so we went back to get Father’s permission to buy such an expensive watch; I did not like anything else. It was gleamingly brilliant, rectangular, fashionable, and as the store explained it to me, exceptionally accurate. But I had already lost so many things over the past months that I could not grieve over a Swiss watch. 275

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Father stopped by again. Mrs. Narkiewicz came out into the hall and threw up her hands: “Oh, doctor, what a terrible misfortune!” Father turned pale and nearly collapsed. “Miss Ludwika’s watch was stolen!” “Thank God,” my father sighed. “I was already thinking the worst.” We embraced and kissed each other. Father told me about Mama and Józio and the terrible life in the ghetto. “Here is some wool for you. There are also letters from Mama and from your friend, Onia Brancowska.” It was a really festive occasion. My own mother’s handwriting! Mama rarely wrote me letters since she was used to my being home most of the time. And her words were restrained, but there was so much love and misery in them. Józio was going to an illegal school; he had grown up and was very morose. The people who shared the apartment were insolent, especially Sonia’s husband Wojczik; it was congested and conditions could not have been worse. And she longed for me. She was sending some wool… a soft, gray ball of yarn that they had taken with them from home, it even smelled like home. Onia’s letter was long and heartfelt. Previously we had seen very little of each other. With a ruddy complexion and flabby, slightly lame (in her childhood a broken leg had healed improperly), the heiress of rich millers and soap makers, she was kind and full of joie de vivre. Father had told her about me. This was my first piece of news from a friend, and it was so heartwarming. She wrote in detail about her life. Everyone – her Father, mama, her uncle and aunts and their children – were all living in a single room in a bank building located on ghetto territory. The whole time people made a fuss, quarreled, cursed each other, and never went anywhere except maybe to escape onto the staircase or into the now-empty former operations floor. Here I was pining away from loneliness, and she was suffering from overpopulation, tumult, and conflict. On the other hand she was living with her family, with her father and mother. Onia’s letter told me something about ghetto life, about the acquisition of means of subsistence, about the very struggle for existence there. How grateful I was for her letter! 276

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I knitted Mama some soft mittens from the wool – gray with stripes – and passed them on to her. Olgierd sometimes talked to Father, who was allowed out of the ghetto to get x-ray materials in the city or to go to hospitals, and each time I waited impatiently for news from my family. Once Mrs. Narkiewicz took me with her to Rossa to see her niece. We went over the bridge past the building where my friend at school, Lusia Doroszkiewicz, lived (not a single one of my friends volunteered to help us, the small number of Jewish girls at the school, yet there were almost fifty Christian girls in the class, and we studied together for eight years). Out on the street I could not get used to seeing people freely walking and working. At the strange house where we went I was very uneasy. I decided not to go out anymore. It was terrible, degrading – better to stay indoors at home. “I have to take in tenants. It’s very hard to get along,” Mrs. Narkiewicz said once. “All the more since I also have to help friends who are going through hard times. Mrs. Maliszewska and her son Władek are going to stay in the living room now. Her husband was the mayor of Vilna, but he’s been exiled to Siberia, like my husband. And she has nowhere to live.” They probably lived before this in a government apartment. I well remembered the decrees pasted on posts and bulletin boards when the Poles were in power – with the signature: “Maliszewski, Mayor.” Not the most pleasant of neighbors, I thought to myself: a dignified, ladylike woman and her son, a former student fraternity member. They settled into the big room; it became more crowded, so I stayed more in the bedroom, did my knitting, and read. Once Olgierd suggested that we dig into a suitcase containing the belongings of a Russian Army officer who during the year that the Soviets were in power was quartered in their back room, which now was unheated. The old suitcase was half empty; it held underwear and other things of the man, who might no longer be alive. A little book was on the bottom: I. Ilf and E. Petrov, The Golden Calf. I read Russian badly, not at all fluently, but Olgierd and I decided to master this book, which was very funny. Now every evening after Mrs. Narkiewicz went to bed, we sat at the dining room table, and I began to read the book aloud, sentences from which I knew by heart thanks to Miron, who had read it to me at one time. This was a genuine pleasure; it reminded 277

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me of Grandmother’s home. We forgot about reality, and we laughed until we were sick to our stomachs, especially Olgierd. Since we were so young, we wanted to have fun. At the most amusing place the living room door opened and hefty Mrs. Maliszewska appeared with curlers in her hair; she commented in a low bass voice: “Could we be a little quieter?” – always the very same words, which in turn evoked an outburst of laughter on our part. On the next several evenings, when we selected a book we immediately thought of Mrs. Maliszewska (“Lady Macbeth”), and started to laugh right away. It was a huge diversion in my dreary life. Władek, Mrs. Maliszewska’s son, was a tall, handsome brunet whom I rarely saw. He left for work early, and he came back late, but not always. Once he came up to me, and looking me straight in the eye, said: “I know you from school days, and I remember your last name. The boys and I often were on the lookout for girls from the girls’ school at the Ofiarna Street entrance. But don’t be afraid; I won’t turn you in. You can live calmly.” His words were by no means calming. Someone else had recognized me! Fierce cold spells set in. They began on the sixth of January, and for six weeks in a row the temperature fell to minus 25-30 degrees Celsius. The house was cold: the rooms were big, and there was not much fuel. Abscesses opened up around my frostbitten knees. This was my reward for walking around in silk stockings on New Year’s Eve. The abscesses hurt now, and they also itched unbearably in the evening under the warmth of the blanket. This was also the result of bad nutrition, not getting enough vitamins. However, the radio broadcasts contained encouraging reports, and once, late in the evening, we heard firing and loud noises. We could not believe our own ears – bombs were falling. We ran out into the yard. A slowly descending rocket illuminated the sky with a ghostly green light. The outlines of buildings and the railway tracks were faintly visible in the black darkness. Overhead a Soviet bomber was flying and dropping bombs. We lay on our backs on the frozen earth of the garden. There was no fear; if we were going to be killed, it would be a pleasure to die other than at the hands of the Nazis. We heard explosions 278

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and the crash of falling buildings. Then the light from the rocket died out, and the plane flew away. Silence. If Soviet planes were flying here, it meant that our guys were doing well at the front, and they had now advanced closer, I thought. The next day the yard man’s wife ran in with some news. “They are saying it was a local pilot, from Vilna. So he certainly knew where to drop his bombs. He destroyed the barracks on St. Ignatius Street and killed some Lithuanian Nazis there. As you might expect, all the bombs hit Germans and Lithuanians. Not one of them landed on the ghetto, although the line of destruction went right up to the barrier; they spared the Jews.” The bombing was all that anyone talked about. That evening Lieutenant “Vonia” asked permission for his relatives to spend the night in his room. “The Bolsheviks won’t bomb Polish houses, but Lithuanians are in danger. My kinfolk will sleep on the floor; they’re afraid to spend the night at home.” Olgierd and I laughed: Obviously, the lieutenant and his relatives did not have clean consciences if they were asking “miserable Poles” for refuge. They spent the night with us several more times although, unfortunately, the bombing was not repeated. Father, who paid me a visit, related that after the air raid people began returning things and foodstuffs that the Jews had left with friends for safekeeping, and they turned in fewer of the Jews in hiding to the Germans – for fear of what the Bolsheviks might do to them. This did not continue for a long time. Everyone went back to their accustomed places. To our great sorrow, Soviet aircraft did not bomb our city again, and the invaders took heart. What was more, the pace of the Soviet counterattack around Moscow slowed down. Our hopes for victory were extinguished. The days became noticeably longer, and the second half of winter got underway. As before I cleaned up and tried to help Mrs. Narkiewicz; I read, helped Olgierd with his schoolwork, and cooked beets and potatoes for mixed salads. Occasionally I climbed up to the attic and looked at the Belmont hills, where the final traces of the last day of my youth were melting away. Where were Leon and Luba now? 279

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The rays of the sun were ever brighter, and during the afternoon the snow melted a little. Mrs. Narkiewicz said that her reserve supplies were running out; how was she going to get along in the future? She thought she might go to Lithuania by spring, to the Szilute district, where her husband’s estate was located. They would sow crops there; there was a garden plot, poultry, cattle, and plenty to eat. It was quiet and peaceful there. Olgierd would be safe from being shipped off to Germany. I could go with them as a relative and would continue tutoring Olgierd... My documents were in order, and no one would take issue with them. We would wait out the end of the war. The exiled Dr. Narkiewicz would return, and everything would go its proper course... In the beginning this was merely an idea, but gradually it took complete possession of my landlady’s thoughts. I got scared. To go so far away – three hundred kilometers from here, to a place where I would have no family or close friends... And besides, did I have the right to sit passively and simply wait for the war to end? Battles were being fought, and thousands of our people were dying; the Nazis were mocking us, killing us. But I should just sit it out in the countryside, eat fresh eggs and sometimes meat, calmly waiting to be freed like a princess in a fairy tale? Yet they also might track me down and take me out to be butchered like a sheep – that was what could be waiting for me. I had to decide what to do. Mrs. Narkiewicz insisted that I go with them. She would be much happier if I went; I was a respectable, hard-working young girl, and she was getting a pretty decent income for me; Father paid regularly and on time. I told Father on his next visit that I would not go off with Mrs. Narkiewicz. I had thought everything over, had not slept at night, had suffered torments, and had finally decided: I was going to the ghetto. People had already forgotten me, and no one would betray me; everyone had enough of their own troubles to worry about. I had to be with my family, with friends, that is to say, with people whose destiny I shared. I wanted to be with them. But I also thought there was in all likelihood an underground organization there, and I could join in the struggle. Father answered: “I was afraid for you the whole time, and I’m afraid for you now. But perhaps it would be better that way. Far away from you, with no news of you, 280

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we were completely eating our hearts out, yet at the same time we could not help you. I shall try to arrange your move into the ghetto.” My sojourn on the “Aryan side” had ended. A new stage in my life had begun.

281

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MARCH 1942

M

y decision to leave my peaceful life with the Polish family, the Narkiewiczes, and move into the ghetto was firm. I never doubted that I had done the right thing. Granted it is easy to make decisions when you are young; you give way to your feelings, to your romantic impulses. And no one had any experience, no one had to cope before with what happened to us Jews in this terrible war. Romanticism won out over fear: we in the ghetto would fight back. How? I didn’t know. If we were going to be killed, at least it would be with weapons in our hands. I envisioned the struggle as some kind of illusory picture. On one thing I did not compromise: I did not want to hide anymore and imagine, shaking with fear, that they would come at any moment and drag us out. And besides, Father, Mama, Józio, Nadzia, and my friends were in the ghetto; there were people there with whom I could sit down and cry and tell about my months of exile among strangers. I would be with my own people; I would be like Jews everywhere. Recently there had been a lull in the ghetto. People worked, got on somehow, but the main thing was that they were together. After the mass actions, fifteen thousand Jews now remained in the ghetto.1

1

Translator’s Note: “Actions” was the euphemism used by the Nazis referring to massacres of Jews carried out according to plan by the Nazi administrators of occupied territories, particularly in East and East Central Europe.

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It was March. The days were getting longer, the air was fresher, the sun was warm, and the snow was melting. A ray of hope glimmered in the soul. Could it be that we still had a future? After all, I was only twenty and a half. I do not recall how Father was able to fix it up for me to enter the ghetto. Someone took me to Pimenov’s “oil factory,” where a brigade of Jews worked. This was very close by, two side streets beyond ours. Mrs. Narkiewicz was very sorry that I wouldn’t go with them to their house in the country, “where you can do whatever you like in the fresh air,” but had decided to “go to jail” instead. We parted forever (after the war the Narkiewiczís went back to Poland, and I think Olgierd became a doctor, a scientist). I melted into a crowd of poorly dressed, grimy, gloomy people and pinned “armor plates” to my back and chest. No one said anything. Father had made a bargain with the foreman. Jews commonly, frequently in a group leaving for work, went outside the ghetto to pick up items or food that they had left with Aryans. Then they came back with the same group. We walked on the sidewalk, a herd of dirty, ragged, submissive slaves. The route was along Piwna and Zawalna Streets. Then we turned down Rudnicka Street. Ahead of us thronged another crowd of captives on their way back from work. Lithuanian police and Jewish security forces were lying in wait at the checkpoint. To the right was All Saints Church, to the left the walled off exit from Szpitalna Street. The barrier guards, the Jewish police, were stationed in the “Glezer” shop on the corner. The little shop (formerly Glezer’s meat market) had been turned into a place of torture and mockery where suspects were interrogated: were the Jews hiding anything that was prohibited – food or other items? They were stripped bare, beaten, then sent to the ghetto prison. We had only one thought – not to be detained, not to be sent for questioning. Things worked out this time, they let the group through: they couldn’t question everyone, so they picked people out at random. I had crossed through the main gates of the ghetto for the first and only time in my life. I never walked through these gates again except when, a year and a half later, I slipped through the “Gens Gate” on the 284

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Jatkowa and got away for good. To this very day I remember the insolent expressions of the policemen, the crowds of Jews returning from work, the congestion, the stench. I had come here of my own free will. On the other side there was space, cleanliness, quiet. Here was crowding, incessant uproar, misery, terror. Father took me to the hospital: “You will stay here a few days, let the chit-chat calm down – then we’ll see how things are going to turn out. A lot of people think you are in Russia. People rarely, if ever, come back to the ghetto. Let’s hope that no one informs on you. So many people have already been lost, there is so much sorrow around us. We just have to wait it out. Now you are going to see Mama. She has been waiting for you so eagerly!” We entered the small patio of the hospital through thick old wooden gates. We climbed up to the second story. Here it was clean and empty; here there was none of the turmoil that there was out on the street. It smelled like Father’s office. We went past several doors. A wide reception room with a window. An x-ray room with apparatus I was accustomed to since childhood. Mama had grown older, thinner; her smooth hair was braided tightly. We hugged and cried. We hadn’t seen each other for many months. That was more than just years. It was a whole eternity. We couldn’t get enough of each other. “You’ll be living here for the time being,” Father said. “You will stay in the darkroom during the day. There’s a single bed over there. In the evening you can go out into the office, but just don’t open the door no matter who knocks. No one must know that you are sleeping here; that’s against the rules. “We are living on Zawalna Street in Dr. Goldman’s house. The entrance is two courtyards away on the Szpitalna. That’s where the doctors and nurses have their apartments. The Wojczyk family lives in the same small room with us. The man, Owsiej, is unfriendly and rude. He’s pushy and he complains a lot. But his wife Sonia keeps silent. She’s afraid of him.” Our conversations went on interminably. I told Mama everything I had been through as the Polish Miss Ludwika. Only now did I understand how much effort and self-abasement went into the arrangements that were made 285

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for me with the Poles; no one wanted to keep Jews in their home and put their lives in danger. “How terrified we were about you! What if you couldn’t even let us know, and we – what help could we give you?” Mama spread a quilt on the floor, covered it with a sheet, and got two pillows out. We lay down to sleep side-by-side so we could have a good long talk. Silence. The window looked out on the courtyard. I whiffed the typical smell of the x-ray room. I embraced Mama and put my head on her shoulder. Mama started to cry quietly: “I must tell you because you’re going to ask anyway: your friend Irka and her family were killed. They escaped from the peat works to Lida. They got fake documents saying they were ‘Volksdeutsche.’ Their last name ‘Folkman’ fitted in with that, and so did their first names. They worked there, made a good living, and were open about it. Other Jews informed on them – out of envy. This happened not far from here, only about a hundred kilometers away. To us prisoners it looked like a long way. When they came to get them, Arturek, Irka’s little brother, wasn’t home. When he found out that they had carted off his family members, Irka, and her boyfriend Julek, he went to the Gestapo himself. They shot them all!” So my Irka was no more. I seemed to hear her voice: “I want to live so much, Lala, and that’s why I know that I’m going to die.” Her large green eyes looked reproachfully at me. We are all going to die, Irka, except that for you this is in the past, but so many horrible things lie ahead of us. I was certain that we would not survive, and the news of the terrible deaths of people dear to me only confirmed that this was how it was going to turn out. Irka, my best friend, was gone. They had to endure so much before they died! Irka died together with Julek, and they were probably together to the end. Now they were all just memories to me. Mama continued, “There were 80,000 Jews in Vilna before the war. By September only 40,000 were left. Twenty-nine thousand in the first ghetto where we are, and eleven thousand in the second one. But the numbers kept shrinking. They were carried off to be killed. The Nazis called these operations ‘actions.’ They started the transfers in September, especially from the second ghetto. Then on October 1, Yom Kippur, then October 16. 286

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They carried out a horrible action on October 24. Specialists were given “yellow cards” – a total of 3,000 certificates. Each person who had a yellow card could take his wife (or her husband) and two children under the age of 16 out of the ghetto. The elderly and “extra children” had to stay in the ghetto. “You cannot imagine this march through the gates, this examination of yellow cards,” whispered Mama. “People without cards tried to pay huge amounts of money to write their names or their family members onto the cards of the “lucky ones” who had cards. For two days we were outside the ghetto at the place designated for Jews to work. Then we had to go back to the ghetto, to an empty ghetto! You see everyone had been driven out to their deaths. People could not find their family members who had been left behind in hiding places. Such wailing, such howling broke out! “People barely had time to collect their thoughts when another ‘yellow card action’ took place on November 3. The Germans realized that a certain number of people had saved their lives by hiding, so they decided to fish them out. This time they moved all the Jews with cards into the empty second ghetto, where everyone had already been liquidated, and they ferreted out everyone who was still alive in the first ghetto. Again a huge number of our people died; they were taken to Ponary. The members of the second ghetto who managed to survive came back with us. Early in December they winnowed out the “under-worlders” (tramps), and then carried off about 800 unskilled laborers. After this things quieted down. As you can see, the Germans had fulfilled their 1941 plan to annihilate the Jews.” Mama continued her account. “In the mornings the brigades were herded to the railroad, to factories, and to road building sites where they were assigned the hardest kind of work. A few people worked in the ghetto itself – at the Judenrat, the hospital, and in workshops. About two loaves of bread a month were issued – bricks that were heavy as clay. At the market bread cost forty rubles. We had to pay for the apartment and for electricity. It turned out to be a cold winter; for six weeks it stayed twenty degrees below.2 In one way or another 2

About four degrees Fahrenheit.

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we made do. A few people went out to meet Poles in town who came to the Jews’ work place and brought food in exchange for other items; some of the Poles donated food simply out of compassion. Many Jews, at the risk of their lives, tried to recover the things that they had left with the Aryans. This was especially dangerous if there were informers among the residents. Jews on occasion did help the Germans catch those among us who had illegally left the ghetto to recover their belongings. (I later found out, for example, that Sara Zawadzka one of my fellow students at school, was involved in this.) Starvation was widespread in the ghetto. Bread lines and charities were organized for the poor, but the rich did not want to part with their money; even here they lived well. The others took refuge in unbelievably congested circumstances, constantly in fear, mourning for the dead. The second ghetto lasted for only seven weeks. That is what our Nadzia bumped into. As a doctor she was able to move to the first ghetto and recover. She works as a doctor and lives with Tolek Reznik, also a doctor, who has been devoted to her for a long time. She will come to visit us.” I heard the good news and for a moment was overjoyed. Mama told me stories all night. A former commandant lorded it over the whole ghetto. This was Jakub Gens, an officer in the Lithuanian army. He had a pass to visit his Lithuanian wife and daughter in town. The Jewish police beat up their fellow Jews at the gates, confiscated the food they were carrying, and mocked them. They thought that the ghetto would last forever and they themselves were immortal. But there would be other Nazi actions in the future. The Germans would not rest until they had destroyed all the Jews. At first they picked up the men in town; then they hounded five thousand to their deaths in order to clear space for the future ghetto. Then, while herding Jews into the ghetto, they dispatched part of them to Łukiszki and from there to Ponary. They liquidated the second ghetto. But a huge number of people from the first ghetto were exterminated in the course of this action! Only fifteen thousand Jews were left. I was shocked that I knew so little after sitting all this out with the people who were sheltering me. But my parents, themselves only a hair’s breadth from disaster, went to great lengths to care for me; they arranged for me 288

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to go to different places, paid for my upkeep, and were constantly worried that someone might report me or betray me. We talked and cried together all night. I could not get enough of the warmth of Mama’s maternal love, nor could I come to my senses after the horror of everything I had heard. Józio came in the morning. How he had grown! He seemed wrapped in gloom. Of course he was overjoyed to see me, but the hopeless life in the ghetto put its stamp on him. He was going to “school,” meaning in a group taught by volunteers. Mira Bernsztejn – a marvelous teacher and an extraordinary person – worked here. Other teachers from the Jewish High School, which I insisted that he attend before the war, also worked with the children. “How can we be children after all this?” Józio expostulated. “At first I went into hiding in town. Any minute they could’ve caught me. Then they drove us into the ghetto, so what more can you say? You can’t count the number of guys who were killed! Death is waiting for all of us. I hated to listen to my little brother’s reasoning. He and I were so much alike – both of us pessimists. I sat in the room for many days behind the office. The room had a bed, a little table, and tanks with faucets for the display of x-ray pictures. The walls were covered with mildew. I helped Mama fix everyone whatever there was to eat on an electric hotplate. I learned how to make ghetto entrees: beets, potatoes, pea soup; all of this cost a fantastic amount of money. Sometimes Father brought some horsemeat sausage home, in itself the occasion for a banquet. Profiteers sneaked in food products through the manholes in the basements of houses adjacent to those of the “free” and took in enormous sums of cash for them. I washed clothes in a basin and tried to keep the dirty laundry from piling up. The soap was disgusting – crumbly and dark. Father treated sick patients behind the office wall, and the Polish Miss Raja invariably fussed about. I could never stand her, and for good reason. When the patients were gone, I was allowed to go out into the empty office. There were two windows there, and besides the x-ray there was a desk; after closing the shutters and lowering the curtains made of black cloth, it was all right to light a lamp and sit down to read. Józio brought me a book by the Soviet writer Lev Kassil, Great Opposition – about a girl 289

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who was chosen to act in the movies, about her fame and subsequent disillusionment. I was thrilled to read about peacetime life and forgot about everything else in the world. Finally Father allowed me to go out on the street. Nadzia came over. It was such a joy to see her again. She was still pretty – elegant, out of the ordinary. I immediately recalled grandmother’s home, the joyous days of childhood, walks by the river with Nadzia when I was recovering from the whooping cough. She and I walked down the Szpitalna to the dead end created on the right side of the street where they had put up a wall in front of All Saints Church. There weren’t many people, and we talked and talked. Spring was already in the air. The snow on the street, trampled by thousands of feet, was grainy and dirty. It had been cleared up as much as possible. Nadzia told about her stay in the second ghetto, the horrors of the Nazi actions, her work as a doctor. Yes, she was living with Tolek Reznik, her ruddy and homely friend since pre-war days. He adored her. Both of them, Nadzia and Tolek, had stayed single, and they decided to unite their fates. I was glad for Nadzia; she had someone who loved her, and she was not all by herself. That’s how I remembered my first excursion onto the main street of the ghetto, the crowd of exhausted people returning from work, twilight, our heart-to-heart conversation. My goal was to get in touch with my friends, to find out whether they had organized any resistance to the Nazis. When I begged Father to do it, he arranged for Danek Lubocki to come by. I was glad to see him as an old friend, a contemporary, but we also needed him to establish connections with the ghetto underground. Danek told about life in the ghetto, about our friends there: Fanka, Musia, Szlomo Kowarski, Marysia Gutkin, and others. “I don’t know what they are doing because they do not want to trust me. But I’m certain that they have an organization. I’ll let them know that you are looking for them.” We talked for a long time. I could not get enough of seeing him. Father insisted that Danek keep the news of my appearance to himself. I had confidence in him… 290

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I began to go out a little. I would leave home to spend the night in Father’s room at the home of Monia Goldman’s parents. Danek looked in on me there, and I taught him some French. It was spring, and a kind of urge to live, to breathe, to move sprang up. I began to exercise. Every day, in order to take a cold shower, I stood in line at the bathroom in the apartment house jammed with people. I read a lot. In Father’s office I mastered the work of a radiology technician. But most of all I wanted to work at the library. In ghetto territory on Straszuna Street, the large Jewish public library Meficei Haskala was still standing; I had taken books out there even before the war. This was my temple, because I adored books. If only I could get set up there somehow. That would be delightful, to work surrounded by books and people. As with other ghetto institutions, they hardly paid anything there, but they did hand out food rationing cards and employee certificates, which might come in handy in case of another possible action. Spring asserted its rights. After washing, cooking, and cleaning up in the x-ray darkroom, I climbed out the window onto the steep roof of the congested inner courtyard and held up my face to the gentle sun. There were no trees on ghetto territory. A single solitary tree was growing in the last yard behind the Judenrat. I recognized it after the war. Beyond the wall closing off any exit from the ghetto side streets, the little leaves on the trees in the “free” world were turning green. I was nostalgic for nature, for greenery. How I wanted simply to lie down on the grass and look up into the sky where clouds were drifting. Flowers were there. Lilies of the valley and daffodils were already blooming. A year earlier we had driven to Belmont with Luba and Leon; we had sat on the grass among the spring flowers, and the bright green down of fresh foliage had enveloped the trees. All around us linden trees, maples, oaks just started to show their leaves, dark firs, and below us the valley of the turbulent Wilejka. It was a letdown that I still had to study, to take my examinations. If only I had known then that only two weeks of peacetime remained. It was getting hot on the roof, which quickly heated up to the point that I crawled back into the humid little room. Mama slept through the night here. Ulcers had formed on her legs. They festered and did not heal, so it was hard for Mama to walk, but she could not put up with the neighbors, 291

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and happiness for her was the chance to spend the night here. She taught me a great deal trying to adapt our way of life to the monstrous conditions of the ghetto. However, we rarely unburdened ourselves to each other; I began to develop my own separate interests. I was introduced to Sonia Madeisker. She and I had several conversations focusing on the problems of underground work. “We have to maintain the strictest possible conspiracy,” Sonia said, “Because no one has ever had to live in such inhuman conditions. We face torture and death at every step, for everything we do. There are several Komsomol groups in the ghetto. We need to find out who among us can work, who hasn’t lost the will to fight and isn’t afraid. We need to circulate news bulletins to everyone who’s with us. It was now 1942. Battles were being fought in the Pacific Ocean. In the fall there were military operations in Egypt and North Africa. In October the Germans reached the Wołga, and the name Stalingrad flashed across the news reports. “The main thing is to organize resistance,” Sonia said, “To get hold of sabotage weapons. Life is very hard for our men; we need to arrange help for them. So for now go out and get literature and continue to educate yourselves. We will find ways to struggle, even though there has never been anything like fascism before in history. “ Sonia shook me to the core – her clear, radiant eyes, the gentle oval of her face, her smoothly brushed hair, her soft voice and kind manner. She directly radiated exceptional kindness and nobility. That is the way I pictured real fighters for the welfare of mankind. Sonia was my dear friend from our very first meeting onward. She was an ideal human being. I started to attend the meetings of the circle. Members of our group included Fania Jokheles, Musia Kresin, Izaak Mackiewicz, and Tolia Żabińska. At first there were four circles, then five and even more. We debated the situation at the front. Izaak made preparations to sabotage the railroads. To me it was very important to be a member of an organization. Working together we could accomplish something; we would not go like sheep to the slaughter. 292

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Our friend Fryda Mackiewicz lived in town with a false passport; she sometimes brought news into the ghetto for the party organization to which Chiena Borowska, Mira Bernsztein, and other comrades whom I had met earlier belonged.

THE LIBRARY Father finally made arrangements for me to work at the Mefitsei. If it is possible to speak about happiness in the ghetto, I was so happy that I was nearly jumping with joy. Now I could associate with books for days on end. I came to the familiar building on the Straszuna; there was a reading room on the second floor where the remnants of books from the defunct library in the second ghetto were collected. Old Luński worked here; he had previously worked with the manuscripts of ancient Hebrew texts. The public library was located on the same second floor to the right. Bookshelves towered to the ceiling. The books were stacked on them in identical dappled brown bindings with linen spines; they were books meant to be read. In front were windows facing the street, a balcony, a free space for visitors, the director’s little office to the left; in the back was the bookbinding workshop and the book repository; from there a stairway led down into the courtyard. All was as it had been in earlier times when I came here with Mirek and he compiled a reading list of books from thick worn-out catalogs on narrow strips of paper. And each book was happiness, ecstasy, a true discovery: Hunger and Victoria by Knut Hamsun, Bernard Kellerman’s The Tunnel, Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell, Stefan Zweig’s Freud and his short stories. Now the library was the only source of knowledge, leisure, and the opportunity to stand aside from reality. And people read, in these unspeakable conditions, in the face of death, hungry, battered, jammed into a room with ten to fifteen others, with no space they could call their own. In those days M. Abramowicz worked in the library, marvelously knowledgeable of all the books in Polish, Yiddish, Russian, and even French. 293

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Besides him there was Dina, short in stature, sad, who had worked for many years before in the Jewish Children’s Library. Now she lived in terrible circumstances with her sick mother and was starving. The director of the library was Herman Kruk, a refugee from Warsaw, cultured, well-groomed, a pipe smoker. I found out that he was writing a chronicle of the ghetto which he was dictating on a machine to Rachela Mendelsund (Kowarska) I took my first biology course with her. She married our friend Szlomo. Rachela was slim and high-strung. Her whole family had stayed in Warsaw. Her husband’s sister Rywa and other people shared a single room with her and her husband in the ghetto, congested and hungry. For many years Szapiro had worked at this library; I still remembered him from the time that the Mefitsei Gaskal library was on Zawalna Street. Szapiro could select the right books for people of any age; he could even please capricious, fastidious ladies. But now Szapiro had left to work in town because his family was starving, so they hired me to take his place part-time, but later full-time. Recently I found documents in the archive stating that I had been hired to replace Szapiro as a category 5 staff member. It was a great honor to take over the position of such an accomplished specialist. Every morning Herman Kruk obtained all the official documents from the Judenrat, closed his office door, and then the chattering of the typewriter would begin. I did not understand the importance of this work at that time. To us, his colleagues, it seemed a useless waste of time; we were going to die no matter what, and everything would be lost. What good were documents, diaries, and the rest of that nonsense? Our job was to think more about how to fight fascism, not concern ourselves with the “historical chronicle.” The delicate, dandified “Kruczek”3 as we called him, with his manicure and his mistress Leszczyńska, an attractive woman with a private apartment (in the ghetto everyone knew all about everything), could this be the chronicler of the ghetto? Only after liberation did I fully understand the meaning of these documents. A metal tube was found in which Kruk had hidden the diary: 3

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someone looking for gold unearthed the sheets of paper covered with writing. Only parts of them, approximately two thirds, were recovered, however. The diary was sent to the United States and published in 1961, regrettably without the remaining documents because they were not in the tube. Herman Kruk continued to write at the camp in Estonia where they took him after the liquidation of the ghetto. He died there on September 18, 1944, the day that the Nazis liquidated all the inmates. Later Chaim read this blue book in the original Yiddish in the archives of the Republic’s library, with Herman Kruk’s name on the title page. Working in the library was a supreme blessing for me. There were many readers, especially on Sundays, sometimes as many as seven hundred people a day. I quickly memorized the numbers on the bindings, easily and skillfully scaled the topmost shelves to the ceiling and brought down the books that were ordered. Abramowicz wrote the number of the book on the reader’s card and the reader’s number on the book’s registration card. After work I put all the cards into a drawer, a tedious chore. I remember the tremendous line of readers on the stairway as we scurried from shelf to shelf as quickly as monkeys. For the most part people read the detective novels of Edgar Wallace, the primitive writings of Marczyński and DołęgaMostowicz – anything they could fill their heads with, distract themselves, not think about. Tired, hungry people, penned up together, sweltering, losing themselves in a book. Works in greatest demand were those describing something similar to our lives at the time, for instance, The Forty Days of Musa Dagh by Franz Werfel about the persecution and massacre of the Armenians in Turkey in 1915. People signed up on the waiting list for this book. Children did a lot of reading. I remember how often, almost every day, ten-year old Ilka, the son of Chiena Borowska, small with dark eyes, a tender, pale little face and ears that stuck out, would come in running. We were amazed at the serious books he chose and how he could read a book from start to finish in a single day. He understood everything, and his memory was extraordinary. Dina loved to ask the children what they read and what they understood. The highly educated, cultured clientele were a special category. They read the classical writers, the philosophers, and it never ceased to astound 295

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me how they had the energy in these horrible conditions to undertake complicated reading, but in fact this labor was a solace to such people. Books were their only diversion and pleasure. Reading gave them the possibility of preserving human dignity. I put all my soul into the work. Somehow we learned that forbidden Soviet books were being stored in the courtyard. The authorities ordered the employees of the library themselves to complete the work of withdrawing the books from circulation. We of course went into the storage shed. Heavens, what a treasure: Soviet creative literature, classical works, Majakowski poetry – in Russian, in Polish, in Yiddish. We pulled out everything that interested us, read it, reflected on it. So, on Sonia’s advice, we began to study history at our meetings, to educate ourselves. Saturday was a day off. Mama was sick. She often went to the hospital and was put in an overcrowded ward. There she chatted with the other female patients around her. This was her only form of companionship. I brought books to her and meals, which I cooked on the electric grill in the hospital’s radiology lab: kasha, potatoes, split pea soup. I did my best to make sure that Józio and Mama were well fed. And the laundry was washed. We were not starving since Father had money and we could still get our food supplies held by Poles we knew in town. Father sometimes went out into the town with Jewish work brigades and met with Christians he knew; he brought food from them back to us: oils, horsemeat, horsemeat sausage. We bought bread and vegetables from profiteers at exorbitant prices. I made friends with Onia Brancowska. She was the youngest daughter in the family. Her older brother Ika, who was married, had fled with his wife to the Soviet Union. She had a ruddy complexion and broad cheekbones. She was stout and limped slightly, but for all her unattractive exterior she was high spirited, resilient, and very well educated and kind to boot. All of my best friends had died or were far away. I had no news about the fate of Ela or Luba. Onia and I began to meet nearly every day. Then she came to work at the library, and we became inseparable. Her whole enormous family lived in the bank building on Rudnicka Street (bordering the wall blocking the exit to the city hall on Niemiecka Street). The Contemporary Arts Center stands at this place now. The bank lobby, cold and empty, was 296

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there as well as a staircase; only a few families lived in the whole building, and the premises were not used. We would sit there for hours on the steps and chat. I would unload on Onia everything I had been through, and she would do the same with me. I came to love her with all my heart and I had faith in her friendship. In the room where the three of them lived in addition to an uncle and his family and some other relatives with their children, there was a noise and hullabaloo with quarrels about food, personal space, and so forth. Onia’s father and his brother maintained order. Her mother was smart and heavy. It was she in 1940 who sympathized with my mother about Leon Mackiewicz’s overcoat in the corridor, and she often talked with me. She grieved for her son Ika, who probably had died. For some reason everyone thought that people who weren’t nearby were dead. Everyone in the ghetto partook of this strange psychology. No one believed that somebody could escape, could survive. I thought the same about my girlfriends Ela and Luba and the guys we knew. It seemed to us that only we here in these cramped surroundings, hunger, and mortification were still alive, and that’s all there was in the world. Then in the fall of 1944, Ika would return from the evacuation and interrogate me about his family, his sister, and would say in sorrow: “How could you not take Onia with you into the forest, how could you fail to persuade her?” He could not grasp that their mother, when Onia was getting ready to leave with our group and go over to the partisans, threw herself down on the threshold and declared that she would let Onia go only over her dead body. Onia stayed and was killed with her whole family. I told Onia about my extracurricular activities even though this was a violation of the conspiracy. After all I had such a longing to share this with my friend, and she too found it interesting. Sometimes in the evening, when the passersby thinned out, we strolled down the narrow alleyways of the ghetto and talked ourselves hoarse. She dreamed about meeting her brother, his wife Lilka, and her little nephew Gorik; she dreamed about the future. I tried to change the subject because I didn’t believe that I would live to see victory. The evening curfew came early and we said goodnight. 297

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I persuaded Onia to join our organization. I tried very hard to get them to take her into the forest, but all these efforts were in vain. Once Szlomo said that he knew four guys, very active and determined people, who wanted to fight. We needed to bring them into our organization, but they had their own plans, and they didn’t want to take orders from above. We very much needed such militant young men. Szlomo talked with them several times and finally brought them to us. Their names were Izrael Dubczański, Ber Druskenik, Chaim Zaidelson, and Hirsz Gordon. They had previously gone to the technical school, and they worked in ghetto workshops. They had highly useful skills for the manufacture and assembly of weapons. Our ranks were filling up with valuable members. It happened that the three Gordon brothers lived with their mother and their nine-year old sister Sonieczka in the same bank building where Onia lived. Hirsz was assigned to my circle. He was no genius, but the lad made up for it with his kind and sweet nature. Onia liked the oldest brother Lew, who was strong, tall, and handsome. My good friend told me about their short meetings and conversations. I realized there was no chance that he could like her, but I tried not to discourage her. Lew and fifteen-year old Izaak also began to help us. Everyone wanted to take part in the struggle, especially those who realized that the lull in the ghetto was only temporary. The Germans were using the labor of the Jews, but only for the time being. Soon disaster would overtake the inmates, and the liquidation of the ghetto would begin. Everyone was anxious to fight; it was just that they interpreted struggle in different ways. We, for example, dreamed of joining the partisans in the forest and hitting the Nazis where it hurt, derailing trains, burning bridges, participating in the expulsion of the enemy from our land, bringing nearer the hour of victory. Others did not want to hear about this. They insisted it was necessary to manufacture arms and take action in the ghetto itself. If we were going to die, it would be with weapons in our hands. Our struggle would show that Jews did not go to their deaths like sheep to the altar; they would defend the honor of the Jewish people. Whenever we met, we quarreled violently, to the point of frenzy. However, we set out on our path from the same starting point, and we sought ways to unite all our forces for the struggle with the 298

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occupiers. Our leaders conducted negotiations with the representatives of all parties, even the religious Aguda, with the revisionists (right wing Zionists) the Poale Zion (left wing Zionists), not to mention the Bund (socialists and communists). But we did not know about all this. We worked and wrote flyers about the situation at the front, looked for new members of the organization, gathered weapons, supported and helped our comrades materially. Indeed it was only 1942, and so many dangers lay ahead of us in the future. And the Nazis were advancing. Leningrad was surrounded. The Germans had broken through to the Wołga! In the process of getting news bulletins to distribute, I noticed that Father was up-to-date on events, and I discovered a radio receiver installed in the furniture in his x-ray office. This was dangerous, but everything was dangerous then. And even more came to light. The four new recruits were also up on the news, which meant that despite the taboo, they had a radio. I shared my thoughts with Sonia. Sonia got the boys together and explained that they could be caught and wreck the organization; they had to give the radio to the organization; they did this very reluctantly. Then it came out that from the very beginning they had assembled the receiver part by part.

СHAIM The organization was conspiratorial, but in the small amount of territory that the ghetto occupied, almost everyone knew everyone else. In November the group met in Izaak Mackiewicz’s room. His first cousin Róża lived with him. She was tall and dark with a moustache. His own sister Mira, thin and quick to laughter, as well as their parents and aunt also lived there. It was a big room with two windows facing Straszuna Street. They fixed up some hors d’oeuvres – beet marmalade with sugar, gelatin made from horseflesh, a pâté of peas. We all met under the guise of a wedding. There were long benches at the table. Almost all my friends were there: Chaim Napoleon, Fanka Jokheles, Musia Kresin, about twenty of us in all. Here were Izrael Dubczański, Hirsz Gordon, the robust Berka Druskenik (whom I had not met before), and a young man in brown jeans and a 299

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white domestic wool sweater. He had a long nose, was skinny with sunken cheeks and of average height. I discovered that this was Chaim. I started a conversation with him; I did not do too well in Hebrew – too shy – and his Polish wasn’t very good. “I noticed you right away, this spring, when you came into the ghetto,” he said. “I even said to the guys, ‘It’s Lalka from the gorkom.’4 At the technical college in Soviet days I was the deputy Komsomol organizer – the Welwka Sołowiejczyk cell – and I often brought in membership dues and went out on training assignments. I live on the Szpitalna, and you walk home through our courtyard to the Goldman house, where you live. Szlomo recently brought these four young guys into our organization.” Everyone sat down at the table. It was Sunday, a day off. Sonia began to talk about the international situation, about the tasks before us, about the plot, about mistakes in the work. She explained everything remarkably well – calmly, simply, so that it made sense to everyone! My friends sat next to me, people who thought the same way I did, my militant comrades, my brothers. There still weren’t many of us, but we were growing in number; we were still going to do something, accomplish something. The Germans had sealed off Leningrad, they were at the gates of Moscow and were breaking through to the Wołga. There was hard fighting near Stalingrad. It was even more dreadful in the south, but this was temporary. Our ideas were the most advanced in the world; we were struggling for equality and justice. Was there any way that unbridled Nazism with its rabid message of hate could conquer us? It is as though they are still here before me: Sonia, Rachela Burakiska, Berka, and all the others were sitting before me on benches at the table which was moved up against the wall. Our comrades were proposing new methods of struggle: steal weapons from the Burbiszki arsenals and make cold weapons in the workshops. We had to blow up a transport convoy. This was what Izaak Mackiewicz, the most militant and impetuous member of the group, suggested. Sonia calmed the hotheads down: we had to fight, but 4

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Translator’s Note: Soviet terminology for a town committee or town council.

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we also had to weigh the circumstances. It did no one in the organization any good to lose members for no reason. We parted with a feeling of satisfaction, joy, solidarity. Our heated conversations continued for a long time. But the thought remained in our subconscious: someone among us would be the first to die, and how many of us would be left to continue the fight? That day, the twelfth of November, I met Chaim. I wanted so much to share this with Onia, but it would be wrong to do this. However, I could not restrain myself. “I met a fine young man,” I confessed. “He came across as such a serious, thoughtful person; he didn’t joke around or make wisecracks. I think it is very hard for him to survive; he is so pale and thin.” Onia took it upon herself to sniff out everything, cautiously, as if by accident, by way of the Gordon brothers, who lived very close to her place; she often got together with them to shoot the breeze in the empty hallway. She gladly hobnobbed with Lewka, Hirsz older brother; she liked him a lot, and she repeated all their conversations to me. After working at the library, I ran over to see Onia. Having no desire to clean up or do the laundry, I skipped the housework; Mama grumbled, but the meeting with Onia was more important. “Chaim lives with his mother and another neighbor, who has two daughters,” my friend reported, “In a windowless room. He sleeps on the table because there’s no room anywhere else. He works for almost no pay at a machine shop. They don’t have anything to eat, and hardly anything is left for them to sell. They are living in absolute poverty. It turns out that all four of the boys went to the Jewish mechanical engineering school earlier. They met in the ghetto and together began to assemble a radio, write news bulletins about the international situation, and think about weapons and the anti-Nazi struggle. “They are really annoyed,” Onia continued, “That you tracked down their receiver. They had to hand it over. After all, this was the apple of their eye, their pride and joy, and the source of all the news. They dragged this receiver from house to house, and they hid it in the bank building. They even shared the news they got from the front with me. They praise Chaim 301

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for being so sensible, honest, such a good comrade; he loves his mother a great deal and looks after her.” I was glad to hear this. I liked Chaim right away. For a long time I had dreamed of having a friend whom I could talk to about anything, whom I could rely on. In the meantime we had moved to a new “apartment” – a seven-meter room with one little window facing Szawelska Street. You reached our dwelling place by going through another room where a family of four lived – a father, mother, daughter, and a son a bit younger than myself. There was a dark kitchen and a toilet. Father was able, with incredible effort and thanks to people he knew, to obtain this separate room. We put two iron bedsteads by the wall in addition to a folding cot and a coffee table; I washed off two x-ray exposures and made a celluloid covering out of them; I put a map under it and that way could track operations at the front. There wasn’t anything else in the room, and indeed nothing else would have fit. Mama never stayed here; she usually spent the night at the hospital in the x-ray darkroom, where she could be alone at night, close the shutters, and read (as long as no light showed through a crack and no one knew that she was there). We didn’t cook in the kitchen, just warmed something up in the room and munched on some cold food in the morning. Józio went to school and then began to work in the workshops. Mama also found work at an enterprise that wove straw foot coverings onto boots for the Nazis, made various kinds of slippers, and the like. She had dexterous fingers, and she quickly mastered the business. She now had something to do, and, most important, the company of other women whom she chatted with and sang Jewish songs. Mama told me all about everything and taught me the songs, especially the ones for children. She made friends with an ordinary woman who had a four-year old son whom she played with. I was glad that Mama was not pining away. Her legs hurt less, and the ulcers were scarring over… I vanished from sight for days on end in the library. I greatly loved this work and the books. I cooked a few things to eat in the darkroom and did the laundry on free days. Sometimes on Friday Mama and I fixed a dish with beans or peas, potatoes, sometimes with a little piece of meat, closed the pot securely, and I carried it to the bakery in the courtyard next to the 302

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hospital. There were many bakeries in the ghetto. They baked bread there from flour “smuggled” through trapdoors in the cellars and sold it for a lot of money. Sonia Madeisker’s parents were bakers; before the war they ran a bakery-café on Ostrobramska Street. In the ghetto the organization opened up a bakery in their name; part of the money from the income it brought in went for the acquisition of weapons and part for aid to the starving. On Saturdays Jews are not supposed to work. Therefore on Friday they put pots of food prepared ahead of time into a hot stove and took them out on Saturday for dinner. This was “cholent,” a stew that had been simmering in the oven nearly for days with an unimaginably delicious crust. My whole family gathered in the darkroom, took out a hot pot, and ate their fill. This was an event in itself, a true delight. Devout Jews in peacetime always fixed cholent for Saturday, but we did not observe this practice at our home. But in the ghetto ready-to-eat cholent was a great treat, since it was so difficult to prepare a hot meal. A common repast, universal interest in the meal (it did not matter whether it was stewed too long, the crust turned red, or everyone had an equal serving); these were moments of relative comfort, when the home and the united family were in evidence. I remember it as if it were today: I go to the bakery to get our dinner. The owner cautiously, solemnly opens the oven door, and each person covers his steaming pot with a rag. I hurry down the Szpitalna to the hospital, to Mama’s tiny room, and the banquet begins… We are so rarely together. Everyone is swallowed up by his own cares, his own business, his own thoughts. At that time I was totally preoccupied with Chaim. We often met in our work for the underground; we talked about politics and the struggle. I shared my thoughts and dreams with Onia; she was my only confidante. When she managed to get a job at the library, we could chat often and rapturously. This was our only joy in the life of the ghetto. We laughed about “Hook” and his manicure, about clumsy Dina and her passion for Abramowicz. I mastered library work, came to know all the basic books, and put the card catalog in order. Abramowicz flirted with me a bit, which I found funny: he was an old man, over forty… 303

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We got ready to note the hundred thousandth ghetto book loan. We drew diagrams. In the meantime a youth club opened. Onia and I went to an evening event there. Szmerka Kacherginski read poetry and taught us the song “Everyone’s young, everyone’s young who wants to be young,” for which he had written the words. The room was filled with young people; it was noisy and stifling. I located Chaim and suddenly caught sight of him with a pale maiden about eighteen years of age who openly clung to him; she would not part from him a single step. There was no chance to talk to him, but I had been looking forward so much to meeting him here. I had sort of day-dreamed that we could go for a walk after the party. His companion did not seem to me to be the most cultured person in the world: she was certainly not hiding the fact that she looked at him with adoration in her eyes. My joy vanished completely; it was like a heavy weight on my soul. How could I make sense of this? Chaim had told me about his mother, about his fallen brother, the communist, about his sister, killed by a bomb in the Warsaw ghetto early in the war. But not a word about this girl. In the archives recently I found lists of all the residents of the ghetto in 1942. Chaim and his mother were listed there in the little room on the Zawalna with this loathsome small family from which everyone suffered so much. I was really offended. The girl’s behavior showed that she regarded Chaim as an intimate. The next day I started to make inquiries, as if I had nothing special in mind, about the people around Chaim. Hirsz told me with certainty in his voice: “That’s Chaim’s wife; they live in the same room together. Why do you ask – didn’t you know?” So my dream of having a close friend collapsed in ruins. I was in torment, but tried not to betray my state of mind. My relations with Chaim continued on a formal basis. And there was plenty of work. After an intense day at the library, where I handed out hundreds of books and filed cards, I had to run to the hospital to help Mama, wash dishes, and do the laundry. Then I had to meet the comrades in the group, distribute news reports and instructions. 304

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The question about Chaim gave me no peace, however, and I decided to ask him directly: “Who is that girl who was with you at the club?” I said, looking him straight in the eyes. “Hirsz says she is your wife.” Chaim’s face turned red. “That Hirsz of yours is a dope,” he said annoyed, “I don’t have a wife. Her family and mine live in the same room. Disagreeable people, crude and insolent. They make fun of my mother. It looks as though they really do want their youngest daughter to marry me, but there’s absolutely nothing to it. All I can think about now is the struggle, the organization.” Chaim, like me, was sure that we were all going to die. I believed Chaim with all my heart. A stone had been lifted from my soul. It meant that Chaim was not married and he wasn’t in love with anyone. I could try to get closer to him. And I needed him so much. Chaim seemed to be a good guy in every way. Our views coincided. At this terrible time I wanted so badly to have a true friend next to me whom I could count on.

THE UNDERGROUND It was autumn 1942. The battle for Stalingrad was underway, and the fighting continued in North Africa. It seemed that the war would never end. I was admitted to the FPO.5 I already knew that an underground battle organization had existed since January 23, and members of various political parties, from communists on the far left to the “Beitar” on the far right, had joined it. The leaders of the individual parties had agreed among themselves to wage a common struggle in the ghetto against Nazism. In addition to the FPO, the battle group “Ekhiel” was formed later, but its fighters made preparations to leave the ghetto and go into the forests to fight there in the ranks of the partisan detachments. Later this group became affiliated with the FPO.

5 FPO (Fareinikte Partizaner Organizacje - United Partisan Organization) – the united underground anti-Nazi organization in the Vilna ghetto had been in existence since January 1942.

