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I was born in the town of Łopatyn on January 14, 1891. I have a deep understanding of the past 150 years of my town's Jewish history, drawn from reliable sources and my own experiences living there. Historically, a small Jewish community was present in Łopatyn even earlier than that. The Jewish residents engaged primarily in trade and acted as intermediaries between the Jewish community and the court officials of Graf Zamoyski or the town's non-Jewish population. My great-grandfather Itshele Friedman served as a loyal treasurer to Graf Zamoyski. He was fluent in both German and Polish and was therefore considered an educated man with a broad range of knowledge.

Several key institutions existed in the town, including a court, jail, post office, pharmacy, and elementary school. Following the initiative and guidance of Reb Itshele, the Graf constructed about 30 tiny houses and shops for the Jewish residents. Over time, these buildings became the city center along with the state government, court, and customs house. In addition to the town itself, the jail also served neighboring towns such as Toporów, Stanisławczyk, Shtervitz [Szczurowice], Strzemilcze, and dozens of surrounding villages. Every Wednesday, a large market day or fair was held in town. Gentile farmers from the area would bring their agricultural produce to sell while the Jews purchased everything they could lay their hands on and sold their own products to the farmers. A few Jews, primarily merchants and some farmers, resided in nearby villages. These Jewish tenants leased estates including liquor distilleries and wineries from Gentile landowners. The Gesthalter, Kardiman, Rappoport, and Shatz families were among the notable leasees. Many Jews were employed at these estates working as treasurers, business managers, and skilled artisans.

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During that period, the Graf also constructed several industrial facilities, including a flour mill, a sawmill, and other factories. These plants were managed by Jewish professionals, some of whom were described by the writer and Łopatyn native, Asher Barash, in his book Pictures from a Brewery and in other articles. At that time, there was neither a rabbi nor a ritual slaughterer in the nearby town of Stanisławczyk. The area's rabbi was our relative, Rabbi Yitzchak Leshchower, who also served as the rabbi in Łopatyn. For some time, the rabbinical judge was the grandfather of Avraham Bernholtz, Rabbi Yehuda Bernholtz. After his passing, the question of who would serve as the next rabbi arose.

During this time, the town continued to grow. The Jewish population became divided into two sects: the Belz Chassidim and the Husiatyn Chassidim. Each sect held separate prayers. As the community expanded further, the need arose to end its reliance on the nearby Stanisławczyk community and hire its own rabbi and ritual slaughterer to serve the town. They appointed Rabbi Mendel Leshchower, the son of the Rabbi from Stanisławczyk, as the town's rabbi and my maternal grandfather, known by the name Reb Yosel Shochet (Yosef Wilder), as the ritual slaughterer. The community also established a cemetery in the town. Previously, Łopatyn's residents had to transport their deceased to Stanisławczyk, approximately nine kilometers away for burial. This journey was not an easy endeavor in those days. To capture the challenges they faced, they used the Yiddish saying “Stanislavchik bagrabet Łopatyn” meaning “Stanisławczyk buries Łopatyn”. In 1914, Rabbi Leshschower left Łopatyn to move to Lwów, and Łopatyn was left with only one rabbi: Rabbi Chaim Leibish Hemerling, a Belz Chassid.

When the community brought Rabbi Leshchower from Stanisławczyk to Łopatyn, the Belz Chassidim disapproved. They were unwilling to accept a Husiatyn Chassid serving as their rabbi and wanted to appoint an additional rabbi who was a Belz Chassid. However, the community could not afford to support two paid rabbis. The earnings of a rabbi and a ritual slaughterer were modest to begin with. Approximately 40 percent of their earnings came from ritual slaughtering and selling Shabbat candles, raisins and yeast for challah. Nevertheless, the Belz Chassidim would not back down. A sharp and prolonged conflict ensued, sadly ending with the death of a local resident. This tumultuous period in Łopatyn became known as the “Period of Controversy” and I prefer not to dwell on it in detail. Eventually a compromise was reached: the Belz Chassidim would be allowed to bring their own rabbi, but the community would not be financially responsible for him. My grandfather, Reb Yosel, continued to serve both factions. The Belz Chassidim appointed Rabbi Chaim Leibish Hemerling from Shtervitz as their rabbi. He was a clever individual and a learned Torah scholar. Many years later, when my grandfather, Reb Yosel Shochet, passed away, the possibility of conflict over a successor arose anew. Fortunately, my grandfather designated his son, Reb Elazar, my maternal uncle, to succeed him. He was a good-hearted man and well respected by the entire town. Only thanks to his character did the matter end well. Two arbitrators were chosen to help resolve the situation: Reb Wolfzi Kaufman represented the Belz Chassidim, while my father, Reb Shalom Shechna Friedman, represented the Husiatyn Chassidim. An additional review of this matter took place in Brody ultimately resulting in the confirmation of Reb Elazar Wilder as the town's slaughterer and kosher inspector.

