Hiding in Death's Shadow: How I Survived the Holocaust; Second Edition

Contents

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Introduction

CHAPTER 1 The Family

CHAPTER 2 Betrayal

CHAPTER 3 Background to Slaughter

CHAPTER 4 The narrow escape

CHAPTER 5 The Bunker in Rostoka

CHAPTER 6 The Bunker at Opolonik

CHAPTER 7 The tents of Plishka forest

CHAPTER 8 The Hunted Become Hunters

CHAPTER 9 The Bullets Were Real

CHAPTER 10 Desperation

CHAPTER 11 The Tents in Zymna Hora

CHAPTER 12 The Final Hurdle to Liberation

Epilogue

Tribute

Maps

From Out of the Shadow

The Journey Back To My Childhood Home

Acknowledgements

I would like to first and foremost acknowledge my children - Ron, Leora and Sheira for adding such an important dimension to my life, for their inspiration and for sharing and taking to heart all my stories throughout their entire lives. A special thanks to my daughter Leora, for tirelessly editing my book with her insight, creativity and above all patience; to my daughter Sheira for writing such a moving tribute and for proof-reading with her eagle eyes. And thanks to my son, Ron, for offering support, inspiration and for your technical assistance.

I thank Mickie Schulman for being there for me throughout this arduous process, giving me encouragement along the way.

I thank Marcy Mechanic for helping out with the title of the book.

I express my appreciation to David Berg, Irving Weicher and Leo Gleicher for helping me piece together the details of my story. Thank you for your friendship all these years and for being my memory aids in the writing of this book.

I wish to recognize and honor the following gentiles who helped me to survive during a very dangerous time in my life: Joseph Markowitz and Nikolay Markowitz (no relation), and several others whose names I can no longer remember.

And, most importantly, I would like acknowledge the family that I lost - my mother, father, sister, cousins, aunts and uncles. I want you to know, wherever you are, that I have lived with the values and morals that you have instilled in me.

Dedication

I owe the writing of this book to my mother because if it weren’t for her, it could not have been written. From the early days of my childhood, I had that special feeling that my mother loved me dearly. There is nothing that can compare to a mother’s love. As horrible as my experience was, the memory of her love made it easier to endure. I think of her often. I have had this feeling always, that wherever she is, she has kept an eye on me. Many a time, even now, when I have something to share, I think of her subconsciously only to realize that she is not here. She is my inspiration and I know that her spirit lives on in me, in my children and in all the generations yet to come.

Introduction

I want you to know that my story will not be easy to tell. I am a Holocaust survivor. And even though I was lucky enough to be spared the concentration camps, I experienced a similar mind-numbing fear and an undeniable will to survive while hiding from the Nazis deep in the forests of the Carpathian Mountains.

I kept in many details about my life before the war because I wanted you to get to know me well so you could see all that I had, and all that I lost. Some stories you may find hard to believe and some details you may not care about, but I lived through it all. Even today I can well up with tears just thinking about everything I lost and all the horror I endured. And I have managed to make a life for myself despite Hitler’s lofty goal of exterminating all the Jews. He couldn’t fulfill his dreams because I’m still here. And so are my children and so are my grandchildren.

1

The Family

It was nearly the end of July in our small village of Radycz (pronounced: RA-ditch). The day started out peacefully, with the usual overwhelming worries. My mother, Hencia (pronounced: HEN-chya), and my sister, Manya, were returning home from a visit with family in the neighboring village Ilnik and became the messengers of disturbing news. When I saw them returning, I ran over to them and greeted them with warm hugs and kisses. I noticed, however, that mother was concerned about something. I knew my mother very well — her smile, her demeanor, and her emotions. Mother attempted to minimize the news she was bringing with her. She revealed to me that the Germans have issued a directive: all the Jews from the surrounding villages have to report to Turka for resettlement to another place.

Mother gathered a few clothes for herself, my father, Akiva, and my little sister, Manya. The August weather was warm and they wouldn’t need anything heavy. My Uncle Srul, one of the Judenrat (a Jewish Advisory Council), assured them they would be gone only a few hours, maybe just overnight. Uncle Srul and his brother-in-law, Moyshe Hans, lived only two miles away in the village of Ilnik. They were leaders in Ilnik’s Jewish community of more than 50 families. My mother, father, sister, and I were the only Jews in the tiny village of Radycz.

Ours was one of the larger houses in the village, although it was a small, modest wooden farmhouse. There were a few other well-to-do Ukrainian farmers with large houses nearby, but most of the villagers lived in primitive wooden huts with dirt floors. For more than a year, our house had not been ours alone. The head of the village, Nikolay Markowicz, had taken over the front room for his office.

