THIRTEEN: REMEMBERING PAST PLEASURES

The Ghetto was established in the central part of the city that had been the farmers’ market where peasants from the surrounding villages used to gather to sell their goods. This particular area, and some of the surrounding houses, were ringed by a gate that separated it from the rest of the city. The non-Jewish families who lived there had been evacuated and given the vacant houses where the Jews used to lived. The Jewish families who lived inside the gated Ghetto remained in their homes and had to share their homes with Jews who were brought in from elsewhere.

The Gestapo, armed with rifles, stood at the gateway policing the Jews in the Ghetto. We were forced to wear yellow arm bands with embroidered blue Stars of David on them. There was a strict curfew and our shoes were taken away. Those who disobeyed were shot on the spot. For the first time in my life I knew what fear really was.

My family was lucky to have been placed together. Bubbie Yetta, Aunt Mina, Uncle Moses, Luci, my mother and I shared one little room along with close family friends from Turka, Baruch Ertenstreich, his wife and mother. The room the nine of us shared was dark except for one small window. We had only one small table, two chairs, an iron stove and wooden planks for beds. The rest of my family, Zeyde Eli, Bubbie Frida, Uncles Velvel and Shiko, was housed in the little room next to ours. They shared the room with Mendel Milbauer, Zeyde’s brother, Mendel’s wife and two daughters and a family friend from Turka, Dr. Neider.

My family, who had always been as familiar to me as I was to myself, became unrecognizable. The German police had torn away my Zeyde Eli’s beard, and shaved his head and moustache. My Bubbie Frida’s loving face had become sad and helpless. Her beautiful blue eyes were now always filled with tears and fear. As we all sat, day in and day out, in this dark, small room on plank beds, my safe and comfortable world began to disintegrate around me. Often I would try to escape and remember our life on the farm. My handsome Zeyde at home in Turka, reading the Torah, no concern for the outside world. Me, running around the farm without a care and full of joy. My Bubbie so busy, so full of life.

My thoughts flew back to our last day on the farm when the German police had surrounded our house and how my Bubbie’s first thought had been to save me. In German she had begged them to let me go up the mountain to say my good-byes. As I began to run she had shouted to me in Ukrainian so that the Germans would not understand to stay up there and not come back.

Sitting on my mother’s lap on the plank bed, I tried to sneak glances at her face. She looked so lonely and trapped, helpless and silent. Suddenly, in such a short time, she had aged, her cheeks sunken, her eyes filled with panic. When I asked her about my father, whether he was alive and if he would be able to find us, she tried to comfort me. “We have to pray for him,” she would say, “so that he will come and find us here.” As I held on to her and clutched at her arms I remembered how beautiful she had always looked to me.

Uncle Shiko spent most of his time pacing the floor, rubbing his hands together nervously and speaking in half sentences to Dr. Neider. He looked to me like a bird trapped in a cage.

Uncle Velvel, on the other hand, was quiet. Just like me. Most of the time when his eyes would meet mine he would tell me not to be frightened or worried. He assured me that I would survive it all. “A trace of us has to remain," he would whisper, "and you will be that one. You will make it.” It was Velvel’s words that made me feel safer. I trusted him.

Sometimes, late at night when I could not sleep, I would dream of the special times in Kolomyja. During celebrations and weddings, the townspeople, who had their own folk music, songs, dances and costumes, would wear their beautiful, traditional dress. They even had their own song and dance called Kolomyja which everyone knew and which was passed down from generation to generation. Girls, their heads adorned with fresh-flower wreaths and brightly coloured ribbons, were spectacular in their outfits of hand-embroidered blouses, vests, richly gathered skirts, and shiny bead necklaces. The men, dressed like the local mountain men called Hutzul, wore embroidered white shirts over their pants, bright hand-woven cloth belts around their waists, colourfully embroidered vests, and black cloth hats with showy feathers on one side. The special character of the city was so dear to me.

I dreamt of Jewish holidays like Sukkoth, all of us gathered in the Sukkah on my parents’ porch for meals. I loved the way the walls were decorated with leaves and branches and how I would watch all the countless stars in the sky from the roofless room. Even though I could hardly count to ten back then, I would count the stars over and over again. My Bubbie would dress me in a navy blue pleated skirt and white embroidered blouse and I was always the first one ready and sitting when it was time for dinner. I can still hear her voice. “Rachel, you are my life and my world. You are so good and so sweet and I love you.”

FOURTEEN: ROUND-UPS - KILLINGS - DEPORTATIONS

Life in the Ghetto was very difficult. Our living space quickly became permeated with horrible smells from trash and waste. The few clothes that we had were dirty and torn. We could not bathe. Our shoeless feet were soiled and swollen, covered with blisters.

Men and women who were young and strong were sent out of the Ghetto to do hard labour. Building and repairing roadways, some carrying large, heavy rocks and others cutting the large rocks into smaller pieces by hand. Their work was very hard and under the strict watchful eyes of the guards. Inside the Ghetto there was constant change with Jews arriving from the surrounding areas and others being sent away by train to concentration camps.

Each morning the Gestapo would round up the Jews in the Ghetto. Those who would be tortured and murdered that day were selected at random. The German police would rotate their selections daily, choosing either children of a certain age group, adults, the elderly or the ill and disabled. These murders were carried out in front of us, as we stood, horrified, and imagined ourselves in the place of those poor souls who had been selected. One never knew who would be the next. I was in constant fear for my family and for my own life.

During one particular roundup, I was inside with my Bubbie Yetta when we heard petrifying screams. We ran outside to witness the selection of that day. Six boys, Bar Mitzvah age, 13 years old, had been forced down on the ground in the shape of a Star of David. The Gestapo were cutting off their ears and noses. They had broken their fingers and poked their eyes out. Finally, their screams were silenced by bullets.

Breathless and trembling, I held on to Bubbie Yetta’s skirt. “Please stop it,” I prayed, “Somebody help us.” For weeks afterwards I waited in fear. Waited for my turn.

FIFTEEN: MEMORIES OF GYPSY NEIGHBOURS

Luci and I spent most of our time in the Ghetto collecting vegetable peels from the garbage. Our hunger was so great that potato and onion peels or any other rotten vegetables became a treasure. We would roll up our dresses and put the scraps of the day in our skirts. Bubbie Yetta would make soup out of our finds.

