Part I

 

For years I felt a need to write down thoughts and memories about my family, my own life at home and that dark time in the camps, yet I doubted whether I had the skills it needs to tell it properly. My story might not be unique; many have been published about losses and ultimate suffering of survivors from concentration camps and ghettos.

I am compelled by my conscience to tell it, if not to others, then to my son and grandchildren who should know the source of their being.

I was born in Radom, Poland, and industrial city. One of the more profitable industries was leather developed mainly by Jews. Of 100,000 inhabitants, 30,000 were Jews who voluntarily preferred to live in ghetto-like districts where all the necessary Kashrut, ritual bath and synagogues served the population. Poor Jews scratched out a living by hard work, but never neglected the importance of education. Among the poor pious Jews were quite a few successful business people. Among them was my uncle Chemie Milsztajn, a most prominent leather merchant. He owned properties, wholesale leather and a tannery that was situated in the outskirts of Radom, producing soft leather for the Radomer shoe industry and for export to European countries. I remember a merchant from Belgium used to do business with the family.

My uncle Chemie was the most successful businessmen among his large family of eight brothers and four sisters. Most of my uncles, including my father, Gavriel Milsztajn, had at one time worked for my uncle in the tannery as an inspector, earning a decent living. This made our home life very comfortable. Other brothers worked in the warehouse selecting and selling leather. Others as agents running about town to find travelers that were looking for leather or local shoe manufacturers to convince them that Chemie had the finest merchandise for the best price. Even those that did not officially work for him leaned a bit on Chemie. If someone of the family was in need, he somehow found a solution, or plainly helped without fanfare.

Being a very observant Jew, he used to say, The Almighty has entrusted to me these goods to deal with them wisely,î so he did. My father was one of those that from time to time sought help. We were a small modern family, only three siblings, and lived in one crammed large room with a wooden structure attached. The front of the room served as an entrance with a division serving as a storage place.

A memory journey into my early childhood has been rare, maybe because all people connected with it have been brutally torn from me in my adolescence. From my early childhood, I heard Mom retell many times to friends and neighbours of the ingenious way I broke the window without hurting myself. It seems I was left alone for a few minutes sleeping. Awakening, seeing no one, I climbed onto the windowsill, wrapped my fist with my nightie, broke the glass, screaming, attempting to get out. I was then three years old.

My mother was a constant optimist. She could find in the worst incident something positive. Not only did her disposition emulate love and admiration, her good looks made me very proud to be seen with her. She had thick reddish blond hair, a slightly freckled face and light gray eyes. I always felt shortchanged because I looked like my father. Lately, I change my hair colour to satisfy my ego.

My adolescence was the most distressing. There was no usual struggle of growth and sexual awakening. Rather, I had to establish a new identity, playing the role of a confident adult who could do the work required and endure. Inward, I was still a terrified child in need of my parents approval. I remember mother did some sewing to subsidize our meager living. Mother started out with some trousseau and it slowly turned into something of a commercial production. Two sewing machines were in operation with two hired women. Mother produced men's shirts, while father took part by cutting the material, advising how to achieve a faster, better production. This was the only thing that was left for him, to save a little dignity in providing for his family. He had many business adventures, very bright ideas, and in the family they sought his council, however, his own business petered out to nothing.

It all started because of honour and prestige in dealing with family. I remember Mom telling me, while we were feeling sorry for father, that he had been a successful businessman when they married. He sold most of his merchandise for a very good price, bought expensive custom-made furniture. Unfortunately, with the devaluation of the Polish zloty, my father was left with sacks full of worthless paper and lovely bedroom furniture. Our father's cousin, with whom he had business deals, kept the merchandise which gave them a start toward prosperity. Father again started a small business now in skins after his return from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Most were wild animal skins, like foxes that farmers brought to us for sale. Those were shipped for processing then sold to a furrier. Once father bought a truck full of cow horns and sold them to a comb-maker and made a good deal.

But most of the time he barely scratched out a meager living. Shortly before the Second World War, father stopped being a merchant and became a supervisor in uncle's tannery. Every morning father drove out with uncle Chemie to the tannery, a job he really enjoyed and also paid well. For a while, we lived very comfortably. This did not last long. Father started his perspective attitude in input and output of skins. He notices some discrepancies in the finished registered skin, there wee a lot less than the amount being put through the process. With careful investigation he found out the partner had processed merchandise on the side and sold at cut rate. Faced with the fact, the partner asked father to keep quiet about it, so he would be able to keep his job. However, my father was an honest, devoted man. He told his findings to his brother and a dispute developed between partners and, as a consequence, father lost his job. No member from either family could be employed in the tannery. There was no money for new ventures. At the same time, mother became very professional in her enterprise. New clients came in demanding her work, the fine stitches she learned from making trousseaus prepared her with good skills. I sometimes was asked by the merchant to help out while they were selling Thursday on the market. In Radom, Thursday was the day farmers brought in vegetables, dairy products, etc. At the same time, stands with various goods were displayed for quick sales. The market day was fun, and the merchant owners just told me to watch out for thieves, but I attempted to sell, and at times, I succeeded. This got me more for my effort than just watching. There was hardship, but we always ate well. Shabbat was a real festive day, equal to a Canadian Shabbat, we were decently dressed. In our teens, I remember a marine blue coat custom-made for me and Bela, my sister, trimmed with a black seal collar and cuffs in the latest style. I certainly felt warm in more ways than one, but I seldom invited friends over to our home. My best friend Estusia Alexdrowicz lived in a better district in a few spacious rooms.