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They solemnly admitted me and had me swear an oath of fealty. I joined a squad of five. Several such squads formed a platoon, several platoons a battalion. We had two battalions. Our mission was to acquire weapons, to complete military preparations, all with the aim of provoking an uprising in the ghetto. If we perished, it would be with honor, having proved to humanity that we were not sheep going meekly to the altar. The commanding officer of my platoon was Rogozin. He was rather stout, advanced in age (he was over thirty), unassuming, without any military bearing whatsoever. I thought that he was one of the “ordinary Zionists.” Imagine my surprise when I discovered that he was a communist, that before the war he had done time in prison “for political reasons.” They ordered us to come to the library in the evening for a meeting with the officers. Then came my great moment of exultation: Chaim had been named commander of the detachment! I was appointed courier. Every evening my job was to get news bulletins, instructions, and literature from organization headquarters and distribute them to the squads. This was the fertile period of my life in the ghetto. I worked in the library and accomplished some useful things. I was the caretaker. Things were relatively quiet in the ghetto itself. All winter and spring, however, mass murders of Jews were taking place in the small towns around Vilna and in Belorussia. In July a hundred very old people were taken away, supposedly to summer cottages. After awhile we learned that they had all been shot in Ponary. This was not considered a mass action by the Nazis, and the Jews confined to the ghetto did not grieve over it particularly; they had become accustomed to frequent executions. In the ghetto a normal cultural life developed. That winter a union of intellectuals and artists was created, and concerts were organized which even the German and Lithuanian hierarchy attended. Herman Kruk and his colleagues circulated a flyer: ‘You don’t build a theater in a cemetery.’ Of course there was hunger and it was cold. The threat of disaster loomed, but for us young people, engrossed in our work, everything seemed far away and dreamlike. I loved Chaim. All my thoughts were centered on him. I noticed each of his movements, glances, and caught every word he spoke. Of course I 306

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was not sure what he thought about me. He was always on an even keel, imperturbable, a man of few words. I liked his quiet manner, his restraint, precision, and orderliness. He was never late to our evening meetings. I handed over the instructions and news bulletins from headquarters to him; sometimes we talked things over a bit. I learned that he was the youngest son in the family. His father died when Chaim was eight years old. Until then his father had had heart trouble for a long time. He had to stay at home, he could not work, and all the family’s money went to his medical expenses. His older sister Fania left for Warsaw to live with his uncle and go to work there. His brother Mula (who was twenty when the father died) – spoiled as the family’s “bkhor” (first-born son) by their father, left home, lived alone, and provided no support for their mother. The mother was very disappointed that Mula was connected with the Polish police, who used him to apprehend either drug addicts or certain types of gamblers. This was considered “indecent” for a Jew. Chaim and fifteen-year old Dawid were left in the home after their father’s death. They were poverty stricken. They found it necessary to rent out the best room to two girls, students at the teacher’s school. One of their father’s friends set Dawid up at a leather-processing plant on Portowa Street by the river. The boy earned just pennies a day. Each year he helped his mother and brother, giving them everything he earned. He dreamed about the future, about equality and brotherhood. He had a great influence on his brother, who regarded him as the ideal figure in his life. Chaim studied at the Jewish School, then at the Hebrew High School on the Zawalna, then at the Jewish technical college on Gdánsk Street. The family languished in poverty. Relatives provided a little help: a cousin from Estonia, forty-year old Alexander Zaidelson, a rich engineer, the director of a shale factory. Chaim told me how this rich relative visited them once and brought them presents. He gave Chaim a watch for his bar mitzvah, a real company watch that Chaim would not part with for anything in the world, not even when he was starving in the ghetto. And then came the Soviet authorities. From being an ordinary worker Dawid became the director of the Eidukiavicius plant. The Jewish technical college merged with the Polish in a magnificent building on the 307

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Golendern.6 They selected Chaim to be assistant head of the college’s comsomol organization (Wowa Sołowiejczyk was the secretary in charge of the group). In summer 1940 he frequently came to the comsomol city committee, where I worked as assistant to the secretary. I saw him, but did not pay him any attention. But to him I was a town committee worker, and he remembered me. “When you came into the ghetto, I told the other guys in our group of four right away: ‘Lalka’s in the ghetto,’” Chaim said to me, ‘That means that the comsomol is organizing something.’ So we began to look for contacts. (Wouldn’t he be the one to know how I got into the ghetto! I of course was not linked either to an organization or to Sonia Madeisker at that time). Chaim’s words pleased me a great deal; they showed that I had authority in his eyes, and he respected me as an active comsomol member. But what an insignificant member I was then. Now he outranked me in the FPO, and I was his subordinate. Chaim recounted to me the horrors of the first days of the war. As a factory executive, Dawid was arrested immediately. No one ever saw him again. He was probably shot in the very first days. Older brother Mula let himself be evacuated behind the rear lines in Russia, as usual not giving a thought to his mother and brother. They learned back in 1939 that Fania had been killed by a bomb during the Warsaw air raids: Chaim and his mother managed to survive despite the ‘bounty hunters’ who were out to catch as many Jews as they could; they hid in attics, in gardens, in friends’ courtyards up to the moment when all surviving Jews were relocated to the ghetto on September 6, 1941. In the ghetto he and his mother lived in a windowless room and were forced to share the space with coarse, ugly people while he starved and worked in mechanical workshops. His mentor at work miraculously escaped by hiding during the “yellow certificate” action. He was a fine young workman who taught Chaim both the trade and life. On one occasion Chaim came to our home, to our new room. There was no place to sit down. Chaim took a seat on the edge of the table, I on 6

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the bed. We had a long conversation, telling each other about the past and then discussing the plans of the organization. Next to the door stood a little iron stove that Father had brought home. We lit some wood chips and luxuriated in comfort and warmth. It was a wonderful evening. Józio came in, looked suspiciously in Chaim’s direction (did Lalka have an admirer?). Chaim began to talk to him as to an adult, whereupon Józio relaxed and joined the conversation. Later Józio, too, got jobs in the workshops, learned a lot from Chaim, and greatly loved and respected him. A few days later Chaim brought us a wooden bench. It was rough and unpolished but made by his own hands. I was infinitely happy – he was thinking about me, he had made me a present! Father also appreciated Chaim’s thoughtfulness and thanked him warmly. Altogether Father had a good attitude toward him. Meeting him at my place, he immediately launched into a conversation with him. Apparently Chaim reminded him of his own younger days; he understood him. Father, too, had come from a poor family; he was persistent and hardworking, and now he did not wish to be obsequious to the Germans. I do not remember why Chaim and I went to the x-ray room in the hospital. Maybe because Father suggested inspecting his lungs? Or was this an excuse for Mama to see him? She came out of the darkroom to chat with us. Her voice betrayed badly concealed contempt: See what a goodfor-nothing young man Lala brought home. Skinny, a pauper, from a poor family. Mama thought that my friends should be intellectuals, members of the aristocracy. On the other hand, however, her views were completely democratic. But as time went on she stressed that Chaim represented the dregs of society. Mama’s opinion did not excessively bother me, but it was offensive that even in the ghetto Mama was focusing on origins and other conventionalities. It was as though she did not realize that I was a serious girl and could not be attracted to a stupid and uncultivated young man. However, Mama showed her feelings right away and did not wish to talk with Chaim or give him the time of day. The most remarkable thing was that Mama’s approach did have an influence on me. I regretted very much that Chaim did little reading, that, despite having a good ear, he had a poor knowledge of music. I brought him good books from the library 309

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and tried with all my might to raise his cultural level. It made me very unhappy to realize that he was almost a year younger than I was – still just a boy. Nevertheless, I subsequently never failed to perceive him as far older and wiser than myself. Here I was going home from the hospital through the courtyard passageway. There were many such courtyards in the ghetto – they served as shortcuts, and when needed, you could get away and hide. I was constantly thinking about Chaim. Mentally I would see him beside me in life and then suddenly I would come to my senses: for we were still in the ghetto, and at any moment they could kill us. Or the liquidation of the ghetto could begin and we would rise up in revolt. We had no future, there was only the present moment. It was terrible living with no future, with no dreams! It was terrible to have just one aspiration – to die together. Now the greatest happiness for me was to die, like Pierre and Luce in the book by Romain Rolland. I brought this book to Chaim, but it did not make the same impression on him that it did on me. He was not a romantic. And for now the best things in life were the evening business meetings. In complete darkness, the windows tightly curtained off, not a glimmer of light could work its way through. A cold, freezing winter. This was now the second such unbelievedly glacial winter. I ran in my gray winter overcoat (black plush made from cat fur was sewn on top of the collar because the Germans ordered all the real fur handed in for them to satisfy their needs). I ran from the Rudnicka to our meeting place on the Szawelska Street. It was so dark that it was impossible to find each other, so Chaim whistled our theme song: the habanera from Bizet’s “Carmen.” I flung myself at him. I handed over the reports and tried to make out his facial features – his thin nose, sunken cheeks, black eyes (the same eyes that my little daughter Emma used to look at me with). He was tired, hungry, and poorly dressed. He was too proud ever to let anyone help him. I held his hand in mine for a second. It was already almost eight and I had to run home; any minute the curfew would begin. We said goodbye until the next day. The library had a special celebration in December: the hundred thousandth book was loaned out to readers, and director Herman Kruk made 310

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advance preparations to put on a big performance in the main auditorium of the theater. All fall we had collected facts about the library and had drawn up diagrams and charts: how many books readers of various ages had taken out, what kinds of books – literary, political, scientific and scholarly, and in what languages. The chart reflected the reduction in the numbers of books that were read at the time that “actions” were occurring in the ghetto; when typhus broke out in 1942, the library was closed for a short time. It was clear that right after the actions the number of books taken out increased; exhausted by their sufferings, the survivors once more immersed themselves in reading. During all our free time from work we drafted charts. Beautiful posters were ordered, and they were done by hand, like all the placards in the ghetto. Dozens of these posters survived, and one is hanging now in the Vilna Jewish Museum. When I conduct excursions, I always talk about the high cultural level of the city’s Jews, about how much they were drawn to books. On the basis of the data we presented, Herman Kruk prepared a report: ‘100 Thousand Books in the Ghetto.’ Then the day came, December 12, 1942. The ghetto had existed for a year and three months. Just think that on the third day of the ghetto, September 9, 1941, the library loaned out books for the first time. The theater auditorium was decorated with diagrams and inscriptions. Herman Kruk gave his report, and the leading cultural lights of the ghetto gave speeches. They praised the magnificent work the library had accomplished in serving such a huge number of readers. There was a concert. The oldest and youngest readers were awarded books. We all felt as though we were the ones celebrating a birthday. The performance was a glorious triumph. The hall was full of people. They loved the library; books taught them, distracted them, allowed them to forget themselves, to live another day. I told Mama and Chaim for a long time about the minutes of joy that I experienced. How splendid it was that I could work in this temple of reading! I devoted all my efforts to the work in the library, but you see I was working as a volunteer, that is, without compensation. Indeed, it was later that they took me on part-time, then full-time as a category five employee. 311

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Not long ago I found a document in the archives, Herman Kruk’s petition to hire me in place of the senior librarian Szapiro, and the order to put me on the staff. I even found a chart with the times when we were allowed to take turns going to lunch, for instance me from 12.30 to 13.30. In the ghetto a relative lull set in; there were no more Nazi actions. The streets were cleared of snow. The sanitary police regularly went from home to home inspecting the cleanliness of the rooms and kitchens, the bed, the kitchenware. Our housing conditions could be called passable. Lice did not infest anyone we knew. There weren’t any epidemics in the ghetto, and the isolated cases of people who came down with typhus were concealed in a special ward of the hospital; everyone kept quiet about them. During the lunch break I ran to the hospital to cook up something to eat. The basic dishes were: Russian beet salad, kasha, pea soup, and frozen potatoes; rarely there was something made from horsemeat that was cloying and tough; Mama cooked it on an electric hotplate. We dined in the darkroom, and I washed the dishes and rushed back to the library. I was not interested in the problem of eating. We were not starving, and that was fine. Something else occupied my thoughts. But I knew that there was hunger in the ghetto. People clandestinely brought food products through the checkpoints which they received in exchange for items while returning from work. It happened that the Lithuanian guards and the Jewish police would let them pass through, but frequently they carried out a selective inspection, which meant they would pat people down and confiscate pieces of bread, potatoes, and little bags of flour. Sometimes they would herd them into the corner shop, strip them naked, beat them, torment them, and ship them off to the ghetto prison on Lida Street. The unfortunate prisoners were driven through the library courtyard. At one point the German high command was lying in wait at the gates: Kietel, Muerer, and others. The news about this was instantaneously passed down to the people in the columns, and everyone hastily discarded their food right on Rudnicka Street, before they reached the gate by All Saints Church. Afterward, as the Jews were driven into the ghetto, the sidewalk was strewn with potatoes, pieces of bread, and other food items. Women contrived to make themselves corsets, quilted with narrow little bags into which they 312

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stuffed sugar, grain, salt, and the like. The corsets clung tightly to the body, and a superficial inspection would not reveal the hidden food items. However, a careful inspection uncovered the contraband goods. The battered, tearstained women came back humiliated to their hungry families, but some of them were carted off to prison. Sometimes they brought in frozen potatoes and dumped them in a pile on the street. I not infrequently had to retrieve potatoes from the slippery mass in the pile that were still sound, that had kept their shape. Then I cleaned them and made them into potato pancakes or dumplings. I still feel the cold slime on my palms, and the disgusting smell of decay is still in my nostrils. A potato dumpling made from frozen potatoes was one of the finest delicacies in the ghetto. Calamity overtook us when they arrested Father. He very rarely went into the city. Yet sometimes he still had to get something or other from the things that were being kept for him by his Polish friends and acquaintances. We were totally out of cooking oil, so Father set out for the city. One of his friends had stashed away a can of drawn butter for him. As a wellknown doctor Father was never detained at the gates. He left the ghetto with a group of workers, and once in the city he took off his yellow ribbons. Going out this way alone was extremely dangerous, since any minute the Lithuanian police could arrest you, and then shoot you. His reddishbrown moustache and his hat made Father look like a Pole. He dropped in on friends, listened to the usual words of sympathy, picked up the can, and went back the way he came, again linking up with the returning brigade of Jews. At the gate he was searched. They arrested Father, confiscated the can, and took him off to prison with the other “transgressors.” Father was in terrible danger: the prison faced Lida Street, which was beyond the ghetto. The Germans frequently came by there, and Jews who had violated the regulations were taken straight to Ponary to be shot. It often happened that once you got into jail, you never came back. Mama and I were sunk in grief. Mama went to the top ghetto officials to ask about Father. The hospital directors were also making inquiries. They needed Father as a radiologist. Every day I took a pot of soup and some bread to the prison and thought with horror: what is going to happen to Father now and what will we do without him? About five days went by. 313

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During this time the Germans never turned up. Father was released. How happy we were! All of us could eat lunch again together; sitting on the bench in the darkroom, each of us holding a bowl, and we couldn’t get over our relief that Father had come home. This time we got through it, but what about the future? Every day people were dying, first one, then another: from police beatings, from backbreaking work, from hunger. I am trying not to delve too deeply into the tragic details; otherwise it would drive me mad. But fear was always stirring in the recesses of the soul. And why had I grown so fond of Chaim! Love, of course, especially if it is mutual (which I was by no means sure of), is a great joy. But what a torment it was to be trembling all the time about him. The Germans often visited the workshops; if they didn’t like something, they would simply start shooting. I understood that Chaim and his comrades in the workshops were making parts for weapons and were repairing pistols. What if they caught them at it? Eternal, infinite fear in my heart! And my thoughts about Mama? Those terrible ulcers on her legs were so bad that she could barely walk. Every evening in the damp darkroom I helped her to irrigate the ulcers and rub grease on them, but nothing worked, apparently owing to her diabetes. If I was going to have to flee the ghetto, how could I take Mama? I envied Rachela Kowarska, Director Kruk’s secretary. She had no one at home with her except Szlomo. Her parents remained in the Warsaw ghetto. If there was an uprising, she would fight side by side with her husband and they would die together. What happiness to die next to the one you love! And not to have anyone else to anguish over! It was nearing the end of December. In the evenings I stayed at the library to keep vigil. Our warriors were getting military instruction there. After seven in the evening the library building emptied. Rachela and I had keys to the entrance doors. We would admit groups in turn in complete darkness; we were not supposed to know who was coming in. They needed us as library employees in case the Jewish police took them unawares: we were putting things in order, putting books away. On a regular watch I would sit on the sill of the staircase window: The door below was closed. Behind the wall quiet voices and the instructor’s 314

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directions were barely audible. Lights must not be turned on so as not to attract the attention of outsiders. I remember that evening, remember it as if it were yesterday. My spirits were low. Mama was unhappy again; there was so much housework to be done – washing, darning, scrubbing the floor, and once more I wasn’t home... Where was Chaim now? Probably at his friends’ – Hirsz Gordon, Ber Druskenik, or Izrael Dubczański . They were debating plans for the struggle against our enemies. How much I would have liked to be with him. But what if they ship us off to a camp and I don’t see him anymore? At least I should have his photograph. I was too shy to ask him for it. This was impossible! There was no photographer in the ghetto because it was against the rules to have cameras. This was a case when I should have known how to draw! I would have drawn his portrait and carried it with me forever. I tried to sketch something on paper, but nothing came of it. I see his face before me so clearly – narrow, with sunken cheeks and thin lips. He was famished, as they had absolutely nothing to barter for food since he did not leave the ghetto. And he got a pittance for his work, not even enough for bread. Their live-in neighbors at home were making scenes and no longer pretended to be on good terms with them since they had not succeeded in marrying off their youngest daughter to him. What were his feelings about me? They seemed to be pretty good, but he did not love me the way I loved him. And what should I do next? How could I see him outside of work?

THE NEW YEAR It was my idea! Celebrate New Year’s. I shall talk with Onia and will tell her everything as it is. We will discuss it together, and I will ask Father to spend the night in his office at the hospital. That will leave me with a free room. The agreed-upon knock on the door interrupted my day-dreaming. I opened it, let a group out onto the staircase, then downstairs to the street. They left one by one, and this took a long time. 315

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About ten minutes went by. There was a knock downstairs followed by the password. I opened and let the next group in. The curfew had begun a long time ago. The police could seize anyone who left. The class ended late at night. I was chilled to the bone and weary after an entire day of toil and anxiety. I let the last person out and saw the outline of his figure: tall, military bearing. He spoke in Yiddish: “Thanks, havera [friend].” I recognized Józef Glazman, the battalion commander, former military officer, a revisionist, and a brave fellow. People said that Sonia Madeisker liked him. But after all she was a communist. We rarely made friends with guys from other parties. Divergences in views caused her much personal distress... No matter, I had to get as quickly as I could to the corner of Straszuna and Szawelska, find the entrance at the first gate, then run up to the third floor. Go in through the room where the neighbors were sleeping. Finally our own space. Father was sleeping on the bed, Józio on the folding cot. I climbed in under the blanket. It was cold and it made my teeth chatter, but I fell asleep immediately. Youth took over. Next morning – I rushed to work. Onia was already there. I shared my plans for a New Year’s party with her. My friend was enthusiastic. The food and drink had to be prepared: horsemeat for “mock rabbit,” bake potato dumplings, make beet salad, get some sauerkraut. Onia could do the baking, since they had an oven, and I would do the salad. My parents agreed out of sympathy for us youngsters. “Lala and Józio can go ahead and have some fun,” said Mama. We compiled a list of the friends to be invited: Chaim, Hirsz, Izrael, Danka... Twelve people. They had to be invited. A few of the guys should come a bit early to bring boards for a table and benches. Onia and I were in an exalted frame of mind. After all, this was our only party while we were in the ghetto. I invested great hopes in it. The long-awaited day arrived. On finishing the day’s work at the library, I rushed to the hospital to pick up the hors d’oeuvres that had been made ahead of time. Chaim and Hirsz came, took the beds apart, and moved them to the wall opposite the window. They put a table and two benches together. We 316

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decorated everything with tiny stars and garlands made from colored paper. Our dishes – water the color of jam, all the bread anyone could eat, a potato casserole, a “mock rabbit” made from horsemeat, and beet root salad – were displayed on the table. Everyone found a seat. There was no extra room, but the atmosphere was cheerful. We sang Soviet songs, chatted, and laughed. I sat next to Chaim. Just think – a short while ago we didn’t even know each other. Józio climbed onto the pile of beds, made himself comfortable right under the ceiling, and was happy; he had been invited to the feast along with the adults. Today is September 30, 1998 – fifty-six years after that New Year’s, and I remember everything: the little room, narrow as a pencil case, Józio under the ceiling, all of us welcoming in 1943 merrily, noisily. It brought so much grief, so many disappointments and deaths: the loss of Witenberg, the collapse of the uprising, the massacre of Glazman’s group on the road into the forest, the deportation of the entire second battalion to a concentration camp in Estonia, the liquidation of the ghetto, the horrors of the partisan movement. On the way into the forest Hirsz was killed – there he was sitting with us, such a kind, marvelous young man. Danka was shot on an assignment by one of his own fellow partisans who mistook him for an enemy soldier exactly a year after this same night on the last day of 1943. Chaim’s mother died during the liquidation of the ghetto in the fall of 1943, the same time that Onia and her family were killed; they would not allow her to go with me to join the partisans. But for now we laughed, chewed the horsemeat we had bought with all the family’s ration cards for December – a rare opportunity to eat our fill! And we tried to rid our souls of the premonition of an inevitable end, grief, horror, to save ourselves from it if only for these couple of hours. I am writing these lines on the eve of 1999, the last year of the century. Yesterday his kindergarten celebrated Mikhal’s fourth birthday. Then Ania arrived, already in tenth grade; Emma and Żenia came home from work. I never thought I would live to see 1999. An ancient old woman not yet ready for death. I remember everything. As I usually do in the evening, I am sitting alone in the cottage that I rent across from Emma’s home, thinking 317

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about Chaim, whom I lived with for forty-three years. He has been gone for a long time, and I remained alone. …After midnight we went out for a walk. The curfew was in force, but despite the rule against going out at night, many people were on the street, cheerful, perhaps even under the influence of alcohol. It was dark and frosty, without a speck of light. There was some kind of hope in our hearts. Chaim made a move to take me by the hand. I recoiled, shied away. I did not want him to think I was one of those who was in a rush to be embraced: after all, I was a girl with principles. We strolled a little bit; it was too bad that the New Year’s gathering had to end. In the morning Onia brought over a broom, and we set about cleaning up, analyzing every word that was spoken the previous evening. I recalled the time that Onia and I returned with brooms down Dziśnieńska Street, a very narrow street with tall buildings, past a cafe where soup was served during the day to indigents, and where the rich caroused in the evening – yes, there were people like that in the ghetto! Now those buildings are no longer there; – they were destroyed during the liberation of Vilna in July 1944, nor does this narrow street exist. Rather, a humble monument “To the Martyrs and Fighters of the Ghetto” stands in its place. Onia told me that she had met Lew Gordon, who had tossed a few polite words in her direction. Poor dear Onia, he was in no way interested in her. She was short and plump, slightly limping on one leg, whereas he was a tall, broadshouldered young god. Afterward I found out about his friendship with the beautiful Mira Goniońska, who served in the Jewish police; she was taken into the Comsomol and assigned to pass on information from the police. I asked Onia: “What do you think? Does Chaim like me? “He has a lot of regard for you,” said Onia. But I needed to hear that he loved me, that he had become my friend. Again and again I went over the details of the previous evening. Chaim was bashful; he would never say anything, and neither would I. That meant we were going to keep silent. Nevertheless, I had pulled my hand out of his, 318

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and he had probably taken offense and thought that I did not want him to show me any familiarity. The long-awaited day came and went, the days dragged on unchanging. It was very cold with thirty degrees of frost. I felt good and I had warm clothing to wear. We could warm ourselves at the stove, but many people froze and starved at the same time. But suddenly Chaim appeared and told us they were sending him and his brigade to the ghetto in Żeżmary Township, about thirteen kilometers from Kowno. “There’s been an outbreak of typhus there, nothing short of a real epidemic. We need to set up a disinfector to get rid of the lice.” When people were driven into the bathhouse, it was essential to disinfect their clothing – to heat them at a very high temperature. For this purpose they assigned a brigade of several men, including Chaim. They would be there for about two weeks in all. I was horrified: in the first place, Chaim could come down with typhus. They would of course be sleeping in the ghetto together with the residents of Żeżmary and possibly in the same bunks that they used. And how many times did it turn out that people who were supposedly sent to work never returned? They were almost always killed after completing the job. Would I never see Chaim again? That was something I could not bear! Chaim was certain that they would come back. He tried to convince me of this, too, and I tried to believe it. We began to gather warm clothing for him: a scarf, mittens, a warm jersey, wool socks, and most important, boots with thick soles, and a jacket. Everyone who could do so loaned him these things. He stood there before us in his hat with ear flaps, his jacket, a bundle containing bread and an onion in his hand – there was hunger there, in the Żeżmary ghetto. We said farewell – was it going to be forever? Their brigade was driven away on a truck. How would he make out there, frozen and hungry in that dreadful ghetto? They drove people out every day there in freezing weather to pave the Vilna-Kowno highway. That was why they were keeping them alive for the time being and not exterminating them. I was horrified imagining these haggard captives dragging heavy stones onto the highway and setting them in place on the road. 319

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After the war, whenever I traveled along this highway, in my mind I always saw people dropping lifeless on the road amid snow-covered fields, and Chaim in his fur hat. A week went by, then another – no news. I was worn out. I pictured Chaim with typhus, on wooden bunks, side-by-side with other typhus victims, or in a crowd being marched before a firing squad. How often it happened that people transported out of the ghetto temporarily actually left it forever. Why did he go? What would happen to him? There was no Motl, his mentor at work, to bail him out. All of them, the whole brigade, were going to die among louse-ridden, contagious strangers! Still another week went by. I imparted all my anxieties and tribulations to Onia. She, kind soul, comforted me as well as she could: “But you know they were sent on the orders of the Germans. They are carrying out an official assignment. Besides, Gens is going to be anxious to get them back: he needs them in the workshops. Don’t despair. You are going to see Chaim back again soon.” In the summer of 2001 I traveled to Żeżmary with a group of tourists and saw the empty synagogue where the ghetto martyrs had lived. I visited the fraternal grave overgrown with weeds and thought of Chaim. They actually did return. The day was frigid, thick snowflakes were falling, and suddenly I saw Chaim running toward me. “I’ve just arrived,” he cried breathlessly, “I’m running home to wash up and change. I’ll come to see you soon.” That evening we gathered in the library. Chaim told us terrible things about the Żeżmary ghetto: “There are thousands of them there. In dirty bunks, with children. No food at all! The work brigades are driven out early in the morning to pave the road. People freeze to death while they’re walking. We built them a disinfector and a bathhouse; at least now they will be able to keep clean. They hide anyone sick with typhus because they are afraid that the Germans will liquidate everyone if they find out.” It was terrible to hear this; someone actually had it worse than we did. Chaim continued: 320

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“They kept us apart and fed us decently: after all, we were government representatives as it were. We tried to talk to the young people about weapons, resistance, running away. But they had been reduced to bestial indifference, like animals worn out from the chase. They know they will soon be rubbed out.” “We have our own sorrows right here,” we reported when it was our turn, “Liza Magun was killed. She was sent on a courier mission to Jews in other ghettos. They arrested her at the Orany railroad station.7 She died heroically without ratting on anyone. In her memory the FPO password will now be ‘Lise ruft’ (Liza calling) – this is a signal that mobilization has been announced, and it’s an order to come to the assembly point immediately.” We all lowered our heads. Our bold, energetic Liza, our courier, was no more. Chaim was sitting across the room – clean and shaved, in a white woolen golf sweater and brown trousers that were just a bit too small for him. Thank God he was back. But how many more ordeals lay ahead of us. I woke up the next morning. The room was dark and cold. Józio was still sleeping. My heart was full of joy; Chaim was alive and unharmed. Life could go on. I worked a lot, helping Mama wash, clean up, and cook. Mama was frequently sick, and sometimes she slept in the hospital, where it was clean, had a big window, and unlike the darkroom did not reek with mustiness. I carried food to Mama. I did not linger for a long time with her; there was no time for that. Mama was offended: young people, egotistical! In addition to military topics, we studied Marxism in the group. Sonia Madeisker was the instructor. These were happy moments. Sonia knew everything. Hirsz was a bit dense, and he was a poor learner, so Sonia explained the same things to him over and over again: about the ways and methods of achieving equality and brotherhood on earth. We talked about our future. At times we forgot where we were. I can still see Sonia’s face before me. It was as though a kind of light was radiating from all of her. Never in my life had I seen a woman 7

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like this. You could say anything to her; she would understand and give you her advice on everything. I loved her! That was the way people would be under communism. But I still was lacking in kindness. I was egotistical. I had to take control of myself. And here the unavoidable question arose: why do anything at all if shortly we are not even going to be alive anymore? “Sonia,” I asked, “How is it possible to live with this constant feeling of inevitable impending death? It makes you just want to fold up your hands!” “You are young,” Sonia answered, “You always have to believe that something good lies ahead. We will fight, we will go into the forests, we will last it out. And if that doesn’t work, we will die with weapons in our hands. But as long as we are still alive, we cannot lose hope.” I wanted to believe Sonia so much. But the fear of death was constantly present, somewhere deep inside. I was unable to live for the moment. Poor heroic Sonia! She lost the man she loved; he was killed when a whole group of Vilna fighters were surrounded. She herself was executed by the Gestapo after an unsuccessful attempt to kill a German and end her own life, six weeks before the liberation of Vilna. I was so sorry for her, missed her so much. Why did everyone dear to me have to be killed? – Mama, Father, Józio, Mirek, Irka, Onia... A terrible event shook the ghetto to its foundations at the end of the January. The young singer Luba Lewicka was detained at the ghetto entrance, and they found a little bag of peas in her possession. Luba was starving, and she never went outside the ghetto. She decided to go into town with a group of workers and visit some friends. She was arrested on the way back, thrown into prison, and handed over to the Germans. Luba was shot to death in Ponary. The “nightingale of the ghetto” was dead, a magnificent artist who on several occasions appeared at concerts in the ghetto. Our very existence was so fragile that death could ambush us at any moment. Mobilization was announced in the city, but the Lithuanians did not want to go to the front. It was more convenient to kill and rob the Jews. Many Lithuanians fled. I learned that Vilna University was closed. I was walking down the slippery sidewalk on Szpitalna Street when I suddenly came upon Nadzia and Tolek. I saw them rarely although we lived 322

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next door to them on the same side-street. She was such a refined, absolutely elegant lady even here, in the ghetto. Tolek with his auburn hair and freckles did not match her at all in appearance. “It’s wonderful that we met like this. I haven’t seen you for such a long time,” Nadzia said, “We have a smidgeon of time, so come on over to our place.” I had lots of unfinished housework at home, and Mama was expecting me, but I really wanted to find out what was going on with Nadzia. I said I would come. “Let’s buy you some butterscotch drops,” Nadzia smiled, “You see, you are always a little girl to me.” Nadzia was like a boy holding a tray full of saccharin, homemade candy, and other riches. She gave me a butterscotch, a big one, wrapped in paper. I could not restrain myself and enthusiastically thrust it into my mouth. What a divine taste! For the first time in many years I was chewing a butterscotch, and I had forgotten what a delight it was. I remembered our home and going to school when Mama sometimes added an apple and candy to the sandwich. Nadzia and Tolek led me to their little room on the second floor; it was cozy, small, and by itself. The window looked out on the gloomy street. We told each other what was happening in our lives, and we especially remembered grandmother Maria. “I am so glad that we were able to bury her two days before the Germans arrived. She did not have to grope around in the ghetto. Of course they drove us into the “little” ghetto, and it was a miracle that I was able to talk my way into the first one,” Nadzia sighed. I understood that this miracle was achieved thanks to Father, but Nadzia did not like him and did not want to acknowledge that he had afforded them any protection. “If Mama had lived another couple of months, how miserable it would have been for her. In any case she died at home without suffering, with a smile on her lips. But Lala, you didn’t even say goodbye to her.” Nadzia could not understand that I wanted to remember my favorite grandmother, who listened with lively and cheerful attention to all my confidential stories. How long ago all that was. 323

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It was good that Nadzia was not alone, that she had a friend, Tolek. Subsequently I was happy when I discovered after the war that she was safe and had survived at the Stutthof camp. I hoped that she would live with me, but she found Tolek, who had returned from Dachau! They went to America. In 1971 she and Tolek and their daughter Vivian settled in Moscow. We all went to see them. What an outstanding several days we spent together! But after Tolek died and I went to visit her in 1982, we found that we could not speak the same language together. That’s the way things sometimes turn out. In the ghetto all the prices rose steeply. There was the feeling that something terrible was looming. They strengthened the guard at the gate and examined everyone painstakingly. Many manholes and hidden passages were walled off, thus preventing profiteers from dragging in bags of flour, potatoes, and even meat carcasses. Father’s money was beginning to run out. He decided to make his way into town overnight and with the help of the keeper, Franciszek, dig up the little box with gold coins in the basement of our house on Wilna Street. I turned cold with horror: going out at night looking for something, bringing money back into the ghetto? But this was dangerous, one could be caught! But we had to live. All the reserve supplies of most of the people in the ghetto had run out, even clothing which one could exchange for food items; people were starving, among them Chaim and his mother. Father left. Mama and I froze with anticipation. Then it began to get dark. The time dragged on endlessly. More than twenty-four hours went by. Finally Father returned – with a blank expression on his face: “Everything was stolen! Franciszek dug and dug in the basement, and then it came him: ‘She’s the one, my wife. She was fooling around with the Germans, a prostitute! She sniffed out where the doctor and I buried it.’ Nothing is left. How are we going to live?” Mama sobbed, but I was indifferent. The main thing was that Father had come back alive, and we were all together. We would get through it somehow or other. We began to live from hand to mouth. They finally gave me a staff position at the library. There would be some kind of rations and a few 324

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rubles. Father would think of something. There was nothing he couldn’t do. I was always certain that as long as Father was around there was no danger of starvation. By chance I came across the address of my former tutor at home, Liza Meller, whom I loved a great deal. When she had two little girls, she dropped her last course at the university, could not cope with her household chores, agonized over her charming and handsome husband... In the ghetto I discovered that she was living with her children and her elderly parents while her husband had found himself a pretty young thing and had gone off to live with her. For some reason I had seen this coming and was very sorry for her. Now I sought her out in the ghetto. The room was dirty and messy, pervaded with an air of hopelessness. Her kind and well-educated parents suffered seeing the poverty and hunger stricken condition of the children. Liza herself, such a talented, intelligent, self-assured person, sat in front of me wretched and unkempt. She knew that there was no future for her children, let alone her old parents, that the Nazis were going to liquidate the ghetto, and that the only route open to them was – to Ponary. It was hard to look at her. After the war I discovered that they had all been killed when the ghetto was liquidated. Alex, her husband, survived of course. Izrael got sick. He was moved to the hospital for a hernia operation. I was deathly afraid of operations, pain, and physical suffering, and I fervently sympathized with him. Izrael needed to be well fed after the operation, but his family was starving, so we agreed to take turns visiting him and bringing him food to eat. Rywa Kowarska Szlomo’s sister, took special care of him. She baked frozen potato pancakes for him, rolled them up in rags, and took them still warm to the hospital. I did not have opportunity to do this. Mama did not acknowledge the existence of my ìsimpleî friends, and I did not run my own household as Rywa did. I tried to meet Chaim at Izrael’s bedside, usually during the lunch break or after work. I remember the ward flooded with sunlight, pale Izrael, and Chaim sitting next to him on the cot. We talked and argued. The main topic was an uprising in the ghetto. “That would be sheer stupidity,” Izrael said, “How many Germans can we kill? How long can we hold out? The ghetto is right in the center of town, 325

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fenced in by a wall. And how many weapons do we have? A few rifles, okay, and about five automatic weapons, machine guns, but basically pistols and hand grenades. Whereas the Germans have cannons and tanks. They could knock us out in fifteen minutes.” “But we are going to fight,” one of us objected, “If we are going to be killed, at least it will be in combat. And no one can say that the Jews went to their deaths like sheep.” “I certainly don’t want to die,” said Izrael, sticking to his guns, “But if we start an uprising in the ghetto, we still won’t know if anyone is going to follow us. Maybe they will just go into hiding. No one is going to take on rifles with a hatchet. Only the fools in the FPO, and not all of them either. We are short of all the weapons we need. And how can we be sure that this would be the end of the ghetto? So what if we fire our guns for a couple of hours? Where are we going to retreat to? Blow up the walls, as that dreamer Abba says?8 And then where – to the Zawalna or the Niemiecka where the Germans are teeming? “We will sacrifice all of our young people in vain,” nodded someone in assent, “We will have to send as many of our people as we can to the partisans in the forest. We are going to give battle there. Where the enemy is stronger than we are, only guerrilla warfare can produce any results: and preserve our forces and defeat the enemy.” I marveled at what I was hearing. I was accustomed to discipline. In my heart I did not want to die in the ghetto either, and I dreamed about the partisans. But the FPO set an uprising as its goal. Could it possibly be that Sonia, Chiena, Witenberg, Berka, and our other senior comrades were at the beck and call of Abba and his group? Our organization was in communication with members of the underground in the city, and there was the possibility of acquiring weapons. Why couldn’t we take our own path? “No, the organization must not have any disagreements; otherwise, splitting apart, we would completely squander our powers,” Chaim remarked. The debates at Izrael’s bedside went on for a long time. There was no meeting of the minds, no experience to draw upon. It wasn’t up to us to take decisions by ourselves; we had to rely on our commanding officers. 8

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Chaim and I went out on the Szpitalna and kept on arguing. We wanted so much to believe that we would break out of the ghetto and would go into the forest to join the Soviet partisans. In my mind I could see the green fir trees, the soft moss, freedom. How far away this was and how unattainable. I woke up during the night and it occurred to me that I finally had to talk to Chaim about our relationship. I had to clarify whether he loved me, whether I could count on him as my friend, as my boyfriend. I was overcome by doubts. I could not wait for him to confess his love; he was too shy for that, and he kept beating around the bush. I decided to talk to him after our meeting at the hospital. I turned cold with fear: how was I going to tell him? But time was passing quickly, and the hour of trial, maybe indeed the hour of death, was almost upon us. Very little time remained for our friendship and love. I didn’t go to sleep all night. The notes of Tchaikovsky’s love song kept ringing in my ears: ‘We were sitting together by the slumbering river,’ and the tragic fate of the lovers: again he said “nothing to her,” separation, abandonment. Long ago I had decided that it would be inadmissible for our fate to develop in this way. While still at Mrs. Narkiewicz’s I heard this song on Moscow radio, and I decided that in that case I would not wait but would take the initiative myself. All day I worked like a robot, and the thought revolved in my head: how should I start the conversation? What would be the answer to my direct question? And what if he did not love me? How could I survive? The working day was over. I ran to Mama, swallowed something hastily, put something in order. I was in a rush to see Izrael at the hospital. Mama joked: ‘Are you fattening up an admirer?’ To Mama all young men were admirers, and furthermore they were all undersized and uncultured in her opinion, from the dregs of society, commoners. See what bad taste Lalka has! I got angry at Mama. I never had an admirer or a suitor. All these young men were my comrades; I had no special liking for any of them except Chaim. It was true he wasn’t tall, only a little taller than Father, and he was badly dressed, scrawny, and hungry. Mama did not like him, and she would react with horror to the news of our union. 327

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Rywa Kowarska and two other friends were with Izrael. Izrael had already had his operation. He was joking that he would soon be discharged. “Why are you so quiet today?” the guys wondered. I laughed it off: I was waiting for Chaim to make up his mind to go home. We went out into the courtyard, a small patio with arches that I used to run past every day as I hurried home to Mama. The air was fresh, and the days were already getting longer. The snow was melting, no wonder since it was the twelfth of March. We went out onto the Szpitalna and began to pace up and down on the right side of the street – to the wall blocking the exit to Zawalna Street and back toward the ghetto center. At first we spoke about the successes of the Red Army. You see we had seen flyers about the victory at Stalingrad, and we passed them delightedly from hand to hand. It was a turning point in the war. We, of course, were going to win. Our only problem was how to survive until victory. What should we do here in the ghetto? It would be good to make contact with the partisans. The communists in town certainly had ways to get in touch with them. It would soon get warmer, and the earth would dry out; one could begin to think about escaping into the forest. “But that contradicts the line of our organization,” said Chaim. “So what if we persuade our leaders, Sonia, that the struggle within the ghetto is doomed? There will be no chance to escape from the ghetto after the uprising, after the battle. Just suppose that we succeed in blowing up the wall separating the ghetto street from the rest of the city. What then?” I was staring at the wall on the Straszuna which Chaim and I often walked to; beyond it was the Zawalna where soldiers and police were stationed. “That’s all a chimera, that’s death,” I said, “I want to fight the Nazis” (“I don’t want to die” flashed across my mind). Whatever happened, very little time was left to live. We had to decide to do something. In these conditions the arm of a true friend was essential, a shoulder to lean on. It was easier to wage war together and easier to live through our final days. We walked for a long time. It was getting dark. I talked about my loneliness and said that my family did not understand me. Once more we discussed the unresolved question of the last days allotted to us. It was very difficult to 328

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speak about one’s last days at the age of twenty-one when one wants to live so badly and to dream about the future. I gathered up my strength and put the question to Chaim on which all my remaining life depended: “Do you want to be my friend?” And Chaim answered: “Yes, I do. Don’t you see that I do?” I was jubilant; a heavy weight was lifted from my soul; it was literally as though it flew away. We walked up to the wall again and back again to the ghetto center, and then we went our separate ways home after shaking hands. I was flying as if on wings. Supreme happiness. Chaim was my friend! I had my boyfriend, and I loved him. I recalled his big black eyes, the thin oval of his face, his calm way of speaking. Everything about him was my ideal. He was such a reliable, goodhearted, kind comrade. I did not want to think about the end of the ghetto, about battles to be fought. I wanted to think about myself and about him, about strolling in the woods with him, about the grass overlooking the lake, about spring. No, it was wrong to think about the future! Stop! Enjoy what there is to enjoy. I lay down on my cold bed. Józio was wheezing on the other bed. I fell asleep and immediately woke up in a state of bliss. That is the way it was all night. Never before had I cried from sheer happiness as I did then. The routine day began in the morning, but I felt as though everything around me was colored in pink, apricot-like shades. I ran to the library, climbed up on the shelves with Onia and told her in detail about yesterday, minute by minute. I wanted once again to experience that happiness, that turning point in my fate. Onia approved of everything and totally shared my happiness. I was sorry that she herself was unlucky in love, but now I was absorbed with myself, with what was happening with me. After liberation, when we registered our marriage, both Chaim and I wrote down March 12, 1943 as our wedding day, and throughout our whole life together this was officially recorded as the actual day of our marriage ceremony. At that time we had not once kissed each other. On Saturday I came to the empty library to think about things. Lord, how happy I was. From the balcony I looked out on the ghetto wall and 329

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behind it the trees along the Zawalna, where we had not been for a long time; free people were walking there. Onia had contacts in the Jewish police; she knew a few policemen and kept them supplied with detective novels. In return they issued a pass allowing Onia and me to walk around the ghetto at night. This was very important for the FPO; there were times when they needed to communicate something urgently after eight in the evening. I used this pass for evening meetings with Chaim. No one was on the streets. The police checked documents only rarely, and we thoroughly enjoyed the solitude. There we were at the wall. Would the time ever come when it would not be there anymore and we could walk freely everywhere? It was better not to dream! Beyond the ghetto wall the seasonal dampness could already be gone. Light blue snowdrops and white anemones were flowering in the forest, while very soft, bright green buds with brown scales were swelling on the trees. How I missed the surroundings of nature for our beautiful love! Around us were dirty, grey houses and a wall separating us from freedom. I held Chaim by the hand, and his warmth transmitted itself to me. What happiness it was to hold his hand in my own, not thinking about anything. Suddenly – the police! I shoved Chaim into the gate, which was already closed, and shielded him with my own body. It was dark; maybe they wouldn’t notice. A policeman came up to me and demanded my documents. I handed him my safe-conduct pass. Everything was in order. He even recognized me and took his leave politely. Chaim and I continued to walk in circles around the street until it was late at night. Finally, chilled to the bone, we said good night and ran home. Not everything went so smoothly at all times. Once I forgot my nighttime pass or perhaps the police caught sight of Chaim with me; I do not remember. They took us to the precinct on the Szpitalna We stayed until morning in a dirty, grey room until finally, having investigated the incident, they released us. Chaim’s mother did not find herself a job – disaster! My dad was at wit’s end: what had they arrested me for? From then on we were more careful about our walking. How wonderful these evenings on the empty streets of the ghetto were, and how wonderful our love was in our imprisonment. We were together then. 330

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As we feared, the lull in the ghetto proved to be only temporary. The Germans started with the liquidation of the smaller ghettos around Vilna. The Jews in Oszmiana were shot to death, and many of them were deported from Smorgonie. Members of the Jewish police from our ghetto took part in the liquidation: Desler, Ring, Levas, and others. Large halls and gymnasiums were set aside to process Jews from the small ghettos that hitherto had existed in small neighboring towns. By the end of March several thousand people had been trucked in. Franz Murer let hundreds of wagons full of Jews from around the district pass through the gates. They said that the young people from the small towns had escaped into the forest to join the partisans. In the morning these days Kruk was exceptionally jittery; he said that they were concentrating the Jews in one place so it would be easier to kill them: New actions were in the offing. Fifteen hundred captive workers were sent back to us in the ghetto from the peat works in Waka. The tension rose in the ghetto as the number of Jews involuntarily displaced here from the townships grew larger. The scariest thing was about to happen. FPO headquarters set up weapons depots for both battalions. A storage place for our first battalion was organized in a hideaway in the library. A staircase led to a bookbinding workshop on the third floor; the weapons were packed in boxes which were brought there. The door to the libary was covered by a wall of bookshelves full of books. By pressing a button you opened a trapdoor leading to the arsenal. They put Chaim in charge of the weapons. After finishing work in the workshops, he came here to lubricate revolvers, automatic weapons, rifles, sawed-off shotguns, and two machineguns. They issued him an automatic pistol to use, and he was very proud of it. I brought him a Latin proverb: civis pacem para bellum (if you want peace, prepare for war). Once, Chaim secretly showed me the stockpile. It was impressive: everything was carefully wrapped in rags saturated with grease and stored in boxes stacked on the shelves. Now Chaim was frequently busy handing out guns for classes and being forced to stay until the classes were over and he got everything back. I remember that Glazman praised him for his meticulous work and said, 331

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“Such a remarkable young man, but a communist. What a pity!” At that time we resented his words. I did not know how Director Kruk reacted to the sudden appearance of a stockpile of weapons in the library. He was a member of the Bund Party, part of which joined the FPO (Kapliński, Chwojnik, Asia Big, and others). The others were against it. Kruk and Gutgestalt believed that the presence of weapons and armed people in the ghetto would hasten its liquidation. The mission of their party was to inform the population of the danger as soon as possible so that everyone could go into hiding. We were skeptical about their doctrine: to us it was little more than beating on drums and doodling with bagpipes. Was it even conceivable that everyone could find a hiding place? Were the hideouts reliable? However, without getting his approval it would be impossible to fix up an arsenal in the library. We certainly did not know why Kruk agreed to this contrary to his own convictions.. Was he afraid to speak out against the FPO? After the war, when I read the diary that he kept on a regular basis in the concentration camp, I was convinced that he greatly admired the FPO organization. Now, after so many years have passed, I partly agree with him: superfluous brandishing of weapons led to the liquidation of the ghetto in September 1943, whereas the tactic of underground organization in the Kowno ghetto, where weapons were not brought into the ghetto but were kept in urban hideouts, did not have the goal of an uprising but of sending as many people as possible into the forests, prolonged its existence until August 1944. More people were rescued there. I was running home from the library down the Straszuna when I caught sight of Hirsz Glik. I knew him: he was my classmate, but he was already famous as an excellent Yiddish poet. Everyone loved him; he had a kind, open face, and it seemed as though a glow was radiating from him. “Lalka, do you want me to read you my new poem? I haven’t read it to anyone else yet.” “Go ahead, read,” I said, although I didn’t like poetry very much, especially not in Yiddish. Hirsz began to read with pathos: 332

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“Zog nischt keimol as du geist dem letzten weg... [Never say you are going on the final road.]” The militant spirit and the thought behind this verse struck me: “Never say that this is your final road.” These could be the words of our FPO anthem! And suddenly I remembered the melody of “The Cossack Song” by Dmitry Pokrass. Those were not clouds, bringing thunder and storms,/ that lay in wait over the Terek like a fog./ The young Cossack’s pipes are calling/, the gray dust became a distant cloud. I was a great fan of Soviet songs and was familiar with many of them. “Hirsz,” I exclaimed, “I have the melody to a Soviet song, and your poem would fit beautifully with it. Its words are of no interest to us, but the melody is superb. The meter and the length of the lines correspond completely with yours.” We were standing on a narrow sidewalk. Around us were people with yellow stars on their chests and on their backs. We did not pay them any attention at all – we softly sang the marvelous new anthem as a duet sotto voce. I was delighted that I had remembered that song; now it will stay in the anthem forever. When Dmitry Pokrass, the Soviet Jewish composer, came to Vilna to give a concert after the war, my girlfriend and I went up to him backstage and told him about the FPO anthem set to his music. He did not know anything about this. He did not then appreciate the fact that we had immortalized his name and melody, for the anthem of the FPO became the anthem of all the Jewish partisans in Europe. We sang this song at the next FPO meeting. It quickly put down roots in the organization. We sang it in a whisper; it instilled hope and strength in our hearts. Now we sing it in Israel on the anniversary of the liquidation of the Vilna ghetto on September 23 and on other days of remembrance. Hirsz did not live to see the day of liberation. The Germans shipped him together with the entire second battalion of the FPO to the Estonian camp on September 1, 1943. In early spring 1944 he ran away, but the Nazis found him in the woods and executed him. His photograph remained behind; it showed an inspired young face full of goodness and hope. The words of his poetry resonate. Mir seine do! (We exist!). I placed the photograph and 333

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a translation of the anthem into many different languages in a showcase at the Jewish Museum in Vilna. … Chaim and I got together every day. We tried to spend every minute that we could with each other so that we would have enough time in this life to sate our desire for companionship, friendship, and love. We sat next to each other holding hands and discussing our situation. Józio frequently took part in our conversations, and sometimes Father did the same. He got along well with Chaim, although he did not always agree with him. “Resist the enemy!” Father stormed. “You don’t have anything, and the Germans have machine guns and tanks. I understand that you need weapons if you want to run away, when you need to save your own lives, but to start the battle yourselves is sheer insanity!” However, when I asked Father for money to pay for weapons for the organization, he gave me a gold knick-knack: “Sell it and buy a revolver.” I was sure that he, too, had some kind of pistol. Józio gazed at Chaim with loving eyes. He treated Chaim like an elder brother, an immutable authority. A pioneer group of thirteen to fifteen year-olds was formed, and Chaim was named its leader. He told me about his meetings with the boys, “The kids are prepared to give their lives helping their older comrades in the struggle against the Germans. But it hurts my heart to look at them. Inescapable doom awaits them. Because the partisans won’t take them in the forest.” My thought was: and what then is our own fate going to be? It’s going to be the same. We were living without any kind of hope. Occasionally the Jewish police gave me theater tickets in exchange for books from the library. We tore ourselves away from reality taking our seats in the overflowing auditorium of the theater. There the classical works of Jewish literature or reviews of all conceivable ghetto themes were performed. A holiday buzz reigned in the auditorium. People had donned their best attire, sometimes having borrowed it from friends. Everyone was in an exalted mood, and there were smiles on their faces. “The Man Under the 334

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Bridge,” “Green Fields.”... Everyone laughed at the couplets in the review. The ghetto sang songs, especially the Yiddish “Men ken gor nit wissn,/ vu der ongeib, vu der mittn,/ vu der sof. As got vil, ken a bezim schiessn/ Schwer is der bissn,/ im zu kaen darf men chobn starke sein.” 9 The last performance was “Pesse fun Reshe,” a musical, in June 1943. “If God wills it, even a broom can shoot...” That inspired hope: maybe that meant we could be saved... After all a turning point in the war had been reached. Sometimes Germans sat in the front row. They made fun of the artists and laughed, but this made the Jews’ skin crawl; we were in their power. Here they were looking at us and mentally calculating, “Soon we’ll wipe them out, so let them amuse us for now.” April 1943. The small ghettos in the townships around Vilna were liquidated. The number of prisoners in our ghetto grew since they brought the specialists to us. They assigned large public rooms and other accommodations for them to live in, and the streets became crowded. People carted in their meager possessions; their living conditions were horrifying, as they had lost everything. We old residents understood that none of this presaged any good for us, that the concentration of people in a single ghetto was a step toward universal liquidation.

THE TRAIN TO THE KOWNO GHETTO In March the abscesses on Mama’s legs became inflamed, and she could not walk at all. Father again was able to get her a bed in the hospital. I visited her in the clean ward, brought her food, and tried to find time to sit down with her. All the household chores rested on my shoulders: washing clothes, cleaning up, cooking, washing the dishes. The snow was already

9

No one knows where it begins, where the middle is, where it ends. If God so wills, even a broom can shoot It’s a tough mouthful. If you want to chew it, you need strong teeth. (Yiddish).

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gone, the streets were swept clean, and there was something invigorating in the air – it was the beginning of spring. I had now been in the ghetto for a year. No more than a year! Yet it seemed no fewer than five years. So many dangers lay in wait every minute... So many changes had occurred in my life – my great love had come to me here. I worked a great deal and with difficulty coped with my household obligations. I came back from work. I cooked some pea soup with potatoes in the darkroom, browned some cracklings in a pan, poured the broth into a pannikin, and took it to Mama. Mama had become decidedly thinner, and the beauty of her oval face stood out more distinctly. She was calmer lying in the hospital, where she could rest up a bit, and she talked with her neighbors in the ward. One of them, quite a young woman twenty-two years old at most, nice looking, friendly, was telling about her family. She had a loving husband and a small child. She had heard that the Jews from Święciany were going to be moved to the Kowno ghetto early in April. It was quieter there than in Vilna; there were many workshops and a lot of work to be had. The Kowno ghetto was more stable than the Vilna ghetto. Would it possibly make sense to join the group on the special train and switch to the Kowno ghetto? The women held different views on the subject. “Who knows which one is better?” one woman argued, “It’s not clear what the Germans have in mind.” “Everyone thinks it’s better in Kowno. There the Lithuanian Jews can bargain with the Lithuanians; since they know the language, they can bribe them,” another one retorted. “They are not going to touch a ghetto which is producing so many good things,” concluded a third woman. “Just look at all the money the Jews have earned with their backbreaking labor for the Germans to stuff into their pockets. Why should they liquidate such a good source of income?” Mama also thought that the young woman should seize the opportunity and move to the Kowno ghetto. My mom got along well with the pleasant young mother, whose child was frequently brought in to see her, and Mama enjoyed holding him in her arms. 336

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People in the ghetto were anxious; the problem of transporting the Jews from the province to Kowno worried everyone. On the third of April I dropped in to see Mama. “They decided to go,” Mama said, “I am happy for them. The young ones have to be saved. No one knows what’s going to happen here.” All the women in the ward supported Mama. The conversation proceeded calmly. Life in the hospital followed its normal course. We had the impression that everything was quiet in the ghetto, too. But in the ghetto everything was in an uproar. About four hundred prisoners in our ghetto were getting ready to leave for Kowno the next day together with a party of several thousand Jews from rural localities. People were packing their things, and many others envied them. They were not taking the elderly, only young people, prospective specialists whose labor would be useful to the Wehrmacht. Gestapo chieftains assured the Jewish police that everything would be in order. The Jewish police would accompany the Jews to Kowno; after delivering them to the Jewish ghetto authorities, they would return. On the morning of April fourth I was at the library as usual. One of the readers stated in considerable agitation: “Something peculiar is happening with the train to Kowno. They had the Jewish police get off the cars. Then they strung barbed wire around the windows of the cars.” Later the horrible details came out one by one: the train arrived at Ponary; there everyone was ordered out of the cars and herded in the direction of pits dug in the ground. People screamed and resisted; many of them were young and strong. A second group followed the first one. Many people ran in all directions. They were caught and forced into the pits or killed right there in the woods. The Germans sent the Jewish police to collect the corpses in the woods and dump them into the pits. The Germans were no longer hiding anything; they showed the ghetto police exactly what they themselves could expect. The Jewish policemen had no hope of getting back alive. Nevertheless, for some reason they were sent back to the ghetto. It meant that they were not going to move anyone to any kind of Kowno. 337

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I could picture the young woman in Mama’s ward standing with her baby in her arms. In her desire to save her family, she had taken them to their death. The ghetto was seething. It was now clear: the Jews had failed to maintain vigilance and had forgotten what the Germans were capable of. For an entire year and two months there had been no mass shootings in the Vilna ghetto. There had been killings in the small neighboring towns, that is, somewhere far away, but this did not seem real. And now four thousand people were slaughtered! Eighty-three carloads of people. There was no limit to the infamy of the Nazis. Nor to the naiveté of our people. Everyone believed that they were going to Kowno. Obviously the same fate was in store for us! Farm produce and clothing were delivered to the ghetto as “winter aid donations.” It was said that in the swirl of events six children were brought in whom the mothers, as they were being carried off to die, hid in piles of rags. In this way they managed to be saved. The rumor circulated that the Germans shot four thousand Jews because the Judenrat of the Kowno ghetto refused to take them in: they reputedly said that everything in their ghetto was going smoothly, work was well regulated, and the Germans were treating them well, whereas the arrival of four thousand people from Święciany, Vilna, and other places would bring about only difficulties and disorder in the ghetto. If this was so, the result was that Jews themselves had condemned their brethren to death. Notices began to spring up on the walls of the ghetto: “All new arrivals report to the Gestapo!” This is how they uncovered individual prisoners who had escaped from Ponary and had found their way to the ghetto. Father called me out of the library: “Let’s go – you must see this.” I was amazed: Father, always so busy, had never before walked on the streets with me and rarely conversed with me at all. We reached the Rudnicka Street. Wagons were lined up on the pavement; on them soared loads of clothing, various bags, pillows, blankets, and overcoats. It seemed to me that there were bloodspots on them. Apparently these were the belongings of people who had been killed right on the train platform, people who had not submitted, who had not allowed themselves to be driven to the pits. 338

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The shapeless heaps of clothing that had served our lost brethren intensified the horror. Yet people walked by on the sidewalk without paying any attention to this dreadful cargo. It was said that there had even been scuffling later when the spoils were parceled out. “Look and remember,” Father said in a trembling voice, “Remember and tell others. You are young and maybe you will survive to see peacetime again. And then you can tell people what these monsters did with us, with us innocent people. Avenge it. Remember!” The next day I went to the organization and handed over Father’s money for a revolver. For the first time Father and I had felt the horror of an execution at such close quarters. It haunted me for many years to come. Several days went by. The ghetto was numb. Four thousand of our brethren had perished, many strong young people among them. How quickly they had fallen for this low-down trick: no one had any doubt that they were being sent to the Kowno ghetto to work. Even when the car windows were strung with barbed wire, people did not suspect that they were riding to the slaughterhouse. The Jewish policemen, who were forced to carry to the pits the corpses of those who were killed trying to escape, returned to the ghetto. They were ordered to keep silent, but rumors percolated down amplified with monstrous details. The word was that the bodies of the dead were strewn about everywhere in Ponary. Many people resisted before they were killed. Bags full of potatoes and bread, satchels, and chests were heaped on the tracks of the Ponary railroad station. After all, people had come there to live and work. But they were killed in pits filled with the corpses of women and children... This was the first time that the Germans showed their true character to the ghetto police. It meant that they no longer cared how people reacted. They were going to annihilate everyone regardless – everyone, and what’s more, quickly. Hurrying home through the dirty passageways of the ghetto courtyards, I thought it was high time to leave for the forest: it was already spring and for the next half-year it might be warm enough for us to adapt ourselves to living in a bunker. Much better than waiting idly for one’s end. I needed to make a decision as soon as possible. 339

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On Saturday I went out onto the library balcony to take a look at the branches of trees on the other side of the wall covered with a light green haze – on the Zawalna, the free street. How badly I wanted to walk on the soft ground, on a grassy meadow in the forest, where white anemones and blue snowdrops had probably already made their appearance. While the girls and I were putting books in their places on the shelves, we sang. At that time a new girl with a good voice had joined us. So the four of us – Onia, Rachelka, the new girl, and I – sang “Wilna, Wilna, unser heimstadt...”10 – this song by emigrants fully reflected our mood: we pined for our native city, wept for it while living in it though confined to the ghetto. Sometimes Danka came by, and we joined him in singing his favorite song: “The lilies of the valley are not to blame for that/ it is good for us to stroll unmarried / at the dawn of age sixteen”... We were young, and we wanted to be free; to break out of our stifling cage. Our leaders established communication with the anti-Nazi organizations in the city and helped a group of young people escape into the forest and get in touch with the partisans. This was done in great secrecy; nevertheless, rumors got around. In the end thirty people came together, got weapons, and said good-bye. We envied them terribly! But no one dared to challenge the decision of the leadership. Only a few days went by before some discouraging news reached us – the group had stumbled into a German ambush, and many were killed. This proved that finding the partisans was no simple matter. We had to do our fighting in the ghetto itself. Everyone was heartsick. The members of that group were among the most militant and well armed guys we had. Whether an informer was at fault or the eastern defenses of the city had been reinforced was something that none of us knew. The horrible carnage at Ponary was gradually forgotten. Performances were staged in the theater again. The ghetto became still more congested as new prisoners arrived from the liquidated ghettos of the surrounding townships. It was crowded before, but now we had to find room for several thousand more. 10

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Vilno, Vilno, our native city (Yiddish).

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Passover, which Father observed, came and went imperceptibly. He spent many hours in the synagogue on the Szawelska. This was essentially the usual place where Jews gathered for prayers. Father believed in God, and he prayed fervently knowing that a critical and fearsome moment in our lives was upon us. I met Father on the street, and we went together to the Seder in the darkroom. Father had found matzo, which was incredibly expensive that year, and Mama made dumplings from the matzo flour. This was a heavenly delicacy, and we all took delight in the delicious food, although our hearts were heavy and things did not get better for a single minute. But in a few days, on April 19th, everyone learned about the uprising in the Warsaw ghetto. I was in the library when one of our young men ran in with the report that London Radio was broadcasting the tragic appeal of the Warsaw Jews – the ghetto was in its death throes but would not surrender; battles were continuing everywhere. Soon the whole ghetto learned about it. The report was especially disturbing to us, the members of the organization. I imagined narrow side streets in fire and smoke, intrepid rebels with automatic rifles in their hands. We hoped that their comrades in Polish anti-Nazi organizations would help them, but we understood that the fate of the ghetto had been decided. They made up their minds to take this step at the very moment of the complete liquidation of the ghetto, when the Germans had begun to railroad all Jews to the Umschlagplatz11 and from there to their deaths in Treblinka. Now every day we received BBC bulletins with the appeals and proclamations of the Warsaw ghetto for distribution. The news became ever more tragic: no one had come to their aid, the ghetto was going under. Fewer and fewer people remained alive, shots rang out ever more rarely. And finally the terrible news: Mordechaji Anielewicz12 and his entire staff took their own lives so as not to fall into the hands of the Nazis. A small number of ghetto residents made their escape.

11

Deportation collection point.

12

The leader of the battle organization of the Warsaw ghetto resistance.

