OLGA'S STORY

Grandparents, Uncles and Aunts.

Although both my maternal and paternal grandparents lived in the same town, Tarnow, I had a closer relationship to my mother's parents than to my father's. This is what I know of them and their families:

Maternal grandparents.

My grandmother was born in Tarnow around 1860. Her maiden name was Dora Brandt, and she had many siblings in Poland and as well as in other European countries. I met many of her brothers and sisters and their families in Lemberg (Lwow) in 1939 during the first days of the war. Except for my two second cousins these families were completely annihilated during the war.

I have a picture of my grandmother. In it she is standing looking at an open book. This photograph is very telling. It shows that she is a well-dressed lady, able to and interested in reading, thus a modern woman for her times. Interestingly enough she was not religious, which was unusual for a Jewish person in a small town.

When my grandmother was eighteen years old she married Jakob Mueller, who was about six years her senior. My grandfather owned an inn in Tarnow. Later in life he was struck with the so called 'Burgher's' disease - hardening of the arteries - and lost first one leg and then the other to this terrible disease.

My grandparents had five daughters and one son. Of their children only two survived the Holocaust, my mother and her oldest sister. There is a particularly tragic story about one of their daughters, Otilia. Otilia married Mr. Lustgarten (I cannot remember his first name), whose origin was Polish but who had settled in Berlin, Germany. Their two children, Freddy and Ruthie were born in Berlin, and although the family was now for all intents and purposes German, they were deported to the Polish-German border in 1938 together with thousands of other Polish-born Germans. Germany had expelled a segment of her population that now found itself without a country. Eventually it was Poland that had to accept them, since they were in fact still Polish citizens. Otilia and her family settled in Tarnow, and it can be assumed that they were ultimately deported to Belzec concentration camp together with other Tarnow Jews, most likely in 1942. Both my grandmother and my grandfather died natural deaths.

A man, whose name would forever be linked to history, Sendel Grynszpan, was among those who were caught up in the tragic circumstances on the Polish-German border. His son Herschel lived in Paris at the time, and hearing of his father's plight, he became desperate, bought a gun and headed for the German embassy to see the ambassador. When he arrived at the embassy he was, however, received by a secretary instead - his name was Ernst vom Rath - and shot him. Vom Rath died two days later, which caused a terrible uproar in Germany and resulted in the infamous Kristallnacht. Incidentally, Herschel Grynszpan survived the war and ultimately testified at the Eichmann trial.

Paternal grandparents.

As I mentioned, my father's parents too lived in Tarnow. My grandmother's maiden name was Fanny Prokisz. When she married my grandfather, Gutman Kurtz/Koretz, he was a widower with several children, who ultimately emigrated to the United States. After the war I met one of the American siblings in New York.

My grandmother had two children with Gutman, my father Joseph and a daughter Ewa. Neither my grandmother nor my father ever spoke much about Gutman, and I am not exactly sure what actually happened to him. Suffice it to say that my grandmother became a single mother at an early age. To support herself and her two children she ran a little store. I can still remember its smell of tobacco. In 1941-1942, when our family had already fled to the east, my grandmother wrote to my father that she might be deported and asked him if there was anything he could do to prevent this from happening. He could not, and she perished in the Holocaust.

My grandmother had a brother who lived in Berlin and was married to a non-Jewish woman. She stood by him, despite pressure to do otherwise, had two children with him, and ultimately the whole family emigrated to America. Their son, Herbert, came to our assistance after the war, when he was working in Germany as an officer in the UNRRA. He subsequently lived in Washington and we kept in touch with him until he died. His sister, on the other hand, showed no interest in our family. She was and still is quite indifferent.

EARLY CHILDHOOD.

My parents.

My mother was born in Tarnow. She was the second oldest in her family. Among all her siblings, it was Maria, her older sister, she had a special relationship with, not only because they were close in age, but also for a variety of other reasons. Maria eventually married Szymon, the executive of a plumbing supply manufacturing company with several branches all over Poland.

A nice looking woman, my mother was a caring and nurturing parent, wife and sister. She was always concerned about the well being of her unmarried sister and that of her only brother. She was generous, helpful and friendly to strangers in need and she was tolerant and liberal. Her relationship with her in-laws was excellent.

My aunt Otilia lived in Berlin at the time, and I can still recall going to the post office with my mother to mail parcels to Germany. So vivid is my memory of these outings that even today I think of them each time I visit a post office.

My father was a handsome man and his appearance as well as the appearance of others was always important to him. Early on he joined the Austrian army and this is where he was taught the discipline and obedience he later imposed on us. He was wounded during the First World War, and he kept the bullet that was removed from his wrist, in the drawer of his night table. He was an avid reader, kept up to date by reading different newspapers, and it was he who instilled in me my love for books and libraries. My father also enjoyed all kinds of sports. He played soccer and other games, but his greatest love was skiing. When my sister and I were still quite young he made sure that we too participated in sports. Thanks to him I am still a good swimmer and only gave up skiing a few years ago.

My father seemed to be somewhat uneasy with women and therefore treated them with a certain amount of condescension. For him women existed mainly if they were attractive. Later on in life I realized that he had never really known me at all, or what I was all about.

My parents met through my father's sister, who was friendly with my mother's siblings. They got married in 1921 in Lemberg (Lwow). Their relationship was a loving one, and although my mother did not necessarily believe in some of my father's ideas or like some of the things he asked her to do, she tried to please him at all times. My mother was a very strong woman, and my father relied on her completely, something he would not admit. He had mixed feelings about being Jewish. After the war he wanted to convert, which my mother vehemently objected to.

At the time of my parents' marriage my father was working in a branch of Szymon's company, located in a place called Boryslaw. It was important for him to make a good living, and he always did. Boryslaw was a very small place which, however, grew rapidly with the influx of engineers, lab technicians, office staff, etc. when oil was discovered there.

Although my family was still living in Boryslaw when my mother was pregnant with me, she went to her parents' house in Tarnow to give birth. This is where my father saw me for the first time, and shortly afterwards he took my mother and me back home to Boryslaw. There was only one problem - they did not know how to name me. Finally my aunt solved the dilemma by sending a telegram from Berlin: 'Name her Olga. That is such a beautiful name.'

Memories.

Boryslaw was as I mentioned a small town, and life there had all the characteristics of small town living. My memories of those days are fragmented, because I was still very young. I can, however, remember a maid who loved me so much that she often took me to church with her. We lived next to a Jewish cemetery, which has now been demolished and replaced by a gas station. None of my grandparents were religious, but I do remember my mother lighting candles on Friday nights, at least early on.

My parents had many friends and I played with their children. Many of these friendships have been life long, and thus lasted throughout the war years. Even today I correspond with one of my friends who lives in Australia.

I can recall one particular friend, who had a special collection of toys like no one else. Her father was obviously well to do.

The daughter of one of my parents' friends became an architect, and survived the war years by assuming a different identity. Ultimately she wrote and published a book about her experiences.

Holidays were spent at different Kuhrorte (spas). Sopot near Danzig was a beautiful vacation spot, and we enjoyed its beaches summer after summer. I can recall a restaurant on a mountaintop with a beautiful view on the Baltic bay. The adults enjoyed horse racing and a casino, which attracted among others the American tourists who visited Sopot briefly while on cruises. For us children competitions were held to determine who built the nicest sand castles or sand sculptures. My parents would rent rooms from a strict looking German 'Hausfrau' (landlady), dressed in black, who never smiled. We visited a coffeehouse, where we were served cakes with 'Schlagsahne' (whipping cream). Then one summer this came to an end. At the entrance of this particular coffeehouse hung a life-size picture of Hitler that had not been there before, and it was here that I also saw Hitler's brown-shirts for the first time. After this incident we never returned to Sopot. We still went on vacations though, albeit to a different Kuhrort in Poland, called Orlowo. Here the beaches were segregated, one for Jews and one for Gentiles. The Jewish side was crowded with Jews from Warsaw and Lodz. Many hotels had signs 'For Christians' only.