I forced myself to think about home, on the farm. The back of our property in Turka was on a slight hill at the bottom of which was a little stream which divided the meadow that stretched from our side of the property to the other. Over the stream, connecting the two sides of the meadow, was a small wooden foot-bridge. On the other side of the stream lived a family of Gypsies who had set up camp in tents.

The older Gypsy man had set up a blacksmith shop in an old neglected barn nearby and when my Zeyde Eli needed to have the horses’ shoes replaced he would take them to the Gyspy’s blacksmith shop. Zeyde would always invite me along, and I was glad to stop whatever I was doing and run to join him. I loved going to the Gypsy camp. I would watch the men hold the iron in the hot flames until it became red, knocking the iron with a big hammer to shape it into a horseshoe, and then finally, fitting the repaired shoe onto our horse. In exchange for the blacksmith work, Zeyde would give the Gypsy man eggs, chickens and other foods.

SIXTEEN: MOTHER TRANSLATES FOR THE GERMANS

It often felt as though chance and fate were playing a larger part in our survival than anything else. Some say that it is the will to live that allows those in danger to win but I am not sure. While some people were shot for seemingly no reason at all, others managed to escape such a fate. Why?

It was a bitterly cold morning in the winter of 1942 as I stood beside my mother in a roundup. Shivering with cold and fear we stood close together as two Gestapo moved in our direction. They stopped at a fair distance, called out my mother’s name and ordered her to step out of line and walk forward. I may have been little, but I knew what that meant. As she began to move, I quickly reached for her ice-cold hand and walked with her. I was six years old, and the thought of my mother dying alone was unimaginable.

Frantically, my mother tried to push me back, but I held on tight. We walked slowly and finally came to a stop. I closed my eyes. “How would it feel to die?” I wondered. “Would it be very painful?” “Where would the bullet hit us?”

As we approached, one of the Gestapo asked my mother if she could speak German. When she answered in German that she spoke fluently they ordered her to follow them. She asked to be allowed to bring her daughter along, and we followed the Germans to the Ghetto gate and beyond.

We came to a stop in front of Jacob’s house. Jacob was my mother’s cousin who had been a tailor of men’s clothing before the war. The Nazis had allowed him to stay in his home in Kolomyja, outside the Ghetto, so that he could sew uniforms for the Gestapo officers. Jacob, however, spoke only Polish and Yiddish. He had asked them to bring his cousin, Sara Milbauer, who could easily translate for him. My mother and I found ourselves living with Jacob. We were saved. For now.

Jacob had a large room with sewing machines and mannequins. He worked very hard and long hours to stay in the Nazi’s favour. My mother would sit beside Jacob helping him stitch by hand and translate for the Gestapo who came in frequently to try on their uniforms. They were pleased with my mother’s services. At night my mother and I slept in a bed in the workshop and Jacob slept in the kitchen.

As far as the Germans were concerned, it was only the three of us living in this house. But Jacob had made a hiding place in the kitchen under the wooden floor under his bed. In the daytime while he worked, his wife and two young sons hid under the floor. Late at night he would bring them out so that they could fill their lungs with air, have something to eat, and sleep on the floor in the kitchen. We were thankful. To have a place to sleep. Air to breathe. I was thankful to be safe and alive with my mother.

SEVENTEEN: MORE SHOOTINGS

Before my mother and I went to live with Jacob, my Bubbie Frida’s sister had a heart attack. When she passed away, much to our surprise, the Gestapo permitted us to hold a funeral for her in the Jewish cemetery. Along with some distant family members, under the paralyzing eyes of the Gestapo, my family walked slowly toward the spot we believed we would bury my Great Aunt.

Zeyde Eli was a Cohen and was, by Jewish law, not able to enter the cemetery. He stood near the fence and observed the funeral from afar. He was quite a distance from the mourners so he watched them walk slowly and could only see their lips moving but could hear no words. Lost in thought, saying the prayer for the dead under his breath, Zeyde noticed the mourners begin to dig graves. The Gestapo had commanded them to bury each other alive in the graves they had dug. Those who refused were shot to death on the spot where they stood.

“The graves were moving,” Zeyde Eli cried as he ran back to the Ghetto where Bubbie Yetta, my mother and I were waiting for them to return. “I watched my wife, my Frida, buried alive!” he wailed. Within a month of Frida’s death, my Zeyde Eli passed away.

EIGHTEEN: ROBBED BY HUNGARIAN POLICE

One night, as my mother and I slept, Jacob pulled his family out of the hiding place so they could sleep on the floor. Suddenly, there was a desperate knock at the door. Immediately, Jacob pushed his wife and sons back into their hiding place and pulled his bed over it. My mother ran to the window and jumped out, from the second floor to the ground. I was stunned and petrified. I heard loud men’s voices shouting in broken German, “Father! Mother! Write!” It did not make any sense to me or to Jacob. With great fear he went to the door and let the men in. There were three tall men dressed in black uniforms and they were pointing guns at us. They spread out through the workshop like wild animals. One of them came to my bed and began to stab the bed with a dagger. Another, pointed his gun at Jacob and pushed him into the kitchen. They kept repeating the sentence, “Father! Mother! Write!”They seemed to be speaking in broken German, but their native tongue was a mystery.

I was sure that they would kill us. Finally, Jacob opened a drawer in the kitchen cupboard and gave them some jewelry, money, and his wristwatch. They grabbed it all and rushed out. Jacob began to tell me that he thought they were Hungarian police who had come to rob us, that we had been very lucky, and that thankfully he had still found something that he could give them. Suddenly he stopped talking and looked around.

“Where is your mother?” he asked. “She's gone. She jumped through the window,” I sobbed. I was sure that she was dead. Jacob took me in his arms and held me tight as he whispered into my hair, “Don’t worry. Mommy will come back.”

Jacob held me all night. But neither of us could sleep. I could see the desperation on his ghost-like face and he could feel my trembling. At dawn, there was another knock at the door. Jacob quickly let my mother in and locked the door behind her. He stared at her in disbelief. “Sara, where have you been all night?” She looked pale and weak and she was shivering with cold. “I went to warn the other Jewish families and I was hiding in the dark. I was afraid to come back.” “But you could have been killed jumping from so high.” Jacob replied. “And how could you have left your child alone?” I could see the disbelief on his face.

