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On the Ruins

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On July 13, 1944, a two-year period of my service in the partisan movement came to an end. On that day, the female partisans received a document attesting to the fact that they took part in the war against the German occupation forces. The men were sent to the front with the Soviet army. Those few Jews who managed to remain alive after those hard years in the partisans, ended up in different campaigns, as members of the army that fought with the Germans until Berlin fell. They exacted revenge for all the things that the Germans did to us. Only very few remained alive after that terrifying Hell, that they had to survive, and whose story could not be told to date.

The few women from Dereczin began to go home to Dereczin from the forest – back to that home which no longer existed. I am drawing close to the mass graves, where our dear ones and kinfolk lay – the innocent, the tortured, the murdered, torn from life by the German murderers. For what reason?! For what purpose?! Tears choked me. But to what purpose will crying help at this point? To this day, I wish the entire German nation and its children the taste of the feeling experienced by all Jews, that suffered under the Nazi rule, waiting day by day for death – till the day of the massacre, and the cruelty, the indescribable scenes of that terrifying day of slaughter. They sentenced our brothers and sisters without cause for blame, except for the ‘sin’ of being a Jew. But they, the German nation, of Hitler's herd of wolves, the nation of systematized brutality – they deserve an end like the one we got! They wipe out the larger part of European Jewry – they, both the bad and the ‘good’ Germans. Whoever didn't observe them during their actions, cannot imagine what a nation of murderers looks like, with murder in their eyes, with destructive methods, with completely developed plans for the extermination of a people. But even vengeance, the greatest possible revenge, cannot still the pain and will not heal the wound that was inflicted on every one of us, and the general Jewish population, by the murder of our loved ones, and the hundreds of Jewish communities.

With these sorrowful thoughts and burning hatred, I listlessly dragged myself around Dereczin for a long time, aimlessly wandering about her burned out and destroyed streets. Everything had been burned, and was already overgrown with grass. Everything had been wrecked, flattened to the ground. It is desolate, and no living thing can be seen. There is a deathly silence on the streets and byways. Only on the other side of town, near Beckenstein's mill, several peasant wagons are standing. Like a needle to the heart and brain, a thought stabs me that in this very spot, three to four years ago, there was a life, with streets and houses, with stores and synagogues, with young people, with dreams, ideals, and with all the good and hard times of a pulsating Jewish existence. Why right here was the Schulhof, and here – the market square with the pretty little gardens in front of the houses, and there – the barracks. Only the church and its chapel are still standing, as if to add insult to injury, with their crosses high in the sky.

Now I am coming to the place where only a few years ago, Shmuel Abelovich and his wife Basha lived with their two daughters, Tzippeh & Shayndeleh. Tzippeh was my childhood friend. We used to do our homework together. What a warm Jewish household this was! I felt such dedication and love between the walls of their house. Now there is no one here, who can tell of the suffering and agony, the feelings and thoughts of the family in the last minutes of their lives…

Past their house is the burned and wrecked Schulhof. I used to be there so often, at the house of the Rabbi, where my two friends lived, Malka & Zina Dubinchik ז”ל. The murderers didn't let anyone go. The brutality of the German actions becomes even sharper when one walks the ruins of the streets of a life that once was.

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Here, among the overgrown ruins was the house of my friend, Elkeh Lifshovich, Noah's daughter. Here she grew up in a well-to-do family with such fine children. Dora Ogulnick lived here as well. We were in the same class and studied together, dreamed together, strove – and now I stand here alone, with my memories and with an ache in my heart for those young lives that were prematurely cut off.

I am finally coming to Slonim Gasse. Our house once stood here. O, woe, woe is me, what is left of it! A desolation, one sees only a pit, where the cellar of our house was. There are fused pieces of glass lying about in that corner where in the attic the Passover paraphernalia was stored…

My family had been here, people lived, worked, suffered and hoped, they made themselves happy and always waited for something better to come along. Here, in the house that used to stand in this place, children laughed and sang, they played, jumped, now they, together with their parents, with friends and comrades, all, all in the graves about, – and I am still alive. To this day I do not know by what Providence I came to remain alive out of all my relatives and loved ones.

I stand in front of my burned out house, and before my teary eyes, the memories of our recent past go by. Friday nights at home, the candles flickering happily with their Sabbath light streaming through all the windows, the bright table with all the delicacies on the white tablecloth, my father making Kiddush, and our choral response of ‘Amen…’ It was so Sabbath-like and festive, a form of sanctity descended on our heads, a holiness that can no longer be found today.

