ON THE TRAIN BACK HOME

As far as our relations with the non-Jewish youngsters, the ride back home was not much different than the miserable experience on the way to Gdynia. Except for one memorable event.

For some reason or another, the train from Gdynia to Lodz had to pass the city of Gdansk. For another unknown reason, the train had to go on an elevated track over the city of Gdansk, which gave us an excellent view of the city’s centre. To our dismay, this beautiful city which was internationalized by the "League of Nations," did not look less German than Berlin itself. Huge Nazi flags with their despised swastikas, were literally covering all the buildings of the streets and wide boulevards. This display of Nazism was, especially for us Jewish youngsters, a terribly scary experience.

Exhausted physically and mentally, most youngsters in our compartment dozed off. I, however, although pretty tired was not able to close my eyes. I kept thinking of why and how those Christian youngsters turned out the way they did. I was quite convinced that their parents followed the example of their radical leaders.who were not able or willing to improve the lives of the average citizen and instead blamed the Jews for their own shortcomings.

So, those children were brought up in an atmosphere of hate, and at an early age learned to blame others, especially the Jews who were their primary scapegoats. At the same time, our upbringing was leading in just the opposite direction.

Our parents, and teachers taught us to respect and be tolerant to anybody, regardless of their religion or nationality. The Rabbis in their sermons at the synagogues were preaching the same values.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted and so was the sleep of most of the youngsters when one of us started to sing a Polish patriotic song, while the train was still passing the city of Gdansk. Instantly others were joining him, and apparently the loud singing was picked up by the adjoining wagons and spread to the entire train. It became quite clear to me that while sensing a common enemy, we all became united at least for the duration of this particular moment.

The song chosen for this expression of defiance was the unofficial anthem of the Polish navy, in which the lyrics tell the enemy that the Baltic Sea shall remain ours forever "even if we have to die for its defense and.... land at the bottom of the sea."

This latent act of defiance by hundreds of youngsters made us Jewish kids feel at least for a while equal citizens of our homeland.

BACK HOME AT LAST

With a sigh of relief we finally arrived exhausted at the Lodz busy central station, happy to be home safe and sound.

In spite of all the difficulties and aggravations, the trip to Gdynia could be considered a very important part of my growing up, and indeed an important lesson of "intolerance". It provided us with first-hand knowledge of who we really were. Finding out first hand of what an upbringing our Christian peers received, I suddenly felt proud of my heritage. I felt a bit presumptuous to be proud of something which was not of my own doing. But after my return from Gdynia I felt really proud to have been born a Jew. It took only a couple of days after our return home to start packing for our up-coming four weeks of summer camp.

This time we spent a truly unforgettable four weeks. Although the camp was also sponsored by the public school board it was designated for only Jewish students. The place was situated in a typical Jewish "Shtetl", surrounded by a dense forest, and large meadows and farms. The town was split in two halves by a clean small river called Pilica, one of the outlets of the Vistula River. The town was called Sulayov, near Piotrkov.

Amid an already aggravated political situation and a fear of an imminent approaching disaster, we enjoyed a pretty good summer vacation under the circumstances.

Being among our own, I felt secure and content especially after our disastrous trip to Gdynia. I could have had the time of my life if I would only be able to erase from my mind the despicable behaviour of our non-Jewish peers, who were supported by their arrogant supposedly Christian educators. It was also difficult for me to forget the sea of Nazi flags displayed all over the free city of Gdansk.

Now six - decades later, living in a Canadian multi-cultural society where my wife and I had raised children and grandchildren free from fear and prejudice, I could only pity the mislead pre-war young generation of my former homeland.

Without really realizing the consequences of implanting prejudice and intolerance into the hearts of their offspring they created a generation filled with hate and bitterness. In a way the real victims of such an upbringing were, besides their potential victims, the brain-washed youngsters themselves.

It still makes me wonder if many of those youngsters grew up to become willing helpers to the Nazi murderers. Unfortunately such an assumption might not be too far from the truth.

However, according to the numbers of Polish Catholics who saved some Jews during the Nazi occupation it would be safe to assume that some of those youngsters grew up to be decent human beings and were even helping their parents in that dangerous task ... I sincerely hope that this assumption of mine is really close to the truth.

Chapter 2

THE GERMAN OCCUPATION OF LODZ (THE GHETTO)

Almost immediately after the entry of German troops, into the second largest city of Poland, the war against the Jewish population began.

Perhaps the Nazis wouldn't have been able to start their dirty work as soon as they did, if not for the local help granted to them by many of their supporters. Thousands of ethnic Germans, proudly showing off their swastika arm bands, were ready and willing to help their Nazi brothers in the war against their helpless former neighbours.

Lodz surrendered to the Nazis without any actual resistance. Evacuated days earlier by the Polish army, police force and the city administrators. Those retreating "heroes", promised to put up a strong defence at the gates of Warsaw.

This promise prompted a mass evacuation of tens of thousands of men, women, and children, many with their entire families, who soon became targets for the murderous German pilots who bombed and mercilessly gunned down hundreds of those innocent civilians. Many of those evacuees including little children, became the first victims of Nazi brutality.

While the Nazis were busy with occupying the rest of Poland, the occupiers of Lodz began their dirty work of harassing and abusing the Jewish citizens of our city.

In addition to the help granted to the Nazis by their ethnic brothers, they were also assisted by some Polish hooligans who for a small reward, and many times just for pleasure, willingly denounced their Jewish neighbors or even former close friends.

So, Jews were grabbed from the streets to perform all sorts of hard labor. While many of them were fortunate enough to return home after performing their day’s work. Others, especially young men were shipped off to labor camps, never to be seen by their families again.