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Over time, passions calmed down, and a certain understanding between the two factions was established. A new generation arose, for whom the Chassidim's quarrels were contrary to their nature. More modern-thinking individuals with broader perspectives found a common language, and the town's conflicts subsided.

In this town of Łopatyn, Asher Barash, the famous author and poet, was born. He was two years older than me, and his home was close to mine. We studied together at the cheder of Reb Shechna. Asher excelled in his studies, possessing a phenomenal memory and impressive learning ability. However, outside of the cheder, he often behaved wildly and mischievously. One Shabbat when we were playing near a house that was under construction, he lost his footing and broke his leg. The local physician, Dr. Rosenbaum, did his best to mend the injury, but his efforts were only partially successful. That event left a mark on Barash that would last for the rest of his life. He had to stay home for two years and could not interact with other children and people outside. Only after two years did he manage to venture outside with a walker. Asher's father, Herzl, was a respected and learned Jew who served as cantor in our kloyz. Herzl took the time to teach Asher the Torah so he would not fall behind in his studies.

At the same time–a few years before the First World War–the first Zionist association named “Hatikvah” [“The Hope”] was established in Łopatyn with Asher among its founders. The founders faced numerous challenges as Belz Chassidim did everything in their power to disrupt the formation and operation of the association. Children who dared to visit that association suffered severe consequences including physical punishment, a lack of food, and expulsion from their homes. The windows where the association was housed were frequently broken. To the Chassidim, anything associated with Zionism was considered unacceptable, and they attempted to prevent the association's existence by any means necessary.

Another notable resident was Hanoch Yalon (Hanoch Distenfeld). He is recognized as our time's leading linguist and Talmudic researcher. S. Y, Agnon referred to him as “our language's greatest linguist” in his article Mishmana Ha'aretz” [“From the oil of the Holy Land”], which is included a the book about Hanoch Yalon, “Chacham Leshonenu B'dor” [Language Expert of Our Generation]. He is known for researching the vocalization of the Mishnah, and he published many books about the science of the Hebrew language. Hanoch's parents were Reb Avraham Distenfeld and Sara (née Wilder), my mother's sister. He is a part of a large and extended family. Hanoch's brother, Dov, who passed away in Jerusalem in 1965, was also a distinguished scholar. He possessed vast knowledge of the Torah, and his understanding of the Talmud was remarkable, enabling him to tackle Talmudic halachic issues that many prominent scholars found challenging. Their nephew, Akiva Distenfeld, who also passed away in 1965, was one of the heads of the National Library in Jerusalem. Mordechai Yalon, may he live long, is another brother of Hanoch and Dov.

In Łopatyn, people recalled that the town's rabbi, Reb Chaim Leibush Hemerling, once admonished Hanoch to abandon his “childish games” and his interest in Zionism, encouraging him instead to study in the beit midrash and continue in his father's footsteps as a Belz Chassid. Hanoch responded: “When it comes to the Torah and Talmud, I am confident in my knowledge,” and he challenged the rabbi to test him. The rabbi agreed and began testing the youngster. Hanoch impressed the rabbi with his knowledge and proficiency, prompting the rabbi to remark that a learned youth like Hanoch deserved to be respected.