I only cared that she had come back.I hugged her and kissed her face. Sobbing, I begged her, “Don’t ever leave me again, Mommy.” In my heart, a strange pang of disbelief stabbed at me. It didn’t make sense. When my mother had been called out by the Gestapo in the Ghetto and I thought that she was going to be killed, I, at the age of six, stepped out of line just to be with her. But in the face of grave danger, she had left me alone, perhaps to die.

NINETEEN: A NAZI OFFICER OFFERS

TO SAVE MOTHER AND CHILD

The Nazis continued to come often to the workshop and demanded that Jacob speed up his work. One of Jacob’s customers was a young German pilot stationed in Kolomyja. He took a liking to my mother. He would stay for hours, discussing German literature with her, particularly the poems of Goethe which my mother could recite by heart. My mother was polite to him. She was hoping that he would like her, not because she had any feelings for him but because she was desperately hoping he would help us during those terrible times. She felt that he was the only shred of hope for our survival at that point. He would call me to sit on his lap when there were no other Germans around, but I always struggled and ran away. Sometimes he would bring me chocolate or some little toy. When he was ready to leave, my mother would walk with him to the corridor to let him out. Occasionally, I would sneak to the hallway, watching as he kissed my mother good-bye.

In the early spring of 1942, the German pilot came very early one morning to Jacob’s shop. He was very upset. When my mother walked with him to the hallway, he told her nervously that he was being transferred to Paris, France in four days. He wanted her to come with him. He said he could arrange for my mother and me to join him there. “No,” my mother answered. “My family is here.” The pilot told my mother that the Ghetto was going to be liquidated and that no Jew would be left alive. He wanted to save her. “Please,” he begged, “think about it. I will come one more time before I leave and I will expect a positive answer.” He hugged and kissed my mother and picked me up in his arms and hugged me too. Before he left he turned around and whispered to my mother, “Your husband will not return. He is most likely dead by now. Don’t wait for him. Save yourself!” Then he turned and walked out.

When my mother told Jacob what the pilot had said, Jacob was petrified at the horrible news. He could not believe the terrible fate that was awaiting us. It was obvious that the war was far from over. It was also clear that my mother had made her decision. Two days later, the pilot came again and brought me some chocolate. He looked into my mother’s eyes and asked, “Well, Sara, will you come with me?” “Thank you very much for your kindness," my mother told him. "If I survive I will always remember you.” “But Sara,” he continued, “you will not survive. Trust me.” “Whatever will happen to the rest of the Jews will happen to me, as well,” she said. “I am staying with my family and with my people.” The pilot hugged us both and left. Inside the room we sat together, sobbing quietly.

A short time later, the Gestapo ordered us to return to the Ghetto. Jacob, his family, my mother and I found ourselves reunited with Bubbie Yetta, Aunt Mina, Uncle Moses, Velvel and Shiko who were, gratefully, still alive. Our friend, Baruch, was still with us but his wife and mother had been taken away by train. I was happiest of all to see Luci and I promised myself that we would never be separated again.

TWENTY: SURVIVING OUTSIDE THE

GHETTO - FATHER RETURNS

The night my father returned my mother had been building roads all day. She returned to our little room that night, as she had most nights, exhausted, pale, and on the verge of collapse. As we lay in our beds in the desperate darkness of those nights, I knew that my mother and I were both praying for the same thing. My father’s safe return. We had all been asleep for quite some time when there was a muffled knock at the door. When Bubbie Yetta opened the door, a man staggered in. Exhausted, he sat down on the floor and asked for water. His clothes were torn and his face was overgrown with hair. He was unrecognizable. Could it be?

I remembered that my father had a little bump under the skin of his cheek, the size of a pea. I reached for his face with my small hands and felt beneath my fingers. Like a blind child searching for recognition. My father’s face. “It’s him,” I whispered, “It's daddy!”

The three of us clung to each other for what seemed forever, crying with disbelief. I truly believed that the nightmares were about to end. Everything that had felt so separate and disjointed became fused. The fear and loneliness that I felt in the Ghetto, the uncertainty of my mother’s loyalty. All of it had dissipated. My father had returned.

He had been with the Russian army, fighting the Germans and proceeding west towards Poland, for all this time. When his battalion had reached the city of Chelm, they were captured by the Germans and became prisoners of war. My father realized at once that he could not disclose that he was a Jew and gave them a Ukrainian name. With his small, straight nose, big blue eyes, round face and blond hair, he did not fit the stereotype and the Germans were not suspicious.

From the beginning the Germans had problems communicating with the Russians and because my father could speak German, they used him as a translator. He spent many months in captivity with little hope for freedom. The only chance that any of them had was to escape.

The night my father and a fellow prisoner escaped, there was a storm. Lightning and thunder surrounded them as they sneaked out of the barracks. Running through ditches, fields and footpaths only at night, they hid in ditches by the side of roads during the day. As they ran in the direction of Kolomyja, they knew they might not succeed in reaching their destination; if they were not caught by the Germans, they would surely die of starvation or exhaustion.

In desperation, they had eaten the raw flesh of dead horses lying in the ditches and fields. It took them many months to reach Kolomyja and when they arrived at the city they parted company. My father knew that the Jews were in the Ghetto. Even though he could have saved himself by continuing on, he stepped into the hell of the Ghetto to find us. Now we were reunited. The next morning when the work crews left for hard labour on the roads, my father was with them.

TWENTY-ONE: HIDING TO GET OUT OF

THE GHETTO - TWICE

In the early summer of 1942 circumstances began to change for us. The Germans had decided to send all of the young men and women to the village of Turka to work in the fields. Along with my parents, surprisingly, my Bubbie Yetta was included.

When the day arrived that my family was to go to work in the fields, my father and Uncle Moses discussed how to sneak Luci and me out of the Ghetto. They feared that if they left us behind, they would not find us when they returned. Our parents then prepared us for the dangerous journey. Luci and I were to be put into knapsacks with farm and garden tools and my father and Moses would carry us on their backs out of the Ghetto .

Early the next morning, my father packed me into the bag and arranged the tools around me and lifted me onto his shoulder. I tried to shrink myself into a little ball inside the bag. I was afraid and stifled, with not enough air to breathe. At the gate the guard poked my bag with his dagger. It hurt, but I did not make a sound and held my breath.

