PROLOGUE

It is now the year 2000. The new Millennium brought my 65th birthday. My life moves in front of me like coloured fragments in a kaleidoscope. I am taking stock of all that has happened and the burdens that I still carry within me. It all began with my grandparents, Frida and Eli Milbauer, who wrapped me in their unconditional love, respect and devotion. They taught me the meaning of a close and caring family. In their love I felt secure and developed a sense of self. All of their values live in me and I hope I have passed them on to my own family. I can see the continuity of what my grandparents gave me moving through the generations to my grandchildren. I treasure my own meaningful family relationships which only grow and strengthen through the happy and sad times. I can see clearly how our childhood years leave an indelible impression on our adult lives. I now realize how our gypsy neighbours in Turka have influenced and enriched my life. My love of their music, their joyful dancing, and colourful costumes have impacted on the things that have always given me pleasure in my adult life. Nothing feels better to me than sitting around a campfire, all of my family with me as we sing our favourite songs.

Of course, the war has left deep scars. My happy childhood, my home, my loved ones - all gone. The impact of these events can never be erased. One of the saddest effects of the war on me has been, strangely, my reaction to the beautiful image and meaning of the Star of David. Being in the Ghetto, witnessing how the Nazis forced the Jews to wear the Star as an identification of those that deserved to be murdered, has made me shy away from this symbol. When we escaped from the Ghetto and ripped the yellow arm bands emblazoned with a blue star from our arms, I swore I would never wear this symbol again. I could not even bring myself to allow my children and grandchildren to wear what should be a wonderful and proud symbol of their Jewishness. For so many Jews, the Star is the essence of who they are as a people. But not for me.

ONE: A VISION

Like vignettes. Small pieces of memory running frantically. Like butterflies in a field - I am caught as they dance around my body.

Flapping wings and colours so wild - I am tempted to try and keep them. Just for me.

What I knew as truth, I now know was not.

The space between waking and dreaming is fragile.

No one ever told me.

No one ever told me that it was her.

That my mother’s name was Nelly.

TWO: THE FAMILY FARM IN TURKA

Preparing her things for baking bread she would call out to me, “Rachel, please come here, I need your help. You know you make the best Challah.” Excitedly I would run to her calling out, “Bubbie, I’m coming. Please wait for me.”

She had ordered little baking forms of different shapes from the tinsmith that were only for my use. She would give me a piece of dough and I would put them into my little tins so that my bread would come out in all shapes. At the dinner table along with her own breads, she would serve my little baked goods and praise my abilities. Smilingly, she would say, “It was Rachel who baked this. See how great it tastes.”

Then Zeyde Eli would make the blessing over the Challah and divide it into little pieces for everyone. Each member of my family would take a bite and call out, “Rachel, are you sure you baked this? It is so delicious.” I could hardly wait for next week to come so we could do it again.

Our farm was large with many acres of corn and tobacco fields, grain, potatoes, sunflower and poppy seeds. When the poppy seeds were dry and ready to crack, I would crush the seeds in my palms and eat them out of my hand. I would braid the corn silk and pretend that it was hair. Soft and golden in my small hands.

The farm my family owned was in the village of Turka, fourteen kilometers from the city of Kolomyja in the southeastern section of Poland, then called Galicja. Kolomyja, located near the Carpathian Mountains, hugged the banks of the Prut River and was surrounded by villages and vacation resorts. The fresh air and picturesque location made it ideal for picnics on the banks of the river. The sound of young vacationers, their laughter and song rang through the air and often lulled me to sleep.

Turka, a farming community, was home to Poles, Ukrainians and close to thirty Jewish families. Everyone worked their own land and when needed, helped one another. There was a church and a synagogue.