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In 1907, elections were held for the Austrian Parliament in Vienna. In our Brody district, Adolf Stand, a prominent Zionist leader, was a candidate. However, the Polish National-Democratic Party (Endeks) chose to support Marian Wohlerner, an assimilated Jew who had become estranged from his community. Despite Wohlerner's wealth, which the Poles had hoped to use to sway Jewish voters, Adolf Stand was ultimately elected. Stand received significant support from the Belz Chassidim, mainly under the influence of the local Jewish youth led by Hanoch.

Henryk Suchestów, a Jewish man with a consistently nationalistic orientation, purchased the Łopatyn estate from Graf Vishinski. His treatment of the officials and workers at the estate was consistently fair. All the officials who worked at the estate retained their positions. Overall, the entire Jewish community greatly benefited from the Suchestów family, which was known as a good and loyal Jewish family.

With the outbreak of the First World War in 1914, the entire area around Łopatyn was seized by the Russian military. I spent the war years in Hungary and managed to avoid being conscripted into the Austrian military. Upon my return to Łopatyn in 1919, I found Suchestów managing the estate on his own, and many Jews earned their living working there. The Roman Catholic priest Shafranski owned a 500 Morgens [1 Morgen= about ¼ hectare] estate. He had friendly relations with Suchestów and maintained a fair and friendly attitude toward the Jewish community. He also employed several Jewish workers.

Mr. Suchestów appointed me to manage his winery. He also requested that my younger brothers, Chaim and Yosef, learn the trade to ensure a smooth transition of the winery's management for when I would eventually leave. As a result, my brothers secured employment until the outbreak of the Second World War.

After I married, I moved to Rava Ruska but returned to Łopatyn during the Soviet regime. When the Ukrainians sensed that the Germans were likely to arrive soon, they dressed in their holiday clothing, celebrated, and waited for the Germans while holding bouquets of flowers. As soon as the Germans entered, the Ukrainians took the lead, and along with some Volksdeutsche, attacked the Jews, and the torture and troubles began. They came to our house looking for alcoholic beverages and liquor. Our cellar had been flooded with rainwater, but the Germans suspected that we had intentionally flooded the cellar to hide the liquor. They attacked my father and me, striking us with brutal blows. We were taken to a military court (Reichskriegsgericht), where we were sentenced to death. In the meantime, my sister managed to reach out to a Volksdeucher named Fitz, who had remained in the town since the First World War. He was a good friend and acquaintance of our family. My sister told him what happened to us, and he ran to the court to testify on our behalf. He told the Germans that we were a quiet and productive family and that our skills in winemaking and distilling spirits could benefit them.

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Thanks to him, the Germans released us the same day. When my father and I stepped out onto the street, we lost consciousness and collapsed on the pavement. I spent weeks on my deathbed because of the injuries I sustained that week.

A Gestapo officer by the name of Roth arrived in the town and took control of the fate of the Jewish population, deciding matters of life and death. He organized a Jewish militia and appointed Subotsky as its leader. The Germans also established the Judenrat, the Jewish council, and Shaul Reif was appointed its leader. Moshe Zimitsker became the commander of the Jewish police force. Horrific persecutions began. The Jewish residents–young and old alike– were forced to perform strenuous physical labor from seven in the morning till seven at night, all while being supervised by the Germans. A severe shortage of food products transpired, leading to hunger in some areas. The Jewish population resorted to bartering with the local Gentiles, trading clothing and linens for small amounts of food. Clearly, the Gentiles benefited the most from those deals. However, a few Gentile farmers who had good relations with Jewish residents continued to support some families secretly.

My wife, Reitza z”l went to visit her mother in Rava Ruska and on her way back to Łopatyn, she stopped to visit my cousin, Wolf Friedman, in Lwów, expecting to stay for a few days. Unfortunately, the war between Russia and Germany broke out just then forcing her to stay in Lwów. The city was experiencing heavy artillery bombardment. During a brief pause in the shelling, she went out with my cousin and several other residents to get water from a nearby pump. However, they could not return; the bombardment resumed, and a bomb fell nearby killing my cousin and five other residents. My wife Reitza suffered severe injuries. That incident happened on the 3^rd of Tamuz, (June 28th) 1941.