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“That’s how we are going to end up,” I told Chaim, “the ghetto in Warsaw was huge in comparison with ours; there were far more people, and any uprising by us would last half an hour and everyone would perish.” Chaim was silent. We did not have any other way out. We wanted to fight, but we were completely dependent on the organization. We felt that what happened in the Warsaw ghetto was as shattering as if the same thing had happened to us. We, too, were the victims of calamity: at the captured armaments base in Burbiszki our man Zalman Tiktin was arrested for stealing ammunition. He was a lad of seventeen, cheerful, fearless, devoted to the idea of punishing the enemy. He had worked at the base for a long time and at great personal danger had stolen and taken to the ghetto a lot of stolen weaponry. Other men from the FPO had worked with him; thanks to them our ghetto arsenal had grown. Out of the parts they brought in specialists assembled pistols and other weapons which they then test-fired in the deep basement under the baths in the library building. The entrance was located in the bathhouse on the second floor. Izchak Witenberg, our commander, managed the bathhouse, but we found out about this later. Now we can realize what dangerous work they were doing when they stole ammunition and parts of pistols and machine guns right from under the noses of the Germans and then, hiding them on their bodies, carried them through the gates of the ghetto avoiding inspection. People were beaten half to death and sent to prison for trying to bring in a couple of potatoes, but they were smuggling guns in! And everything turned out fine, so our people relaxed their guard thinking that they would get away with everything in the future as well. On this warm April day Zalman learned that a car sitting on the tracks held ammunition boxes which we badly needed. He made up his mind to take as many of them as he could at any price. The German commander treated the lad well, considering him to be a bright jokester, and clapped him on the shoulder; sometimes he would give him a piece of bread never suspecting that he was up to anything. Zalman did not notice that he was being followed. He climbed into the car and found the boxes – ammunition was desperately needed by the organization, for without it the pistols would lie there unused. He stuffed his pockets full of cartridges 342

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and was apprehended on the spot. They dragged Zalman out of the freight car and demanded that he tell them what he needed the ammunition for. The German who had been well disposed toward him was the most zealous inquisitor since he took great personal offense at his actions. Zalman was taken to the Gestapo. We were in despair. Everyone loved Zalman. We knew that he would be tormented and tortured, that this was the end of him. Laborers who were forced to work in the Gestapo building every day reported that Zalman was still alive. Our headquarters and the whole organization were on guard: would he suddenly not hold out against the torture and would give in naming his fellow conspirators? But we had faith in his courage: Zalman would die, but he would not betray anyone. The first of May arrived. About two days after this date we gathered in Iza Mackiewicz’s room at Straszuna 15 under the guise of its being just another “wedding.” We moved cots and constructed tables and benches. We prepared a meal: mock rabbit made from horsemeat and onions (there was no water in the house and we, taking quite a bit of water from the pump on the corner of Oszmiański and Szawelska punched a hole through the middle of a meatball with a stream of water – now whenever I pass by this place I remember that occasion), beet marmalade, potato – everyone contributed produce. We took the pan to the bakery run by Sonia Madeisker’s parents on the Oszmiański. We cooked but with heavy hearts. There could no longer be any doubt: they would kill Zalman. Maybe he was already dead. And we had not given him any help, had not rescued him. Everyone gathered in the room. It was still bright outside, but here we were sunk in gloom. Ber Szerszniewski got up. I can see his tall figure before us now; next to him Sonia and the slim Rachela Burakiska, who was in charge of the Comsomol in the party organization. Ber spoke about Zalman, about his heroism: they had tortured him, but he did not rat on anyone, did not say even one word, died and carried out his assignment. So he was gone, he wasn’t around any longer. “That’s what’s ahead for us,” I thought. “I am looking at you,” said Ber, “at your bright faces, at your eyes full of fire. You are all so young, so committed to the idea. It is terrible to think that there is so little time to get ready for an uprising. Will we have time to 343

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meet again? How many victims will the struggle claim? All of us need to get ready psychologically for battle, overcome the dread of killing another person – remember, he is an enemy. Each of you must be prepared to fight. Even those who do not have weapons.” “Many of you objected to this meeting,” said Sonia, “but we decided that we need to support one another. Stick together. You are our future, the best young people in the world.” Never before had they talked with us so openly about the horrors and the doom that lay ahead of us. There was but one thought in our heads – would any of us survive? We sang our anthem quietly, “Never say that this is your final road,” but I did not see any “light blue days” ahead of us, nothing but “leaden storm clouds” were hanging over our heads and enveloping the skies. In a few days we found out that the Warsaw uprising had been completely suppressed: the ghetto, set on fire by the Germans, was in flames; not a trace of it remained, just like the memory of the people who had sacrificed their young lives for the honor of the Jewish people. They had not gone like sheep to the slaughter. But who knows which is better – perish heroically or save a few hundred lives by leading them out into the forests?

THREE MORE MONTHS... But nothing happened to disturb any of us in the ghetto; everyone thought only about himself, his or her family, about the possibility of living through this and surviving. After the arrival of Jews from the neighboring townships, the prisoners in the ghetto numbered some twenty thousand. All were forced to perform hard labor, even children under the age of fourteen. Everyone hoped that this labor would save the Jews since, after all, we were doing work that the Germans needed. A new show called “Spring” was performed at the theater, and a competition was announced for the best stage set. It seemed as though a completely normal life was continuing. There was no more talk of the murder of four thousand Jews in April. The general mood could have been expressed by the words: “Just let us alone.” Seven old men were handed 344

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over to the Germans to replace some escapees from Ponary, and this was treated as a logical, routine matter: the oldsters were going to die anyway. Our comrades began to give Chaim and me some hard looks. Someone was unhappy about our meetings, allegedly because we were “violating the conspiracy.” It was tough to get to the bottom of this fault finding. In our view these were the completely innocent meetings of two people in love, and they provided a good cover for other activities. Did some girl have an eye out for Chaim? We appealed to Ber Szerszniewski, leader of the Party organization, our old friend. This was the first time I had been in his home; it was cozy, and the “free” Bosaczkowy Square13 with its green trees and passersby – free people! – was visible from it. It had been so long since I had seen trees that I could not tear myself away from the window. From the library balcony one could see only the tops of the trees on Zawalna Street. On a night stand there was a photograph of a blond baby boy. I realized that this was Stasiek, the son of Ber and Róża; they had left him with a nun in the hope that she might save him. Ber listened to what we had to say and broke into a smile: “Go ahead and love one another. Love is the greatest blessing; It gives one the strength to live even under these conditions. Your Komsomol pals are talking nonsense. Look at me and Róża. We are also in love, and we support each other. Just be happy. At the same time we have to get ready for future ordeals, and we need to learn how to handle a gun and psychologically prepare ourselves for combat with the enemy.” We left as if on wings. How good it was that he supported us, that there were people who understood us. At that moment we were not thinking about the end of the ghetto but only about our love. I ran down the Szpitalna to the library and suddenly caught sight of a miracle: a girl was selling bunches of lilies-of-the-valley, a whole little basket of white, tender flowers with elongated green leaves! I stopped as if transfixed – flowers in the ghetto! It had been such a long time since I had seen any. I bought a bunch; it was tied up with a little string – such aroma, such beauty! Right away my last excursion with Luba and Leon to Belmont 13

Now an unnamed square near Carmelite Street.

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came back to me, the green meadow covered in flowers. It was so long ago that it was even hard to believe that it had ever happened. I bought the bouquet and could not part from it. I held the fragile stalks and inhaled over and over again. Everyone in the library sighed, started to smile, and suddenly grew sad. I decided to present the flowers to Fania since today, May 22, was her birthday; she was twenty-one years old. She lived across from the library on Straszuna 7, in a courtyard on the right. She and I shared some tasks in the organization. I always admired how beautifully she knew how to knit; she earned the money to live on by doing this. I remember how she duplicated my blue dress mixed with gray which had been knit for me in the spring of 1941 when it was still peace time. After work I went up to Fania’s place. Her mother, a tall, pretty woman with violet eyes, met me and was astounded by the lilies-of-the-valley; flowers were not something one associated with the ghetto. Faniusia ran out, took the flowers, and we exchanged kisses. Sixty years later Fania and I still constantly remember that magical bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley and the joy which it gave us. But in a few days they began to kill Jews in the camps by the peat works. At the end of May, sixty-seven people were shot in Waka. The Germans announced that this was on account of their supposed contacts with the partisans. Jósef Glazman returned from Beżdany. Ten days later two hundred forty people were shot in Beżdany and subsequently the same number in Kena. Relatives of ghetto residents were among them; everyone grieved and was worried. А holiday event attended by Gestapo leader Bruno Kittel took place on the sports area in the library courtyard, the walls of which were decorated with pictures of athletes. The Jews learned that Lakner had been appointed in place of Franz Murer, while Meyer was the consultant on Jewish affairs. All new appointments aroused disquiet: how would this affect the ghetto? Tension and anxiety mounted. Something terrible was looming for all of us. And soon. I learned about the arrests of communists and anti-Nazi organization in town. They were tortured, and at any moment they could break down, for not 346

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everyone was capable of bearing up under incessant questioning, mockery, and torment. What was going to happen with Sonia and Fryda in the city? At the beginning of July I was told that Chaim was in the hospital. I immediately rushed to his side. He was lying in the surgical division with a wounded knee and foot. There were a lot of people in the ward. Chaim whispered his story to me: that morning he was cleaning his pistol in the shop. Suddenly they learned from a secret bell at the gates that the German high command had turned up in the ghetto. The shops were next to the gates on the Rudnicka Street, and it took the Germans only a few minutes to barge in. Chaim grabbed the pistol and ran up to the third floor to hide, but the Germans were heading right there, and he had to jump downstairs to find a hiding place. He had excruciating pain in his foot. The hospital doctors determined that there was no fracture, but he had sprained his ankle, his leg was swollen, and fluid had accumulated in his knee. My father set about treating him intensively: he prescribed heating it with electric light bulbs under a cotton wool wrap, compresses, physical therapy. Just in case (for we constantly feared that something might happen) Chaim’s personal belongings – I had moved his trousers and jacket into the x-ray room so that he could get them on sudden notice and leave the hospital. I sat by his bedside all the time that I was not working. Our friends in the organization brought him food, and so did I. Father had conversations with Chaim about our goals, and was not in agreement with him; nevertheless he commented to me: “He’s nobody’s fool; he has interesting ideas.” Mama also attempted to talk to Chaim, but if Father could carry on a conversation with Chaim and have a lively discussion with him, Chaim and Mama did not speak the same language, and in her eyes he was still no more than a kid from the gutter. Spending all my free time at Chaim’s side, I let the housework slip – the washing, the cooking, the cleaning up afterwards. I was saved by the laundry behind the hospital where you could take the soiled bedclothes. The Germans were snooping around the ghetto all the more frequently, and when they did so, the Jews were forbidden to show themselves on the streets – as it was necessary to create the impression that everyone was 347

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working day and night and that altogether there were not many people in the ghetto. New specialty branches were opened in ghetto workshops: sewing, bookbinding, and ceramics; thousands of boots were manufactured for the Germans; their uniforms were cleaned; knives and mirrors began to be produced, and chemical technology laboratories were opened. Józio also worked in a shop, and Mama wove leg wrappings. We were all busy, but everyone worked with a heavy heart – what was in store for us? During the night a knock on the door woke me up. An unknown young man uttered the password: “Liza is calling!” I jumped up on my feet terrified – this meant mobilization! This was it, the last day! I dressed quickly and darted to the hospital to get Chaim. While running through our neighbors’ room, I noticed with astonishment that their son and daughter were also getting ready. Did that mean that they, too, were FPO members? I ran down the deserted Szawelska Street without drawing a breath, through the connecting courtyard, and down the Szpitalna. I knocked on the thick old doors of the hospital and woke up the janitor. He recognized me and let me in. Evidently no one else knew anything. I ran into Chaim’s ward and ordered him to get up. I had the keys to the x-ray room. I grabbed Chaim’s things, but the noise from the darkroom aroused Mama. “What’s going on? What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” “Something happened in the ghetto,” I replied. “Get dressed just in case. Father will get here soon,” I tossed out the words and ran out of the room. We walked slowly down the empty corridor. It was hard for Chaim to walk, and he was limping; he had not had time to take the compress off his knee. How would he manage if we had to escape from the ghetto? We left through the hospital entrance. The janitor asked: “Why the panic? Is there an action in the ghetto?” I did not know what to say in reply. We went to the place where our detachment was supposed to assemble. Only there did we find out why mobilization had been declared. The day before, late in the evening on July 14, Gens had sent for Izchak Witenberg, commanding officer of the FPO. Chiena Borowska, who knew Gens quite well, and other members 348

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of the staff went with him. Just in case something went wrong, his FPO bodyguards stayed outside on the street. Gens said that the Germans had found out about Witenberg and demanded that he report to the Gestapo. Until that moment the FPO, with Chiena as intermediary, had conducted frequent normal negotiations with Gens. No one suspected that anything like this would happen. A Jewish policeman put handcutts on Witenberg, led him out onto Rudnicka Street, and took him to the ghetto entrance. Just then a group of FPO members headed by Samuel Kapliński freed Witenberg and took him to a hiding place. Now the ghetto leaders were demanding that Witenberg be handed over to them. The staff announced the mobilization of the FPO, and all the members with guns assembled. The staff held a meeting to discuss the situation. Could a fighting organization possibly deliver up its commander to death by execution? But the Germans, now that they knew about Witenberg and the existence of the FPO, would not give way. That meant that we had to rebel. But how could we have an uprising now when it seemed that there was no threat to the residents of the ghetto? Indeed, all that they were demanding was Witenberg, and, if we surrendered him, everything would remain as it was before, and things would be relatively quiet. We enjoyed no support at all among the population. Early that morning, when people in the ghetto first heard about the situation, some contemptible individuals, egged on by the Judenrat, began to swarm in front of the house on the Oszmiański Line , where they were told the staff was located, shouting: “Give up Witenberg, save the ghetto.” Witenberg, who had changed into a woman’s dress, was going from place to place, from one hiding place to another. But the crowd on the street was growing. Witenberg himself had to decide what action to take. His wife and son and the whole organization were in the ghetto. Many, many years later Chiena Borowska would tell me about that fateful day of July 15, when they were forced to decide whether to send their commander to his death. “These were the most horrible hours for our organization,” she acknowledged. “On the one hand, how could we ourselves condemn him to death, to inevitable execution, but on the other hand, did we have the right to bring about the liquidation of the ghetto? There was no precedent for anything like 349

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this in history, no one had any experience that we could draw upon. Let’s say that we took him out into the city and hid him, but then what would become of the people in the ghetto? If the Germans were after Witenberg alone, they would not compromise. The suspicion occurred to us that Gens himself decided to liquidate the battle organization, which was a danger to him, some sort of obstacle to his omnipotence in the ghetto. But this was only conjecture. One of the recently arrested anti-Nazis in the city might betray Witenberg to the Gestapo. It was true that someone or other among them knew about the organization’s activities in the ghetto. No one could come up with any concrete advice or decide anything. The deadline set by Gens was moving closer. We were becoming ever more desperate,” said Chiena. But we, our group with revolvers, hand grenades, and light bulbs filled with an incendiary mixture, stood at attention in the courtyard where we were stationed. Children were running around, and adults were looking us up and down with suspicion: “Miserable cowboys, brandishing your weapons, your squawking is going to be the death of us. We need to sit quietly and work for the Germans until the Russians get here, but because of these cub scouts with revolvers, we are all going to perish.” Arguments like these by the ghetto prisoners rained down from all sides, and they infuriated us. How could they possibly not understand that the Germans were going to destroy all of us? All of us! It was imperative to resist. Unfortunately, however, it was no longer possible to persuade anyone. We kept silent, although internally we were boiling with indignation. I reflected on the situation: this sunny, warm day, the fifteenth of July – here it was, our last day on earth. In the evening they would refuse to cough up Witenberg the Germans would invade the ghetto, and we would begin to fight. We were so incompetent, and there were so few of us. The ghetto inhabitants were against us and were cursing us. By nightfall we would all be corpses. Chaim, how short our love was! If only we could die together! How could he fight when he couldn’t walk or run? And what about my parents? They sent us to headquarters on Oszmiański Line. We were sitting on a cold stairway somewhere. Our hearts were equally cold and dark. 350

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“At this time,” Chiena recounted later, “the party organization committee finally decided that we did not have the right to subject the whole ghetto to destruction. It was clear that the masses were not ready for an uprising. So the dreadful decision was taken: Witenberg had to turn himself in to the Gestapo!” Chiena went to Gens to work things out: he promised that they would not harm the ghetto. He would give some cyanide of potassium to Witenberg. Witenber must sacrifice himself for the sake of the Jews in the ghetto. “When they announced this decision to him, he could not believe it,” Chiena reported. ‘You have decided that I must be killed, and you refuse to launch an uprising in the ghetto? How can that be?’ he asked. That was a terrible moment. Witenberg asked them to bring his wife and son to him, and he said his farewells to them and his comrades. They did not even allow him to take his own life. The Germans wanted him alive. They formed us in a line on the Oszmiański Line. Witenberg came out of the entrance, pale, shoulders bent, in an overcoat with a raised collar. It is as though I were seeing him today: he walked in front of the formation, shaking everyone’s hand. Then he gave me his hand – it was white and cold as ice – and looked me in the eye. He was a genuine hero; he submitted to the decision of the party organization, of his staff, and he walked to his own doom! Then he took his leave of everyone and withdrew in the direction of the Judenrat. The Jewish police approached him. Then they led him out of the ghetto across the Judenrat courtyard, but by this time he was out of our sight. The organization was still in a state of military readiness although now all traces of the conspiracy were erased; all the spies and informers saw through us. We had sent our commander to his death! What good were we? Afterwards, many years after the war and beyond it we would be denounced and anathematized, but was anyone ever in the position we found ourselves in? Could anyone who had not been in that situation really judge us? After the war G. Zimanas, former commander of a partisan brigade, said to Chaim: “When they told Lenin on the eve of the revolution that he had to show up in court, Lenin went into hiding, and what did you do? Delivered up your leader to the enemy!” 351

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How could one compare these two situations? If Lenin had been arrested, this would not have precipitated the death of thousands of people. And at that moment, regardless of how shameful it is to write this, some of us felt relieved – the moment of doom had been diverted from us, and we were alive. We, the members of the organization, could not look each other in the eye; we felt that we were traitors. They sent us to headquarters at the apartment on the Oszmiański. Here we stood watch and took turns sleeping. Suddenly a shot rang out! Shooting! An alarm? It turned out that Jakub Raff, a young man who was itching to fight, had brushed up against a pistol and inadvertently shot a bullet through his hand. Panic! Because behind the wall there was an apartment which belonged to the free zone on Niemiecka Street. What if the shot had been heard there and the Germans came running in instantly? Jakub hand was bandaged; there was a lot of blood and it was excruciatingly painful, so he swore his head off. Chaim and I stood watch and listened – all was quiet. No one had heard anything. Our nerves were stretched to the limit. The night passed, then another full day. The ghetto was at a standstill. Everything had settled into its normal routine. A day later Jews working at the Gestapo office reported that they had been ordered to bury a corpse which had turned black from poison. This was Witenberg. He had died without ratting on anyone; he poisoned himself with the potassium of cyanide that Gens had succeeded in giving him. A tragic milestone in the life of the ghetto had been reached. Would there ever be a more terrible day in our lives than “Witenberg Day?” After the loss of Icchak Witenberg, the left-wing Zionist Abba Kowner was elected commander of the organization. That meant there was going to be a fight in the ghetto, I thought. Abba would carry out his plan – the Jews must die in the ghetto with weapons in their hands. Despite the conspiracy we learned that a group of FPO leaders and activists had made preparations to slip off into the forest: party organizer Ber Szerszniewski and his wife Róża, commander Jósef Glazman, Rachela Burakiska (in charge of the work of the Komsomol), the pugnacious Gordon brothers, Iza Mackiewicz, and others, altogether about thirty people. They 352

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called it the “Leon” group in honor of Witenberg; this was his underground nom de guerre. They were well armed. They left on July 24, 1943 in the guise of a work brigade being sent to Nowa Wilejka that is, east of Vilna. Yellow stars were attached to their clothing, and a “brigadier” escorted the group, which had carefully concealed its weapons. They took the route which had been agreed upon, making their way into the Narocz forests to the partisan brigade under the command of Fiodor Markow, with whom the FPO staff had maintained communications. The leaders of the organization were apprehensive that arrests were coming in the ghetto. If such active individuals were being sent to the forest, that meant the objective of the FPO had changed, I thought. Indeed the organization in the ghetto had become much weaker, and many weapons had been carried away to the forest They managed to leave without any trouble, but everyone was worried about them. Thus far not a single group had reached the partisans with its full complement of personnel. The road was long, about two hundred kilometers, there was not a single ambush en route, and only the Wilia River was worth mentioning. During the night the Germans burst into the ghetto, raising quite a commotion. They began to drag people out of their apartments. As it turned out they were taking the families of people who had gone away into the forest. Did that mean that they had caught them? We succeeded in hiding the Witenberg family, the Gordon’s mother, their sister Sonia, and their fifteen-year old brother Izaak. The ones who had been arrested were carried off to the Gestapo to be shot. We did not know which FPO members had been killed; we just assumed that the numbers branded on their chests, which they could not remove, had given them away, and they had not been able to employ their weapons. That meant the ambush had occurred somewhere near Nowa Wilejka, where they were still pretending to be a Jewish work brigade. We grieved for them deeply. The way into the forest appeared to be closed. There was not the slightest ray of hope, no escape tunnel. 353

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SEPTEMBER FIRST I was sleeping so soundly that it took me a long time to wake up after the knock on the door of the room where Józio and I were sleeping. “Liza is calling,” rang out on the other side of the door. At the sound of the mobilization password, I went numb. I ordered Józio to run into our parents’ room. What had happened? Where was Chaim now? My heart was beating like mad, and my hands were shaking. This was the end! The assembly point for the first battalion was at the library, where weapons were supposed to be handed out. I ran there. The only people on the street were women, and even they were only rarely to be seen. “The Germans have entered the ghetto; lots of them, and they’re picking up the men. It’s the liquidation, the end,” one of the women we saw informed us in a whisper. Utter terror overcame me – the Germans had not appeared in the ghetto since the end of 1941. Only isolated “curators” and superior officers had come here, had traveled from the ghetto entrance to the Judenrat on Rudnicka 6, where they issued decrees that Gens and the police carried out in full. He of course tried to condemn no more victims to death than the Germans demanded. There weren’t any in sight right now, so they were probably operating on other streets. In the two minutes it took to walk from Szawelska Street to the library, a jumble of different thoughts passed through my mind about what our last day would be like. There was no doubt that this would be our last day – there would be combat and everyone would die as they had died in the Warsaw ghetto. Except that this would be faster – because our ghetto, consisting of only seven side streets, was so tiny. Women ran down the street, their faces distorted by terror. I burst into the library. Members of our group and many strangers were already there. No one was afraid of exposing the conspiracy since the whole thing was coming to its conclusion. Members of the headquarters staff distributed weapons. The group with the machine gun was sent to the building on Straszuna 7 and was ordered to take up position on the balcony, from which the whole street could be seen. They of course would be taken out 354

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at once with one salvo of a big gun, I thought, horrified. Jechiel Szenboim and his group were already in the building a few doors down, from which one could see the beginning of Straszuna Street and the end of Szawelska Street and Oszmiański Line. The Second Battalion was supposed to assemble on Szpitalna Street at their weapons cache and occupy other positions. Suddenly a few guys from the Second Battalion ran in and reported in horror: before any more guns could be distributed, the police had already surrounded them and begun to press them toward the entrance. Had someone informed on them? A few of them had managed to escape, and that’s why they were here. Even before the battle there were fewer of us than we had counted on. What was going to happen to the rest of them? Could there be provocateurs among us? I was in despair. What about my family? Thank God that at least Chaim was here. Abba drafted a leaflet. Girls quickly glued the leaflets to the walls of buildings: “Jews, rise and take up armed struggle!” But Jews did not rise up. Not one of them joined us. Abba, our poet, the romanticist, had miscalculated. Fear defeated all arguments. People in the ghetto thought about only one thing – saving their own lives. Jewish men hid in refuges, secret hiding places. The Germans did not bother any women on this day. They needed workers for the camps in Estonia, people from whom they would squeeze the last ounce of strength and whom they would deprive of the last remnants of human dignity and then would kill. After the failure of the Second Battalion, our situation became tragic. Our numbers were down by half, and the same was true of guns. Couriers reported that hordes of Germans had dispersed throughout the ghetto. They were searching apartments and balconies for men. Anyone they caught was driven to the checkpoints. We concluded that the liquidation of the ghetto had begun. At first they were going to catch the men, after which it would be easy to send the women, children, and old people to their deaths. The staff assembled in the bookbinding shop with a window and a staircase leading to the 355

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courtyard. A difficult task confronted the members of the staff – when and where to begin the fight? A feeling of inescapable doom went along with the tension. Couriers rushed in: Germans were on Szawelska Street, which was directly down the road from us! Individual shots were heard, and then it grew quiet. Suddenly a deafening roar, and an explosion rocked the entire old building of the library. This was it, the end of the ghetto! We would all be blown up without having the chance to kill even one Nazi! After a few more minutes several men from Straszuna 12 ran in. Covered with powdered stucco, gray and ghastly in appearance. In broken voices they cried out: “The Germans blew up the building! Jechiel stuck his head out the window and opened fire. He was killed.” “No, he fired at a German and then they killed him, but then they set some dynamite to go off.” “They blew up the building across the street, too. We were able to run away. Chaim Napoleon and some others were also killed.” “Pesia was there, Jechiel’s wife, is she alive?” We bolted into the street; at the end of it a column of smoke and dust was hanging. The whole street was strewn with stones, brick, and debris. We were all seized by horror and grief. This was what it meant to have an uprising in the ghetto. In about fifteen minutes they would blow up everything and all of us! What a pity that Jechiel was gone – such a bold, strong, solid leader, who dreamed of leading the whole organization into the forest to wage war there and not in the ghetto, to destroy the enemy. He above all did not agree with the FPO staff; he did not consider it possible to conduct warfare in the ghetto. Despite the failure of the second group on the road into the forest, despite the deaths of so many people, he believed in the possibility of joining the partisans, and he believed in fighting jointly with the Russians against the Nazis. Now he was gone. He was the first of us to shoot at the Germans, and they killed him. How would Pesia survive this? She was next to him, but she lived through it. And Rachela Bielicka? She was so much in love with her Chaim, who was such a splendid, honest, kind young man. And everything took place only a few steps down from 356

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us, only three buildings away! We had not come to their aid, had not even known about it, had not anticipated it. Now the Germans were going to come here, to the end of Straszuna Street. Behind us was a wall blocking the exit onto Zawalna Street. Free people lived there who did not know about our tragedy; it meant nothing to them, and it did not affect them. A whirlwind of thoughts raced through my brain much faster than words could be spoken. I was not worried about my parents. I presumed that they were at the hospital, that is, safe for the time being. Father would find a way out; people held him in high regard, and of course he was such an outstanding physician! As for Chaim next door, we were almost together. Signals from Building 7 indicated that no one was advancing in our direction. What did this mean? Were the Germans frightened off by Szenboim’s fusillade? This was hard to believe. A little bit later we learned that Gens’s people persuaded the Germans to leave – they would deliver them the required quantity of live merchandise without any mortal danger to them. Evidently they agreed to this. Accordingly, this was not yet liquidation but merely a routine action after a relatively long period of quiet. We could not pull ourselves together after the failure of the second battalion and the death of our colleagues at Straszuna 12. Shivers went up and down my spine, and my thoughts got tangled up in my head – what would happen now, and what would become of us? We had comrades who were concerned about food even at a time like this: bread, canned goods, and a huge slab of margarine made their appearance. We had not seen such a repast for many years. Sharing the food, slicing the bread and the stolen margarine, I calmed down to some extent. Mentally I said to my father, “You see, we do have order and discipline; they have even provided us with food. But you derided us asking whom we believed! So in case of danger we were all going to run around in every direction and every one was just going to think about himself. No, Father, we will go to the forest together, to Narocz. We shall become Soviet partisans, and not yids from the ghetto. Maybe we will die, but if so it will be as free people while fighting.” Headquarters received some news, and a conference was held. Four couriers turned up with us in the library. They were Jewish partisans, sent 357

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from the Markow brigade to persuade Jews to abandon the ghetto: Aleksander Kacenelenbogen, M. Szutan, and two others. They fervently stated their case to Abba and all of us. The majority was in agreement with them, inasmuch as the plan of an uprising in the ghetto with a half-routed organization was becoming less and less realistic. It was clear that the population did not support us, and no one came out with a hatchet or a knife. Everyone went into hiding, hoping to wait out the action in their sanctuaries. It was quite terrifying to come out in the face of obvious destruction. In the ghetto the manpower raids continued. Gens assured us that they were being sent to Estonia, where good conditions prevailed. Our ghetto police would accompany the Jews to the camp and would bring back their letters. Volunteers were found who agreed to make the trip. At the same time others were dragged out of their hiding places. We spent the night on the floor of the library with guns under our heads. Lookouts took turns standing guard all night, but no one paid us a visit. In the morning we heard heartrending cries from the courtyard next door. Passageways had been carved out there as was done in other courtyards between buildings. I saw Jewish policemen dragging eight women, children, and old people out of the basement on the far side of the courtyard of the building. The young men and girls resisted, would not give in to the police, and wormed their way out of it. It looked as if they now beginning to snare women to send them to the camps. No one bothered us. Evidently Gens had been warned. He knew where headquarters was located, and he was afraid of skirmishes. Gunfire could bring the Germans back again. One of the carriers ran in with a new communiqué: the police had sent for all doctors and nurses to assemble in the hospital courtyard. About a hundred people in white gowns were lowered down; the police surrounded them and led them to the entrance and evidently from there to the camps as well. “Your father wasn’t there,” the courier said, “he stayed in the x-ray office.” They hunted people down in the ghetto for four days, while we in the library were living as if in a barracks – we stood on patrol and were on high alert, and that’s all there was to it. I was not disappointed that we did not 358

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engage in combat. Our plan demonstrated its superiority: we had to lead out as many young people as possible to the partisans, and now hardly anyone had anything to say against it. Soon. Very soon we would be leaving the accursed ghetto, leaving the walled-off streets and the dynamited buildings, we could rip off the ignominious yellow patches, we would see trees and the forest – it would not be so terrible to be killed there. One thing frightened and tormented me: what would become of my parents and Józio? On the fourth day the action ceased. A little later the policemen returned from escorting a party of prisoners to the Estonian camps. They brought back letters: people had settled down in barracks, were working, had been given food, their wives could join them, they could live together as families (which ultimately turned out to be a deception). Many women started to get ready for the trip. During these difficult days Onia was not at my side. Her mother did not let her out. Onia thought it necessary to tell her about her intention of going into the forest. “This is the only path to salvation,” she assured her. “Otherwise we will all be killed in the ghetto or in the camp, and we will be separated from father. I am young, I want to live, so let me go!” Her mother was aghast: “Lala is deceiving you! I don’t want her to set foot here again! What kind of partisans, what kind of gunfire is she talking about! You are not going to go anywhere, you are staying here with me. Who has ever heard of a girl shooting and killing someone? And if you take it into your head to leave, I am going to throw myself down on the doorstep. You will have to step over my body if you want to leave.” And Onia did not dare to do it, she stayed behind. She told all this to me, sobbing. And she was killed when the ghetto was liquidated, like the rest of their huge family. Horrified, I recounted this in the fall of 1944 to her brother Ika when he returned from evacuation behind the lines in the USSR. And we made ourselves ready to leave for the forest. Chaim and I discussed our problem: how to be in the same group together, how to make sure that we were not separated. Our whole future, if we had one, our whole 359

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life depended on this. Chaim was assigned to the first group under the leadership of Aleksander Kacenelenbogen. I did not know him well, but I liked him because he reminded me of Miron; he was just as tall and thin, with a skinny face. Even his speech reminded me of Miron’s; he talked with a Russian accent. How could I stay without Chaim? I could neither sleep nor eat - one thought lodged in my mind: I had to go with Chaim. If we were going to perish, then it would have to be together. We conferred a great deal and decided that the only way out was to appeal to Sonia Madeisker. She alone could understand us; she was the best, and she possessed the greatest human understanding. It was a complicated matter to sit down with her; she was constantly on the go – on courier assignments into the city; she bore the entire responsibility of organizing the departure of FPO groups from the ghetto into the forest. Finally we succeeded in meeting her at the library, where she was conducting a conversation with the headquarters staff. We looked at her bright, kind face, gazed into her gray, lucid eyes. “You are the only one who can help us,” I said, “you are the only one who understands. Allow us to go in the same group. We love each other more than life itself; we cannot be parted.” And I added quietly, “We know that you also had to part from a person you loved.” Sonia looked at us with such a sad expression that it seemed she was about to burst into tears, and she said: “You have enough grief without this, too. You have to leave your family behind, maybe forever. I will try to fix things so you can go together.” And addressing someone on the staff: “Enroll her in the first group. I just want you to get there...” We stood there, in a stupor from happiness, if it is appropriate to speak of happiness in such circumstances. Perhaps, thanks to Sonia, we were going to stay together. I do not believe in fate and omens, but I must admit: Sonia’s blessing gave me support at the worst possible time. People like that – noble, infinitely honest and giving of themselves – I have never met again in my life. Sonia, may your radiant image be remembered forever. We were ordered to keep our departure a complete secret from family members and friends. Our meager belongings had to be removed from the 360

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hospital and from home without our parents noticing it. I decided to wear the demi season coat that I bought after my things were stolen at the dacha in Wołokumpia and Józio’s skating boots, which were soft and comfortable, and that is most important when going a long distance on foot. As an experienced tourist, I understood how important it was to have high quality footwear when hiking. It was also necessary to take a change of underwear, a sweater, a towel, soap, socks, and warm underwear (after all, winter was coming). How were we going to live in the forest in winter? And by the way, would we live to see the winter?! Mama did not leave her room behind the office. I removed my things little by little, yet my parents noticed and put two and two together. “Father,” I said, my voice shaking, “come with us. The detachments need doctors. They agreed to take Józio, too, and we’ll hide Mama in a house with some Christians. Maybe we will survive. And it will be easier together in the forest.” “I will never let you go anywhere, and I will never go myself,” Father shouted. “You must be a fool to believe the Bolsheviks! You will all be killed. You cannot imagine what is going to happen to a girl like you with a band of marauders in the forest. And Mama cannot stay by herself. She is sick.” And Mama chimed in: “She is always being led around by somebody. Before it was Irka, now it’s Chaim. We must persuade him to stay with us. We’ll take his mama with us.” Mama did not know what a strong character I had. When it came to high-principled convictions, I was unyielding. At one time, frightened, I gave in to their entreaties – contrary to my own convictions I did not leave for the Soviet Union in September 1939. I berated myself then for cowardice and lack of willpower, thinking that I should have gone to build the land of socialism. And although later it turned out that my actions were not at all treasonable, the contempt that I felt for myself was a lesson that lasted me a lifetime. “If only you knew how hard it is for me to leave you behind. How much I am afraid of everything that lies ahead of me, and how much I fear that I shall never see you again,” I thought to myself. 361

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Father screamed: “I will know when you run off with them. I will report this to the Jewish police myself. They will catch you at the ghetto entrance. Do you want me to be a scoundrel? I will do anything!” I did not believe that Father was capable of something like that, but I was afraid nonetheless. He loved me more than life itself. Who could know whether despair would push him over the edge? In the ghetto they continued to send people to Estonia, and letters came back from the deportees. The oppressive feeling of an early end hung in the air... I was standing watch in the library when a sentry sent for me: “A woman wants to see you.” I went out. It was Chaim’s mother. I had seen her only a few times. She was well along in years, much older than my mama. Chaim was her last child. Her legs were swollen, and she was poorly dressed. “I know you are going to the forest,” she began. “I will be left all alone. It’s terrible to think of dying without anyone around, but I am happy that my son is going to the forest. Don’t tell me this isn’t so. I know you are leaving because I feel it. Maybe he will be the only one of all my children to survive.” She drew a breath: “I have one request to make of you, a big favor. Look after him, take care of him. He’s not in the best of health, and he needs support. Take my place for him, so he won’t be so lonely and helpless. Promise me, I beg of you. He loves you; it will be easier for both of you.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. I realized how hard it was for her to make up her mind to come to see me, the person who had taken away the last one remaining in her life, her youngest little boy, such a loving and caring son. I did not know what I could say to her. The secrets of our departure for the forest could not be revealed because I did not have the right to do this, and my shyness prevented me from confessing my love for Chaim. I mumbled something... For the rest of my life I remembered her words and tried to fulfill her commandments, to protect and support her son. Nadzia and her husband Tolek were supposed to go into the forest with us. They were needed as doctors, and they were taken as an exception to the 362

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rule. Lord knows how much easier this would have been for me: someone I was so fond of beside me – Nadzia! We were scheduled to leave on September 10. Incredible tension and fear hobbled me as I thought of the trip and the future. We got ready and waited a long time, but something was wrong or could not be agreed upon, and we were released for a couple of hours. I went back to the hospital and took a last look at Józio, Father, Mama. I chatted with them as if nothing were out of the ordinary, clandestinely took my toothbrush, and left. “I shall never see them again,” revolved in my head, “I am going away forever. How will they survive it? What will happen to them? And to us?” Chaim entered his narrow little room at night, where he slept on the table. His mother woke up and threw herself at him in tears: “You haven’t gone, you are going to stay with me, my son. We will try to save our lives together. How glad I am that I will not have to stay here alone.” With pain in his heart Chaim had to disillusion her, and his mother fell to the floor. He said farewell to her, quietly, so their sleeping neighbors could not hear, tore himself from her grasp, and left. “I left her all by herself to die. She has no one to go with her even on her final journey,” he told me, weeping. But the thought tore at my heart: I had not said goodbye! But how could I have said farewell after Father said he would turn us in to the police. Later, in the forest, I learned that my father had gone to the library to look for me. And simply by discovering the disappearance of my toothbrush, he realized that I had gone, forever. I was not quite twenty-two years old. I never saw my parents again. At that early age I became an orphan and even now the thought gnaws at me: if I had stayed behind, might we have found safety in the railroad worker’s cottage, and could everyone be alive today? All of us? Or what if Father and Józio had come with me? Could Mama, as a woman, have lived through it in her hideaway? Did she actually have the right to keep them close to her? But all of these thoughts came to my mind later, in another life. 363

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On September 11 all of us had been sitting in the library since morning, all packed for the journey but psychologically depressed. In some way unknown to us Sonia ran into the city and returned. We had to talk over the entire route, arrange our departure, and we had to take the machine gun with us. To do this it behooved us to use the hearse which carried corpses to the cemetery. But if they inspected us at the entrance, that would mean the end of the whole undertaking. Suddenly an unexpected obstacle: the old man who drove the hearse took fright and changed his mind about bringing the gun. We were unable to persuade him. He wept and wailed that he did not want to die because of “a gang of cowboys” wanting to escape into the forest. Headquarters urgently considered the situation. Without the machine gun it was dangerous for the large group to go; the machine gun was of the highest value to us. The way out occurred to Samuel Kapliński: break the machine gun down into its parts, pack everything in a violin case, and in this way bring it out. Today was Saturday, people in the city were celebrating, and someone was taking the violin to a party. It took a lot of trouble, but we got hold of a violin case and put the disassembled machine gun in it. It was unbelievably heavy. How could Chaim, who was in charge of the weapon, carry it? For it had to be carried like a light violin, effortlessly. They decided that Chaim, accompanied by a member of the underground from the city, would wend his way through the suburbs, through Antokol, and would come downhill to the Jewish cemetery at Zarzecze – the assembly point. And all the others would advance along the bridge through Wileńka and from there on to Zarzecze; they would reach the cemetery from the other side going uphill. There we would make the detachment ready for action and continue onward as partisans so as not to repeat the failure of the “Leon Group,” which had left the city as a workers group with concealed weapons. “Cheer up, we have to keep on hoping that everything is going to turn out fine, we have to believe,” Chaim said to me. In my thoughts were nothing but dread and grief. It was terrible to leave without saying goodbye to my family. It was terrible to abandon the ghetto, where I had lived constantly for one and a half years, although it seemed 364

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like ten. It was terrible for Chaim, too – he had typically Semitic features, and he spoke Polish with an accent. Going into the city was dangerous for him. But we were leaving when it was dusk, before the curfew, about seven in the evening. Tension and fear dominated all our thoughts. Sonia arrived and sent for me and Jakub Raff, whom I had known for a long time. “We are going to send you out in groups of two. One pair will go down the left side of the street, while the other takes the right. You go first. You, Jakub, will take a pistol, and you, Lalka, a hand grenade. You will take a letter from headquarters to the commander of the Markow partisan brigade. The letter is written on cigarette paper. If you are hopelessly trapped, chew the paper up and swallow it. In no case allow yourselves to fall into the hands of the enemy alive! Good luck, kids!” Sonia’s eyes looked at us sadly, but her voice was firm. I knew there was a young man in the forest whom she loved. How she would have liked to be going in my place! But the mission was more important than anything else. In the future he would die with a group in the forest, during a raid, and Sonia died in town, six weeks before liberation. They would never meet again. Everyone received cards with the names of villages through which the route was marked. We had to learn them by heart and then destroy the card. This was in the event that the group was broken up and it was necessary to get there on our own. We sat down and memorized the strange names: Zameczek. Łyloice, Bałtaguzy, Żeleźniki, Czeremszyce (a marvelous name – Czeremszyce! It carried a whiff of bird cherry, moss, and pine. Would we arrive?). I remember them to this day. Chaim did not throw his card away; I have kept it all this time. Sonia inspected everyone’s footwear, verified that guns were well concealed, that yellow stars were removed, that there were no signs of our stay in the ghetto. We moved down Oszmiański Line toward Jatkowa Street. Suddenly the thought struck me like a thunderbolt: Nadzia and Tolek were not with us, something had happened to them! For they were supposed to go with us... After the war, when I received a letter from Nadzia in the USA (she had been rescued from the Stutthof concentration camp 365

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in Poland), I learned the details. On the way to join us she had stopped at a shoemaker to have a sole replaced that had fallen off. The Jewish police, who were holding back the crowd that was straining to reach us, would not let Tolek and her go any farther. Both she and Tolek were sent to different camps when the ghetto was liquidated and miraculously came out alive. We turned onto Jatkowa Street. There in a wall blocking the exit to Niemiecka Street was a gate used exclusively by the “Ghetto Vorsteher,” Gens. In the spring he had dropped in on the workshop where Chaim and his supervisor were working and ordered a second key to the gate. Chaim, while making a copy of the key, quickly stamped out an imprint in a piece of unbaked ghetto bread and made a key for our organization. There were no problems getting out, but we failed to leave unnoticed. Behind us, members of the FPO, followed all the youth of the ghetto. Everyone wanted to leave at the same time. People criticize the FPO leadership today for not taking more people out of the ghetto with them. We should remember, however, that not one group had reached the forest intact; everyone who left the ghetto encountered ambushes, and the groups were shattered. Our purpose in leaving was to die in battle, not to save ourselves. We were not allowed to take our brothers, fathers, and adolescent children with us. There was a minimal chance of reaching our goal. There were not enough weapons for every individual, and disaster threatened in case of combat on the route of the expedition. A disorderly departure of unguided groups from the ghetto taking the very same road could result in the failure of the partisan detachments in the woods above Lake Narocz. Near Dziśnieńska Street, where a youth club was located, a noisy crowd gathered which the Jewish police force armed with clubs was barely able to contain. The youngsters tried to break through to us, but this was something that we, a large group, could not allow either – we numbered about thirty people. Sonia came out and let Chaim through with the “violin” – he vanished beyond the gate. My heart shriveled: would we meet again? There was no time to think about it. Jakub and I were next. 366

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We left the ghetto. We were gone forever, leaving Józio, Mama, Father, and Jakub’s mother behind. In the entrance to a neighboring building the faces of Chaim and another person flashed. We crossed Niemiecka Street, made our way down sides treets to the bridge through Wilejka to Zarzecze. How unaccustomed we were to being outside the ghetto! We walked on the sidewalk, not the pavement. Niemiecka Street was deserted. The sun went down, and a full moon shined brightly in the sky. This is bad, I thought, it is hard to move about with no one seeing you on a bright night. On the opposite side of the street the next pair of our people slipped by. We reached the smaller streets leading downhill to the bridge. I looked around and saw several more pairs behind us. The walk was terrible. We encountered German soldiers and miscellaneous passersby. Everyone was hurrying home to beat the curfew. Where was Chaim now? How dreadful it must have been for him to walk between the city center and Antokol! We crossed the bridge when it was already dark. Up ahead on Zarzecze Street,14 we suddenly heard German curse words followed by shots. Had they caught someone? What should we do – stop or go on? – if the latter, we would surely bump into Germans. We stood there and noticed that the pairs walking behind us were piling up. The howls and cursing of the drunken Germans never ceased. “Let’s keep on walking because the ones behind us don’t know that they need to stop.” Jakub reached for the revolver in his pocket. We continued on our way. It turned out that the Germans had been scuffling among themselves at the door of a public house. We drew deep breaths of relief. This was one of the most terrifying moments. Multicolored lanterns from the bordellos where the drunken monsters also allowed themselves to fire their handguns illuminated the blacked-out street. No one paid any attention to us. The town center was behind us. We passed uneventfully through the quiet sides treets of Zarzecze, but owing to the incident, we were moving in too dense a formation. A few pairs, not observing the established order, broke out ahead. Jakub whispered: 14 Now Uzhupio Street.

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“We need to go to the cemetery, to the lower part facing Zarzecze. There we will get the machine gun ready. The curfew is over, so we need to hurry.” Here we were already at the fence. I wasn’t thinking about anything; I was overcome by fear. Where was Chaim now? We moved among the tombstones; someone gave the order to lie down in the shadow of the big monuments. A sudden whisper: the Gordon doctors were missing – could they have lost their way? The carefully worked-out plan had collapsed. We sent men out to look for them while we sat motionless. I remembered in dismay: everyone could see us leave; a crowd of people saw us. There could have been traitors among them who informed the SS, which was out looking for us. The Gordons were not there. I was shaking like a leaf from the cold and fear. Where were Chaim and the machine gun? They could not find him either. Had he made it here? My heart was bursting with grief. We had already been sitting among the tombstones for several hours, and we could not get up because of the bright moonlight – any movement would be noticed. The guys who had been sent back to town were looking for the Gordons; others were on the hill, in the upper part of the cemetery, looking for Chaim. Finally – good news: They found the Gordons, who had lost their way and taken the wrong street. Thank God no one noticed them. The search for Chaim continued. At the top of the hill were so many tall tombstones that it was hard to make anyone out among them. The night was already coming to an end, and any instant the moon would be hidden. Just then the men brought in Chaim. Needless to say, the meeting place had not been defined precisely enough, and a lot of time was lost; all of this grated on our nerves. Chaim was agitated and upset. In a low voice he told us what had happened. His companion, a young Lithuanian, met him at the doorway on Niemiecka Street by the gate to the ghetto. Chaim brought him our revolver from the arms depot and they started out. As they walked through town, Chaim carried the “violin” himself. He did not like the young man, who was cowardly and taciturn. The case containing the machine gun was heavy to carry. When they finally reached the cemetery, it was already dark. They 368

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turned out to be on a completely different slope of the enormous hill. They sat down and waited for the others. Chaim asked the guy to go look for us, but he would not do it. Because of the heavy case, Chaim was in no condition to move. Then the young man said unexpectedly: “OK, I’m leaving.” “So you are just going to leave me here all by myself?” Chaim asked, horrified. “I’ve got a long way to go. I was supposed to take you to the cemetery, and I’ve done that. My mission is accomplished. Take care.” And he got ready to leave. Then Chaim remembered that his companion had his pistol. He had to leave the violin case where it was and run after him. The young man gave the gun back reluctantly and disappeared. Clearly a suspicious type. How could Sonia have entrusted him with such a sensitive mission? “Thank God we met you,” Chaim sighed. “Now we can get on with our journey to the partisans.” We assembled the machine gun and made the gun ready for military action. We formed a long line: Witka, the guide, whose duty it was to lead us out of the city, was in the vanguard with Jakub. Chaim was somewhere in the front ranks, I in the middle. We started out on a path through the Antokol Hills going east. It was hot walking in my overcoat, and my little bag was becoming heavier all the time. Luckily, my boots were comfortable and the weather was cool. Around us it was quiet and the air smelled of forest and grass. I had not been in a forest for a long time and had not seen meadows, green things, or open space. But the anxiety did not let up, and my heart contracted with fear. The line was long; it could probably be seen a long way away. Soon it would be dawn. We could make camp, take a rest. After three or four hours on the trail, the locality appeared somewhat familiar to me. Here was the first hut, a fence, to the left tall fir trees, and it came to me that beyond it the path would go under a slope... Of course! These were the Sapieżyńskie Rowy! We had come here for walks with Irka’s Belgian Aunt Lucienne, we came here to skate, and Irka skied here. 369

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Overcoming my fatigue, I began to move up the line of people to the front. This was difficult, but I got to Chaim and shared my observations with him. “Don’t bother your head about it,” he growled indignantly, “Witka conducted a special reconnaissance; she knows the route.” “All the same, tell Jakub,” I insisted, “now if ‘schronisko’ (a cottage where skis and skates were rented out) comes up on the left, then I’m right.” A few dozen meters more and the building appeared, with the same cracked roof built in Zakopane style that I remembered. Everyone was ordered to stop: we had strayed from the path. And the sky had brightened up. Sunday was beginning, the twefth of September. And we were at the gates of the city, about two kilometers from Antokol Street, having vainly tramped fourteen kilometers through dangerous territory. We had to hurry away from the city to the east. We walked for up to an hour and climbed a hill overgrown with bushes. It was a complicated matter for such a large group to hide there. Tired and worn, everyone tumbled onto the cold ground and fell asleep. Someone stayed up to keep watch on the concealed gun. Children’s voices woke us up – ten to twelve-year old kids were playing war. They stared at us in amazement and ran away. There was no possibility of moving onward. Would they bring the adults or wouldn’t they? Whatever was to be would be. Each of us received a piece of bread and some fatback, which we had not seen for a long time. In the distance local people were strolling on their day off. There were many people, and we on the hill must have resembled something like merry picnickers. The charade was not overly successful – our hearts were heavy; at any minute we could have been surrounded and shot on the spot. The day began to slide into evening. Aleksander, Jakub and the other leaders studied the map to figure out how to find a way out of there and get back on the correct route. Witka went back to the ghetto; her job now was to lead other groups out. We were surprised to learn that we would have to detour and pick up Aleksander’s mother in the village of Zameczek and then bring her along with us – these were his bedrock conditions for agreeing to be our guide. It got dark, and we moved onward. 370

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Before we left, Chaim had been issued rigid German soldiers boots, and he had rubbed his feet raw. I advised him to wrap rags around his feet, but this did not make the pain any less. Poor man, he was so proud of his boots; the shoes he was wearing before were completely worn out and too thin. However, it turned out that almost everyone had developed the same problem. The guys did not have my tourist experience; I knew that on a hike one should walk in one’s own soft, comfortable shoes, and now I was one of the few with healthy feet. We walked at night, only rarely taking a short break. Lying down on the ground was prohibited, so we went to sleep while sitting. During the day we took shelter in dense groves of trees; here it was quiet, and for now there was enough food. We finally came close to “Aleksander’s” village near Zameczek, about forty kilometers from Vilna, and camped for the night in close proximity to the first dwellings. Aleksander and Jakub, and a few more people set out to get the old lady. A light shower was falling. I covered up with my already sopping wet overcoat and shivered. Around us nocturnal silence reigned. Everyone began to doze off. Suddenly shots rang out in the distance. the thought flashed through all of our minds that our men had run into an ambush. Would we have time to get to them? And what should we do? Go deeper into the forest? That such fine people should perish! And our guide! Aleksander’s wife, Rala, was sobbing – after all, her husband and mother-in-law were there. We continued to wait in our hideout. Time passed, and everything grew quiet. Then we heard the crackling of branches – it was Jakub and behind him our men with the old woman. It turned out that they had not even heard the shots, which meant that whatever it was had not happened in their area. They had lingered while getting the old woman ready for the trip to say goodbye to the peasants. On the third day we came out on the road leading through Słoboda to Narocz. We were only fifty kilometers out of the city, and it was still necessary to cross the Wilia River, to walk between Lakes Świr and Wiszniew, that is, more than 120 kilometers of the route were still ahead of us. There was no possibility of hiking on the highway – the whole way was hilly. From 371

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time to time vehicles traveled the road. We took cover whenever there was a gleam of light in the distance: the Germans drove with their headlights on. The shoulders of the road, however, seemed all the darker as a result of this. On a hill to our left a farm came in view – wretchedly poor, with an ancient thatched fence. Aleksander and Jakub decided we needed to be fed. Our food supply was gone, and there was still a long way to go. We climbed up the little rise and clustered around the fence. Our guys went into the house with their guns: “We are partisans, and we need food. We have money, and we’ll pay you for it.” They brought us each an egg and a piece of white cheese. I had never eaten a raw egg before, but it seemed exceptionally tasty. I had not eaten such delicacies for a long time. This first of our entrances into a home and the proud feeling that we were partisans stamped itself so brightly on my memory! The peasants warned us: “Before you were here the Germans came and searched. They said they were hunting for Jews from the ghetto who had escaped with weapons.” Could it be that the circumstance of losing our way getting out of the city and being several days late en route saved us from an ambush? Many years later, when we drove our car to Narocz, we always showed to Emma and later Aneczka this cottage on the hill and told the story that bored them but was so much alive to us. The problem of crossing the river was very complex – all the boats had been registered by the Germans. A ferryboat was working in Bystrzyca, but this was out of our way, and as we were told, the man who ran the ferry worked for the Germans and turned in everyone. We came up to the ferry late at night. Aleksander and Jakub dragged the ferryman out of his hut. “If you say so much as a word about this to anyone, we’ll come back and kill you,” and they shoved an automatic rifle into his stomach. The ferryman, a bulky peasant with an ugly mug, took us across to the other shore. Now we had to skedaddle out of there as quickly as possible. 372

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But all around us were sand and thinly wooded hills; it was a kind of beach without end. Our feet became mired in the sand. The night came to an end, and we had to find somewhere to spend the day. We climbed up one of the hills. In the morning some village children noticed us: “Look, people on the mountain,” one of them cried out. The whole gang of them rushed toward us. But now we were already partisans, and we ordered them to keep quiet. The kids did not give us away. Now it was no longer so dangerous. Back in the ghetto people had explained to us that there were many partisans on the other side of the Wilia, and the Germans only rarely stuck their noses in there. Nevertheless, it was still a long way to the end of the path. Many of us could barely move owing to sore feet, and therefore we decided to hire some farm wagons. Guns and money helped. And here we were sitting on hay in wagons, the horses slowly plodding their way down the sandy road. It was pleasant but frightening and not what we were used to. At any moment we could stumble on a patrol, and you cannot hide or dive into the bushes from the middle of the road. After jolting through the forest for a long stretch, we suddenly rolled into a small town. The streets were paved, and our five heavy wagons clattered down the cobblestones. How would it all end up? Maybe it never occurred to the Germans that the partisans would grow so insolent. Or were they afraid to meet up with them? After all, no one wants to die. We went on about twenty kilometers, got off the wagons, paid for them, and, now that we were rested, went on farther by foot. After this we stopped peasant wagons several more times. In this way we reached the fork in the road between Lakes Świr and Wiszniew. This was already in the vicinity of the main road to Lake Narocz. The goal was close at hand. Could we indeed get there? Alive? Somewhere in the depths of my soul hope began to stir. Chaim and the others agonized over their torn and bleeding feet. How could I not have warned him! Doctor Gordon, traveling with us, changed 373

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bandages at rest stops and lanced blisters. That was painful. The newlyminted partisans were terrible to behold. We reached the marshes at the hamlet of Mokrzyca. This was the third name from the bottom on our itinerary. The remaining places were Żeleźniki and the main one, Czeremszyce, wafting the aroma of spring and bird cherry, our dream in the ghetto. “Germans are on the road, take a detour,” kindly-disposed Belorussian peasants warned us. They pointed out a trail across the endless swamps. We took off our shoes, hitched up our skirts, rolled up our trousers, and moved out in single file. It was a sunny day. We walked in plain view. The water was warm and the bottom soft. It’s true that now and then someone fell into a deep spot in the bog, and we had to pull him out together. Finally we climbed out onto a firm bank. In front of us was a poor little village, with straw roofs. People greeted us cordially. They gave us food and carts, and we kept going. Around us were rolling fields and peasants digging potatoes who looked back at us without astonishment: partisans returning to their bases were no big deal. Below us in the distance gleamed a sky-blue body of water – Lake Narocz. Our dream, our goal. My heart leaped, and suddenly a feeling revived in my mind which I had not permitted myself for several years: I was going to live! I had a future! Reason reminded me that a tragic outcome was also possible, but in spite of everything, I wanted to believe. It would be hard, and no one knew how much time it would take, but I was going to live. Some riders on horseback came out to meet us – tall, cheerful, with red stripes on their caps – real, live partisans! We were meeting genuine partisans! “Well done for breaking out of the ghetto. If only everyone had done that! This is a partisan base, and there are no Germans in sight. You can move about in peace.” Then we began wandering on foot through fields, hamlets, and through the Czeremszyce that we had seen so many times in our dreams. An 374

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enormous forest of pine, spruce, and birch trees rose before us like a wall. On the edge of the wooded area a young red maple flamed among the green foliage. It welcomed us like a crimson banner and showed us the way. Here in the forest were the partisan base camps. “Father, we have arrived,” I thought, “the entire group, everyone alive! We shall do battle with the Nazis, we shall avenge everything and everyone. Now we are all equal, and death has lost its terror for us. No, it is still terrible, but how happy we are that we have arrived!”