I was obsessed with constant cleaning whenever at home and so was my mother. I longed for a spacious place to call our home, which was not an obtainable dream. The same for secondary schooling: it was private, therefore too expensive. The solution was obvious, my parents sent me to apprentice as a dressmaker, which I took very lightly. Many times, instead of work, I went to the Peretz library: as a member of the youth group Hashomer Hatzair, I had free access to all books I could manage to read. This place was a haven, a lot of literature was devoted to pride and dignity in obtaining a Jewish homeland in Palestine. Sick of antisemitism outbursts from Polish hoodlums sent me running on the other side of the street; brute fists could run into my face or kicks into the shinbone. Hashomer Hatzair gave me hope, implanted dignity, the well-equipped library became my treasure to draw sustenance for my soul. Immersed in a book, a dream world became my reality. I became active in the organization, took Hebrew classes, and what I learned I taught other beginners. It also became my social life, where I met new and interesting people who became my good friends. Dressmaking was something my parents expected me to learn, but I have to confess to resenting it, yet I tried my very best to learn. Not much later, the war broke out and the sewing that I did learn helped me to land a better job.

In August 1939, just before the outbreak of the Second World war, I was fortunate to be sent to a Hashomer Hatzair camp for two weeks located in the Polish Karpaty mountains, a very prestigious place where only the very rich vacationed.

Although I saved some money from tutoring two youngsters, and Bela too had some savings, we still needed additional money, but most of all we needed permission from our parents since this was a mixed gender camp. As it turned out, Chilek Wajsband, an older leader from Hasodel group, a son of a prestigious family with an excellent reputation, came to reassure my parents that we would be safe and protected. Bela and I were sent off with their blessing. We both knew very well this was a big financial strain for my parents, but it was done with joy, to give us a worthwhile experience. Indeed, it was an overwhelming experience, meeting young people from different cities, climbing beautiful Karpaty Mountains, singing, dancing horas, and making new friendships. An inspiring evening was a gathering in Nowytarg near Zakopane, under the stars, hundreds of us listened to the famous Lisak, a great charismatic speaker from Hashomer Hatzair, describe how life could be in a Jewish state. With great conviction and eloquence, he fired us up ready for kibbutz in Palestine, even to dry out swamps when we got there. This excitement did not wear off even when we heard that Germany had declared war.

Traveling back, we managed only as far as Crakow. Food suddenly became scarce, the whole Radomer group stayed in a kibbutz, a group preparing to go to Palestine, sharing their food. They made us feel comfortable. Unfortunately, train passage was only available for the military. With great difficulty, our leaders obtained passage with the last civilian train to Radom. On or arrival, mother was standing with a basket of fruit waiting for her girls. Later we found out that she had been going to the train for days, waiting with the basket, hoping that maybe the train would come and bring her precious girls. We looked well, full of energy, describing adventures in mountain climbing, something unusual for my brother, parents and neighbours. That euphoric feeling did not last long. It took only eight days for the German army to invade Radom, with it, normal life was gone forever.

At the very beginning, demands for contributions from the Jewish community became a threat and a burden, very hard to fulfill. First, they demanded money, then gold, furs, they confiscated telephones, radios, horses, everything useful to live from was taken away, and they were showing more brutality daily. Finally the only option to exist was to work for them.

On the unforgettable 8th of April 1941, a decree was issued by the Nazi regime for Jews to move into designated cramped area to form a ghetto. This left the Peretz library outside its ghetto walls, since its location was the finer part of the city Zeromskiego 14, ruled restricted for Jews.

We knew already about the Nazi method of burning Jewish books. Faced with the dilemma of how to save the library, we had to act swiftly. The older Menahelim (leaders) from Hasolel group left Radom with the hope of getting to Palestine. Only one, Chilek Wajsband, stayed behind because of his delicate health. Under his able guidance, we called a meeting in his home. Present wee: Molo Wajcman, Pinchas Goldberg, Esterka Alexandrowicz and myself. We approached Walowa 15 with caution, gatherings wee already outlawed.

We devised a plan to simulate a meat transport to the ghetto. We asked for help from Siczek, the Polish butcher. I am not certain if this was his real name or a nickname: he had his butcher shop in front of the building where the library was situated. He explained that he could not risk his life, but should someone steal his horse and buggy for a few hours, he would not report it to the authorities.