My cousin's wife notified me about the disaster so I sent a Gentile from Łopatyn to bring my wife home. He managed to bring her, disguised as a Gentile, in his cart. Had she been discovered as a Jew, she would have been killed on the spot, and certainly they checked identities of the travelers several times during the trip. My wife arrived in Łopatyn in very poor condition. There was neither a physician nor medications available, and no one knew how to care for her. Additionally, we had to keep her injury a secret since the Germans murdered all the sick people that were known to them. Therefore, she suffered both physically and mentally, and we were powerless to help her.

My wife, Reitza (née Graf) from Rava Ruska, tragically passed away on Sunday morning, the 23^rd of Av, [August 16th] 1941. She was the mother of my son Yentzi z”l, who was also a victim of the Holocaust. He was killed at the young age of 19. My wife was also the mother of my dear daughter Rosalie, may she live long, who survived the horrors along with me.

A Ukrainian named Nomirko managed the distillery for the Germans. He demanded that the Judenrat provide him with workers for this factory. On one occasion, he ordered eight workers

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to grind malt using a manual grinder. This task is one of the most strenuous possible. Even worse, he took Jewish laborers to clean canals, sewer ditches, and a small river near the distillery. The workers were forced to enter the dirty, deep stream fully clothed and to sift through the mud and filth with their bare hands while a militiaman with a whip lashed at them continually. It was not a type of work that brought respect to a worker but rather was a symbol of the worthlessness and humiliation of a Jewish individual whose life became prey for prey animals.

One day, Nomirko arrived at the distillery with a Gestapo officer to show him how he employed the Jewish workers. He opened a sack of ground malt and discovered a dead mouse inside. This triggered a furious outburst of yelling and cursing. The Jewish workers fell to their knees, pleading mercy and insisting it was not their fault. However, their pleas fell on deaf ears. The workers were brutally beaten, arrested and thrown into a cellar. As evening fell, Nomirko appeared and told the eight imprisoned workers that he would release them if they gave him 200 zlotys. The prisoners collected the money with great difficulty. Once the zlotys was handed over, the eight were released and they fled as quickly as possible.

A “sheigetz” [a Yiddish name for a Gentile youth] from the town told Gestapo officer Roth that my two brothers, Chaim and Yosef, had cursed him and called him a German pig. Roth did not fully understand what the boy had said, so he called over some Volksdeutsche for clarification. Immediately the trouble began. The Gestapo officer arrived at our house with a pistol, threatening to kill the entire family if we did not bring my brothers to him. I tried to explain to him that the accusation was nothing more than a false claim, but once again my words fell on deaf ears. The situation became dire. He gave us a deadline of four o'clock in the afternoon at which time my brothers needed to appear before him for punishment. I told him my brothers would know what awaited them and would likely run away. However, I offered to accept the punishment in their place. That's when the truth came to light. Roth said that if we gave him 100 zlotys, he would forgive them. This was predicated on the condition that the entire matter stay a secret or our lives would be at risk. I managed to gather 60 Zlotys with tremendous difficulty and handed it over to him. He was satisfied with that amount, and that was how we were saved for the second time.

Our situation worsened by the day. The Germans began to cut the beards of Jewish men. They just plucked the hair from my father's beard until he bled. We experienced a shortage of food and Jews paid a high price for a dry piece of bread or a few potatoes. Some farmers, especially the older ones, felt pity and secretly supported a Jew here and there. But the young shkotzim [plural of sheigetz] caused a lot of trouble, harassing every Jew. They threw dog and cat carcasses into the wells of the Jews to prevent us from drinking the water. Very young Gentile boys used slingshots to shoot little stones into the eyes of Jewish children, and in one instance, a Jewish boy - the son of David Satz, lost an eye.

In one instance, Gestapo officer Roth caught two Jewish boys, Frankel and Gottlieb. He beat them severally for no reason and ordered them to crawl on their hands

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and knees through sewer ditches and under all the small bridges, in mud and filth all the way to the cemetery–a distance of a few kilometers. With every raising of their head, they received a whipping. At the cemetery, Roth killed Gottlieb–the cousin of the Nisyahu brothers in Haifa–and Frankel was forced to crawl from the cemetery back to town. Fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters witnessed that barbaric event with sorrowful hearts and eyes weary with tears. Here and there, even some Christians shed a tear. One Pole, who lived not far from the cemetery, photographed the shot fired at Gottlieb from his window. I saw the picture when I returned to the town after my liberation from the Germans.