My grandmother, Frida, was tall and slender. She had curly blond hair, which she kept covered with a scarf. Her beautiful face was round with a small straight nose and big blue eyes. On the large, busy farm, she had most of the responsibilities. She took care of her animals - cows, goats, chickens, ducks, turkeys, and work horses. She had a reputation with the surrounding farmers as a healer and they would often call on her for help with their animals. If a chicken had problems laying an egg, Frida would make a small incision for the egg to pass through which she would later stitch up. When a horse was in labour, she would help deliver the new colt. Nothing was too difficult for her, and although we had hired help, she enjoyed the work and took pride in her farm. With the gooseberries, currants, raspberries, and many varieties of tea roses that grew behind the house she would make compotes and syrups. I can still taste the syrups she made - that we drank with cold water in summer or in hot tea when it was cold.

There was also an orchard with eighty fruit trees, which was a spectacular sight, particularly in the springtime when the trees were in full, fragrant blossom. Near the front of the property was our deep, water well. Two pails hung from a chain at the well. When the handle was turned one pail went down empty and the other pail came up full of water. When I was little, I was fascinated by the well and with my own reflection in it. When no one was around to see me I would hold on to the ledge with my hands and look down into the water to see myself.

Our house was a simple, wooden structure with a straw roof. At the entrance of the house was a small hallway where Bobby, our pet German Shepherd, loved to sleep during rainy and cold days. To the right of the entrance hall was a big room that functioned as our kitchen, dining, living, entertaining, and sleeping room. Everything happened in this room. The house was always full of family, friends, and neighbours who gathered in the evenings to talk and sing.

The living room faced the front of the property and had two huge windows. Under one window there stood a long wooden bench. In front of the bench sat our large wooden dining table. It had two drawers, one for dairy and one for meat cutlery. Eight wooden chairs surrounded the table, each belonging to a particular family member. On weekdays everyone ate at different times, and my grandmother would cook everyone their favourite dishes. I particularly remember my uncle Velvel sitting at the table at dinner time with his newspaper spread out in front of him - often forgetting to eat his food.

On Friday evenings, Shabbat, and holidays, however, the family gathered and ate together. My grandmother would do her baking on Thursdays so she could be ready. I can still hear the sounds of everyone sitting together at the table, talking, joking, and singing beautiful Yiddish songs.

My grandfather, Eli, bought this farm just before his marriage to my grandmother, Frida Bajzer and it was here that their three sons were born. My father, Israel, the eldest, was born in 1907. His brother Wolf, whom we called Velvel, was born three years later, and Yoshua, the youngest, whom we called Shiko, was born in 1912.

My grandfather, Eli, was of medium build, had dark brown hair, a long beard and a moustache. As an Orthodox Jew, he always wore a long black coat, black pants, and a white shirt; his head covered with a hat. Most days he spent sitting at the table studying the Torah. Even though he owned a large farm and loved woodworking, his greatest pleasure was in studying the Torah - where he believed all wisdom began.

He was a Cohen, which in Judaism means a High Priest and carries with it great honour which is not acquired but inherited. He was very proud of this inheritance and therefore felt that he had certain obligations to the congregation and to the Jewish community. He pronounced special benedictions on festivals, carried out symbolic redemptions of the first born sons on the 31st day after birth, called Pidyon Haben, and received precedence at functions such as the reading of the Torah. He was known in the village as a scholar and people often turned to him with great respect for his opinion and advice.

But I remember him best as a warm and soft-spoken man. I never heard a cross word spoken between my grandmother and himself. I can see him now as he looked when he took a break from his reading and rested. Sitting back in his chair, he would light up his pipe and smoke - lost in thought. Once in a while he would call me to study with him. I would rush to sit on his lap and eagerly await his words. He loved to teach me the Hebrew alphabet, and at three years of age I had mastered all the letters. When anyone would come into the room he would call out, “Please, come here and listen to how beautifully Chai Rachel is reading Hebrew letters.”

Happily and with pride I would recite them, knowing that I was pleasing my Zeyde. I knew that after my lesson he would let me sit on his lap and braid his beard.