So far, the escape had been successful. When we arrived at the village of Turka each family got a barrack and a plank bed. My father immediately emptied me out of the bag and sent me under the bed. Moses did the same with Luci.

Our parents told us to stay under the beds as long as they were at work. When they returned, we could come out and sleep with them on the plank bed. Early each morning they would send us into hiding. “Remember,” they would tell us, “the German guards can see you and if they catch you, they will kill you.”

The days were long and boring. The beds were so low we could not even sit up under then. And we could not speak out loud, only whisper. The barrack had a little window and from beneath the bed we could see the sun shining a little in the room. After many weeks of this hidden life we had both had enough. We were hungry and terribly bored. We decided that it would be fine if every day we would get out from under the bed and jump around a little bit in the room. We did not tell our parents and this plan worked for a while.

Of course, one afternoon, while we were dancing around the room, a German guard spotted us. He came into the barrack like thunder and pointed his gun at us. Shaking and trembling, we both started to cry. All I could think of was that our parents would be so angry. I knew that I was older than Luci and should have known better. How could I have not obeyed them? Suddenly, I felt the back of the German soldier's boot as he kicked us both and we flew out the door. We were crying loudly, hoping that someone would hear and help us. The guard looked at me and Luci, clinging to each other and strangely, touched my long blond braids. He had decided not to kill us. He ordered one of the guards to take us to Kolomyja. He dumped us onto the street of the Ghetto. We just sat there among all the dead bodies, whimpering.

Surely my parents would never find me. What would they think when they returned not to find us in the barrack? What would happen to us?

But the next morning, when my father went to work in the fields, he made contact with a farmer he knew in the adjacent field. Jozef Beck was someone my father had known before the war and he begged him to help. He asked Jozef to go to the Ghetto and find us. He asked Jozef to save us if he could and keep us hidden at his farm. Mr. Beck took his horse and carriage and went into the Ghetto. He told the Gestapo that he had come to take away some of the corpses. They agreed to let him in. He spotted us, sitting where we had been dumped the day before, in the middle of the street. Luci and I watched as he piled some of the dead bodies on the carriage and then quickly he picked us up and threw us on top. Covering us with more dead bodies. When the carriage was full, he drove us out of the Ghetto.

Jozef drove to the cemetery and dropped everything onto the ground, including Luci and me. Quickly he fished us out of the pile and ran with us to behind the biggest tombstone he could find. “Tonight,” he told us, “my wife, Rozalia, will come to fetch you and take you to our home. You will sit here quietly until it is dark. And do not move. Do you promise?” We promised.

Alone and petrified, crouching behind tombstones, surrounded by corpses, Luci and I waited for Jozef’s wife. Every sound of the crackling leaves and the howling wind sounded like footsteps. From time to time I peaked out from behind our tombstone to see if someone was coming, terrified that I was stepping on Bubbie Frida’s dead body under my feet. I tried to occupy my mind with other thoughts and resumed my vigil for Rozalia.

It seemed as if we had been sitting there forever, huddled behind the tombstone when, finally, we heard someone walking through the darkness. A woman, bundled up and wearing a huge black shawl on her head, made her way toward us carrying blankets. As she approached she whispered to us that she was Rozalia. She told us not to be afraid. She took us by the hand and led us out of the cemetery to her waiting horse and carriage.

TWENTY-TWO: THE BARN HOUSES TWO CHILDREN

The barn on the Beck’s farm was piled high with straw and hay. Rozalia settled us on the upper level on a huge pile of straw and spoke sternly to us. “I have six children,” she said, “and no one can know that you are here. If the Germans discover that you are hiding here, we will all be killed. You must be quiet and promise to behave. Don't move! Do you understand?” She gave us each a piece of bread and covered us with a blanket.

Weeks passed. The days and nights became indistinguishable. We could hear the Beck children playing in the barn or outside. We longed to join them but we remained motionless and silent. Luci cried all the time. At seven, a year older than Luci, I felt as though I had to be strong and responsible. I did everything that I could to try and calm her. Neglecting and suppressing my own fears in order to stay alive, I invented a game. There was a wooden ledge that held the straw on the upper level of the barn from falling. I told Luci that we were going to spit on the ledge. If our two drops of saliva joined together, that would mean that soon our parents were going to come and get us. If the saliva drops did not join, then we would have to wait longer. It was hard to produce so many drops of saliva and our mouths soon became very dry. The game was not working.

On one particular morning, Luci and I woke to feel sun rays on our faces. The barn, otherwise shallow and dark, felt bright for the first time. Two of the Beck daughters, Zofia and Danuta, were playing in the barn and, unintentionally, we moved and they spotted us. They were older than we were and quickly deduced that we were Jewish children hiding in the barn. They called to us and told us to come down and play with them. Our joy was indescribable. We jumped at the chance to move around and to play. We had almost forgotten what it was like to be normal. When they finally left the barn, we scurried back to our hiding place and our silent, motionless existence. The next day, however, we did not see the children. After a few days, one of the girls came running into the barn and called out to us to come down. “Come down here. Hurry! I just saw the Germans coming down the road. They have their guns pointed at your parents. Come down and see for yourselves.”

“No!” we screamed in panic and jumped out into the yard. Stunned and relieved we saw that there was nobody there. She had made a mistake. Suddenly, Mr. Beck was upon us. He grabbed us and enraged, threw us into the old rose bushes that grew in his front yard. The sharp thorns scratched our emaciated arms and legs which were now stinging. He dragged us back to the barn. “What are you doing?” he yelled. “You have to be careful and stay very still. Do you know how dangerous this is?” Alone and terrified, Luci and I sat very still, blood dripping down our arms and legs. Crying for our parents.

After that, Jozef sought out my father in the fields and told him that to have us on his farm had become too dangerous for his own family. My father would have to come and get us.

Autumn was setting in and the work in the fields would soon be over. My father knew that to go back to the Ghetto would mean certain death. He was sure that within a few months the Ghetto would be liquidated and not one Jew would be left alive. He told Jozef that he would come to get us and began to formulate a plan of escape.

When my father approached Velvel with the plan for the escape, Velvel refused to join him. “I will be of more use here with Uncle Mendel and his family. They are so lost and helpless, I feel like I am the only glue they have to hold them together. Besides,” he told my father, “there will be too many of us escaping at once. The Nazis will catch on. Go ahead with your plan,” he suggested. “I will try to escape later on.”