The cold weather began to set in as November came to a close. On Friday morning, Roth ordered all the town's Jewish residents to gather at the distillery yard. The members of the Judenrat did their best to collect Jews from every corner they could reach. Some people managed to hide; other people were kidnapped and brought to the gathering place. My brother and I had licenses as distillery workers so we were not obliged to show up to that gathering. After everybody gathered, an order was given: “All Jews must take a bath”. Under the threat of Roth's gun, the Ukrainian Police and the Jewish militia commander, Moshe Zimitsker, the Jews were forced to enter the water basin by the distillery. It was like a game. Nomirko held a pistol and yelled: “Filthy Jews to the Mikvah for Shabbat!” They kept the Jews from morning till evening on a cold day in filthy water. People began to lose consciousness. Roth gave orders to remove those people and lay them on the bridge above the water. They didn't release everyone until the evening, and the people arrived home faint, humiliated, beaten, dirty, and barely alive. Over the following days, some Jews died as a result of that Aktzia.

A fair was held in Łopatyn's market square every Wednesday. One day, after the fair ended, Gestapo officer Roth ordered Leizer Wilder, also known as Mazor, to draw water from the well and water the horses returning from the fair. Leizer complied for a while but eventually grew tired of the task. He mustered the courage to tell Roth he no longer wanted to carry water. In response, Roth slapped him across his face. Without hesitation, Leizer retaliated, striking back at Roth. The German fell to the ground, and while trying to regain his composure, Leizer took the opportunity to escape. In an unexpected turn of events, Roth, the German “hero,” stood up, turned around, and left without asking which Jew had hit him. Remarkably, the whole incident went without any further response. A deep fear gripped Leizer's family, but no harm came to them. To this day, I wonder why the German did not respond to the confrontation.

The winter of 1941/42 was particularly harsh for the Jews. Slowly and gradually, all Jewish property was transferred to the Gentiles. Desperate, the Jews were forced to trade everything they owned for a mere piece of bread. While the kidnappings of Jews for forced labor stopped, new dangers arose as Gentiles–often from the lowest strata of society–formed violent gangs. Under the cover of night, these gangs would attack, rob and beat Jews. No one intervened to stop them.

A year passed under German rule.

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The Jews were forbidden to leave town, and anyone caught disobeying the order faced the death sentence. To help those in need, we established a soup kitchen that benefited many. Some Jews who could still afford it supported that initiative and even some Christians secretly contributed. They brought some potatoes, peas, and beans. People in need could take the food home or eat it at the beit midrash. However, this situation did not last long, as the Aktzia began shortly afterward. It was close to Rosh Hashanah in 1942 when men, women, and children were taken to Belzec. Shortly thereafter, on the first day of Chol HaMoed of Sukkot, the final annihilation of the entire Jewish population took place. About 200 Jews from Łopatyn were taken to nearby Radziechów and from there to Belzec. Thanks to the work permits for distillery workers, my children, brothers, sisters, and I were saved from that Aktzia. After the Aktzia, members of the Judenrat came to my house and ordered us to leave because our apartment was set to become a government office. Through Mr. Fitz, we received permission from the commander to move my entire family to the house at the distillery. My parents, two children, two brothers, two sisters, and I relocated there.

After the expulsion and the extermination of the town's entire Jewish population, a German named Langen came to see me. He said he could no longer protect us. According to his information, the Germans were planning to take us in the coming days, and he advised us to do everything we could to hide. We took his advice and built three bunkers within the distillery house. One bunker was designated for my parents and two sisters, the second bunker was for my children and me, and the third bunker housed my brothers and the fiancée of one of them. A few days later, I observed, through a hatch in the bunker, that the “Volksdeutsche” Lipa and the Jewish militia policeman Sonsky were examining the yard and the field of the plant. I realized they were searching for us. They found the bunker where my parents and sisters were hiding. The rest of us managed to survive that search. That confirmed that they would continue searching for us and were likely to find us. When nobody was watching, we left the distillery and hid in a field with swamps and reeds. We could hear gunfire and the sounds of their searches, but they did not find us. Once the area became quiet, we headed toward Stanisławczyk, about nine kilometers away.