Religious Jews had their beards cut off forcefully, while many of them were also forced to put on their prayer shawls. During those barbarous ceremonies, the Nazis joyfully photographed each other, apparently to send pictures to their loved ones in Germany.

Scores of different laws against the Jewish population, were posted daily on billboards all over the city. Among the first outrageous proclamations were against the Jewish religious life: "prayers in synagogues and assembling in groups for any religious purposes was forbidden. Jewish stores had to be opened on the Jewish Sabbath, holidays, and festivals. Jewish schools had to be closed until further notice."

Other regulations included a ban for Jews to walk on sidewalk in the presence of any German official, whether military or civilian. Jews were also obliged to remove their hats and respectfully greet an oncoming German soldier.

Daily harassment of the Jewish population occurred unabated. Jewish businesses were being closed, and their remaining stock looted and hauled away in large trucks. Those looted goods were apparently transported to Germany. Smaller stores were constantly looted by individual German soldiers as well as by ethnic Germans.

Finally the most degrading of all those laws was forced on us: Jews must attach a yellow star of David on the front and back of each garment in their possession.

During the initial evacuation of Lodz my two older brothers, Moshe and Isaac, were also on their way to Warsaw. With thousands of others, they were surrounded by the advancing German forces, and arrested somewhere between the two cities.

At the same time I became ill with an acute flu infection which caused fluid in both of my knees. I probably contacted the flu while standing for many hours in line-ups to fetch a loaf of bread for my family.

After a couple of weeks in detention, Isaac was finally released and returned together with scores of other young men. Moshe, however, who at the time had no proper identification, was kept as a prisoner of war.

Being back with his family, Isaac confirmed the tragic stories of death and destruction, as a result of German low flying planes, bombing and shelling indiscriminately civilian men, women and children.

The roads, byways and ditches were filled with corpses of innocent people. In some places parents were found dead on top of their children whom they tried to shield with their own bodies.

Moshe returned about six weeks later. Bailed out (or rather bribed) by my father who together with a neighbor managed to bring their boys home.

Moshe, who was not twenty four yet, returned home in terrible shape. Skinny after loosing at least twenty pounds, sick with a bloody diarrhea, physically and mentally exhausted he told of atrocities at that time totally unimaginable.

Together with a large group of young men, Moshe was taken from one temporary camp to another, sleeping on bare floors with very little food to sustain their strength. There was no change of underwear or a simple shower during all that time.

Dirty unshaven with their clothing turned into rags, they were dragged to the streets of the German city of Leipzig. During those walks escorted by Nazi soldiers with vicious dogs. loudspeakers kept on shouting insults at those exhausted young men, while introducing them to the passing-by German civilians as typical dirty and damned "east Jews" who were the cause of all suffering in the world and the ones responsible for the present war.

Soon after his return home and under the constant care of our dear mother, Moshe recovered splendidly.

However, the situation in our city turned from bad to worse. On the 11th of November 1939, on the day when Poland was supposed to celebrate the anniversary of it's independence, the monument of Poland’s historical hero Kosciuszko, was destroyed. On the same day most of the synagogues of Lodz were blown up and some were set on fire.

Jews were shedding tears and their hearts were bleeding. Especially the Jews of my neighbourhood, could not bear the thought that their great old city synagogue, where my family and myself were attending the shabbat and holiday services was also destroyed. All that remained from that majestic world renowned synagogue was a pile of rubble with it's concrete ten commandment tablets almost undamaged on top of the debris. The nearby Beit Medrash (study house), was torched to the ground.

This was the day which prompted my parents’ decision to urge their two older sons to escape to the east. My parents felt that their lives would be in danger under the ever more brutal German occupation.

Soon after, amid hugs and tears, my two brothers together with scores of other young men were on their way, with a promise to send for us if things work out as expected.

Unfortunately things turned out worse than we expected. My brothers never saw their parents again.

The economic situation, especially for the poorest segment of the Jewish population became disastrous. Large families, without any means or without any prospect of paid labor, were the first to suffer. An acute shortage of food products and fuel caused the prices to sky rocket, making it impossible for most Jews to feed properly or to keep their children warm.

The misery of the first winter under the German occupation was devastating to a poorly prepared and mostly without means Jewish population of our area. The death toll, especially among children and the elderly had reached unexpected proportions. The main cause of this disaster was of course, cold and starvation. At the same time the Germans started with their mass deportations which reduced the Jewish population of Lodz at least by one third. Rumors of a soon to be erected ghetto, began to circulate all over the place.

Through unexpected developments the economic situation in our household improved immensely. An old customer of ours, a store keeper of German ancestry and incidentally a decent person, recommended my father to a high ranking Wehrmacht officer who ordered and paid for several comforters to be shipped to his family in Germany.

This was the start of at least a couple of months of relative prosperity, because several other German army officers followed with similar orders.

During this particular period, the Jewish population were struggling with a shortage of yellow stars of David to attach to each one of their garments. The few places where you were able to buy this very important, at the time, commodity were producing fancy embroidered stars for which they were asking high prices, which were unaffordable by most of the population.

Since my father had quite an amount of yellow satin material in his stock, my brother and I decided to make our own yellow stars, and also some for our relatives and close neighbors. As soon as what we were doing reached the streets, many street vendors showed up at our apartment simply begging us to supply them with stars to meet the demand of the Jewish population. They also indeed sensed a chance to make a living. The demand became so big, that my brother and I had to work sixteen hours a day, to meet the orders of ever more street vendors. Soon my father had to find more material while my brother and I had to find new ways to double or even triple our production. Although we covered the cost of our material, plus a decent return on our labor, we provided the ghetto population with affordable stars of David and indeed a decent living for dozens of street vendors.