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he village remained behind with its garden plots and fields. We entered the forest and were surrounded by enormous fir trees and pines. It was solemn and quiet, like a temple. Such beauty. And such a feeling of freedom! The Nazis were not going to mess with us here, so the only ones here were our people, the partisans. In the ghetto we dreamed of escaping from captivity, ending the humiliation, getting to the forest. Here we would be accepted for who we were; we would go out on missions, hammer the Nazis, get weapons, and return to our bases after our victories. But anxiety stirred in the depths of our souls. How would all this come about? An oppressive feeling would not leave me even at this marvelous time of our march through the woods. September 18th. The birches were turning yellow. Here and there we came upon mushrooms and red huckleberries, which I so enjoyed gathering and picking. The moss was as soft and springy as a sponge. Fluffy young pine trees. A sandy dirt road and gray lichens. We were going to the base camp of the Jewish detachment “Revenge.” It sounded like a vow – revenge! It was remarkable that there was a Jewish detachment at all. Other groups of our people would also arrive; we would create many such detachments. Our dream would come true. What a pity that we could not have brought masses of our soldiers out of the ghetto sooner. Our leaders agreed with those who wanted to start an uprising in the ghetto itself and die there with honor. However, 377

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what did the Vilna ghetto amount to? Only six or seven side streets in the narrow confines of the Old City, with no chance of escaping into the forest. We talked about this a lot among ourselves, trying to convince our representatives in the FPO that this was the case. They did not listen to us. They persuaded us that the way to the forest was dangerous, and not a single group had arrived without huge losses (we did not know precisely who had made it out safely and who had been killed). But they assured us that the whole world would learn about the uprising in the ghetto, and no one could say that the Jews were going to the slaughter like sheep. We, however, wanted to fight and live; we were not prepared to die at the age of twenty. Now all of that was in the past, we decided among ourselves. We were in the forest. What were we going to run into next? We were tired, very tired; anxiety was wearing all of us down: What about our loved ones in the ghetto? We strode along the soft, hot earth, surrounded by the natural features of our native land. Now the path became wider. This was the road to Hatowicz. We stopped to talk with partisans whom we met along the way, and in each new person we wanted to see a friend. We had already been walking in the forest for several hours. “Turn down the little road to the right. You’ll find your base camp under the low hill,” they told us. Gray lichens and pines. A grassy clearing opened in front of us. A fire was burning in the middle under some large cooking pots. This was the “kitchen,” and girls in white aprons and carrying big soup ladles were bustling about. People were running out of dugouts that had been constructed on the slope of the hill. Next to them were several wagons and horses. It was crowded. Aleksander and Jakub were reporting to one of the top officers that they had just come here from the ghetto. I delivered the letter from the Vilna underground party committee to Markow. “So what’s the situation? When will other groups arrive?” the commander and the sergeant major asked. After a short conversation, they dismissed us and told us to go to the mess area. Everyone was hungry. Not only on the road, but in the ghetto as 378

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well, people were constantly hungry. I remember the delicious taste of the mutton soup which they poured generously into our bowls. “No overeating, now. You’ll get sick. You must not put too much into an empty stomach,” they warned us. The words were in vain. Everyone greedily attacked the meal. We undressed in the dugout and took off our boots. Many people’s feet were covered with blood. Dr. Gordon bandaged the wounds and lanced blisters. So as not to introduce infections, my father would never have done this. No one listened to me. Chaim was suffering: the rough kersey boots, which had overjoyed him at first, had rubbed his feet raw, and he, with others in the group, could not even wind foot cloths around them. The poor guys were walking around like invalids. (They were in torment for a long time, for months. There weren’t enough bandages or ointment, and people were exhausted from their constant undernourishment). Józio’s skating boots saved me, the same ones I had begun the journey with. They were broken in and comfortable – I was able to walk in them until the following spring. Night in the half-empty dugout. How pleasant and quiet it was to sleep on bunk beds impervious to the wind, covered by a thin layer of straw. I awoke with the thought that we had arrived! And immediately – how would our life turn out? If only they had assigned me to the same group with Chaim… They were hitching up the horses in the field, for a group of partisans to ride off on to gather supplies. A stocky Jewish peasant with a coarse, unpleasant face was in charge. “That’s the sergeant major; – the commander has full confidence in him. And that young woman – he sleeps with her and does what she tells him. She makes out well with him. He has everything – clothing and grub,” the man remarks. “The cooking’ s also a good thing, and it’s safe.” This argument contradicted our ideals. We were not like that. We had come here to fight. How could partisans make judgments about full stomachs, benefits, and safety? In the detachment we met some of our people from the ghetto, members of the FPO. They had left the ghetto on July 24, 1943, had been 379

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ambushed, and had already been in combat. Everyone was exceptionally glad to meet them; we had not even dreamed that we would be seeing them. We learned that their group had fallen into an ambush near the bridge through Wilejka near Mickun. Their guns were not yet in battlefield order. They were in formation like Jewish workers being sent to work. Then each of them made his own way to the partisans. Not all of them got there. Rachela Burakiska perished, and Hirsz Gordon, Chaim’s friend, was killed. So was Hirsz’s brother Lew, the same tall, strong young man whom Onia Brancowska had liked so much… Our hero Izaak Mackiewicz also died; nevertheless he and Mojżesz Brauze had blown up a German ammunition train just as he had dreamed. Here was slim, delicate Marysia, whom I had known before the war. She had recently come from the ghetto with her friend Mira Goniońska. They had given them the route, and they had found the way themselves to the partisans in the forest. They had fallen into the clutches of a Lithuanian who worked for the Gestapo, but were able to escape. Many girls reached the partisans the same way. They were sent out of the ghetto alone, unarmed, disguised as Poles so as not to load the groups down with women. Everyone thought that the partisans needed bold young men who wanted to fight and were armed. It turned out later that the girls fought just as well as the men. A group of Jews was sitting on a hill in the forest. They were Communists from the Vilna ghetto who had not affiliated with the FPO since they had thought from the very beginning that young people should leave the ghetto and go into the forest to create detachments for armed struggle against the Nazis. At that time we looked upon them as apostates. We idolized our organization. “It’s good that you could get here independently,” we told them. “We will fight together.” We did not know then that they would be killed by the Nazis in the coming encirclement of the forest since they didn’t have a roadmap or guns. This meeting shook me to the core. It meant that there were other antiNazis in the ghetto besides us, people who had chosen a different method of struggle! The next day I suddenly caught sight of another group coming 380

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down the hill. A second detachment of guys like us from the ghetto had arrived! They had all reached us safely. “The situation in the ghetto has deteriorated. People capable of working are being taken to camps in Estonia. The word is that liquidation is coming soon. Your father came to look for you at the library, Lala, where headquarters is still located. There was no way he could believe that you had left your family for the forest. He grieved for you a lot.” This news moved me powerfully. I tried not to think about Mama and Father, about Józio, about the fact that I had not said goodbye, that I had stealthily slunk away. Shall I see my loved ones ever again? What will happen to you? I was comforted by the thought that until now Father had always been able to find a way out of any situation. But my heart was heavy, and this was indescribably hard to take. We were ordered to fall in for a visit from the high command. One of them gave a speech: “We have come to you with a message from Comrade Fiodor Markow. We welcome your presence in our brigade. We shall fight together. You will shortly be allocated to platoons, and your duties will be assigned. Now you will surrender your weapons. Lower ranking soldiers are not permitted to carry personal weapons. Commanding officers will receive their proper weapons later. Soldiers will get rifles. This is in accordance with our rules.” We unquestionably believed the Soviet partisans. They were a legend to us. We had worked so hard to join them in the forest. No one had any idea of disobeying them. The weapons which we had acquired with such difficulty and had smuggled into the ghetto part by part were going to end up in someone else’s hands. With pain in his heart, Chaim surrendered his machine gun, which had been entrusted to him in the ghetto when he was put in charge of the weapons cache in the library, the arsenal of the First Battalion. The machine gun would now be passed on to our future detachment. New groups arrived almost every day without any losses, having avoided ambushes. Four or five of them came in the time period between September 18 and the encirclement on September 23. Men reported that Gens was 381

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called to the Gestapo on September 14, but he shot himself in the courtyard. Salek Desler, a Nazi collaborator, was appointed boss of the ghetto. Now it was clear that the ghetto would be liquidated in the next few days. There was a rumor that the Jewish “Revenge” detachment would be dispersed and in its place a Komsomol detachment named for Woroszylski would be organized. Some of the men decided to go to Genrikas Zimanas, who under the sobriquet “Jurgis” commanded a group of Lithuanian partisans from the Southern District and was located not far away in the forest. “He is a militant partisan,” said Chaim, “a former teacher at a Jewish school in Kowno. We need to get in touch with him. Maybe he’ll let us join them. He already has some of our guys under him: Józef Glazman (former commander of the FPO brigade), who left with a group of FPO members on July 24, 1943 right after the death of Izchak Witenberg, Chaim Łuski, Lejb Ziskowicz, Miriam Bernsztein, Rasza Łukiszkier, Mojżesz Brauze.” All of them left the ghetto after Witenberg died. Zimanas and his group were preparing to go into the forests in the Rudnicki Wilderness forty kilometers from Vilna. As Chaim was departing on his way to Zimanas, I implored him, “Do all you can to make sure that he accepts us. There is order in his camp, and we can fight there. We just have to be together. That’s vital. I will die without you. Try to convince him. Tell him about our organization, about the weapons cache, about our military training classes. We are not casual people, we are organized fighters.” Chaim left with his men while Marysia and I stayed behind to wait with our other comrades. The sun began to set and they still were not back. I was worried: how would our future life work out? Chaim returned. There he was walking in his blue jeans, the riding pants and windbreaker made of blue denim, skinny and pale with sunken cheeks, limping. “For now nothing has worked out. We talked with Zimanas and told him all about the ghetto and our organization. He was very interested and sympathized with us. We started to ask him about joining the detachment in the Lithuanian brigade. At that point I began to feel bad, probably the result of the greasy soup we had just eaten. Zimanas said, ‘Go lie down 382

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and get better. Then we will look into it. I know you want to join with your girlfriend, but right now I don’t have any openings. Come back in a couple of weeks.’” The next day we were in turmoil from early in the morning: a group of high-ranking officers was going to pay us a visit. The fat one with the flat face was Klimow, the chief of staff. We remembered him from Vilna, where he had spoken at youth assemblies. He was a very uptight representative of the military who called for the rebuilding of society. In these short days of Soviet power he was the personification of a new life to us. He lied to us. When rumors circulated that our city would be transferred to Nazi satellite Lithuania, Klimow was the one who assured us at a youth meeting that this was wrong. But a few days later, the Soviet authorities decamped. How I suffered over this later, for I believed him, the representative of Soviet power. Here in the forest Klimow looked entirely unappealing. His face was flabby, and his jacket did not fit. With him was Krysow… He looked as though he lived up to his name.1 And the elegant, well groomed one? That was Markow himself, Fiodor Markow, commander of the partisan brigade which was in touch with our organization in the ghetto; this was the brigade about which we inmates had been dreaming. Markow was a former teacher who had killed a German commandant in Święciany and then escaped to the forest and organized the brigade. He was a genuine warrior, a hero. We noticed that the officers were carrying our ghetto pistols. That meant that they had simply taken them from us and appropriated them. A slight murmur went up and down the ranks. Bitterness descended upon us. We realized that big changes were coming. We were all ordered to stand at attention. All the veteran partisans and the new arrivals from the ghetto were present. Klimow addressed us. “Owing to the large number of reinforcements, the Revenge Detachment is reorganized as the Woroszylski Cavalry Detachment. Wołodia Saulewicz has been appointed commander; he is an experienced combat-tested partisan and a comrade-in-arms of Markow. Horses will be acquired. In addition, 1

Translator’s Note: “Krys” means “rat” in Russian.

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production groups will be formed to which noncombatants, women and children, will be assigned. They will bake bread, clean boots, and sew clothing. Armed guards will watch over them. They will be under the protection of the partisans. They will perform work that is very necessary to us.” Then and there the partisans were assigned to platoons, and the lists were read out. No girls were on the lists except for a few female partisans in the Revenge Detachment. We stood in the clearing in “carré” formations, everyone with bewilderment on their faces. This meant that there wouldn’t be a Jewish detachment anymore! And we girls, including many from the ghetto battle organization, who dreamed of fighting against the Nazis, were going to bake bread? This was impossible, a mean trick! Since no one could speak Russian, how could we explain to them that the situation was unacceptable? At this point everyone turned around to look at me because I knew Russian. I was pushed out of the ranks. I had to stand in front of everyone in my “civilian” blue overcoat, speechless with fear. I had never before spoken in public and certainly did not know how to speak well, and I was afraid. Markow and all the commanding officers were looking at me with astonishment, and I was thrust forward, breathless with feelings of injustice and grief. Suddenly my voice came to me. I stood in the middle of the clearing with a naïve expression on my face – a snotty nosed, bad little girl. “We did not come into the forest for cover,” I asserted, “or to hide behind the backs of the fighting partisans. We are members of the FPO, warriors of the ghetto. Do you know what sacrifices we made to acquire weapons and smuggle them into the ghetto, how we collected them part by part and test fired them in basements, and how we trained young people in the ghetto environment to carry out military actions? And now you want to dump us into a family camp. It won’t work. We will not agree to it. We will pick up our weapons and create our own detachment.” I do not remember what else I said. I was shouting at the top of my lungs. “All right,” stated one of the commanders. “Give me the names of the men and girls from the FPO who were not assigned to platoons. Put them in the partisan lists.” 384

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People were clapping me on the back, and many people were rejoicing. Eleven of us girls were listed in the detachment roster, I among them. I was shaking from the hubbub and the humiliation we had just experienced. But we got what we wanted. A group of our men went to talk with the commanding officers about our demand for a military assignment. Klimow and the others were sitting under the pines on the slope of the hill. Our men stood before them. Suddenly their faces grew long, and they quickly returned to our area. “Those bastards!” cried out one of us. “We told them we wanted to go out on missions and avenge our destroyed families, but they told us to go into town and bring back a brass band – something essential for Markow’s fiestas.’ There’s a military mission for you, so carry it out.’ That’s what Klimow said, and others supported him. To them we are just laughing stocks!” No one understood us, they held us in contempt. We were supposed to risk our lives not in order to blow up a train or rout a garrison but to recruit musicians and entertain Markow. But we thought of him as a hero, an ideal leader. Even in the ghetto we knew of his exploits: a simple teacher from Święciany, he got his revenge on the German governor, and he created an entire partisan brigade. No, Markow probably did not know that his comrades–in- arms were contemptible people! You see they were asserting that we allegedly were sitting in the ghetto and working for the Germans while they were fighting. And our people supposedly did nothing but go to their deaths like cattle to the slaughterhouse. They knew, after all, what lay in store for them! How could an uninformed person understand that the will of our brothers and sisters was gradually destroyed, that they were getting used to the thought that we were not people. And since no one believed in inevitable death, the majority hoped that they could hide, escape, save their own lives. That was why we could not incite the ghetto to rise up in revolt. But we did hold out; we preserved a sense of dignity and the will to struggle. What was the point of humiliating us and sending us out to round up a band! They revived the idea of assigning soldiers to platoons. Commanding officers were appointed, although no one in our group was promoted to this level. The oldest ones were sent to the production groups; among them 385

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were the writer Szmerka Kaczergiński and the poet Abram Suckewer and his wife. But only a few days later Chaim was asked if there were any writers among the new arrivals from the ghetto, since it was necessary to compose the history of the Markow brigade. “We have the poet Suckewer and the writer,” surprised and momentarily forgetting his last name, Chaim came up with: “ Szmerka.” “Is that his pen name?” asked the commissar. “If he has a pen name, that means he is a famous writer. Go get them right away.” So following Chaim’s good example, Szmerka and Abram started working at headquarters, where they were treated with respect and, what was also important, were fed. They wrote in Yiddish. Another young man translated what they wrote into Russian. The days were filled with events and commotion, and it seemed to us that we had been here in the forest for a very long time; in fact, barely a week had gone by. Chaim’s health got somewhat better. The group that had gone for supplies came back bringing potatoes and grain. From somewhere or other the first horses for the future “cavalry” detachment showed up. Everything came easily and simply to the boys with a rural background; they could saw and split firewood, start a fire, and hang the ponderous soup kettles on their supports. They could take care of the horses, saddle them, and ride horseback. They knew all the trails and pathways well and in general felt at home in the woods. For us, coming from the city, from the ghetto, everything was a problem, including foot cloths, boots, arranging a place to sleep, and washing up. They fed us well, and gave us military training. Little by little everything fell into place. Our hearts were still troubled, however. The newcomers brought us very disquieting news from the ghetto. In the morning came the order “Fall in.” The high command arrived and met in the staff dugout. We stood in a long file of two lines. No one knew what was going on. Soldiers were summoned to the dugout in pairs; a few minutes later the ones whose names were called came out, but they were directed to an area on the side, not to us. One of the guys made a sign, pointing to his watch. Automatically I took mine off. I put it in the breast pocket of my windbreaker since I did not have a jacket with pockets. Tola 386

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Żabińska had given me the watch at the library in the ghetto. Looking at the men leaving the headquarters bunker, I could see that they were all scowling, depressed. When it was my turn I went in, trembling all over. Was this going to be some kind of criticism and self-criticism session? “You are an active member of the Komsomol and so you will understand our request,” one of the commanders addressed me. “We are collecting money for a national defense fund. If you have gold, jewelry, or a watch, turn them in. The country is in need of financial resources.” He nodded in the direction of a pile of watches, gold rings, and coins on the table and added in a menacing tone of voice, “If you do not give them voluntarily, we will conduct a search.” “I do not have anything,” I said, thinking about the watch in my little pocket and the coin sewn into the hem of my brown skirt. I detected a false note in everything; furthermore, the menacing tone disgusted me. This was not the way to collect contributions for a defense fund. “We came here to fight the Nazis,” I said. “We are not speculators trying to save our own lives. The most valuable things that we brought were our guns. Go ahead, conduct your search!” My sharp tone and self-confidence had an effect. “It’s not worthwhile tangling with her, she’s so belligerent she’ll take our heads off. All right, we believe you. Dismissed.” I left. They nudged me into the group that had already been at headquarters. The eyes of everyone standing in the formation were fixed on me. I tried to indicate with gestures what had happened. Finally everyone had been called up. Leather jackets were taken from a few of the girls. The soldiers were upset that they were forced to part with the last little thing they had brought from home. Chaim, honest and loyal, surrendered the watch that his uncle had given him at his bar mitzvah. Therefore, I was the only one in the whole detachment who still had a watch. “You didn’t accomplish anything doing that,” Chaim said. “They were collecting things for a defense fund.” “I don’t believe them,” I responded. “We will see about that; I can give up my treasures anytime.” 387

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SURROUNDED The next day rumors circulated that Germans had been seen near our section of the forest and something dangerous was afoot. Was this a round-up? A reconnaissance party galloped off on horseback to clarify the situation. Some kind of activity was observed on the normally deserted road leading to Hatowicz village. Informants from nearby villages passed on the unsettling news. Toward evening they began to say that the Nazis were surrounding the forest. That meant they were getting ready to cordon it off. The veteran partisans tried to puzzle out whether we were going to fight them or whether they would order us to retreat. Just then we learned that messengers from headquarters had brought us the order to withdraw from the base camp. While there was still time, all the units in the brigade had to abandon the forest and transfer to another base camp. The enemy hordes were on the move, and our forces were not their equal. Commanding officer Wołodia Saulewicz walked around with an exceedingly glum expression on his face. Tonia, his pregnant wife, had just gone into labor. What should we do? The partisans in the detachment agreed to wait until Tonia had delivered the child, and then everyone would get moving together. We were still completely green at this and were totally confused. What were we getting into? I, the inveterate pessimist, smelled disaster… And I wasn’t wrong. Panic and chaos reigned at the base camp. They loaded partisan equipment and possessions onto wagons. The field kitchen cooked up extra meat supplies for us to take with us. Everyone was running, shrieking at the top of their lungs. Tonia’s labor slowed down. Chaim and I lay down next to each other on wooden pallets in the bunker. Next to us Marysia was talking with her boyfriend, Chaim Łuski. Everyone was afraid that the end was near. Through the open door we could see bonfires and smoke rising to the sky. We dozed off, full of anxiety. Everyone up! Let’s get going fast! We ran out onto the clearing. A cart went by carrying Tonia with her newborn infant. Saulewicz marched next to it. Everyone moved to the hill 388

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leading to the road to the Czapajew detachment’s base camp. Slowly we made our way along the sandy rutted trail. A scouting party rushed toward us. It was cold; I was shivering from nervous excitement. By the time we reached the Czapajew detachment’s base camp, it was almost daybreak. In front of us appeared a guy in a fur cap whom we knew, Bomka from Odessa. “The whole forest is surrounded by Germans. There’s no way out,” he told us. “A few people were still able to slip through yesterday. Now we have to break up into small groups, and each one has to make its way out separately.” We reached the Czapajew base camp. There were its bunkers. But the troops were all gone. Silence. We were ordered to sit down on the mess hall benches. One of the staff personnel dumped a load of watches from a bag onto the kitchen table and addressed Chaim as a Komsomol member: “Take the best watches for yourself and keep the rest as long as the encirclement lasts. That’s a Komsomol order.” Chaim found his old watch and said, “This is a family keepsake; I don’t want the others, and I’m not going to keep them. You stole them, and you’re responsible for them. You’ve already filched the most valuable ones, so take the rest of them, too. Despite our hopeless situation there was nothing but contempt in everyone’s eyes. Here it was, the “bedrock of defense.” These were the people leading us – nothing but thieves and bandits! This picture stayed in my memory the rest of my life: the cold, damp daybreak of September 24, 1943. Our comrades sitting at empty tables at the Czapajew camp, the whinnying of horses, distraught faces, the cart with Tonia and her infant. What lay ahead? If only Chaim and I could stay together: if we had to die, then we would die together. We were ordered to fall in. Saulewicz picked out the local men with the most experience; they knew all the roadways. “Turn the machine gun in!” he yelled. Chaim and the group of soldiers being sent out to the islands in the marsh were holding a machine gun, the same one that he had carried out of the ghetto in a violin case at such risk. 389

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“We brought this into the forest with us. It’s ours.” “Give it up or we’ll shoot!” Our boys with the machine gun moved out on the road they were ordered to take. I stood with several others next to Saulewicz. We were divided up into groups of eight to ten people and ordered to disperse along different trails. I cannot recall how many seconds this took, but Chaim and our other pals were out of sight. Chaim was so conscientious that whatever he was ordered to do, he did it. But me, what about me? How could he abandon me like that? I went down the footpath, unable to see because my eyes were filled with tears. I did not want to live at all; it would have been a lot easier just to die. Marysia, Mira Goniońska, another three girls, and my friend from the detachment, Mojżesz-Yudke Rudnicki , were walking along with us. We were in a hurry. We had been shown the way to the nearby island in the swamp where the family camp was located. We were going to go into hiding with them. Our group had only two pistols and a couple of grenades left. Of course they had taken all of our guns from us as soon as we turned up in the “Revenge” detachment, and Saulewicz’s group had snatched up the detachment’s weapons and taken them with them. The only thing we could do was hide. If the Germans extended the chain of encirclement, they would nail all of us. That idiot Tonia! Because of her we were forced to lose so much time. And Saulewicz! He took the weapons away from the young fighters and Chaim and then tossed us aside to be killed. They would be OK because they would worm their way through the German encirclement. Still, it was wrong of them to get rid of us. I nearly fainted from horror and indignation. We ran up to the path over the swamp. Old logs had been laid across the trail to firm up the swampy foundation. Just then we heard cries, noise. On an island in the bushes, among a few trees, there were many Jews, children, various household goods, general disorder. Some of them had come to the base camp as a place of refuge in the forest. Others, on the other hand, were getting ready to escape from it. Confusion, noise, wailing. Some said we should remove the logs because the Germans could not catch us. Others objected that in that case we couldn’t escape either. Everyone was going to die here! It was a shame that the children had to share our fate! 390

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Children were howling. We understood that there was no point in trying to hide here, where people were floundering about not knowing what to do. Some half-empty bags were lying around by the roadside. It turned out that they contained peas – hard yellow ones, and I stuffed a few handfuls into the pockets of my blue coat. Mojżesz Rudnicki suggested that we run back into the forest as far as we could. We ran out into the clearing and saw that the whole sky was aflame, blood red, interspersed with columns of smoke, everything – as far as the horizon stretched. We could not see this in the forest, but here it was wild and terrible. It meant that the Germans were burning down villages. Houses were burning. Fire all around, in front of us and behind us. We ran toward Narochanka Creek. There were big swamps there. “We can’t get out of the forest,” said Mojżesz-Yudke. With our last ounce of strength we dragged ourselves forward. We barely managed to put one foot in front of another. One more step and I would have fallen and couldn’t have stood up! I threw away the bag with my socks and underwear, everything that I had taken out of the ghetto with me. None of this was any use anymore. Each gram of it was a heavy burden. We made our way out of the thick forest onto a green meadow illuminated by the flaming sky. Beneath our feet came the squishing sound of a bog. We leaped onto a pontoon flung across the Narochanka, and sank up to our chests in the icy water; the pontoon could not bear our weight. Mojżesz Rudnicki fished me out by my coat collar. The soaked overcoat was pulling me down with its weight. Thank God that Marysia and Mira were already on dry land. My heart was beating so fast it was impossible to breathe. We kept running. It was getting dark, but the fire cast a sinister light on the trees and the undergrowth. We were in a meadow that had drying racks (punki) scattered around it – hayricks on timber pedestals and covered with roof shingles – that’s how the marsh dwellers keep the hay before the frosts, at which point it can be carted off on sleighs. “Dig yourselves a deep hole in the hay and sit there quietly,” Mojżesz Rudnicki ordered. 391

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We were all exhausted, shivering from the cold. It was quiet around us except for the bands of fire that were playing in the sky. Once in a while sounds of faraway shots reached us. Whatever was happening, we had to sleep. It was dawn. We woke up chilled to the bone. We couldn’t get dry; on the contrary, the dampness clung to us, and our hair was wet with dew. Chaim, where are you now? Are you still alive? Our situation could hardly have been worse. Here we were, disarmed, in a forest zone surrounded by Nazis, unable to communicate with our own people, without food. I remembered the peas, pulled a handful of them out of the pocket of my sodden coat, and put them in my mouth one pea at a time. I simply did not want to eat anything. There was no point in trying to escape with the Germans all around us. The daytime sky was pink as well. Wherever you looked, there was burning everywhere. We lay in silence, buried in the hay, trying not to think. It was quiet, but at any time the Germans could descend on us, and that would be the end. We hadn’t done anything yet – hadn’t killed a single enemy soldier. And life is so short that there’s nothing about it to remember. It was getting dark. Marysia, Mira, and I went out into the bushes to relieve ourselves. The marsh all around us was dark. “How could they leave us alone in the woods?” Marysia said quietly. “They have their weapons, a machine gun, so they can resist. That’s what our organization is like! At the first sign of danger, they betray us.” “What makes you think we’re the first?” was my retort. “They betrayed Witenberg, and they didn’t support Szenboim. The uprising collapsed at the first attempt.” We wondered how our people in the ghetto were doing. We suddenly remembered there were still about a hundred people there. We strode along the swampy ground, through the cranberry bushes. Our feet were wet, and so were our clothes. The only thing left was to break down and cry. It was already dark, but the threatening sky was brightly ablaze. The reflections of the flames were interspersed with gray streaks of smoke. Yet another night and day, and again night – we could not remember anymore how long we had been sitting here chewing on peas. We drank the yellow, bitter tasting swamp water. 392

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During the night Mojżesz Rudnicki left on a reconnaissance mission. He disappeared noiselessly into the darkness; the squishing sounds he made with his boots in the swamp fell silent. But it was all the more frightening to us; now there was only one pistol for the seven of us. And what might happen to him? Suppose he ran up against the Nazis and we didn’t wait up for him? We were shivering from the cold. A couple of hours went by this way. Suddenly we heard a muffled, squishing sound; someone was approaching. The agreed-upon whistle, and it was Mojżesz Rudnicki holding a bag full of hot, savory-smelling potatoes. “I got to the farmhouse and went in – the door was open so the Nazis wouldn’t break it down. No one was there; everyone had run off into the forest to hide. I started a fire, picked out a bag of potatoes, cooked them, ate all I wanted, and brought the rest to you. Otherwise you were going to waste away from hunger.” Never in my life had I eaten anything that tasted better than those potatoes. My heart was brimming over with appreciation for the humanity he showed us, his comrades in misfortune. He could have walked out on us and completely abandoned us; he would have had an easier time hiding by himself. But he came back and what’s more, fed us. This noble young man was a real friend! The next night Mojżesz Rudnicki repeated his raid and again brought us potatoes to eat. The sky was no longer bright with flames. Everything around us was quiet. We decided to go back to the base camp the next day. Could it be that the Nazis had pulled out already? Would we suddenly meet up with one of our friends? That morning we left the haystack that had sheltered us and slowly moved out toward our part of the forest. First through the swamp, then immersed in the forest – no one, not a bird, not an animal. Fatigued, we walked silently for a long time. We lay down on the soft moss – so beautiful. How nice it would be to die here and not have to face any more trouble. Wake up and put more distance behind you! Walking was harder than ever. Our wet boots were rubbing our feet raw. We came out by the lake with its swampy shoreline overgrown with rushes, cranberry bushes, and moss. 393

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Along the edge of the swamp was a winding, sandy walkway. I recognized it. We had used it to escape to the island a few days back. How long ago that seemed… Suddenly one of the group stopped dumbstruck. A German cigarette package! Farther off in the sand we could clearly see the marks of German boots. Was there a chance the Germans were still here, nearby? If they were lying in ambush, there was no place for us to go. Alongside us a muddy swamp, in the distance a lake was shining. Silence. We advanced farther. The road passed through an area of low trees. Then came our familiar trail leading to the partisan camp. We turned to the right and following the gray moss walked down to our clearing. Not a soul in sight. The bunkers were empty, dead, the doors broken in, everything inside them burned to a crisp. The straw on the wooden bunk beds had burned up, the ceilings and clapboard walls were singed, everything was covered with black soot. They could not burn up the bunkers in their entirety since they were made out of freshly cut green timber. The ground was covered everywhere with crushed cans of German food, cigarette packs, matches. The field kitchen campfire had been swept away, the pots pierced by bayonets. The odor of horror, malice, the urge to destroy lingered over everything. They had been here! And although we had not seen them, it seemed to us that their spirit was still clinging to the area and we could still hear their barking, guttural speech We swept the ashes out of our former bunker and lay down on the charred planks of the bunks. We could not even find a rag to serve as a pillow, so we put fresh, leafy branches under our heads. We made up our minds to wait for news from our missing friends (in my case I was just hoping that Chaim was still alive). If only the Germans did not come back! Some kind of weird character came into view. The strange, dirty man, dressed in rags, his eyes darting anxiously back and forth, trying to catch what we were saying, moved closer to us. “I am a Jew from the family detachment and I got lost…,” he muttered feverishly, “I ran and ran, but stumbled on the Germans. They were marching in a file about three meters apart from one another. We didn’t have time to evacuate our sick and wounded, so the doctors and nurses carried them 394

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out into the swamp. They lowered them deep into the water, up to their necks. A few were saved, but the Nazis spotted many of them and killed them. …I heard the Germans swearing. Our quarters were “die Bunker,” and the partisans were “die Banditen.” They were really scared of them. “I’m going to the swamp to look for my family, to see if maybe they got away.” The man asked if we had anything he could eat, but there was nothing to be found, and he trudged off. An unaccustomed dead silence ruled at our previously so noisy camp. What deathly terror the wounded must have felt in the swamp, up to their necks in water, when they heard the voices of their approaching executioners. And it was terrifying for us here on that cold night, in our black, burned-out bunkers. So we had reached the partisans and right away we had fallen into a trap. The next day people began to show up from other units and logistical production groups, Jews who had been hiding in the swamps, individual armed partisans unable to break through the encirclement. No one had any word about our friends in the FPO [United Partisan Organization]. No food supplies, no news. The camp began to fill up with assorted people casually streaming in. We were glad to have at least a roof over our heads. The nights were cold, and it frequently rained. Soon it was October 10th and Chaim would be twenty-one years old. “Will he see his birthday, and are we going to meet again?” I wondered, my heart seized with anxiety. Rumors arose about the liquidation of the Vilna ghetto, to the effect that all the Jews were supposedly transported out of the ghetto on very day that the encirclement began, 23 September. Where are you – Mama, Father, Józio? And Chaim’s mother, and Onya Brancowska, and all the guys left behind in the ghetto? Samuel the hero, Chiena, and everyone in our group? One young man advised us to leave the Vengeance Detachment’s base camp. The Germans already knew about this site, he said. It was dangerous here because they could return. He proposed that we build a bunker deep in the forest, move our potatoes there, buy some lard, and spend the winter there. In his view it was now clear what kind of partisans we were 395

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dealing with: they forced people into the German encirclement, while the commanders absconded with all the weapons. We encountered this judgment on all sides, but we tried to find excuses for the partisans, even though we ourselves had been abandoned. “We aren’t going anywhere, because we’re waiting for our friends to come back – Chaim, Jakub Raff, Szlomo, and the others. “They have gone far away and will never return,” they tried to convince us, “After all, they even took your guns away from you. They snatched the girls’ leather jackets – for their own floozies. That’s what your partisans are – thieves and bandits. And what’s this Chaim to you – your husband?” I became lost in thought: “Husband? He’s a friend.” We were hungry for potatoes, our faces black with soot. We would have given whatever it might take. We waited and waited. The days went by without any news. We lost track of time. On one of those joyless days Jakub Raff sprang up before us with his submachine gun. All of us, joined by people we didn’t even know, surrounded him immediately. No matter, here was a new face. Jakub told his story: “We walked for a long time through the swamps and finally got to some kind of island. Everything all around us was in flames, but there were people on the island. During the night they got out of there. Once we heard the cry of an infant, more like the cheep of a bird. We found him, but there was no way to feed him, and the poor little thing passed away. Just imagine, the mother abandoned her own child, ran away just to save herself. People can be real animals or worse. We wandered about for a week, and we would have died of hunger if we hadn’t by chance run across a cow that had gone completely wild. We finished her off with a silent rifle and divided up the meat. But that night people began to pilfer each other’s meat. Can you just imagine – partisans stealing meat from their comrades in the trenches! It’s amazing all the stuff that went on. We made up our minds not to go back to the Markow detachment. These partisans were nothing but thieves and scoundrels. To abandon other fighters who were surrounded in the woods and then to add insult to injury by confiscating their firearms! I was sent to collect the members of our group who remained. Lala, Marysia, let’s go! 396

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A group of seven persons gathered. “Take me with you,” begged a girl named Khuma. I did not know her well, but we had met at the former base camp, and now we agreed that she could come along. There was no reason to wait, so we started out. “Walking is very dangerous,” said Jakub, “There are lots of Germans in the garrisons, and they have stationed patrols and set up ambushes on the roads. The villages are all burned to the ground. Nothing but cinders are left of the houses and barns, so there’s no place to spend the night. We’ll have to walk several hundred kilometers, over lots of highways. Step quietly, in single file, and follow orders.” For hours on end we crept along forest footpaths and sandy roadways. Our feet often got stuck in the swamp with a squishing noise, but we had the feeling that the trees and the bushes were protecting us. Anxiety weighed on us down, terror crowded out the soul. With every step we took, our mortal enemies could spring a trap on us. All we had were Jakub’s submachine gun and a few hand grenades – some protection this… Would we find our comrades? And what did the future hold for us? After all, we had walked out on the famed Markow brigade. Once again Józio’s boots saved me. They were were easy and comfortable to walk in. Toward evening we emerged onto a clearing. The open space alarmed us. A little farther ahead the charred remains of a peasant’s hut and farm buildings could be seen. Some garden plots … O joy! Untouched cabbage and radishes were growing before us. Pull them up and eat your fill! We pulled up heads of cabbage and radishes and gnawed on them with our strong teeth. The divine taste of the succulent vegetables was intoxicating. But after a few minutes we felt something bitter in our mouths. The juice burned and ate away at the esophagus. There were plenty of vegetables, but not enough to satisfy our hunger. I was overcome with “bitter” disappointment. There was no help for it. Famished, we struggled onward. “It’s dangerous here,” Jakub warned, “There’s a highway close by. We could walk into an ambush. Go single file, one after the other.” 397

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We moved on beyond a ruined estate and got ready to cross the road. Rat-tаt-tаt! A machine gun round was fired from the bushes to the right. No more than three steps away from me. I flung myself to the side, back, into the new growth evergreen forest. The gunfire continued. I ran farther and farther. It was still light, and I already envisaged the Nazis chasing me. I couldn’t breathe, my heart was pounding in my mouth. Even before this I could not run for a long time without getting out of breath. I have no idea how long I ran. I looked around. No one in sight. I was alone in a strange forest, and I did not know the way. I would have to return to the old base camp and look for a trail into the woods. Were Jakub and the girls still alive? Where were they now? I walked for a long time through the sparse growth of trees, constantly imagining Germans hiding behind every bush. So here I was playing right into their hands, not fighting them, not killing a single one of them. The recent explosions and gunfire echoed in my ears, but in reality it was quiet and empty. And very frightening to be alone. At this point something stirred amongst the pine trees – a dark silhouette, someone rather short. I froze. Flee or move closer? Khuma! What a delight! She was alive and unhurt! I threw myself at her. With two of us, I was somehow braver. No, Khuma had not seen anyone. Like me she had run away without giving thought where she should go. We continued sitting in the thick underbrush until it was dawn, wet from the dew and hungry. We chewed up a cabbage leaf that I had groped for in my pocket, and then we moved on. We thought we would go back to the base camp. We were overjoyed to meet up with Mera and Jakub after a few hours. Now things were no longer so scary: Jakub had his submachine gun and he knew the road. One thing was unclear: was it worthwhile to go back to the base camp? The distinct tracks in the sand from the iron shod German boots told us that the Nazis had returned to the forest and to the bunkers. But the marshy “ditch” led in that direction only, and we numbly wandered on not knowing whether we were doing the right thing. Jakub went on ahead, leaving us in the thick brush, and he came back with the news that the enemy had not come here a second time. In the course of the day the other members of our group also joined us. 398

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Again we began to while away the days at the scorched base camp. We slept on boards, starved, and waited, continually waited for something. Our hearts were heavy. All our romantic dreams of the exploits of warfare vanished into thin air. On one of these cold, rainy fall days, our FPO comrades turned up; among them was Chaim. They were all dirty, downcast and pale, soaked. I rushed up to Chaim and embraced him, my bitter resentment forgotten. We had gone through so much – fear, humiliation, disillusionment. Now we were happy to have survived, to have found each other again. We told each other about all the rough going we had experienced. We had to consider what to do, put our affairs in order. None of the men who arrived knew what was going on in the ghetto. We all shared our complete ignorance about the fate of our loved ones. When we lay down at night on our charred boards, I heard Chaim sobbing. I could only caress the top of his head; it was impossible to say anything to comfort him. If I still had a glimmer of hope that Father had somehow fixed things up for Mama and Józio, Chaim on the other hand realized that his elderly mother did not have the slightest chance of surviving. “I sent her to certain death all by herself . There wasn’t even anyone with her in her final hour. She had lost all her children. Fania was killed by a bomb in Warsaw; the Nazis did away with Dawid on the first day of the occupation; and I, her youngest child, ran away, abandoned her. There’s no forgiveness for me!” “You couldn’t have done anything to help her; they would have separated the two of you. Do you think it would have been easier for your mom to know that you were going to be killed, too – in the concentration camp? Knowing that you had gone into the forest to fight and avenge her, she would have found it easier to confront death; she believed that you would be saved, even if everyone else perished.” “A fine avenger I am, wallowing in a decrepit little bunker. Now that we have left the unit, who else is going to take us? There’s no going back to Markow: they confiscated our weapons, slipped us old revolvers in their place and worn-out rifles instead of our submachine guns, stripped the jackets off the girls, and even robbed them of their watches. They’re a band of thieves and anti-Semites.” 399

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Chaim’s weeping gradually subsided. We talked all night. There was absolutely nothing to eat. Someone suggested that we go to the burned-out village. The peasants must have left potatoes there in covered storage piles. A group of us – Chaim, Marysia, Mońka Kobryński, someone else, and I – went down the familiar forest path to Brusy village. It was a dreary, cold day. We improvised gunny sacks for ourselves out of the rags at the camp. We were so weak from the long period of malnutrition that it was hard to walk. One of us knew the way, and we reached the burned-out houses in a few hours. We located the piles without any trouble, opened up one of them, and began to fill our bags with big, smooth spuds. How delicious they were going to taste baked over the fire. I could already feel the taste of the charred crust of potato skin on my lips. I greedily filled my bag – it could hardly have weighed less than eight kilograms. Fooling around too long with this would be dangerous. The village was right on the highway, and a patrol could surprise us at any moment. We turned back. The load grew ever heavier, and no one could give me any help. Driven by hunger, everyone had filled his own bag without taking his strength into account. I shall not forget this forced march: sweat flooded my eyes and ran down my back, my feet got stuck in the sand, and the burden sagged to the ground. We had to hurry. This was open space, and we were surrounded by marshland. The mind cannot grasp how we managed to drag ourselves to the camp. Finally we entered our familiar woods with its gray moss and went down the trail. It was already dark there. We tossed the bags from our shoulders and collapsed onto the wooden bunks in our scorched bunker. We did not feel like eating. All we wanted to do was to lie down, lie down and not move. We dealt with our major concern later, namely, hiding the potatoes from thieves. One of us always stood watch. Everyone was hungry and did not give a thought to anything but food. It got colder. The rains hammered us like artillery. Our shoes were soaked, and we had no change of clothing. We had thrown away everything that we brought with us – underwear, socks, scarves – while breaking through the encirclement. Lice showed up – first in our hair, then on our clothes. There was no point in even mentioning baths. Water was carried 400

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in from the swamp in the morning, and I splashed it on my face and hands. I could not remember the last time I had seen any soap. Sometimes we started a fire right in the bunker (the Germans had knocked out the glass in the windows), heated some water, washed – or, more precisely – rinsed our hair and washed up a bit. Our skin had acquired a greenish-brown tint from the smoke. Our clothes were worn out, our faces covered with soot. We did not look like ourselves. On sunny days Marysia and I climbed the little hill above the bunkers, sat down on the gray moss, and inspecting our clothes in the sunlight, pulled out lice. There was an especially large number of them under the waistline of my skirt and in Chaim’s black and white wool sweater which I was wearing. A mutual search for head lice was our constant occupation. However, none of this was the least bit of help. When morning came we tried to stay in bed wrapped in rags as long as possible. In this condition the urge to eat was not so all-consuming. Early in the afternoon we lit a small fire, and each group cooked some of its own potatoes in a pot or a bucket – whoever had one. The plan was to boil two potatoes per person. This meal was eaten in a flash, and right away we wanted to eat again. We looked enviously on the people who had lard (they had obtained it from peasants in exchange for other goods) and who grilled “patelnia” – a skillet with lard and potato – on the fire. The smell of it filled the area while everyone else, hungry and miserable, simply salivated. Sometimes we sat by the fire in the evening and recalled the past, waxed indignant, grieved for our loved ones. We were already aware that when the Vilna ghetto was liquidated, the elderly were transported to their deaths in the Polish camps of Majdanek and Treblinka, whereas young people were sent to camps in Estonia. Winter was coming on. We concluded that we needed to look for a way out, had to find a way for other detachments to accept us. A number of the previously energetic men, including even several members of the FPO, lost all hope and decided to build bunkers in the forest near partisan detachments. They would buy potatoes and peas in exchange for watches or a stashed-away coin and in one way or another make it through the winter. They no longer dreamed of hitting back at the Nazis, of exacting 401

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vengeance for the grief of our people. So here beyond the stand of trees by the swamp little bunkers sprang up, and a lot of the men moved into them. We despised them. They had escaped from the ghetto just to hide behind the backs of the partisans, miserable vermin! We continued to look for the real partisans, honest and daring ones, people whom we could tell our troubles to and who could help us. Gradually the Markow partisans returned, but many detachments had changed their base camps. The Komsomol detachment did not return to our camp. They built bunkers at their new base camps, cut down trees, and dug trenches. Little by little, the search for justice began. A few of our people found work at Markow’s headquarters, where they were doled out a little something to eat in exchange for heavy physical labor. The fact that they were given the password was very important; without it they could not even leave the base camp. Chaim and I decided to go to the commissar of the Markow brigade and report on the machinations of Krysow, Klimow, and everyone else who robbed us, stripped us of our weapons, and seized our watches and the remnants of our money for the “defense fund.” We wanted to tell about the partisans who took jackets from the girls and boots from lots of the men. Partisans from other detachments often came to our base camp in the morning to recruit working parties. Most of the time these were “ Parchomienko partizans,” former Własow soldiers who had changed sides and joined the Soviet partisans thanks to the ploy of a brave young woman, Lena Masłowska, whose commanding officer fell in love with her and gave in to her entreaties. They swore using their customary German invective, coarsely dragging the men out of their bunkers and driving them off to work with their batons. “’Raus, ‘raus!” These scenes distinctly reminded us of what had happened in the ghetto. Not once did we come across the Własow soldiers; we tried to get past them to work at Markow’s headquarters. There I scrubbed floors in the bunker that served as a dispensary, where Zosia, the wife of the brigade’s doctor, Podsiadłowski, was the boss. She watched every move I made; I couldn’t even straighten my back. The word among us was that the eminent 402

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Dr. and Mrs. Podsiadłowski were Jews who used false papers to hide on the estate and went from there to Markow. The doctor, who treated the sick and wounded, enjoyed authority at headquarters, but his pretty, coarse-natured wife treated us like a mistress ordering her serfs about. After a hard day’s work we would return famished and humiliated to our bunks at the base camp and listen to Chaim’s reports about his luck finding “honest” partisans. It seemed that his stories about our fate didn’t move anyone. He frequently got the reply: “So what kind of partisans do you call yourselves giving up your guns like that?!” “When you join a unit,” Chaim answered, “you have to obey orders. Common soldiers weren’t allowed to carry a pistol, so we handed them in. They promised to issue us appropriate battle weapons.” The conversation never got off the ground, but Chaim did not lose hope. But our friends at the base camp said to us more and more often, “A fine bunch of FPO representatives you are; you can’t get the top command to agree to anything. They won’t punish the criminals and let our guys join the detachments.” It hurt to have to listen to all this. In our search for truth and a slice of bread, Chaim, Marysia, Mońka Kobryński, and I once showed up at a staff intelligence group. They hired me as a cook, although I didn’t even know how to cook borscht. We walked along the “main” road, the one we had hurried down quite recently toward the Czapajew base camp on the day of the encirclement, and we sketched out our plans of action. There was no one whom we could ask for advice, and no one had ever been in such a mess before. Whom could we turn to for help? We needed to send a courier to the city to find Sonia. Sonia was kind, wise, and noble in character. She would counsel us and explain why the partisans treated us as they did. It was about two hundred kilometers to Vilna; the road was dangerous, not to mention the city itself. But time was passing, and the number of stout men who believed that we would fight again was steadily decreasing. I do not remember the name of the girl who was entrusted with the mission (it could have been Zelda Treger) and who agreed to make her way 403

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back into the city. It seemed to us that Vilna was somewhere at the ends of the earth. We were like survivors on an island in a storm-tossed sea, isolated from the whole world. The girl was blond, slender, and soft-spoken. She was dressed like a country girl, and she left. It seemed that she was gone for an eternity. She returned alive and unharmed. She had managed to see Sonia, who gave her a letter written on cigarrette paper (to be swallowed in an emergency). Sonia wrote us that our news distressed her very much. Nevertheless, she wrote, “You must be persistent and make sure that they assign you to the detachments. After all this was our goal; this was why we managed with such difficulty to rescue the group from the ghetto. Don’t give way to despair. There are outstanding people among the partisans, but you also run across all kinds of riffraff: former Własowites, avaricious people who don’t shrink from robbery and try to profiteer from the situation.” The letter was full of tender words that made it seem that we were hearing Sonia’s encouraging voice, that we saw her gray-blue eyes and lovely face before us. This gave us added strength, energy, hope. Our courier gave many of us information about our family members, and she told me that my parents and Józio were located in a German army hospital at a little camp for Jewish doctors, whom the Nazis needed. How wonderful it was that they were still alive. Father was a great guy, a valuable specialist; one could only hope that he would save Mama and Józio. “Your dad went to see Jakub Raff ’s mom at the Kailis camp,” the courier related. “I brought Jakub a letter that she wrote him. Your father asked about you and was overjoyed that you were alive.” These words brought a flood of tears to my eyes: Father cared about me. Would they make it through? Would I see my beloved family members again? At field intelligence headquarters I was ordered to cook shchi (cabbage soup). They gave me pails to cook it in, an enormous head of cabbage, and a piece of greasy pork. We had not seen such excellent food products since the war began. Our stomachs that were so tormented by hunger reacted to these delicious smells with convulsive spasms; our mouths absolutely watered. “Maybe they will feed us, too,” I thought, 404

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pouring water into the pail, hanging it over the fire, and stuffing meat into it. Even I could cook shchi with ingredients like these. The men brought in firewood and went out to cut down trees and saw up the wood. Marysia and I peeled the potatoes, a lot of them, that were in a big sack. That’s how people live! Then everyone ate the hot shchi with potatoes. They ate until they were full and they praised our work. We were exhausted from the food and the warmth. Chaim related our misfortunes to the intelligence officers. “Here’s what you folks ought to do,” said one of the intelligence commanders, “You must bring this to the attention of Comissar Szewczenko. He’s a decent, fair-minded person, the only member of Markow’s brigade that I can say that about. First you should look up Szumauskas, the commander of the Lithuanian brigade. He is in our territory right now with his detachment.” We had heard something about the Lithuanian partisans. The partisan movement headquarters staff in Moscow supplied them very well with weapons dropped with other freight from airplanes. And one other factor of no little importance: they were not starving; you could even say they were well fed. The story around the forest was that Zimanas had quarreled with Markow about the guns. The Jurgisa partisans had buried a cache of them in a secret hiding place, but the Markow soldiers found them and made off with them. They had no intention of returning them; they justified the action by arguing that Zimanas already had plenty of guns, whereas the Markow fighters were short of them, and what was the point of letting them rot without using them? We concluded that Szumauskas had come here to resolve the problem of these weapons. Our new challenge was somehow to meet up with Szumauskas. We were in luck here too. He himself turned up at our base camp on some kind of business. Here he was in full stride – tall, heavy set, middle aged, with a severe countenance and a glum look about him. Rather timidly we went up to him. Chaim laid out our problem in his bad Russian – unsuccessfully. Then I broke into the conversation. I was in a hurry, afraid that he would not understand me. Szumauskas listened unwillingly with a degree of scorn. 405

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“We are from Vilna,” I stated. “We came from an underground organization with our guns. They took everything from us and threw us into the encirclement in the forest. But we are Lithuanians. We want to fight in Lithuanian units. Everyone here is going to be killed.” I played our last weighty card: “There are many valuable guys in our group, honest Komsomol members. These are cadres that postwar society is going to need. They will do a lot of good work building communism.” Szumauskas shook his head ironically: “We will have to live a long time before we can start building communism. For the time being there is no chance of mustering you into the detachment. We have a lot of Jews as it is. And whether you are really underground fighters, members of the FPO – that still has to be demonstrated. I don’t envy your situation, but I can’t do anything to help you.” These words haunted us for a long time afterward. Get yourself some weapons and then we’ll talk. At that point we’ll see …This was galling. The upshot was that the partisans would not find a place for us. Can’t you see he already had too many Jews? It did not matter if he was a good soldier, if he could fight the enemy, just so long as he was not a Jew! Zimanas and his detachment were not in our part of the forest any longer. They had left for the Rudnicki Wilderness. It was said that he had accepted a group of ghetto survivors into the detachment who had slipped through the Nazi screening system on the day that the ghetto was liquidated. Among them were Samuel Kapliński and Chiena Borowska. The time that we spent working as common laborers at the intelligence staff was the best thing that happened to us at that time. Every day when we went “home” to our charred bunker with its knocked out windows, we received one chunk of bread apiece – black, soft, sweet smelling, and we fondled it the whole way, inhaling its delicious odor. What pleasure it was to hold a piece of bread in our hands! We even squirreled some of it away for a rainy day. Once on the way to our bunker we encountered a group of “daredevil” partisans in fur-trimmed caps with red ribbons on them. “So, a bunch of Jews lounging about with nothing to do but beg for handouts. They are all cowards. The Germans are doing the right thing to kill you.” 406

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We began to assert indignantly that we were members of the FPO and had come to fight. “The only place Jews fight is in Tashkent, where there aren’t any Germans – warriors!” They flung the answer in our faces. In this way we made our first acquaintance with an expression that was widespread in the Soviet Union. So there was anti-Semitism even here? Our brothers were dying a horrible death, and to them this was funny. This was shocking, one of the most dreadful experiences we were subjected to. This encounter stayed in my memory: a pack of insolent young men smirking at us with their flushed, well-fed mugs, hatred in their eyes, cursing us in filthy language. Here they were, our partisans, our heroes, whom we in the ghetto had gone to such lengths to join! Crushed, we returned to our miserable, soot-covered kennel. And what’s more the intelligence officers now dispensed with our services. They had finished building the bunker, the firewood was all stacked, and there was nothing more to do. As a farewell gift they gave us half a loaf of bread. The end of plentiful food and human interaction! Fewer and fewer of the members of the group now wanted to join the detachments. A mood of total apathy and despair took hold of people. We did not know the password for leaving the base camp, but Chaim tried stealthily to take a detour through the forest to headquarters. That evening he came back pale and trembling. “Imagine this, a partisan stopped me,” Chaim related. ‘Take off your boots,’ he ordered, ‘They’re not for strolling through the woods.’ “I pulled out my Markow revolver, and we began to tussle. I let him have it in the stomach with my German heel and we fought until others came up just in time and separated us. The upshot is that we can’t leave the base camp. They don’t consider us human.” We had heard before that boots had been taken from the guys, that they had been robbed in the forest, but now we now we confronted this fact directly for the first time. Living like this had become completely unbearable, if, of course, such a wretched existence could be called life. Once someone brought us the news that a group of us led by commander Jóseph Glazman had been totally wiped out when the Germans launched 407

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a sweeping operation through the forest. They were in Zimanas’s detachment, the very same one that Chaim, Marysia, and other ghetto escapees had been trying to reach and which Zimanas had refused to let us join because of Chaim’s illness and other considerations (possibly because he already had enough Jews? This was not the first time we had heard such reasoning). During the encirclement Glazman received the order to move from the Narocz to the Rudnicki Wilderness. Zimanas went there too with his detachment. While carrying out a mission, our partisans found a cap belonging to FPO member Lejb Ziskowicz. It could only have been his – a checkered black and white style. Peasants told them later that about thirty Jewish partisans had spent the night where the cap was found. The Nazis had surrounded them, there was an exchange of gunfire, and then they saw them being loaded onto trucks. They never heard anything more about them. So they had been killed, our best comrades, brave FPO fighters, the ones who were the first to go into the forest after Witenberg’s murder. Glazman himself was dead. Sonia would never see him again. Chaim Łuski, Marysia’s good-natured, handsome friend, was dead. Poor Marysia lapsed into an unbroken silence, became even sadder and more passive. Raszka Łukiszkier, a daring Komsomol member, the courageous Miriam Bernsztein, and many, many others. No one in the group escaped. Then, many years later, “specialists and theoreticians” turned up who advanced claims that Zimanas had intentionally sent the group of Jewish partisans to their deaths. What makes them think that he could know where these soldiers were on that exact day? Zimanas’s mistake consisted of not having people in the group who were familiar with the local forests, but even people like that would have had an extremely hard time avoiding ambushes or the denunciations of peasants. The destruction of this group was the heaviest loss in our entire experience with the partisans. We greatly mourned what had happened, but we were not sure that a similar fate would not befall us, too. What lay in wait for us? On the eve of the October 1943 celebration of the Bolshevik Revolution a light rain came down and twilight advanced quickly. We brought in a few dried logs that had been kept in storage. Everyone set out two potatoes 408

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apiece (the lunchtime soup had already been consumed). We could not get hold of Stalin’s latest speeches, so someone brought his old report. About fifteen people gathered around the small fire. Jakub Raff read the report aloud while his girlfriend Mera sat next to him along with Szolom Kantorowich, the boys from Khashomer,2 Marysia, Chaim and myself. Then we quietly sang songs in the dank gloom and ate our holiday potatoes. Our hearts were heavy, but we believed that the Nazis would be utterly defeated. We had unshakable faith in this despite everything. “We’re going to get out of here tomorrow,” Jakub said, “We found a place far away in the forest, and we’ll hammer out a bunker there. The peasants promised to help us with food. For money, of course. We’ll spend the winter there, because the war is going to be over soon. We don’t believe the partisans anymore. To us this was a blow: if our best comrades had lost their stomach for the fight, what could one say about the others? For a certain time a group of Russian parachute troops settled into the empty smashed up bunkers at our base camp. Some of us did kitchen work for them. They decided to let us have a little food. I will never forget the time that they once handed each of us a piece of bread with a meatball. The taste of it stayed in my memory forever. The brigade hospital was located for a short time in the former staff bunker. Noemi Gordon served as a doctor there. She and her husband, Dr. Michał Gordon had gone into the forest with us from the ghetto. They were wonderful friends of our family and had lived in the same apartment with us in the ghetto. Here we were indigents, whereas they were doing exceptionally well. They almost failed to recognize me. They cooked chicken and bouillon in the hospital. We picked up discarded chicken heads and feet and also began making uncommonly delicious soup. I hardly need to say that picking up offal from the scrap heap was extremely humiliating.

2

A left-wing Zionist youth organization.