That town was part of the Brody district and had yet to become Judenrein [free of Jews]. For us, covering that distance felt as difficult as the “parting of the Red Sea”. The Styr River flowed near that town, and in order to reach the town, we needed to cross a bridge. One option was to go through a Ukrainian village, which we were afraid to do. Another option was to go through the fields, but that posed the risk of sinking into the swamps. A group of us, including one of my brothers, my children, and me, approached the river only to find out the water was too deep. Suddenly, we heard the sound of a wagon and realized that we must be close to the bridge. We crawled toward the bridge, fearing the worst, but we crossed it safely and finally arrived in the city at night. We encountered a Jewish man returning home from the synagogue on the eve of Hoshana Rabbah [a holiday on the seventh day of Sukkot]. He guided us to the local Judenrat. The character of the Judenrat in Stanisławczyk was completely

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different than that of Łopatyn. The man who was a member of the Judenrat brought us to his home, and there we found about 20 Jews from Łopatyn who had escaped the Aktzia. The following morning, we ate breakfast at the Judenrat member's home. He offered us encouragement, assuring us that in Stanisławczyk, we would have less fear. He mentioned that the Jewish militia was not as cruel, and he would assist us in finding a place to live. The name of that Judenrat member was Elazar Halpern.

On Shemini Atzeret [a holiday celebrated the day after Sukkot], Elazar went to pray at the beit midrash. He mentioned that he would arrange for proper apartments for us when he returned. Later, he asked if we had a young boy among us. He planned to send the boy to live with the leader of the Jewish militia, and the leader would protect him from the Germans. “We will need to give the militiaman something in return,” Elazar said. I offered to give him a good fur that I had hidden with a Gentile in a neighboring village. The militiaman's wife came to take my son and took the fur with her. My son, Yaakov, stayed at the home of the Jewish militia's commander in Stanisławczyk for several weeks. In the meantime, an Aktzia against the Jews took place in Stanisławczyk though it was not as brutal as what had occurred in Łopatyn. When the Judenrat found out about it, its members went from one house to another at night and warned the Jews about what was going to happen. Many Jews left the town that night to hide in the neighboring village of Pankova, or in the surrounding forest. The village farmers, who likely had good relations with the Jews, provided them with food and other necessities. In that forest, I encountered two Gentile farmers who later saved me from certain death. After this Aktzia, it was decided [by the Germans] that Stanisławcyk should become Judenfrei by the 30th of December of that year, and they planned to move the remaining Jews to Brody.

My parents along with one of my sisters who were moved to Radziechów, miraculously survived there and were not taken to Belzec like the rest of the Jewish community. I learned about their survival from the neighboring farmers. I asked one of them with whom I had hidden a sewing machine to bring my parents from Radziechów to Stanisławczyk. In exchange, I gave him the sewing machine. He brought my parents [and possibly my sister] on Friday just before Shabbat. The following morning, we were all transferred to the Brody ghetto.

A few days before the expulsion from Stanisławczyk, I visited Brody to search for a hiding place. During my visit, I met a boy named Froike Singer who used to work as a locksmith at the distillery in Łopatyn. His brother was a policeman in Brody. Thanks to these connections, I was able to secure a suitable apartment. Before returning to Stanisławczyk, a partial Aktzia took place in Brody. They caught Jews in the streets, including me. In total, 80 Jews were apprehended by the police. The Gestapo took us outside the city into a grove and ordered us to dig ditches. We worked all night. The following morning, they commanded us to strip naked and pack our belongings and clothes. Amidst the sound of gunfire, we jumped into the ditches. I was one of the first to leap into a ditch,

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and fortunately none of the bullets struck me. However, the people who were shot fell on top of me, burying me beneath them. I lost consciousness and remained unconscious throughout the entire day. I regained consciousness in the evening and wanted to get out of the ditch, but I realized I could not do it alone. Miraculously, five other people– three women and two men–had also survived. I yelled for help, and they assisted me in getting out of the ditch. In total, there were six survivors. Later, I managed to find the clothing I had previously packed.