The most suitable for that undertaking were: Chilek Wajsband, a tallish redhead, the charming Estusia Alexandrowica, Moshe Cukierman, also a redhead and Molo Wajcman who managed to have a permit to work outside the ghetto.

The night the plan was to be implemented, the group, one by one, managed to get into the library. Through the night, with flashlights in hand, through carefully screened windows, they selected the most suitable books to inspire pride, encourage dreams, perseverance, hope to survive, and to achieve our ideal goal to make aliyah to a kibbutz in Palestine, to build a Jewish homeland. Those four brave souls worked through the night selecting and packing books into bloody butcher sacks. At daybreak, Moshe Cukierman and Molo Wajcman dressed in butcher coats and caps pushed over their eyes, drove the horse and buggy into the ghetto, where subsequently the books were hidden in many homes. Some new Hebrew volumes were hidden in the staircase in Rwanska 7 where the Birenbaum and Wajcman lived. All their sons were members of Hashomer Hatzair. At that point, Pinchas Goldberg and I became the link between the people that kept the hidden books and the eager readers.

Many young teens who attended the gymnazium before the war found our friendship and supply of good books to read until the liquidation of the ghetto.

Through the years, we met Jews that had not lived through the catastrophe of Europe, where their early pity and compassion later turned to scorn.

We survivors certainly could say we could not win a military battle with the Nazi war machine, but we fought many others and won. One such was to save a substantial amount of books from the Peretz library to nourish our minds and give hope to the broken souls in the ghetto.

Even the devastating typhoid epidemic did not break up our home unit. Deplorable ghetto conditions spread an epidemic of typhoid, a horrible contagious disease. Jews were treated in one hospital outside the ghetto, already overflowing it capacity with two patients to one bed. Bela came down with a very high temperature. Even before the doctor diagnosed the obvious, we knew a few days prior she developed a temperature for she had visited a sick friend where the whole family of four had typhoid. Consequently, they were taken to the hospital for contagious diseases. My parents were worried but determined to keep Bela at home so she could receive better medical care. However, the dilemma was that all doctors had to report to the health committee about infectious diseases. Yet father managed, with help from uncle Chemie, to get Radom's best doctor, Dr. David Waipanel, to treat Bela. In our cramped living quarters, we separated Bela from the rest of the family by installing curtains to divide the sick room from the rest of the family. I became the day and night nurse. The doctor warned, should any one of us come down with typhoid, he would have to report us to the authorities. To avoid more problems, a canvas lawn chair became my bed near Bela's. A small table was arranged with medication, plus alcohol for frequent sponging to reduce the fever and prevent body legions. I spoon-fed her with mom's delicious soups. I carried out all the instructions as the doctor ordered and even earned praise for my ability in nursing from Dr. Wainapel. As the disease progressed, so did our concern. From the high fever, she became incoherent, the doctor told us that severed brain involvement had the bigger mortality rate. With fear in our hearts, we watched her shivering and mumbling. She accused us of throwing her out to the unheated foyer. As it turns out, to everyone's amazement, no one from the family became infected and Bela slowly recovered.

I came down with typhoid much later in Blizin concentration camp. There were no beds, the hospital was in a barrack similar to the one that housed the other inmates. One barrack had been converted to a hospital and where hundreds of mortally sick inmates were laid out like sardines on upper and lower shelved made out of wooden boards the length of the barrack. People were dying hourly. Bodies were taken out and other very sick people took their places.

I was lucky to be placed on an upper shelf as it provided more air and no urine trickled on me from patients that were delirious. No family member could nurse me back to health, no medication except aspirin. I was lucky to have a milder typhoid. Bela had to work and even visits were discouraged. She came to visit after work, as did my cousin Nela. I somehow survived.

Just prior to the typhoid that attacked Bela so severely, she came home from a visit with her friend, with a plea to our parents if we could help her friend and his family of three boys and their mother. They were all sick with typhoid and had been taken to the hospital for contagious diseases. Without hesitation, mom cooked, baked and found a willing person to deliver the very badly needed food in Mr. Horowich, the manager of a plant located outside the ghetto that brought him in the vicinity of the hospital. Mom had the ability to share the little we had, because others were in need or had even less than we did.

Mom and dad, the usual providers for the family, had become helpless in the ghetto. The Germans confiscated food from the source, all that nourished our town became suppliers to German military. No one brought produce to the markets. Stores were empty. No one bought shirts, therefore there was no work to be had. Even money played a lesser role. The only means for survival became bartering. If one had something useful to give away, one could exchange it for something one needed.