I take leave of my former home with sorrowful steps. I am now on the Sovicher Gasse. There, all my girlfriends would gather at the house of Rachel Nozhnitsky, who was one of the best students in the class. In their house we felt the best of all the places we went. Around their house they had a beautiful orchard with fruits and beanstalks. One could breathe so freely there, the trees and fields always created a good mood in us. In the spring and summertime, being there was like being in a Dacha. We would go out for a walk in the field very early in the morning, picking flowers, singing, telling each other different things, serious and joking, and our song and laughter carried far over the green fields. In the Nozhnitsky house itself, was suffused with such a warmth and love between the parents, Rachel's two sisters, Yehuditkeh & Miniyeh, and the two little brothers ז”ל. We would gather at their home in the winter, during the intense cold as well. It was always warm and cozy there. Rachel's parents never made a remark to the effect that we might be disturbing anyone with our joyful conversation and singing. I remember the mother, Tamar, so well, and the grandmother, Rivkah, like two quiet doves in the warm house of this loving family. The father of the family would come home late from work, but even then he was loving, good and still, and this made such a strong impression on all of us, that we went home with great pleasure.

And now, I stand beside the grave of such a warm family life, that will never return. What dear people, so ideal, community oriented a Jewish life – everything, everything was cut down, together with all the dear people of Dereczin and from hundreds of cities and towns…

Apart from the pain in my heart, my visit to Dereczin only served to strengthen my enmity toward those who – for no purpose of their own, or for the world – murdered a Jewish civilization. I observed a small revenge taken on the Germans, but this is like a drop in the water.

What have I got left to do in desolate Dereczin? To look at the put up faces of the Christians, who speak as if with pity on us, and who in their hearts gloat over taking our booty, with the houses that did remain intact, in which they conceal stolen valuables from our families? To feel sorry for those Christian families that remained without a way to make a living, because without Jews there was no one to whom to sell and for whom to work, from whom to buy and have a garment altered?

I don't want any of their pity. I feel no pity for them.

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My hometown was still and sad. I left her ruins quietly and sadly.

But I will remember our Dereczin to my last day, where I was raised, went to school, dreamed, and in whose soil the bones of our martyrs lie. Here, they were driven across the streets and byways, with little children in their arms, overcome to their hearts, on their last gray walk – the men, who might perhaps have been able to save themselves, but chose rather to die with their wives, the parents, who together with their little children, went to the death pits…

Our martyrs, fathers, and mothers, brothers and sisters! May your souls be bound up in the bond of life!

The tragedy became clear to me when the war ended, and I found out that there was no place to which to return. We met up with the Russian army that was advancing to the front, and they liberated all the partisans, to permit them to return home and be reunited with their families. I knew the bitter truth, that there was nobody waiting for me, and I had no one to go to. I requested that they take me to the front, but this didn't help. I had to go wherever they sent me. And I arrived in Horodishch, a small town between Baranovich and Novogrudok. I worked there for the procurator, and I was promised that as soon as the war was over, I would be sent to school (this is what I wanted). My life there was very gray. I made the acquaintance of the few Jews that remained alive in town – the four Mirsky sisters. I used to run into them on Yom Kippur to ask how much longer I needed to fast, and when Christians would bring me chickens, eggs and butter to pay for me for preparing a document for them to the authorities, I would show them by hand, that they should take it across the way (to where the sisters lived).

One time, I decided to travel to Dereczin to see what and who might have remained. The very thought frightened me, but I screwed up my courage, and went on my way. There were no regular means of communication, so I had to stand by the side of the road and hitch a ride with army transport vehicles going in that direction.

I traveled to Baranovich, later to Slonim, Zelva, and in this way, to Dereczin. When I rode into town, and the soldiers asked me where I wanted to be let off, I didn't know what to say. Everything that I saw was in ruins, with the sky around us. Until I spotted the Catholic church, which was when I realized that I was on the outskirts of the town. So I alighted, thanked the soldiers, and went in the general direction of the houses near the church. With tears in my eyes and my heart beating wildly, I went into a house, and the woman recognized me, saying that I must be one of the Beckensteins. When I calmed down from crying, I discovered that there were a few Jews in town. She told me where I could find them, and I went away. In what had been a whiskey distillery, I found Nioma Weinstein and his children, and Chaykeh from the mill. I became aware that a number of other families were to be found in Dereczin. I became extremely discouraged, seeing how they had to live

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among the ruins. I could not comprehend how they were able to live among the gentiles, and the graves of their beloved and dear ones. They all told me that they would not remain in Dereczin for much longer.