"This enterprise," if I can call it that, lasted until the end of June 1940, a couple of months after the closing of the Lodz ghetto. Although it gave us a chance to survive a bad period by making a decent living, by hard work from the four of us, I still feel that although our product was an obscene Nazi invention, we nevertheless supplied the poor ghetto dwellers an affordable product instead of a highly expensive embroidered yellow star.

It didn't take long for the face of the ghetto to change drastically. This was still the transition period from a free market to official rationing. The acute food shortage and astronomical prices at the black market, caused mass starvation and together with ever more worsening sanitary conditions in the over-crowded ghetto, the death toll kept on rising.

The streets were already full of walking skeletons, and during the nights dead bodies were picked up from sidewalks and alleys. The vicious prophecy on the billboard, which the Germans put on, on each of the ghetto gates, "SEUCHEN GEBIET EINTRIT VERBOTEN" (Diseased area, off limits), unfortunately became reality.

All kinds of diseases prevailed, culminating in the devastating typhus epidemic.

The terrible living conditions, of an average six to eight people occupying a one room flat with no plumbing or hot water, and piles of garbage, in addition to constantly overflown public latrines, became a breeding ground for this terrible epidemic.

By the beginning of July 1940, 1 fell victim to this most contagious disease. I don't remember exactly how long my hospitalization lasted, but two episodes of this tragic period in the life of my family and myself I will never forget. They will stay engraved in my memory as long as I shall live.

The first event occurred while my illness reached the apparent crisis. My temperature was at its highest possible level which put me in a state of semi consciousness. I felt like lying on a pile of burning coal, and at the same time I was trembling viciously from a freezing chill. My lips were split open from dryness and constantly bleeding.

Since this hospital was off limits to visitors the only recourse of finding out about a patient’s condition was by appointment with a physician on duty.

On this particular afternoon my parents and my brother were sitting in the doctor's office waiting for his assessment of my state of health.

Coincidentally a friend of mine, a youngster who belonged to the same athletic club as I did, before the war, of course, happened to be present in the doctor’s office. The ,pariser' as we used to call him, having already survived a bout with typhus was now working in the hospital as a courier. He was of great help to me during my illness, mostly by bringing me desperately needed bottles of water, supplied daily by my father.

This time, however, his help to my family was priceless.

Doing or pretending to do something, my friend overheard the Doctor telling my hysterically crying parents that my condition was hopeless. In an attempt to soothe my parents’ fears the ,pariser' stopped them after leaving the doctors office and tried to convince them that the doctor was wrong in his assessment. "I just saw Ben and I can assure you that his condition is improving", he whispered to them. "You just stay as always in front of the building and I will bring Ben to the window and prove to you that the doctor was wrong", he assured them patiently.

Suddenly I heard my friend’s voice, like as if in a dream, telling me that he will escort me to the window for just a minute in order to say hello to my parents. With the help of a nurse, he put me on my feet covered with a blanket, and without even realizing what it was all about, I found myself in front of a large window. Like through a dense fog I noticed my brother and my parents waving in my direction. Then I felt my friend’s hand lifting up my right arm helping me to wave to them. While I automatically did that, he urged me to smile, and I did that too, this time fully realizing what I was doing. I was gently put back to bed by those two angels, who covered me with a warm blanket and quietly left the room.

The next morning, I woke up seeing a smiling doctor and nurse next to my bed. They both seemed ecstatic, and for the first time in quite a while I felt excellent. My temperature was almost back to normal.

THE BRIDGE

The impression that I felt excellent was so misleading that it almost led to a tragedy of great proportions, to myself, and indeed to my poor parents.

Being over-anxious to go home and remembering rumors that being a hospital patient in the ghetto could be quite dangerous, I tried with certain tricks to keep my temperature as low as possible. The consequence of this behaviour was of course my premature release. Which brings me to my second event.

It was about ten a.m. on this hot early August morning, when my father and my brother came to the hospital to take me home. They were told by the hospital administrator to go home by themselves while I according to hospital rules will be taken home by ambulance. Soon after I was placed together with several other patients in a makeshift horse driven ambulance, accompanied by a male nurse.

According to a Nazi devised plan, the Lodz ghetto was split into two parts connected with several wooden bridges. This was done to accommodate the Christian population who had to pass the area on streetcars. These bridges were erected over the main artery which connected the Christian parts of the city.

Ghetto pedestrians had to cross those bridges daily on their way to the factories and to other desired destinations. All kinds of vehicles had to pass through the gates which were guarded on one side by German soldiers and on the ghetto side, by Jewish policemen.

When the ambulance I was driving in stopped near the gate, which was leading to my home, a male nurse told me that I was the only one of the whole group who lived on the other side of the ghetto. He proposed to me that since I am the only one, and already in good shape, I should cross the bridge by foot and walk home. Without realizing in what condition I really was, I agreed and walked out in the direction of the bridge.

While walking the short distance to the bridge, I suddenly realized the huge mistake I made by agreeing to take this outrageous suggestion of the male nurse. Hardly being able to walk I found myself in front of the tall bridge, which I had to cross into the Wolbarska street from where I would have to walk a kilometer to reach my home.

The moment I looked up to the close to three stories tall bridge, I became fully aware that I am faced with an impossible task. In desperation I was searching for a familiar face whom I could ask for help but all in vain. I was even asking for help from total strangers, but without success.

Wearing a pair of terribly wrinkled pants and not better looking jacket and being awfully skinny and pale, I obviously did not look different from hundreds of other youngsters, starved and skeletal beggars who were already a familiar sight on the ghetto streets. Hardly being able to drag my legs, I started to walk up the wooden stairs, fully realizing that this is my only chance of reaching my home.