My sister Irena was born in Boryslaw in 1928, and shortly after her birth our family moved to Warsaw. My father, who had been working in the same building where we lived, found an engineer, a friend of the family, to take over his position when we left.

The move to Warsaw would change our lives forever.

WARSAW.

For both my parents the move to Warsaw was a difficult one. My mother was confronted with many changes. The apartment was larger, there were more social obligations and a richer cultural life, all of which was time consuming.

As for my father, the move to Warsaw meant a bigger office to run and more responsibilities

When my sister was two years old, she became very ill with a blood infection. Penicillin had not been invented yet, and in order to cure her illness she had numerous operations. My mother was at the clinic day and night and never left her alone. Stephalia, my youngest aunt, came to take care of the household. This was a very sad and difficult time for our family, but without a doubt the ordeal was hardest on mother.

We continued to keep in touch with our friends in Boryslaw. From time to time they visited us in Warsaw or we met at the seashore of the Baltic Sea.

One of my mother's major concerns was my sister's and my education. It was important that we attend good schools, and one was found with both French and Polish curricula. There were ballet and piano lessons. But anti-Semitism was already rearing its ugly head. The ballet teacher ignored me completely, and even some of the teachers in school made anti-Semitic remarks. I did have three Gentile friends though, with whom I correspond even today.

Despite the increase in anti-Semitism, I loved living in Warsaw. It was already a big city - about 1 million inhabitants - with a rich cultural life. My parents made sure their daughters were exposed to everything the city had to offer. We went swimming at an Officers' Club, which was not yet restricted, to soccer games on Sunday afternoons and attended concerts and theatres. I was transferred from a Catholic school to another school, which although also Catholic, had a larger Jewish student body.

Slowly my world began changing. Now Jewish boys began inviting me to dances at their Jewish schools. Since I was always a good student, my parents made endless plans for my future. When Jews were no longer admitted to Polish universities, these plans became more complicated. A girlfriend and I spent much time discussing our future, which included living in France.

We heard of more and more Jews, Zionists, who were planning to go to Palestine, and some did. For the most part they spoke Hebrew and/or belonged to different Jewish Zionist organizations. For my father this was not an option nor did anyone in my parents' circle of friends plan such a move. We simply continued our lives as usual.

My parents often listened to the news from Germany, but in Poland like everywhere else there was a great deal of denial, despite the fact that many German Jews had sought refuge in Poland at the time. I remember a German doctor particularly well. She would come and see us whenever one of us was sick. During her visits she would give my parents detailed information about the situation in Germany. And still they thought 'Not here'. Some German students began to appear in our school. Being parachuted into a Polish speaking school without knowing the language must have been extremely difficult for them. The only language they knew was German.

The atmosphere at the Officers' Club was gradually changing. Our family went to see the Maccabee swimming pool, situated on the Vistula river, but compared to 'our' pool it was very primitive, and we still continued swimming at the Officers' Club. During our gym class in school we would go swimming at the YMCA. One day my teacher told me that she did not think that I should be allowed to join the others for this activity. It was not appropriate for a Jewish person to swim at a Christian 'Y'. In the end she relented, however. She was a kind teacher, who probably got her instructions from her superiors..

In our building we had many different neighbors. A friendly physician, who was always ready to help, a hostile lawyer whose little daughter was calling me names, and a very devoted neighbor who invited us for Christmas dinner, and in return my mother would send her Matzo for Passover. This particular neighbor had two sons. One was killed during the war in an accident, the other became a physician. When the war was over and I was in Warsaw in 1946 I went to see our house, part of which had been totally destroyed, but part of which was miraculously untouched. My old neighbor saw me and invited me in. We cried, we laughed and we talked. In the end she asked me to look up her son, who was working in an emergency clinic located in a broken down building. When he saw me and realized who I was, he was so happy that he lifted me up and whirled around the room with me.

In 1939 we still vacationed at a Polish Spa, but this vacation was cut short. One day, when my sister and I were swimming in the pool, my mother came outside to tell us that we had to return to Warsaw immediately. General mobilization had been announced, and because my father was an officer in the reserve, we had to leave without delay. The train was packed. Nobody, but nobody could imagine in his wildest dreams what was in store for all of us.

Warsaw prepares to defend itself. The mayor appeals to everybody to take a shovel and build trenches, and the country is in the grip of a wave of patriotism. Now the question is whether to stay or to leave Warsaw. My parents decide to stay for the time being. The media glorifies the Polish army, which is, however, defeated within a very short time.

One day the phone rings. It is my uncle from Krakow, who advises us to leave Warsaw immediately. My father hesitates, although even the mayor encourages everybody to leave, especially the young men. Eventually my parents together with two of their closest friends and their families decide to heed my uncle's advice. My father tells us to pack only the most necessary articles, as he believes we will be back in three weeks' time. Everybody thought that England and France would come to our rescue, and that the war would be a Blitzkrieg (a lightening war) only. The three weeks' absence my father anticipated turned out to be forever. We would never live in Warsaw again.

THE ESCAPE.

Evacuation of Warsaw had begun. Soon my family and our friends joined the crowds of people on their way to the railway station. People arrived in cars, trucks and horse-drawn carriages. Others came on foot, carrying heavy bundles. My father and his friend wore their officers' uniforms. Despite the enormous crowds on the train and the general panic, room was made for us in deference to the uniforms, and this would happen in many other places along the way as well. The Polish population respected its army, and the officers in particular, and without a doubt the uniforms literally saved our lives.

When the overcrowded train was suddenly bombed, panic broke out. There was a dangerous crush to get off the train. We threw ourselves down in a potato field below the tracks, hoping the field would hide us from the Germans' view. Looking up above us we could clearly see the pilots in their planes, so low were they flying. But they too had a clear view of the potato field that shielded us, and began shooting. Many people were killed. Eventually we got back on the train, but the Germans' bombs continued to fall and we had to abandon the train. Our goal was to get to the east, and during the next three weeks we are constantly on the move, traveling by whatever means of transportation was available, horse and buggy, flatbed trucks, etc.

One day we meet Felix, a colleague of my father's, who works for the same company as he. His army division has been dissolved, as the army and members of the Polish government have fled the country. Felix, has become completely destitute. He has no shoes, no food and no money. Feeling sorry for him even amidst her own troubles, my mother gives him something to eat and some money.

Fortunately my father knew people in the different villages we passed - he had met them through his work - and at times we would be offered a place to stay the night and even take a shower. We were privileged even under the present dire circumstances.

Eventually we arrive at a small town, Rowne, which has a large Jewish community. The school principal gives us a room in his house. Many other members of the Jewish community in Rowne follow his example and open their homes to the refugees arriving in the little town.

And then one morning we woke up to Russian troops milling about in the streets. To our surprise many of the soldiers were women. They drove the tanks, repaired them when necessary, and thus played in important part in occupying their new territory. The stores were still open and the Russians were confiscating whatever they could. Consumer goods had been scarce in the Soviet Union for a long time. When the local civilian population saw their supplies disappear before their eyes, they were in a panic to stock up on whatever was still available. There were long lines everywhere and the money lost its value. Before long the Russians began to arrest Polish officers, but my father escaped the round up. About two years later these officers were shot in a place called Katyn. The Soviets accused the Nazis of having committed this atrocity, until it was proven after the war that in reality it had been the Russians.

In order to find an escape route out of Poland for themselves and their families, my father and his officer friend make their way to Wilno in northern Poland. But the borders are closed by now and no one can escape. To everyone's great relief the two men return after about two weeks, and the families are reunited.

A few weeks later my father realized the futility of staying in Rowne, and we went to Lwow by train, where we had a large extended family. Here one of my mother's aunts made room for us. The Russians had occupied Lwow too, and were requisitioning rooms in every home. Our arrival was therefore a welcome, albeit only temporary postponement of the inevitable for my aunt. Eventually, after we left, she had no choice in the matter and a Russian family moved in.