Instead of going back to the barrack at the end of the day, my father, mother and the other members of my family stayed in the tobacco field. Laying motionless until nightfall when they could run more easily without being seen, they waited. That night, my father and Moses made their way to the farm where Luci and I were hiding. Rozalia was waiting for them. She told my father that she had a relative in another village who was childless and would agree to take me. It would ensure my survival. My parents were faced with a grave decision. Should they give me up to a Gentile family or risk my life by taking me with them.

“She is blond,” Rozalia told my father. "She doesn't look Jewish. We’ll call her Rose. It is a shame for her to die." My father told her that he would have to talk to his wife before he could give her an answer. My mother, though, did not have to think very long. ''Without each other, none of our lives would be worth living." I would stay with my parents. My father enfolded me in his arms. Was it really him? Or was I dreaming? “Don’t worry, my little one,” my father whispered, “you are safe now. With me and with your mother. Together we will find a better hiding place where we can all be together.”

Great relief. I put my head on my father’s shoulder and wrapped my arms around his body. I was a child again. Held on for dear life.

TWENTY-THREE: HIDING WITH PARENTS

IN A ROOF-LESS BARN

It was at this time that my family and Luci’s family separated. My parents and I, Shiko, Baruch Ertenstreich and Dr. Neider all went to Vasil and Maria Olehrecky’s farm. They were the couple that had worked on my grandfather’s farm. They knew us well and were eager to help us. Vasil settled us under the roof in the attic of the barn and brought food and cigarettes. The straw roof was very old and weak. When the wind blew, even softly, pieces of the roof would fly off and small spaces of sky would take their place.

As beautiful as it was to have sunlight and sometimes be able to see a star through the roof at night, we did fear that if the roof fell apart we would be discovered. In vain, Vasil tried to fix the roof several times but he was not successful. Winter was coming, and we were cold and afraid. Without a proper roof, we feared that the peasants from the village would spot us. We would freeze to death.

In addition, the barn was infested with mice. Our clothes were torn, very dirty and our bodies were covered with lice. Uncontrollably, I would scratch my head so hard that my scalp would bleed. We all knew that we would not survive the winter in this barn. If we were not discovered by the Germans first, that is. My father would finger the gun with the ten bullets that he had kept at his side since he had escaped from German captivity and say, “If we fall into the hands of the Germans, I will shoot each one of you and then myself.” We lived in constant fear. How many ways are there to say that? After a time those words become meaningless and finding new ways to describe how it feels hiding in a barn with a failing roof in the middle of the winter awaiting certain death, is almost impossible.

Dr. Neider, who was hiding with us, had a Polish girl friend, Jadwiga. He would venture out at night from our hiding place to meet her in the fields. He never told her where he was hiding, but from her he received newspapers and reports of the progress of the war. We learned that the Germans were now drafting young men for work in Germany. Young men like Vasil. He knew that he could hide to escape the order, as others had done. But if he did, the Germans would come to search for him and they would find all of us. He decided that he would report voluntarily to the German authorities.

The night before he left, Vasil came to say good-bye. “I told my wife to take care of you and I will write letters from Germany to see if you are alright,” Vasil told my father.” I will refer to you as my brother Peter and I will send you cigarettes. Just try to be hopeful. One day the war will be over and everything will be all right.”

My father did not know what to say to this man who was putting himself in harms way to help us. How to thank him. “I am sorry to have to put you through this. You are young and don’t have any children yet. You could hide. Maybe we should find another place.” “No! You stay here.” responded Vasil curtly. “You do not deserve a life like this. You are decent people and have always been good to my wife and me. If I can save you and you will all be alive when the war is over, this will be my reward.” My father and Vasil hugged and cried together.

That night was a very long one, and Vasil stayed with us in the barn until morning. My father tried to convince him not to go, that we could find another hiding place. But he would not hear of it. He knew that there was no place for us to go. Vasil left but he kept his word. He wrote letters to his wife and his "brother Peter" from Germany. Maria would bring my father the letters and the cigarettes that Vasil sent for him. Vasil risked his marriage, his wife’s life and his own life, to save ours.

TWENTY-FOUR: MOVING TO ANOTHER BARN

It was the winter of 1943. We were freezing and sick with high fevers. Maria Olehrecky, lonely for male company after Vasil left the farm, began having a lot of visitors at night. We could see the men coming and going, which petrified us. Our barn with no roof, where we were afraid even to whisper, was not safe any more.

My father decided that the next snow storm would be our signal for escape. Looking for another shelter, my father ventured over to Jozef Beck’s to ask about my uncle Velvel who had remained behind at the Ghetto. Jozef told my father that Velvel was very sick with typhoid. He promised my father that he would watch out for Velvel whenever he could.

Finally, the night arrived and we ventured out into the storm, leaving behind the little ruined barn that had become our home. My father knew that Moses, Mina, Bubbie Yetta and Luci were hiding in a barn that belonged to another farmer, Vasil and Paraska Hapiuk. Since we had no other place to go, we decided to try our luck and go there. It was risky because joining the others in the Hapiuk barn would mean that there would now be a total of ten people hiding there. It was snowing very hard and my father carried me in his arms all the way. As we walked through the cold, snowy, night my father kept repeating to himself, “I still have ten bullets.”

We could hardly breathe when we silently stumbled towards the farm. Watching to make sure that everyone was asleep, we crept slowly into the barn. In Yiddish, my father whispered, “It is me, Israel.” The barn was very dark and it was full of straw and hay. Slowly, a bundle began to move. From behind one bale of straw the eyes of our family shone in the darkness.

TWENTY-FIVE: LIFE IN THE BUNKER - UNDER THE BARN

Vasil and Paraska Hapiuk lived with their son and daughter-in-law who knew about the four people that Vasil had sheltered in the barn. One day when Vasil had come bringing food he told Uncle Moses that things in the house were becoming difficult. His wife, Paraska, and his daughter-in-law were constantly fighting. His daughter-in-law had threatened to report the Jews living in the barn to the authorities. Uncle Moses convinced Vasil to tell his family that the Jews had left and that it would be their secret that they had stayed. He told Vasil that God would bless him for being so kind. Vasil did not have the heart to turn the Jewish family out to die and so he agreed. He promised to bring some food for the child when he could. “Every Sunday when I go to church,” he added, “I pray for you people.”