In order not to get additional discouragement, I made up my mind, not to look up. I just took one step after another, rested for a while and continued at the same pace. Every step seemed to take a lifetime, and with each little bit of progress, my strength seemed to diminish. It took me at least two hours to reach the top of the bridge.

Holding on to the rail, I looked down. I felt like standing on the summit of a huge mountain. The people on the street looked like dwarfs, in comparison to the ones walking next to me. The fast moving streetcar seemed like a toy train. I felt dizzy, but slowly continued my walk towards the downward stairs.

When I finally reached the street below, the sun was already beginning to hide behind some of the tall dwellings. I found myself on the "wolborska street", from where I had to cross the plaza of the old city synagogue leading to the street where I lived.At the end of the plaza the street numbers if I remember well, started at number 9 and the building where I lived was number 25. Normally, to reach my home would have taken me no more than twenty minutes. However, in my condition, it felt as if I had to walk by foot to Warsaw.

Very slowly, with painful effort, I reached the corner of Wolborska street just opposite the ruins of the great "OLD CITY SYNAGOGUE." This pile of debris was probably left there by the Nazi tyrants as a reminder to the Lodz’ Jews of their past glory.

Just across the street, there were still several abandoned apartment buildings whose tenants were already deported to an unknown destinations. I managed to sit down on the steps of one of the few padlocked stores.

The street was completely deserted. Exhausted, physically as well as mentally, I figured I will just take a short rest and continue on my way home. To my dismay and horror, I realized that this was nothing but the end of my journey. Not only was I not able to continue walking, but I was lacking the strength of simply standing up.

In desperation I kept looking in each direction for a passerby, but all in vain. Not even a sound of footsteps could be heard from a distance.

When the sun finally disappeared I realized in what grave situation I really found myself in. What actually hurt me most was the obvious state of distress my parents felt at that moment. There was no doubt in my mind that together with my brother, friends and neighbours they must be searching for me all over the place. I also realized that my remaining relatives must also have been alerted and are helping in the search. I was also praying for the daylight to last a bit longer.

It was hard for me to keep my eyes open, I fought very hard to avoid falling asleep. Through my almost closed eyelids, I looked across to the pile of rubble and in my distress noticed the attached-together concrete tablets with the engraved Ten Commandments right on top of the pile. For a moment, I thought that I saw the great synagogue standing intact in front of me in its full splendor.

Like in the good old days, I also saw the commandment tablets on the very top of the majestic building of that great synagogue.

Painfully I fully opened my eyes and tried to return to reality. I looked again at the pile of debris and could not comprehend how it was possible for these tablets to remain in tact, except for a few chopped-off pieces and remain on top of the pile. Was it accidental or did the Nazis place them there after the destruction of the synagogue, or was it a cynical act of defiance to show the Jews that their God is really worthless?

I continued to struggle to keep my eyes open, and again saw myself inside the synagogue full of people. Among the worshipers I saw scores of Jewish soldiers who were obliged to visit a house of prayer during the Jewish Sabbath. I remember well how those handsome, young men in uniform usually escorted by a non-commissioned Christian officer were brought to attend the shabbat services. I also saw myself with my twin brother standing next to my father who was draped in his prayer shawl and feeling proud to be inside this holy place.

"Benji, Benji" my thought were interrupted by a sudden familiar voice. Hardly able to open my eyes, I felt a hand shaking my shoulder. Like awakened from a deep sleep, I slowly opened my eyes. In complete disbelief I saw a man bending over me, talking to me, again calling my name, "What are you doing here Benji? Come I'll take you home", he kept on talking.... I noticed that it was still daylight, and except for the young man who stood in front of me, the street was still empty of any other human being. I finally realized to whom this familiar voice I heard belonged: David Malinowski, a neighbor of ours, a young man in his early twenties, was just on his way from work when he noticed me.

Tenderly David lifted me up, placed me on his out-stretched arms, and carried me into the Zydowska street, where dozens of neighbors and relatives were gathered in anticipation of some good news to convey to my parents.

We were almost half way to our destination when I saw my parents running towards us, shedding tears of happiness and joy.

"How did you find him?" I heard my father asking David. "I don't know", the overwhelmed with excitement David answered. "I never go home this way, never, this time I somehow turned into the Wolborska street, as if someone would have pushed me", and added, "I really don't know why Mr. Kujawski, I really don't, I swear.

When I think of this episode, it is hard for me to determine if I would have been able to survive a night sitting on the steps of this abandoned building. Therefore I must assume that David, (Duvcie) saved my life. This young man, the oldest son of a poor tailor, was later deported together with his parents and six siblings.

They were part of tens and thousands so called welfare Jews who became the first victims of the Nazi death camps, apparently in chelmno, Maidanek or Treblinka.

So it is obvious that David will remain alive in my heart, as long as I shall live.

When I look back to the countless other severely dangerous events during my continuous struggle for survival, I am quite convinced that David’s route home from work on that fateful day was guided by something much higher than pure luck.

CHAPTER 3

THE SOUP KITCHEN (WINTER OF 1940-41)

About six weeks have passed since my return from the hospital, and was still unable to leave the house. The first couple of weeks, I was still quite sick. It seemed that from a period of high fever and dehydration, my body had little resistance to infections.

Painful boils invaded many parts of my almost transparent skin.

My parents, of course, did their very best to ease my suffering, although there wasn't very much they could do. Everybody agreed, that time would be the actual healer.

It is well known that after a bout with typhoid, a patient’s appetite is usually returning with a vengeance. I however was not able to swallow anything for at least two weeks.

When my appetite finally returned, my parents found themselves facing some unforeseeable problems. Fortunately we were still able to buy enough bread, and there was also an abundance of cereals, especially cream of wheat.