My aunt had had a maid for many years and she had been well treated. When the Russians arrived, the maid began to think of them as her 'allies,' and consequently, her behavior towards my aunt changed drastically. It was now she who gave the orders and turned into a veritable tyrant. The tables had turned.

The winter of 1939-1940 was one of the coldest winters we ever experienced. My sister and I were finally back in school, a school full of refugees from the west, most of them Jewish. Letters that were received from Warsaw implied that life there was fairly normal, which gave fuel to the refugees' pre-occupation with the question of whether to stay where they were or return home.

In the meantime the Russians promote their own ideas for resettling people. They are mostly interested in young, single people who are able to work, and do not want to return to German occupied territories. On the other hand they also introduce registration of people who are willing to return to their homes under German rule. Many people who are unable to support themselves in Lwow register, my father among them. But the registration is a trick. The Russians consider this category of people suspicious elements, who prefer to live under Nazi rule rather than under the Russian occupation. As a result many of these refugees are arrested and deported to Siberia and other areas in the Soviet Union. We escaped this fate by leaving Lwow for Boryslaw, where we had lived so long ago. We found a room with friends, and my father went to work in a branch of his Warsaw firm. It seems that finally a measure of normalcy has been restored to our family's life.

Once again I attend a new school, and it is only two months until matriculation. I do have a new group of friends, but I miss my old friends in Warsaw. Despite the fact that our lives are quite stable, everything seems only temporary, and we look forward to the day when we will be able to return to our home in Warsaw.

Boryslaw is also occupied by the Russians. The population in Boryslaw is Polish, Jewish and Ukrainian. Some of the Ukrainians, who believe the promises the Soviet Union has made in the past, hope that the independent country they never had will now materialize. Polish, Zionist, Jewish religious movements and other nationalistic movements go underground. The Poles hate the Russians, mainly because they do not believe in God, whereas Poland is a devoutly Catholic country. But little by little even the Ukrainians are losing faith in the Soviet Union as a partner in their struggle for independence. The Russian ideology makes itself felt everywhere, in education, culture and in the workplace. We are being slowly brainwashed. There is a general fear of the future, because the society is lawless. People disappear, they are arrested and deported. Innocent gatherings are treated with suspicion and a birthday party ends by being dispersed.

Yet our lives continued to be quite normal in a way. I finished high school and began to work as a secretary in a hospital. I met a kind young doctor, and developed a crush on him. My sister and I went swimming at a spa not far from us, and while visiting relatives nearby, I skied with a group of friends.

What I really miss is continuing my education, but everything is on hold. We hear from Warsaw that a Ghetto has been established. I receive a letter from a friend who tells me that he goes to a 'pension' to work every day, meaning that he is working in a labor camp. This friend did not survive. Another letter comes from my uncle who now lives in the Ghetto with his family. At that time, the occupants of the Ghetto are still able to move about relatively freely, leaving and entering the Ghetto. My uncle manages to remove some articles from our apartment, which he exchanges for things he needs. The family did not survive.

On June 22, 1941 the war came to Boryslaw. As usual we woke up early in the morning, but that day it was even earlier than usual due to the noisy skies. German planes were on the attack, but since the radio neither confirmed nor denied the outbreak of war, we were not sure what was happening. What we saw were fires set by fleeing Russian soldiers. The oil fields of Boryslaw were burning. It was a week marked by tragedy and culminating in the occupation by the German army. Some people left with the fleeing Russian soldiers. Those who did not, would live to regret their decision, especially the Jews. On July 1, 1941 the German army arrived, victorious, well dressed, smiling. I can recall my father standing on the sidewalk with me, predicting that difficult times were ahead, but not in his wildest dreams did he suspect, how difficult they would be.

GERMAN OCCUPATION.

With their usual efficiency, the Germans got organized the very first day. Then they publicly proclaimed that 'free play' or a 'free for all' would be allowed for 24 hours, which meant that no one would be punished for any excessive behavior. It did not take the occupation forces long to discover the bodies of a number of local Ukrainian nationalists in the building of the Soviet Secret Police, now abandoned. This discovery led the local population to accuse the Jews of being guilty of murder and of being Soviet sympathizers. The mob needed no other excuse. Assisted by people from the surrounding areas of the town and equipped with different weapons, they began searching for Jews who were hiding trying to save themselves.

I am at work in the hospital and a Ukrainian doctor advises me to go home immediately. He has heard that something terrible is happening on the main street, although he does not know exactly what. I heed his advice and get home safely. After a brief discussion we decide to separate immediately. We believe that the mob is mainly looking for Jewish males. Thus it is my father who is in the greatest danger. Together with some other people he hides in the barn close to the house, whereas my mother, my sister and I take refuge in the bathroom. We hear ominous sounds coming from our room, and we know that the mob is stealing whatever they can put their hands on. Three hundred and fifty people were murdered that night in Boryslaw - a veritable bloodbath. The bodies were given a Jewish burial in the Jewish cemetery as soon as it became possible. Later the cemetery was destroyed. Today a gas station replaces the gravestones.

My Aunt Stephanie and her husband were hiding in a Christian woman's house in an area not far from Boryslaw. They were denounced and murdered. Many other people shared their fate, among them an engineer we knew, whose Soviet Russian superiors had begged him to flee with them, but he had refused.

Soon new regulations are issued against the Jewish population. The name of the main street, where many Jews, such as lawyers, doctors and businessmen had been living and working, is renamed Adolf Hitler Strasse, and all Jews are banned from this street. Armbands of a very specific design are mandatory. Certain streets in poor dilapidated areas are designated as a site for a future Ghetto, now only in the planning.

Since we are also living on Adolf Hitler Strasse, we too have to move. Mr. Landes, an acquaintance of ours, who is an engineer and has been working for an oil company for many years, owns a large villa. It is with him and his family that we find refuge. The fact that the villa is surrounded by a garden and a high wall, and that Mr. Landes owns a dog, convinces my father that we will be safe here. But a few days after we move in, the Schutzpolizei (Police) arrives on the scene, and soon they visit the villa in search of household items, such as dishes and pots and pans which they need to equip their new 'home'. My sister and I are told to carry all the items to their post. Although we are afraid, we have no choice but obey the Police. It turned out that all they wanted was the household goods.

One night there was a knock on the door and a Ukrainian policeman showed up with a list of names, among them Mr. Landes'. The policeman told him to get dressed. His wife could not bear to see him leave without her and insisted on going with him. They were never seen again. The following morning their two daughters went to another town where they had relatives. We heard our name being mentioned too and the policeman checked his list but did not find it. Only later did we hear that the Ukrainian policeman who arrested Mr. Landes had been working for him and had some kind of vendetta against him. Once again the tables had turned.

We were able to remain in the villa that winter (1941-42) until the spring of 1942, when German officials occupied it. Still in Boryslaw, we moved again, this time to a street that was part of the Ghetto. Here we lived in one room, sharing the quarters with another couple with two children. The new move and the cramped conditions were extremely difficult to bear. But we were together and still safe.

There are rumors abound of extensive actions against the Jews. We hear about deportations from Warsaw. I receive a letter stamped 'Warsaw Ghetto' from a friend. It is a gossipy letter telling me about all our friends, but it was the last one I ever received from her.

Der Judenrat (Jewish Council), although totally manipulated by the German occupation forces has been established. My father works in one of its departments and so do I. I work in the so-called clinic, registering patients - hungry and sick people - whom we cannot really help, because of the shortage of medicines.

A Jewish police force was established mainly to keep order in queues and to make sure that the Jewish population adheres to the new rules and regulations. Once the deportations began they were in terrible straits. They had to cooperate with the Germans and round up their fellow Jews. If they refused, they were deported themselves. Eventually they would all be shot.

The Germans confiscated all our jewelry and radios, and soon afterwards we are told to hand over fur coats and any smaller fur pieces we own. Ten members of the Judenrat, including a good friend of the family, stand facing a wall. They are hostages to ensure that a sufficient number of fur coats are handed in. My mother decides to keep one fur coat, so that she will have something with which to barter for food. The fur coat had belonged to my Aunt Stephanie, who as I mentioned before, was murdered at the beginning of the occupation.