I don’t mean to sound boastful, but I was very well educated at 14 years of age. Markowicz had asked me to help him out with the paperwork in the office because he, like the other farmers and peasants in the region, couldn’t read or write.

Sensing the ever-increasing danger for Jews in the area, mother had asked Markowicz to get me the coveted work permit. Since Markowicz was head of the village, it was no problem. Mother kept pressing him to get the Arbeit work permit for me which would guarantee me the desirable A on the armband, denoting preferential treatment. Although most of the work permits were for men working in the forest cutting timber, Markowicz saw the benefit of having me help out by doing the necessary paper work and he managed to obtain the desired A (Arbeit) work permit.

I didn’t realize at the time that the A would help save my life, it just meant preferential treatment at the time – it turned out to be the single most important thing my mother ever did because it eventually allowed me to stay and work when others were being taken away.

Mother was uneasy about the transport to Turka where everyone was ordered to report to barracks built by the Russians the year before. It wasn’t far, only four miles, and Markowicz had arranged transport as directed by the Germans two or three days before August 1, 1942.

The directive came down from the German High Command to the Judenrat as well as to the heads of all the villages surrounding the town of Turka. All Jews — men, women and children — without the letter A on their armband were to report with their immediate belongings to the army barracks on August 1 for resettlement to work in a labor camp. This new transport alarmed every Jew in the villages. For mother, however, there was a spark of hope.

Not only was I excused from reporting because of mother’s successful plea for the permit, but also Uncle Srul assured our family that there was a special list of people who must report to the barracks, but would then be released to come home. My Uncle Srul’s own wife and five-year-old daughter were on the list as well as our family. Also there was an important voice supporting the effort to free more Jewish families to work in the forest: a German voice – but not a Nazi. He was a local forester named Knopf who was trying to help the Jews in Ilnik who worked in the forest cutting timber and hauling it to the river for the German war effort. Knopf volunteered to negotiate with the Gestapo to have certain people on the list, including our family, returned to the villages to work in the forest for the war effort.

With several of our family members in the Judenrat and Uncle Srul assuring them that all would be well, mother resigned herself to traveling to Turka. She had no choice but to report to the barracks and hope to return home in the afternoon. I’m sure mother was relieved that I wouldn’t have to leave Radycz.

The driver was waiting outside and mother joined father and sister Manya in the buggy. I remember standing alongside the buggy when I told mother that I don’t want to be left alone, but she reminded me that someone must stay and take care of the house until they returned later in the day. She said there was hardly a question that they would be back, probably that afternoon.

I think mother saw the apprehension in my face despite her reassurances. So as not to alarm me I believe mother, in her loving way, fought to keep her own fears hidden as the driver urged his horse into a trot down the village, across the river Stryj (pronounced: STRAY), and ultimately to the barracks.

I walked a few steps following the buggy down the dirt road, then stood and watched as my family drove away. My mother’s golden hair shone in the morning light, her summer dress bright next to my sister’s dark hair. I wanted to go to with them to Turka but Mother said that I must stay and take care of the house.

The buggy carrying my family away from me wound past the last houses in our village and I lost sight as it turned left down the road. I could hear the horse’s hooves on the road, then the sound faded. My heart was heavy but I convinced myself that we would have a happy reunion in just a few hours.

SKU-000200320_TEXT-3.jpg SKU-000200320_TEXT-3.jpg SKU-000200320_TEXT-3.jpg

Our village called Radycz was small; no more than 250 people. It was a rural village of farmers, peasants and forestry workers. It was where I was born and had lived all of my 14 years. Radycz was in Southern Poland in the rugged Carpathian Mountains near the Hungarian border to our south. There were other small villages within a few miles, all centered around the much larger town of Turka. The road to Turka ran right in front of our house dividing our farm; it was only a dirt road used mainly by the farmers and peasants in the area. Our house was number 8.

We spent most of our time in the kitchen, where a large stove kept us warm in the winter; there were always good smells coming from Mother’s cooking. My parents slept in one of two bedrooms and my sister and I slept in the other. There was a living room, well lit with an open exposure overlooking the southern part of the village. No one spent much time in that living room but I used to sneak in there once in a while and look for all sorts of little things in the dresser drawers. Also, I would climb up to the attic and look at the fascinating things from World War I belonging to my father and one of my uncles.

Most of the houses were located on the farmland along the river, surrounded by forests in the distance. I call them houses but they were mainly primitive wooden huts with dirt floors. Most of the villagers were poor farmers whose huts consisted of one room most of which was taken up by an oven, and right next to it, or even a part of it, a stove. This served a dual purpose. It was used for baking and cooking and the flat top of the oven often served as a communal bed, especially in the wintertime when the temperature dropped below freezing. The winters in our mountains lasted from about October to May, with extremely cold temperatures and plenty of snow.