THREE: UNCLES SHIKO AND VELVEL

Uncle Shiko, the youngest son, had beautiful, thick brown, wavy hair and wore it combed up over his forehead. His face was oval and he had soft warm brown eyes. Shiko did not enjoy farming, so he opened a small store in the village selling household items such as matches, flour, candles, and thread. Every morning he would pin his wide pant legs so they would not get caught in the wheel of his bicycle and away he would go to open his store which stood at the other end of the village.

Uncle Velvel was my favourite and I was his. He would take me for strolls and proudly show me off to the village. He always brought me gifts. But most of all I loved the clothes he bought for me. He would always tell me, “Rachel, I will always take care of you and buy you nice clothes, even when you will be a grown up lady.” I would hug him with all of my strength and say, “Uncle Velvel, I love you the most.”

Often, Velvel would bring out his precious violin and play a melody for me. He let me hold the bow and move it over the strings while he played the melody with his fingers. “Little Rachel,” he would say, “when you will get a little older I will teach you to play the violin and one day this violin will be yours. How proud I will be of you when I will listen to your music just like you are listening to my music now.”

Velvel, like his brothers, was slim and of medium height. He had an oval face, as well, with big, warm brown eyes, and a dimple in his chin. He also wore his thick, black wavy hair combed up away from his forehead. He had been playing the violin since the age of ten and had a wonderful, strong singing voice. Velvel would often play at weddings and other occasions in Turka and the surrounding villages.

Velvel also developed an interest in weaving rugs called Kilims. These beautiful rugs were made of wool he spun and dyed himself in shades of black, green, red, white and rust. After the wool was dry, he wove it on a special rug-weaving machine that allowed him to design his own patterns. The Kilim rugs he created were reversible and made in different sizes so they could be hung on the wall for decoration or used as bed and table covers. When he would finish a project he liked to show it to my mother and ask her opinion. He felt she had great taste in colour and design. My grandmother was very proud of Velvel and she would help him spin the wool on the spinning wheel. Together they would work and she would often just smile and say, “Oh, my Velvel is so talented. Look what a great job he is doing.”

Velvel became quite well known for these rugs and his interest soon turned into his occupation. He would travel often to Warsaw where his work was in great demand and there he rented a room for himself and established a second home.

It was in Warsaw that he met and fell in love with a girl named Nelly. She was very beautiful and had long blond braids, a petite figure, and very delicate features. I have only seen her in a photograph.

FOUR: MOTHER’S FAMILY

I slept with my grandmother in her big double bed. It stood at one end of the big room near the big brick wood-burning stove in the corner, which also had an oven for baking bread. Above her bed there was a small window looking over the yard and when it rained and I was forced to stay inside, my favourite spot to sit was on Bubbie’s bed where I would look out through the small window and watch the raindrops run off the peonies’ deep red petals.

It was my grandmother's job to keep the house clean and orderly. Taking care of this house was not an easy task. The straw mattresses would regularly need filling and it was my grandmother who would add straw to maintain them. The clay floor had to be swept several times a day. I can see my grandmother sprinkling the floor with water to keep the dust down before sweeping - the tin pail and cup she used for this purpose always standing ready near the entrance of the large room. The laundry was done in the stream and it was, of course, my grandmother’s job. I would often go with her and watch as she soaped the clothes and knocked them against large stones on the side of the shore - rinsing each item in the crystal clear water.

Of all three brothers, my father was the only one who loved to farm. He planted and maintained the orchard, growing extraordinary apple trees, as well as pears, which were my uncle Shiko’s favourite, and sour cherries, my mother’s favourite. His special project, however, was beekeeping and the abundant honey from his beehives was enjoyed by our family and sold in the area. Alone, my father took care of the beehives. No one else in the family would go near the bees but he, cigarette in mouth, handled them without mask or gloves, fearlessly.

When my father wasn’t working in the orchards, he loved to do things around the house. I remember my mother proudly telling the story of the special lamp he created, using batteries, which lit the house much better than the kerosene lamp.