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MASZEROW We continued to go to work at Markow’s headquarters. Chaim finally met a fellow on sentry duty at headquarters who was interested in our problem. “There is a man who can help you. Out of all the people I know, he is the most evenhanded,” Chaim’s new friend said. “He is the secretary of the Komsomol oblast committee. His name is Piotr Maszerow. I can find him for you, and you can tell him everything. He will really give it to those vermin who robbed you. Think of it: to take the guns that you had acquired at such risk, your watches, to take away the jackets and boots from people who were already destitute, and then to throw you into a swamp when the Germans surrounded you! That cannot be allowed to stand!” The sentry gave us the password every day and followed the events transmitted by the wireless set about the situation at the front. He kept his word and introduced us to Maszerow. Maszerow was a tall, young, well-built man with an open face and a bold look in his bright eyes. From his first words with us, we trusted him. Chaim told him about our misfortunes. Maszerow promised to arrange a meeting with Commissar Szewczenko in the next few days. He understood how serious the problem was and the bitterness of our disappointment. We wanted so much to believe that someone was finally going to help us, that justice would triumph and we would become soldiers. After several days had passed, however, Maszerow told us it looked as though the Germans were again concentrating their forces on the partisan woodlands. “It’s possible they are getting ready for a new siege. You need to stay near your detachments and move with them. By all means learn the password and communicate it to all your people: everyone must have the opportunity to move about in the forest. Tonight I will let you know by courier whether you need to abandon the forest. Station a man to keep watch on the road to Hatowicz. When everything calms down, we will resolve your problem,” Maszerow stated in detail. Chaim gave a full report on everything to the men in the dugouts and went out to stand watch. Throughout the evening and all night he had to 410

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keep the road under observation. It was cold and a light rain was falling. There was no getting around the fact that it was early December. Marysia, our other friends, and I were severely depressed. Once again we were condemned to wander, to hide, and mortal danger again threatened us. We gathered a little something to eat, folded up the rags that served us as blankets, and sat down to wait for mournful news. Chaim’s relief arrived. The morning came, but there was no courier from Maszerow, and there was no visible movement on the road. “You trusted somebody again,” the men reproached us, “but they don’t give a hang about us. They didn’t send any courier at all!” We lay down to get some sleep and early in the morning made our way to headquarters. It turned out that there was no new encirclement, and the panic subsided a bit. But the terrible cold night spent in the expectation of a new misfortune stayed in our memories for a long time. Szewczenko finally returned, and Maszerow set a time for the meeting. Chaim got ready for the conversation on which we had pinned such grand hopes. He composed an outline of what he wanted to say, and memorized the necessary Russian words so that he would not stumble. The orderly called him. I ran over from the dugout which served as the camp’s first aid clinic and saw that Chaim was waiting for me. We stepped into the commissar’s dugout. Szewczenko, a middle-aged man in a military uniform, was sitting on a cot. Maszerow was standing at the window. “Here is that soldier from the Vilna ghetto. I told you how things had gone with him,” Maszerow said. “Have him tell it all over again,” Szewczenko demanded. Chaim began to lay out everything from the very beginning: the ghetto, German genocidal actions, the Komsomol, the FPO, how they had imported guns into the ghetto, the death of Zyamka Tiktin, the arsenal in the library, the death of Witenberg. He told about the unsuccessful effort to start an uprising, about the detention of the Second Battalion, about the decision of headquarters to refrain from an uprising and send young people into the forest. Furthermore, how we had brought our guns with us confident that we would be fighting the Nazis. Then came Markow’s order to surrender 411

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our weapons. And how they scooped up our watches and our last coins for the ostensible defense fund, and how they took the girls’ leather jackets to give them to the “wives” of Markow and other high-ranking officers, and even about how they offered us a “mission” – to recruit a brass band from the town. And finally how we were abandoned in the German encirclement of the forest and did not even want to issue us a machine gun. Chaim was agitated, and he spoke in a broken voice with tears in his eyes. I prompted him with some needed Russian words. When he finally stopped talking, silence reigned in the dugout. “Do you happen to have any documents confirming your identity and the fact that you are telling the truth? I understand,” Szewczenko said, “that people don’t go into the forest with documents in their hands, but otherwise how can we believe you completely?” Chaim and I exchanged looks. We had been ordered not to bring anything when we left for the forest. And now everything was lost because we didn’t have any papers. “The only thing we have is Sonia’s letter,” Chaim suddenly remembered, “but that is not a document.” His trembling hands passed forward the sheets of cigarette paper covered with Yiddish writing in small letters. “We sent a courier to the Vilna Party Gorkom. This was written by gorkom member Sonia Madeisker.” “Translate it.” It was difficult for Chaim, but he began translating Sonia’s letter into Russian. He did not know enough words, and it came out awkwardly, but Szewczenko understood everything. “Only a very wise and steadfast person could have written that,” he said. “How brilliantly she understood the situation in the partisan ranks. Yes, that’s the way things are; we are truly dealing with riffraff. No discipline, out of control. ‘Partisanship’ in the worst sense is the rule under Markow; the people are out of hand,” Szewczenko continued. Just then the door opened, and Markow himself entered the dugout in the uniform of a Soviet colonel with a new medal on his chest (a few days earlier he had “flown down” to Moscow in an airplane to get it). 412

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“Our brigade’s in a pretty state of affairs,” Szewczenko said to Markow. “How could you allow your partisans to rob the ghetto fighters and then leave them in the lurch when the forest was surrounded?” “So they have come here to complain about me,” Markow fumed. “Nothing of the sort happened, don’t listen to them.” At this Chaim and I jumped up from the pallets on which we were sitting, but Szewczenko stopped us with a gesture. “Order needs to be restored,” he stated decisively, “and the soldiers assigned to detachments. They came here to fight, so let them fight.” “This is what we’re going to do,” Maszerow said. “Szewczenko and I will be at your base camp on Wednesday at four in the afternoon. Get everyone together who wants to fight and has not lost hope. We’ll give them a little nudge and see who the real warriors are and then we’ll settle this matter quickly. Congratulations on not giving up. See you on Wednesday!” Delighted with our success, we rushed to our base camp to spread the word about these remarkable commanders, Maszerow and Szewczenko, about their hearing us out and believing us, sympathizing with us, and promising to resolve the problem. How Szewczenko told off Markow himself with his new medal. It was necessary to assemble all the soldiers, even those who had decided to spend the winter in the dugouts. “The fools, they believed them,” voices cried out. “No one’s coming to see us, and no one’s going to help. And so much the worse for you. Markow will never forgive you for griping about him to the commissar, and he’s going to get even with you. He’ll order someone to shoot you from behind a bush so you won’t snitch on him.” It was not easy spending three days visiting the newly-constructed dugouts in the swamp trying to persuade FPO members once again to believe the partisan leaders and come to a meeting with the secretary of the Komsomol Obkom [district commitee] and the commissar of Markow’s brigade. Everyone declined. No, they would not come; the situation was hopeless. We were concerned: we had said that there were a hundred of us, but would we be able to bring even ten to the meeting? And the disquieting thought nagged us privately: what if the officers did not come, if they 413

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forgot, if something got in the way? Who were we to them, only a handful of ragamuffin Jews? We began to put the dugout in order. It was the biggest of them all, with broken glass in the windows and no doors, just like all the others. We spread sand on the path leading up to the entrance and hid the rags. It was a short day, and the guests were expected by four. At two o’clock we went out to meet them – taking a shorter path through the forest with trees covered by white moss, then the swamp. The guests did not appear. We were chilled to the bone, and wet snow was falling … Suddenly we heard barking in the distance. Szewczenko’s sheep dog appeared, followed by two figures – Maszerow and the commissar. “Did you assemble all your men?” Maszerow asked. “Not all by a long shot; many of them have lost all hope,” Chaim said mournfully. We arrived at our base camp. It was already getting dark in the woodland marshes. We entered the dugout. One could not see the faces of the men and women sitting far back in the space. From a corner of the room came a sigh of relief – the officers had come after all… The commissar and Maszerow took seats at the entrance, and their first words were: “So this is how you live – in the cold and the dark with no windows or doors? Well, you know … ” Then he stated: “They told us there were many women and children, old men, and invalids among you. So, do you have children younger than fourteen here?” We guessed that Markow had said this in his own defense. Everyone shouted in unison, “No, we don’t have any children or invalids.” “But are there people older than forty?” It turned out there were not any of these either. The oldest person was Szyrwint a student and the son of a pharmacist in Zwierzyniec District. He was getting on towards thirty. Szewczenko quietly turned to Maszerow: “So he was just talking a bunch of nonsense.” We understood whom the commissar had in mind. “How many of you finished high school?” Maszerow asked. 414

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Many hands went up. “You are educated cadres, and we can use you in the struggle against the enemy. But do you want to fight?” A uniform “Yes!” sounded from all corners of the dugout. And then the soldiers outdid each other shouting out their accounts of our afflictions, the humiliations we had endured, the profound disillusionment we had experienced here. None of them could speak Russian well, but their words sank into the hearts of their listeners. I saw Maszerow wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. Fifty-four years have gone by since that moment, but I can distinctly see the scene before me: Szewczenko and Maszerow at the dugout entrance, Chaim and I, Marysia, and the guys at the back of the dugout; I can still hear their voices. Everything that happened here made an impression on both our guests. “Here’s what we shall do,” Maszerow pronounced. “In a few days there will be a conference of the partisan brigade commanders in our district. We will try to make sure that all of you and your other friends who did not come here are fixed up either with us or with adjacent brigades. You will not be standing idle, I can assure you. It’s the first of December now; by the fourteenth everyone will be assigned to detachments.” We accompanied our guests to headquarters down the path that we knew so well. Our hearts were brimming over with joy, gratitude, and love. I even loved the sheep dog running beside us, not just its owner. There was justice in the world after all, we agreed on the way back, walking through the melting snow, you just have to look for it. We were certain that the miscreants who had put us down would be punished. What marvelous people they were – the commissar and Maszerow! We did not hear anything more about Piotr Maszerow for a long time. We saw his name in print in the 1960’s. This fine young man, who had become secretary of the Central Committee of the Belorussian Communist Party, had died in an automobile accident. Everyone loved and respected him; he was an honest, noble person. He probably got in the way of the gang around him. Many people conjectured that the auto accident had 415

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been staged to get rid of him. Our memory of you will never die, Piotr Maszerow; you are the only one who believed us. You restored our faith in what it means to be a human being… In the following days we heatedly debated the changes that were coming. We exchanged dried peas for footwear, and sought out ways to provide ourselves with revolvers or other weapons. Many people came back to our “Komsomol” camp from the dugouts in the marshes hoping to find emissaries from the detachments. On December 7, right after the conference, a mighty giant in a fur cap, one of the commissars, came to us. His mission was to recruit front-line soldiers, mechanics, and repairmen. He took some of our people back with him. Podolny, commander of the Destroyer Detachment (people said that he was a Jew) came looking for a nurse, a cook, and a shoemaker. Rywa Kowarska, Tola Żabińska, and others went to his detachment with him. Several days went by this way. Maszerow had not let us down! Everyone who wanted to fight left us to do just that. Chaim and I, Marysia, and Mońka Kobryński dreamed about joining the Lithuanian Brigade. We knew where Szumauskas’s headquarters and his Vilna Detachment were located. To begin with, Chaim and I set forth together. We had to go to the burned-out village of Łuża, then through some woods to the proper detachment. We walked expecting a lot of difficulties and an unpleasant conversation since we had already had a discussion with Szumauskas that had come to nothing. We marched some six kilometers on a sandy road, cut through a big forest and some young pine woods, cautiously crossed a dusty highway (now this road has been paved and goes from the village of Brusy to a sanitarium). The road was deserted; after the German raid the houses were burned to the ground, and almost none of the population remained. We searched long and hard for the remote sentry outposts of the Vilna Detachment. One of the sentries went off to report our presence to Szumauskas. We waited a long time for the bulky figure of the commander to appear. I plucked up heart. 416

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“We are asking you to accept us. After all, we are Lithuanian citizens. You told us last time that you would not take people who had no weapons, but we do have guns now [I had gone to the trouble of exchanging my watch, the only one that remained in the detachment, for a revolver, while Chaim and Mońka both had revolvers]. We want to hit the enemy hard.” We didn’t look like much: our clothes were worn out, our faces covered with soot from the fire that was started in the dugout. We were puny and weak. “I cannot take you,” said Szumauskas. “My detachment is Lithuanian, not Jewish. Go to the Belorussians.” He said this in a rude, sharp tone of voice. We started out on our return journey. Chaim sighed: “Again they won’t take us because we’re Jews. This is a real anathema. But I will not give in. No matter what, I am going to get at the truth and prove to this anti-Semite that all Soviet partisans have to be equal.” I remonstrated with Chaim that this was a lost cause, that we should go to one of the Belorussian detachments. We should send another courier to Sonia and ask her to explain our rights to Szumauskas. She was a member of the underground gorkom of the party, a real communist, and she would not tolerate an attitude like this toward people. We dragged ourselves back to the base camp with difficulty, tormented by hunger, our stomachs growling, Chaim limping, his torn-up feet totally unable to heal in these unsanitary conditions compounded by malnutrition. We were ready to break down and cry with humiliation. Psychologists will confirm that exposure to humiliation produces the highest degree of stress. “I am not going to him anymore. You can do whatever you like,” I decided. We returned to the base camp utterly defeated. Mońka, Marysia, and the others had lost all hope, as had I, of joining the Lithuanian Brigade. One morning the neighing of a horse woke us up. We looked out of the dugout and saw it was a group of our scouts galloping up. All of them were clean, their beards shaven, their boots gleaming. In a word, they looked like people. Among them we recognized the merry maker Bomka from Odessa, who had met us at the Revenge base 417

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camp when we first arrived there. He always made us laugh with his funny anecdotes and he taught us the song “Let’s smoke, comrade, one at a time. Let’s smoke, comrade mine.” This was a popular song in the Soviet Army; it contained the remarkable words, “And when there’ll be no trace of Hitler… ” – words that drew tears from all of us. Bomka did not know the melody well, and all of us sang every which way at random, but with great spirit. The scouts were horrified by the way we lived. They left us several loaves of bread and a little piece of soap. We had forgotten the last time we had had soap to wash up with, and the smell of the bread made us dizzy; it had been so long since we had held a whole loaf of black, gleaming, smooth rye bread in our hands. We shared the bread in brotherly fashion, giving part of it to the “seniors”(our name for anyone over forty) who no longer had any desire to join a detachment. Everyone took turns washing themselves with soap in the swamp water. As a result they brightened up right away, and they cheered up when they devoured a slice of bread apiece. The next day we heard the “seniors” squabbling. It seems that sharing the bread did not work out too well. At that time we were naïve enough to believe in nobility and decency, and to us they looked like a bunch of wild animals. We of course were just as hungry as they were, and we shared the bread fairly. On their departure for the detachments, some of the dugout inhabitants gave a little rye flour in a bag to the ones who stayed in the swamp. I found a “cooker” in the swamp (that is what we called a sterilizer, a metal container with a lid in which medical instruments were boiled). At that time we were afraid to light a fire. They gave us some flour, which we mixed with water and ate as “kasha,” thick as window putty and cold, unsalted. Despite the fierce hunger, there were people who could not swallow this concoction; it made them throw up. I finished my portion and gladly accepted the leftover gruel from the ones who did not want to eat it. Lying on my cot in the dugout, I dreamed of buying rye flour when the war was over, cooking kasha – hot, slightly salted, with butter – and eating, eating, eating my fill of it and. (After the war I fulfilled my dream – I fixed an entire bowlful of this kasha but could eat only a few spoonfuls. The kasha was barely edible.) 418

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One cold day a Jew from the camp where old men, women, and children who had escaped from the ghetto were living stopped by our dugout. “I am completely starved. Give me something to eat,” the stranger asked. We poured some soup into a bowl for him. He had hardly taken a sip when he keeled over unconscious on a bed. We put him in a comfortable position and covered him with some rags. Someone said with alarm, “He has a fever. Is this a sudden case of typhus?” A heavy snow was falling outside. We started a fire in the dugout, and the smoke stung our eyes. “Now we’re not going to be rid of him until he’s back on his feet,” someone else protested. “Maybe he came here to get well, he didn’t want the children to catch it.” Was that really what it was? I had taken a dislike to the sick man and did not go near him. But Marysia, kind soul that she was, fed him and took pity on him. With the arrival of the uninvited guest, who was dirty and louseridden, the dugout was even more congested than before. After a certain period of time he recovered, convalesced, and then left without even thanking anyone or giving us his name. We soon came to remember this “visit.” The courier who had carried our appeal to Sonia returned from her dangerous journey. To us in the forest her trip on foot to Vilna seemed a genuine exploit. She brought back a letter to Szumauskas from the Vilna Party Gorkom. In her heartfelt message to us Sonia rejoiced that some of us had already been accepted by detachments, and she challenged the rest to be patient and steadfast. Her letter in conveyed warmth to us. She recalled our meetings in the ghetto, the naïve questions from Hirsz Gordon (it suddenly came home to us that he was no longer alive!), her reports to us, her friendship. Her letter to Szumauskas was quite different. Its style was official. In the name of the Party Gorkom, Sonia reminded him that the people who were appealing to him for help were FPO soldiers; they had brought their weapons with them to the forest – guns they had acquired from the Nazis, and they were citizens of Lithuania who had a rightful claim to a place in the Lithuanian partisan brigade. The letter included questions pertaining to the activities of the partisans. It was signed with a conventional pseudonym. 419

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The letter was an inspiration to us; we were grateful to Sonia and the female courier. Now our task was to put the missive in Szumauskas’s hands. “I am not going to have anything more to do with him,” I declared categorically. “I will not forget how he said that he had too many Jews in the detachment. Anyone else who wants to can go see him.” Three went from our group – Chaim, Mońka, and Marysia. It was a cold day, a little below freezing, and the sun was peeping out. I stayed alone at the old base camp, where it was somewhat frightening… I put things in order in our soot-covered dugout, dragged in a half-empty bag of peas that Rywa Kowarska and her comrades had left for us when they transferred to the Destroyer Detachment. I had trouble starting a fire under the cast iron pot, but managed to cook some soup, thick with potatoes and salt. It was very quiet. The fire crackled and the cast iron pot simmered. I was thinking about what lay ahead for us: would Szumauskas take us, and if not, where could we go? The sun disappeared behind clouds, light snow began to fall, and darkness spread. I carried my soup to the dugout, covered it with a rag, and sat down on the bare boards of the bunk. Some favorite old songs came back to me while I waited for Chaim and my friends. Suddenly my heart skipped a beat: a man was standing in the doorway, but I could not see his face. He stepped inside and sank awkwardly onto the bunk next to me. “I’m Szolom Kantorowicz,” the man stated and fell silent. “Where did you come from?” I asked cautiously. “What about Mera, Jakub, and where are all the others from your group?” Five weeks ago he and several others had left to find their luck in distant forests. “No one’s still alive… They were all killed … their throats were cut. I saw decapitated heads, blood was flowing everywhere,” Szolom answered in a stifled voice, breaking off at each word. I was horror struck and began to tremble. I realized that Szolom was not in his right mind. His speech was uncoordinated, his voice hoarse and unpleasant. He was convulsively waving the arm holding his submachine gun and acting in a strange manner… 420

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Gradually everything began to come clear to me, and a horrifying picture rose before my eyes. They had gone a long distance into another region, into immeasurably immense forests. They negotiated with some peasants who agreed to help them for a price – they still had a certain amount of money. They lived in a pit that they dug deep in the forest, rarely leaving it to get food. Several weeks passed this way, although the weeks seemed like months to them. At one point they arranged with the locals to come to the village for a bath during the night. Then they all were invited to sit down at the table, where they ate and drank a lot. Suddenly someone broke a kerosene lamp and it became totally dark. Some more people burst in and started to hack them to pieces with hatchets. Szolom was able to escape. Towards morning he looked into the hut and saw a sea of blood and all his friends killed, slaughtered. In all probability his mind snapped at the sight of it. He wandered about for a long time and finally ended at the base camp, which they had left so full of hope. Good people had died – young, handsome, strong. Jakub! His mama had sent a letter brought by a courier. He and I had left the ghetto paired up together: He had carried a revolver and I the letter to Markow, and Sonia had let us out through the gateway on Jatkowa Street. I had come under fire with him when he led us to the swamps away from the German encirclement. But Szolom had gone through so much. I did not want to stay there with him in the dark dugout, so I suggested, “Let’s go visit the guys at the swamp. Lots of our friends are there, and you can stay with them.” We left the dugout and took a pathway trodden into the snow. I did not know the way, but stepping in the foot tracks, we reached the clearing in the twilight and saw the smoke from the dugout chimney pipes. I took Szolom to our friends and came back – since it was time for Chaim and Marysia and Mońka to return. Shaking all over, I awaited their arrival. “We did it! He will take us,” they shouted as they entered the dugout. “Wait, listen to me. I have terrible news. Jakub Raff and his friends are dead,” I said and started to tell them all about Szolom Kantorowicz. No one said anything. 421

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“The peasants thought they had plenty of money and decided to rob them, “ Mońka suggested. “Maybe they took the food for free, and the peasants got tired of that and decided to get rid of the problem?” It was a weird event. One could understand how a horrible thing like that could drive one mad. We decided to go down to the swamp in the morning and talk to Szolom. Right now, however, we needed to go over the results of the trip and get ready for the next step. I asked them to tell me everything in order and served them all pea soup. “We arrived at the ‘sentry outpost’ and were told that we had a letter from the Vilna Gorkom. This time Szumauskas came out quickly, bringing with him Iwan Iwanowicz (Jonas Vildžiūnas, head of the special department of the Lithuanian Brigade and the future mayor of Vilna). “Aha, you again,” Szumauskas said crossly, “I thought I told you not to come here!” Chaim handed him a little sheet of cigarette paper, Sonia’s letter with its official address and password. Both chieftains immersed themselves in reading it, then conferred and said, “Go to the base camp. They will feed you there and we will decide what to do in the future.” “We realized they were going to let us join the detachment since they were certainly not going to feed us for nothing. Nice going, Sonia, you helped us again! There was a table in the kitchen under an awning. The cook gave everyone a meatball on a big dish with lots of potatoes. It tasted out of this world. Not in a hundred years could we have eaten anything so delicious. “You don’t look so good; we have to fatten you up and give you some decent clothes to wear. All four of you come here tomorrow. We will assign you to the Vilna Detachment, but in the future we’ll send you to the Rudnicki Wilderness, where there are Jewish detachments and many partisans from your organization,” Szumauskas said. So now we had been treated justly. We were all assigned to detachments and settled down into our duties. Despite the tragedy which we heard about from Szolom, the guys were elated. But I was sad. I imagined various scenes, each more horrible than the one before it. What would happen to us in the Lithuanian Detachment? 422

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Here, despite the hunger, humiliation, mud, and cold, Chaim and I were together. There, however, he could be sent off to another detachment, assigned a mission, or dispatched to the Rudnicki Wilderness. We had striven so hard to fight, to go into combat, but now that we were finally detailed to a detachment after so much suffering and so many indignities, I was unhappy again. What an awful person I was. I gathered a few of the things that belonged to me, left the peas and potatoes for the guys in the dugouts, and lay down on the bunk. I could not sleep and felt so depressed that tears fell in a torrent from my eyes. “What’s the matter? Go to sleep. Everything will be fine. We aren’t derelicts anymore, we’re partisans,” Chaim said. “No, it won’t be fine. I feel that real trouble is coming.” “Have you started to believe in premonitions?” Chaim tried to whisper a joke. Soon the room was filled with snoring. I was the only one awake, lying next to Chaim stroking his back through his denim jacket and quietly weeping. In the morning we dressed, washed up more or less, and started out. Down the sandy road that we used to take when we worked at military intelligence headquarters, past the place where they wanted to pull Chaim’s boots off. Here was the hummock where the wiseacres from the Własow gang joked that the only place Jews could fight was in Taszkent. Thick forest was all around us: old pines, leafless birches, occasional patches of snow. I walked and in my mind talked with Father. Here it was already the fourteenth of December, three months since I left the ghetto and saw you for the last time. But I have not been killed; I survived in spite of raids, hunger, and a multitude of indignities. I saved my watch but exchanged it for a gun. Now we are going to join a detachment. You did not believe in justice, Father, but it exists. And we will fight. Believe me, I will not deceive you. The Soviets will win, and I will do my bit for the right cause. Just hold on, my dear ones, my loved ones. I tried not to think so often about my family for fear of losing my strength, but now the “conversation” with Father energized me. We passed a highway and the lifeless village of Łuża. Sentries admitted us to the base 423

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camp. Here was a row of fine new dugouts and facing them a clean open area. Here was the kitchen where Chaim, Mońka, and Marysia had eaten meatballs yesterday. They showed us to our bunks in one of the dugouts. We washed in a primitive washroom. I discovered a deep boil on my side under the ribs. They gave me some ointment. They treated the sores on Chaim’s painful feet. Evening came on. A kettle with cold kasha and meat was brought into the dugout. These were the leftovers from dinner (they did not light fires in the evening, and people ate the kasha cold). A tall, handsome young man – Stasiek Matis – immediately took an interest in Marysia. They lit a fire in a small stove and quietly began to sing songs. We liked the elderly chief of staff. He sat with the partisans and joined everyone in singing a song we had not heard before: “Silence descended on the large port, and fog enveloped the city.” Everyone took up the refrain: “Fare thee well, beloved city, Tomorrow we put out to sea. And all too soon The familiar blue kerchief Will flash by astern.”

Stasiek leapt into the center of the dugout and began to dance and sing: “I am so nice, I am so comely… ” Indeed he was pleasant to look at, such a nice, handsome young man. I fixed my attention on a tall, strongly built Jewish woman with curly hair. Her name was Roche-Feige, but the chief of staff called her Rachel. Her boyfriend was with her – Faivka. They loved each other and exchanged glances with one another the whole time. A door opened and in walked a rather short girl. It was the radio operator Wiera. She was friendly with radioman Marionas, who was across the room in a corner by the window. Wiera relayed the news from the front, which she had just heard on the short wave set from Moscow. Things at the front were pretty good, and this of course was late 1943. She did not eat any of the kasha. 424

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Shortly thereafter everyone lay down in their bunks, which were spread with homespun checkered sackcloth. They took off their boots and set them on the floor. “Right after we get up tomorrow, all the men will go to build a new dugout. People will come, and it will be crowded. Afterwards we will ring in the New Year there. It will be fun,” one of the young men said. In the morning the girls helped out in the kitchen and the first aid station, while the boys went into the woods to cut timber and dig a foundation under the new dugout across from the one where we had spent the night. While dragging some lumber, one of the Jewish boys, Peysakh, fell into a ditch – apparently right where a latrine had once been located. He joked about this for a long time afterwards: “I could have died a shitty death.” He was pulled out, washed off, and made fun of for a long time. They did not eat anything until dinnertime, something we could not get used to. Kolka, a former sailor, was the chef who ran the kitchen. He cut meat into a pot quickly and skillfully with a long dagger, braised it slightly, then poured in a bucketful of the potatoes we had cleaned, threw in onions cut at lightning speed with the dagger, and seasoned everything with pepper. The concoction gave off a marvelous aroma. “Kolka was the cook on a vessel, a specialist, as you will see,” Zonia, the chef ’s assistant said (we already knew that she was fond of Saszka, the commander of the Vilna Detachment, a stocky, sullen-faced Lithuanian). A rather short girl with a white half-length sheepskin coat draped over her shoulders came up to us, asked for a plate, and went away. “That’s Jadźka, Kazimierz (Szumauskas)wife. She is friends with Wiera, they are inseparable. Jadźka is called “little Jadźka” because there is another “big Jadźka” in the detachments. Kazimierz takes his wife with him everywhere, on missions as well as to meetings with the commanding officers of other detachments. He also has a wife and two daughters in Moscow; the wife is well-educated, but she is far away, and no one knows if they are ever going to meet.” Zonia knew everything about everybody. The partisans came in to eat, taking their spoons out of their bootlegs, and sat at the table to gulp down the kasha gruel with meat from a single 425

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large aluminum bowl. When it was empty, they shouted, “Refill!” Kolka gave them another serving from the pot, and then another. The soldiers ate as much as they wanted and returned to their work. We girls set about scraping the congealed grease from the table, polishing the big pot, and putting everything in order. Orderlies paced back and forth on the path between the dugouts. An orderly replaced the pickets at the nearby and the more remote “sentry outposts.” In the evening we again finished up the cold kasha. The cook prepared three plates with sliced, boiled fatback, onion, and bread. I was surprised that not all partisans ate the same thing; the answer to my question was that commanders and radio operators received special food, and that was how it was in all the detachments. Again we sat at the stove and snag songs, old ones but also new songs we did not know which partisans who were parachuted in brought with them from Moscow. Wołodźka Krumialis (the nickname of Bronisław Urbanowicz) returned with his group from a mission. He was a cheerful, friendly young man. One of his eyes was covered by a black bandage, and I thought to myself: this is a hero; he lost his eye in combat. Then we learned that his eye had been knocked out while he was still in military training in Moscow; he was using an explosive substance to stun a fish. However, he was a genuine hero; he and his comrades had blown up thirty-six German troop trains, and he was brave and fearless. After the war he was awarded the Gold Star of a Hero of the Soviet Union. Borys G., a Jewish youth, was Wołodźka’s rival in daring. He was a young Apollo and legendary hero born in Święciany. He came to the detachment with his old father, who looked after the horses. The father was a stooped, gaunt old man, constantly gloomy, whose whole family had been killed in the locality. Borys competed with Wołodźka. He had accounted for no fewer German trains, but after the war he did not receive any medals. Taking umbrage at this injustice, he left the Soviet Union. Peysakh was a hefty lad from the township. Sitting on his bunk after the boys returned from their heroic mission, he poked fun at them: “A medal for Esau, but a head for Peysakh!” These little jokes of his annoyed us. Later on Chaim often mentioned the impertinent Peysakh. 426

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Wołodźka introduced himself to us right away, chatted with us, and began to pursue Marysia. An unwritten rule was in effect here: if a girl had a boyfriend, you did not play around with her. We liked this law. Everyone observed it, but cases of jealousy were also not be unknown. We were afraid that looser morals might prevail in the forest, but it turned out that we were wrong. We began to get ready for bed. We noticed that Wołodźka took off his outer shirt and trousers and kept his snow white underpants on. “Zośka washes my clothes for me in the village. I have lots of such Zośkas. They mend my boots and do everything I ask for,” he reported innocently. “Chaim, I will get you soft new boots, but for now let’s have an exchange; put mine on,” Wołodźka said as he picked up the hard boots that had caused the unhealed blisters on Chaim’s feet. “You won’t be able to take two steps in them,” Chaim snorted in response. “All I have to do is go to the nearest village tomorrow. New boots will be waiting for me there, cut to measure,” Wołodźka jested. “I’ll also get you jackets; even though I can’t guarantee they’re new, they’ll be warm. You won’t get through the winter in the little jackets you wear. And neither will Lala in her coat.” As always I was wearing my blue fall coat, the same one Mama had bought for me in the Jabłokowski Brothers department store in 1940. I had been told once in Markow’s brigade: “Oh, it’s you, the dope in the blue coat who spoke out against Markow right to his face. It’s because of you that his liver flared up later!” We were unaccustomed to kind treatment, poor and tattered as we were, and we did not believe Wołodźka’s idle chatter. You can imagine our amazement when Wołodźka returned from a mission a few days later lugging a bag. “This is all for you: Marysia and Lala each get a sheepskin jacket, Chaim also. Too bad they aren’t new. Marysia’s is prettier, but the others, even though they’ve had plenty of wear, are still serviceable. Try them on!” We donned the novelties and could not have been more delighted. The jacket had a fur collar, and the body was real sheepskin, the pockets made 427

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of sackcloth. They were warm, and they even fit right. And this Wołodźka, a truly noble lad, had taken care of us, wayward strangers that we were. “And I have new boots, just as I said I would. Zośka ordered them from a shoemaker – soft, comfortable ones. You can reach any railroad junction you want in them and blow up troop trains to your heart’s content. I changed underwear and took a steam bath. You just have to know how to treat girls and you can get anything,” Wołodźka boasted. No wonder people liked him wherever he went. He was kind, cheerful, and was not rude to anyone. We showed off all winter in Wołodźka’s sheepskins, slept on them, covered ourselves with them, and we never forgot Wołodźka’s kindness. Many years later, when life had changed completely, and no one admired Wołodźka’s gold star anymore, I loved to talk to him when I met him, now a sick man with a gray face, and remind him of our arrival at the detachment and his noble deed. He would come to life then, smile, and say: “I always got along well with people, and people liked me.” May the memory of this brave, kind man live forever. We got used to life in the detachment, to the work, the missions, the military training, standing watch, the all clear signals. The new dugout was proceeding. The decision was taken to finish it by New Year’s and move us into it. That day came. We entered the new dugout, which smelled of fresh timber, erected without the use of a single nail: bunks made of logs, a sloping roof made of thin poles camouflaged with earth and moss, a central passageway and a clay stove in the middle; a glazed window in the back wall, and another two windows by the door. The partisans lost no time in occupying the space. Experienced, they tried to set themselves up where it was warmer – on the back side, as far away as possible from the door. The four of us ended up at the entrance. I was the first one from the door. They issued us sheets of sackcloth. We threw them onto thin straw; someone advised us to nail a sheet of sackcloth over our heads to keep water from dripping on our heads when it rained. Chaim slept behind me, then Marysia, Wołodźka, and the rest behind them. We slept fully clothed. When things were quiet, it was okay to take off our boots. Only Wołodźka had a number 428

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of privileges: he could spend the night in his white undershirt and underpants. I often lay awake listening to the loud snoring in the room, where it was stifling and hard to breathe. The thought plagued me: what next? What would our fate turn out to be? How was my family doing? Would Father go to the Kailis camp and find out about me from Jakub’s mother, whose son was no longer alive? They had not informed her about his death. After getting up in the morning, we ran to the “well,” a pit dug out of the marsh, and after washing ourselves in the yellow swamp water (more accurately, slightly moistening our hands and faces), we made our beds, and each of us went about his or her duties. Once Marysia and I were standing in the grove of trees by the kitchen and talking about something private. Suddenly Kazimierz loomed up before us: “Can’t you say anything that’s not in Polish?” he shot out angrily, “You’re in a Soviet detachment!” I, as a convinced internationalist, immediately blurted out what I was thinking: “What does it matter what language we’re talking? The important thing is that people understand each other.” Kazimierz gave me an angry look. “He’s a nationalist, and he’s going to try to ship us out of here,” Marysia said later, quietly. But there was no getting around the fact that he had overheard our conversation. We always chatted among ourselves in Polish; both of us had gone to Polish schools and we only knew as much Russian as we had to, while we could not speak Lithuanian at all. This incident left an unpleasant aftertaste. What a commanding officer we had! A flaming nationalist, who said that he couldn’t accept us in the detachment since he already had fifteen Jews and who was now shutting us up because we were talking Polish. The skunk! Kazimierz did indeed get angry with me, and we soon paid a stiff price for not being able to tuck our tails between our legs and docilely keep silent. Preparations got underway to greet the New Year. Everyone cleaned up in a hot bath and thoroughly roasted our clothing. We got a barrel of 429

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moonshine spirits from the village. A long table was set up in the middle of the dugout, in the passageway between the bunks. A beet salad with mutton meatballs was made in the kitchen. We decorated our living quarters with fir branches and shoveled out a pathway between the dugouts. I tried to be joyful and not to think about anything sad. 1944 was coming, and this was the year when the war might be over. That evening I would dream about good things only. I did not know at that time that 1944 would bring much, much calamity and would be the most tragic year of my life. We all sat down on benches at the table. We were all together; even the commanders deigned to attend. Bowls of food had been set on the table: sauerkraut, potatoes, beet salad. Kolka brought in delicious smelling meatballs. Moonshine liquor was poured into our single white enameled tankard holding three quarters of a liter and set before Kazimierz. He rose and gave a speech about our victories at the front. He praised the heroes in the detachment and wished us continued success and the earliest possible end to the war. He drank the moonshine and everyone roared with enthusiasm; the tankard was emptied to the last drop. They refilled the tankard, which was passed from hand to hand and came closer to me. What was I going to do with such a large quantity of alcohol? How could I squirm out of it? I could not endure a drinking binge. A refusal would meet with universal contempt. By now everyone was thoroughly drunk. And here was the full tankard before me. I offered a toast – something about victory, the liberation of Vilna. I raised the tankard, took a sip, and as I was sitting down, cleverly spilled the remaining contents on the earthen floor under the table. There was a deafening roar of approval when I placed the empty tankard on the table. “Look, the girl’s a world champion. She drank it down without even blinking. And we thought she was weak!” rang out all around. I had gained everyone’s respect. None of the drunk partisans had any idea that a commodity of such high value could be wasted. I was glad that the trick worked. Chaim and I left the dugout and went out into the snow. Stars twinkled in the sky. It was cold, and fresh, clean air filled our lungs. The sounds of a gramophone floated out from the open door. We began to dance on the 430

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open space in front of the dugout, then fantasized about the future. It was cheerful and joyous. Nineteen forty-three was over… The Red Army was winning, and we were together in the detachment. Would everything suddenly turn out well? We tried not to let mournful thoughts intrude. We did a lot of singing. Towards morning everyone collapsed on bunks, and the loud snores of inebriated warriors resounded in the dugout. We spent the next day finishing the leftovers, singing, and – whoever wanted to – continued drinking. But the next day, January 2, Kazimierz summoned us to his headquarters dugout, just Chaim and me. “Tomorrow we are sending a group to the Rudnicki Wilderness. We have to move a printing press there,” the commander announced. “It’s a difficult mission. The type stands and the frame are heavy. But the partisans and underground personnel of the Southern Brigade need to print leaflets and newspapers. As you will recall, I let you join the detachment on the condition that you would be going to the Rudnicki Wilderness, so now is the time to go.” We walked out astonished and upset. We had just gotten used to the detachment, and we were only now settling into a kind of modus vivendi. Marysia and Mońka would not be going with us; we had to part from them. A dangerous road lay ahead of us, two hundred kilometers. And how to get there was a problem. Our feet would trample the snow, we would leave tracks, and the enemy would have no trouble following our path. “On the other hand, we are together. That’s the most important thing,” Chaim consoled me. “And experienced partisans will be guiding us. This is our first big mission. It’s a good thing that Wołodźka got us the sheepskins. They will certainly come in handy on the road.” While packing my bag, I began to feel sick. I had a bad headache, and my back ached. “It’s nerves,” Chaim commented. “It will pass. Get hold of yourself.” Marysia and I talked for a long time, sitting on our bunks and crying. Marysia was being left alone. Mońka was acting like a stranger; even before this he was not really close to us. I was very sorry for Marysia, such a 431

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slender, delicate, kind person. It would be difficult for her without a friend in the detachment. By evening I was quite ill. “You probably have the flu,” Marysia decided. “On New Year’s Eve you were dancing just in your blouse, and you caught cold. She gave me a pill for the headache. It was dawn. Light snow was falling. We ate something. We were formed in a file, footwear was checked, guns and heavy bags on our backs. The officer in charge of the group reported to Kazimierz. This was Saszka, commander of the Vilna Detachment. We disliked him. “Have a good trip and arrive safely,” Kazimierz said, taking leave of us. We moved south through the crunching snow. I glimpsed the tearstained face of my dear Marysia among the pines. Then everything disappeared in a cloud of snow.

TYPHOID We trudged through the snow, occasionally tossing a couple of words back and forth. The heavy bags weighed our shoulders down. It was not especially cold. The snow was dense, and walking was hot work. I felt awful. My legs felt weak, and my head was growing heavy. We marched sixteen to twenty kilometers. The day was coming to an end, and I longed to rest. Far off we could see a scattering of cabins on a small hillside. “Those are the Stachowskie farms,” the commander said. “For now it is a partisan district. Go around to the huts. They will feed you there. Rest up. We will line up at seven in the morning and start off again.” The sun went down, and lights went on in the windows. The snow turned gray. My legs did not follow my commands well, and I had a difficult time making it to the top of the hill. I can still see myself in my old sheepskin jacket and Chaim striding next to me. (I did not know that I would not be able to walk for a long time afterwards and, in addition, would not be seeing Chaim for a long time. I would remember this scene for months with a melancholy feeling because it was so fixed in my memory.) 432

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We entered a peasant hut. We took off our sheepskins. They fed us something and offered us the best bed in the guest room; it was light blue, metal, with white pillows and a blanket. I pulled the shoes off my weary feet, and Chaim did the same with his boots. We lay down on the soft bed, but I could not go to sleep. My whole body was burning as if on fire, and my head was splitting. How could I go on? Chaim slept like a dead man and even snored a little. It was stuffy and hot. I got worse and worse. Towards morning I could not hold out any longer. I waked Chaim up. He was greatly alarmed. Our hosts said a detachment was based at the farms on the other side of the hill, and a doctor was there – Gordon. That’s right, Michał Gordon. I tried to get down from the high bed, but to my horror realized that my legs would not obey me; they could have been made of cotton for all the good they did me. My head was spinning. What was wrong with me? How could I go on any farther? I begged Chaim to ask the commander to leave him with me, as I was sick. I cried, foreseeing the outcome of Chaim’s conversation with the senior officer. Chaim placed wet rags on my head and attempted to soothe me. When it was dawn, he went to the commander, who would not consider allowing Chaim to stay behind. They brought in Dr. Gordon, who listened to me on his stethoscope for a long time, palpated me, and took my temperature, which was 40 degrees centigrade. He said, “She must not be be moved. This looks like typhoid fever. Don’t be distressed. I will look after her; after all, I am not a stranger, and I live nearby . She’s young. She will recover.” Gordon left. I was in despair. Chaim stood at the head of the bed and, perplexed, said over and over again: “So what can I do? I am a partisan after all, and we have a mission to perform. We have to carry a printing press – frame, type stands, and paper – to the Rudnicki Wilderness. It’s so heavy that who’s going to carry it if I don’t?” The moment to say goodbye had come. “We will never see each other again,” I kept repeating. “There will be two hundred kilometers of enemy territory between us. What if I die or 433

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you come to grief on the road? How can I bear the separation? There’s no way I can survive here, all by myself!” We embraced each other and could not bear to part. Then Chaim abruptly pulled away and left. This was forever, I said to myself. I lay on the white bed and cried. I had a terrible headache. I lay there in tears the whole day. Michał Gordon stopped by and brought some medicine. I could not eat anything and with great difficulty crawled to the “toilet,” an outhouse in the back. Where are you, Chaim? You are already marching through dangerous territory, hauling equipment and type stands. You are so sickly yourself. You have been so malnourished, your raw feet have not healed, and they hurt… I suddenly remembered that he had left me alone, and bitterness inflamed my heart. How lacking you are in independence and decisiveness. How could you have abandoned me when you knew how sick I was and left me alone in a strange farmhouse? Again I began to sob. Early in the morning the door suddenly opened and the owner, terrified, rushed in. “Some partisans have just ridden past, saying the Germans are very close, in the next village. We’ve got to get away into the forest and hide. Everyone, get dressed, get your shoes on! Woman, bundle up some boiled potatoes, bread, and fatback. Get the pig out of its pen, we’ll take it with us. Leave the door open so the Nazis won’t break it down. Then there’ll be nothing for them to take anyway.” Everyone began to bustle about, run hither and yon, make a huge fuss. Suddenly we heard hoof beats and the scraping of a sledge. Michał Gordon and a nurse ran into the house. “I am leaving you a box of medicines, boss. Hide it well. You are responsible for it. We are moving into the base camp in the forest with the detachment.” “But what about the sick girl, Doctor? Please take her with you. You have a sled after all,” the host implored him. “We’re in a hurry!” the doctor shouted, running to the sleigh, “and there’s no room for her!” “Your people are scum, I’ll tell you,” the owner muttered quietly. “And he’s an old friend of yours … What’s to be done then? You can’t walk anywhere. May God save you.” And with these words he left. 434

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I lay on the bed, everything around me a blur. I was not afraid, just disgusted with Gordon. He had left me to die. He could have taken me with him. The base camp was at most about twenty-five kilometers away. The Nazis would not stick their noses in there. I could not even stand up. From under the pillow I pulled out my pistol, the same one that we traded the watch for. Now I needed to be fully conscious of what I was up to. If a Nazi entered the room, the first shot was for him, but the second would be for my own temple. That was it. I just had to act quickly and remember: the first shot was for the enemy. I put a bullet into the chamber. Everything around me was deathly quiet. Not a sound from the highway. The partisans were all hiding, the population concealed in the dense growth of the forest. Somewhere far away the popping of gunfire was heard. I lay there in a state of indescribable tension. My head felt as though it was splitting, as if someone was hitting it with an iron mallet. I held the pistol in my right hand. It was hard to keep my eyes open, and sometimes I dropped off into unconsciousness. It began to turn gray outside. Evening was coming on. The enemy would not move in the darkness, I thought to myself, and allowed myself to doze off. A whisper woke me up: it was the owner returning from the forest. “Well, now, how are you doing – alive? Why didn’t you eat anything?” he asked. “The Germans didn’t come? They were about three kilometers from here. I’ll pick up a bit more to eat, but I’ll leave you something to drink. If things stay quiet, I’ll come by again tomorrow night. God be with you.” The door slammed shut, and the steps faded away. I lay there alone in the empty hut with an open door which an executioner could enter at any moment. Another day went by. The host popped in again and vanished immediately. The Germans had stopped only a short distance away. They had cut the partisans’ route into the forest, but the couriers had already spread the word about this, and no one was moving anywhere on the road. Five days passed. I was becoming worse and worse. I was getting weaker, and it was clear that I was at death’s door. Soon, learning that the Germans had pulled out, the host family with its children and the pig came back. 435

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“They poked their heads in all the huts in the neighborhood, but they didn’t drop in here! You were lucky,” the housewife said. Yes, I was lucky, just as I was when we sat in the haystack during the encirclement while the flames raged around us. But I was still burning with fever, and I had an unbearable headache. I did not even rejoice that I was still alive. Chaim, you should have helped me, put a cold cloth on my forehead, given me something to drink, sat here next to me. The man’s wife was afraid they would catch what I had. The children were not allowed in the room. She herself hardly ever came in, and the owner stood for hours out on the road in hopes of meeting some partisans so he could hand me over to them to take me to the base camp. No one showed up, however, and the road remained deserted. One day turned into another. And then the man finally ran into the hut and began to rush about madly: “Get the sick woman’s things together as quick as you can. Some partisans turned up who are willing to take her. Quick, quickly! They are not going to wait around!” They put my shoes on me, set me on my feet, wound a scarf around my neck, got me into my sheepskin, and pulled me out into the yard. A sledge stood there, next to which some hefty young men were waiting. “Let’s put her here, on the hay.” They pulled me in, placed me in the sledge, and covered me with horsecloths. I thanked the man and the woman for the care they had taken of me. These strangers had treated me better than my friend Dr. Gordon, better than the commander of the Vilna Detachment, who had not permitted Chaim to stay behind with a seriously ill comrade. We moved on, the sled runners gliding through the snow. I lay on my back, while above me the snow-laden pines flashed by. The sky was clear, and infrequent silver snowflakes fell noiselessly. I felt fine. It was quiet, and I was half asleep. I wanted this road never to end. All of a sudden the sledge stopped. “The girl is freezing,” came a voice. “We must take her into the dugout and rub her feet!” We were standing next to a row of dugouts with tiny windows in the walls by the doors. The men lifted me by my arms and legs and carried me 436

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into one of these dugouts. It was clean and even cozy here: neatly made bunkbeds, a mat on the floor, a little homespun rug on the wall. A red geranium was blooming on a table by the little window. Two neatly dressed young women greeted us amiably, started to boil some herbal tea, and rubbed my face and limbs. I came to myself, drank as much as I could, and began to listen to their tale of the encirclement, of a village that the Nazis burned down. “We were able to get some things out of the fire and save them,” the women said. “Now we have built a ‘dwelling’ for ourselves and decorated it as best we could. We’ll wait ‘til liberation and finish rebuilding the hut then. The potatoes in the pits were left, and that’s what we’re living on.” I remembered pulling potatoes from the pits belonging to the people whose huts were burned down in Brusy village and dragging them through the swamp, thus saving ourselves from starvation. It was good that we did not dig up everything or the peasants themselves would have starved to death. The dugout was hot, and I thawed out. Even my head seemed to be hurting less. But the partisans were in a hurry, and we had to set out again. I slipped into a strange condition: I saw and heard everything, but simultaneously seemed to be sleeping. The forest became ever thicker, the cold intensified, the weary horse barely put one hoof in front of another. The sledge stopped in the area behind a partisan base camp I was not familiar with. Next to us was a nondescript barn, firewood, and a dugout could be seen in the distance. My comrades had gone off somewhere, and I was lying in the sledge. Suddenly young women’s voices rang out, and familiar faces bent over me – Tola Żabińska and Rywa Kowarska. “What’s wrong with you? You are quite sick. We asked the commander to leave you here in the hospital, but he refused, saying you had something communicable. OK, we forgot to tell you that this is the base camp of the Markow Destroyer detachment. We are doing well here. Rywa works as a nurse. They are not rude to us. Commander Podolny is a good guy; we think he’s a Jew. There are others here from our bunch in Vilna (the ones Maszerow fixed up in December after he came to our base camp). It’s a pity they can’t leave you here.” 437

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We chatted. I could see Tola and Riwka, whom they called Rita here, but at the same time it seemed to me that this was a dream, that everything was dim and unstable, and my friends also seemed unreal. One of my traveling companions came up and said they were ordered to drive me to my Lithuanian Detachment – let them decide what to do with me. We said farewell, and I cried – from weakness, self-pity, because I would be left by myself again. We would be traveling while it was still dark. A long, long way… The detachment again did not allow me into the camp – what if I had typhoid? Marysia, my closest girlfriend, ran out and began to protest loudly. She called the commander over, and he made a decision: transport the sick woman to the forestry station, an old house deep in the forest, and direct Rocha to look after me. Feiga-Rocha wailed that she absolutely did not want to part from Faivka, and besides, in general she did not want to go by herself away from the base camp. But an order was an order, and we set forth. We slogged for dozens of kilometers down the snow-covered paths in the thick forest. Finally the house of the forester, who had run away from the Germans, rose before us. They carried me into a room and set me on a bed. They stuck a pillow under my head that came from God knows where. I lay there filthy, covered with lice, in my boots, the brown ghetto skirt, and the black and white sweater that Chaim gave me, and could not move. Rocha was charged with lighting the stove, cleaning up, feeding me, and giving me something to drink, in a word with nursing the patient. They left some garden produce with us and left. I looked around: the room was large, dirty, not fit to be lived in. It had three windows with the glass knocked out in places, and a door in an outer entrance hall. I absolutely lacked the strength to stir. If Germans descended on us, I was abandoned to a horrible fate, and there was no one to pull me out. Chaim, how could you leave me to die alone! Some people rushed over from the hut that served as an office next door. They were cursing and screaming: an infectious sick woman had been brought here. They were Russian refugees, women with children, old 438

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people. They were not living in “our” room owing to the broken windows. It was as frigid here as anything outdoors. Rocha had already stopped up the windows with a dirty rag. “Give me the pillow… your mother! When she dies, what is she going to sleep on then?” one of the women began to scream while trying to yank the pillow out from under my head. I grabbed my revolver: “If you take one step toward me again, I’ll shoot you. I have nothing to lose.” This had an effect. They thought that I was unconscious. They did not bother me further, becoming reconciled to the thought that they could get the pillow back after I died. I was lying on a bed with a mattress by the front door, and I saw the window with an unclean rag stuffed between the shards of broken glass. The windows were white at first, like the sky, then they began to turn gray, and finally became blue. It was going to be a sleepless night. My head never stopped aching, so much so that it was honestly too much to bear. Rocha put a jug of water next to me. I could not eat anything at all, but this did not disturb her. She kept the stove warm, cooked kasha, and whimpered the rest of the time. “My poor Faivka, all alone. I will catch what she has and die, and you and I will never see each other again. My God, why am I being punished like this?” She sobbed loudly, picturing the orphaned Faivka and imagining herself in a coffin. I sympathized with her and felt guilty. My condition was serious, but I did not lose consciousness. The days went by tediously slowly, and the nights were even longer. The room was insanely cold, yet I was burning with fever. Once a nice looking, neatly dressed middle-aged woman looked into the room. “Do you have a sick girl in bed with you here?” she asked Feiga. “We are in a family camp in the forest not far from here. We are Jews who escaped from Kurenec, several dozen of us. May God grant that we survive. You probably don’t have much to eat, so I brought you some bliny. Please eat them.” The woman handed Feiga a plate covered by a cloth. Then she sat down at my bedside and began to put pieces of the bliny, still warm, in my mouth. 439

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I swallowed a couple of pieces, but could not eat any more. Such a delicacy, but unable to swallow… I just wanted to drink something. “Drink,” I heard my voice say, the voice of a stranger. “I’ll bring you some water with cranberry juice in it,” the woman said. “No, we don’t have any sweetening, but you will like the tangy water. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She came the next day, although I was not even counting on it. She gave me some pink cranberry water and tried to feed me somehow. Did I owe my survival to her? I never found out her name, but I have always remembered her leaning over my face and the soft blinys that she baked for me. But the taste of cranberries still arouses a feeling of weakness and aching in my head. At one point a sledge drove up, and into the room came a nurse and my Marysia in her sheepskin jacket and boots. She handed me a narrow, oneliter bottle full of milk. Marysia was alarmed by what she saw. I burst into tears and told her how Chaim had abandoned me when I became sick, and I told her I would soon be dead. If only she could stay with me! No, they had ordered her to return to the base camp. The nurse took my temperature – forty (Celsius). They drove away. Feiga and I drank milk for a few days. The nights went by and then the days. I looked at the windows and saw the black color change to gray, then to white, and so on day after day. Sometimes I struggled out of bed and went outside to relieve myself, holding onto the walls, managing the three stairsteps with great difficulty, then slowly pulling myself back. Fearing infection, Rocha did not touch me. How could she know how typhoid was transmitted? And again I lay on the bed, worried and in torment. I remembered when I came down with measles. At that time I was ill at home, in a clean bed, Mama fed me, Aunt Nadzia came over to read me a book, everyone loved me and took pity on me. I whimpered, however, because I was bored and I didn’t like the windows being covered with shades. Now I was wallowing in filth, all by myself, no one remembering me even if I died. My parents would not even know how my life ended. And if I survived, I could not walk. What would become of me? 440

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One morning an unbearable itch woke me up. Lice were eating me alive. But of course I had been infested with them earlier, so why had I not felt it? My head was aching less, and my vision was clearer. I guessed that this meant my temperature had fallen. I needed to get up and wash, at least thoroughly wash my hair. I asked Rocha to heat up some water in a soldier’s mess kit, crawled out of bed slowly, and poured the water into an old washbasin. I plunged my head into the barely lukewarm water and let out a cry: the basin was full of hair that had fallen off my head. Pitiful clumps of hair were protruding from my scalp, and my previous thick, curly head of hair was no more. Now I would be bald; on the other hand, I thought, the lice would have nowhere to hide. I really needed to change my clothes, but this was beyond my wildest dreams. I crawled to the bed and lay down, but the lice continued to torment me. I suffered even more. My appetite returned, and now the kind woman’s bliny and kasha, which she frequently brought from the forest, disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. “They should have shaved you. Then your hair wouldn’t have fallen out. But who did you have to take care of you, you poor little thing? Well, at least you’re alive,” my new friend said and gave me some water mixed with cranberry juice. I tried to walk around the room, but could not even put two steps together; I had no feeling in my legs at all. I was very weak, and cried the whole time. Once towards evening a rider galloped from the detachment with a report that Germans were near. “You and Rachel are ordered to return. Heat up the bath, Rachel, so the sick girl can have a good steam bath. The sledge will be here tomorrow.” A commotion ensued. The refugees at the office hut made a fuss and ran about madly. They heated the bath, and everyone, including Feiga-Rocha, rushed to get clean. I did not get my turn until it was already dark. “The bathhouse is over there, behind the fence,” they told me. “A little warm water is left.” I got out on the snow and literally crawled down the path, unable to stand on my feet. No one supported me. I was humiliated and unhappy. 441

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I crept up to the bathhouse and opened the door. A traditional wood chip torch was burning, and you could smell the steam. There was barely enough warm water to darken the bottom of the tub. There was no point in undressing, especially since the bathwater was already cool. I washed my face, neck, and hands, and wrapping myself in the sheepskin coat, dragged myself back through the snow almost weeping from such injustice. After all, they had heated up the bath for my sake, but they hardly left any water for me, and no one helped me get there. Nobody needed me, I was a burden to everyone. It was shameful to return to the base so dirty and louse-ridden. In the morning a sledge from the detachment rolled up and took Rocha and me through the snowy forest. Such beauty around us, such air. The loathsome neighbors could come get their pillow! I had not popped off, I had survived! In a few hours we reached the base camp. Marysia came running. “Why look at you – just skin and bones!” my only girlfriend lamented. “Never mind, we’ll fatten you up.” She hauled me to my place among the bunks, and I toppled onto the boards like a bale of hay. Now my days were going to drag on here, but Marysia would be beside me, she would support me. Everyone came to look at me. In true peasant fashion they were sincerely horrified and compared me with one of the deceased. “You and Chaim left a month ago on a mission. We never dreamed that you would come back alive. You were lucky the typhoid didn’t put an end to you.” The weakness did not leave me; my legs still did not support me. However, I was liberated from the lice: Marysia helped me to the bathhouse, and my clothes were thoroughly scalded in the hot steam. There was nothing for me to change into; I did not even have a change of underwear. A female doctor who was temporarily detailed to us from Markow was now sleeping nearby in a bunk closer to the door. She gave me advice on how to get well. I could not eat the pea soup they were then feeding the soldiers; it would cause stomach cramps. Marysia went to detachment headquarters to ask them to feed me the same food that the officers ate. The next day they served me bliny on a plate in the dugout! Everyone envied me. I swallowed 442

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a tiny amount and right away felt a sharp pain. From then on I declined the commanders’ greasy bliny, fatback, and onions. All my comrades looked at me askance and with contempt: that pampered young lady, they serve her the best food they have and she turns up her nose at it. I was in agony and barely made it to the “toilet” (a ditch under an awning). Marysia was tied up in the kitchen and often replied “right away” to my requests that she accompany me to the “toilet.” But I could not wait. I was just fortunate that the new doctor from Markow’s staff had arrived. “You can only eat some kasha and crackers, and you have to drink boiled water, absolutely no swamp water. Intestinal ulcers will form after typhoid fever, and they will afflict you for a long time,” the doctor explained to me. That is exactly what happened. I suffered from colitis for decades and had to follow a strict diet. Now I hovered for hours on end around the clay stove in the center of the dugout: I boiled swamp water in a pot (that was the only kind of liquid there was) and dried out some black biscuits. It was impossible to recover my strength eating nothing but this. I learned how to move one step at a time in the corridor between the bunks, clinging to them with both hands. Success was negligible. Apparently I contracted the disease from the same person who had dragged himself into our famine-stricken dugout to avoid infecting his own family, before we went to the detachment. Marysia looked after him and fed him, whereas I did not go near him. But I was the only one who came down sick. Evidently I was vulnerable to stomach ailments, something I was often sick with in my youth. Partisan life went on as usual. First Wołodźka and then Borys went off with groups of men and returned with reports of blown-up troop trains, and large groups left for the distant Kożański forests. Sometimes soldiers came here from that region – Icek Rudnicki – “Tolek,” the cousin of Mojżesz-Juda, who rescued us in the encirclement, and others. Wiera chatted in the corner with her boyfriend, the radio operator Marionas; Stasiek Matis flirted merrily with Ania the nurse; Szumauskas’s aide-de-camp, the contemptible Michał Pirmaitis, swaggered about; the orderlies worked their shifts; and men left for the inner and outer picket lines. 443

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“We stand watch a lot,” one of the partisans commented once. “Now that the sick girl is better, we need to put her on watch. Otherwise we’re not getting anything for the bread we give her.” “But bread is all she eats. Wait ‘til she’s a little stronger,” another responded. I decided to volunteer to stand watch myself, at the inner outpost. On a cold February day they put felt boots on me and wrapped me in a huge sheepskin that reached to the ground and took me to a cleared area where I stood for four hours, propped up against a tree with an automatic rifle in my hands. I thought about my life, quietly sang Soviet songs to myself, and composed a letter to Chaim which there was no chance of sending. Here I was alone, having endured so much pain, so many sufferings and degradations, and you don’t even know whether I am still alive. Maybe you are sitting right now with a group at a farm by the river, since it is not terribly cold and the river has not frozen – you can’t cross it either on foot or in a boat. Where are you, Chaim? They came to relieve me and pulled me back to the dugout, where Marysia gave my frozen hands and feet a good long rubbing. We talked on the bunk for a long time in whispers. Our conversation about Chaim and our comrades in the Rudnicki Wilderness often turned to Mira Goniońska, with whom Marysia had come into the forest. She was having a hard time of it in the detachment headed by Jonas Vildžiūnas. She was there all by herself, such a beautiful girl, and people took a shine to her and ran after her. They were reluctant to let her come over to see us even though their detachment was quite nearby. Obviously they didn’t trust her much; after all, she did work for the Jewish police in the ghetto. But there were several different groups there, for example Salomonka Garbel, who was a special FPO plant in the police force. “All the same there was something suspicious about her conduct,” Marysia said. “When the Lithuanian police stopped us on the road to the forest, she ordered me to move out of hearing, then she said something to him, and he let us go. Wasn’t this a miracle? What could she have said to him? A password, or did she mention someone’s last name?” 444

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“I don’t believe that she was involved in anything. She is so kind and pleasant. You remember when we were hiding in the haystack during the encirclement and talked about everything. She thought exactly the way the rest of us did.” We loved Mira and wanted to see her again, but this happened only rarely. When they occasionally allowed her to visit us, we poured out our hearts in our conversations, even dreaming about the future, although we did not have an excessive amount of hope that we would live to see it.