Angered and embittered, I forsook my dear little town of Dereczin, never to return to its ruins.

Mournful and bareheaded, we emerge from the forest and turn our faces – to Dereczin, our birthplace, the place of our childhood dreams.

We travel by wagon, with thousands of soldiers passing us by. We have already been liberated, but the missions are not yet over. They surge westward, to the front that has moved past Volkovysk. They are pursuing the Nazi Monster, in order to wipe it out entirely.

We reached Dereczin the day after we came out of the forest. A small group of Jews gathered in the town. We were greeted by the graves of the Jews, of brothers and sisters. Our hearts stopped. A few Poles come out in the streets, astonished to see those who were able to overcome the enemy and to return to their homes.

But there is no ‘home.’ The lion's share of the town had been transformed into a pile of rubble. Only a few of the houses of the Jews remained [standing], and we head for them.

What shall we do? How can we settle in these houses, when we can see the graves across the way, when we have to live next to the Christians – and we remember the depredations during the days of the Nazi occupation, their behavior on the day of the massacre. Lo, we don't even have a common language of discourse, and their attempt to ingratiate themselves arouses heartburn in us.

On the first day, it was already apparent to us that we could not stay here much longer. The aspiration of our youth, to make aliyah to the Holy Land, was rekindled within us with intensity.

We began to work, because according to the Soviet regulations, whoever doesn't work – doesn't eat. Surprisingly, units sprang up from the organizers that sent emissaries from Soviet Russia to do both farming or selling. They did not consider the fact that the Jews emerged from the forests weakened and exhausted. It was these in particular that they wanted to enlist in this sort of work in faraway lands.

It didn't take long before my husband, Abraham crossed the border to Poland. Several months later, I also reached Bialystock.

At first, I saw organized Jewish life in Bialystock, after the great destruction that overtook us. Yet, there were very few Jews there as well, and even these were a source of irritation in the eyes of the Christians. But there was a kitchen set up for those returning, and we would get one free meal there a day. But our living conditions, particularly the place where we lived was very hard to bear. But even more difficult were the relationships between the Christians and Jews. Several murders of Jews that had survived the Holocaust, occurred, and naturally, none of the murderers were ever found.

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At the same time, when it was nearly impossible to find food, it was possible to buy soap, which on its wrapper were stamped the three German letters, R.J.F. – Reine Jüdische Fett – Pure Jewish Fat.

We celebrated the Sukkot festival in the city, and a number of minyans were organized, but services were conducted with bitter weeping.

Very quickly, my illusions from the forest, that relations between Jews and Christians would get better, were shattered on the hard rock of reality.

We decided to leave Bialystock, arranged for the necessary permits, and continued on to Lublin. There were more Jews there, but our contact with them left us depressed. There were many among them who had very recently come out of hiding, and were of a mind that they were saved from death by a miracle. There was one whom the Germans had attempted to slaughter – and he came out with his throat slit, and walked among us with a mechanically-aided breathing apparatus. And there were children there, offspring of Czech Jews, that the Germans drove to slaughter literally in the final days, but a Soviet tank blocked their way to the Nazi lines -- the Germans were killed and the children were given into the hands of Jews. They, along with others who were rescued walked among us silently, turned inward, because one could still see the terror in their eyes.

We visited the death camps at Majdanek, and we heard of the judgement meted out to the Germans who had been captured in this camp, about their execution – yet anti-Semitism continued to roil around us wherever we went. We decided to leave Poland. We wandered from city to city in the area of the Czech border. The Polish winter left its mark on us, we were dressed thinly and the cold was unbearable.

And in this fashion, we crossed the Czech border by way of an unmarked road. From there, we made our way to Germany – and we went through many more wandering before we reached the Land of our Forefathers.

The Germans retreat. We still remain concealed in bunkers – until the day came that we emerged from hiding.

The family compound received an order to assemble in the partisan camp. We had a long way to go, and far to travel. In the Dobrovshchina [forest] we met with high-ranking officers of the Soviet army. We asked them if we could go home, to which they answered: ‘No, don't go yet, stay here for another week. You have survived so much, and waited so long to be liberated, wait a little longer before you go back home…’

Exactly a week later, on the anniversary of the great massacre in Dereczin, we arrived ‘home’ on a Friday night. We ran the last few kilometers, we didn't walk. We were shot at from the corn fields,

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but we arrived in Dereczin.

Among all the burned houses, our house stood intact. Two Christian families were living in it, from the worst sort in town, Mikhash Kachuk and Aganowski. The latter immediately vacated the premises the morning after our arrival, but Kachuk stayed with us for about another month.