My mother put the fur coat into a knapsack and I was to take it to friends, a Polish gentile family, who lived in the outskirts of the town. Ewa, our main contact, was one of several daughters. One of Ewa's sisters was married and had a child. They were devote Catholics and ardent patriots, and whatever our request, no one ever asked any questions. Apart from Ewa's brother-in-law none of the other men in the family were in Poland any longer.

For this excursion I took off my arm band. I walked about two miles and came to a bridge that I had to cross. Because of recent floods, the riverbanks were in the process of being repaired by hundreds of soldiers. 'I just cannot cross this bridge without my armband and with a fur coat in my knapsack!' I thought to myself. But although I was terrified, I did cross the bridge eventually. I could not let my family down. Relief flooded through me when I realized that the soldiers did not pay any attention to me. Nobody looked at me, nobody talked to me, and I reached Ewa's house without any difficulties. Helpful as always Ewa took my fur coat, and I returned home safely.

We sense that there was something sinister in the air and that a catastrophe is imminent. Finally, in August 1942 one evening we see Gestapo jeeps cruising. The air is heavy, the tension is palpable, it is silent and there are no people on the sidewalks. We are all at home. A lone Jewish man, who is a translator for the Germans passes by and my father asks him: 'Mr. Haendler, what do you think I should do with my family?' He answers: 'If I were you, I would hide them.'

At that time a German company was in the process of taking over the oil fields. They were looking for workers, and my father and I stood a good chance of being hired, which would in some measure guarantee our safety, because the workers were essential to keep the oil production going. Since my mother and my sister did not yet have Arbeitsausweise (working papers) we decided that they should go to our Polish friends for a few days until the present danger had past.It was a beautiful warm night, when I accompanied them to the house where Ewa and her family lived. It was close to curfew, but Ewa's house was still a couple of miles away. Walking in silence we crossed a bridge and the fields and narrow streets of the suburbs. Here and there we saw people, who were desperately searching for a safe place, just to survive the next few days. It occurred to me that they resembled mice looking for a hole to hide in.

When we arrived at Ewa's house I noticed a man standing outside, obviously a neighbor. He appeared watchful and suspicious. Ewa and her family greeted us and as usual asked no questions. They knew why we had come. Ewa worked in town and was aware of the rumors of an impending action. Armed jeeps were speeding by and there was an oppressive silence before the storm. My mother, sister and I said good bye to each other with a heavy heart, aware of the seriousness of the situation. When I left, the man had fortunately disappeared, most likely because of the impending curfew. The warm evening was sweet and calm, and for a few minutes I allowed myself to savor its tranquility.

When I got back home my father was greatly relieved to see me. Going to sleep that night was impossible. Loud voices shattered the silence of the night, we heard knocking on doors, and crying intermingled with gunshots. But somehow even this night passed amid mounting fear of what the future would bring.

The next day my father suggests that we go to work as usual, assuming that even now the oil company would serve as a shield. For the walk to the German plant we decide to hide our arm bands. Mine was anyhow a homemade arm band consisting of only paper and plastic, on which I had drawn the Star with blue crayon. This was in direct violation of the regulation arm band of specific measurements and consisting of white fabric with a blue stitched Star of David. We bend our elbows and no one can see from behind that we are wearing arm bands. It is risky, but by then taking a chance had become a way of life.

Suddenly we hear the sound of heavy boots behind us, and we are both convinced that this is the end for us. But a little Jewish boy is running by us, and the soldier is so busy pursuing this child that he does not notice us. We continue walking. In a house we pass two windows open and two heads appear. Should they go to work or should they stay at home? My father has no answer. I never saw those two women again. We see trucks parked in front of the Jewish orphanage. Soldiers kick its doors open and the children are herded into the truck. A woman is crossing the street. Voices call out to her 'Komm hier zirre Puppe', and as she is a Viennese refugee she understands what they were saying. She too is on her way to work, caught barely a step away from safety and subsequently deported.

We finally get to our workplace, but we do not do any work for the next few days. We are gathered in a big hall, normally occupied by the typists, secretaries, bookkeepers and engineers and draftsmen of the company. Although we feel safe, most of us have somebody on the outside to worry about. The non-Jewish workers are in a separate area, but a friend of our family's comes to see us. Compassionate as always, he offers to take me to his office to give me a cup of tea.

We stay there for the next few days, sleeping on tables and desks. A big kettle of soup appears. We hear rumors about who has been deported, and who is about to be deported. Three or four days and a few thousand missing Jews later, the action is over and we go home. The houses we pass are empty on silent streets. Now we find out who survived and who did not. The family we share our quarters with has been tragically ripped apart. The husband survived, but his wife and children are gone.

To our great relief we found out that my mother and sister were safe. However, Ewa and her family had in the meantime been denounced. Several Germans had come to their house and told the son-in-law that they had heard that he was hiding Jews. If they (the Germans) found them, he and his little boy would be shot. The threat caused the son-in-law to faint. While the house and the barn were being searched, my mother and sister hid in the attic of the barn and were almost found by the Germans' probing pitchforks. But luck was with them this time too. They would never forget this terrifying experience.

When the action was over I went to fetch them from their temporary hiding place. Under the circumstances it was unbelievable that our family had remained intact, and in that moment we were just happy to be together again. No one knew, however, how long the reprieve would last.

I decided to look up friends of mine, who used to live in what was part of the Ghetto. It was deserted. Nobody was there, the street, the houses and apartments were empty. Doors and windows stood open, and feathers were flying in the wind. (The Germans had probably cut open the pillows to search for hidden articles.) I could only hear the echo of my steps. It was a ghost town.

The Jewish district was shrinking and once again we had to move from our present home to other quarters. In the meantime a camp had been established in some old army barracks. It was run by the owners of the oil company my father and I worked for, and set up to house the Jewish community of Boryslaw. The head of this company was a twenty-seven year old German, who had never joined the Nazi party. For one reason or another he did not object to having Jews work for him. This was somewhat of a puzzle, but ultimately we realized that he was protecting us by protecting himself. It was imperative for him to keep the oil company in operation, as he would otherwise have had to fight on the eastern front, and we were available and inexpensive manpower. After the war when Yad Vashem issued medals to be awarded to gentiles for saving Jews, his name was suggested as a recipient of such a medal. But there was too much disagreement among the survivors whether the young German was deserving of such an honor and Yad Vashem was never approached.

People slowly begin to move to this camp, mostly unattached people. Once in the camp they were virtual prisoners, always accompanied by a guard to work. Since we are a family of four, we are still able to remain on the one street that still belongs to the Jewish district, and my father and I continue to work for the oil company. Everyone is preoccupied with the thought of finding a safe place to hide. The plans are always secretive, no one must know. We hear rumors that someone is digging a bunker in the forest, others are looking for places in cellars and attics. Still others are creative and build false walls, false cupboards etc., but we hear all the time that people are found in their hiding places and taken to the police. The truth is that there is no safe place, there are no guarantees. We are constantly in danger.

A new employee appears in the company. We are told that he is not Jewish, and he flirts with a pretty Ukrainian girl at every opportunity. We too are watching her, because she wears beautiful clothes, a different outfit every day, and we suspect that she is hiding someone, who either pays her or gives her the clothes. After the war one day, when my family and I were walking in a park in Krakow, the same man approached us. We recognized him and he confessed that he was, in fact, a Jew from Lwow and that he had managed to get hold of false papers during the war, which had saved his life. Flirting with the Ukrainian girl had merely been a shield. He also told us that he had been very concerned about us at the time, but could not say anything without giving himself away. We had several similar experiences after the war.