This was the time when the famous ghetto troubadour Jankele in his song "Rumkowski Chaim" was lamenting that God is only sending to us "Mannah" (cream of wheat), instead of real food.

There was, however an acute shortage of essential food items, like meat, eggs, dairy products, and fruits. My parents, of course, did their best with little savings, they still had left, to give me the best care possible. They even began selling house items of any value to buy better food for me, while neglecting my brother and themselves.

It was already the end of July, and I was still unable to get out of the house. I was full of envy when friends were calling on me, and then together with my twin brother left to enjoy the beautiful summer weather.

One morning, while still half asleep I heard my father telling something to my mother. Since the conversation was conducted in a whispering tone, I became quite eager to eavesdrop. It turned out that they were talking about me and my prospects for a fast recovery. "Ben will not be able to get on his feet without some meat", I heard my father saying. Although I was not able to understand every word of their conversation, I realized that my father's point was to convince mother that it is high time to put aside religious convictions and consider first of all the health of their child.

"Ella-dear", I heard father address my mother, this time in a louder voice, he continued "there is no other meat available than horse meat, and if we want our son to survive, we must buy what we can get." When my mother began to cry he tried to convince her that in this case she will not commit a sin because the Jewish law allows for "pekuach nefesh," which means that you can break any religious law when a human life is in danger. "O.k., o.k., I heard my mother whispering through her tears. Then I heard a sound of a kiss. Apparently my father planted a kiss on mother's forehead.

On the same day, father brought home a parcel of fresh horse meat. Mother slowly took out piece after piece, and put it into her usual kosher meat pot, filled it with cold water and began the familiar process of making it kosher, as if it was beef bought at a kosher butcher. After soaking the meat for about an hour, she put it on the meat board and salted: it all over, leaving it that way, for the usual thirty minutes or so.

Having gone through the process of "koshering" the meat, mother seemed to feel much better. pretty soon we had noticed a change in her general attitude.

Only at the first time while frying horse meat hamburgers, I noticed mother shed some tears, but eventually when she saw how I enjoyed her juicy burgers, she seemed to feel much better.

When I started to gain weight, Mother's face was shining with joy, she even started to serve some to my brother and my father, apparently, taking under consideration the same law of "pekuach nefesh."

However, mother herself tasted her first piece of horse meat several months later, when this important food item became rationed and a luxury in the Lodz ghetto. (A hundred grams of horse meat was allowed to a person for a period of two weeks).

By the end of August, I took my first walk without anyone’s assistance. The weather was warm and beautiful, the sun was shining through a clear blue sky.

After walking a couple of blocks, I returned home deeply disturbed. The atmosphere and the people on the streets have changed drastically since the day I entered the hospital.

People I knew well have changed beyond recognition. Although there was still enough bread and other food items available, people without means were starving. I came face to face with walking skeletons, they were moving slowly as if they were dazed. Many of them were probably survivors from the typhoid epidemic.

People who were still looking half decently nourished, seemed depressed and worried. The sunny weather seemed to have little influence on most of the ghetto inhabitants.

There were rumors that finally food will be rationed; an apparent advantage for the poor and unemployed majority of the ghetto population who could not afford the high prices of free market food.

The greatest fear however seemed to be the approaching winter. Everybody still remembered the harsh winter during the first few months of the German occupation. Obviously those memories were pretty disturbing.

Although there was still coal and wood available, for inflated prices of course, many people were freezing inside their poorly heated dwellings.

By the end of 1939, most of the wooden fences and sheds, were dismantled by desperate people searching for fuel to keep their children from freezing to death.

But many did freeze. Mostly children, the elderly and the sick. Those unfortunate souls were dying in the hundreds. I don't think that I have seen as many funerals in all my life as I have seen in one week during those horrible winter days of 1939-40.

I myself used to join a group of other youngsters, equipped with a shovel searching for small pieces of coal, especially on the grounds were previously sheds were standing. These groups of youngsters became known in the ghetto as "Coal Miners".

After a day of desperate searching and hard labor each of us sometimes were lucky enough to accumulate several pounds of precious fuel.

The still existing house committees felt that it was their duty to be prepared with any possible means to face the approaching winter of 1940-41.

Not being able to do anything about heating fuel, the consensus among the committee members was at least to find a way to provide a hot meal daily for the poor and needy. At that time the majority of the ghetto population already belonged to this category.

The committee’s meeting on this still hot August day of 1940 took place in our apartment. My father, in his capacity as secretary opened the gathering of about a dozen men. He tried to explain in simple and convincing arguments the urgency and need to erect a soup kitchen. This he argued, must be done before the arrival of winter.

At the time, I was just planning to leave the house to meet some friends. Becoming intrigued by the topic of the overheard discussion, I decided to stay until the end of that seemingly important meeting. Not to make myself too visible I pretended to do something at a corner of the large room. Without anybody really caring about my presence I stayed on till the end of the meeting.

After a heavily heated discussion, and a unanimous decision to build the soup kitchen, it seemed that the stumbling block turned out to be a lack of money to finance this daring project.

The meeting ended with each member expressing his readiness to help in any way possible, but financially. One of the members, Mr. Blum, actually expressed everyone’s thoughts by saying’"I admit that I still have left a little of my life’s savings, but who is going to help me feed my wife and children?

The meeting ended quietly without any concrete decision.

After everybody left, my father still remained at the table holding his head with both hands. He looked devastated. Mother went over to comfort him, "It will work out" she whispered, "with God’s help it surely will."

Suddenly a seemingly crazy thought went through my head: "A show, some sort of a theatre." This was in my view at the moment the only way to raise funds for this very important project. After all this is almost a full year since anybody had an opportunity to see a movie or attend a theatre performance.