My brother Rachmil was a fourteen-year-old lanky boy, a bit taller than myself, with a bold look, green eyes, lightly freckled face, who resembled mother to a tee. He had the courage to remove the armband, to drive after working hours outside town with pieces of soap to bring in milk for the family. Rachmil found a job with a German cleaning his house and his boots. He was given a bicycle in order that Rachmil should bring large cans of fresh milk and cheese from a farmer for the Germans. For this he had a permit to travel to the village only during working hours. The farmer was forced to supply a quota. My brother had also tried to bring some milk from the farmer's home and he felt good, as the youngest, to help feed the family. Smuggling food into the ghetto was punishable by death or at least jail. One evening, while riding his bicycle loaded with milk and some butter, near the ghetto, he was stopped by the German police. It was obvious that the food was for personal consumption. They arrested him and put him in jail. The first personal disaster befell our home, a child, the only boy. We all felt terrible pain and shame. My father was completely crushed. To him, it was a terrible humiliation. Helpless in effort to bribe officials in jail and unsuccessful pleading with the German Rachmil worked for. Each living day became a punishment to his existence. Whatever happened to the man that had a cosmopolitan outlook on life? He had been to the Americas, rejected life in Rio de Janeiro where his older sister Brandle lived. Left for Brazil in traditional Jewish clothes and came back dressed in secular clothing. A new man hoping to start a new business with the money he saved up, working so very hard out there. Talked about a world language, Esperanto, that would unite the world in understanding each other. He believed in just one language and your own, even tried to teach to us kids. Such shattered dreams. He blamed himself for coming back to Poland. We all could have avoided that nightmare if he had only made a different decision. Father saw how we all suffered. Rachmil never saw our home again nor could we go see him in jail.

Life in the ghetto became unbearable, endless useless work just for punishment. If not obeyed, they shot people on sight. There was not such a thing that one is responsible for one's own action. A typical day: Nazi soldiers were catching people for useless work just to make fun of them. One fellow decided to escape so they called out every man and woman from that area, counted to ten and shot every tenth person. My cousin Itka Altman was shot that way, as were many others. She was only eighteen years old. This discouraged others from acting as individuals. One person's behaviour became communal responsibility. Hunger became an everyday occurrence. There was no option left but to work for the Germans.

The first camp I went to, I was able to smuggle in food for the family. There was an opportunity for a good job in A.V.L. (Armee Verflegungs Lager) in a tailor shop. I got this job through a friend from Hashomer Hatzair. In the beginning, after twelve hours of work, I walked home. This gave me an opportunity to find Poles living in the vicinity that were willing to sell or exchange merchandise for beans, peas or barley, the very things that we were lacking. On the way home, I ran into the building unnoticed, wrapped a little sack around my waist under my clothes. I came safely through. It went on for a few months. Shortly before so-called resettling, all Jewish workers were incarcerated in A.V.L. We got bunk beds, clean blankets, decent soup and a piece of bread, plenty of hot water to wash. Hygiene was important to them as we were making uniforms for the German army. Rumours started circulating about resettling. All young people were looking for decent jobs and mine was in that category. Through my friend Molo, I notified my parents that I finally had obtained permission from the German boss to bring my sister as a seamstress, since Molo had an outside pass to bring her in on Sunday. So it was that Bela came to work with me in A.V.L.

After about nine months, we were transported to Blizyn. The camp was surrounded with barbed wire and several watchtowers were manned by Ukrainian collaborators. Here conditions were deplorable, filthy barracks infested with lice and rats. Even on the upper shelves, covered with straw, the rats were roaming. If I left a piece of bread for the morning, they ate it. We had to cover ourselves completely not to get bitten. In Blizyn, my job was making pants for the German military, twelve hours a day with very little food. SS Sturmführer Paul Nell had a reputation as a sadist. He took pleasure in beating inmates for the slightest transgression, or just shot them on the spot. All those in the Jewish administration were from Radom. My cousin Nela befriended a young man who functioned as a policeman. He had been very charitable to us and we were fortunate to receive an extra bit of soup. Nela worked in the laundry, therefore we had enough hot water to wash ourselves. That bit of extra meant a lot in Blizyn. Despite that, I contracted typhoid. It had been a terrible epidemic and people were dying by the hundreds and eventually by the thousands. Like all inmates, I had little hope to recover from that horrible disease. A barrack housed a few hundred inmates. Somehow I managed to recover. One day in early spring 1943, a group came from Maidanek, emaciated, indifferent, having already given up the will to live, shadows of once-humans. One girl standing near me during our usual roll call started a conversation. Her tale was said matter of fact, without emotion. She was taken from Bialistok, out of Hebrew school, twenty chosen girls and the teacher, to Maidanek. On the way, the teacher was told they were destined for an honourable function, mainly to pleasure the great German soldiers. It was clear to them that they had to do something to avoid terrible shame. The teacher devised a plan. When it turned dark, she used a razor blade, cut every girls veins, and then her own. On arrival in Maidanek, they were all dead except the girl standing next to me. Her veins were not cut all the way through. She stretched out her arms and her wrists had red scars that had since grown together unevenly. She could do very little, even washing herself was a problem. She was intelligent, good looking and eager to relate her story to me. I knew with hands that did not function, she had very little hope to survive or if Nell spotted her she was as good as dead. We had to work, as there was a quota we had to produce. The next day I went over to Dr. Wainapel and related the story to Sala Naidik. She worked as a nurse and was with me in A.V.L. I begged her to arrange to see Dr. Wainapel, if there was something that could be done to help the girl. It turned out that she was lice infested and nothing could be done until she could be disinfected and her clothing deloused. I obtained medication from the dispensary, hot water through Nela at the laundry and she proceeded with the task. The case could not be registered or reported as others. A doctor was found who had newly arrived and was a surgeon. He unofficially took the girl under his care, with a warning to me and to her that this would be painful. The exercises will have to be done without cutting. After a few weeks, positive results started to show. Eventually, she was able to move her wrists freely. I never saw her after our deportation to Auschwitz, but Eva Pomerance met her a few years back in Baltimore and she never forgot the kindness and the help she received.