“It was before Passover in 1935, just before you entered our lives, ”she would tell me, smilingly. “Your grandmother was so busy with the spring cleaning, painting the walls of the house inside and outside. Your father was always getting in her way, constantly trying to connect the batteries, which finally he did and the lamp became an excellent source of light for us.”

I loved to hear stories of how wonderful my father was and in the evenings I would sit by his lit lamp, shutting my eyes tightly to see if the smallest streak of light could get inside my closed eyelids.

With his slender build, big blue eyes, and dark blond hair, my father was a very handsome man. When my mother, Sara, and he first met in Turka they were both thirteen years old and they fell instantly in love. The courtship, which lasted eight years, culminated in their marriage on November 5, 1928 when they were both twenty-one years old. After their marriage, my mother moved to the Milbauer farm to live with her new husband and his family.

My mother was not born in Turka. She came from Stanislawow, a neighbouring city, and her early childhood had been tragic and traumatic. Her father, Izydor Weisman, died of diabetes at the age of twenty-six leaving behind his young wife, Judith Zweig and two small daughters, Sara age six and Miriam age three. Judith, who came from a very wealthy and prominent family had an older brother, Leo Zweig, who took on the care of the older child, my mother, Sara. He arranged for her to go to a Jewish boarding school, the Baron Hirsch School, in Ahlen, Hannover, Germany.

Sara was an excellent student. She became fluent in German and admired German literature, culture and lifestyle. Her musical ability soon brought her into the choir and she sang second voice, alto. All of her time was spent in the boarding school, not even wanting to go home for summer vacations.

In the meantime, Judith was raising Miriam all alone, and although she was financially secure and did not need to work, it was very difficult for her emotionally. She struggled with her loneliness and her friends began to encourage her to accept matchmaking proposals. At first she refused to meet men, but eventually she felt that she needed a companion. At last she met her future husband, Aaron Blaufeld. He was an older widower from the village of Turka and he was raising seven children of his own, six sons and one daughter. Her family strongly disapproved of the match. They were concerned about Aaron’s advanced age, the responsibilities Judith would be taking on in raising his children and they did not like the fact that she would have to move to Turka. However, Judith was determined and agreed to marry Aaron and to move, for the first time in her life, to a farm. Once Judith was married, her brother Leo no longer felt responsible to support Sara in Germany. Before she had the opportunity to graduate from high school, my mother was forced to leave her beloved school in Germany and return to Poland at once.

FIVE: I WAS BORN IN 1935

After my parents’ marriage an additional room was built for them onto the living room of the Milbauer farm. Here, after the turmoil of her young life, Sara was happy. She had a loving husband who couldn't do enough for her and surprised her by making a pond for her in front of the barn and stable, a narrow path leading from it to the barn. He stocked the pond with carp, her favourite fish. I remember well the wooden floor of their room, the door leading out onto a large porch overlooking the back garden, the antique white bedroom set where, over the bed, hung a colourful Kilim Velvel had made for them, and the red wooden antique hope chest that stood at the foot of the bed.

However, Sara’s first four pregnancies all ended tragically with the death of the babies shortly after birth. It was not until April 24, 1935, when I was born, that they had a child that survived. I was named Rachel and given the middle name Chai - for life.

I adored living on the farm and was in heaven running in the spreading green meadows to pick flowers. My favourite flowers were little pink and purple ones and especially the royal blue cornflowers. Sometimes, my mother would bring a blanket and we would have a picnic and make wreaths of the flowers we picked for my hair.

I had a young colt who was trained to take me from the house to the fields. My Bubbie would feed him sugar cubes, put me on his back, and direct him into the fields. I held on to the colt, and when I arrived, my father or Vasil, our hired man, would pick me off. Vasil Olehrecky and his wife, Maria, both Ukrainians, worked on our farm. They were a young couple who had no land of their own and were very loyal, honest, and likeable people. My family treated them very well and in return they worked hard tending to the animals, maintaining the grounds around the house, and chopping firewood for the stove. They were always welcome to take home produce grown on our farm.