IN THE VILNA DETACHMENT On one of our cold winter days Wołodźka returned from a mission bringing four newcomers with him: Tonia, Jurka, Luba, and Kostka. “They escaped from a POW camp and were already dying of hunger. They had been wandering through villages and forests. They are young comrades, good fighters. I decided to bring them to the detachment. They will fight the enemy,” Wołodźka explained and added, “Luba is a really nice girl. I might be able to get somewhere with her.” That’s the way it was. He got them and brought them to the base camp without any preliminary inquiries! This astonished us, but right away we began to help them get settled. We made space for them by the window near the front door: Kostka by the wall under the window, Luba stationed behind him, and behind her Tonia and Jurka whose bunk was next to mine. Tonia and I got along well together right from the start. She was a few years older, quiet, plain looking, but friendly and discreet. Tonia had been a schoolteacher in Klin, and had lived with her grandfather because her parents were dead. She went to the front as a radio operator and was captured… At the POW camp she met Jurka also a captive, and made friends with him. Joined by Kostka and Luba, they planned an escape. By a miracle they succeeded: some kind people allowed them to wash up, gave them some of their own clothes, and even slipped them a few things to take along with them. They strayed for a long time through the forests in search of 445

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the partisans and then came upon Wołodźka’s group. They recounted their ordeals to him, and he believed them. That night they hid out at the farmhouse of some peasants whom Wołodźka knew. The hosts prevailed upon Wołodźka to take the four fugitives with him out of fear that they would be caught and executed along with the peasants who had given them shelter. Tonia and Jurka told us a great deal about the terrible lot of the POWs, about the famine that mowed them down by the hundreds. “The Belorussians who concealed us (because we resembled human beings), fattened us up. But in the camp we were done for, barely able to move. We realized that if we didn’t run away immediately, that would be the end of us, too.” They described their hazardous escape, the gunfire, the cold, and the hunger they suffered during their meanderings through the woods. Everyone felt sorry for them and listened to their tales for hours. Once I was sitting by the stove drying my black biscuits. Jura came up to me: “How do people treat you here? I’ll bet they don’t like you a whole lot and make fun of you since people don’t like Jews anywhere. Isn’t it tough for people like you in a partisan unit?” His question was shocking to me. “They treat me fine. This after all is a Soviet unit, and everyone here is equal. You have strange ideas!” I replied, pulling him up short. I felt a definite aversion to him. He was puny, short, smiled maliciously, and had a mean look about him. What could an openhearted, amiable person like Tonia see in him? As if there weren’t enough people already who could bring you anxiety and grief. I slept badly. After the illness I still did not feel well. I lay for hours unable to sleep on the hard poles of the bunk covered only by a handful of straw. Everyone around me was snoring. Except that Tonia was quietly arguing with Jurka. I could not make out the words since she was whispering and imploring Jurka to do something, but he interrupted her, “No, no.” He did not agree with something, and Tonia was quietly weeping. The next day I worked up the courage to ask her what they were arguing about so passionately. “He was coming on to me, but I told him this was not the right time. That was our whole conversation. Don’t pay any attention to it,” Tonia replied. 446

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However, I did not believe her. Something was out of whack here. Besides, it was none of my business. On bath day Tonia suggested that I take her skirt and blouse (she had extras) so that I could wash out my own clothes. I was overjoyed to borrow her things and finally have a chance to change. What a pleasure it was to bathe, put on all clean clothes, launder the others and hang them out in the frosty air. I came to life, took heart again, and felt like a human being. And in the mornings Tonia gave me a little leftover piece of soap – a thin chip of fragrant soap. The yellowish-green coloring left my skin. This was a true blessing, and my new girlfriend had bestowed it upon me. I exercised diligently in my walks between the bunks, began to help out in the kitchen, peeled potatoes, and continued to carry out sentry duties. I became a useful person. Tonia told me about her life in peacetime, her work as a schoolteacher, the grandfather she loved, life in the Soviet Union. As it happened, Jurka was also an orphan, but Kostka and Luba had families back home – parents, brothers, and sisters. We were all delighted when they were given the opportunity to write letters home, which were sent with the rest of the mail to the Kozański units and then across the front lines to the USSR. They would be pleasantly surprised at home to learn that their son and daughter were prisoners no longer, were alive, and were fighting the enemy. I did not feel quite so frozen now when I stood watch. Tonia gave me her mittens and cap. Once, while on sentry duty, I saw her coming down the path from the camp carrying an earthen pot of hot shchi. “You are still weak, you need to eat something hot. This is good shchi. It has meat in it. I will always bring you something to eat, and you will get stronger.” Tears gushed from my eyes. She was so kind, this Russian woman. I was touched to the bottom of my heart. No one had cared for me this way in all of my life as a partisan. In the meantime the partisans learned about a rich landed estate whose owner was a German collaborator. They decided to “bomb him to smithereens” and pick up some farm produce for our people and some clothing. All our garments were worn out and we were going around in rags. 447

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The task was accomplished. They brought back potatoes, flour, grain, even some sugar, and distributed items of clothing for each of the partisans to wear. I received a large, yellow shawl. “You are weak and sensitive to the cold after your illness. Here’s a warm present from us to cover your shoulders.” This was a royal gift. All the women came over to feel the shawl and look at its gleaming tassels. This was the only thing I had other than what I was wearing. However, I was still dreaming of leaving to go to Chaim in the Rudnicki Wilderness. When my legs got stronger, the couriers would take me with them. “Tonia, let’s trade. I will give you the shawl if you will give me your white angora knit cap.” “That’s an uneven exchange. The shawl is very expensive,” she remonstrated. “But I don’t need it on the road. Take it.” Thus my shawl migrated to Tonia, and I donned her white knit cap, which covered my ears and fastened under my chin. We were both happy with the exchange. Tonia had stopped arguing with Jurka at night. She was quiet and downcast. When I inquired of her what was going on, she answered: “It’s the influence of awful things in the past. It’ll be over soon.” She always brought me hot shchi in an earthenware pot when I was on duty at the inner picket line, and she treated me with great good will. Kostka and Luba went on missions with all the other partisans, while Tonia and Jurka were also promised that they would be included in the group. In the evenings we sat on our cots, and while logs burned in the stove, we sang songs. Tonia had a magnificent voice. She loved a song about a “lieutenant young and handsome” and his bride, and many other love songs. This surprised me. “Everything you sing is mushy, but why don’t you like Soviet songs?” I marveled. “They are militant and full of fire.” She taught me the song, “Why do you stand there swaying, slender ashberry?” This sad song harmonized with my mood. I could not see Chaim and I was often so lonesome that I cried. Marysia consoled me and even chastised me for my “sentimentality.” 448

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“When you get well, you’ll go to the Rudnicki Wilderness. Don’t just think about the past … You’ll do better to exercise your legs and eat more. Everything will be OK.” She had a hard time of it in the unit: the wives and girlfriends of other partisans were left alone, but unattached girls did not have a moment’s peace. She worked in the kitchen, but despite all her requests, she was not taken along on missions. “We came here to whip the Nazis, but instead of that we are peeling potatoes,” she complained indignantly. Marysia did not like my friendship with Tonia. “You always believe everything others say, and you open your soul to them,” she rebuked me. “Tonia’s not a bad girl, but Jurka was repulsive. He’s so devious. Keep your distance from them.” I ascribed this to Marysia’s jealousy of me. However, it was impossible even to compare my liking for Tonia with the complete mutual trust that existed between Marysia and me. She and I even had a secret understanding. One of us was often assigned to be on duty. The duties of an orderly included maintaining order in the camp, and with the onset of darkness, patrolling the dugouts back and forth with a rifle. The orderly was to write down and correct defects. We marched for hours in the snow, famished. But the path also went by the kitchen. There on a table under an awning lay the officers’ supper: platters with chunks of bread, sliced fatback, and onions. Around midnight the commanding officer, accompanied by the chief of staff, the commissar, and the radio operator listened for the news from Moscow; then the aide-de-camp went out to get the platters, and the officers had their supper. Rank-and-file partisans were not entitled to supper. At 6 PM a kettle with cold kasha left over from the noon meal was brought into the dugout, and that was it. We were always hungry in the evening. So Marysia and I hit upon the idea of a “private food supply.” Walking past the kitchen table, we appropriated now a chunk of bread, then a piece of fatback, then an onion and hid them in the pocket of our sheepskin jacket. I remember the feeling of gratification when, returning half-frozen from the tour of duty, stripping off the jacket and handing the foot cloths to the 449

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next shift, I climbed under the sackcloth cover and heard Marysia whisper, “Did you bring anything?” Covered from our heads on down, we relished the piece of bread and the slice of boiled pork fatback, which was so soft and juicy and to which we added the onion. These were moments of great delight and the joy of life. In the morning came the cry of the officer on duty: reveille! And everything began all over again: cold, snow clearing, calisthenics, watch duty, work in the kitchen. But I was beginning to walk better, and the stomach pains were subsiding. That morning they informed us that there would be a concert in the evening. The amateur group “Leaky Pipe” was coming over from Markow’s brigade. They had singers, actors, and a folk instrument orchestra. Everyone was looking forward to the coming event. But I had been assigned evening watch duty. I was out of luck! Performers came to us once in a blue moon, but I would be wandering around the dugouts with a rifle and would not see anything. Even the easy opportunity this provided to stash away an end of a loaf and a portion of fatback lost its attraction to me. Marysia sympathized with me a great deal. I saw the guests riding up on the sleigh. They were conducted to our big dugout. Soon the concert started. Walking past the dugout I looked through the tiny window and saw a crowd of partisans by the door, dressed-up singers and musicians, but then the glass fogged up, and only the sounds of the music reached me. A soloist, Zoja, sang beautifully, then some of the audience chimed in. I recognized Tonia’s voice and her songs about the viburnum and the lieutenant: “You can lose everything – your bride, your mother; just remember, the fatherland is waiting!” This was probably because our people wanted to show that we in the detachment had good voices, too. Suddenly the dugout door was flung open, and Zoja jumped out into the snow in her blouse. She rushed headlong down into the headquarters dugout. One could hear her agitated voice coming from there; she was making a point about something in a highly excited manner. “Something bad has happened,” I thought. Zoja was very disturbed about something. I did not understand what the problem was. Could someone have offended 450

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her? You could see that she was an invalid; her arm was missing up to her shoulder. But what a voice she had! I roamed farther down the confines of the base camp into the darkness and the snow. Later, after everyone had left, when I had carried out all my duties and had settled down on the hard boards of the bunk, I obtained a complete account of the magnificent concert. The guys were going on and on about it and sharing their impressions of it. No one mentioned the incident involving Zoja? No one had noticed anything. On one of these nights a commotion in the camp woke us up. Wołodźka – barefoot and in nothing but his underwear, ran out of the dugout holding a tommy gun: someone was kicking up a row outside. The duty sergeant brought in Jurka who was yelling, “Look, he tied me up. What does he want from me?!” After this the racket ceased. Everyone went to bed and fell asleep, but I could not calm down. Something had taken place. Tonia whispered to Jurka who answered her with indignant hissing. In the morning someone said that Jurka had been arrested at the well – the ditch where we drew water for cooking – and some kind of powder had been taken away from him. “His head was aching, and he wanted to take the powder, but the soldier on duty tied him up. Security is so tight that they don’t let you breathe!” Tonia said. These days she was becoming even sadder and frequently cried. I was very sorry for her. How could I talk her into breaking up with this repellent boyfriend? A new event distracted me from all these thoughts. An entire group flew from Moscow to Iwan Iwanowicz’s (Jonas Vildžiūnas) base camp, situated next to ours, and our men met the parachutists at the cleared area in the forest and lit bonfires. The aircraft dropped several men and two women. When our men got back, they reported that this was a group of Frenchmen. I looked forward to talking with them. After a few words with them, however, I was convinced that they were Spaniards. They were uncommonly well outfitted – in white overcoats and fur caps, in new boots, with submachine guns and field packs. A few people spent the night with us, the rest at the Jonas encampment. 451

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Sima, one of the girls in the group, stayed at our dugout. She was a tall beauty with a dark complexion, a real princess. She discarded her white cap and new snow-white jacket. Her shapely feet were shod in soft little boots. Her military blouse, held in by a leather belt, was very becoming to her. We sat down across from her on the bunk, and Sima began to tell us all the wonders in her life: “I have been in partisan detachments for a long time. My captain and I (he is now talking with Kazimierz) fought a lot in the Caucasus. It was thrilling there, so risky: escapes on horseback through the passes, and we killed so many Nazis!” Her eyes flashed, and she looked marvelously pretty. I imagined her on a black steed underneath the snowy Caucasian peaks, where I had never been, and I envied her. “But do you realize that we were walking on the streets of Moscow yesterday? We drove down to Red Square to say goodbye to it before our flight on this mission,” Sima said, smiling. We proceeded to ask her about the far-off capital. Indeed I could not imagine that free people were strolling down streets somewhere, buying things in stores, sleeping in beds in houses, going to theaters, making preparations to fly to us at the front. Here she was – Sima, one of them, a brave Soviet girl; she had come with a group of Spaniards to wage a propaganda campaign in the so-called “Blue Division,” sent here from Spain by General Franco’s fascist regime to help the Germans. What dangerous work awaited her among the enemy soldiers. She sat with us and taught us new songs: “The night is dark,/ Only bullets are whistling on the steppe,/ Only the wind is humming in the wires, / The stars are twinkling dully ./ I know that you, my beloved/ are not sleeping on this dark night, and at the child’s crib/ you are secretly wiping away a tear … ” We sang these wonderful lyrics from Bogosłowski song together and were glad that our soldiers were not only killing Germans but were creating new songs. This meant that life was triumphing. Sima told us about the new films she had seen in Moscow in the short break between her partisan missions. It was difficult for us to imagine that all this existed. I asked her why the parachutists insisted they were French. 452

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“That’s part of the conspiracy,” Sima explained, “so that no one finds out about our mission. You are the only one who realized they are Spanish. But keep it quiet, not a word!” “But those two – the young man and the girl, are they Polish?” “They are being sent to Poland on an intelligence mission. That’s going to be a difficult assignment!” “The girl has an ugly face, and she says peculiar things. I don’t believe her!” “Come on, don’t judge on first impressions.” Later I found out that the Polish girl had been planted by the Armia Krajowa and messed up the assignment given her by Soviet troops. The short encounter with Sima left a strong impression on me and reinforced my hope of victory. When Vilna was liberated, I learned that Sima was continuing to fight. She stayed in my memory as an ideal example of beauty and courage. We experienced a new incident. Some partisans from the Kożański forest came to our detachment. Among them was the husband of a partisan in our group named Dusia. They talked heatedly to each other a lot and then quarreled. He was jealous of her and suspected her of cheating on him. Indeed Dusia had a defiant air about her. She was a stout country girl who quarreled with and offended the other men. Fedka and Dusia were sitting by the dugout door one evening. We had gone to bed. Suddenly a powerful explosion shook the dugout. In my terror I concluded that Germans had surrounded the base camp and attacked it. It turned out that Fedka had made up his mind to kill himself and his wife. He threw a bundle of hand grenades at her. He was wounded in the face, but Dusia was hit in the buttocks. She lay on her stomach in the dugout for several days subjected to general merriment over Fedka’s belligerent female companion. No one sympathized with her. It was a frosty morning, clear and sunny. In the kitchen I took two buckets of water, a bag of potatoes, and sat down with Tonia to peel them. “It’s cold. We can’t sit here for long. Let’s go to the dugout, light the stove, and fix the potatoes for lunch,” said Tonia. We crossed the lane and went to the old dugout. We were pleasantly surprised to find sugar beets among the potatoes. We put them in the fire in the stove and enjoyed the sweet taste of the baked sugar beets. Everything 453

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was working out just right! The sun rose and warmed things up a bit. Whatever you might say, it was the end of February. We stepped out the door. We smelled melting snow. Soon it would be spring. It would be dry and warm. I would petition Kazimierz to send me to the Rudnicki Wilderness where I would see Chaim again. The spring sunshine infused my heart with hope. Suddenly I heard Tonia’s voice: “I had a terrible dream, and I can’t get it out of my mind. In it Jurka did not return from the mission; the other guys came in and said he had been killed. Could this be a prophetic dream and will he actually die on the mission? After all, it’s been five days since they left.” “And how could you, a classroom teacher, who grew up in the Soviet Union, believe in dreams! You were thinking about him a lot, about the danger, and that’s what came to you in the dream. I am sure they will all come back unharmed. You must believe that everything will turn out for the best. Don’t be depressed, Tonia.” We continued the conversation while the buckets were being filled with peeled potatoes. I took one bucket and carried it to the kettle in the kitchen. Returning with the empty bucket, I noticed a group of our comrades on the path from the Jonas camp. “Tonia, here they are coming back, Jurka too.” “No, it can’t be!” exclaimed Tonia and ran out to meet them. I kept on peeling potatoes, sitting on the doorstep. About an hour went by. One of the partisans came up to me: “You are sitting there and you don’t know that they’ve all been arrested – Jurka, Tonia, and other prisoners, and put under guard in different dugouts.” “What? Arrested? For what?” “Come and find out.” I took the rest of the potatoes to the kitchen and rushed out to learn what had happened. They had in fact been arrested on suspicion of espionage. “Tonia is innocent. It’s a mistake. I’m going to speak with her.” I poured some soup into a bowl, got a piece of bread, and went to the dugout. Tonia was lying next to a bare wall with no window. Next to her sat one of our men with a submachine gun. 454

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“May I speak with her?” I asked. “Go ahead and talk,” the partisan replied, “What do I care?” “Here’s some food, Tonia. I know this is a mistake. Whatever there is, it will all be cleared up. Eat something. You haven’t had lunch yet.” “Thanks very much. As you can see, the dream came true,” Tonia said quietly. “Bring me a cigarette.” I left the dugout, wheedled a scrap of newspaper and a pinch of makhorka3 from the men, and took them to Tonia. Suddenly I heard a wild cry. It was somebody screaming. “The interrogation is underway,” someone remarked. “They are beating Jurka with a ramrod. Stankiewicz, head of the special unit,4 is running it. They have to do it – German spies!” “It’s because Wołodźka brought them here without checking,” another person reminded us. “Whenever he sees a woman, he wants to haul her off to the detachment right away.” I could grant that Jurka sold out to the Germans, but Tonia – never. Jurka howls of pain echoed in my ears. Then it was quiet. “Look’s like he confessed,” someone declared, “now they’re going to shoot them.” That evening I put some cold kasha in a bowl and again went to Tonia. She was lying in the same place, pale, with sunken eyes. “Just hold on, Tonia,” I sighed. “You are not guilty, and the truth will come out. Eat or you will become too weak.” In reply I heard these terrible words: “Don’t come to see me anymore. You believed me, but I deceived you. Forgive me.” Her muffled voice vibrated very quietly. My eyes went dark, and I ran out of the dugout. How could I make sense of this? Tonia confessed to treason? I had made such good friends with, had come to love her. How had this come about? Evidently, Jurka had enticed her to follow him, persuaded her to believe 3

Translator’s Note: A cheap tobacco substitute.

4

Translator’s Note: Counter Intelligence Unit.

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that they could survive in the camp if they agreed to cooperate with the Nazis. I wept bitterly under the sheepskin jacket. Then they questioned all of them and beat them. The partisans were walking around like lost souls. Marysia and I talked it over quietly. “Do you remember when they caught him with powder in his hands?” my friend said, terrified. “They say that this was poison. He wanted to poison the well.” I recalled Jurka’s anti-Soviet statements… I told Marysia about Zoja running to headquarters during the concert. She recognized Tonia’s voice when she started to sing. Zoja reported that she was in the same POW camp with them. A group was formed there of people who began to collaborate with the Germans. These prisoners were dressed better and fed better. Some were sent out on missions. Proposals of collaboration were made to everyone, with special emphasis placed on those whose parents had been victims of repression. (I thought about this: neither Jurka nor Tonia had parents. Evidently they had been exiled to Siberia.) Zoja refused to sign such a document, and many of her comrades did not sign either. They were beaten, starved, given the hardest kinds of work. Zoja and a few others were able to escape. She was wounded and then, while convalescing at the home of some peasants, she developed gangrene and had to have her arm amputated. She saw Jurka and Tonia in the group of traitors and reported this to Kazimierz. I could only surmise that if Tonia had not come up to the stage to sing, they would have remained in the detachment. “No,” a partisan who had just returned from the mission broke in, “Jurka had decided to run away when they caught him at the well. They were following him the whole time, and they knew that he would try to escape. That’s how it was. They caught him, brought him in for questioning, and he coughed up everything. I heard all this silently. Now I saw it all in a new light – Tonia’s disputes with Jurka at night and his words, “No, no.” She was urging him, after joining the detachment, to confess exactly how they came to leave the camp. I remembered how they were dressed when Wołodźka brought them in. And Tonia’s dejected look, the sadness in her eyes, when Jurka objected. Jurka was 456

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a committed foe. He wanted to harm the Soviet partisans, annihilate them. And the dream she related to me on the day of their arrest: Jurka had said that he would not return, and this is why she was so alarmed when she saw that he had returned. I understood her words: “You believed me, and I deceived you.” Poor, weak Tonia, afraid of death and torture in captivity. I was called in for questioning. Kazimierz, the chief of staff, the head of the special unit, and other officers were sitting in the dugout. “Explain why you made friends with Tonia,” Kazimierz began. “Why are you wearing her things? For what reason did you give away your yellow shawl, the one that we had given you as a present?” I shook with indignation. Ever since childhood I had hated injustice. Tonia had treated me like a friend. She had shared a piece of soap with me. She had loaned me her clothes and thereby had given me the opportunity to wash my own clothes. And she had brought me soup when I was on the picket line. “Does that mean you suspect me of some type of underhanded dealings?” I shouted. “Tonia is a good person; it’s Jurka who’s guilty of everything.” I related Tonia’s kind treatment of me, her nighttime altercations with Jurka his absurd conversations, his anti-Semitism. “And I traded her the shawl for the cap which I am wearing,” I explained. “I want to go to the Rudnicki Wilderness, where my husband is stationed. I did not need that bulky shawl on the trip.” “But she is a spy!” “I do not believe that she is. She was unhappy, intimidated by hunger, and she gave in to propaganda. I am certain that she wanted to tell everything when she came here. But Jurka did not permit her to do that.” “This is what they wanted from you,” the women bored in on me, “Now they have involved you in the interrogation.” However, I was never summoned to appear again. And then the day came when I was on duty at the outer picket line. My heart was very heavy. I knew that Tonia and Jurka had been shot the day before. They led out Jurka first and shot him, and when they took Tonia to go to “Markow’s base camp,” she saw his body from a distance on the snow and said: 457

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“There’s no point in going any farther. Shoot me here.” And now Jurka’s silhouette was darkening the snow, and a little closer – Tonia’s. They had not had time to bury them yet; the deeply frozen earth did not permit that. Tonia’s grandfather had probably received her letter, but he would never live to see her, I thought to myself. Kostka and Luba were questioned, but they testified that the two traitors had taken them with them as a decoy. Therefore they remained in the detachment. I had a very hard time getting over this tragedy. The sun was now giving out more and more warmth. Spring was on its way, and with it the hope of seeing Chaim and living until victory. On the outer picket line we burned whole trunks of sawed down pines. At night we heard the howling of wolves and the whinnying of horses – a stable was nearby. I hummed the new “Sima” songs: “You are waiting, Elisabeth/ for greetings from your friend,/ you won’t sleep before dawn,/ you continually pine for me./ When victory is won,/ I will ride to your side/ on my hot and warlike charger.” Where are you, Chaim? Did you find the Jewish Detachment? I sense that you are still alive. Answer me! On one of those days I got a letter from him! A group of partisans commanded by Captain M. arrived at our base camp from the Rudnicki Wilderness. One of the partisans was Imka Lubocki, the brother of my comrade Danek. There he was in front of me. He was much taller than Danek, and his face was just as nice and he was just as much “our” old friend. He beckoned me aside and warily, before anyone could see, handed me a sheet of paper: “All letters are supposed to go first to headquarters for censorship, so read it cautiously, and make sure no one sees you. Then I will tell you all about us.” Marysia and I rushed to the toilet, the only place where we could be alone. My hands were trembling: I was holding a letter from Chaim, the first one he had ever sent me. He was alive, he remembered me, and his words were tender – written on four full pages of yellowish paper. It was as though I were hearing his voice. I saw his thin, skinny face with sunken cheeks, his kind, black eyes, rectangular forehead, the dimple on his chin. Chaim wrote about his anxieties and depression during their long wait in peasant huts overlooking the Wilia River. Since the water was not completely 458

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frozen, there was no chance of crossing. I was only thirty kilometers away, quite near, but the commander would not let them go. A fellow partisan came up to him and stated: “I heard about the girl with typhoid. She died. Don’t grieve; you’ll find another one, even younger.” However, Chaim did not believe him. Subsequently another partisan confirmed that I had been taken to the base camp in the forest. “Try to come back to us in Imka’s group. Chiena and Samuel are eagerly waiting for you,” Chaim urged me in the letter. “All the guys are asking about you, and I can’t wait until we’re together again. Be firm and insist that they take you.” I read the letter over and over again, the dear handwriting, the kind words, and tears poured from my eyes. The next day I went to Kazimierz to request a transfer to the other unit. “Could you stand such a long trip? A short while ago you could hardly walk.” “I can make it there, just give me permission. My husband is there. We have not seen each other for such a long time.” “I can let you go all right, but giving an order to partisans from another detachment, from another brigade is something I cannot do. Go to their commander and ask him to take you with them. It’s a long road. Two railroad lines, two hundred kilometers through enemy territory, and White Polish5 units behind every clump of trees. Go ahead and try.” What remained now was to petition Captain M. My heart was pounding, and my legs gave way. There I was standing before the captain. Short, with rugged features on his face, the captain looked at me glumly. “I am not going to take any females with me,” he said roughly. “They’re a burden on the road. Besides, we already have enough women. There’s nothing you can do, don’t try to talk me out of it. This is my policy, and that’s all there is to it.” I ran to share my sorrows with Marysia. What a cruel, heartless person – “females” got in his way! What could I do now? It was unknown 5

Soldiers of the Polish Armia Krajowa [Home Army].

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when other partisans would be coming here from the Rudnicki Wilderness. But Imka, our old comrade, was here now; he could have helped me on the trip. Although I felt boundless despair, we were powerless to do anything about it. Imka could not help either – the commander did not consent. My dream of an early meeting with Chaim and our friends, and a Jewish detachment, remained just that, a dream. Again I served on the picket line and helped in the kitchen. This was the sum total of my partisan activities. I even lost interest in exercising my legs. Evidently I was condemned to vegetating here where I did not count for anything; they did not even accept me on missions. In the afternoon Mira Goniońska came over from Iwan Iwanowicz’s detachment. Her lovable little face was pale and sad. “They are sending me on a mission with a group,” she said. “Recently they have been interrogating me and nagging at me. What were the connections between the ghetto police and the Gestapo, what did I know about the police in Vilna, what were my contacts there? Why are they suddenly sending me out and for what purpose?” Mira sighed as she was taking leave of us: “God grant that we may see each other again, but I do not believe we will. Farewell!” Marysia and I were frightened for Mira, but we dismissed our gloomiest thoughts. She was not guilty of anything, she would certainly return, we would talk again and share our experiences with one another. Only a day went by when it became known in the unit that the group of partisans with Mira in it had run up against some Armia Krajowa soldiers. There was an exchange of fire, someone was wounded, but Mira was killed. Everyone was sorry for her – such a sweetheart, so beautiful. But caustic, evil words also rang out – she was not so uncomplicated after all … Marysia and I were stunned. She had just been with us, sitting next to us on the bed. She had voiced her ill forebodings. But what if our own partisans had killed her? Marysia and I were sitting on our bunks and crying. In came Kazimierz gave us a glum look and said: “Don’t cry. She’s not worth being cried over.” 460

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It was very poignant for us. Such a young, kind, wonderful girl. In her presence our spirits were uplifted. She left this life, she was no more, she would never have a future – love, a family, children. She would not see victory. This was difficult to understand and imagine. If she had agreed to collaborate with the Nazis in the ghetto, it was only for the sake of saving her own life, not for ideological considerations. And she did not have time to do anything – either bad or good. The captain of the newly-arrived group went to see Markow several times. He behaved defiantly, even impudently, talking disdainfully and selfconfidently. I realized that he could not be persuaded, that he would not accept me. After all, I was a “female” and a “yid” to boot. What was more, I had recovered from typhoid. He did not need such a burden on the trip. I tried to speak about this to Stankiewicz, the chief of the special unit, who seemed to me to be more accessible. But he made me no promises. “Wait until we finish up all that’s going on, then we’ll see,” he said evasively, “I’ll bring it up with the commander.” The next morning the captain, Imka, and Stankiewicz went to Markow’s headquarters but came back without the captain. Imka could only whisper to us that something mysterious had developed that involved the captain whom I disliked so much. Then after a day or two rumors circulated in the detachment that the captain was not a captain at all but a spy planted by the Nazis and that Stankiewicz had taken him to Markow, who had good contacts in Moscow. When the information that the “captain” supplied about himself was checked by the Soviet armed forces command staff in Moscow, it turned out that no such captain was listed anywhere or even existed. Suspicions had arisen in the Rudnicki Wilderness regarding the “captain’s” identity, and now they were confirmed. Stankiewicz became the commander of the group. He agreed to take me with him! I was infinitely happy that I was going to Chaim, going to the Jewish Detachment, going to see my friends again, and I would be able to tell everything. No more loneliness! Along with all of this, of course, I was afraid of the trip: two hundred kilometers through occupied territory. My legs were still weak and gave 461

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way under me. Two months had not gone by since my illness. My footwear was completely useless by now – Józio’s worn-out skating boots. Leaving Marysia alone, among total strangers, was awkward. She would have no one to share her sorrows with her, no one to support her. But Marysia, goodnatured as always, helped me pack my bundle of things. Jadzia and the radio operator Wiera came over to see me. They belonged to the highest caste. Jadzia, in the role of Kazimierz wife, traveled with him on assignments and slept in the commander’s dugout, having nothing to do with us. It is true that she brought Marysia and me a little piece of chocolate once when an airplane dropped a load of supplies from Moscow. This was a marvel. The magical taste reminded me of my childhood, peacetime, Mama, our home. But now they had come to beg me for my boots. “You can’t find these anywhere,” they both acknowledged frankly. “They are light, made of leather, and both are the same size.” They brought me some size 39 kersey boots in exchange. The boots were three sizes too big for me; on the other hand, they were genuine military boots. It was a great temptation, and I quickly agreed to the deal. Whatever happened to my vigilance, my experience as a tourist? How could I have agreed to put on new, hard, too large boots for the road? But I wanted so badly to show off to my pals in the Rudnicki Wilderness. In these boots I would look like the most fashionable of partisans, in addition to which I would have a pistol with a belt of two hundred cartridges around my waist plus a rifle! “Wrap foot cloths around your feet and you’ll be fine,” the guests encouraged me. “They’re big, not small, so you’ll get used to them. Besides, they’re new, and we’re trading them for used ones.” There was no need to persuade me. I said farewell to my dear little boots, my only memory of Józio. How nice it was to shove my feet into the boots and run around the camp. I even felt myself stronger. But Marysia kept wailing: “How are you going to get there? You are still absolutely weak and ailing. And they are ordering you to lug a pile of literature, newspapers, leaflets – a full backpack of stuff.” “It’s OK, my legs will carry me,” I reassured my friend, “You see I am going to Chaim and our friends in the FPO. I am sure that attitudes there 462

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are going to be completely different. I hope that Imka can help. He is our kind of guy, a very kind and helpful young man.” I was trying to hide my fear and uncertainty, but I did not succeed in doing so. The day of my departure came closer. In the evening Marysia and I whispered together for a long time. She wanted me to pass on her greetings to all our friends, and she envied me. “You will be with your own people, with the man you love. Just imagine how they are going to welcome you! I would like so much to hear all about Chiena, Samuel, Szlomo,Kowarski and the others. I asked Kazimierz to let me go, but he refused. He says I am needed here! Me too – yet they won’t let me go on missions.” But all the time I was wondering whether I would get there. A long and dangerous trip! “Krajowa” (Armia Krajowa) soldiers, two railroads, a river. The trip would take longer than a week. Did I have sufficient strength after the illness? The bunk seemed soft to me, and the dugout – so cozy and secure. I did not sleep all night. Early in the morning we were fed. Then they formed us in a line.

THE JEWISH DETACHMENT Here we were, standing at the path connecting the dugouts. A young pine forest surrounded us. A light snowfall was coming down, and it was dull and dreary. Marysia was standing on the other side and choking down tears. Next to her were Zonia from the kitchen, Jadzia, Wiera, and others in the group. They had come out to see the partisans off. The superior officer, chief of staff Kazimierz, gave us a short address and wished us well on the trip. He examined the partisans’ boots. We said our goodbyes and started the journey. Marysia’s face melted away in the haze. Farewell, dear friend. You and I covered a difficult stage of the journey together! Walking was difficult. By afternoon I was getting hot in my old sheepskin jacket and Tonia’s knit cap. The bag of pamphlets on my back was becoming heavier all the time. Worst of all, it was getting slippery and the 463

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snow was melting. The new boots were slipping back and forth under me on the trail, and I had trouble keeping my balance. We came to a brook. Fording it did not work, and I slipped off a rock into the water. My boots were soaked and stiffened up by evening. My leggings were soaked through. I could not go to sleep. For now we were moving through a partisan-held zone without concealment in plain daylight. In the evening we bedded down in a peasant hut, where we had the opportunity to dry out our boots, remove our sheepskins, and take a snooze. But then what? “We’ll be traveling at night,” Imka said, “and spending the day in huts.” Imka was carrying a heavy load. I was not strong enough to help him with it. We had already left the partisan zone, where the Germans only rarely snooped around. Now our enemies were lying in wait for us. Among them were Poles who backed the Armia Krajowa and hated Soviet partisans. We marched all night. It was 12 degrees of frost, but we were emitting clouds of steam. Yet when we stopped to rest up, the cold made itself felt. I was the only woman in the group. Along the way a young Lithuanian in Imka’s group helped me a little, but for some reason he did not inspire much confidence in me. The sky became lighter and took on a rosy hue. We pulled up at the last house in a small settlement and spent the day there. The housewife, a tidy young Polish woman, clearly was not overjoyed by our invasion, but she set bread, cheese, and milk on the table for us. It was very clean in the house, but our men tossed aside their field packs, bags, and boots, and crashed wherever they could find a place to sleep. They occupied all the beds and the sleeping nooks on the stove after posting lookouts in hiding places. Someone knocked on the door, and a young whippersnapper came in to ask the housewife for something. To prevent him from snitching on us, they did not let him leave. Later his mother arrived in search of her son. She, too, was forced to bide her time in the hut. In this way we collected five of the local peasants. At first they raged and implored us to let them go. Then they calmed down and began to converse with the partisans, to carry 464

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on a discussion with them. I asked the housewife for warm water to bathe my feet, which were rubbed raw by the wet boots. She began to wail (I was talking Polish with her, and she considered me one of her own): “What would impel a decent young lady to hang around with these Soviet bandits? You should be staying home with your mama and Father. You’re just out for an adventure!” I tried to explain that we were not bandits, that I could not sit around at home when the Nazis were killing innocent people. I was unable to win the woman over. “Fighting is not a womanly thing to do,” she admonished me. If she could only know that I did not have either a home or a family and that I did not even know what was happening to my mother and father, and they did not know how things were with their beloved daughter. By evening the leggings on the stove had dried, so with difficulty I pulled on the stiff boots, stretched the jacket on, flung a bag over my back, and we went out into the frosty air. The sun had already set, but the sky was still pink. We walked deeper into the woods. My torn feet smarted from the rapid pace, and my back was soaked with sweat. I had trouble keeping up with the others. Weakness pervaded my body. If only I did not fall behind, did not become a burden to everyone else. Soon we came out onto a railroad. It was defended by armed Germans, my “assistant” informed me. I began to tremble. Heavens, how would I manage to cross the railroad tracks? We came out of the forest onto a broad open strip (the Germans had cut down the trees along the entire railroad on both sides of the roadbed). Open spaces were not the usual thing for us, as we constantly stayed under tree cover. I noticed that everyone was afraid. My feet got caught on protruding stumps. It was totally dark. We were all ordered to lie down. One of us went out to scout the area. We lay there for a long time. A German came down the embankment. He stopped, lit a cigarette, and suddenly stiffened up, on guard. Had he heard something? No, he stamped on farther. Then came the quiet command to move forward. 465

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Everyone ran up the embankment. We just hoped no one would catch his foot on a rail. The sound of that could be heard a long way off. I finally managed to climb up the slippery incline, crossed the tracks, and looked around. The German was out of sight. I rushed down the other side. All the others were already far away and soon melted away in the murk. I could not walk; I was panting and out of breath. I trudged down the trail, God knows in what direction. They had lost me, abandoned me!. They had not noticed that I was missing. There was no telling when they would realize it. I was overcome by terror – alone by the railroad tracks, ignorant of where to walk and not knowing the route. It was dark and silent. I stood there for a while and then began wandering aimlessly. I walked by myself for a long time. An infinite number of thoughts flashed through my mind: I will never see you again, Chaim. All our dreams were in vain. Goodbye, Father, Mama; soon they will catch me and kill me. I desperately did not want to die! Total silence reigned. The frozen earth resisted my steps. My feet slipped out from under me several times, and I fell down. The bag full of pamphlets on my back held me down. I unstrapped it and wanted to get rid of it, but I could not leave such an important clue behind! I trudged on farther. Sweat streamed down my face, down my back, but it would pay off to slow down my movements, since cold had penetrated my whole body. I emerged from the forest. Ahead I saw a hill and started to climb up the rise in elevation. I do not know how long I plodded on this way, sobbing. This were some of the most terrifying hours in my life. I had already had to live through a great deal, but there were always people around me. Here, however, I was completely alone, in an unknown area, ignorant of the road… I saw a hut in the distance. There was something unusual about it. Well, of course – the windows were not shuttered. Light was streaming out the windows, just as it had before the war. A surge of fear hit me immediately: did that mean there were people there who were not afraid? Could they be police? Germans? Cautiously I began to draw near, although I realized 466

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it would have been better to leave. I could hear intoxicated voices. People were singing. I stopped and listened: they were singing a Russian song. Could these be our people? I went up to the window and looked in from the side. The hut was full of our men and local musicians, all singing a song lustily together. What a bunch of lazy lummoxes! They had not set out a guard, and they had not hung curtains on the windows. The light could be seen far away, and they could not have been singing any louder if they had tried. I opened the door, and the stench of moonshine liquor and sweaty bodies struck my nostrils. But I was happy that I had found my comrades. No one paid me any attention, and the feast continued. I realized that they had not noticed my absence. Slipping the bag off, I crumpled onto the stove-bench and dozed off. My tortured feet hurt, and my whole body was aching. It was only then that I noticed how tired I was. The celebration ended by morning. After sleeping a few hours, the commander announced reveille, and we moved on. The trees thinned out. As a result of the cold in the evening an icy crust had formed on the snow that melted during the day. My feet slipped, and I was wearing myself out. Sometimes the Lithuanian youngster helped me. When it was nighttime, we walked. Toward morning, going up to a solitary hut somewhere, we asked permission to rest and eat soup and kasha. Several neighbors were usually visiting the hut in the evening; we would not let them leave until we were gone. The peasants were curious about our lives and discussed the future. But no one yet foresaw an end to the war. We were not especially popular in Polish homes, whereas the Belorussians received us very warmly. The pain in my feet was unbearable. Towards evening I thought to my horror that the time would soon come to pull on my boots and start walking again. The region ahead of us was Polish, and Armia Krajowa partisans were operating there; in addition the people harbored anti-Soviet sentiments. My pure Polish accent helped a great deal at our daytime stopovers. The peasants took pity on me, thinking that I was a respectable young lady whom the partisans had pressed into service against her will. 467

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So we reached the Oszmianka River and counted on crossing it, but the ice had completely melted by now. There was no point in even thinking about using the bridge to cross: a German guard was stationed there. The water was high and turbulent. The only way that remained was to corral some peasant horses and make our way across the stream on horseback. It took us a long time to go alongside the river through the brittle ice on the fields. Finally the men brought up a few horses and found a sloping river bank in a quiet location. There were neither houses nor people in the neighborhood. Two of us would sit on a horse at once. After making it to the other bank, one rider would return and take the next partisan. I had dealt with horses at Aunt Anna’s in Michałowo; gentle, decrepit old Deresz had been there, nothing to be scared of. The river crossing here, however, plunged me into terror. I kept inching back to the end of the queue, but finally I, too, had to cross. With difficulty I climbed on the very high buttocks of the horse, but the bag on my back pulled me backwards. The horse was sweaty and tired from laboriously crossing the water back and forth. I wrapped my arms around the waist of the person ahead of me. My rifle shifted behind my back. The horse began swimming, my boots filled with water, and my skirt was soaked. The river churned. Black water covered the horse’s neck. I felt that I was slipping back. If only I could reach the shore! After all I did not know how to swim! It was cold and dreadful. Just at that moment the horse stepped with its front legs onto the steep river bank, and I instantly fell off the rear end of the horse – I caught hold of its tail – right into the water, which admittedly was now shallow. In a hut somewhere I was able to wring out the leggings, warm up a bit, and then we set forth again. The partisan detachments in the Rudnicki Wilderness were now quite near, but this region was exceptionally perilous on account of the Polish Armia Krajowa soldiers, who made a practice of killing red partisans and Jews. All that was left was to cross one more railroad. We were surrounded by forest, which was beautiful and damp, with fir trees and pines. We crossed the railroad in the morning when there was plenty of light. We barely had time to run across the tracks when we heard the rumbling of a train in the distance. We crouched in the underbrush. A long line of cars shot past us. I even saw German soldiers in the windows 468

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of the cars. The line went through Grodno, Białystok, and Warsaw. Walking was easier now, since here, in a more southerly area, the snow had almost completely melted and the soil was dry and sandy – so familiar to us. Late in the evening we reached the nearest detachment. I was astonished that it basically consisted of Jews. It was noisy and stuffy in the dugouts. The headquarters staff questioned us at length about the trip, the Lake Narocz detachments, and the matter of the captain. “Now he’ll get what was coming to him for treason and espionage,” the men said. They were glad to see us. They fed us and gave us something to drink, and we were happy that we had almost reached our goal. They sent me to the women’s dugout. The women there had not yet gone to sleep. They began asking me whether I had seen one of their relatives or friends, about whose fate they knew nothing. Finally I pulled off my boots and got settled on the upper bunks, but I could not fall asleep. It was hot, stifling, and my feet hurt. Taking off my boots, I tore my blisters and in the morning could not put these crude, oversized boots back on. After breakfast we were given two carts with horses to transport our goods, and we proceeded farther. At first I marched next to the cart, then began to hold on to it. The pain in my feet got worse and worse. The wet boots seemed as though they were made of tin, and they chafed against my burning blisters. The commander felt sorry for me: “Climb up onto the cart. You’re awful to look at.” So I enthroned myself like a queen on bales of propaganda. I remembered the warm September day when in a cart like this we climbed the hill near the Stachowskie farms and saw the infinite blue smooth surface of Lake Narocz in the distance. I remembered the rapturous feeling that we had reached the place we had dreamed about in our ghetto days, a feeling of freedom and pride – we were partisans, formidable avengers. It was as though I were seeing once again the riders galloping up, their windblown faces, their caps with red ribbons. Now were riding through the dry forest; once in a while we glimpsed patches of sunken snow, and gentle, yellow grains of sand crunched under the wheels. 469

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We left the forest with pines as tall as ship masts and advanced through the underbrush. Was this in fact the Rudnicki Wilderness? I had imagined a forest of impassable thickets, dark and marshy, but around us here were woods like those at the dacha in Pośpieszki near Vilna – meadows cleared of trees or burned out in places with occasional sturdy old pine trees. We went on for several hours. That meant, I thought, that the detachment where we had stayed was located some distance away and had moved to the east. I began to rehearse mentally how I would greet Chaim and our friends, but then began to be afraid that after arriving at headquarters I would be sent to an unfamiliar detachment, cast somewhere into the distance. I would have to collect my thoughts and get a meeting with Kapliński, the commander of the detachment where Chaim was assigned. I would bend every effort to get access to them. We approached the thick undergrowth. “Password,” the shout rang out. Someone gave the password; without it would have been impossible to move on through the forest, and several of our boys ran out to meet us. Among them were friends from the ghetto. I threw myself at them. “You have to tell the For Victory Detachment that I have arrived. Ask Kapliński to come to headquarters and put me on his roster. Otherwise they will assign me to another detachment.” And I summarized my wanderings to them. The men promised to carry out my request, but I was still not sure. After walking several more kilometers, we came out on a broad, sandy road on both sides of which stretched canals with water in them and a thick, damp forest. “This is our avenue, “Kopana,” the main road in the forest,” explained one of the “old timers,” “They built it through the thick growth here in 1936 on the orders of the Polish government, when German Field Marshal Goering was planning to come here to do some hunting.” Now we were getting close. At the end of the Kopana road, a huge pine tree was growing and the dry forest began. We turned left following the marsh road and dove into a grove of firs with beautiful smooth moss on them. Moldering timber and stumps, complete fortification barriers, lay 470

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around us. (Many years later, in 1959, I searched in the dense forest with a group of former partisans for the trail to our former headquarters. We were looking for the burial places of our front-line comrades. When I saw the smooth moss I recognized the place where we had walked in forty-four, and took the whole group to the graves.) And there before us was a dugout. “That’s the guard-post of the headquarters unit. Beyond it is the bathhouse and the dugouts of the partisans and headquarters personnel,” they told us. A big large table with benches around it was standing in a meadow. A tall, curly headed man in a half length sheepskin came out of one dugout. I gave out a cry. It was Marionas Miceika, a young man I knew from the Vilna gorkom. I rushed over to him, and we embraced. I was happy that Miceika was alive, that he was here, and I was sure that he would help me. Behind him was a short, black haired, middle aged man in a fur vest over his blouse – Jurgis, the commander of the Southern Brigade of the Lithuanian partisan movement. He had dark penetrating eyes and a severe, strong willed face. They reported the details of the mission that had been carried out to him, and he led the officers of our group to his office in the dugout. We handed in the whole load of literature that we had brought. They sat us down at the table, poured hot borscht into bowls for us, and we ate our fill. The whole time I was considering how to ask one of the men to run over to the For Victory Detachment. I picked out a young man I knew slightly and beseeched him: “Run over to the For Victory Detachment and tell them that I’m here. I’ll give you twenty cartridges.” We negotiated and agreed on fifty (I had two hundred of them in my belt). The lad vanished. I began to say goodbye to the guys in our group and to my kind Lithuanian helper. “It’s too bad that you are transferring to another detachment,” he sighed. I was grateful to him for the cordial way that he treated me on the trip. It was already two o’clock in the afternoon. It was a gloomy, grey day, and the tall pines were groaning everywhere around us. Now and then 471

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girls and young men ran up to us and asked how things were there, on Lake Narocz, and who remained of the Jews who had escaped. For it was difficult to get news. Everyone was looking for their friends and loved ones. The young man I had sent out to Chaim’s unit ran in and reported: “I was at the detachment. It’s about six kilometers away. They are riding here to get you.” I handed him the promised cartridges. Then a strange cart with high wicker sides appeared on the pathway between the dugouts. Three heads were looking out of it. I recognized Samuel Kapliński, Chiena Borowska and – Chaim! I had lived long enough to see him again! I was going to be with my beloved after so many ordeals, so much sickness, after such a tortuous trip. I had come to him! The cart stopped, and all three came out on the path near the dugout. The only one I was looking at was Chaim. There he was, short and quite ugly! In my dreams he was handsome. Dressed in a German overcoat and a German watch cap but with a red ribbon across it. His glasses were held together by wire – he had broken them. For without glasses he could not see anything. Something akin to disappointment stirred in my heart, but I was immediately ashamed of myself. I hurled myself at Chaim, and his two dear arms gripped me; my cheeks touched his chin. We are together, and we will never be parted again! Chiena and Samuel looked at us understandingly, for their love was also not an easy one. I was struck by Chiena’s pale face; she was probably unwell. Samuel’s moustache twitched triumphantly: “Now we will make all the arrangements to go to our detachment. You certainly sent a lot of messengers to us! Ever since dawn guys have been running over from the next detachment with the news, ‘Lala has arrived!’” Samuel and Chiena got off at the staff dugout, while Chaim and I stood there holding hands and trying to say something to one another, although we could not find the words. We had finally come home … Home? Yes, I had the feeling that wherever Chaim was – that was our home. So here were the four of us sitting in a cart like a basket, and the horse was slowly plodding onward. They fell all over themselves trying to tell me 472

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something. I listened in a state of agitation: how the ghetto was liquidated, how an FPO group escaped from the ghetto through the sewer pipes and then made their way into the forest. I learned that the people who had been sent out of the ghetto to the death camps had perished. Samuel described how the detachments were created, and Chaim told about his trip after we were separated. Everything was mixed up in my head, I was shaking all over – from the new tidings, from the joy of the meeting, from grief over the losses. Chaim and my loyal friends from the FPO were with me. I never dreamed of seeing them again; we had been separated by hundreds of kilometers of land on which it was dangerous to set foot. Around us was the damp forest surrounding the Kopana Road. Then we turned right on a narrow road in the evergreen forest. “This is ‘French Road,’” my traveling companions explained. “Napoleon’s troops hacked it out during the retreat from Moscow in 1812. It’s already 130 years old. Our Jewish detachments are stationed on the right side of it. Soon the Fourth Detachment will be in the thicket and a couple of kilometers away from it our two detachments – For Victory and Avenger. Its commander is Abba Kowner.” The thick young forest seemed to have no end. The horse had trouble pulling us up a sandy elevation. “These are our big pine trees,” said Samuel, pointing at several tall old trees on the hill. “Here we will turn right downhill from the road. We are already at our base camp.” (Fifteen years later I found the way to the partisan graves among these tall pines on the trail overgrown with plantain). Pickets were standing on the path and alongside them men from the nearby Russian special detachment. We were greeted warmly. People from the Narocz detachments rarely showed up here, not to speak of our people from the ghetto and the FPO. We lumbered across a bridge through the swamp. And here we were at the right place. We jumped off the cart. Pines and more pines surrounded us; beyond them the swamp, choked with dense undergrowth. Among the pines was a sandy rise and dugouts that had been 473

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excavated in it. Inside a corral several horses were sauntering and timber was lying about. “Go to your place and rest up. Then come to the staff dugout. We’ll have supper and talk,” said Chiena. Chaim and I entered the big dugout for soldiers; there was another exit in the farthest wall, which meant that it was a complete dugout. Bunks made of boards and covered by homespun blankets were on both sides of the corridor. Some kind of clothing or rag was spread at the head of the beds. The air was humid and dank, such as one would find in a basement. “Yes, this is where we live, partisans of the For Victory Detachment,” Chaim explained. “And Avenger, commanded by Abba Kowner, is just a bit farther away. There are also staff dugouts, where our commander Samuel Kapliński, Commissar Chiena Borowska, Abba along with Witka Kempner, and Ruźka Kurczak live. This is my place,” Chaim indicated a bunk closer to the exit. “Let’s go to the well and wash up. Then we’ll see what to do with your feet. I know very well how feet that are rubbed raw to the point of blisters can hurt. Just don’t open them! I’m sure you remember how many months I suffered from those damned feet when we went to the detachment on Lake Narocz.” We talked about things in general and cautiously took stock of each other. Two and a half months had gone by since we parted, yet it seemed like more than a year. He and I had to suffer through a great deal over that time. We lay down on the hard bunks, and Chaim started to relate what had happened to him. The group that he traveled with had no way of crossing the only partially frozen river, and the commander did not allow him to come back to see me. It was only a few dozen kilometers, but seeing each other was impossible. “Saszka, the commanding officer, made fun of me,” Chaim whispered. “I had begged him to let me go if only for two days. He assured me that you, of course, had died, and he urged me not to grieve over you. ‘You’ll find another one, there are lots of girls’ – that was his answer. But leaving without permissions would be desertion, and I’d be shot for it. I sat there for evening after evening looking out the black window of the hut and wondering 474

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how you were doing there … Later, if you can imagine it, after a few weeks a partisan arrived and said that a girl at a farm had died of typhoid. I cried for a long time and was afraid that this could be you… Then the thin ice on the Wilia melted, and they brought in a boat from somewhere. We crossed the river. We began to struggle forward, hauling parts of the printing press. We arrived in good shape. The Jewish detachment was amazing. Everything here was familiar and what we were used to. Chiena and Samuel greeted us like long-lost cousins. I looked for some way of finding out about you. Someone from the headquarters unit went to Narocz and reported that you were still alive. Then we sent Imka’s group, and he carried my letter to you. How long ago all this was, how long it’s been since you and I have seen each other. What a miracle it was that we were able to meet despite this nightmare. Here you are next to me, and I can reach out and touch you. It’s hard to believe that you and I are actually together again.” Chaim spoke, and slowly the barrier between us melted away. I got some rest, and we went to the staff dugout. Szlomo Kowarski, our former Komsomol chieftain in the ghetto, tall, stooped, skinny, was standing at the threshold. He had been suffering from tuberculosis for a long time, and he did not look well. Next to him was my friend from the biology department and co-worker at the ghetto library, Rachela Mendelsund, his wife. We rushed to greet each other, embraced, and wept. I, of course, had left them in the ghetto and did not know whether they had been able to escape on the day of the liquidation. It turned out that they had left the ghetto with an FPO group through the sewer network. Many of our friends gathered with us. Chiena invited us to her place. Samuel, Abba, and several others were sitting at the table, which had been nailed together with boards. They served us tea in cups with milk, bread, and butter. Szlomo whispered: “Don’t imagine that you are going to get treats like this every evening. This is just for today, in honor of your arrival.” “Of course,” Chaim confirmed, “they did the same thing for me.” I did not want to hear Szlomo’s usual barbed comments. My heart was aglow, and I was happy: I had come here alive, I was sitting among friends, all my own people were around me. I was with Chaim again, my dearly 475

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beloved husband. The moment had come that I had dreamed about so often. Here I would become a genuine partisan. I would fight the Nazis and might even see the day of final victory. And as usual, I mentally addressed Father, “I am alive, Father, I have reached the Rudnicki Wilderness, I shall be with Chaim, I am a partisan. Perhaps the time will come when you and I will see each other again.” But a lively conversation was taking place at the table. From the stories that my colleagues told, I learned about the final days of the ghetto. After the departure of our group in September 1943, another three groups were escorted out over the course of ten days. There was no news of failures. That meant that everyone arrived in the forest safely. Likewise, many girls who knew the route made it to Lake Narocz, while others, for example, Fania and Kaja Szapiro, came here. Subsequently, “Jurgis” (Zimanas) relocated from Narocz to the Rudnicki Wilderness. This was a source of great happiness. Inside the ghetto matters became more and more worrisome. Jews were forbidden to leave the ghetto to work in the city. Everyone had to work in shops that were in ghetto territory. Men and women were transported to Estonia. Samuel, who worked in the Vilna “water canal,” explored the idea of escaping from the ghetto through the sewage system. But then came September 23. The territory was surrounded at dawn, and there was no possibility of leaving. “At ten in the morning,” Chiena related, “all FPO members who were still in the ghetto assembled on Rudnicka Street. The ghetto was in a panic; the police were herding everyone toward the gates. None of the guys in the FPO were allowed to take any relatives with them. They were ordered to climb down into the sewer tunnel through a manhole. In filth and unbearable stench they moved slowly, frequently crawling, through the narrow pipes. Witenberg’s seventeen year-old son disappeared. People came back to look for him but could not find him. Szolom began to gasp for air. He and his wife were left to catch their breath more freely in the tunnel until others came back for them. Around seven in the evening they reached the manhole on St. Ignatius Street – outside the ghetto boundary line. Józefa (Zyota) Przewalska from the municipal underground organization and a young man disguised as a Lithuanian policeman were waiting for 476

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them there. People climbing out of the sewers were given a route through Zarzecze to Puszkinówka,6 where a place was prepared for them in a barn. Three of them lost their way and did not get there: Jankiel Kaplan (he was carrying the organization’s money), FPO headquarters staff member Abram Chwojnik, and his girl, Asia Big. We later found out that they had been hanged in the monastery courtyard of Missionaries Church on Suboch Street, where all the Jews from the liquidated ghetto were driven. Our guys waited in the barn at Puszkinowka for Zyota, who had left on a bicycle to scout the road to the Rudnicki Wilderness. Then they began the journey. There were about a hundred people in the group, all of them depressed at having left their loved ones and relatives to die at the hands of the Nazis. Later we discovered that the able-bodied among them were sent to camps in Estonia and Latvia, and the rest, after screening at the Missionaries Church entrance, to death camps in Poland: Sobibór, Treblinka, and Majdanek. The partisans completed the trip safely. The Lithuanian police sentries on the bridge through Waka took shelter from a torrential downpour and, needless to say, did not fire their guns. Once in the forest, they met with Zimanas, the commander of the Southern obkom. Four Jewish partisan detachments were created. We were now sitting in one of them at the table hammered together from planks. Our dream had come true; we had become Jewish partisans. I proceeded to tell about the trip to Narocz, about the Revenge Detachment, about the horrible Nazi encirclement, about the separation from Chaim, about my bout with typhoid. It turned out that they knew nothing about the Lake Narocz detachments. I told them about Tonia and Jurka and about the trial of Captain M., the traitor. Our conversations did not come to an end until dawn. Ordinary partisan life in the Jewish detachment resumed. I woke up to the sound of steps next to me. The commander of the detachment, Samuel Kapliński, was standing beside me. “I have come for your pistol. As a private you are not allowed to have a personal weapon. Give it to me with all its ammunition, that’s the law.” 6

The estate of Alexander Puszkin’s son in Markuchiai.