AUSCHWITZ

In the summer of 1944 we were deported to Auschwitz in the usual method. In cattle cars packed together with no space to sit, no food or drink for the duration of two to three days. People from Pionki were also on our transport. Among many Radomer girls was my cousin Mania Milsztajn, uncle Chemie's daughter named after our grandmother. I was not sure if she was alive. The last I heard of her was that she registered with the intelligentsia to go to Palestine. Of those we knew, the German Nazis collected all lawyers, doctors, engineers and writers, drove them nearby, dug out graves and shot them. Her perfect knowledge of the German language saved her. She was lucky to escape, when guards joked around her where that Palestine was, she jumped from the truck. Guards opened fire and others also jumped. While falling she broke her legs. Luckily the bullets missed her. She hid out until she healed and then went by transport to Pionski. On our meeting, we rejoiced in seeing each other and from that day on, we three Milsztauns stayed together until we were bombarded on the railway station in Sedin.

Auschwitz was not only an extermination factory, but a real madhouse. No matter how much has been written or told about it, it is impossible to describe the vision with words. Therefore, I will not attempt to do so. One day, while standing in line for soup, the only nourishment for the day, Allied planes were right above us circling. We yelled throw it already, but they did not. A woman capo panicked, for her life was dear. We were dismissed and she ran for cover. As luck would have it, this happened a few days in a row and I was left without food. I later approached the line, saying that I did not manage to get my soup, I was hit with a pole that was used to carry the large iron soup pail. My face swelled up and my right eye closed with excruciating pain. I looked a mess and such specimens in Auschwitz were eliminated. A Jewish girl, a barrack attendant from Czechoslovakia, hid me on the bed boards. At roll call I was counted as a working person. My eye did not improve, therefore cousin Mania suggested that I register to any job outside of the camp. Words circulated in the camp, the war was almost over. A few days later, two civilians came asking for women who had worked in ammunition factories. Without hesitation, my cousin, proficient in German, approached them stating our ability in ammunition work, pushing Bela and me in line. We had to disrobe and they inspected us like cattle to see if we still had bodies fit for work. As I approached, one of the men wanted to take me out as my face was still blue and my right eye now open but bloody. After consulting each other, they decided to take me. After about six or seven weeks in Auschwitz, with lost vision in my right eye, we three Milsztajns left for Bomlitz. As we approached the train station, standing there was a passenger train. To everyone's surprise, we were ushered in to it. In Bomlitz, we had clean bunk beds and each individual received a white ceramic bowl for soup. When in Auschwitz, we had rusted a discarded can, no spoon and just one can for ten women to share. From that can, each woman got a sip of warm liquid, if one happened to have decent partners to the can. If one can imagine that? That soup meant the very life to a person. In Bomlitz, we felt like human beings again. We worked twelve hours a day and walked to work with armed guards. In a park concealed at different points were ammunition factories in a mountain- like structure. Inside, I saw a lot of machinery where men were working. I was brought to a lower level and a German woman instructed us how to do the work. She requested me to do something very strange. From another department came a mass of sticky stuff and to gently put a certain amount into a washing machine. Then another batch came and it continued all day. It felt like paper, but I was told later that that sort of paper was used to make gunpowder. We stayed in Bomlitz only about five or six weeks. We were transported to Bergen Belsen.

BERGEN BELSEN

We arrived in Bergen Belsen to empty fields. There were no structures except watchtowers, surrounded by electrically charged barbed wires, no running water or sanitation. I remember chilly weather and we cuddled together to keep warm. Finally a few tents were put up on the damp ground. We sat crowded around, curled up in a fetal position covered with a thin blanket. We were cold, dirty, hungry and depressed waiting for disaster to happen. In the morning, some women from our party were ordered to dig a hole about ten feet long and a few feet deep. On top they placed heavy tree branches across each other at both ends, then along a tree branch placed like a horse from one end to the next. That became our toilet. There we had to step on a round pole, lift the sparing garment, gingerly bend the knees just enough to be able to relieve oneself. It was cold, the pole was already sticky and slippery from the night frost. Crouching on a slippery surface, without touching the pole not to fall in. If you grabbed the pole to hold onto for dear life, your hands came away with caked excrement, no water to wash with and no paper to wipe. To me this was the lowest human degradation. Above in the watchtower, guards with machine guns in hand dispelled loud mouth laughter and from one to the other spat out insults.