We did not know where to turn or where to go. In the distance, we saw a fading light and decided to go in the direction of the light. We arrived at a tiny house where a lonely woman, a farmer, lived. She was afraid to let us in her home but did us a favor. She milked a cow very quickly and gave us milk to drink. The five survivors returned to Brody, while I wanted to return to my family in Stanisławczyk. With the help of the woman farmer who showed me the direction to take, I found my way there.

To avoid causing panic in Stanisławczyk, I did not tell anyone what happened to me in Brody. Later, we all moved to Brody and settled into the apartment Froike Singer had arranged for me. We were subjected to forced, hard labor and endured suffering and torture. Hunger had taken a significant toll on the people. I received some assistance from the Gentiles in Łopatyn who secretly brought us some food, even traveling the distance to Brody [about 30 kilometers]. This was possible thanks to the good relationships I had maintained with them and the property I left with them in Łopatyn.

This situation lasted until the Aktzia that took place on May 21, 1943. Rumors circulated in the ghetto that many Gestapo officers and Ukrainians had arrived in the city along with empty freight train cars. We realized that an Aktzia was imminent, and it was possible that the Germans would declare Brody Judenrein. In response, we arranged bunkers within the house and found a small cellar to hide in, settling there for protection.

The gunfire began on Friday morning, marking the start of the Aktzia. In our apartment building, there were two other bunkers, but the Germans discovered them and captured everyone hiding inside. Fortunately, the Nazis did not find our bunker, which sheltered 29 people. The Aktzia continued – day and night – from Friday till Monday morning. Our house was located on the main road, so we heard the cries and wails of the oppressed and beaten people outside being taken to their deaths. Unfortunately, two elderly individuals and a young child died in our hideout due to poor sanitary conditions and the accumulation of filth.

When calm returned to the street, I was finally able to emerge from the cellar to see what was happening outside. The street was deserted, and a deep silence enveloped the town. I returned to the cellar, bringing a pail of water with me. We had stored coal and kerosene in the cellar in advance, preparing for the possibility that the city would be declared Judenrein. If that were to happen, our fate would be sealed and we would take our own lives rather than be captured by the Germans. My daughter, who was 14 at the time, did not agree with that decision under any circumstances. As evening fell, she climbed out of the cellar with me. After that, the rest of the people slowly came out as well. Besides my daughter and me,

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my two sisters and one brother were also in the cellar. My son was no longer with us as he had been captured earlier and sent away. We decided to cross the barbed wire surrounding the ghetto in pairs rather than all together. My siblings headed toward the forest while my daughter and I lost our way. Suddenly, we realized we were approaching the Brody train station so we decided to turn around and head toward the forest. A vehicle loaded with German soldiers passed by, but no one stopped us. As we neared the forest, I raised my voice and began calling out my siblings' names, but my calls went unanswered. I never saw them again. I learned about their fate later on.

While we were walking in the forest, my daughter and I spotted a man walking in the distance, and he also noticed us. Although we were all afraid to approach each other, we eventually met. It turned out that he was a Jewish man from Brody named Kwachke who also escaped from the ghetto. We continued walking together throughout the night and reached the village of Berlyn at dawn. However, we were afraid to enter the village so we temporarily hid in a wheat field. The tall stalks provided cover so that we could lie down and rest without being seen. Later a farmer who owned the adjacent field arrived with two mules and a plow to plow his field. He had a dog with him. We felt powerless and unsure what to do. The farmer did not notice us, but his dog came over several times, sniffing around, and then returned to the farmer without barking. We knew that if the dog had barked, it would have undoubtedly led to our discovery, and we had no idea how the farmer would react.