Aunt Mina was worried. “Vasil only knows about the four of us and now there will be ten.” My father had a solution. “We must dig a bunker in the ground under the straw that could hold the ten of us.” Immediately, the men found some tools in the barn and started digging. They worked through the night and dug what looked like a big grave, three meters by three meters square.

Dark and airless. Our positions were organized in such a way that Uncle Moses could lie near the opening so that Vasil would see only him when he came with food. Five people lay on one side and the other five on the opposite side. We lay foot to foot - toes touching. Aunt Mina and Luci lay beside Moses. I lay with my parents. And there was Bubbie Yetta and Shiko and Baruch. And Dr. Neider.

In these positions we remained. There was no room for standing or moving. When one person had to turn, all of us would have to turn. The deeper we were inside the bunker, the less air we had. There were strict rules for Luci and me. We were kept apart from each other and were not allowed to use our voices to speak. We could only communicate by moving our lips. Turn. Whisper. Turn

Sometimes, the adults took pity on us and gave us something important to do. It was our job to wake someone by touching them if they were snoring in their sleep, and that was usually Bubbie Yetta. We would giggle at the strange sounds she made and immediately we would be told, “Stop laughing and be quiet. The Germans are coming.” The word German was enough and we knew all to well what that meant. If it wasn’t Bubbie that made us laugh it was something else, and then one of the adults would lie on us. Choke us. So we could not breathe. Turn. Whisper. Turn.

Vasil, of course, had no idea there were ten people hiding in the bunker in his barn. Whenever he could, he would bring a little bread or cornmeal called Kolesha, which Luci liked.

We were all prisoners of the bunker. Feverish and weak. Near the entrance to the bunker stood a tin pail we used as a toilet. We had terrible diarrhea and dysentery. When we passed just one drop of stool the bacteria would multiply and grow until the bucket overflowed. The smell was unbearable.

Late at night, when it was snowing, the men would take turns going out to empty the bucket and search for food. In the winter, food came mainly from pigsties and stables. It was very dangerous to go out and usually only two men would go at one time. One would steal the food and the other would stand on guard. The dogs of the village were the greatest threat. Even though the village was silent and asleep late at night, the barking dogs could easily alert the villagers that someone was about. Each time the men went out, we held our breath until they returned. My father never even waited for the pigs and cows to finish with their food before he grabbed it from them.

Only Dr. Neider continued to venture out regularly to meet his girlfriend, Jadwiga and get the newspaper. They had a special meeting place far away from the farmers’ homes and far from our hiding place. By the light of the moon shining on the white snow he could read how bad the situation was and how far we still were from any hope of freedom.

Uncle Shiko and our friend, Baruch, found a whole barrel of sauerkraut in a farmer’s stable. After the war Dr. Neider always said that it was the sauerkraut that saved our lives. My father and Baruch found a bag of apples in a storage cabin. For water, we melted snow in our hands and drank. Turn. Whisper. Turn.

TWENTY SIX: UNCLE VELVEL’S DEATH

In the beginning, when my father went out to search for food, he would go to see Jozef Beck for news of Velvel. It wasn’t long before he learned that Velvel had died of typhoid in the Ghetto. My father stood in silence as he prayed. Overwhelmed with guilt that he had not been able to save his brother from whom he had never been separated before and now would never see again.

As my father walked through the heavy snow, devastated, he could not even feel the terrible cold wind that hit his cheeks. When he came back to the bunker, his hands, feet and face were red and frost bitten. He crawled to his place beside my mother and whispered to her, “There is no more Velvel. He is gone.” He whispered but I heard. In the silence the sobs pushed their way out of me. In my small world, my uncle had been my special favourite.

Days and nights and weeks and months went on and on. Not even a glimmer that this hell would ever end at all. Day after day in a small bunker with so many bodies close together. No light. Or sound.

Most of the time it was nearly impossible for me to distinguish between reality and fantasy. Between one day and the next. Between night and day. But there were times. There was one night. Everyone was asleep. I felt it penetrate me. Unfamiliar and painful. Something larger than me, forcing it’s way through me. Someone’s toe in my vagina. I began to move slowly upward a tiny bit, then to the side, but the spaces were too small to hide in. My mother woke up from my fidgeting and was cross that I was not being quiet. She whispered, “Don’t move so much. Don’t be so selfish. There is not enough room in here for you to be moving so much.” I could not tell her what was happening to me.

The sound of Velvel’s violin played in my mind. His voice. It helped me away from the toe and the bunker. I promised myself that I would never forget him as long as I lived. I was seven years old and I didn't know how long that would be.

TWENTY SEVEN: MOLESTED BY A FAMIYL FRIEND -

SURVIVAL IN THE BUNKER

It became a routine. The good family friend continued to abuse me every night after that, often forcing my toes to play with his genitals, as well. Over time I stopped fighting him. He was training me, and slowly I began to feel a perverse pleasure from his toes and was somehow pleased to return the same pleasure to him. This ritual continued for the remainder of the time that we were in the bunker.

All of my life I have kept this secret. Never told my parents or anyone else. What little innocence I still had in that time he took away from me. It has affected my entire adult life. Sometimes, even today, I cry and mourn the defenseless child that he killed.

The adults were, by this time, sick of fighting for their miserable existence. Dr. Neider told us that in February 1943 the Ghetto in Kolomyja had been liquidated. We knew that there were no more Jews around and it is as difficult now as it was then to understand a world that looked upon this atrocity and allowed it to happen.

But it would still be a very long time before we would be free of the horror in the bunker. When spring arrived, there were new problems. Food. The men were only able to leave the bunker when it rained. Then, their footsteps could be covered with mud and the farmers and their dogs would stay indoors. Sometimes the men would leave at night and it would be dawn before they would return. The women worried all night long. Could God have been watching? We never lost anyone.

In the summer, hunting for food was different. Now the men could go at night into the fields and dig out potatoes, carrots, beets and anything they could put their hands on. I remember that we were sick with diarrhea and fever a lot of the time. The boredom and fear in the bunker were unbearable and we tried our best to find ways to take our minds off the present and dream of a better life. My Aunt Mina would imagine she were a bird and free to fly away. My mother fantasized about food. “When I will be free,” she would say, “I would like to have as much bread as I want.” “And when I will be free,” my aunt would return, “I want to have just boiled potatoes in their skins. As many as I want.”