I left the apartment without telling anybody where I was heading. While running down the stairs I met my twin brother who was just returning from a neighboring backyard, where he was kicking around a soccer ball with a group of friends.

"Where are you in such a hurry?" Meyer asked. I took him aside and told him about the meeting of the house committee. "So what?" he asked, if there is no money, there is no money. He just brushed me off. "I am hungry" he said, "I am going upstairs". "No you are not" I said as firmly as I could, holding him back with both my arms.

In comparison to me, Meyer was still in good shape, and with only a simple move with his arms could have pushed me aside, but he didn't. He looked at me in bewilderment, waiting patiently for what I had to say.

Just in a nutshell I told him about my idea to create a small show in order to raise the necessary funds to build a kitchen. "We must do it as fast as possible," I argued, "so let us not waste any time and organize as many teenagers as possible and start working."

Perhaps he was touched by my sincere excitement, that he agreed to get in touch with as many friends as possible.

On the same evening with the permission of my parents, a small group of teenage boys and girls gathered in our apartment. I told them what I overheard. They all seemed very interested. After hearing about my idea, they became really excited. Realizing the great importance of a soup kitchen in our area, we all agreed to make it our goal to raise as much money as we possibly could.

Our friend Krawiecki, a nephew of the owner of our building promised to convince his uncle to let us use the large basement in the rear building, one of the two large dwellings he owned on the Zydowska 25.

The basement which was once a furniture workshop was abandoned in 1938, when the shop owner with his wife and three children emigrated to Palestine. If we would be lucky enough to get this place, it would serve as a first class theatre, and after as an ideal place for the proposed soup kitchen.

So Krawiecki's task was actually the most important one of the whole project. The other assembled teenagers were handed different responsibilities, besides taking part in the overall cleanup of the terribly neglected basement.

My brother and I took over the duties of decorating the place and overseeing the erecting of a stage that would meet our needs. In addition to stage decorations, we also promised to make and distribute posters and other necessary publicity materials.

Three girls, all from our building, were in charge of finding as many young talents as possible. Since the kitchen’s purpose was to serve the needy from the whole neighborhood, everyone willing and able to help out was more than welcome.

Very soon several young men in their twenties, became interested in our project. One of them, Alex Lenga, took over the duties of Master of Ceremonies, and helping produce the show. He was also blessed with a pretty good singing voice. His biggest contribution, however, was the fact that he knew very well a former professional actor of the Yiddish theatre, by the name of Shefner, who was living all by himself. Mr. Shefner must have been in his late fifties, very poor and very happy to have found, at least for a while, some work in his profession.

It turned out that my parents remembered Mr. Shefner from the days when he was performing in the old Yiddish theatre in Lodz. My father promised him three meals a day during the time of the duration of the theatre, and afterwards a bowl of any soup available from our soup kitchen, daily.

The moment Mr. Krawiecki handed us the key to the basement, our project went into full motion. About fifteen teenagers were working several days just to clean up the basement, a task which at first seemed impossible.

While a couple of neighbors, professional carpenters were busy erecting a stage, Alex, Mr. Shefner and myself, were busy auditioning scores of teenagers, the majority of them girls, who were eager to show off their hidden talents.

My brother with several other boys were cleaning the walls and windows. Then we both , my brother and I became busy decorating the walls with colored posters of known movie stars and theatre actors.

Soon the old basement which already became completely unrecognizable, became known as"THE HALL".

Alex, with the help of his older brother had managed to engage some unemployed musicians who were more than happy to help out. The continuous rehearsals were beginning to show promise for a successful musical review.

Because of the approaching high holidays we were not able to set a date for the show's debut. We also had to wait for the official permit from the ghetto administration.

The permit from Rumkowski’s office arrived one week before the holidays. The main clause in the lengthy permit besides a strict time limit was that the posters and any other publicity material must clearly mention that all the proceeds from the stage performances were being designated to build a neighbourhood soup kitchen.

The time allowed, if my memory serves me well, was about only three weeks. We were never really sure who actually insisted on these strict regulations, the German or Jewish administration. The signature on the permit however was just M.CH. Rumkowski.

Several days before Rosh Hashana, while putting up the finishing touches to the hall, we received a very distinguished visitor: Reb Itzhak Krawiecki. Still the landlord of the building was quite surprised by the transformation of his neglected basement. His pale face, with a fiery red beard which was cut down to a minimum, (to avoid harassment by German soldiers), suddenly looked as if he had found something he was desperately looking for.

"This will be the right place", he told us with visible excitement. We all looked at Mr.Krawiecki without a clue of what he was talking about. But we waited patiently for Mr Krawiecki to make clear to us what he meant by the "right place."

His proposal was blunt and to the point. As you know, it is officially forbidden to use any halls or "other public places" for prayers during the upcoming holidays. The neighborhood "Bet Midrash" is padlocked by the German authorities. "So why couldn't we use this beautiful place for our holiday services? The place is hidden in the back of the building, he argued, and with all of you sharing guarding duties, we could conduct normal holiday services.

With the cooperation of the majority of our group, we provided enough chairs to fill the hall, and a special group of boys were designated to become look-outs during the services. To the great satisfaction for all of us the holidays went through without any trouble at all.

The use of the cleaned up basement for such an important event provided us with a feeling of pride. Even the several leftist neighbors, who never stepped into a synagogue before, this time took part in the solemn services conducted almost entirely by Reb Krawiecki.

Right after the holidays, posters announcing a three week run of a musical review were placed in different points of the ghetto.

Each performance, one matinee and one in the evening was sold out. Even standing room tickets were in demand and sold out days before the performances. The hall could only hold approximately 80 to 90 people.

The success of the show was far above our expectations. Not only have we earned enough money to build a kitchen, but a substantial sum was also left over to stock up on coal, wood and important food products to last at least for a couple of months.