In Radycz and the other small villages, no one ever heard of a telephone or a radio. No one had electricity. Water for cooking and drinking came from the stream. There were no bathrooms or bathtubs or showers. I don’t think any of the farmers ever took a shower. There was always a chance to take a dip in the river, but that wasn’t practical in cold weather, especially in winter. In the summertime, children from the neighborhood would come and play in the river close to our house.

My father was a respected member of the village. He was a farmer, using the word loosely, and a part-time lumber broker. He wasn’t a physically strong man so he had outside workers help with planting in the springtime and preparing for the harvest. We would cut the oats or wheat, tie it in bundles, and place it in storage to feed the cattle and our horse in the wintertime. Naturally, we cut plenty of wood for cooking and heating in the winter.

My mother was more involved with our three cows. The mini dairy farm was a rather modest operation. Mother had a woman who not only helped with the household chores and the running of the farm, but slept there too. Everyday, they milked the three cows early in the morning and processed the milk into butter, sour cream, and cheese. We also kept chickens, turkeys, ducks and geese as well as some sheep and goats.

To store the dairy products and keep the milk from getting sour, my father had a cold cellar built into a large hill close to the house. It served two purposes: in winter it was a storage place mainly for keeping potatoes, and in summertime it served as a refrigerator. Without electricity we had no way to cool things except by nature’s way. The temperature of a cellar dug into the hill stayed cool and steady with little change between winter and summer. Earth provided good insulation either way.

Mother took pride in her cows’ rich milk, golden butter and cheese. She was especially proud of her dairy’s quality because the stores in town would fight over her products. Once a week on Sundays, my parents would hitch our horse to the buggy and take the dairy products to Turka. A modern town compared to the villages, Turka had brick houses, various shops, several nice bridges, electricity (if one could afford it) and a gas station. Occasionally, a car would pass — perhaps once a week. The gas pump had to be operated manually and when it was in use, a crowd would gather to watch the process. Most of the transportation in and out of Turka was by horse-drawn vehicles or by train, which came through a tunnel into the local railroad station. The line ran through several small towns and then to a bigger city to the north—Lvov.

The horse we used to pull our wagon into Turka on Sundays was brown, and to a small boy, very tall. I recall watching my father shoe the horse and I tried to help him when I could. That was when our horse seemed so tall. It’s not easy getting a big horse to pick up his foot so that you can pull off the old shoe. When I was eight or nine and bigger, my father let me shoe the horse but only under his supervision. That used to make me feel important and my father was proud of me. It was also important to me that I help my father when I could. He was not well. Occasionally, he had problems with his heart as well as with his lungs.

When it came time to haul the manure into the fields, I was glad to do it and my father appreciated my help. Hauling the manure was one big job where I could be of help and work with our horse as well. With three cows, a horse, and many sheep and goats, we accumulated quite a pile of manure. Like most farmers we piled it behind the barn and covered it with tarps to keep it dry. When spring came the manure had cured into very good fertilizer that we spread on the land before planting crops of potatoes, oats, wheat and other grains. Mother used it in the little garden adjacent to the house where she grew strawberries, radishes, carrots, and onions—among other fruits and vegetables. My sister Manya and I always kept an eye on the strawberries, waiting for them to ripen. Across the road from the house was the stable for all the livestock. The chicken coop was there as well. Right next to the stable was the storage for hay, bundles of oats and wheat, which we placed in the attic and then threshed after the harvest was completed. With everything in dry storage we could continue threshing through the winter.

We were a rather religious family; I would say orthodox, but not fanatic. Every morning my father put on the tefilin (phylacteries) and talis (the prayer shawl) for prayers. He prayed in the evening as well. I used to wonder, as young as I was, how the non-Jews viewed this whole ceremony. I had strange feelings about being different. I liked to play with the kids in the neighborhood and wanted to be accepted as one of them, but I don’t think I ever was. As I got a little older, about 7 or 8, they would tell me the Jews killed Christ but they didn’t call me Christ killer. They told me the priest said it in Church, so they believed if the priest said it, it was indisputable. They would make fun of me about being circumcised and there were other derogatory comments.

When I was about three years old, my father started teaching me how to read and write in Yiddish with both the Hebrew and Polish alphabet. I would’ve rather played outside with the other kids but my father took education seriously. I went along for the ride, absorbing what I was taught — not that I had a choice. My father didn’t bother teaching my sister who was two years younger than I. Girls didn’t have