Sunday we went to the mass graves. You can imagine how we felt, as we stood by the mounds of earth, adjacent to Shelovsky's mill, where the bones of our nearest and dearest lay. Later we found scattered bones of hands and feet, which we buried, and we put a fence around the grave. As long as we were in Dereczin that location was guarded. Now, I have no idea what remains of the mass grave.

…Like a vessel filled with shame, so does a Jew feel in his own town. Few among many, abandoned, strangers. Like a thief, he steals across the plaza of the desolated city. Even the farmers are not anxious to come to town: there is no one to sell to, and nothing to buy. They come into town at the beginning of the week, or on holidays, near the church, and upon seeing a Jewish resident of the town, proclaim in loud wonderment: – How did you stay alive?

The Jews live crowded together out of necessity, in order to mitigate the feeling of pain, the sense of fright and desolation brought on by the echoes of their kin that were exterminated.

The conversations? Words of mourning for the dead.

Young men were required to enlist immediately after the liberation, and only few of the young people remained in town usually because of assuming a responsible position in a place of work. The value of a life was frightening, and pay was low. Various necessities could be procured, but only on the black market.

We had many troubles before we left Dereczin: could one continue to live a miserable life near the graves of our dead, without being able to look the Gentiles in the eye, who conveyed such astonishment that you remained alive? Or to leave the Valley of Death, and set out on a journey with the hope of reaching a more hospitable land? But how could we abandon the graves of the dead? It seemed to us that they were looking at us with reproving eyes: don't leave us!

Before Rosh Hashanah 5706 (1945), we left Dereczin. The few Gentiles who knew about our departure promised: we will tell our children who will come after us that [here] there once was a Jewish people that Hitler exterminated, and Jews lived even in our town…

Maybe they will fulfil their promise, but how will coming generations of these Gentiles understand these tales?

For the town lies in ruins, and there is no one to rebuild it from its wreckage. The few Jews scattered to the four corners of the globe – and they are the only ones who mourn the destruction of their town and their community.

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When we were in the forest, partisans told us that our house had not been burned down, and stood intact – as if it were awaiting our return. So I thought to myself, if the ever-loving God would bring us out of this alive and well to home, I would make my house open to everyone.

And when we finally arrived in Dereczin, bread was indeed baked in my home, often two bakings a day, and this was not a burden to me. This was after our arrival from the forest.

In the meantime, winter passed, and as the Passover season drew near, my husband and I began to prepare us to make an effort to bake matzoh for the survivors. We found rolling pins and wheels in the attic, baking materials we obtained from the gentiles, and we koshered everything scrupulously.

We also obtained boards. Everything was ready to begin baking – but we were missing our dearest ones, and there was no holiday joy among us.

Everyone got together, though, and began to bake the matzoh. We had enough matzoh for everyone – and how many of us were there anyway? We even baked for Isser Mekhess and sent him the matzoh to Zelva, and for Noah Goldberg and for the Shelkoviches, who also came to participate in our Seders. All the [remaining] Jews of Dereczin came to the Seders in our house. We also made mead from honey, put seasonal beets on the table – it was a Seder with all the details attended to…

It was a kosher Passover, but without our nearest and dearest, a kosher but sad Passover among the ruins of Dereczin.

No one knew or could anticipate when the war would end. When we were living far and deep in [the heart of] vast Russia, with an open wound in our hearts after being uprooted from our cities and families, no one could know when he would again be ‘at home,’ and whom he would find there. No one knew whether we would ever find anyone “in this life” or who it would be. In our worst nightmares, no one could imagine the terrifying destruction that had befallen everyone and everything we held dear.

After the defeat of the German army in Stalingrad a spark of hope ignited our hearts: soon we might be able to return to our homes. The first witnesses to the tragedy and destruction of the Jews during the German occupation were those who voluntarily joined the Polish regiments of the Red Army, organized by the Polish leftist writer, Wanda Wasilewska.

The number of Jews in the Polish regiments was not large, and many of them fell in the terrible battles against the German army. But they had the privilege of bringing the first assistance to those Jews who had managed to survive miraculously, through pain and hunger, the terrible ordeals of the German occupation. And they lived to exact vengeance from those Germans and their allies whom they encountered in the liberated areas. But they were also the first to witness the scene of the destruction of our cities and our families.

The news of the great tragedy reached us from

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various sources, and still there remained in our hearts a remnant of hope that our nearest and dearest had succeeded in saving themselves.