One of our friends, who worked in the same company as we, foolishly spread the news that he had bought a gun and this, unfortunately, became public knowledge. Several Gestapo men walked in one day, and we were sure that we would all be arrested. They had heard that someone was rumored to have a gun, but did not know who. One of the Germans started shouting that all of us were armed. A friend of mine, a short man, somewhat of a schlemiel, was summoned by one of the Gestapo men purely at random: 'Du Moses, komm her.' He beat him, his glasses broke and he collapsed. The Germans left, we helped our friend, and the man with the gun was instructed never again to divulge that he owned a gun. He had endangered our lives, which were spared only by some miracle.

People in hiding places are uncovered by the police and sent to the camp. Some are shot on the spot, together with those who are hiding them. At the same time we begin to hear rumors that the Russians are approaching - albeit not fast enough. There are also encouraging 'reports' about the situation on the Western front. Despite the fact that there are neither newspapers nor radios, we always get the news somehow - from a 'news agency' called 'a woman told me.'

People already in the camp were still looking for hiding places, even if they had been found once or several times. They also urged us to try to hide somewhere, because they did not believe that we would be left in peace, even though we were working for the oil company. Since I was old enough to be on my own, my father decided that the time had come to obtain documents for me that would allow me to exist as an Aryan, preferably in Warsaw. It was easier to disappear in a big city, than in a smaller place. I got in touch with gentile friends in Warsaw to let them know my plans. They replied that I should write when I intended to come. Their reaction to my news was quite remarkable, considering the times we lived in. I never did go to Warsaw. But two good friends of mine took a chance, and in line waiting to buy tickets at a railway station nearby, they were arrested, sent to jail and shot. Why were they murdered? The reason was given that infectious diseases were raging in the prison they were supposed to be sent to, an explanation only the Germans could think of.

A young woman lived in the same house as we did. She was the secretary to the German owner of the oil company, a refugee from Germany and exceptionally intelligent and attractive. She was always very discreet, but she would share with us whatever news she had that would benefit us. She survived the war, but severed all relationship with the past and emigrated to the States.

In the spring of 1943 all the people who lived in the house in which we lived as well as in its surrounding areas had to leave, and now the only place to go to was the camp. There was no other choice for our family either - by that time we had stopped counting the moves - although going to the camp seemed like a last resort, which it was. The Jewish district outside this camp had ceased to exist.

The camp area was surrounded by a fence, complete with watchtowers occupied by German guards with guns. At the entrance of the camp a German guard was posted night and day. Leaving the camp was strictly forbidden. Nevertheless people climbed over the fence and ran away to the forests nearby. We lived in barracks, but we had our own room and a small kitchen, which gave us some measure of privacy. We were also able to have our meals in our quarters. On our way from camp and work and back to the camp at night German guards would be watching us closely. Now we were virtual prisoners. A large column of people would leave for the oil company every day, for they required many types of workers, such as technicians, engineers, draftsmen, manual workers and office workers.

From a town nearby, Drohobycz, the place from which the writer Bruno Schulz hailed, friends arrive to stay with us on the way to a hiding place. We too are becoming more and more insecure and aware of the necessity of finding a place to hide. So far we have no prospect.

Rumors were circulating that a school friend of mine was building a bunker deep in the mountains, to house 17 people. The bunker was equipped with bunk beds, food, and access to water. Those who were ultimately hiding there were in danger at one point, but they survived by sleeping during daytime and venturing out at night. One day they discovered a little note written by a German walking in the woods with his dog, expressing his regret that people had to live under those conditions. Partisan groups, Polish underground groups, Soviet Partisans who had been dropped into Poland by parachute, as well as refugees from different ghettos also roamed the woods. The Jews, however, were not always welcomed by the other factions.

A number of young men in the army barracks decided to run away to the forest. I knew many of them, and I had gone to school with a few. Several of us were aware of the time and date of their planned escape. A few days later we heard that everyone was shot or murdered, except maybe two of them. Usually it was impossible to find out the reason for these tragedies. Most often the Polish underground was accused of murdering the Jews or else the local population.

In the meantime my father is looking more determinedly than ever for a place to hide. We hear of such a place and take a chance to leave the camp to take a look at it. A Ukrainian man had decided to build an extension to his house to be used as a hiding place. More by intuition than by any evidence we found, we decide that this is not the place for us. The farmer does not seem compassionate and does not appeal to us at all. I have a terrible feeling that he is building a grave for us and that we would perish there. We eliminate this prospect. We have to look for something else.

In the spring of 1944 the Chief of Gestapo arrived and announced the pending deportation of the Jewish population. 'We want to protect you from the Soviet Army,' he claimed, and mentioned the town to which we will be deported. It was all lies of course. That night people fled to the forests, bunkers, cellars and attics, wherever they hoped they would be safe.

My father was of the opinion that, if the Russian were approaching as fast as was rumored, we would be liberated in the foreseeable future, and we might have a chance to survive after all. The search for a safe place to hide became crucial. A friend mentioned a place that my father felt would be acceptable. It was a room in the attic of a cottage on the banks of the river. The couple who lived there made it clear that they wanted to improve their lifestyle and would have to be paid for risking their lives by hiding Jews. (Years later, when Yad Vashem announced their plans to honor those who saved Jewish lives by awarding medals to 'Righteous Gentiles', those who accepted money did not qualify. They were simply called 'helpers.')

There was one big problem, though. We did not have the money to pay for this hiding place. My father had no choice but approach a friend in Warsaw who worked for 'his' company. A message arrived that the money would be available immediately, and another Gentile friend picked it up in Warsaw and paid our 'helpers' directly.

My mother and my sister reluctantly left for our hiding place as soon as it was possible. I stayed with my father in the camp, waiting until the very last minute to leave, and in fact thereby risking our lives. The reason for this was two-fold: During the time we had spent in the camp, people had begun looking up to my father, recognizing his leadership qualities. He felt that he did not want to abandon them until it became absolutely necessary. Furthermore, we realized that once in the attic, we would lose even the small measure of freedom we had now and we would be cut off from everybody and everything. In fact, my mother and sister sent us letters begging us to let them come back to the camp, so that we could be together, but that was of course impossible under the circumstances. However, many people had no choice but to return to the camp. They had gone into hiding on the assumption that the Soviets were on their way and that the end of the occupation was close at hand. Unfortunately, since this was not the case, their money, food etc. ran out, and going back to the camp was their only alternative.

One day my father decided that I should go and visit my mother and my sister. He said, 'I want you to go on Tuesday,' I said 'maybe Wednesday?' but he insisted 'No! Tuesday.' And my fate was sealed.

In the last few weeks the supervision in the camp had become much more lax, and people had begun to sneak out. It was obvious that some kind of change was on the horizon. So my father decided that I too could take a chance and try to leave the camp. And sure enough when I reached the camp gate, the guard on duty did not seem to care about who was coming and going. He did not even look like the guards we had gotten used to. The German who stood there resembled more my uncle than an enemy, with his pot belly, glasses and a smile that lit up his round face. And so I was on my way.

I pulled off my arm band with the Jewish Star and put it into my pocket, and for the first time in three years I walked on the sidewalk, which was strictly forbidden to Jews. But I was fearful. Suddenly I heard heavy steps behind me. I panicked - had I been recognized? Should I step down from the sidewalk? But before I could decide what to do a German soldier had passed me without giving me a second look. A farmer was carrying a basket full of cheese. I looked longingly at the cheese, but no, I could not ask the price. Another farmer carried a basket full of violets. How I loved flowers! But again it was too risky to find out how much they would cost. As I continued walking I met housewives with baskets full of fresh food. Were they going home to sit down at their kitchen tables with white tablecloths to have a cup of coffee? The world outside ours was so colorful, so spacious, so free. I could hardly even imagine living in this kind of a world any more.

A soldier guarding a quarry nearby whistled a tune and called out to me. I was terrified. Should I listen to him or simply ignore him? I did not know which would be more dangerous, and I simply continued to walk.

Although I did not have the address where my mother and my sister were, I recognized the house from my father's description. There on the banks of the river stood the little house with the red roof. I climbed up the outside stairs to the attic and knocked on the door. The person opening the door asked for the password and then I was inside and reunited with my loved ones.