Bobby, our dog, was my constant companion. He and I went everywhere together. When I was tired I would sit on him like on my pony and he would happily carry me around. I used to say that when I grew up and went to school Bobby would carry my school bag for me. My grandmother would smile and say, “Little Rachel, you still have a long way to go and a lot of bread to eat before you can go to school.” I didn’t worry. As long as Bobby was beside me and let me hug him to my heart’s content all would be well. My life was blessed.

SIX: FARM LIFE

A few years before the outbreak of the war, my mother’s sister Miriam, whom we called Aunt Mina, married her stepbrother, Moses Blaufeld. Their farm was on the other side of our village where there was a large concentration of Jewish families. Some of Moses’ siblings had died young, others had married and moved away so that Mina, Moses, and their daughter, Luci, who was one year younger than I, had the farm to themselves.

At the beginning of 1938, Mina and Sara's mother, Judith, whom we called Bubbie Yetta, became a widow for the second time, and she continued to live with Mina and her family on the farm.

My cousin, Luci, was shorter than I. She was chubby, and had black curly hair, which she wore pulled back into two short braids. Uncle Moses was often away on business and my mother and I would come to visit, usually staying overnight. Luci and I would sleep with Bubbie Yetta, while my mother slept with her sister, Mina, in the bedroom.

There was always plenty to occupy the two of us during the day. Usually, we were busy in the clover field at the back of the house where we spent whole days searching for and picking four leaf clovers. My favourite thing at their house, though, was Bubbie Yetta’s flower garden, where I was fascinated by all the flowers, particularly the Bleeding Hearts.

But, strange things always seemed to happen when we were at Luci’s house and my visits there became very stressful. Once Luci and I woke up in the morning shocked to find ourselves and our bed in the middle of the room. When Bubbie Yetta ran outside to talk to the neighbours we discovered there had been an earthquake in the middle of the night. Another time when we stayed over we discovered there had been burglars in the night and that they had stolen the laundry left hanging outside. Bubbie Yetta told us that this was the third time that it had happened.

“We must have enemies,” she said. “What do thieves look like?” I asked. “They have huge eyes and long hands,” she informed me, opening her eyes wide and stretching her arms towards me. In my four year old mind I imagined a strange monster-like creature that was stealing clothes and could even eat people. That worried and frightened me.

SEVEN: HOOLIGANS

In the summer of 1939, the adults around me began to seem busy and preoccupied. There had already been talk of Hitler and the coming war. But, as always, my mother and I still went to visit at Luci’s house. As usual, when we arrived Luci was very happy to see me and we continued to play together, singing and dancing all day long. One morning, on one of our visits, we were all awakened by a very loud knocking at the door and the sound of shattering glass. We jumped out of bed, dressed quickly, trying to be very quiet. Bubbie Yetta secured the front and back door locks while my Aunt Mina made sure that the shutters on the windows were tightly closed. My mother and aunt moved the big bed away from the window into the middle of the room and all of us, three women and two small children, crawled under the bed. We stayed there for a long time but the noise of the shattering glass, as rocks were being thrown through the windows, did not stop. From outside the door we could hear them screaming loudly, “Come out, you dirty Jews, come out right now.”

Finally, Mina whispered, “Let’s run to the fields through the backyard since all the noise seems to be coming from the front.” Bubbie Yetta said that we should all run and that she would stay at home as a decoy. She thought that if the terrorizers would break down the door and find an old woman, they would not go running off to look for the others. She would not be deterred, repeating that she was not afraid and would not go with us. There was no time to argue. My mother took me in her arms, Mina took Luci and we ran out the back door .

In our hurry to escape we had not thought of putting on our shoes. After we passed the clover field where the grass reached my knees, my mother put me down so she could run faster and dragged me along beside her, holding my hand. We ran through cornfields, wheat fields and fields of stubble where we cut our feet so badly they were bleeding. Our feet were extremely painful and Luci and I were crying desperately. It was hot and the sun was beating down on us. We were thirsty and hungry, and our legs were swollen and covered with blisters and blood.