We were filthy, smelly and depressed, to say it mildly and some were suicidal. The, one evening, it started to snow, pure white snow and it lifted our spirits. Running out from the tent I grabbed some snow and starting washing my hands, face and neck. Then with the help of my sister, I had a snow bath. By her holding the thin blanket to stop gaping guards, I rubbed the snow all over my body and covered in a blanket, I ran to the tent shivering from the cold, but clean. We stayed in Bergen Belsen a few weeks, but they seemed like very long weeks.

ELSNIK

We arrived in Elsnik in 1944 as snow covered the ground, sparely dressed in a striped uniform. We had to march three kilometers on an empty stomach with only a cup of black liquid barely warm. My misfortune was that I arrived at Auschwitz wearing very nice officer type boots that I enjoyed while in Blizin. My friend Molo had brought them to me to A.V.L. just before we were evacuated to Blizin. I was warm and comfortable and cherished that very useful gift. In Auschwitz's selection, all belongings were confiscated, most were given their own shoes. My boots were too nice, so they took them away and I received wooden clogs too large for my feet. With those shoes I arrived to Elsnik, wooden clogs tied down with strings. While marching to and from work at times dragging my tired body someone stepped on the back of the clog and my shoe was lost, picked up by someone later in line. Meanwhile, I marched barefoot and started to feel very cold. As it continued I stopped feeling. I had no need to come close to the barrack oven, as I didn't feel a thing. I even challenged a friend who pushed me toward the oven to hit my foot. I don't feel a thing, I told her. Later, my trouble started as the foot healed. My shinbones were in constant pain. Unhealed boils lasted quite a while.

In Elsnik, our work was similar to the work we did in Bomlitz, except the gunpowder was already processed in shells. We had to scrape out the thread, clean it by blowing out the dust with hand blowers. German women inspectors wore protective masks. We had no masks or gloves and our hands became red. Some of us had reddish hair or tinted facial skin. Our lungs corroded. Many were coughing, so did I. We had to work twelve hours daily on a starvation diet. Bela became very sick and had to stay in the hospital. Most of the patients had tuberculosis and received the same starvation diet as all of us. There was no way a Jew could receive medication. I was only allowed to visit Bela after work. I brought my soup ration for her to pick out hat there was of potato or cabbage. I took the rest of the liquid myself. I tried to encourage her with the news that the war was near its end. She remained indifferent, all the fight left her. As the Russian front moved closer we were ordered to evacuate the camp. All production ceased. I was ordered to report to waiting wagons to load boxes of ammunition. Our camp was to be evacuated in a march to Buchenwald. All the sick women that were unable to walk would go on a horse driven wagon. We all knew what that meant: namely to be shot in the nearest wooded region just before the war's end? Even the very sick ran out from the hospital. Bela and a few others remained. I decided to join Bela in the hospital. I could not see myself trying to survive while my sister would face certain death. At the roll call in front of the barracks, we awaited the order to march. I clenched a saved up portion of bread for the journey standing in front of the hospital with the few dying resigned to be placed on he wagon to be shot as fast as they would drive to a wooded area. My friends Chanka Hoch, Bala Wajeman, Molo's sister-in-law, cousin Mania, Frania Kestenberg, and others were upheld by my decision. One nurse was left, the older one, and she wanted to place the sick patients on the wagon before she left. As it turned out, there was a shortage of ammunition to fill all the freight cars and we became a filler of cargo, destined with the ammunition to the front. The hospital sick were included. They placed seven hundred women into five freight wagons with very little space to sit. My sister was short of breath and had difficulty moving. She had pleurisy in the lungs with a high temperature. Sitting in a fetal position Bela suddenly started to shake with a convulsive tremor. White foam dispelled from her mouth, her arms twisted, teeth clenched and as her eyes rolled inward, she was dying. I yelled for water but no one from the guards came. I reacted with hysterical screams and accused the Almighty with indifference to his people. I prayed, begged and bargained with G-d. Mania sized up the situation, she pushed the girls apart demanding space for Bela to lie down. She held Bela on her lap and did the most sensible thing. Talked to her in a soothing voice until Bela stopped shaking and fell asleep. The crisis passed and she survived the night. Next morning, I successfully convinced Chank Hoch, she in turn helped me convince some very outspoken girls against allowing a dying girl in their wagon that was less crowded. A day later, we were bombarded. Finally, Allied bombs came and most of the girls experienced a moment of joy while dying. Allied bombs came and most of the girls experienced a moment of joy while dying. Allied bombs hit the target preventing ammunition from reaching the German front. Sudden explosion after explosion, fire, screams mingled with airplane roars. Women were in the wagon next to ours, behind that, ammunition, boards were blown out not far from me, shrapnel fell, injuring and killing some of the girls. Bela and I were intact. Bela was lying motionless, too sick to care. I was desperate. Who could possibly help to push Bela through? One girl yelled, "I will help you!" I finally got her out, half lifting, half dragging her. She begged me to leave her, repeating, "I won't make it anyway." The station in Sedin was on fire with deep holes and twisted metal springing up like snakes. Nazi guards and soldiers running across actually escaping, running for shelter. The station looked endless. Tripping, Bela with me on the intertwined railway tracks, right across from where all the soldiers were running, I saw a mass of trees, a haven. I, a near skeleton, had superhuman strength to get her to the edge of the woods. Someone was running by, I think I saw him wearing a uniform, handed me a piece of sugar and advised not to move her or she would die. I pried open her clenched teeth and put in the piece of sugar. We rested under a tree for a short time. The Germans made no attempt to attack. A few other girls found their way to the woods and together we walked deeper into the wooded area. While searching for suitable branches to form a shelter around a tree, stacked under larger leafy branches, we found two hidden SS Nazi uniforms. We were shivering from cold, but made no use of the tainted uniforms which represented the lowest human brutality and degradation. Cuddled together, we spent the first night shivering, hungry but free, still in Germany, but not free from Nazi guards. The war was not over yet, shooting continued all night. Next morning, walking toward the train station, hoping to find some food, perhaps some clothing, I was stopped by two German soldiers leading a group of women from our transport to a safe shelter, they said, with a promise feed them. They asked me to join them. I thanked them and told them I would follow. I made my escape behind the trees and carefully made my way to the train station. There were no military; they had all escaped to the woods. Some civilians were searching for things; I and a few other girls from our transport were looking for food. I managed to get food from the wagons: bread and hard honey probably meant for Nazi guards. I walked back with the treasure, did not touch the food until I brought it to the shelter. Bela and I had a feast. Bela really brightened up and felt a little better. I informed the girls of my escape from the soldiers leading the groups. We decided it was not safe to stay there. Also, while searching for food, I found out about foreign forced labourers. We joined them with a plea to help us to get to a prisoner of war camp. Where Bela, Sarna, Marta and I were taken to, Bela was admitted to the hospital for treatment where she received excellent treatment for pleurisy. Sarna, Marta and I were given good medical care from a doctor of Polish descent from England. We had the first taste of freedom in prisoner of war camps near Lukenwald. Liberation came in May 1945.