The room I came to, was the kitchen, then there was a long hall and at the end of the hall was the only bedroom, which our family shared with the husband and wife who were our helpers. The toilet was in the hallway.

While talking to my mother, I thought to myself that this was after all only a visit and that I would be returning to the camp later on. But suddenly and unexpectedly Ewa, our Polish gentile friend, arrived with a note written by my father. It said that under no circumstances was I to return to the camp, because rumors abounded that a freight train was waiting on the station to deport us. However, with his usual optimism he added that the train might after all only be used to transport oil. In any event he would join us in the evening. But he did not come, we did not sleep all night and two notes were delivered the following morning, one from Ewa and another one from Ferri, another gentile friend of the family. The notes warned us not to leave our hiding place under any circumstances. Both Ewa and Ferri had seen my father walk to the station with all the other people from the camp, but they told us not to worry, they would do everything possible to take care of us. There was nothing we could do, but sit and wait and hope.

Suddenly we heard my father's steps on the long corridor. The door opened, and he walked in. His hair disheveled, he sat down on the sofa and told us that he had run away from the train. He told us: 'I spotted Mr. Pietz, a Volksdeutcher (German of foreign nationality) who works for the oil-company. On my way to the train I had noticed a hole in the fence that surrounded the train station. I told Mr. Pietz that I wanted to give him the keys for my desk, so that he would be able to use it now that I was leaving. In return I asked him to walk with me to the fence. I knew that no one would watch Pietz's movements. He accompanied me to the fence and in so doing protected me.' Perhaps Pietz had felt it was safer to save a Jew than to shoot him, because of the proximity of the Russians. My father succeeded in getting away, while others who tried the same route were shot. And so began our 4-month' life in hiding until the Russians liberated us.

We shared the small room with our two 'helpers.' They slept on a bed and we had small cots that we shared. The only times we could use the bathroom was in the morning and at night. Under no circumstances could we leave the room while the couple was away at work. There were people living downstairs who were not supposed to know that we were hiding in the attic and we had to avoid making any kind of noise, at all cost. Our 'helper's' wife would bring us food. She was honest and would always tell us the true price, although had she wanted to she could have named almost any amount. At the same time she had to be extremely cautious when shopping, since she suddenly needed twice as many loaves of bread and other products, which could arouse suspicion. Likewise, although she could not afford to buy a pair of leather boots before, now that she owned a pair, she did not dare to wear them, since the neighbors would ask her how she could suddenly afford such a luxury.

And how did we pass the time? We read, my mother wrote a collection of proverbs and played solitaire and prayed in her own way. Ferri visited us a few times and provided some diversion. He brought a book, a loaf of bread, a smile showing his support. He gave us the latest news, and he came as though this was a normal social visit and not one that involved a serious risk.

One day my father announced that, come what may, he had to go to the bathroom. It happened to be a Sunday and our 'hosts' (the husband actually called us his guests) had a visitor, a relative of theirs. They were in the kitchen, while we were in the bedroom in total silence. The visitor needed to use the bathroom, but my father had locked the door. He immediately went back to the kitchen wanting to know who was in the bathroom. When he did not get an answer, he became suspicious and asked: 'You are not hiding Jews, are you?' Since our 'helpers' did not want to confirm or deny it, he began to threaten that he would go to the police to denounce us all. Our 'host' came to us and told us that we were in serious trouble, and described the situation. My father decided to face the man. But how could he appear dignified with slippers on his feet? Despite the risk of being heard downstairs he put on his officers' boots, went into the kitchen and addressed the guest. 'You can do what you want, but I have connections to the Polish underground, and the day after liberation they will know about you and you will not be allowed to live,' he told him. But my father realized quickly that his approach might not have been the wisest one under the circumstances, and asked the guest how much money he wanted. He named a price and my father agreed to pay, in return for his promise to keep quiet about what he had seen. Our friend in Warsaw paid the bribe. Despite the fact that he could have accepted our money and still have given us away, the man was actually honest enough not to denounce us.

The town is bombed by the allies, and everyone is trying to find refuge in cellars or other safe places. But we must stay in the attic, it is far too dangerous for us to venture out. Our pale faces might betray who and what we are. My then 16-year old sister is hysterical at first, but eventually manages to control herself.

Our 'helper' decided for some strange reason, that the air raid siren was not sufficient warning for an imminent air raid and asked the landlady downstairs to ring our bell in advance of an attack. But there was no bell, and an electrician was called to install one. We were instructed to hide in a kind of storage space in a corner of the attic, prior to his arrival. The attic was actually very large, and on the way to our cubicle, my foot caught a dry plank and went right through the floor. How very lucky that only the wood broke and not my leg! The space that we thought would hide us from the electrician's view was narrow and confining and we sat close together, hardly daring to breathe. Suddenly we saw the electrician approach and soon he was face to face with us! What was going through his mind? He looks at us and turns around and leaves.

Our dilemma was terrifying. What are we to do? Do we tell our 'helpers'? Is it fair not to tell them and risk their lives and ours? Is silence better than words? If we tell them, it would surely be the end for us and perhaps for them too. Our indecision actually decides for us - we will not to tell them and hope for the best. As it turned out the electrician never did denounce us. He became our hero.

The tension mounted day by day. Here we were six people sharing a small living space, and it took its toll. One day our helper came to us, claiming that she had been followed while crossing a bridge. She simply opened the door and told us: 'You will just have to leave.' At this time we knew that the Soviets were very close and that it was just a matter of days before we would be liberated. But my father refused: 'No, we cannot leave now.' So she threatened that she would not bring us any food. My father did not object. Then she told us that she would bring us horse meat, and again my father gave his silent approval. The next day, evidently having had a change of heart, she brought us flour and water that my mother put to use immediately. Our 'helper' had obviously relaxed, because she too could see the end.

Each day the sky became redder and the booms of the artillery became louder. One day our 'helper' made us aware of a crack in the wall of the attic, through which we could look down on the street. We knew what we saw was the beginning of the end, German soldiers fleeing, many of them with bandages covering their wounds or limping along. Liberation was imminent.

RUSSIAN OCCUPATION.

The long awaited Russian army finally moved in to Borislaw on August 8, 1944. A few hours later our 'helper' opened the door and told my father: 'The Russians are here, now you can leave. But your family must stay until it gets dark.I do not want my neighbors to see that I was hiding Jews.'

My father leaves and returns with a big smile on his face, announcing that the world outside is beautiful. In the evening all of us leave the attic for the first time in four months and set out to the center of the town. Many people, who like us, have emerged from the forests, bunkers and other hiding places, are gathered here. I am uneasy. I feel as though we are part of a circus, for we are surrounded by the Polish citizens of the town, who simply stare at us. No one speaks to us, except for one woman who turns to us and says: 'Congratulations. You are free.'

'Free' to do what? We have nowhere to go, no roof over our heads. We must look for a place to stay. Eventually, after walking the streets for a while we come upon an empty apartment, which the Germans had apparently just left. For a few days we allow ourselves to enjoy a comfort almost forgotten. In the meantime the new occupation forces of the town of Borislaw are looking for suitable housing, and it does not take them long to find 'our' apartment. In no uncertain terms we are told that we must vacate our temporary home. We are back on the streets again and totally dependent upon the kindness of different people to let us stay with them for a night, or two or three.

It takes time to get used to 'freedom' again. It is not possible to forget the years of danger and deprivation in a matter of hours, yet I soon begin to feel that I am regaining a measure of dignity and hope. I write in my diary: 'The grass is greener, the flowers are more beautiful and the sky is bluer than ever before.'

We had hoped that the Russians would treat us well, but that was not to be. We soon realize that in their eyes we, the Jews, could only have survived by participating in high treason or cooperating with the Germans. They are not interested in what we have to say, and a wrong word or simply a defiant look was enough to cause some of our fellow Jews to be severely punished. The Russians' official attitude towards the Jews is not one of trust but one of suspicion.