My aunt Mina continued to carry Luci in her arms, while my mother dragged me alongside her. She explained to me later that I was bigger than Luci and that she was very tired, but for the first time in my life I felt somehow separated from my mother. Unprotected. A burden.

We run for several hours, finally settling down in the fields to hide and stayed there until evening when it seemed safe to return. The pain in our feet and bodies was unbearable. Everything seemed quiet when we came home and carefully we went inside. When my Bubbie saw us she jumped up in joy. “Where have you been for so long? I was so worried about you all.”

Tearfully, while treating our wounded feet and feeding us warm soup, she explained that shortly after we left the house, the noise subsided and very disappointed at have missed an opportunity to do some serious damage, the hoodlums had left. Before we fell asleep in her bed that night, we hugged and kissed our Bubbie. Safe again.

EIGHT: PLAYING WITH UKRAINIAN NEIGHBOURS

Our house faced the main road that ran from our village to the city of Kolomyja and stood at the foot of a mountain. In my eyes, at age three and four, our mountain looked huge and very steep, but in reality it was neither. Regularly I would climb the mountain to visit my friends, the three Mecios. Three Ukrainian families lived on the mountain and each family had a small son, all three were named Matthew, Mecio for short, and I loved to play with them, always speaking Ukrainian with them, even though I spoke only Yiddish at home.

My favourite Mecio was a year older than I and we spent most of our time together. His family lived the farthest to the right. In the middle house lived the Mecio who was younger than I, and at the far left lived the third Mecio. He was the eldest of the four of us and he rarely played with us. When the four of us played together, it was never for very long and something would always go wrong. Looking back now, I suppose I was lucky they consented to play with a girl at all.

Some days my favourite Mecio would come down to visit me and we would run in the fields all day. But most mornings I would climb our mountain to visit him. The main obstacle to my morning excursions were the turkeys my grandmother raised in the yard. The moment they would see me emerge from the house they would run straight towards me, their beaks aimed at my eyes. Always I would cover my eyes and scream. “Bubbie, Bubbie, come quick!” She would come running, chasing them away. “They run to you because of your red coat,” she would say. “Don’t worry, I will protect you.” And she would hold me close, hug and kiss me as I looked up into her eyes. “Go,” she would say, “bring your breakfast out and you can take it up to Mecio’s. You can both share it.”

Off I would go with my little wooden bowl filled with some sunflower seed oil and a chunk of rye bread. Despite the dirt that always seemed to cling to him and his constant runny nose, I loved my favourite Mecio and looked forward to our feasts together.

Winter was as much fun as summer. My Zeyde Eli made me a little toboggan and a small pair of skis. I would climb our mountain with my skis and hand one to Mecio. We would each sit on our ski and zoom down the mountain. Sometimes, I would tumble off at the bottom and my Bubbie, watching me from the window, would be out in a flash, running to pick me up. It was embarrassing to have her bound out of the house to rescue me while I was playing with my friend and I hated it.

She would carry me into the house and sit me down at the table. Being a very superstitious woman and always afraid something bad would happen to me, she would set about preparing her ritual of melting a little wax in a small pot and pouring it onto a plate to solidify so she could read my future. It always frightened me to see her doing this because I couldn't understand it.. “Bubbie,” I would ask, “what do you see in the wax. I don’t see anything.” Whispering, she would reply, “I see a little dog and a little house and I see you very happy.”

How was it possible that she could see such things? It had to be a miracle. "Why do you do that?" I would ask her. “I do this because I am afraid of the evil eye,” she continued. “I'm afraid something bad will happen to you.” I would become terrified and would cry, “Stop it, Bubbie, I am afraid of this. How can you see that if it is invisible?” At that point, seeing my terror she would give up her wax reading. I was more afraid of the little piece of wax than I was of falling down the mountain. My only way out was to try my best not to fall.