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I jumped up, grabbed the pistol and aimed it straight at Samuel: “I’ll shoot!’ Go away, you’re not going to get anything! I traded my watch for it, it’s mine. What right do you have to deprive me of it? That means that you use the same criminal methods as Markow!” The frightened Samuel turned on his heels and withdrew. No one ever demanded the pistol from me again, and I strutted around, armed to the teeth – with a pistol, an ammunition belt, and a rifle. I told everybody about the detachments they were unaware of, about anti-Semitism and our military operations. I began to work in the kitchen and took firearms training – I was second in terms of advancement, standing watch, and going to the picket lines. The inner line was a kilometer and a half from the base camp, and the outer line was more than four kilometers distant. It was early in the morning. The rays of the sun were hitting the open door. Chaim was not there. He had left on an assignment the previous evening – it was necessary to establish a link with the peasants, to persuade them to transmit information about German movements to the partisans, and to select couriers. “Fat Chaim” had gone with him. This was a heavy older man who had sold wood in the area of the Rudnicki Wilderness before the war and knew all the peasants there in their farmhouses and villages. Just so long as everything turned out all right, with no shooting. The Rudnicki Wilderness was not the Lake Narocz region. From here to Vilna was about fifty kilometers. The Germans had penetrated deep into the forests here and had sent out their spies. But the partisans of the Polish Armia Krajowa were even worse. A large number of our men had died from their bullets. They dreamed about a free Poland for the Poles, but they saw us as enemies. I got up, smoothed out my stove-bench, and went outside to wash my face at the well. The yellow water had the smell of swamp muck. Reveille was announced. All the guys spilled out into the air – disheveled and sleepy. There were not so many of them today – a large group of them had gone off on missions. But the air was intoxicating, as bracing as wine. Once the prankster Faivka, whose nickname was “Broom,” broke into the dugout before dawn crying, “Alarm, get up!” Everyone jumped out of bed, grabbed for their 478

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clothing and guns, while Faivka nearly died laughing: “I meant to say ‘air raid,’ since you could suffocate in the dugout.” They clobbered Faivka mercilessly for his trick, not letting him get any more sleep before reveille. Here came Chaim – cheerful and smiling. I took his bag and his submachine gun. He washed up and we went to the kitchen to eat kasha. “You should have seen how the Fat One handled the peasants!” They had dropped in on a peasant Fat Chaim knew. He gave the man orders: “Give me cheese and butter and scramble ten eggs in fat for me; don’t forget a bottle of moonshine and one to take on the road with me. In return you can cut down three cubic meters of wood!” And all of this was spoken with such a lordly mien, but the peasant thanked him and kissed the gentleman’s hand. He completely forgot that the former rich man was a Jew, and Germans were all around them. Chaim often went out on missions in a group or by himself. He was obsessed with taking revenge on the Nazis, always conscious that this was our goal in life, and he had absolutely no fear of death. I revered him. Waking up in the morning in the half-empty dugout, I thought about him all the time and for some reason was sure that he would return alive and unharmed. I worked a long time in the kitchen, washed clothes for us and fifteenyear-old Izaak, the brother of Hirsz and Lew, who had been killed on the way into the forest. The partisans took Izaak with them, and he was the youngest member of our group. Everyone tried to look after him. No one spoiled him, however, and he proved himself a genuinely worthy fighter. Once Izaak and Niusia Lubocka went out on an intelligence mission. Their task was to establish contact with Jews in the peatworking camp at White Wake. They had been persuaded quite some time earlier to try to escape. The guards were Lithuanian police officers. Tadzhik and Turkmen defectors also worked there, and we were also trying to entice them over to our side. On the way back to the forest, Izaak and Niusia came across an officer in a uniform that looked German. With him was the son of the camp commandant, Rysiek. Our young avengers disarmed both men and brought them to us in the camp. A trial was held. The officer turned out to 479

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be the representative of a Dutch firm which bought peat. No information about bad treatment of the inmates on his part came to light, but the same could not be said of Rysiek, who was reputed to be a sadist guilty of harassing and torturing his prisoners. He was sentenced to be shot. Nothing was left now of all his arrogance! Rysiek cried and begged for his “Mama.” “Well, we’re sending him to his … mama,” Jurgis declared. The sentence was carried out. The Dutchman Henk stayed in the detachment as a partisan. I remember that he crawled out of the dugout the next morning, shook himself, straightened his broad shoulders, washed his face, and asked for a little “Brilliantine” to grease his hair. This evoked a storm of laughter: we had almost no soap at all, no change of underwear, no sheets on our bunks, and Henk’s words came across as a good joke. Everybody congratulated Niusia and Izaak for capturing the “prisoners” and shook their hands. In the future Henk taught me many Yiddish and Hebrew words and went on missions carrying an anti-tank rifle on his mighty shoulder as if it were a feather. He was a bold fellow who knew how to adapt himself to any conditions. A hasty love affair developed between him and Niusia, and everyone considered them man and wife. They were an attractive couple: the tall, strong, black haired Henk and the delicate, blonde Niusia, who had captivated him. He did not conceal the fact that he had a wife and children at home, and he showed everyone their photograph. After the liberation of Vilna he asked to be sent back to the Netherlands. He managed to obtain the necessary papers, and he left. Niusia pined for him, but their love turned out to be short-lived. After a few days the report came from Warsaw that all his papers and his money had been stolen. Both were reissued. We did not hear anything more about Henk. It was possible that back in Holland he recounted his adventures in the forest, including his life with the Jewish “bandits.” I met Niusia in America in 1981. She and I went to the movies. She had aged noticeably and did not remember her affair with Henk. Life in the detachment proceeded in a pleasant, cordial atmosphere. I got acquainted with everyone, and made friends with many of them. I constantly got together with Rachela and her husband Szlomo, with Fania Jokheles and many former acquaintances and friends from the ghetto. We 480

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never talked about the families we had left behind – this was too painful. We never dreamed about the future; it was too far away, unattainable. Chaim and I tried to imagine what it would be like when the front reached us. We realized that if we lived that long, the most dangerous moment would be when the Red Army clashed with the retreating Nazis. We attempted to have less discussion and more action. It was not easy to join a group going on an operation. Chaim went to recruit new liaison personnel. He obtained new information from former contacts, and our people were more receptive to taking him, as a man, on missions. Weakened by typhoid, scrawny, I tired quickly and rarely had access to such groups. I continued to do other work in the detachment – cleaning up, kitchen duties, and the like. I found this oppressive. I could not stand going out on “foraging” expeditions. I was so ashamed of dropping in on a hut and demanding potatoes, flour, and especially animals – sheep and cows – from the peasants. The women cried, and the men cursed us. It happened that our men surreptitiously seized extra things belonging to the working people who supplied us – boots, clothing, even watches and money. Meetings were held in the detachment to explain to everyone that this was mere pillage, that it was wrong to steal, and that by doing this we making enemies out of the peasants. The detachment, however, contained many “underworlders,” former thieves and vagrants for whom theft was the normal state of affairs. Some of them contended that they had the right to do this: “These folks did not suffer from fascism, but our people all died. Why shouldn’t they share something? After all, we don’t even have clean underwear, our shoes are worn out, and we’re freezing in the rags we wear. Is this what you call justice?” We were principled members of the FPO. On these expeditions we tried to make sure that nothing was taken except food, but these efforts were not always successful. Our ragged partisans in their broken-down footwear continued to plunder the peasants, who cursed us and hated us. We went out “foraging” after sundown and continued long into twilight. We had to range far afield, since the close-in farms had already been fleeced. Both detachments had complements of up to one hundred forty men. A horde of 481

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this size required a great deal of food. In general they took potatoes, flour, cabbage, and sometimes cottage cheese for the sick. The order was given to take cattle only from prosperous peasants who had no fewer than two cows. It was forbidden to take one from a really poor peasant who had just a single cow. We advanced down a trail in the woods. It was getting dark. We went around the backyards of a village. Keen eyes spotted us, however, and the rumor took wing: “Partisans. A company of them is gathering.” But there were really only twenty of us. I was carrying a rifle and a cartridge belt. The rifle was getting heavier all the time, the boots as well. The spring forest smelled of fresh greenery. The birds fell silent, and dewdrops formed. In the meadows and glades one could still see the outlines of trees and huts, but in the forest it was totally dark. Sweat poured down our faces, but we rarely took a break. It would take all night to get to the village, load the produce, and haul the booty to the base camp. Our strength gone, we flopped on the grass during a break. I slept only five minutes, but that was enough. My back was wet from the dew. We finally got to the village we targeted and posted sentries. We ordered the owners to hitch up a cart. We loaded produce on it, tied a cow to the back, and put some confused sheep on it. We worked to the accompaniment of wails and tears on the part of the peasant men and women. We had to hurry. We went back, carefully looking around from time to time. There was a garrison in the vicinity, and we could have run up against Germans or Armia Krajowa soldiers; the latter spared no one, not partisans, not Germans, not Lithuanians. Here was the French Road, then the outer picket line of two partisans from our detachment, with pine trees towering on a hill. Now to the left and downhill. The inner sentry line met us – men from our unit and partisans of the Russian special detachment, which was located close to us. We crossed over a bridge built to the specifications of the engineer and builder Henk. We reached the base camp. Everyone came running, everyone was glad to see us: we had returned safely with produce; we would not starve. 482

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Yet my heart was heavy. I realized that we could not avoid “foraging,” but this was not a military operation. Rather, I wanted to blow up a railroad, slay Germans, hasten their utter defeat. The radio reports were invariably favorable – our forces were driving the Nazis back. Would they reach us soon? I brought some cottage cheese to Chiena. She was lying down in the staff dugout, pale and gaunt. She thanked me. I sat down on the bunk with her, and we talked. I knew that she had tuberculosis of her inner organs, and there was fluid in her abdominal cavity. It was hard for her to walk. Sometimes she hobbled up the little rise into which our dugouts were excavated and lay in the sunshine. I was so sorry for her; she had lived through so much: the Poles imprisoned her for being a communist, and she was quite young when she gave birth to Ilka. Then she had left her mother, sister, and twelve-year-old son behind in the ghetto. The boy was so capable, intelligent, and handsome. I remembering him taking out new books every day in the ghetto library. He was slight of build, but what alert eyes and protruding ears he had. He stayed with his stepfather, Michał Borowski Samuel’s love supported Chiena. He literally carried her in his arms. If only she did not die! I went to the kitchen to eat some soup. A cook with the surname Czuż gave me a bowl. She was the mother of two partisans and was the oldest member of the detachment. “This sickness that your Chiena has will go away,” she said with a sneer. “What’s the matter, are you a fool? Can’t you see she’s pregnant? That yellow face of hers gives it away. I know what I’m talking about; you can trust my experience. Water in her stomach! There won’t be any water after she has her baby!” I resented this conversation. Why should Chiena lie about this? If she said she had water, she meant what she said. But her stomach kept getting bigger, until finally I, too, her passionate defender, was forced to admit that we would soon have a new “little partisan.” There was a doctor in the unit, Salomon Gorfinkiel a student in his final year at medical school. He and his wife, Emma Klok (she had gone to my school, four years ahead of me), had set up a medical aid post in the 483

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dugout and had helped our ill people a great deal. After the typhoid I had sharp pains in the stomach all the time. Samuel ground up medicine for me obtained from burnt bones – something like activated charcoal. The medicine helped, and I quickly recovered. Almost all traces of the typhoid I had endured disappeared. My appetite was excellent; at mess I was always asking for a second helping of soup or kasha. To be sure, a persistent cough made my daily life unpleasant, but in my view this was only a cold. Later, when I was studying at the university, they made us all come in for X-rays. Mine revealed that I had a scarred-over cavity in the upper lobe of my right lung. Partisan life had cured me – day after day in the forest, fresh air, and a healthy diet. A Nazi garrison was stationed in Kanyuki village. It blocked the partisans’ way into the region beyond it and was very dangerous for us. The brigade high command decided to attack the garrison and send all our detachments there. Fania went on this operation with a group from Avenger Detachment. Our guys went, too. In a few days they returned, bearing their wounded with them. It had been a very prolonged battle. The partisans had surrounded the garrison, but the Nazis were exceptionally well armed and beat off all attacks. They broke the flanks of the Jewish detachments, and the partisans withdrew precipitously. Then Magid jumped up on a rock and yelled: “We are Jews. We will show them what we are capable of. Forward, comrades!” This sobered the men up; they ran back and won. Fania told a very funny story about Magid, who spoke Russian poorly. As he said it, it came out, “We are Jews, we’ll show them what we have.”7 Everyone laughed, and the expression took root in our conversations. Everyone felt uplifted. We had returned with a victory despite the enemy’s superiority in numbers. The Kanyuki garrison no longer existed. That spring was marked by changes. The Avenger Detachment left for a new base camp. Many other units also shifted locations. We started to see 7

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Translator‘s note: this is a play on two similar-sounding, but very different, Russian verbs: „umet‘,“ to be capable of, and „imet‘,“ to have or possess.

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our comrades much less often, but we understood that the territory of the brigade had to expand. Once, on my way back from the outer picket line, the news hit me: partisans in the forest had found five filthy, haggard Jews who said they had escaped from Ponary, but not under fire. They had been exhuming and incinerating the corpses of people killed earlier! Bringing new people to us was forbidden without the permission of higher authority. Zimanas and the head of the special detachment set out for the forest. Then the five escapees were brought to headquarters. There they laid out the terrible events in detail. As early as December 1943, after all the Nazi “actions” in the Vilna ghetto and the city suburbs, after the raid to clear out the hiding places, the ghetto was liquidated. Then the occupying forces decided to destroy the traces of their atrocities in Ponary. By that time almost 100,000 people, including about 70,000 Jews, had been shot and buried in ditches. The Germans formed a brigade of “liquidators” drawn from the healthy male Jews who were being held in the Łukiszki prison or at timber-cutting projects. They selected about eighty people and assigned some women to cook meals and wash clothes. At one of the Ponary pits they erected a dugout with a kitchen and storeroom. Mines were sown around the pit, barbed wire was strung around it, and the “liquidators” were under guard day and night. In the morning they were taken out to work; in the evening they were driven and were shackled in manacles before they could sleep. The group was classified according to the nature of their duties: some pulled lumber, others exhumed corpses. For this purpose a conveyance was procured to extract the corpses from the deep holes they were in. A dentist ripped out gold teeth, and rings were taken from the corpses. The German who watched over the scene took account of everything. Pyramids of boards and corpses were erected, fuel was poured over them, and special mine shafts were ignited which smoldered for about two weeks. Smoke enveloped the forest and nearby cottages in the village. The condemned prisoner-workers were fed and given the clothing of the recently killed ones. It was heavy, horrible labor. The lungs of the workers were saturated with the stench of the corpses. It was clear: as soon as the work was completed, 485

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they would be slaughtered. From the very first days of the project, the “liquidators” began digging an underground passage out of the storeroom in order to exit the mine enclosure. The challenge was to excavate a tunnel thirty meters long and seventy centimeters high. They did the digging at night and carried out the sand in their clothing. They dragged poles and small boards into the dugout, ostensibly to heat the structure but actually to reinforce the tunnel walls. The ones who did the most work on the tunnel were placed first on the list of escapees. When about 68,000 bodies had been cremated, it was clear that the date of execution was near. They decided to get out on Catholic Easter Sunday, April 14. The guards were drunk, which gave them hope that they could save themselves. They started to leave during the night. Only twelve men had time to get out before the Lithuanian guards turned on the siren. The escapees ran into the forest. Terrified, they kept running for several hours and by morning discovered that they had gone in a circle, running back to the site of their departure. A pile of manure ready for use as fertilizer saved them; they dug into it and hid. The next night they ran off again. Peasants showed them the way, and someone gave them a map. They finally met up with partisans. The Ponary refugees were brought to our detachment, where they were washed in the bathhouse and given new clothes to wear, yet the abominable stench had soaked into them through and through. For all our sympathy for them, no one wanted to live in the same dugout with them. Among these inmates of Ponary was a Russian prisoner of war who was dying of tuberculosis. They fed him and took care of him because he had been through hell. Despite our best efforts, the young man soon passed away. All my life I have kept the memory of this meeting with the rescued prisoners: a small group of inmates – martyred, hunted like animals, filthy, stinking – standing amidst our partisans. The brigade commanders took notes on their tale. This would be particularly important testimony by witnesses to the atrocities committed by the Nazis. The tunnel dipped down under the wall of the pit, which was lined with stone, then came up and again went down. Izaak Dogim conducted electric wires into the passageway in order to signal the diggers in the event something happened. On one occasion four of them did not answer the bell for 486

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roll call in time, but the Germans did not notice. Five escaped onto the road to the Rudnicki Wilderness. They were Motel Zaidel, Szlomo Gol (he saw the corpses of his wife and children in the pit), Piotr Zinin, Owsiejczyk , and Mackin. The others – Józef Bielic , Izaak Dogim, Farber, Miron Klinicki , Kantorowicz , Kostka Potanin – joined the partisans on Lake Narocz. As the former inmate Motel Zaidel expressed it in a conversation in 1993, “God closed their eyes for them.” He was then a young seventeen-year-old lad in a homespun coat. I also distinctly remember gaunt, weak Kostka Potapin with his sunken chest. I believe he later transferred from the Narocz region to the Rudnicki Wilderness. Months went by after their arrival, but it was still impossible to sit or stand next to these people. The smell of decomposing corpses clung tenaciously to every part of their bodies. I constantly pondered how they could go on living after everything they endured. Probably the piles of corpses they extracted from the pits hovered before their eyes all the time. They must have imagined hearing the peremptory shouts of the Germans and their explanations: here were Poles from the Armia Krajowa, and these were Jews from the ghetto; those over there were Lithuanian soldiers who refused to join the SS battalion; here were Jewish men, the same ones who were ordered to report ostensibly to be sent to workplaces (next to them were bundles with underwear and towels); and these were children from the Jewish Children’s Home … They must have seen the terrible fiery pyramids of thousands of flaming corpses. The bones that were not totally consumed in the fire were ground into mortar so no traces of them would remain. But people can become stronger and can bear up under anything. How fortunate we are that time effaces memory. Otherwise it would be impossible to live.

THE BAG FROM THE SKY It was a damp day in early spring. Another partisan and I went to the outer picket line on the “French road” to stand watch. On the way we passed Henk’s bridge, the sentry post next to the base camp alongside the Russian 487

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special detachment, and climbed up a narrow path through a sparsely wooded area. On the right was a hill with the graves of fallen partisans. We came out onto a sandy road amid tall pines. The road was almost choked by underbrush. Hardly anyone traveled on it aside from our occasional carts with their loads of “forage.” After going about three kilometers through the dense young forest, we descended the hill to find our fellow soldiers waiting for us to relieve them. “Today we’re going to the landing strip. Airplanes are coming in from Moscow,” the men said. “We’re going to have to light bonfires all night and haul logs and branches.” “A lot more interesting than slaving away here,” I replied, “ten steps left, ten right. It’s cold and damp. I’d gladly trade places with you.” They left, and I, taking turns with my partner, began pacing and keeping an eye on the trail below us. The dense forest stood there like a solid wall, and the only way to reach the base camp from the highway was to take this path. My partner was boring. He was well along in years, and when he was not walking, he was dozing off. Since I had finished my turn pacing back and forth, I sat down to rest and began looking for the tenth time at the worn pages of a Polish book that I had found in a hut while on a foraging raid. In my pocket I had some light blue satin thread and a needle. With nothing else to do, I proceeded to do some cross-stitch embroidery on the hem of the brown cloth skirt that I had worn since leaving the ghetto. That skirt had certainly seen a lot, I thought to myself: the expedition into the forest, the German encirclement, the swamp, the haystack, burned-out timbers in the dugout, the hard bed in the forester’s hut, the road to the Rudnicki Wilderness, the dugout bunks … And the lice swarming all over it… Then it was my turn to patrol the pathway again. I went up the hill. The sky was dark blue, and down below the darkness was already intensifying. Suddenly I noticed the black outlines of parachutes against the blue sky, and they seemed to be quite close to us. The parachutes descended slowly and then disappeared. I ran down the hill to tell my companion what I had seen. It was completely dark. The sand swished underfoot. Suddenly an unusual sight: ahead of me, in a hollowed space near the hill, there was a 488

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white spot like sour cream or a pool of thick, somewhat shiny liquid. I had never believed in miracles or supernatural phenomena, but in this case I froze at the sight of it. After all, I had only recently walked through this area. What could it possibly be? I lifted a long switch and tried to thrust it into the liquid. The stick did not get wet. I touched it with my hand. It was some kind of fabric, that is what it was. While I had been standing on the hill, the parachute had dropped – gently, noiselessly. I ran to my fellow partisan: what should we do? “Run to the base camp and tell the commander!” Breathlessly I rushed through the forest to the base camp. It was a fourmile trip, the woods were dark, and I was thoroughly soaked. “A parachute with a bag came down at the outer picket line,” I cried. “Calm down, don’t yell,” was the answer. “We’ll decide what to do about it.” In a few minutes they hitched up our only nag and started out for the bag. Our thinking was as follows: no part of any load dropped from an airplane was ever distributed to us – not guns, boots, or least of all, food products. We talked about this in the unit all the time. But now God himself had come to our rescue, and we were simply making the most of it. But for heaven’s sake keep quiet about it so headquarters won’t catch wind of it. They brought the bag to the base camp, divided up the weapons and boots, and gave each of the girls a little piece of chocolate. We had long forgotten how divine chocolate could taste. Nevertheless, headquarters did find out that an offense had been committed. One of our girls at the camp had treated a boy from another detachment to some of our chocolate. He could not refrain from bragging about it to his friends – what a miracle this had been! So word of it reached the brass. A short time later, with no rhyme or reason, commanding office Samuel and Commissar Chiena Borowska were summoned to brigade headquarters. They came back looking very dejected: they had been removed from their positions, and a new group of leaders had been appointed in their place. The commanding officer was now Abram Szabryński. His mark of distinction was having served in the Polish Army in some kind of low-ranking grade. He was new to the detachment. He had not achieved anything 489

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unless one counted his abduction of the wife of one of the partisans. That was an act that we condemned. It seemed to us that the punishment far exceeded the crime. The people who were sacked had such meritorious backgrounds! Samuel had brought guns into the ghetto through the sewer system. He had led more than a hundred people out of the ghetto on the day it was liquidated, and he took them into the forest. Chaim sat on a bench under a birch tree and wept. He had also paid a price for that bag and feared that he would be expelled from the Komsomol. I sat next to him and comforted him as best I could. “They’ve already punished you for concealing the bag. They removed you from your post. Everyone knows that you are fair and honest. Besides, there’s nothing so wrong with what you did. The brass is well aware that our detachment has never been given any of the good things that the headquarters of the partisan movement sent. We are like stepchildren to them. And in general, what do they know about the way we live? They named a stranger as commanding officer. He’s not even an FPO member or a member of the underground. God knows where he came from!” It would be better if he got angry, I thought, but Chaim continued to cry. Anyway, no one was expelled from the Komsomol. I can see it now: we are sitting on the little bench, and tears are pouring down his face. How many tears we had shed and how many we were fated to shed in the future. We were so committed to our goals, so honest. The new commander wanted to inculcate his own ideas about discipline. In the morning our detachment was ordered to fall in on the small hillside. We stood there in two lines and dutifully listened to Abram Szabryński speech from the throne. Inasmuch as he did not know Russian – he had served in the Polish armed forces – his language overflowed with expressions that had double meanings in Russian, as in, for example: “The commander’s order is a holiday!”8 The poor guy meant to say that his orders were sacred. Instead of the reverent attentiveness he expected, the phrase was greeted with loud laughter. When his words resounded: “Weapons for

8

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From the Polish swęto – holiday.

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the warrior … (pause) are like a pen for the pisser.”9 I fell prostrate on the ground with my rifle, convulsed with laughter. The girls raced to pick me up, silently motioning that I should cough and cough; otherwise he would fly into a rage. I had been coughing all spring, loudly. So now I began to cough violently. All of this created a tumult, and the girls declared: “She’s not well, we have to take her to the infirmary!” and they dragged me down the hill. Afterwards we frequently brought up this incident and laughed about it. In the meantime other changes were being cooked up. All married people were ordered to assemble down on the logs at the swamp by the entrance to the base camp. “What’s up?” we wondered. Abram showed up in his rough cloth jacket, with his submachine gun at the ready. “I wanted to tell you that amoral things are going on in the unit,” he began his speech. “This isn’t a detachment, it’s a whorehouse. So I have decided that we need to construct a women’s dugout. We will move all the women there, including the married women. I will not permit husbands to sleep with their wives.” This was very offensive to me. He was depriving me of the few happy minutes in the evenings when I could tell Chaim everything that happened during the day and talk to him heart to heart. Normally I conducted myself modestly and did not make speeches. But in this case the words somehow spontaneously burst out of me: “But it’s OK to sleep with other men’s wives?” Abram realized that this referred to his relationship with the wife of partisan K. He turned red and cried out in a rage: “To the bathhouse with her, for five days!” There was no guardhouse in the detachments, so malefactors were locked up in the bathhouse. I was taken under guard, and a few minutes later I was in the damp and smoky bathhouse with its tiny window in the changing room and a large 9

Translator’s Note: This is a play on a Russian word – pisatel [writer], while to urinate is pisiat.

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room with a cauldron, a hearth, and a pile of rocks which were heated red hot and thrown into the water, thus producing steam. At that moment the bath was damp and dank. I sat down in the changing room. The news of my “exploit” spread through the whole unit. “Good girl! You hit him right between the eyes! He had it coming to him!” everyone laughed approvingly. No one liked Abram: he orated, gave orders, and put on the airs of a superior officer, unlike the soft, smiling Samuel Kaplińsky, who took counsel with everyone and got along without shouting at people. He was a true kindred spirit. Chaim came over and we talked through the little window: the guard did not shoo him away. “Did the devil get your tongue?” Chaim reproached me, “But what you said was right on!” People came to see me all evening. They brought me kasha from the kitchen. Sergeant Major Tewje himself – a solid, bulky man – showed up after dark. “He has already gone to bed with his woman,” his bass voice proclaimed. “Get out of here and take your rightful place with Chaim. I’ll wake you up in the morning.” His nobility touched me. The bathhouse was cold and dreary. At dawn I felt someone tugging at my foot. Tewje was taking me back to the bathhouse. I got along fine during my confinement. My compassionate girlfriends brought me their best food, even tea with milk in it. But the main thing was that everyone respected me. When people came in to bathe, I was taken outside to sit on a bench in front of the bathhouse. This occurred in the evening when the air was overflowing with the aroma of the springtime forest. I luxuriated in the singing of the birds and our conversations. But then I had to return to the damp, sooty bathhouse. Everything comes to an end, however, and I went back to my regular bunk next to Chaim. And again I frequently had to wait for him to return from a military mission, confident for some reason that nothing bad would happen and he would come back to me. 492

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Once they informed us that a new military uniform had been introduced in the Soviet Union, with epaulettes, exactly as it was under the tsar. And there would be a new anthem in place of the “International.” The words of the anthem were distributed to us on cards, and we were ordered to memorize it in time for May Day. I was really disappointed: a tsarist uniform? Was this a return to the distant past? And the anthem was ludicrous and alien to us. They explained to us that the solemn, militant International remained the Party anthem. We unenthusiastically learned the words of the new anthem and concluded that this step had obviously been taken for the sake of our allies, although they were in no hurry to open a second front. Early in May the Germans began to bomb the base camps. There were casualties. The order came down for all of us to evacuate and go to the swamps on the long island called Długa Wyspa. We packed up our equipment, took our guns, and left our base camp. We trudged for many kilometers over the sandy roads through the piney woodlands and talked while we walked. Our mood was buoyant. Everyone treated the evacuation as an excursion. After all, we had been sitting for months on our little island and had not seen the spring; an evergreen forest does not change much in the course of a year. Something rumbled in the distance – an air raid? Suddenly I was afraid. Could we be leaving forever? Change is always fraught with a lot of unknowns. As an inveterate pessimist, I was despondent. By noontime everyone was tired. They let us take a break, distributed food, and we moved on. By evening the landscape had changed. We were in a hardwood forest. Green, swelling buds and tiny little leaves were shimmering on the trees. The smell of fresh birch and water was wafted through the air. The wrenching, fast-flowing beauty of early spring. The swamp, the bushes, the trees were awakening from their winter’s sleep. There is nothing to compare with our sands and thin pine trees and alders in the marshes. We decided to bed down for the night here. We could be staying for an extended period of time. Everyone rushed out to find materials to build tepees. Chaim and I, like the others, began to cut bark from the hardwood trees. Later I bitterly regretted that we did not think about the future and did not believe that it would come. During the war so much of everything 493

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had been lost! Chaim and I built our tepee and were glad that we could be together. We dreamed of being on our “little island” of seclusion at least for a short time. The round-the-clock presence of outsiders weighed us down. Just at that point Musia approached: “I’m going to help you build. They said three or four people should move in together.” So much for seclusion! On the other hand the beauty surrounding us, the evening smells, the sunsets and the crimson dawn, the tender green of the reawakening trees and bushes, the new grass. One forgot that war was all around us. Our hearts were overflowing with happiness and the beauty of spring. We were able to live in this picturesque place only a few days. The Germans stopped bombing the base camps, and we returned to our hillock. After the winter everything here was drowned in mud: the big, stuffy dugouts, the trampled-down open area in the grip of the swamps. There was not enough clothing to wear. We sewed panties and blouses from parachute silk, and we even dyed these items, boiling the fabric in water with colored jerseys or jackets. This is how I was able to make a light blue blouse with short sleeves for myself. I wore it for a long time, even after liberation. The days became steadily warmer, and the hard kersey boots grew exceptionally heavy. Fortunately there was the bathhouse. There was enough food, so we did not starve. Marksmanship classes were being held in the little grove beyond the French Road. I earned good marks; I was second or third among the women. Although I sometimes went out on foraging expeditions, I wangled the duty of standing outside on guard, not entering the huts. I felt it was so shameful to requisition the peasants’ belongings, especially to carry off their cows. We gave the owners the explanation that this was like a tax which they did not pay the Nazi government, that the partisans were fighting the occupying forces, and we needed their support. No speeches, however, made up for the disproportionate loss of a milk cow. I volunteered for a military mission, and they shortly assigned me to a group that was supposed to burn down the bridge near Olkienik . 494

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We set out in daylight since this was a partisan zone. We marched down a sandy road and crossed the highway to Grodno. Quite nearby, in Zigmuntiszki, a German garrison was stationed. We moved quickly and noiselessly. On the other side of the road the forest was older, and beyond it a marsh stretched on and on. Finally we reached a wooden bridge over a deep stream. I do not know why we crossed the bridge and went to the opposite side, but it was evidently in order to expunge our tracks. We piled brushwood onto the bridge, put the explosive material in place, the bridge went up in flames, and we moved along the bank toward Zigmuntiszki. Then the men sawed down a huge pine tree which was straddling the river. Everyone was ordered to cross to the other side by clinging to the trunk. The men scrambled across swiftly, but the girls, including me, faltered. The dark, turbulent water was scary, and the protruding branches snagged my skirt. My rifle pulled me down, and it was impossible to keep my balance. The guys on the bank hurled imprecations at us: “There’s always confusion with women around. It makes you wonder why they let them go on missions!” I can still feel the terror that I experienced then; it is as though I can still feel the slippery trunk of the pine tree under my feet. But then the bank was next to me, I stepped onto the grass of the meadow, and a stone was lifted from my heart. I suddenly noticed that it was a magnificently sunny day, and the field was strewn with ripe strawberries. The image of Chiena’s pale face rose before my eyes. I decided then and there to gather the strawberries and wrap them quickly in a rag. I looked around; there was no one in the vicinity. Our group had vanished, and I was picking the strawberries in complete isolation. I rushed headlong into the woods, but no one was there either. In approximately half an hour the other soldiers caught on that I was not with them, and several of them were sent out to look for me. They found me, cursed me up and down, and promised to punish me. When we got back to the base camp, the Germans from Zigmunciszki were already shelling the French Road with a trench mortar. The shells landed quite near us with a scream. We dodged the barrage by a miracle. I was scolded for my breach of discipline, but Chiena got her handful of strawberries all the 495

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same. For a long time I remembered the idyllic strawberry field suffused with sunlight.

EPILOGUE Going through the papers that our neighbor Gawle brought over, I came across my student certification and record-book for the first year, which Father had carefully packed away. I seemed to be hearing his voice: “Definitely continue your studies. Education is the main thing in life. Remember how difficult it was for me as a student. But I achieved success. Stick with it, go to the university.” The next day I turned up at the central building of the university with my miraculously saved documents. A big man with an unpleasant face was sitting behind a desk in the chancellery of our dean’s office. He took my little green booklets. “You have not attended class for three years and have forgotten everything you learned, and now you show up out of the blue – hello! – and want to start all over again. It won’t work. Go back where you spent your time those three years!” “No, now you go back where I was those three years,” I shouted in a rage, and ran to the Gorkom. Seeing my red eyes and tear-stained face, First Secretary Fiedorowicz asked me what was wrong. “That’s an outrage,” he commented on hearing my story. He dialed the telephone number of the university rector. “I am asking you to immediately replace the personnel who were hired during the Nazi occupation,” he said, and related the details of my case. “Now you can go and submit your application. Good girl for wanting to continue your studies.” Studying did not come easily to me. We continued not to have enough to eat, and I spent the whole day at work until six in the evening. The little carbide lamp stank, and the kerosene lamp smoked. I requested a transfer to a job in the library. 496

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After working in the Gorkom library for about a year, I was convinced that I could not handle such a workload – and I had to get ready for my final examinations. So when we, the lowest-ranking employees – cleaning staff, typists, and librarians – discovered that we were denied cafeteria privileges, I did not hesitate to resign and devote all my time to studying for and passing part of my exams. I found a night job as proofreader for a Polish newspaper, and continued my studies, mastering Lithuanian with difficulty. I passed my exams, with a grade of five, no less. We continued to go hungry until the 1948 currency reform. Chaim worked as a draftsman at the factory, and then got a promotion. We spent the summer at our dacha in Wołokumpia together with my classmate Lusia Sh. and her little daughter, Chiena and her toddler Rutka who was born in the forest, and with Marysia and her little son Michał. Our friendship with our former comrades was stronger all the time, for none of us had loved ones or family members, and everyone was living on the verge of starvation. Receiving a coupon for shoes was a major event. We moved with Chiena’s family from Teatralny 8 to a mansion at Zakrętowa 2, and the two families lived together for fifteen years. …Chaim and I walked down the street. It was a beautiful day in early May. Suddenly we heard the voice of the radio announcer Levitan from a radio in a basement apartment. We stopped: Levitan was solemnly announcing the end of the war, victory! We had lived to see the utter defeat of Nazism. But suddenly words describing the victory of “the Russian people” cut like a knife to the heart. Why should it be “Russian” and no mention of the others who gave up their sons to the cause of victory? Bitterness flooded our hearts. Peacetime was no bed of roses. Certain events were by no means joyful. In 1949 they closed the Jewish Museum, which Jewish intellectuals had reestablished with great travail. All the holdings of the museum were sent to the archives. This was an incomprehensible, blatant injustice. I finished my program in natural science at Vilna University. It was a hard job earning the diploma with distinction which was conferred upon me. My memory had suffered from the long periods of famine during the 497

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war and after, and I needed to read over the material as many as eight times before exams. But no Józio or Miron was there, no Mama, to rejoice in my success, and no Father, who would have said “This is really my daughter – good girl! I was not wrong about you.” In my fifth year they gave me a position at the university as a senior laboratory assistant. After receiving my diploma I became an assistant, then a senior instructor. I mastered Lithuanian, ran our meager household, and tried not to think about the past – the wound in my heart had not healed. I could not force myself to go to Ponary and did not permit myself to think about the past. I did not change my surname, all the time hoping that at least someone would search for me, but no one searched, no one wrote, no one called, no one came to see me… It is true that I succeeded in hunting down Aunt Nadzia and her husband Tolek. They had survived various camps – she at Stutthof, he at Dachau. I dreamed that they would come to Vilna, so Nadzia and I could be next to each other, but they preferred America. I tried to live life to the fullest. We traveled on tourist permits to the Crimea, to the Caucasus, throughout the Soviet Union, took riverboat cruises down Soviet rivers on every vacation. I worked a great deal, wrote my dissertation, and passed the minimum requirements for a candidate [Western doctoral] degree. But our home was empty. We decided not to have children: why bring new people into the world? What if their fate was as terrible as ours had been? Nevertheless, at the age of nearly forty I gave birth to a daughter and named her Emma, my mother’s name. She was sweet, beautiful, and gifted – our joy and delight. I defended my doctoral dissertation, and our material circumstances improved: I became a docent. Many of our friends left Lithuania, but I never wanted to leave the country. I was living in the city of my birth, I had a family and interesting work. We traveled the length and breadth of the country and were steeped in the natural beauty of its diverse communities. Then my Chaim developed serious heart problems. He always sought justice; evil and dishonesty traumatized him. Our life was complicated by tension, and we feared for his health. Emma finished school, then specialized in biology at our university, married, and had a daughter, Ania. She was admitted to graduate study 498

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and went to Moscow with her husband to work on her dissertation. We spent the summer together in the country near Vilna. We adored our granddaughter. The years took their toll. The wartime wounds were scarred over. We collected data about the past, wrote down our memoirs, and began to read books about the Holocaust. We began to go to Ponary. The sharpness of our pain at the sight of the pits never slackened. In 1986 we returned from vacation. After work we sat down and watched television, exchanging two or three sentences. Suddenly I realized that Chaim was not saying anything. I looked over at him. He was dead. I had lost my husband and my friend and remained alone all the rest of my life. I retired and drew a pension. I left my work at the university and devoted all my efforts to the restoration of the Jewish Museum in Vilna. For several months I looked up files in the archives and prepared an exhibit devoted to the Holocaust. A collective group of us put our whole hearts into the Jewish Museum we created. We obtained two buildings, on the Portowa and the Zawalna streets. The exhibit, dedicated to the Holocaust of the Jewish people and with documents about this awful tragedy, was soon opened in the small green house on the hill. I summoned up the strength to explain past events to visitors. I began to consider it my life’s task to name the names of the victims and heroes: as long as they are not forgotten, they are alive. I have never before worked on anything to such good effect. Emma and little Ania came for the summer, and in the winter I spent a week with them in Moscow. The pain of my loss did not leave me. Chaim and I had lived together for forty-three years; now I was living alone and was sorting out my memories. I began to write down the history of my childhood, trying to lose myself in the past. Then Emma dumbfounded me with the news that they were going to move to Israel. But I could not go off to a country that was completely strange to me. I was so much in love with Vilna and our natural environment. My whole life was bound up with this land. My murdered parents, my little brother, and my friends were lying here. Chaim’s grave was here. Emma left with her family. I remained alone. I worked and tried not to give way to despair. Five years went by this way. During this time I visited 499

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my children twice in Israel. They were working, they bought an apartment, and they enjoyed their life in the Jewish homeland. To me everything there was foreign – the language, the customs, the natural surroundings. One time, just back from a scientific conference in Poland, I received a letter. Emma reported that she was soon going to deliver me another granddaughter, and she asked me to help her, to go there and live with them. I decided that it was my duty to do so. They helped me to fill out all the papers quickly, and I left. Now I am renting a little town in Rehoboth (Rehovot), where I live by myself. Across the street my daughter and two granddaughters, Ania and Michał, are living. I helped raise the baby girl, focusing all my time and all my strength on her. Now she is about to enter fourth grade. Ania is serving in the army. She was admitted to the university. I am not alone. But every year I go for two months to my beloved city of Vilna, where I work in my favorite museum, guide visitors through the Holocaust exposition, through the ghetto, and through Ponary. I have enough strength to do this despite my very advanced age. In Ponary on the spot where my parents and my brother together with thousands of Jews from the Vilna camps – Kailis, H.K.P, and the army field hospital – were shot, I erected a monument. When I go there, we light candles and read the Kaddish. To the young people I recount the story of my mournful youth, of the thousands of slaughtered Jews, of their heroism. “Keep up the struggle against chauvinism, against terrorism, against human depravity. Life on this earth depends entirely on you, the young,” I tell them. “Do not allow this to happen again! Save our Earth! Never allow the horror that I went through to be repeated. Let my grandchildren live on earth in happiness and joy.”

Vilna - Rehoboth 1988 – 2005

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ublishing Rachel’s book has taken me on a journey that has turned out to be the most revelatory project of my life. It has linked me to the world of Vilna, where my family once flourished and then was massacred, and it now links me to country where a new atmosphere of anti-Semitism is brewing. Sadly, I’ve discovered that there is so much dissonance between non-Jewish Lithuanians and Jews of Lithuanian descent that we are failing to glean all that we can learn from one another about our joint history; at least all that can be learned from all the loss that we each suffered. I am a high school English teacher in New Hampshire where I live a very secular life. My husband isn’t Jewish and we spoiled our children with celebrations of both Chanukah and Christmas. Though my life has been propelled from one humanitarian cause to another, I never intended an involvement with Jewish causes. My primary focus has always been to enjoy a quiet, rural life with my family and yet I have hoped to open up nothing less than the whole world to the children I teach through literature and the arts. For example, inspired by the educational outreach of the Folger Shakespeare Library, I initiated a district-wide Shakespeare Festival, now in its eighteenth year. However, in the later years of my career, I developed an elective course entitled “Literature of Witness: Against Forgetting.” Heavily influenced by Facing History and Ourselves, my students and I read literature, memoirs, diaries, fiction, and poetry that focus on the struggle for human rights. Of course a study of the Holocaust is central to the course, 501

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as it is a case study of human behavior, demonstrating how everyday bias can be manipulated into hate which can escalate to genocide. I was two years into teaching this course when I first learned of Rachel’s existence. It’s easy to imagine how excited I was. Rachel Margolis directly tied my existence, my DNA to the Holocaust. Not only had she escaped the Vilna Ghetto, she was a partisan! Stories of Jewish resistance were just beginning to reach the classroom, and here was a woman who resisted, someone who refused to submit to evil or unjust authority, who had the guts to try to escape the ghetto and take up arms against the Nazis who intended and succeeded in exterminating her world. And she is a Margolis and my cousin! My life was about to change when I discovered she had written her memoir. When I accepted the responsibility for bringing Rachel’s book to the US, I recognized that I was assuming the formidable task as the keeper of her memories. The book is filled with pre-War portraits of Vilna’s vibrant Jewish community, stories of individuals who loved, worked, hoped, had families, and who all met the same end at the hands of the Nazis and their Lithuanian collaborators. Rachel’s life story bears witness not only to the fate of this community, but also to Vilna’s earlier vitality as the Jerusalem of Lithuania. Throughout my first read of the book, I was haunted by Rachel’s repeated pledge to the individuals whom she recalled, “I remember you now so you will not be forgotten.” Named, honored, and remembered, Rachel recounts the people who comprised her childhood world and who contributed to building her character - her best friend, Irka, her French teacher, her piano teacher, her Uncle Mura, her tutor. I soon realized that publishing this book could give me a way to carry that memory on. Here was something concrete I could do something about the horrible hatefilled past. But today’s events in Lithuania have forced my role to change. First published in Russian in her own Lithuania (2006), Rachel’s story bears witness to the murder of 95% of her country’s Jews, a story that turns out to be not very popular in Lithuania today. In fact, over the course of this journey, I’ve come to realize how unpopular the history of Jewish Lithuania is to some Lithuanians, so unpopular that memoirs of Jewish survivors are 502

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being culled for “evidence” of Jewish partisan involvement in “war crimes.” A year and a half after its publication in Lithuania , an editorial appeared in the mainstream Lithuanian press, demanding that Holocaust survivor Fania Brantsovsky be prosecuted for war crimes based on “evidence” found in the memoir of her comrade, Rachel Margolis. Four months later, the Lithuanian Prosecutor General issued a summons for Rachel, who resides in Israel, to report to his office for questioning about Brantsovsky’s “war crimes.” When one is wanted for questioning in Lithuania, she must report to the police or face arrest. While the investigation is in progress, which typically lasts for years, the prosecutor has the power to summon witnesses at will, seize their passports, and basically control their lives. One can imagine how despondent Rachel must be to think that all these woes have descended upon her friend simply because Rachel felt the desire and obligation to tell her story. To date, neither official charges nor interviews with Fania have taken place. But something more insidious has. As these suspicions about the evil deeds of Jews are kept alive and continue to be rehashed in the media, the prosecutor is actively burying his country’s ugly Holocaust history by discrediting those who can bear witness to it. Unwilling to be used as a witness against her friend, Rachel refusef to return to Lithuania in the summer even though it meant not continuing working on her life’s purpose: telling the story of Vilna’s Jews. So now I have become Rachel’s advocate on the geo-political stage, and sadly I have come to learn that there are still people out there who simply hate Jews. Rachel Margolis came into ours lives when my brother and two cousins became interested in our family genealogy. My parents never knew about their extended families. Their parents were immigrants who focused on their new lives in America. Until very recently, it was very difficult to pursue genealogy in Eastern Europe as the Soviet Union kept its archives under lock and key. With the dissolution of the USSR in 1989, access to records became possible. Since then, Jewish genealogy has flourished into a thriving enterprise. Four years ago, my cousins hired a Lithuanian researcher, Regina Kopilevich, to explore the Margolis family records, and we learned for the first time of our grandfather’s three Lithuanian brothers and their 503

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families, as well as an ex-wife in Norway, who were all shot by Einsatzgruppen, the SS mobile killing squads. However, this researcher also introduced us to her hero and our cousin, Dr. Rachel Margolis, a retired biology professor of the University of Vilnius, a former partisan, and the only member of our European family who survived the Holocaust. In December, 2004, just two months after learning of Rachel’s existence, Smithsonian Magazine featured a story about her work at the Green House, the Holocaust division of the Vilna Gaon Jewish State Museum, which she helped found. At that time, former Lithuanian parliamentarian, Emmanuel Zingeris, launched his plan to rebuild the Jewish Quarter of Vilnius, including the reconstruction of the enormous Great Synogogue, built in 1630 and destroyed by German bombers during the war. Unfortunately, the downturn in the economy halted the project, but not before Rachel had conserved evidence of Jewish life in Vilna before and during the Nazi occupation: in her museum. Pictures of her past and present, family members (my family members!) graced the pages of this article along with a brief summary of the pivotal years of her life from 18 to 22 during which she lived under German occupation and the daily threat of death. Rachel chose to remain in Soviet Lithuania for the next fifty years, where she could live among the memories of her lost world. In that time she earned a doctorate and taught at the university. When she retired, the same year that Lithuania achieved independence, she devoted her energy to resurrecting the Jewish Museum in Vilnius. Her research enabled her to prepare exhibitions about the annihilation of Jews. In 2004, Algirdas Brazauskas, the Lithuanian prime minister awarded her a hero’s medal for her activities as an anti-Nazi partisan. Of all that she has survived and accomplished in her life, Rachel is most proud of discovering and publicizing an eye-witness account of the mass murders at Ponary, the killing fields of Vilna’s Jews from 1941-1943. Shortly after the war, Rachel collaborated with the reopened Jewish Museum to preserve evidence of the Nazi terror and the centuries of Jewish life it destroyed. It was then that she learned that Kazimierz Sakowicz, a Polish journalist who lived in a villa very close to the execution pits in Ponary, had kept a diary in which he documented the daily mass murders on loose 504

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sheets of paper then sealed them in lemonade bottles and buried them in the ground. After the war, his neighbors dug them up and gave them to the Jewish Museum, but before they could be archived, the Soviets closed the museum and transferred all of its documents to the Central State Archives of Lithuania. For decades, Rachel applied for permission to search for the Sakowicz diary, but the government refused to open the archives, perhaps because of due to the documented participation of Lithuanian nationals as “rifleman.” Thus, for a half century, the Sakowicz testimony was unknown to the world. In 1989, during Perestroika, the museum reopened, and two years later, Rachel was permitted access to Sakowicz’s diary for two days. Sakowicz kept records of the number of victims-all Jews-transported each day, the number of trucks and automobiles that brought them, and descriptions of the clothing they wore. He scribbled this data on sixty-six scraps of paper, some less than three inches wide. Rachel’s publication of Ponary Diary: 1941-1943: a Bystander’s Account of a Mass Murder, provides a non-Jew’s first hand testimony of the mass murder of Vilna’s Jews, a crime which the Nazis attempted to cover up. In providing this evidence to the world, Rachel has memorialized the lives of tens of thousands of nameless men, women, and children. She believes it her duty to remember all those killed – the victims and heroes – because as long as their memory lives, they remain alive. From 2000 on, Rachel began to spend ten months a year with her daughter and granddaughters in Israel, with the plan to return to her homeland each summer to work in her beloved museum, lead groups through the Vilna Ghetto, and bring them to Ponary, the forests just outside the city where 80,000 Jews and other Poles were executed. My brother, Bob, was so excited to learn about Rachel’s existence that he immediately booked a flight to take my father and uncle to meet her the following spring in Israel. He returned from this trip with a pledge to finance Rachel’s newly revised memoir written in Russian, which was published in Lithuania in 2006. Bob felt it imperative that the world know our cousin’s story of Jewish men and women who survived the Nazi death machine by fighting alongside the Soviet partisans. 505

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Meanwhile, my own interest in the Holocaust expanded exponentially. Just like my students, I became ensnarled in these dark stories. Like peeling the skin of an onion, exploring how individuals reacted in the parallel universe of the Holocaust, a world with its own amoral code, reveals the many facets of what it means to be human. I credit Tom White, my mentor at the nearby Cohen Center for Holocaust Studies at Keene State College, for urging me to dig deeper and deeper into these stories. Not only is he a great teacher himself, he encouraged me to study with other scholars. In 2003 Tom sponsored me to attend the Holocaust Summer Institute at Columbia University organized by the Jewish Foundation for the Righteous (JFR), and in 2006, I joined the JFR on its Summer European Seminar. The mission of this two-week journey through the killing fields of Europe was to provide participants with the opportunity for a close examination of the historical context from 1923-1945. Our focus was the extraordinary people who responded to the times with heroic acts. As we traveled through Germany and Poland, stopping in seven cities and seven concentration camps and numerous killing centers, Professor Robert Jan Van Pelt would unveil the subtext found in hundreds of German and Polish monuments to the victims of Nazi terror. He also dissected the instruments of death piece by piece so we could understand the intensity of the German science of genocide. The horror of our daily tours was mitigated by Stanlee Stahl, JFR Director, who punctuated our days with glimmers of hope by introducing us to a few of the 1,400 Righteous Gentiles that the JFR supports financially. These are non-Jewish rescuers of the Holocaust who are among the 21,210 Righteous Gentiles recognized by Yad Vashem in Israel, the “Holocaust’s martyrs and heroes’ remembrance authority” (www. yadvashem.org). That summer I met five of these elderly heroes. Meeting them changed my life, giving me hope in the Bush-Cheney America from which I felt increasingly alienated. In addition to meeting Righteous Gentiles, our Polish travels brought us in contact with teachers, university students, and even Jewish Polish citizens all of whom pointed to the resurgence of Jewish culture in Poland today. This enthusiasm for all things Jewish existing in a place where “mothers fed anti-Semitism with their breast milk” left me with new optimism 506

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concerning the human spirit. In this one instance, the world seemed less hateful than I expected. I came home with an image of Poland as a newly independent society that now feels the loss of a missing piece of their culture: the 10% of Polish life that used to be Jewish. A few facts must be recognized about the new Poland. First, losing over two million civilians, the Polish population suffered greatly under German occupation. Yad Vashem recognizes 5,941 Righteous Gentiles among the Poles, the greatest percentage of rescuers of any nation. There is a newly established Reform synagogue in Warsaw, named Beit Warsawa, and we spent an afternoon with some of its members. The organizers are children of parents who fled Poland in the 30’s, and, strangely perhaps, the children have returned and attracted other Jewish expatriates from Europe and the US as well as Poles who’ve recently converted to Judaism. This synogogue’s mission is not to proselytize and recruit more Jews. Instead its purpose is to provide a spiritual and community space where those who want to be Jewish can. They have imported a retired rabbi from Altoona, Pennsylvania who expressed his excitement in participating in this reemergence of Judaism in Poland. The temple’s vice president is a Polish national who fell in love with Judaism in her Hebrew language classes. Learning Hebrew was so popular that year, she told me, that waiting lists for classes were over two years long. In addition to converts to Judaism and the return of children of Holocaust refugees, this congregation’s members told us that Poland’s Jewish population is growing as a result of a phenomenon that is occurring throughout Europe: young adults are learning that they are Jewish when their grandparents shared this information on their death beds. We were told that over 10,000 such Jews live in Poland and they expect five times as many to be among the current population. This fact was made even more poignant, when our traveling scholar, Robert Jan Van Pelt, shared with us that this was indeed what had happened to him ten years earlier. When his maternal grandmother lay on her death bed and revealed her Jewish identity, it changed Van Pelt’s life. A professor of architecture, he became the leading authority on the construction of the iconic death factories: Auschwitz. It is the evidence of his testimony 507

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(2002) that keeps such Holocaust deniers as David Irving from being credible, though they keep trying. Members of the Beit Warsawa congregation we met urged us not to demonize the Polish people for the genocide that took place on their soil. As a country with fewer than fifty years of autonomy in the last several hundred, Poles see their history as the struggle to survive rather than a litany of hate. It was with this warm feeling toward humanity that I continued from Poland to Lithuania at the seminar’s conclusion. My objective was to meet my cousin, Rachel Margolis. I arrived in Vilnius at midnight and there she was, holding a sign with my name on it. Since English is not among the seven languages she speaks (Polish, Russian, German, French, Lithuanian, Hebrew, and Yiddish), she was accompanied by English speaking Stefan, an Austrian intern at the museum. Conscription into the national service is mandatory for young men in Austria, but they may choose not to join the military and substitute those years instead to peace work, Holocaust education, or humanitarian aid. Stefan and Rachel took me to a lovely hotel and Rachel arranged for me to meet her at the museum the next afternoon for a tour of the killing fields of Ponary. When Rachel Margolis speaks, people listen. This was to be my experience over the next week when I met Rachel at the Green House, the small Holocaust museum in Vilnius. She had no time for small talk. On the other hand, each day Rachel apprised me of my appearance, judging whether my dress suited me or not. I also noticed how her green eyes lit up upon greeting me each day, as she flashed me a smile of deep appreciation. I am family, and it was important to Rachel to relate the fate of our family to me. And so it was, that on my first afternoon in Lithuania, Rachel took me, along with two German historians, to the monument at Ponary, where Nazis killed Vilnius’ Jews. The forest of Ponary is a quiet place marked by three memorials. Three of the twelve pits remain open, though they are not as deep as they once were due to the accumulation of the ashes of tens of thousands of victims. Here Rachel told me of her family’s deaths just three days before Vilna was liberated. Dr. Samuel Margolis forbade his daughter 508