I found out later that the group of girls the German soldiers promised safe shelter and food, the one I managed to escape from, were brought to a shack, locked inside and blown up. Among them were Fela Tyrangel and Helen Silberstainís mother, Mrs. Waser. We arrived in 1944 to Elsnik, five hundred strong. To my knowledge, only a few died from malnutrition and disease. The transport bombardment, and the explosions from the ammunition that we travelled with, took about three hundred lives. Close to two hundred survived.

A great miracle happened: my dying sister survived. That fact, since that time, changed my outlook on life. I believe in a higher power. I became spiritually connected with religion and I made an oath. If I ever would have a home and a normal life, my home would be kosher. I kept my oath and still do.

Cousin Mania managed to stay out from the ammunition factory by befriending our Jewish camp leader, a girl born in Germany. She found our cousin a job tending the laundry for the German guards. We saw her less, since she moved to the building where the leader lived. Mania joined us again on the transport out from Elsnik. She remained in the wagon, when Bela and I moved out the next day after Bela moved to the lesser-crowded wagon. Mania was wounded from shrapnel during the bombardment, but not seriously. Many died there. She survived and lived in Israel practicing law. She married a young lawyer by the name of Matishevski who, in the 1950s, was appointed and served as a judge in Netanya for many years. They produced a son, Amos Matishevski. He and his wife Yafa live in Ganay-Tikva. They have three childrenótwo boys and one girl. Mania and her husband have both passed away.