NINE: NOT WANTING TO EAT

I was a very bad eater and there were only two meals that I agreed to eat. Bubbie would give me a little bowl with homemade sunflower seed oil and I would dip her rye bread into the oil. Sometimes I would eat a slice of bread spread with butter, sprinkled with sugar. Bubbie tried everything to get me to eat and would involve me in preparing the meals. She often cooked beans of different kinds and asked me to help sort them out of the dirt before cooking. But, unfortunately, I was more interested in helping than in eating. Also, she would invite my friends, who were good eaters, for meals thinking that I would watch them, and by example, eat as well. It never worked.

My mother would become angry when I refused to drink milk from the goat we had on the farm. Bubbie would often give me chocolate with the goat’s milk and my mother would refuse to let me eat the chocolate if I didn’t drink the glass of milk with it. When she threatened to take the chocolate away, I would indignantly return the melting pieces to her, my hands covered in melted chocolate, and tell her angrily that I didn't want anything at all. That made her very angry and she would scold me for dirtying my embroidered blouse. Looking sternly at me, she would say, “You are as stubborn as a mule.” I would glare back at her, not liking the remark and wonder who was more stubborn, she who was forcing me to drink that awful white liquid, or me for not wanting it.

I did not realize then, nor did anyone else, that soon we would all be starving. Sooner than we knew, there would be no food for any of us.

TEN: THE RUSSIANS COME - WAR AND

THE Kolomyja GHETTO

In the fall of 1939, six months before my fifth birthday, the Russian army occupied our area of Poland. The war with Germany had already advanced into the western and central parts of Poland and soon the Russians began mobilizing young men into the army. My father was among those enlisted.

Everything at home changed when my father left. Even I was not allowed to be happy or to smile. Very often we would hear planes overhead and I would ask, “Is my Daddy in that plane?” “Oh, yes,” my Bubbie would answer and that would make me so proud. When I would play with my friends or Luci and a plane flew overhead, I would point to the sky and scream, “My Daddy is there. Quickly, look up.” I would talk to him in my mind and say, “Daddy, I miss you, come home.” It was a very difficult time for me and I often thought that I would never see my father again. Soon, I no longer had to be reminded to be sad and I told Luci she could not laugh until my father came home.

Very quickly, things began to deteriorate further. My Zeyde and my uncles were constantly involved in heated discussions. They had a very important decision to make. The Russians had promised to help and supply trucks to all those who wanted to escape further into Russia. My uncle Velvel tried to convince my Zeyde that we should go. “The Germans are moving quickly towards the east. Now is the time and this is the opportunity for us to move,” he would beg. But my Zeyde would not listen. “What? Are you both crazy? You want me to leave everything we possess and go away to - where?” He would wave his hand at them, signaling he was through with talk. "This war," he would conclude, "won’t last more than a few weeks at most.” His sons could not convince him, though they tried many times.

ELEVEN: MOTHER’S ARREST AND TORTURE IN JULY 1941

For some time we continued to live in our house. There still had been no word from my father. My Zeyde continued to teach me the Hebrew alphabet and never stopped hoping for better times. But there was no more talk of a speedy ending to the war and Zeyde kept praying. He would always say, “The world will not allow the destruction of innocent people and children. There is a God and He will take care of us. He will not let us down and we have to trust in Him.”

Our visits to Luci became rare and the stress at home grew by the day. The front line of the war was getting closer to us. Some of my family’s non-Jewish neighbours and friends had become distant and not as friendly. Anti-Semitism was felt everywhere. No one wanted to buy our farm goods and only our hired farm labourers, Vasil and Maria Olehrecky, remained with us. Others abandoned us for seemingly no reason at all. Our joyful home had turned into a house filled with sadness and fear. We kept our windows shut and our doors barred at all times.

When the Germans invaded Kolomyja, my mother, who was considered to be a very intelligent and knowledgeable person in our village, was working as the editor-in-chief at the newspaper in our area. There were a few other Jews and some Ukrainians working there with her. Working at the paper helped her cope with my father’s absence. The newspaper gave her access to first-hand news of the progression of the war and afforded her a sense of control over a life she felt crumbling beneath her. She continued to work at the paper even after all her other Jewish co-workers had fled on Russian trucks.