The fact that we managed to stage a show almost entirely in Yiddish, (except for some songs performed in Polish), was quite an achievement. But to conduct full services on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur under severe duress and most dangerous conditions was considered an act of pure heroism.

I still think that what we accomplished by building a most needed soup kitchen, did not diminish the importance of conducting the holiday services. There is no doubt in my mind that both enterprises were acts of passive resistance to the Nazi occupation, and open defiance of the laws of the Nazi occupation.

The kitchen was ready just in time for winter. In the beginning of December of 1940, long line-ups started to build up in front of the kitchen, by people eagerly waiting for their daily hot meal. To everyone’s pleasant surprise the orderly behavior by the hungry masses of people was admirable. They just had to hand over their own container which was filled up with a hot and dense delicious potato and vegetable soup.

Heading the kitchen staff was Mrs. Baum, a mother of two who was appointed by the tenants committee for purely humanitarian reasons. Mrs. Baum was the first war widow in our building. Her husband, a quiet decent man in his late forties, was killed during a merciless massacre at a checkpoint, while entering the ghetto on the day before the complete closing of the Jewish area.

Food rationing was finally enforced, but the small amount of food items was a death blow to the ghetto population. The amount of groceries for a period of two weeks was not even sufficient for four days. A two kilogram loaf of bread for the same period lasted at best for one week or even less.

The same problem was with the small coal rations, especially during the harsh winter months.

Under those conditions the soup kitchen became an important source of nourishment, especially during the second week of the used up rations.

The hardship of the ghetto population was rapidly becoming unbearable.

People with no means to supplement their food rations with some black market items were starving and freezing to death inside their unheated flats.

The group of youngsters who were active and instrumental in erecting the soup kitchen were now helping out in the day to day running of this important institution. Many of them were delivering a hot meal daily to the sick and elderly. Those errands in time became so tragically disturbing, that it became very difficult to find additional help for this important task.

It was of no surprise to any delivery boy or girl to find a dead body in bed instead of the living person whom they expected to enjoy a hot soup.

Many doors were left open with a dead person inside a freezing apartment. Others had to be broken into, when nobody seemed able to open the door.

On one of such a delivery to the flat of Mr. and Mrs. Leszczynski I found the door ajar. Slowly I pushed it open. Hearing no sound whatsoever, I called out for Mr. Leszczynski. There was no answer, so I tried a bit louder, this time for Mrs. Leszczynski, again there was no response. The room temperature was surely far below zero. I slowly walked over to the bed which was placed next to a solidly frozen-up window. They both seemed to be sleeping; their sleep, however, seemed to me somehow too peaceful. There was no human sound coming out of these two so familiar to me elderly couple.

Deep in my heart I knew that these unfortunate lonely innocent souls were no more alive.

Calmly I decided not to panic.Perhaps I was already getting used to these sort of tragedies. Slowly I left the room, quietly closing the door as if being afraid to wake them up. Like in a daze I walked to our flat where my mother was already preparing something for supper. "Don't you feel well my child?" mother asked as if sensing some trouble, "you are white like the ceiling." She gently helped me to reach the chair and asked me what had happened. I told her what I just saw. We both cried uncontrollably for a while. The Leszczynski's were our neighbors for as long as I could remember.

Do you know Ben, Mother said with her tears still running down her cheeks, that Mrs. Leszczynski, besides being a good neighbor, used to be your favorite babysitter.

The next morning several members of the Chesed Shel Emet (funeral committee) came to pick up the two frozen bodies of the elderly couple.

I'm not certain if their three daughters, who were living abroad ever really found out how their beloved parents had perished. Until the outbreak of World War Two, the oldest daughter who lived in Switzerland, was the main supporter of her parents. The second oldest who emigrated after her older sister and lived in Argentina, also contributed to her parents upkeep. The youngest daughter managed to escape to Palestine just before the outbreak of WW2.

It is hard to say if our effort actually helped save many lives. One thing, however, I am pretty sure of is the fact that the soup kitchen we helped to build made it easier for many ghetto dwellers to pull through the terrible winter of 1940-41.

I personally am very proud indeed of that group of teenage boys and girls who took part in this noble endeavour.

The tragic part of all this is the fact that most of these boys and girls, in one way or another, perished during the Holocaust.

Only a very few were fortunate enough to survive; Leo Krawieski, with his younger brother, Laibel, who are living with their families in Ramat Gan, Israel. Also alive are the two children of Mrs. Baum, Bina and Srulek, who live with their families in Tel Aviv.

Another teenage survivor was our good friend, Frania (Berkowicz) Wolkowicz, who is living since 1948 in the U.S.A. Plus of course my twin brother Meyer and myself.

Chapter 4

ON CHARNIECKIEGO (THE GHETTO PRISON)

End of March 1942. Under normal circumstances, winter should have almost been over, but not in Lodz Ghetto. The roads and sidewalks were either slippery or still covered with snow or ice patches. Some heavy snow or just wet snow kept on coming down from the eternally black skies.

People walking to and from work, were still bundled up, mostly in worn overcoats, and many just in rags. "When you are hungry, the cold gets to you" you would hear people complaining.

Inside the apartments, the situation was almost about the same. Hunger and cold prevailed while people slept fully dressed. Under ever deteriorating sanitary conditions the plaque of body lice continued to add more suffering to the Ghetto dwellers.

On one evening of this miserable month after a "normal" day of misery in the factory, my mother, tears streaming down her bony cheeks, handed me a note from the Ghetto administration.

Even without mother’s tears I realized that the note was no "wedding invitation." I read only one short sentence and put the letter into my pocket. "Please report immediately to the Ghetto prison on Charnieckiego"...