Each one of us was yearning to go home hoping to find someone. On January 2, 1945, I arrived by train in Baranovich. A gentle, white snow fell on the city, but in my heart there was black darkness. All around me, there was darkness, as soon as I found out that there were no more Jews and there was no trace of my wife, children, relatives, and acquaintances. Together with a few other Jews, we wandered through the streets, ashamed and guilty: we saved ourselves, and our dear ones had perished. The brutal images of anguish that my dearest ones suffered in the last days of their existence would not let me rest.

From Baranovich I went to Dereczin. In place of that warmth with which I was usually received every time I came home, this time I was greeted by a destroyed house. I fell into a total void. No one welcomed me, no one extended his hand to me. A gentile would pass by and wonder why I, a Jew, was still among the living.

One spark of good fortune dominated my mood during those desolate days: my sister Malka's two little children, Mosheleh and Feigeleh, and her husband 'Nioma Weinstein, managed to remain in hiding through the occupation, and they survived. My sister Malka perished. She was supposed to go into hiding together with her husband and children, but at the last moment she went back to her home to pick some things up for her children. The police caught her, tortured her, and wanted to extract the hiding place of her children and husband – and she died of the torture she received at their murderous hands. Today, the children with their father are living in America. Do they remember how their loyal mother paid with her life in order to save them?

I did not recognize the home of my parents in Dereczin. Everything around was in cinders. I walked around to all the places where once we played as children, but it all looked like a cemetery. The souls of my family, friends, and acquaintances floated around me in my imagination.

I think that these holy souls demand from me that I tell the world their story, so that the memory of the destruction of the homes and families remains alive. Each house had its own story; each family had their own life.

I wander around the ruins and suddenly my ears ring with the melody of the voice of Cantor Beshkin of Dereczin. I see his imposing presence in front of me, wrapped in his prayer shawl, as he stands in the Great Synagogue on Rosh Hashanah singing Nesane Tokef. With his strong voice, his sings out the words “and as in a dream, he will fly off…” and “Is not Ephraim dear to me as a son….” He was lucky to have departed this earth before the war and did not have to live through the tragedy and the years of the Nazi Hell.

And here was the home of the pharmacist, which for us was always a symbol of culture, knowledge, and ideals.

And here was the home of Berl Kirschner, who was always an integral part of Dereczin. And here lived Shalom Sakar. And suddenly, I remember the constant smile of Bomeh Grachuk, whose children were the leaders of the Dereczin youth, proud and intelligent. Leibeh Bialosotsky who never had an argument with anyone and led a very quiet existence without complaints or demands. And the extensive family of the Beckensteins. The home of Shelovsky, with their decency, culture and calm. And there was the house of Feiveh Blizniansky with his stormy life, the permanent leader of prayer in the Rabbi's Bet HaMidrash. We will never again hear his chants on the eve of the Day of Atonement : ‘Hineni….’

All, all those Jews of Dereczin passed through my memory in those days of my wandering around the ruins. I hope they will forgive me if I find it perhaps hard to remember them all now, but they are all very dear to me today, just as they were then as I wandered among the ruins of Dereczin. They were dear to me as I remembered the large Neuer Gasse

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of the hard-working Jewish tradesmen and the alley, where the shoemakers' synagogue and the tailors' synagogue always stood open, with their worshipers, all those Jews, who with the sweat of their brows tried to eke out a living.

Not I, but those who lived through the hell of Nazi occupation, and the heroically fought partisan war will tell of instances of Jewish self-worth and pride that emerged even during those years of suffering and denigration. But with all that, I must mention the name of Mendel Feldman, who by his death, ennobled the name of all worthy Jews.

The Feldman family did not belong to the traditional Dereczin generation, but it was a Jewish family, whose family head would come with everybody else into the synagogue during the High Holydays and on a Sabbath. Mendel Feldman was always well-dressed, friendly and correct in his relationships and conversation with each and every person. At the same time, he was helpful and approachable to all those who would come to him as the Chairman of the Jewish community and the head of the Zionist movement in Dereczin.

Everyone knows how proudly he acquitted himself in responding to the German murderers – they did not kill him, he took his life when he saw that everything was lost and that the fate of the Jews was doomed. The Germans did not succeed in breaking his Jewish pride. To the last moment, he retained his godly image.

For several months, when I would come to Dereczin after work in Baranovich, I would wander from time to time in the ruins of my hometown, and the entire Jewish community would pass before my eyes, from rich to poor, from great to small - all, all of them to this day, after their destruction, who are even dearer and more beloved than ever.

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