One day in July, 1941, my mother did not come home from work. When Shiko went to find out what had happened to her, the Germans told him that she was in custody, and that if she did not give up the names of the other Jewish employees who had worked at the newspaper and fled, they were going to kill her and her family. Shiko begged the Germans to let her go. He told them that she had a small child. They were not moved and he was lucky to escape the headquarters with his own life.

What they did not tell him and what we learned later from her was that the Gestapo, the secret German police, had already tortured her into unconsciousness. When she lost consciousness, they poured water on her to revive her and continued beating and interrogating her in hopes that she would betray her colleagues. Bleeding, and having lost several teeth, my mother still refused to speak. Finally, they threw her into a dark, mice-infested cellar.

We were frantic and frightened for my mother, who had become so fragile, thin, and weak. We all hoped that her excellent German would help her in convincing the Gestapo to let her go. But after three days had passed and she had still not returned home, Uncle Shiko prepared the horse and carriage, and took me to see my mother. When we arrived, they brought her up from the cellar. When I saw her, I began to scream uncontrollably. I could not recognize my own mother’s face.

There were two Ukrainian men, Nazi collaborators, whom my mother knew from before the war, present at the prison where my mother was being held. In a moment of what I suppose was remorse, one of them whispered something to the Gestapo. After a few moments one of the Germans shouted to my uncle, ”Take her and get out of here - for now!” I don’t know what the Ukrainians said, or why it affected the police, but they let my mother go. My mother always said that it was I who saved her life.

From that point on the Jews were continually persecuted, and by the fall of 1941, a Ghetto was established in the city of Kolomyja where all the Jews from the surrounding area would be held.

TWELVE: ROUND-UP TO THE Kolomyja

GHETTO, NOV. ‘41

The morning that we were forced to leave our home, our farm, and our animals, we woke to silence. We had locked the doors and windows securely the night before and Bobby, our dog, was sleeping outside. But Bobby was not barking that morning. And I never heard him bark or saw him again after that day. At the crack of dawn the Germans had surrounded our house and were waiting for us to get up. When Bubbie Frida stepped outside, her greatest fear became realized. “Get out, you filthy Jews.”

German police stood in our yard, pointing guns at us and shouting in German. My Bubbie, who knew a little German, asked if I could go up the mountain and say goodbye to my friend. Strangely, they agreed. My Bubbie whispered to me, “Stay up there. Don’t come back.” So I ran up the mountain to say goodbye and when I was ready to leave Mecio, his mother told me she would come down with me and ask permission to keep me with her family. The answer she got from the Germans was short and to the point. “No. Get out of here.” Hurriedly, my Bubbie put a few of her dresses into a small suitcase and we were chased out of our home, having to leave everything else behind.

As they were pushing us into the road, my Zeyde, who had remembered to take his prayer book, realized that he had forgotten his eye-glasses on the window sill. He started back to the house to get them. One of the Germans kicked him and he fell to the ground. As he lay on the dirt road, another German pulled as hard as he could at his beard. My Zeyde, moaning in pain, began to lose consciousness. With what appeared to me to be enjoyment, the German police continued to pull at each strand of my Zeyde’s beard. When they had pulled out almost all of his long beautiful beard, they cut with a knife what they could not pull out with their hands. I closed my eyes and hid myself between my mother and my Bubbie.

Hungry, thirsty, and stunned, we were ordered to walk in the direction of Kolomyja. As we stumbled toward the Ghetto, we were joined by other Jewish families. If anyone stepped out of line or tried to escape, they were immediately shot. My uncles took turns carrying me. By what seemed at the time to be a miracle, we all made it to the Ghetto alive. There, we were reunited with friends from the surrounding areas and with Aunt Mina and Luci. It was November, 1941. I was six years old.