"Another deportation," there was never any question about it, but I told my mother that it's "just a request to answer some questions".. My father had just left for his night shift. The three of us, mother, brother, and myself ate our soup in complete silence. Mother still had tears in her sad eyes.

The next morning on the way to the factory, I spoke with my brother about my summons. We both agreed that there is no other way than for me to report as requested. Otherwise the whole family would be in danger of deportation.

About one PM. I left the house without taking anything with me. I said goodbye to my parents, telling them that as soon as I give to the authorities the information they need, I'll be back home.

The streets were muddy and almost empty of pedestrians. From time to time, a man-driven wagon with a barrel full of excrement from the always overflowing latrines, was pulled by a couple of sickly looking men dressed in rags. When they passed by, the air became contaminated by a unbearable stench. "How in God’s name are those poor men able to handle such a terrible job"? I thought forgetting for a moment my own predicament.

I kept on walking without fully realizing that I might never see my family again. Deep in my heart, however, I had a feeling that also this time, I will prevail.

Only one lonely Jewish policeman was standing in front of the prison gate. A high wooden fence surrounding the prison prevented me from seeing any part of the actual prison. The officer looked at my "invitation," handed it back to me, and just by pointing, he directed me to the first building inside.

I was met by a large and noisy crowd of young men, mostly in their twenties, and some teenagers as myself. "Get in here" one of them called out and pulled me into the centre of a large room filled with desperate young men cramped together like canned sardines.

The room was empty of any sort of furniture, not even a single chair was in sight. . .

"What is going on here?" I asked a guy next to me. His answer was plain and simple "Who the hell knows?" Most of us are here since the early morning, and nobody spoke to us yet.

Another one told me that we apparently have to wait for the arrival of Commissioner Hertzberg, the head of the prison, who supposedly is going to select a large group of able men to be transferred to a labor camp.

I also learned that so far there was no food or any kind of fluid served. In spite of the large crowd, the place was freezing cold.

In the meantime many more men were filling up the already overcrowded hall. I did not feel the floor under my feet any more, I was just hanging between a bunch of bigger and visibly stronger guys than myself.

Darkness began to engulf the unlit place, but still no food or water was in sight. Hungry and cold, without seeing a prompt end to this horrible ordeal, the would-be camp laborers soon became irritated and restless.

A chaotic pushing, shoving and screaming, seemed to alarm the prison guards, who arrived wielding their rubber batons over our heads. During all that commotion, I thought that I heard my father’s voice. Desperately looking towards the wide open door, I spotted my father calling and waving in my direction.

With all the power and energy left in my exhausted body I squeezed myself through the mass of people. At the door my father pulled me outside.

While handing me a small container with some still warm soup, and a slice of bread, he told me that the commissioner will soon arrive and start the selection. Father urged me to do everything possible to avoid being selected. Do it for your mother’s sake he whispered, while leaving me helpless, probably hoping for some kind of miracle... "I must make my night shift", he said sadly, and disappeared.

I became the envy of the whole unfortunate mass of young men. "A big shot", I heard some of them utter in visible anger. But after explaining to them that my father is just a night watchmen at a produce depot, they seemed to calm down a little.

It became understandable that as a worker at this type of job my father had a right to wear a yellow-white arm band. This of course, gave him the privilege to freely enter any ghetto institution, including the jail area.

It must have been close to 10 P.M. when we were ordered to gather in the huge prison yard. A couple of hundred young men were ordered to stand in a single line facing commissioner Hertzberg.

Suddenly a burst of bright lights were turned on blinding the already overtired and hungry prisoners.

The freezing weather added considerably to our overall misery. But having in mind father’s plea before he left me, I knew that something must be done as soon as possible. Without any more contemplating, and before the commissioner had a chance to start with his actual selection, I found myself in front of him.

Like a trained actor, I limped over, bent in half, like Quasimodo in the "Hunchback of Notre Dame" my left hand hanging down as if paralized, and the summons paper clutched in my right hand.

Looking up to this giant of a man, by lifting up my eyes only, I cried, and in a stuttering voice pleaded "Please, Herr Commissar" let me go back home, I am sick and half paralized, please let me go home and have mercy on me.

Being bent as I was, my posture was completely dwarfed by the tall and fat prison commissioner. I kept looking up in order to sense any reaction on the face of the dictatorial head of the infamous ghetto prison.

The fat face of the commissioner seemed to turn into an ugly mask. He looked down at me with total disbelief,screaming on top of his head "Take his paper and get him out of here", he shouted at a policeman who stood next to him. "Get him out of here", he kept on barking.

Slowly I limped away, being escorted by the scared to death policeman. The guard who let me out the prison gate looked at me as if contemplating if he ever noticed a hunchback as myself, enter the prison on this day...

I walked, or rather limped very slowly through the prison gate without turning around.

The Charnieckiego street was dark, and the sidewalk icy and slippery. I felt terribly cold, but I also felt free, free to go home to my parents and brother.

The moment I turned the corner, and the prison became out of sight, I finally straightened out and began walking faster and faster until I finally began running as if Hitler himself. was chasing after me.

I continued running, even up the four flight of stairs to our flat. Calmly I knocked at the door. "Who is it?" I heard my mother’s familiar voice. "It's me, it's me," I kept on repeating excitingly.

My brother opened the door, grabbed me and locked me in an embrace like never before. "It's great to see you back", he whispered, tears of joy filling his eyes.

Mother was standing next to the stove. Without turning around she quietly told me to sit down at the table "I'm heating up some soup for you", and added, "you must be very hungry."

I noticed her shoulders trembling. (She always did that when sobbing). This time she cried for sheer happiness.

Father was doing his regular night shift.