RADOM AFTER LIBERATION

It is fifty-four years later. I am still puzzled about the optimism I retained right after the camps. Daily horrors for over four years did not seem to affect a belief that my parents and brother might have survived. That gave me the courage to attempt to get back to Radom. We were not alone, other young people came to Radom with the same hope. As the train rolled in to Radom station, stepping off the train, I received a sample of what we would experience on our return to Poland in our town Radom. We heard angry remarks. No one offered a glass of water or said a kind word. We saw open hostility in the town where we were born. Our parents and grandparents lived all their lives there, including the large extended family on fatherís side, a smaller from motherís. I was shocked, but still hoped that if I would come to the street where we lived and see momís whole family. As I walked in on Bernardinska, an overwhelming sadness engulfed my soul. So quiet, no Jew to be found. Walking in to No. 4 a large courtyard, as I looked in, recalling grandmother Leja Faiga Shiper lived on the third floor. On Hanukah, all the grandchildren came for latkes although she could not have much of the goodies as she was diabetic and was on a strict diet. Neither my mother, Perl Ruchel, or my two aunties had inherited diabetes. Right across the street lived auntie Maatel, a pleasant, quiet woman who was forever occupied with pampering her two girls. Her husband owned a small factory, producing leather upper shoes for men and boys. Mom's older sister lived downstairs on No. 4. Auntie Mirel, as I remember, had been in poor health and spent a lot of time resting in bed. Her husband Moishe Kashtan was in business, buying and selling raw fur skins and hides for leather. He was a business partner to me father before my father left for Brazil. When auntie Mirel became seriously sick, doctors in Radom advised her to seek consultation in Warsaw. In these situations, the family usually turned to my mother for help. Mother took Auntie Mirel to the Soloweitchik clinic in Warsaw. She came back feeling better, but it prolonged her life only for a short time. She died of a heart attack, leaving four orphans, the eldest a girl just in the early teens and the youngest barely five. No one survived from mother's family. Polish neighbours knew all my family. They lived in the same buildings for many years. I still expected our neighbours to be more hospitable: one more disappointment. I saw people moving away, hiding behind their curtains. So as not to face me, some turned their heads away pretending not to see me. Finally, I reached the courtyard where we had lived. One woman named Michalina, who had been a maid to our neighbours faced me with a greeting. "Malgoshea," that way she used to call me, "You still alive?" This was the norm in Radom. After the horrors we experienced, the Poles were glad the Jews were killed so they could pick up all the things the Germans didnít want, all the properties for themselves. On our return, Poles stooped to make a pogrom in Kielce and in Radom where an extended family of Nelaís, a young man was stabbed with his bride on their wedding night. We decided to leave Radom. Bela never shared my optimism that someone from our family might still be alive.

On the trip out from Radom, I experienced an enormous emotional struggle, difficulties handling the blind hatred of the Poles on top of what we had just been through. I had to face the loss of my family and huge extended family. Now I felt an empty lost feeling of an orphan, at the same time an emotional struggle to conquer to make adjustments to control feelings for the loss of family and friends all at the same time.

MITTENWALD

I had to concentrate on the task at hand. Bela received word from a new arrival from Germany that her boyfriend was alive in Mittenwald awaiting her arrival. One positive thing, she had someone to go to. We smuggled ourselves into Czechoslovakia, then to Germany. How ironic, the place holding those horrible memories became our residence after the camps. Hitler was dead; Germany's citizens claimed complete ignorance about the atrocities committed by their sons, husbands and daughters. A Jewish Final Solution was strange, unheard of by them.

Surprisingly, the atmosphere after the war in Germany was better than in Poland. Mittenwald was a small picturesque town, surrounded by mountains, a lovely lake we enjoyed during the summer. Survivors were stationed in the Hotel Karwendel with food provided by the UNRRA. Rooms were cleaned by a German woman. We could rest or wander around the town. Lonely boys and girls, mostly one of a family survives, were striking up friendships to compensate for friends lost. Some courtships developed due to a desperate need to be close to someone who understood the immediate past. In my mind, I reached out to my friends Estusia and Molo, remembering the carefree days when we laughed a lot and told each other secrets of no significance. How they approved of my way of thinking. That could be no more: new friendships, new relations. I was older, not so much in years, as in sorrowful experiences, which led to subtle relationships like many others. Long courtships were rare. The loss of close ones became a need for a new closeness, friendship or new love.

The facilities were quite congenial for courtships. Evenings in the Hotel Karvendel's dining room, a German orchestra played new hits, dancing music and at some tables men were playing card games. Of course, dancing was the thing for many.

I found that ballroom dancing was not difficult by really listening to the rhythms. Horas that I danced expertly in Hashomer Hatzair were seldom played. I reluctantly consented to try, after insistent invitations with patient teachers, my skills improved daily, I enjoyed it. Dancing became a social outlet for me, as other young survivors eagerly embraced a few hours forgetting about the sufferings. In a lighter atmosphere, conversation, funny encounters, even laughter made us almost normal young people enjoying a lighter moment.

By December 1945, two brothers of Jacob, Bela's boyfriend, arrived from a kibbutz in Italy, where, right after the camps, they had hoped to immigrate to Palestine. After six months of waiting on the coast of Italy, without success to emigrate, even with Aliyah Beth (illegally) smuggled themselves through the Alps to return to Germany just in time to celebrate the marriage of their brother Jacob to my sister Bela.

In the midst of many young single survivors from a whole family, rarely were three from a blessed family. I, too, felt very fortunate to have my sister. The union of Milstein and Gutman formed a new beginning, a first defiance to the Nazi aim.

Elek, the youngest, Chaim, the oldest, were quite happy in our midst. They had experienced Milsteinsí hospitality while in Radom hospital recovering from typhoid.

Chaim showed concern when he saw me wearing a blazer covered with a plastic cape in January. Packages arrived, with used clothes from the UNRRA, but the distributors somehow omitted me. Chaim asked Mr. Shamark, a German Jew stationed in the Hotel who had connections with Germans, to find some old coat. Within one week, a gray coat was found, large enough to remodel, with the help form Abram Soika, Chaim undertook the job to make me a very stylish warm coat. This was the first step that later developed into courtship. He seemed to be there, cut in when I danced with other fellows, or accompany me to a movie or opera.

We married on November 12, 1946.

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