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from leaving the ghetto, assuring her that he would find a way out of the hell created by the Germans or he would be the last Jew killed. After all, the SS depended on his medical skills. Sadly, these skills became meaningless once the Germans began their retreat. In fact, Dr. Margolis was now a liability as a witness to the genocide of his people. True to his word, on July 5, 1944, Dr. Margolis along with his wife, Emma, and his son, Josek, were among the last eighty Jews of Vilna to be exterminated at Ponary. His picture was later discovered among the belongings shed along the path to his place of execution. As Rachel shared her story, a few other tourists there gathered around to listen, and I stood there so proud to be her cousin! Vilnius is a beautiful city and I was entranced by its even more striking population, especially the women. I know it’s not appropriate to dwell on physical appearances, but I could not get over all of the tall, thin blonds with Slavic cheek bones and big eyes. The young people were anxious to use their English and I had many conversations with college age kids. When I commented on their population’s good looks, they proudly told me that it linked to the country being 95% pure Lithuania (according to 2001 Lithuanian State Census, the accurate statistic is 83%). Only later did this fact take on significance in helping me understand the current rise of anti-Semitism among these beautiful people. But for that week, I enjoyed everything Lithuanian. Even the personal, somber tour of Kaunas with our Lithuania genealogist, Regina Kopilevich, was engrossing. Regina first took me to the killing fields of the Kowno Ghetto’s Jews at Fort Nine. The Lithuanian riflemen were so effective here, that the Nazis sent the Jews from France to be exterminated. Above the field of ashes stand two monuments that conveyed a sense of the unspeakable loss. Regina took me through the streets of the Jewish ghetto and then onto my great-grandfather’s cemetery. The cemetery was a mess, just as was the overgrown Jewish cemetery in Warsaw. However, the Green Hill Cemetery in Kaunas was more than overgrown; it had become a plot of broken stones and alcohol bottles. Many of the tombstones were broken and overturned, and after two hours of stepping through the trash and barbed thistle, we gave up searching for the grave of Zolmon Margolis Gordon. 509

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Rather than disappointed, however, I left this cemetery inspired. I did not blame the Lithuanian people for its terrible condition, like the Poles, the Lithuanians are a poor people just beginning to build a new nation. Of course I couldn’t expect them to have the resources necessary to restore and maintain its hundreds of Jewish cemeteries, especially since the interested population no longer exist in Lithuania. Then I had this great idea: perhaps I could help raise funds for such a cause. After all, these cemeteries are rich archives for Jewish genealogists, and I imagined such an enterprise as one that would contribute to Lithuania’s balanced reconciliation with its missing Jewish culture. Tourists would come, researchers would abound, Jews would find their ancestry, and Lithuanian would make money from its Jewish tourists. Excited about this prospect, I celebrated at the hotel bar and ended up buying drinks for a young, beautiful university student who was visiting with her classmate, the beautiful bartender. As we were the only ones in the bar and well onto our second bottle of wine, we spoke with less and less hesitation. The families of both girls moved to Vilnius from Central Asia after Lithuanian independence in 1989. Like thousands of Lithuanians, their grandparents had been exiled to GULAGs by the Soviet Union. They described growing up as outsiders in an Asian community, and how much they now reveled in their new nation. Turning to international affairs, the girls asked me how Americans could just stand there while Bush invaded Iraq. They stood aghast as I described my many students who enlisted in the miliary to help their president in whom they believed. Ashamed, I kept thinking of the ironic parallel of 2006, USA and 1938, Germany, that of an ignorant populace following a nationalistic leader into war rationalized on nothing more than propaganda. The conversation eventually turned to my purpose in being in Lithuania. I wasn’t surprised that the girls had not heard of my cousin nor had been to her museum. However, these girls, both university students, knew nothing about the Jews of Vilna nor what happened to them. They did know the term, Holocaust; however, they knew it in terms of the “Lithuanian Holocaust,” during which the Soviet Union exiled hundreds of thousands to its slave labor camps. I was shocked. Many streets in Vilnius’ Old City still 510

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bear the evidence of the former Jewish population which comprised 30% of its populace before WWII. Stars of David plastered on building sides, Hebrew lettering above old shops, as well as monuments and signage are found throughout the hotel’s neighborhood. But no one had ever told these girls about their city’s great loss. No one had told them about the execution of 90% of Lithuania’s Jews by their countrymen. I hate to admit this, but I found an excuse for their ignorance. These girls were recent arrivals. Their first decade was spent in Central Asia with parents who longed for a homeland, and it was Soviet atrocities, I assumed, that were the basis of their history lessons. However, I felt assured, that as a new member of the European Union, Lithuania would institute Holocaust education into their national curriculum as had other Eastern European nations. I really wanted to believe that the evil forces of hate were defeated along with the Nazis in 1944, Lithuania. The next day was my last with Rachel. It must have been a long one for her as she walked for two hours, guiding Stefan and me through the Vilnius’ streets that were once surrounded by barbed wire. On site, Rachel narrated the history of the FPO, the resistance movement in the ghetto of which she and her husband, Chaim, were a part. We walked by the library where she worked with Herman Kruk, the archivist responsible for The Last Days of the Jerusalem of Lithuania (2002). Rachel pointed out the basement doors where she and her friends built an arsenal and hid their leader Wickenstein. We traced her escape route through the ghetto of that September night in 1943, leaving her parents and brother forever. At lunch, I asked Rachel about her life as a Jew in Vilnius after the war and why she remained. A bit defensively, she answered that Vilnius was her home and she loved her home. Rachel vehemently denied feeling discriminated against in Soviet Lithuania, assuring me, “Nothing prevented me neither from getting the education I wanted nor from getting the job I wanted.” Indeed, Rachel thrived under the Soviet regime, as Party leaders honored her service as a partisan and advocated for her, forcing the Lithuanian university to accept Rachel at the point she left off in 1941. Rachel eventually was disillusioned by Stalin and left the Communist Party, refocusing her energies into her research as a biologist. However, as we 511

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sat there, she reminisced for a time when young people didn’t care about possessions. It was then that I volunteered my services in bringing Rachel’s story to the classroom through translating her newly published Russian memoir, and having it published in my own country. Just like that cemetery idea, I now had a task that would in some way contribute to filling the void of all that was lost in the Holocaust. After our last meal together, Rachel insisted on taking the street car alone to her apartment. “I may be old, but I know how to get around my own city,” Stefan translated. When we said goodbye, tears welled in her eyes and she kissed me saying, “Now I have family.” “I do too,” I insisted. “But you’ve always had family. Until now, it was just me and my daughter and her daughters. Now I have you.” Fast forward six months later. The good will surrounding Rachel’s book resulted in generous contributions of time and money. By January, Rachel’s book had a translator, Jack Piotrow, a generous sponsor of the translation, my uncle, Erwin Greenberg, and permission to use a painting by Samuel Bak as a book cover, granted by his representative, Bernie Pucker. I then turned to Brandeis, my alma mater, where my endeavor was showered with even more encouragement. The eminent scholar of Eastern European Jewry, Antony Polonsky, agreed to write the introduction for our publication. Shulamit Reinharz, the Director of the Hadassah-Brandeis Institute, recommended that I become an HBI research associate, availing me of all of its resources. Encouraged by all this success, I believed that the US publication of Rachel’s book would encourage other Jews to explore their Eastern European roots, thereby closing the gap between us and the homeland of our families. Everyone would benefit from filling the void left in the cultures of these countries by the Nazi extermination of their Jewish population, which for centuries had been so intrinsic to its civilization. Family trees would be discovered, tourism would increase, and a renewed connection between Litvaks and Lithuanians would be achieved. 512

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This was the message I delivered on May 9, 2008 when I spoke at the Agudat Achim Synagogue in Leominster, Massachusetts at its Yom Ha Shoah service. I recounted the rescuers I met in Poland, the revival of Jewish culture there, and the gratifying life my cousin the partisan lived in Lithuania after the war. I espoused the power of the individual to shape the world and urged us all to envision ourselves with such power. As I was leaving, one elderly member of the congregation whispered in my ear, “They still hate Jews over there.” Little did I realize that only four days earlier, two plain clothed police officers were knocking on Rachel’s door in Vilnius to interrogate her about the “war crimes” revealed in her memoir published in Lithuania in 2006. A sentence in her Russian memoir intrigued the Prosecutor General’s office, a sentence based on which his office launched an investigation into the war crimes of 86 year old fellow partisan, Fania Brantsovsky. Fortunately, Rachel is in Israel, but Fania still lives right there in Vilnius, where she works as the librarian at the Yiddish Institute at Vilnius University. Only two years earlier, Rachel was awarded a hero’s medal by Prime Minister Brazauskas for her activities as an anti-Nazi partisan. Now her name is circulated in Lithuanian press as being “wanted for questioning about war crimes against Lithuanian civilians.” Similarly, the prosecutor’s office continues to ensnarl Fania in a Kafkaesque spiral issuing statements that she continues to be wanted for questions for war crimes, but cannot be found, though she has lived in the same home for over thirty years! In order to avoid exacerbating the situation, Rachel was advised by her attorney not to return to Vilnius. For the first time in her life, Rachel has lost her strong sense of purpose. She is unable to return to Vilnius to do her very important work in her beloved museum. Fania’s colleague at Vilnius University, Dovid Katz, contacted me about the turn of events, and filled me in its history, beginning with Lithuania’s establishment of the “Commission for the Evaluation of the Crimes of the Nazi and Soviet Occupation Regimes.” As an EU nation, Lithuania is obligated to investigate its citizens’ role in the genocide of Jews during the Holocaust, but instead of prosecuting the “Lithuanian riflemen” documented in the Sakowicz diary, the Commission has created the intellectual and 513

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political climate for the persecution and attempted prosecution of Jewish anti-Nazi partisan heroes under the banner of “equality for all sides.” In its efforts to create a parallel between the genocide of over 200,000 Lithuanian Jews during WWII and the Soviet atrocities that followed over the next five decades, the Commission obscures its country’s culpability for the former by focusing on its victimization under the Soviets. Dovid sent me a photograph of a panel displayed at the State Genocide Museum in Vilnius which reads, When the Holodomor (Ukrainian famine) eyewitnesses, even those who survived the Nazi death camps were asked what was more frightful—the famine or the war, they unanimously answered: “Famine, famine. When there’s a war, not all the people die, but when there is famine, everyone dies. (In Auschwitz,) we were given some spinach and a little bread… War is terrible, but famine is even worse.”

When genocide is now discussed in Lithuania, it’s about the Communist actions against Lithuanians. Because the Jewish partisans fought alongside the Soviets during the Nazi occupation, they are complicit in the Lithuanian genocide. Initially, this new spin on the Holocaust, putting it on a parallel with the Soviet Occupation was received with criticism, but it gained credibility when Yitzak Arad, Director Emeritus of Yad Vashem, agreed to chair the Commission. However, adhering to its examination of a double genocide, members of this commission began culling Holocaust partisan memoirs, looking for evidence of “war crimes” against Lithuanian civilians. In 2007, the General Prosecutor’s office issued charges against Arad himself based on the activities he recounted in his 1988 memoir. Arad left Lithuania in disgust and since that time, the climate for Jews in that country has only worsened. Articles began appearing in the press calling Rachel and Fania “terrorists” and on March 11, 2008, Lithuanian Independence Day, neoNazis marched through the streets of Vilnius. Since May, Dovid Katz has been forwarding photos, news videos and articles from Lithuania denouncing the Jews. One article, written by a Seimus 514

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member (Lithuania’s national legislative body) opened with the statement “I’ve never liked Jews;” another ariticle from a former Seimus member asserted that Zionists signed a pact with Hitler to initiate the Holocaust in order to garner international support for the creation of Israel. In August, anti-Semitic graffiti, including Swastikas, a Jewish star inside a noose, and the words “Juden Raus” appeared on Jewish community centers in three different towns, all on the same day—Tisha B’av, the Jewish holiday that commemorates the destruction of the first and second temples in Jerusalem. These concurrent attacks on the day that marks the defeat of the nation of Israel, an attempt to wipe out Judaism, reveals only too plainly the result of this “double genocide” spin that Lithuania puts on the events of the Second World War. Just as Hitler conflated Judaism with Communism in the propaganda against Jewish Bolshevism, the double genocide theory has resulted in the conflation of Soviet and Jews in the minds of these right wing Lithuanian nationalists. Hitler invaded Lithuania in 1941 after a six month Soviet occupation. Immediately, propaganda appeared claiming that the Jews were responsible for the thousands of deportations to Siberia that took place in those six months, interchanging the terms “Communists” with “Jews,” thus beginning the rumor of what is still called today the “Lithuanian Holocaust,” was the work of the Jews! In 1941, many Jews, like Rachel, looked to the Soviets for the salvation against the Nazi threat, and many owe their survival to fighting with Soviet partisans. Their Lithuanian compatriots, on the contrary, detested the Soviet occupiers, and many willingly took up arms to fight alongside the Nazis against the “Bolshevik-Jews.” It is not surprising that battles placed Lithuanian Jews against pro-Nazi Lithuanians. Today, the Lithuanian General Prosecutor is investigating civilian deaths resulting from these attacks, and though the Soviet partisans were of Russian, Lithuanian, Polish and Jewish ethnicities, only Jews are being named as suspects or are wanted for questioning. When I think back about my evening with my two Lithuanian university friends, I begin to imagine how this Jew-hating has grown in a country that lost almost all of its Jews. Here are all these young people who are the first generation of an independent Lithuania, many of whose parents 515

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returned from Central Asia where their own parents had been deported by the Soviets. They are proud of their nation, the first one to break free of the Soviet block. Lithuanian is once again the official language, and they return to their people’s homeland to live among a population that has remained rather homogenous over the last 60 years, where their compatriots are likewise attractive. I imagine that these young people become defensive when they hear about the annihilation of the Lithuania’s Jews for the first time, especially when they learn about Nazi collaborators from their grandparents’ generation. The history they have been taught in the new Lithuania focuses on the long Soviet occupation that caused the destruction of their grandparents’ lives. It must be painful to learn that this older generation, who has suffered so much, is maligned by Western media. From everything they have been taught, their countrymen were victims of genocide, not perpetrators. I imagine this new generation turning to the Internet to find a more acceptable version of Lithuanian history, one that supports their version of World War II history. Unfortunately, as we all know, the Internet is a platform for all sorts of opinions, including those of Holocaust deniers. The Neo-Nazis who marched through Vilnius’ streets last March must believe that a Jewish conspiracy is responsible for the “rumors” of Lithuanian Nazi collaborators. However, as little as these young people know about the Lithuanian riflemen at Fort Nine and Ponary, we in the West know little about the suffering they endured under Soviet control. An estimated 120,000 Lithuanians were executed or exiled to the GULAGs in Siberia or Central Asia. In such a small country everyone in every city and village personally undoubtedly felt the loss. In fact, Lithuanians suffered more deaths from execution, starvation, and exile during the years 1945-1952 than throughout the entire Second World War. Thus when Westerners and Lithuanians refer to the horror of the WWII, we don’t even refer to the same dates when discussing the genocide that took place there. More Lithuanians were killed on May 8, 1945, the day that Soviets liberated their nation from the Nazis, than on any other day during the war. One historian told me that from the Lithuanian standpoint, “After the war, all hell broke out.” 516

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Further demonstrating our disconnect when discussing the events of the war, many Lithuanians aren’t even familiar with the term, World War II. Their former Soviet textbooks reference it as the Great Patriotic War, a war in which twenty-seven million Soviet citizens were killed. The story of killed Jews is limited to one paragraph if any. Thus, the collective memory of the Holocaust in Lithuania up until the 1980’s was mediated by the Soviet narrative, which puts all victims in one group. When censorship disappeared in the 1980’s during Perestroika, the Soviet version of the war, as “the destruction of peaceful Soviet citizens” was discredited. Lithuanians awoke to an entirely new version of the events that took place on their soil during 1941-1944. In the Western version, supported by documentation such as that published by Rachel Margolis, young Lithuanians learn that their grandparents’ generation were depicted as Jew killers, the same generation that suffered so during the fifty years of Soviet occupation. It must be hard to swallow. Furthermore, the continuous international pressure to prosecute Nazi collaborators who are now in their 80’s and 90’s, from organizations such as the Wiesenthal Center must seem unnecessarily hateful. Throw in the demands for restitution of Jewish property lost during the Holocaust, young Lithuanians may feel appalled at the extent of smear campaign against their new country. Where hate is allowed to fester, it will grow. Lithuania, like many democratic nations, has laws against hate speech. Yet television news clips of that march on Lithuanian Independence Day show police looking on as 200 Lithuanians marched through Vilnius’ main streets last March. However hate can only be overcome by compassion. That is why it is so important that both Lithuanians and we, descendents of Lithuanian Jews, must be willing to educate ourselves about the genocide we each suffered. The Nazis attempted to wipe out Jewry and the Soviets attempted to wipe out the culture, language and all that comprises the identity of Lithuanians. I personally never thought about what life was like in Soviet occupied Lithuania until embarking on the journey of bringing the story of Rachel Margolis to America. Rachel Margolis turned 87 years old in October 2009. Instead of enjoying accolades of her heroism in these later years, she must go on fighting 517

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against her countrymen who are trying to obfuscate her history, the history of a vibrant Lithuanian Jewish community. In A Partisan from Vilna, Rachel bears witness to the annihilation that unfettered hate can release. She hopes her readers will find their own sources of light and, like her, never abandon the fight against the dark side of the human heart.

518

ILLUSTRATIONS

519

Laleczka (Rachel) Margolis. Vilna, 1923.

Józio , Emma, and Rachel. 1933.

520

Laleczka (Rachel) and Józio . May 1931.

Vilna.

Vilna. The Green Bridge. 1913.

521

Irka Folkman. 1939.

Rachel Margolis’ student ID (Faculty of Humanities), Vilna. 1940.

Rachel Margolis. 1939.

Samuel Margolis. 1930-s.

522

Ghetto. A mockup.

The Great Synagogue. July 1944.

523

The writer Ilya Ehrenburg and the partisans. Chaim Zaidelson is first from the right in the second row. July 1944.

Chaim Zaidelson. 1945.

524

Rachel Margolis. 1945.

Rachel Margolis, a docent of Vilnius University. 1970.

Rachel Margolis in the State Jewish Museum, Vilnius. 1998.

525

INDEX OF NAMES

Abramowicz Dina Abramowicz M. Achremowicz Al Jolson Albeniz Aleksandrowa Lusia Alexander U. Alik, Ela’s son Alma Alperowicz Altka Amdurska Lila

89, 294, 295, 303 293, 295, 303 209 120 141 192, 209 237 180 236 69, 98 108, 112 98, 102, 114, 158, 199, 204, 205 Aneczka — see Ania, the granddaughter. Ania, the granddaughter 77, 317, 372, 498–500 Ania, the nurse 443 Anielewicz Mordechaji 341 Anna (Aunt Anna, Annuszka) — see Rywin Anna. Arkin Zuzia 98, 114, 208, Arkuski 178 Aronowicz Nina (Nineczka) 80, 110 Arons Luba 98, 114, 184 Arturek — see Folkman Artur. Augustowski 263, 268–270 Bach J. S. Baniel Baran Rocha Baruch Elik

120 69, 98 249 77

Basia 149 Bastacki 94 Bastomski 162 Beethoven L. 102, 195, 275 Belous Rosa 102 Berdyczewski Rudik 149 Berłowicz Grisza (Griszka) 161 Bernsztein Miriam (Mira) 293, 298, 382, 408 Berzak 57 Betja Sz. 200 Bielic Józef 487 Bielicka Rachela 356 Big Asia 332, 477 Biržiška Mykolas 227 Bizet G. 310 Bob 199–201, 205, 206, 214, 215 Bogosłowski N. 452 Boito Arrigo 122 Bółgak 118 Bomka 389, 417, 418 Borowska Chiena 293, 295, 326, 348, 349, 351, 395, 459, 406, 463, 472, 474–476, 483, 489, 495, 497 Borowski 83 Borowski Ilka 295, 483 Borowski Michał 483 Borys G. 426, 443

527

Brancowska Lilka Brancowska Onia

Brancowski Gorik Brancowski Ika Brauze Mojżesz Braz Brodska Pauline Brodski Adik Brodski Misza Brodskis family Bronka, servant Brusztein Aleksandra Brzozowska Chelia Brzozowski Burakiska Rachela Burchat Krysia

297 233, 276, 296–298, 301, 303, 304, 315–318, 320, 322, 329, 330, 340, 359, 380, 395 297 296, 297, 359 380, 382 81 82 72, 73 82, 100, 110,154 158 88, 122, 235, 255 79 98 190 300, 343, 352, 380 98

Cemach Shabad 64 Chagall Bella (Bebba) 150 Chagall Marc 150 Chaim — see Zaidelson Chaim. Chekhov A. P. 158 Chirug Szymon 246, 248 Chładnowicz Betja 98, 115, 184 Chopin F. 143, 166, 167, 193, 194 Chwojnik Abram 332, 477 Cinek (Uncle Cynek) — see Folkman Cynek. Conan-Doyle A. 124 Coulvain Pierre de 123 Czerny K. 120 Czukowski K. I. 59 Czuż 483 Dagis Jonas 236, 237, 238 Daikes Musia 72 Dauksza 238 David (Dodik) L. 225, 228 Desler Salek 331, 382 Dickens Ch. 106, 108, 123 Dina (Aunt Dina) — see Margolis Dina. Doba 85

528

Dodik F. Dogim Izaak Dołęga-Mostowicz Domaniewska 1 Doroszkiewicz Lusia Druskenik Ber (Berka) Dubczański Izrael Dumas A. Dusia

195 486, 487 295 27, 129, 130, 208 192, 277 298–300, 315, 326 298, 299, 315, 316, 325–328 134 453

Ela — see Feigenberg Ela. Enrique 173 Epsztein 67, 81, 112, 115, 142, 178, 224 Esther 112 Faivka

424, 438, 439, 478, 479 Fania, Miron’s wife 222 Farber 487 “Fat Chaim” 478, 479 Father — see Margolis Samuel. Fedka 453 Feiga Sh., 227 Feiga-Rocha 438, 439, 440, 441, 442 Feigenberg Bella 163, 206 Feigenberg Ela 163, 164, 180, 187–189, 192, 193, 195, 196, 208, 212, 214, 222, 224–228, 232, 235, 255, 267, 296, 297 Feigenberg Sana (Sanka) 163 Feigus 166 167, 168, 259 Feigus Anna 166, 168 Feigus family 165, 168 Feigus Halina (Hala) 166, 167 Fiedorowicz 496 Folkman (Kantorowich) Liza 66, 76, 136, 161, 162, 223, 249, 250, 256

Folkman Artur (Tusik) 133, 135, 139, 146, 155, 286 Folkman Cynek 63, 66, 75, 135, 138, 207, 241, 249–251, 253, 256 Folkman family 159 Folkman Ira (Irina) 62–67, 75, 76, 131–140, 142, 144–146, 149, 150, 153–155, 159, 161, 162, 177, 194, 195, 199, 204–207, 212, 214, 215, 223, 228, 229, 237, 238, 241, 246, 249–253, 256, 257, 261, 265, 267, 271, 272, 286, 322, 361, 502 Folkman Sonia 63, 66, 75, 137–139, 140, 142, 145, 155, 249, 254, 256 Franciszek — see Lewanowicz Franciszek. Franco, general 452 Freinat 144 Freud S. 158 Friedman 97 Garbacka Garbel Salomonka Garri (Garrik) 109, Gawle Gens Jakub 1

Gieńka Gilda, Bob’s wife Glazman Józef Glezer Boria Glik Hirsz Goering H. Gol Szlomo Goldman Basia Goldman Monia Goldman, doctor Goniońska Mira

123 444 171, 172, 174, 175, 496 17, 288, 348–350, 352, 354, 357, 358, 366, 381 208 199 316, 317, 332, 346, 352, 382, 407, 408 164, 165, 192, 384 332, 333 180, 470 486 184, 210 291 285, 300 318, 380, 390–392, 444, 445, 460

Gordon brothers Gordon Hirsz

298, 301, 352, 353 298, 299, 304, 305, 315, 316, 321, 380, 419, 479 Gordon Izaak 298, 353, 479, 480 Gordon Lew (Lewka ) 298, 301, 318, 380, 479 Gordon Michał 373, 379, 409, 433–436 Gordon Noemi 409 Gordon Sonia (Sonieczka) 298, 353 Gordons 368 Gorfinkiel Salomon 383 Gorodnicius 238 Gould Joanne 90 Grandmother – see Lewinson Maria. Grandmother Gitl 155 Grieg E. 72 Grisha (Uncle Grisza) 64, 65 Gulewicz 119 Gulewicz Jagienka 119 Gumowska Danusia 98, 192 Gurewicz M. M. 164 Gutgestalt 332 Gutkin Marysia 290 Haimson teacher Hamsun K. Hanka Heine Henk Hitler A.

Hugo V.

162 124, 293 87, 89–92, 131 107 480, 482, 487 129, 132, 137, 176, 195, 202, 203, 213, 224, 228, 230, 418 106, 123

Ilf I. 277 Imka – see Lubocki Imka. Inna (Ineczka) 109, 171, 172, 174 Irka — see Folkman Ira. Ivanauskas 237 Iwan Iwanowicz — see Vildžiūnas Jonas. Jabłokowski brothers

427

529

Jadźka 425 Jadźka, Kazimierz’s wife — see Szumauskas Jadzia. Jarmołowska Chelia 98 Jaroszewicz Julka 208, 209 Jokheles Fania (Fanka) 161, 222, 290, 292, 299, 346, 476, 480, 484 Jokheles Riwa 161 Józia, nurse 57, 58 Józio — see Margolis Józef. Judith 242 Julek, Irka’s friend 214–217, 223, 238, 241, 249–251, 286 Jurgis — see Zimanas Genrikas (Jurgis). Jurka (Jura), partisan 445, 446, 448, 449, 451, 454–458, 477 Kacenelenbogen Aleksander 358, 360, 370–372, 378 Kacenelenbogen Rala 371 Kacenelenbogen Sonia 121 Kaczergińska Ania 102, 114, 126, 143, 152, 153, 189–191 Kaczergiński 152 Kaczergiński Szmerka 304, 386 Kaczergińskis family 152 Kalman Imre 126, 140 Kantorowicz 487 Kantorowicz Szolom 409, 420, 421, 422, 476 Kaplan Jankiel 477 Kapliński Samuel 332, 349, 364, 395, 406, 459, 463, 470, 472–475, 477, 478, 483, 489, 492 Kassil L. 289 Katsenelson Rala 184 Katz Fania 247, 248 Kaweckas 235 Kawenoki Meier (Meika) 248 Kawenoki, engineer 248, 255 Kazimierz — see Szumauskas Kazimierz. Kellerman Bernard 124, 293

530

Kempner Witka Khuma Kicia Kiepura Jan Kietel Kittel Bruno Klara Klimow Klinicki Miron Klok Emma Kobryński Mońka

474 397, 398 200 140 312 346 68, 69, 77 221, 383, 385, 402 487 483 400, 403, 416, 417, 420–422, 424, 431 Kolka, the cook 425, 426, 430 Kostka, partisan 445, 447, 448, 458 Kowarska Rywa (Rywka) 294, 325, 328, 416, 420, 437, 438 Kowarski Szlomo 290, 294, 463, 475, 298, 300, 314, 396, 480 Kowner Abba 326, 352, 355, 358, 473–475 Kreisler 140 Kresin Musia 67, 290, 292, 299 Kronik Luba 102, 114 Krotów 68 Krubiczewa 163 Kruif Paul de 172 Kruk Herman 294, 295, 306, 310, 311, 314, 331, 332 Kruk L. 247 Krumialis Wołodźka (the nickname of Bronisław Urbanowicz) 426, 427, 428, 431, 443, 445, 446, 451,455, 456 Krysow 383, 402 Kulczycka Janina 125, 126 Kulesza 119, 120, 262 Kuncewicz 182–184, 186 Kuncewicz Ninka 184 Kupo Daniel (Danka) 164, 180, 224 Kurczak Ruźka 474 Lakner

346

Lala (Lalka) — see Margolis Rachel. Lalusiu — see Margolis Rachel. Legejko 244, 246, 256–258, 260, 261, 268, 271 Lehar 125, 140 Lejbowski 101 Lenin V. 351, 352 Lenzner Sema 155 Lenzner Sonia 155 Leon (Uncle Leon) 225 Lerer Moshe 199 Lerman 128 Lerman Vera 65, 128, 129 Leszczyńska 294 Levas 225, 331 Levitan Yu. 497 Lewanowicz Franciszek 67, 97, 130, 243, 324 Lewicka Luba 168, 322 Lewińska Lelka 184 Lewinson Józef (Józio), Miron’s son 230, 239 Lewinson Lusia 240 Lewinson Maria 53, 54, 60, 61, 70, 72, 73, 77, 78, 85, 93, 95, 97, 100, 103, 116, 117, 119–123, 125, 146, 154, 156, 204, 217–219, 323, 225, 232, 239, 240, 278 Lewinson Miron (Mirek) 53, 54, 57, 60–63, 65, 70, 71, 73, 77, 84–86, 95, 102, 103, 112, 116, 120, 121, 123, 124, 129, 140, 147, 148, 151–155, 158, 159, 175–177, 190, 204, 207, 212, 213, 217–219, 221, 222, 224, 225, 228, 230, 239, 240, 246, 265, 277, 293, 322, 360, 497

Lewinson Nadzia

53, 57, 60–62, 70, 73, 77, 85, 95, 97, 100, 116, 121, 128, 140, 204, 211, 219, 239, 240, 265, 283, 288, 290, 322–324, 362, 363, 365, 440, 498 Lewinson Żenia 53, 60, 128, 239 Libo 90, 98, 115 Lidsky brothers 158 Liza (Aunt Liza) — see Folkman Liza. Luba (Lubka) 146, 177–180, 188, 217, 238, 239, 242, 244, 255, 273, 279, 291, 296, 297, 345 Luba, partisan 445, 447, 448, 458 Lubocka Niusia 479, 480 Lubocki Danek (Danka) 164, 187–189, 224, 290, 291, 316, 317, 340, 458 Lubocki Imka 224, 229, 458, 459, 460, 461, 463, 464, 475 Lubov’ Lwowna 72 Lucienne 369 Ludwika — see Margolis Rokhl. Łukiszkier Rasza (Raszka) 382, 408 Luński 293 Lusia Sz. 497 Łuski Chaim 382, 388, 408 Maciejewska 118, 119 Mackiewicz Fryda 293, 347 Mackiewicz Izaak (Iza) 292, 299, 300, 343, 352, 380 Mackiewicz Leon 226–229, 233, 236–239, 243, 255, 272, 273, 279, 291, 297, 275, 345 Mackiewicz Mira 299 Mackin 487 Madeisker Sonia 292, 296, 299, 300, 303, 308, 316, 321, 322, 326, 328, 343,

531

344, 347, 360, 364, 365, 369, 403, 404, 412, 417, 419–422 Magid 484 Magun Liza 321 Majakowski V. 296 Makowska Ludwika — see Margolis Rokhl. Maliszewska 277, 278 Maliszewski Władek 277, 278 Mama — see Margolis (Lewinson) Emma. Mann T. 272, 274 Marczyński 295 Margolis (Lewinson) Emma 53–60, 62, 63, 65, 66, 68–71, 73–75, 77–80, 82–88, 90–96, 98–100, 102, 105, 107–113, 115–118, 120–123, 125–134, 137, 138, 140–146, 149, 150, 154–157, 159, 161–164, 166, 168, 173, 174, 179, 181, 183, 188, 193–196, 203–206, 210–212, 218, 222, 224, 229, 230, 233–235, 239, 240, 246–249, 251, 255, 256, 259, 265, 271, 275–277, 283, 285–289, 291, 296, 301–304, 309, 311–316, 321–325, 327, 328, 335–337, 347, 348, 361, 363, 367, 381, 395, 399, 404, 427, 440, 462, 466, 497 Margolis Arik 213 Margolis Dina 60, 70, 117 Margolis family 117 Margolis Israel Lipe 82 Margolis Józef (Józo) 78, 79, 82, 84–86, 92, 95, 102, 103, 116, 128, 138, 142, 148, 156, 157, 168, 212, 217,

532

219, 228, 234, 242, 247, 249, 255, 256, 258, 260, 265, 276, 283, 289, 296, 302, 309, 316, 317, 321, 322, 329, 334, 348, 354, 359, 361, 363, 367, 379, 381, 395, 399, 404, 462, 497 Margolis Liza 70, 117 Margolis Paulina (Pesia) 71, 117, 155, 156 Margolis Piotr (Petia) 70, 208, 213, 217 Margolis Rachel (Rokhl) 54, 58, 63, 66, 74, 75, 77, 124, 125, 138, 140, 150, 157, 163, 167, 171, 176, 180, 182, 186, 198, 211, 233, 256, 263, 267, 270, 274, 276, 285, 300, 308, 309, 316, 323, 327, 332, 359, 365, 381, 396, 427, 427, 472 Margolis Samuel 54–59, 62, 64–71, 77–81, 85–87, 90, 92, 94–101, 103, 110, 111, 113, 115–120, 124, 127–129, 132, 133, 136, 145, 148, 150, 154–157, 159, 160, 166, 169, 176, 196, 198, 201, 204, 206, 211–213, 218, 219, 223, 224, 229, 232–235, 242–245, 247–250, 252–257, 259, 261, 265, 271, 272, 275–277, 280, 283–285, 289–291, 293, 296, 299, 302, 309, 313–316, 322–324, 327, 334, 335, 338, 341, 348, 357, 358, 361–363, 367, 374,

381, 395, 399, 404, 423, 429, 466, 476, 496, 497 Margolis Sonia 89, 90 Margolisòwna — see Margolis Rachel. Maria Kondratjewna 71 Marionas Miceika 424, 443, 471 Markow Fiodor 353, 358, 365, 378, 381, 383–386, 396, 397, 399, 402, 403, 405, 407, 410–414, 421, 427, 443, 450, 457, 461, 478 Marx K. 147 Marysia 180, 380, 382, 388, 390–392, 396, 400, 401, 403, 405, 408, 409, 411, 415–417, 419–421, 424, 427–429, 431, 432, 438, 440, 442–444, 449, 450, 456, 458–460, 462, 463, 497 Masłowska Lena 402 Masza 140 Maszerow Piotr 410, 411, 413–416, 437 Matis Stasiek 424, 443 Meilakh 214 Meller (Zalmanson) Liza 128, 129, 130, 136, 151–153, 190, 198, 265, 325 Meller Alex 128, 151–154, 325 Meller Rachel 152 Mendelsund (Kowarska) Rachela (Rachelka) 294, 314, 340, 475, 480 Mera 398, 409, 420 Meyer 346 Mickiewicz Adam 141 Mika — see Mikhal, granddaughter. Mikhal, granddaughter 77, 317, 500 Milejkowska Riwa (Riwka) 114, 181

Miller 66 Mima 84 Minkowicz family 60 Mirek — see Lewinson Miron. Miron (Uncle Miron) — see Lewinson Miron. Miszka 231 Mitchell M. 293 Mojżesz-Juda — see Rudnicki Mojżesz. Molotov 241, 243 Muerer 312 Mukhina 194 Murer Franz 331, 346 гестаповец Musia 493 Nadenka, Garri Rywin’s daughter 174 Nadezdina N. 79 Nadzia (Aunt Nadzia) — see Lewinson Nadzia. Napoleon Bonaparte 138, 180, 473 Napoleon Chaim 299, 356 Narkiewicz Andrzej 274 Narkiewicz family 268, 283 Narkiewicz mrs. 239, 270–272, 274– 277, 279, 280, 284, 327 Narkiewicz Olgierd 270–274, 277–280, 284 Narkiewicz, doctor 270, 280 Neris Salomeja 231 Noza 212 Offenbach 126 Olkenicka Uma 199 Onia — see Brancowska Onia. Orzeszkowa Eliza 132 Oskerczanka Iza 98 Ostrovsky N. 229 Owsiejczyk 487 Palecki Justus Pasteur L. Pekszin Petrov E. Petuchovski S. Peysakh

231 172 127 277 247 425, 426

533

Pietrow 69, 98 Piłsudski Józef 74, 119, 136 137 Pimenov 270, 272, 284 Piotrowska Dr. 212 Pirmaitis Michał 443 Podolny 437 Podsiadłowska Zosia 402, 403 Podsiadłowski 402, 403 Pokrass Dmitry 333 Pola — see Rywin Pauline. Potanin Kostka 487 Przewalska Józefa (Zyota) 476, 477 Pumpiański Wenia 153, 182, 207, 214 Puszkin A. S. 61, 168 Puszkin Barbara 167 Puszkin G. A. 167, 168

Rydz-Śmigły E. Rysiek Rywin Anna

Rywin Deli Rywin family Rywin Flora Rywin Mania Rywin Pauline (Pola) Rywin Raja Rywin Sonia Rywin Szaja Rywin Władek

Rabinowicz Sima Rabinowicz, teacher Raff Jakub

102, 114, 165, 184 164 352, 365–367, 369– 372, 378, 396–398, 404, 409, 420, 421, 429 Raja (Rajka) — see Rywin Raja. Raja, governesses 116, 117, 145, 154, 178, 249, 289 Rekhes Lejka 164 Reznik Tolek 288, 290, 322–324, 362, 365, 366, 498 Reznik Vivian 324 Ring 331 Roche-Feige 424 Rogozin 306 Rolland R. 310 Rondomańska 209 Rostand E. 138 Róża 299 Różański Zalman 173 Rozenszajn Zuzanka 164, 165, 188 Rubinstein A. 103 Rudnicka 182 Rudnicki Icek 443 Rudnicki Mojżesz 390, 391, 393, 443 Rutka 246

534

Rywin Zina

136 479, 480 71, 87, 104, 105, 106, 109–112, 116, 143, 169–175, 468 172 168, 173 109, 171, 173, 175, 240 170, 171 71, 109, 171–175 87, 105, 110, 143, 170, 173. 87, 103, 104, 108, 111, 143, 169–171, 173 104–107, 109–111, 143, 169–172, 175 87, 103, 111, 112, 143, 170, 173, 174 109, 171, 173

Saszka, the commander of the Vilna Detachment 425, 432, 474 Saulewicz Tonia 388, 389, 390 Saulewicz Wołodia 383, 388, 389, 390 Schubert F. 103, 108, 126 Sedlis 77, 234 Sedlis Alik 72, 158 Selicka Irka 209 Senya R. 191 Sergey 226, 228–232, 235, 236, 242, 272 Shopauskene 237 Sima, partisan 180, 452, 453, 458 Sima, pianist 195 Smetona A. 224 Sołowiejczyk Wowa (Welwka) 300, 308 Sonia (Aunt Sonia) — see Folkman Sonia. Sonia, cousine of Ania Koczergińska 190 Stalin I. 213, 228, 248, 409 Stanewicz, mrs. 130 Stanisław 60 Stankiewicz 455, 461

Stefania, chambermaid 70 Stefania, Mirek’s girlfriend 154 Stevenson R. L. 123 Strauss 140 Strug A. 186 Stupel Musia 164 Stwosz Wit 137 Suckewer Abram 386 Szabryński Abram 489–492 Szaja (Uncle Szaja) — see Rywin Szaja. Szapiro Kaja 476 Szapiro Kalman 197, 198, 200 Szapiro Maria 197, 200 Szapiro, librarian 124, 294, 312 Szczęsnowicz Ala 98 Szejniuk Kola 74 Szejniuk Ola 72–75, 131 Szenboim Jechiel 355–357, 392 Szenboim Pesia 356 Szerszniewska Róża 352 Szerszniewski Ber 343, 345, 352 Szerszniewski Stasiek 345 Szewczenko 405, 410–414 Szumauskas Jadzia 425, 462, 463 Szumauskas Kazimierz 405, 416, 417, 419, 420, 422, 425, 429–432, 443, 452, 454, 457, 459, 460, 463 Szutan M. 358 Szyrwint 414 Talejkiński Tchaikovsky P. I.

211 103, 136, 200, 275, 327 Tchórzanka Jadzia 183 Teitelboim 94 Tewje 492 Tiktin Zalman (Zyamka ) 342, 343, 411 Tobias 87, 90, 143, 170 Tolek — see Reznik Tolek. Tonia, partisan 445–451, 453–458, 463, 477 Treger Zelda 403

Turgenev I. S. 123 Turkowska Danusia 182 Turkowska, teacher 181, 182, 209, 210 Turkowski Jurek 181 Tusik — see Folkman Artur. Undset S. Ungar Imre

272 143

Vaiman Verne J. Veronica, servant

234 123 245, 246, 257, 258, 260 422, 444, 451, 454, 460

Vildžiūnas Jonas

Wacławski Wallace Edgar Wedel E. Weiner Miki 180 Werfel Franz 295 Wiera, radio operator

99 295 69

425, 443, 462, 463, 424 Witenberg family 353 Witenberg Izchak 317, 326, 342, 348, 349, 351, 352, 353, 382, 392, 408, 411, 476 Witka 369, 370 Witka, Raja Rywin’ daughter 171–173 Własow 402 Wojczyk Owsiej 276, 285 Wojczyk Sonia 68, 198, 199, 261, 285 Wołodźka — see Krumialis Wołodźka Wołożyński Wenka 272 Wołożyński Zelek 180 Wrubel M. 55 Wrześniewska 100 Wygodzka Anna 79 Wygodzki Jakób 79, 243, 255 Żabińska Tamara (Tola ) 67, 255, 292, 386–387, 416, 437, 438

535

Żabiński Ezriel (Ezya) 187, 189, 230, 235, 255, 272 Zabłocka 260 Zabłocki 257 Zaidel Motl 320, 486, 487 Zaidelson Alexander 307 Zaidelson Chaim 64, 124, 172, 174, 213, 240, 295, 298, 300– 311, 314–321, 324– 331, 334, 342, 345, 347, 348, 350–352, 354, 355, 357, 359– 371, 373, 379, 381, 382, 386–390, 392, 394–396, 399–401, 403, 405, 407–415, 417, 420, 421–424, 426–428, 430–434, 436, 438, 440, 442, 444, 448, 454, 458, 460–462, 466, 470, 472–475, 477–481, 490–493, 497–499 Zaidelson Dawid 307, 399 Zaidelson Emma 71, 122, 167, 172, 182, 310, 372, 498–500 Zaidelson Fania 307, 308, 399

536

Zaidelson Mula 307, 308 Zakheim 89 Zarcyn 101 Zarkhi 224–226 Zarkhi Wiktor 225, 226, 230 Zawadzka Sara 114, 288 Zbyszek 263, 264, 267 Zelda K. 227 Zeldowicz Miła 72, 158 Zelik G. 191 Żenia (Aunt Żenia) — see Lewinson Żenia. Zimanas Genrikas (Jurgis) 40–42, 180, 351, 382, 405, 406, 408, 471, 476, 477, 480, 485 Zinin Piotr 487 Ziskowicz Lejb 382, 408 Zoja, singer 450, 451, 456 Zonia, cook 425, 463 Zosia (Zośka ) servant 77, 104, 170, 172, 255 Zosia, teacher 73 Zośka 427, 428 Zukerman Leon 112 Zweig S. 158, 293 Zygmunt 263, 264, 267 Zygmunt, Żenia Lewinson’s husband 240

GEOGRAPHICAL INDEX

America Antokol

229, 240, 498 63, 67, 82, 83, 230, 231, 248, 259, 364, 367 Antokol Hills 369 Antokol (Antokolska ) Street 32, 37, 370 Archangel Street (Now Vitianio Street) 115, 142 Archangelsk 60 Arklu Street 32 Asmena – see Oszmiana. Aszmanios Street – see Oszmiański Line. Auschwitz 24 Austria 43, 195, 203 Bałtaguzy Basanavicius Street Belgium Belmont

365 231 64, 208, 228 238, 239, 273, 279, 291, 346 Belorussia 35, 94, 113, 173, 197, 221, 224, 306 Bełżec 28 Berlin 26, 27, 87, 103, 208 Bernardine Monastery Gardens 86, 122 Bernardyński Park 68, 86, 87, 95–96, 211 Beżdany 346 Białystok 219

Bieszczady Bosaczkowy Square Brusy Bryansk Buffalo Mountain Burbiszki Butrimonys Bystrzyca

215 345 400, 416, 437 28 242–244, 250 300, 342 42 372

Carpathians Cathedral Square Caucasus Chelmno Chestnut Street Chopin Street Crimea Czechoslovakia Czeremszyce Częstochowa Czorsztyn

157, 199, 201, 215 69, 92, 94, 95 452, 498 28 244 165, 196 498 195, 203, 210 365, 374 22 215

Dachau 498 Danzig (Gdańsk) 195 Dauciunai 41 Denmark 228 Długa Wyspa 493 Dobrocin Lane 242, 261 Drogobycz 200 Dunajec River 215 Dziśnieńska (Dzisnos) Street 32, 318, 366

537

Egypt Eishyshok England Estonia

Europe Finland France

292 42 208, 217, 230 39, 40, 295, 307, 317, 355, 358, 362, 381, 401, 476, 477 18, 20, 28, 29, 46, 197, 203, 211, 219 225 43, 176, 195, 207, 208, 211, 213, 217, 230

Gaona Street Garbarsky Street Garžgdai Gdańsk Gdańsk Street Gedimino Prospect Gelwadiszki Germany

254 218 30 195 234, 307 232 159 6, 20–24, 27, 43, 129, 132, 136, 137, 176, 208, 224, 241, 280 Giewont Mountain 134 Głęboki 239, 240 Glezer Street 254 Golendern Street (Now Olandu Street) 308 Gorlani 215 Goverla 201 Green Bridge 218 Green Lakes 230-231 Green Mountain 2 28 Grodno 469, 494 Gubałówka 206 Hala Gaşienicowa Hatowicz Holland Hungary

216 378, 388, 410 208, 228 143

Israel 192, 333, 499 Italy 123 Iwieniec 110 Jagielońska Street (Now Jogailos Street) 144, 176

538

Japan Jaremcza Jatkowa Street Jelec Jononiai Jurbarkas

229 197, 202, 214, 216, 261 254, 285, 365, 366, 421 84, 240 42 30, 225

Kalwary Street 74, 95, 247, 259 Kanyuki 484 Karmelicka Street 32 Kaunas — see Kowno. Kazimierz district 139 Kena 152, 346 Kiemeliskes 42 Kiev 28 Kiev Street (Now Kauno Street) 143, 165 Klepociai 42 Klimaitis 35 Komunaru Street 236 Koniuchy (Kaniukai) 41, 49, 50 Kościelisko 132 Kowno (Kaunas) 3 0, 32–35, 49, 224, 225, 227, 228, 229, 230, 263, 264, 266, 319, 332, 335, 336, 337, 338, 339, 382, 509 Kowno Street 177 Kożański forests 443 Kraków 22, 76, 131, 136, 137, 154, 159, 175, 181, 204, 205, 207, 249, 252 Krasne 169 Kretinga 30 Krościenko 199, 214 Krupówki 133 Krynica 139, 140, 199, 214 Kupa 184 Kurenec 439 Laisves Prospect 225 Landwarów (Now Liantvaris or Lentvaris) 53

Latvia 29, 40, 477 Legionowa Street 253 Leningrad (St. Petersburg) 13, 71, 172, 173, 174, 213, 299, 300 Lida (Lidos) Street 32, 312, 313 Lida 67, 77 Lida Alley 259 Ligonines Street 32 Lithuania 12–19, 29–36, 40–51, 221, 224, 227, 230, 233, 234, 280, 383, 419, 498 Łódź 21 London 241, 248, 271, 273 Lublin 22 Ludwisarski Street 240, 256 Łukiszki 68, 79, 255, 259, 288 Łukiszki Square 61, 91, 113, 119, 130, 135, 231 Luxembourg 228 Łuża 416, 423 Lwów 141, 173, 174, 223 Łyloice 365 Lyntupa 184 Madagascar 22 Magistracka Colony 155, 161 Majdanek 401, 477 Mała Pogulanka (Now Kalinausko Street) 118, 150, 245 Mariampol (Marijampolė) 30, 228 Markuchiai 167, 477 Marszałkowska Street 131 Michałowo 103–105, 110, 112, 143, 154, 168, 169, 172, 173, 468 Mickiewicz Street Now Gedimino (Gediminas) Prospect) 68, 69, 72, 91, 95, 99, 113, 120, 196, 219, 261, 275 Mickun 380 Minsk 103, 221, 224, 225, 230

Mława Mnich Mountain Mokrzyca Moletai Mołodeczno Morskie Oko Moscow

178 216 374 70 169 216 28, 172, 173, 175, 180, 240, 271, 273, 279, 300, 324, 327, 405, 412, 424–426, 449, 451, 452, 461, 462, 473, 488, 498, 499 Mostowa Street (Now Tilto Street) 92, 94, 99, 190 Munich 203 Muszyna 139, 140, 150, 154 Nadbrzezna Street (Now Zigimantu Street) 93 Narochanka Creek 391 Narocz 40, 181, 182, 184, 185, 353, 357, 366, 371– 374, 408, 469, 472, 474–478, 487 Narva 174 Nemenčinė Highway 246 Netherlands 480 Newa River 174 Nida 46 Niedzica 215 Niemen River 264, 266, 267 Niemiecka Street (Now Vokecių Street) 12, 176, 178, 212, 255, 296, 326, 352, 366, 367, 368 North Africa 292, 305 Norway 228 Nowa Wilejka 169, 353 Nowogródzka Street 68, 101, 155, 247 Nowy Targ 215 Ofiarna Street Oleknowicze Olkieniki Olsztyn

278 104, 168 494 44

539

Orany, railroad station (Currently the town of Varena) 321 Orzeszkowa Square (Now Independence Square) 63, 77, 94, 96, 218, 233 Orzeszkowa Street 113 Ostra Brama 270 Ostrobramska Street 303 Oszmiana 34, 40, 331 Oszmianka River 468 Oszmiański Line 32, 343, 349, 350, 351, 352, 355, 365 Pabrade Pacific Ocean Palanga Palestine Paris

237 292 30 18, 82, 164 101, 150, 155, 194, 208, 213 Pavilnis 238 Petrodvorets 173 Piłsudski Street (Now Algirdo Street) 149, 151, 153 Piotrków 21 Piwna 284 Planty Avenue 139 Podgórna Street (Now Pakalnis Street) 60, 118, 119, 121 Podgórze 131 Podgórze Street 138 Podolsk 173 Pogulanka 259 Poland 12, 14, 15, 17–20, 22, 24, 42, 43, 44, 106, 107, 109, 136, 137, 148, 153, 164, 166, 170, 193–195, 197, 209, 217, 218, 220–222, 224, 252, 267, 284, 366, 453, 477, 478, 500, 506–508, 513 Polotsk 255 Ponary 31, 33, 39, 43, 44, 67, 75, 168, 245, 248,

540

252–254, 259, 260, 265, 269, 287, 288, 306, 313, 322, 325, 337–340, 345, 485, 486, 498–500, 504, 505, 508, 509, 516 Portowa Street 97, 244, 307, 499 Pośpieszki 62, 64, 79, 82, 128, 470 Priest Ivan Mountain 201 Prut River 197, 199 Puszkinówka 477 Radom 22 Raków 107, 112 Red Square (in Moscow) 452 Rehoboth 500 Romania 166 Rossa 228, 270, 277 Rudnicka Street 32, 204, 259, 284, 296, 310, 312, 338, 347, 349, 354, 476 Rudnicki Wilderness 40, 42, 161, 179, 180, 382, 406, 408, 422, 423, 431, 433, 444, 448, 449, 454, 457, 458, 460–462, 468, 470, 476–478, 486–488 Rudziszki 114, 217 Russia 24, 71, 148, 170, 176, 190, 195, 240, 255, 308. See also USSR. Sadovaya Street 74 Salky 41 Sapieżyńskie Rowy 369 Šauliai 2 Serakowski Street 2 45 Siberia 48, 270, 277, 456 Šikšniu district 57 Skibowka 134 Skopówka Lane 195 Skuodas 30 Słoboda 371

Słowacki Avenue 207 Smorgonie 91, 331 Sobibór 477 Soviet Russia — see USSR. Soviet Union — see USSR. St. Ignatius Street 279, 476 St. Petersburg – see Leningrad. St. Philip’s Street (Now 16 February Street) 88 Stalingrad 292, 300, 305, 328 Stiklių Street — see Szklanna Street. Straszuna Street (Now Zamaitis Street) 32, 124, 291, 293, 299, 316, 328, 332, 343, 346, 354, 355, 356, 357 Strożysko 132 Stryjski Park 141 Stutthof 365, 498 Suboch Street 477 Sudetenland 195 Sukiennice 137 Święciany 336, 338, 383, 426 Świr 371, 373 Swislocz 173 Switzerland 79 Switzerland Hill 63, 64, 66, 82 Szawelska Street (Now Siauliu Street) 153, 302, 310, 316, 341, 343, 348, 354–356 Szilute district 280 Szklanna (Stiklių) Street 12 Szpitalna Street 259, 284, 285, 290, 300, 303, 327, 328, 330, 345, 348, 355 Szuboch Street 115 Taras Shevchenko Street 67 Tashkent 407, 423 Tatarska Street 204, 218, 227, 234, 239 Tatra Mountains 206, 216 Teatralna Street, 151, 497 Three Crowns 215 Traku Street 263

Treblinka 341, 401, 477 Trinopol 82, 86, 150, 154, 228 Trocka Street 249, 252, 253 Troki (Now Trakai) 53 Trotsky Street (Now Traku Street) 76, 145 Turkey 295 Turniszki 159 Ukraine Umschlagplatz United States University Street USSR

35 341 295 92 15–19, 22, 23, 26, 29, 31, 39, 84, 109, 148, 164, 173, 191, 197, 213, 220, 221, 224– 226, 230, 231, 241, 242, 272, 296, 361, 407, 426, 447, 454, 492, 498, 503, 510

Vatican 59 Viliampol (Vilijampolė) 30, 267 Vilna (Vilno, Vilnius) 11–19, 30, 31, 33, 34– 38, 40, 42–44, 46–49, 53, 66, 70, 71, 76, 78, 79, 91, 109, 111, 112, 116, 118, 123, 136, 137, 139–141, 144, 145, 147, 161, 162, 165–168, 173, 174, 176, 177, 181, 185, 191, 192, 194, 199, 207, 212, 218, 221, 223–225, 227, 234, 239, 240, 243, 254, 262, 263, 267, 268, 277, 279, 286, 305, 306, 311, 318, 319, 322, 331, 333– 336, 338, 353, 371, 378, 380, 382, 383, 395, 401, 403, 404, 406, 411, 412, 416,

541

419, 422, 430, 437, 453, 460, 470, 471, 476, 478, 480, 485, 497–505, 508–510 Vitauto Street

263

Waka (Now Voke, a Vilnius suburb) 256, 331, 346 Warsaw 13, 21, 22, 43, 44, 87, 92, 92, 123, 130, 131, 137, 143, 154, 178, 193, 197, 199, 200, 205, 218, 225, 229, 263, 294, 294, 304, 307, 308, 314, 341, 342, 344, 354, 399, 469, 480, 507, 508, 509 Werki 83, 84, 86, 161, 228, 230 White Wake 479 Wielka Pogulanka Street 241, 253 Wielka Street 225 Wilejka 40, 238, 291, 367, 380 Wileńska Street 69, 88, 94, 97–99 114, 144, 152, 153, 155, 190, 195, 211, 218, 225, 228, 233, 234, 238, 241, 242, 259, 261, 269 Wilia River (Now the Niaris River) 57, 82, 83, 94, 154, 156, 353, 371, 373, 458, 475 Wiłkomirska Street (Now Ukmerges Street) 114, 199, 222 Wilna Street 324 Wisła 138, 139 Wiszniew 371, 373

542

Wiwulska Street 80, 81, 151, 212 Wołga 292, 299, 300 Wołokumpia (Now Valakampiai, a suburb of Vilnius ) 81, 82, 103, 115, 126, 154, 156, 161, 246, 255, 361, 497 Worochta 200, 202 Wyszkow 92 Za Bramą Zakopane

132 76, 92, 130, 131, 133, 134, 154, 199, 204, 205, 206, 215, 217, 251, 370 Zakręt (Now Vilgis Park) 150, 274 Zakrętowa Street (Now Ciurlionis Street) 150, 497 Zameczek 365, 370, 371 Zarzecze 364, 367, 368, 477 Zarzecze Street (Now Uzhupio Street) 367 Zawalna Street (Now Pilimo Street) 32, 56, 68, 81, 88, 89, 109, 118, 125, 144, 155, 166, 232, 249, 254, 259, 285, 294, 304, 307, 326, 328, 330, 340, 345, 357, 499, 284 Zawrat 216 Żeleźniki 365, 374 Żeżmary 319, 320 Zigmuntiszki 494, 495 Zwierzyniec 77, 78, 154, 190, 414 Żydowska Street 32, 254