My mother would recite poems in German to entertain me. I did not like the sound of the German language and struggled against it. Strict, harsh, and a constant reminder of the Nazis. But it was a language that my mother associated with a happy time in her life. A language she had learned and cultivated since her early school years. One she relied on now for comfort.

All communication in the bunker was conducted in whispers. I had not used my voice to speak for so long I had forgotten what it sounded like. Just created words with my lips. We looked like skeletons and were extremely weak. We had not seen daylight for all the time we had been in the bunker. But we pushed the time along, not knowing how much longer we could hold on. How much longer it would take. In the meantime, the war raged and there was no sign of its letting up.

I invented a world of dreams to escape the reality of my life in the bunker. I often brought my Uncle Velvel out with his beautiful violin. In my mind, I couldn't separate him from his violin. It was a beautiful violin made in the style of Stradivarius by a German violin maker named Steiner. He was so proud of it and the fact that he owned such an instrument. Eventually he had earned enough money to buy the violin from his music teacher. I replayed in my mind the stories my Bubbie Frida told me of Velvel taking the horse and carriage or getting on his bicycle and going to his violin lessons. In his hands, the violin sang.

I dreamed of bread and butter. I imagined my Zeyde Eli calling me on Saturdays by my Hebrew name, Chai Rachel. Asking me to bring him a glass of water. I was there again, on his knee, learning the Hebrew letters. Braiding his beard. Watching him study. Watching the water drip on his white whiskers.

My Bubbie Frida's smiling face was constantly on my mind. I saw myself as I repeated the morning and evening prayers with her. As she watched me when I had learned to recite them on my own. As she admired me. As she loved me. I remembered the peonies and the butterflies and the pony. Bobby I dreamed about the end of the war.

TWENTY EIGHT: LEAVING THE BARN AND DIGGING

A HOLE IN THE FOREST, 1944

Soon winter arrived again. It became more and more difficult for the men to go out in search of food. But there was no choice; we still had to survive the winter. The men had no proper clothing and no shoes and they would bundle their feet with rags though this did not give them much protection against frostbite. This was our most difficult time and we were at the very limit of our strength and our endurance.

The doctor had been reading in the paper that the Russian army was moving closer and pushing the Nazis back. There was a chance that the war would end soon. This gave us a spark of hope. We knew that the next few months would be crucial. Not only would we have to find strength, but also we would need to be even more careful than previously. We needed to survive. It was impossible to believe that all ten of us had survived this far. We were excited and uneasy all at the same time. Even if the war ended, what would be waiting for us? Isolated from the world for so long, we did not know what to expect or whom we could trust.

Then we began to hear heavy bombing and the sound of aircraft and it was frighteningly apparent that the front was moving from east to west. I was afraid that a bomb would hit our bunker. Sleep was no longer possible. Vasil Hapiuk was also feeling the pressure, and one morning he came to the barn, brought some cornmeal for Luci and told Moses that the war was coming to an end. The Russians were pushing the Germans back. He was extremely frightened. Wanted them to leave.

“Go,” he said to my uncle Moses, “and may God be with the four of you.” But there were ten of us. Uncle Moses promised him that he would leave as soon as the next storm came. My father, knowing that we had nowhere to go, began to plan.

On all fours. Hands and knees to the frozen earth. We crawled. The women, and Luci and I, could not walk. We had been immobile in the bunker for so long that we were unable to stand. My father had no strength but he carried me in his arms. So we crawled through the snow to the nearby forest. The pain of the frostbites we suffered was terrible and we trembled and shivered in the bitter cold. It took us the entire night to reach the forest. The men dug a hole and covering it with wood and branches. This would be our new home. We bundled up in blankets and cuddled together in the hole under the branches. We could hear clearly now the airplanes flying overhead and the sound of the bombs. We shook but my father said it was a very good sign.

Hiding in the forest was very difficult but at least we had fresh air to breathe. The men continued to rummage for food at night in the villages. Again they competed with the cows and pigs for something to eat. Whatever they could grab they would bring back to us. We were still not using our voices to speak.

Two weeks after Kolomyja was liberated, my father returned from the village one night and told us. “This is it. I saw Russian tanks moving on the main road to Kolomyja. We have to go out to the road and ask the Russian soldiers for help.” It was March of 1944, and we had not known until then that Kolomyja had been freed. That night we crawled on all fours to freedom.

TWENTY NINE: LIBERATED BY THE RUSSIANS - TRAIN TO

CHERNOWITZ HOSPITAL

It was already dawn when we reached the main road. Tanks were moving heavily one after another, but we just lay in the ditch by the side of the road hoping that someone would notice us. My father was teaching me the word for “Jewess” in Russian. He kept making me repeat, “I am a Jewess.” Ya Yevreyka. It was no use though, I could not make my voice speak. No sound came out and I could only move my lips to the words.

When we saw the beginning of daybreak on the horizon, the Russians still had not noticed us. We were afraid to stay where we were during the day and my father pushed me out of the ditch onto the shoulder of the road. Uncle Moses did the same with Luci. We stayed at the shoulder of the road and practiced in Russian, Ya Yevreyka. After what seemed like a very long time, one of the soldiers saw us and ordered the tank to stop. Two soldiers got off the tank and picked us up.

I was afraid to tell them that I was Jewish. When we escaped from the Nazis we ripped the bands with the Star of David that identified us as Jews off our clothing. Now I was to tell these soldiers I was Jewish? When the Russian soldiers picked us up they noticed that there was a whole group of people in the ditch. We did not have to tell them who we were. They understood. They took us to a building in Kolomyja where there was already a group of Jewish survivors who had come out of hiding a little earlier than we did. But of the large Jewish population that had lived in Kolomyja and the surrounding area before the war, we were part of only a handful that were left.