When we were liberated we had only a vague idea of what was happening out west and of the killing grounds of Germany. Later we found out the full extent of the horror of the death camps. Europe was still occupied, but we knew that Germany had basically lost the war. The Soviet army was pushing ahead, but the Germans were resisting and fierce battles raged on all fronts. For the Russians it was all a matter of winning the war, no matter how many lives were lost. To celebrate their victories, young Russian men and women danced in the streets, playing the accordion and singing. Once the different towns were occupied by the Soviet army, schools were reopened and the Soviet administration took over.

In the meantime we are still looking for a place to live, while we spend the night wherever we can. I decide to visit a nun with whom I worked at one time. Perhaps she has an old bed or a mattress that she can give us. She is back in the convent, but she is not willing to extend a helping hand. It strikes me as strange that the nuns are so noisy, but it was actually I who was used to whispering, and only by comparison do their voices sound so loud.

Before we went into hiding we gave a few items to some of our neighbors for safekeeping. For the most part they are returned to us, but when they are not, we do not argue. Food is scarce and I try to improve the situation by looking up a few acquaintances, in the hope that they are willing to give me some potatoes or cabbage or whatever ever else they grow in their gardens.

We meet other people who have been in hiding, and exchange stories of our experiences. Before we know it, and although we still have not found a permanent home, our life assumes a measure of 'normalcy.' My sister goes to school. One of her teachers remembers her from before. During class one day she asks a question, my sister picks up her hand, but the teacher rebuffs her: 'I do not want a Jewess to respond.' Nothing seems to have changed. Anti-Semitism is still rampant. Even that is 'normal.' We attend a gymnastics performance at my sister's school and my parents meet friends for coffee, all of which indicates a slow return to the kind of life they remembered. The conversations between my parents and their friends often concern their relatives who have disappeared and who they hope will now return.

Eventually we found an apartment, and felt more settled. My father returned to work for the same company he worked for before the war. I myself was impatient to resume my education and left Borislaw for Lemberg (Lwow), determined to go back to school. We had many relatives living in Lwow, but when I looked for them no one was alive. Out of curiosity I visited a flea market on my rounds in the city, although I had no money. What could the vendors possibly offer for sale? I realized later that the clothes they displayed had belonged to the murdered Jews of Lwow. The first Polish merchant I met asked me in a rough voice: 'And where were you hiding?'

Before leaving Boryslaw I had been given the address of a married couple, Fred and Lidia, who were living in an apartment in Lwow. The owner of this apartment, an opera singer called Stefa, had been hiding this couple for several months. Fred was a doctor and had been accompanying transports of wounded Russian soldiers back to the Soviet Union. Now he and Lidia were going to leave for the newly established Polish government in Lublin, and Stefa agreed to let me stay at her apartment in their place. However, since I had nowhere else to go, I was able to move in immediately.

A few days before Fred and Lidia's departure a Russian officer appeared at the gate late at night, insisting that he had moved to this apartment building that morning. Fred explained to him that, due to the curfew that was in effect at 7 p.m., the janitor who lived next door had locked the gate from the outside. But to appease the Russian Fred looked for the key everywhere, however, to no avail. When he told him that he was a Polish officer, and he could not do anything to help him, the Russian pulled out his gun and shot Fred. We all heard the shot. Fred was able to run a few steps and then collapsed in the very apartment, in which his life had been saved. Fred's death was tragic, the more so because he had survived the German occupation, only to die at the 'liberators' hands. He and Lidia had been the only survivors in their families. For Lidia this was a horrible blow, but she had to leave Lwow as planned, her husband in a coffin. I remained in the apartment. In time I came to realize that the perpetrator of this crime would never be brought to justice.

I did not lose any time going to the university, where I visited its different departments. One of the professors asked me: 'How will you manage?' 'Manage?' I wanted to make sure that had I heard right. After all we had been through, I knew in my heart that, in future, I would be able to manage anything and overcome any obstacle. I had decided to study agricultural engineering, not because I was particularly interested in this subject, but because Palestine especially needed people with this type of education. Among the survivors going to Palestine was always a distant possibility.

At the university I never divulge my past and never tell anyone that I am Jewish. I meet Russian students, who are resettled in Poland, some Jewish students among them. They are afraid to talk and whisper sometimes that, where they come from there is hunger and extreme poverty. On one occasion one of the students opens his coat and we see that he wears nothing underneath.

On a one-week school break I returned to Boryslaw to visit my family. My mother asked me to stay an extra week, which I did, but not without consequences. When I returned to Lwow I was called in to the office of the Secret Police and questioned about the extra week I stayed. I realized then that my movements were watched and that one of the students was spying for the Russians. Fortunately I had a legitimate excuse. Due to floods in the region, some of the bridges could not be crossed for a while, which I claimed had been the reason for my delay. This explanation was accepted, although it was not true of course.

The university was often invaded by the Secret Police, mainly to check the students' documents. Arrests were not uncommon, especially among the former members of the Polish underground. One of my colleagues asked my landlady why I did not go to church on Sunday. They obviously suspected my origins.

I still feel threatened, and that danger is ever present. Because I am so insecure I imagine that my safety depends on others and that I must, therefore, ingratiate myself by offering my services. For instance I asked the head of the student council if I could get him a loaf of bread while standing in line anyhow. Eventually I come to dislike the kind of servility that I have adopted, and do my best to overcome it, although it would take time.

Nevertheless my life is changing for the better. I am happy to be in a big city and take advantage of what it offers in terms of opera, theatre etc. My first time at the movies turns out to be a scary experience. How do I conduct myself? Do I look at the screen? But by the end of the performance I realize that this is a truly enjoyable pastime. I also study hard to make up for lost time and am happy in the knowledge that I am making progress day by day.

In the meantime my parents decide to leave Boryslaw for Krakow, as does most of the remaining Jewish community of the town. The situation under the Russian occupation had become quite intolerable, so once again they pack their belongings and move on. I will follow them after I finish my first year of university.

The Soviet army occupies more and more of Poland and by the winter of 1945 almost the whole country is in Russian hands. Finally, in May 1945 the war is over. However, for the Jewish communities in Poland and elsewhere in Europe there is no rejoicing. Too many lives have been lost, and we do not even know the extent of the catastrophe yet. Then suddenly the whole world is on the move. Former concentration camp prisoners go east trying to locate relatives and friends, and from the east people go west - anywhere.

My parents had in the meantime arrived in Krakow, and I followed them as soon as I could. My sister waited for me at the railroad station and I have never forgotten one of the first things she said to me: 'Every afternoon I eat a white roll with butter and have a cup of cocoa.' I answered incredulously: 'I cannot believe it.'

Krakow is a beautiful city, totally untouched by the war. As the city is full of refugees, it is very difficult to find apartments and we sleep in horrible places, but now at least there is hope and we know it is only temporary. My father is working for the head office of his old company, so we are among the lucky ones who have an income. My mother buys whatever she can from Russians who travel from west to east and steal whatever they can on the way. Sometimes it is a bar of soap, sometimes a bundle of cloths that may or may not be rags, etc., but compared to most others we are comfortable.

People return from the camps in their striped prison uniforms and shoes that do not fit. Most of them are emaciated - skeleton like - with short-cropped hair and pale faces. My heart goes out to them, they make me want to cry. We know quite a few of the survivors, and they have somehow found out that we are alive and that our family is intact - a miracle. My mother becomes a surrogate mother for many of the young people who lost their families and are now all alone in the world. When they knock at our door, she is always ready to help in whatever way she can.

The newly established Jewish Historical Institute located in every large city where survivors return, not only arrange for their immediate care, but make sure that their testimonies are recorded. Jewish American Organizations like the JOINT and UNRRA as well as individuals in the United States do their best to help the survivors. Total strangers send money and parcels. Once again we are among the lucky ones, as we get help from relatives in Canada and in the United States. Their parcels contain useful articles - clothing and food.