“Eat very slowly,” the soldier told me, “otherwise you will be very sick.” This was our first meal in freedom. The soldiers gave us hot soup, and bread, canned meat, and canned fruit. It felt like a feast. A meal fit for kings and queens. Now we were under the good care of the Russian Army. We were given shelter in a building with other survivors from the area, and received medical attention, treatment for our frostbite, and swollen, bleeding hands and legs. We were covered in lice and the soldiers gave us clean clothing and poured kerosene over our hair to kill the parasites. Luci and I were treated to hard chocolates. The taste of the chocolate brought back a flood of memories for me. Bubbie Frida. Velvel bringing me chocolates from his trips to Warsaw. I turned to my father and whispered, “Please, Daddy, ask the soldier if he could find Uncle Velvel. He is probably still hiding.” My father held me and promised everything would be all right as I wept in his arms.

But the war was not over and there was no real peace yet. Though the Russian army had liberated our area, the Germans were still trying to push them back. The city was under attack. I was petrified of the bombing and low-flying military planes. When the planes flew over our heads my father would scream, “Lie down on the floor. Quickly! Don't move!” We would lay face down with our heads under our cots. We would stay that way for hours, panic in our hearts at the thought of the Germans winning and coming back to finish us off.

Finally, a Russian officer informed us that the Germans were pushing the Russian army back again and that we would have to leave Kolomyja. We were still very weak and unable to walk. The officer transported us to the train station in his truck. He gave us some canned food, water, and chocolate. “This train will take you to the city of Chernowitz which now belongs to Russia,” he told us. Chernowitz had belonged to Rumania before the war. “There you will be safe.”

There were a number of Jewish survivors all trying to leave Kolomyja at the same time and all of us were trying to board the train at once. People became wild, screaming and shoving each other to be the first on the train. Everything was chaotic. Families became separated from each other and screamed names into the crowd. It was a horrible scene that confused and frightened me. I remembered how people were taken from the Ghetto by train and never came back.

We were on the run again. On the way to Chernowitz we came to Zuczka, a town in which the bridge had been destroyed and the train could not proceed through. We had to get off the train and walk to Chernowitz. Again, the nightmare of walking in pain and weakness was upon us. We barely made it to the city.

In Chernowitz, the Red Cross took us immediately to the hospital. We were split up into different rooms. For the first time since the war had broken out, I was bathed and put to sleep in a clean bed. Even though I was afraid to be separated from my parents, the nurses were kind and gentle with me. They admired my beautiful long braids even though they were still full of lice. “Those braids,” my father had told them, “have survived the most difficult times of war. They cannot be cut off now.” And the nurses promised to take care of my braids. We stayed in the hospital to recuperate for several months until everyone was well enough to leave.

Everyone except me, that is. I had a serious problem. Each time I tried to speak - I moved my lips to communicate - but no sound came out. I knew that I had to stay in the hospital for speech treatments, but I had very little hope of recovery. The tears rolled down my cheeks as my parents hugged me and promised that it would not be long before I was well and could come home. The medical staff tried everything they could to bring out my voice, but nothing seemed to work. The doctors explained to me that the war was over and that there weren’t any more Germans around. I nodded my head to show that I understood what they were saying but I remained silent. I tried my best to speak. I wanted so badly to speak, to be able to answer their questions, and I was so frustrated and ashamed of my inability to help myself. I was truly afraid that I would remain speechless for the rest of my life. They continued their work every day but there was no progress.

Finally, the doctors decided to use reverse psychology to shock me into speaking. Two doctors entered my room and stopped near the window. One of the doctors looked out and shouted, “The Germans are back. They are here.” When I heard that, I jumped out of my bed and gave a long, petrified scream. I tried to run out of the room screaming, “NO. NO. NO.” One of the doctors rushed to me and, holding me close, whispered softly, “Don’t be afraid. It's all right. The Germans are far away from here. You are safe.”

I did not know whom to believe, at first, but I saw that the doctors were not afraid or running for their lives to hide. Maybe it really was safe. When the doctors finally calmed me down, we began to speak. This was the first conversation I had had in several years. My voice had finally come back to me.

THIRTY: ADJUSTING TO FREEDOM AND SCHOOL

So life began again. My parents were given a small apartment and were working on a farm in the village of Kamionka, near Chernowitz. My father worked as a gardener and my mother as the cook for what was called a Kolchoz or collective farm owned by the Russian government and shared by all those who worked there.

I was learning to be happy. At last, after years of hiding, I was free. I was free to live, to breathe fresh air, to be equal to the other children. Most of all, I was grateful that both of my parents had survived and could take care of me. The love, care, and devotion that I had known as a small child in Turka when I was very small now returned. It became possible to believe that the love I had felt from Bubbie Frida and Zeyde Eli and Uncle Velvel was being passed down to me through my parents. It made me stronger.

I was now nine years old. My mother insisted that I use the name Rose outside of our home. She told me that with a name like Rose no one would think that I was Jewish and it would be easier for me to fit in with the other children. She felt that I would be safer, too, because there was still a great deal of anti-Semitism around us.

Luci and I were enrolled in a Russian school, and it was the first time in my life that I had attended school. I did not even know one letter of the Russian alphabet. I tried to remember the Hebrew letters my Zeyde had taught me once, but nothing looked familiar. I had no idea what the teacher was saying or teaching. I just sat and thought about other things. I knew I had a lot of making up to do for all those lost years, but I also wanted to play. It was a difficult time for me, recuperating from the traumas of the past and trying to grasp the meaning of a normal life.

I still remember the first pair of shoes my father bought me when he had earned enough money. I tried on several pairs in the shop and my father kept asking me which ones felt the most comfortable. I told him that I would have to dance in them first to know which were the best. My father looked at me in disbelief. I had always been so shy and now I wanted to dance. In the shop, in the presence of strangers. I quickly put on a pair of shoes and started humming, dancing around the room to the Russian dance, Kozaczok. My father, beaming, agreed these were the perfect shoes for me. I could not remember the last time I had worn shoes. I was the happiest girl in the whole world.

Even at this innocent moment of happiness, the memory of the Germans taking our shoes away when we first arrived in the Ghetto flooded my mind. “Why would they have done that?” I asked myself. “So we could not run fast enough to escape,” I answered.

As we walked home from the shoe shop, my new shoes on my feet, it began to rain. I immediately took my shoes off and walked barefoot. These shoes were so precious to me that I wanted to make sure that the rain did not ruin them. I was more concerned for them then for my own tortured feet. This concern continued for about a year after the war. Whenever it rained or snowed I would walk barefoot, cradling my shoes in my arms.