Hardly anybody returns to the small villages in Poland for fear of being killed before even looking for their loved ones and their belongings. There is a major pogrom in the town of Kielce, where 40 survivors are killed, accused of blood libel. This is a signal that the Jews have no choice - whoever can must leave Poland.

My parents never returned to Warsaw, because the city had been totally destroyed by the Germans, but my sister and I did, to attend the unveiling of a monument on the site of the former Ghetto. Survivors from everywhere participated in this ceremony, including people who had come from Israel to look for their loved ones. We marched with thousands of other people through the streets of the city, waving Zionist flags and singing songs. It was an incredibly moving experience. Among those watching us were German soldiers clearing the rubble on both sides of the streets.

While the Jews are planning their departure from Poland, I am continuing my studies at Yagellonian University, and my sister is in her last year of high school. There are always reminders that we live in a country where we are not wanted. The principal of my sister's school, a woman, insists that my sister comply with the Christian religion, and when she refuses, she makes her life miserable. In a restaurant, one evening, when some of us begin to dance the 'Hora,' we are told to stop because this is a national dance and cannot be tolerated.

A Jewish Student Association, consisting of a variety of factions, such as Zionists from the 'left,' 'right' and 'center,' as well as Socialist groups, has been established at the university. There is constant bickering among the different groups, the main topic of discussion being whether we should stay in Poland or leave the country for good. The only thing that can unite us is planning and organizing a party.

We know people who are lucky and are able to leave for America. They share their first impressions with us, and tell us with pride that their pictures appeared in the local newspapers. In the beginning, when only a few received their visas they were a novelty in their new country. They would describe how happy they were and how good life was in America, when in fact most of them had to struggle to make ends meet. We have made contact with my mother's sister, who is now in Canada and has engaged a lawyer to arrange for our visas.

While we were waiting to emigrate I was in my last year of university. Despite all our problems, our existence was fairly pleasant, albeit influenced by our apprehension of our upcoming departure for a new country.

It was very difficult to emigrate to the States, because of an existing quota system, and for many their main destination was now Palestine. The Haganah sent representatives to Poland to recruit the Jewish youth for its organization and to encourage them to go to Palestine illegally. Many availed themselves of this opportunity and left. They ultimately fought in the War of Independence, where a great number lost their lives.

The bureaucracy in Poland is terrible, and the officials fight us every step of the way in our preparations to emigrate. They request endless lists of things that we are planning to take out of the country, down to the last book. This too is becoming a war of nerves.

The most difficult part of leaving Poland was saying goodbye to friends. My parents and their parents before them had been living there all their lives, and even for my sister and me it was a difficult time. When we were finally ready to leave, I can recall that friends, who came to the railway station to see us off, had mixed feelings. On one hand they were happy for us, on the other hand they were jealous. But we actually met many of them again, some of whom I am still in touch with. I never returned to Poland, because I could not bear to be there without the friends I lost during the war. Both my parents visited Poland again. My father was a witness at one of the trials of a former Gestapo in Boryslaw.

On our way to Canada we went to Prague and to Paris where we spent a few weeks. Coincidentally a friend of the family was in Paris on his way to Australia. He stayed at the same hotel as we, and he helped us get around in the city that was completely strange to us. We visited all the important sites, and because it was Passover I was sent to the Joint Committee to get Matzo. To my big surprise the young man who distributed the Matzo was an old childhood friend. Needless to say, we were happy to see each other and could not stop reminiscing and talking about our past. So much had happened, since we last saw each other. A few weeks later we left for Le Havre, and boarded the 'Samaria,' together with a few other Jewish refugees. Many Polish workers were on board, immigrating to Canada like us. They greeted us with a sarcastic 'here are our Polish Jews.' Among the workers was an old school friend of mine. As I had no desire to reestablish our relationship, we made some casual conversation and parted.

The voyage was for the most part very pleasant. The sea was calm, no one got seasick, and after about two weeks we arrived in Quebec City, where we were reunited with my aunt.

We were safe at last.

MONTREAL

From Quebec City we traveled to Montreal, which was our destination. We stayed with my aunt Maria and my uncle Szymon (Simon) in their apartment on Queen Mary Rd. That first week was like a dream. Smells, sights and sounds were different and strange, and the comfort of our new surroundings calmed our frayed nerves. My aunt and her family were extremely loving, trying to make our transition as easy and pleasant as possible.

In Poland my uncle had been a wealthy man, the equivalent of a CEO of a company manufacturing and wholesaling plumbing supply, in fact the very company my father had worked for all these years. Even before the war my uncle had visited Canada, but had decided then that this country was not to his liking. However, I believe that he even at that time invested some money in Canada, just in case. At the beginning of the Second World War he and his family left for Palestine and from there they emigrated to Canada - after all.

In 1949, when we arrived my aunt and uncle were already settled in Montreal. My uncle had opened the same type of business in Prescott, Ont. as the one he had been in charge of in Poland, and in time it became a financial success. My aunt spent her time socializing among the German and Polish immigrants, who had arrived in Canada before and after the war.

That first week many people called to invite us, they were curious to see what we looked like. Although many of my aunt's acquaintances claimed that they were interested in finding out how we had survived the war, it turned out that this was not really so, and therefore we never brought up the subject. However, my mother would tell my aunt, that we had gone through hell and that, when my father and I left for work, she would never know if she would see any of us again. For a very long time I was equally reluctant to speak of our past.

Among my aunt's friends, there were those that we were sure would help us but never did, and others who surprised us and did.

After the first week's 'honeymoon' we started looking for work. My sister and I hardly spoke or understood any English, as we had only studied French in school. However, my father's knowledge of English was good, so he was in a better position to find suitable work. My first job was in a pharmaceutical company, counting pills. Here everyone spoke French, albeit a dialect that sounded strange to me and I did not understand. At the end of the first day someone told me that now I had to sweep the floor, which turned out to be a daily routine. But I could not afford to be choosy, and this job brought in $18.00 a week. Ultimately, through connections, I received a phone call. A position for a lab technician at the Allan Memorial Institute was available. Did I want to come for an interview? I realized that this might be the opportunity I had waited for and responded immediately. I was hired by Dr. Bernard Grad, who would be my protector and mentor during the coming 2-3 years that I worked at Allan Memorial. In fact, we developed a lasting friendship and I am still in touch with him and his wife.

My father became a bookkeeper in a construction company through a friend from Warsaw, my sister went to work in the office of Frost Pharmaceuticals, and my mother crocheted at home, which earned her some pocket money.

Once everybody was working we moved from my aunt's apartment into our own on Monkland Ave. Soon we began to enjoy a normal life in our adopted country. My parents developed new friendships, mainly among the Polish immigrants. Their life-style remained European, meeting for coffee on free afternoons and visiting each other in their homes. Lake Placid became their favorite vacation spot, and in time they went for a visit to Poland, to Israel, and even to Florida.

As for me, I too socialized mostly with other immigrants. But two years after we arrived in Canada that would all change. I met my future husband Ben, who was Canadian born, and through him I would meet young people with a totally different background than my own. In the beginning I felt intimidated among Ben's friends, always aware of being a stranger in their midst. My English was still poor, and I carried with me a Polish-English dictionary wherever I went. However, in Ben's company I was soon very comfortable, because he always accepted me for what I was and never considered me different just because I was born in Poland. Six months after we met we were married.

My children were born, 2 boys and 1girl, the girl being the middle child. As a mother of three young children I thought it imperative that I stay at home with them. I spent the next 10 years as a full time mother, but began to prepare myself for the future by taking courses in education. When the youngest child was school age, I was hired by the Protestant School Board as a Special Education teacher. The school was located in the Department of Child Psychiatry at the Jewish General Hospital. While working there I returned to McGill University for my Master's Degree and continued teaching until the age of 71.

In my busy and fast moving life there was not much time to deal with the past. However, if, during those years, I happened to meet someone, who was genuinely interested and really wanted to know about my past, I would tell this person things I had not thought about in quite some time.

And finally when I retired and wondered what to do with my free time, the Holocaust Center came to mind. I had come full circle - I had to go back.