We lay in the wheat field all day before continuing our journey. The Gentiles noticed us and began to shout: “Here are the Zhids running away.” Fortunately, we managed to escape and reached the vast forest that extended almost all the way to Stanisławczyk. We approached the town in the morning, but as soon as we arrived at a familiar part of town, we began to get confused. The town's appearance had changed; the Gentiles had begun to dismantle the wooden houses of the Jews for fire wood or construction. Unsure of how to reach the bridge, we decided to follow the river. As we approached, we noticed a flickering fire at the edge of the bridge. I suspected that the bridge guard lit the fire. With daylight approaching, we knew we had no choice but to cross the bridge. Indeed, a German soldier lie sleeping at the edge of the bridge with his rifle resting beside him. The bridge was 100 meters long, and when we crossed we saw a bonfire, and near it, another sleeping German soldier with his rifle by his side. My daughter, Kwachke and I quietly passed him, and from there, it was just a short distance to the Pankova Forest. Hunger was a constant torment for us. We had not eaten for several days. We wanted to drink water from the river, but the water was polluted and contaminated, teeming with vermin, worms, mosquitoes, and more. With no other options, I took off my hat, filled it with water, and the three of us drank from it as if it were a filter.

I knew the forest well. We rested a bit. First, we needed to find some food.

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I decided to turn to Turkowski, the farmer from the village of Pankova, who had previously brought food to us in the forest. I left my daughter and Kwachka behind and walked toward the village. I knew that Turkowski lived on the far side of the village, but I was not sure where his house was located. I had to cross the entire village and occasionally ask the locals for directions. After some searching, I finally found his house, but he did not recognize me immediately. After I introduced myself, he welcomed me warmly. He made sure to secure the house leaving only one back door open so that I could escape if necessary. I washed and shaved while in his home. I drank and ate until I was full. Before I left, he packed a large sack of food, including bread, butter, and cheese. As I was heading out, he said: “You can come to me as often as you like, just not at night.” When I returned to the forest with the generous supplies and the news about Turkowski's willingness to help us, my daughter and Kwachka were overjoyed.

After several days of suffering and hunger, and after we finally had something to eat, the question arose again: “And what next?” We were located only about 8 kilometers away from our town, Łopatyn. We had a few Gentile acquaintances whose loyalty we could rely on and one of them was Ivan Bilyk. While Kwachke remained in the forest, my daughter and I decided to head toward Bilyk's house. We first needed to pass through the small village of Vyrki[?]. In the evening as we approached the village, we were surrounded by the village's shepherds. They decided to take us to the village and turn us over to the militia and the village leader. In the meantime, a few of them ran into the village to announce that they had captured Jews. Fortunately the village leader arrived, and he turned out to be Lisek, a friend from my youth who recognized me from our school days. He dismissed the farmers who had surrounded us and assured them he would turn us over to the militia, asking them not to intervene. Lisek guided us to the forest's edge and said: “Friedman, you are lucky to have found me. I cannot help you directly, but I can suggest you take another route to reach Bilyk. This trail here will lead you to his home.”

We returned to the forest and headed toward Bilyk's house the following day. It was quite a distance, and we did not arrive until nightfall. Not wanting to be let in at that hour, we slept on the ground outside and waited until daybreak to knock on the window. Bilyk's wife opened the window and told me my brother and sisters had been with them. She explained that Bilyk had taken them to his cousin's house because it was too dangerous for them to stay; the neighbors were malicious and could easily deliver them to anybody interested. I asked her for some food, and she handed me a loaf of bread. She warned us that we needed to leave immediately if we wanted to survive. After that, we returned to the forest and decided to come out only in the evenings. While staying in the forest, I heard gunshots not too far away. Shortly afterwards, I heard footsteps approaching. Upon closer inspection, I recognized Polni Stokl, the jail director's son who lived in our town. He informed me that my brother and sisters had been captured and were taken to Radziechów. He later confirmed my bitter suspicion about the reason for the gunfire.

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I suspected that the gunfire was connected to the deaths of my relatives, and Stokl confirmed my suspicion. He mentioned that he was headed to Golitski where he owned a windmill and that he would try to bring us bread. Later, he indeed brought us bread and a jug of water. After we parted ways, I returned to the forest with my daughter and returned to my neighbor, Kwachke.

Throughout our time in the forest, Kwachke held a package. I had no idea what was inside; I only assumed it contained something valuable. However, he lost the package and came up with a crazy idea. He blamed me for taking the package and hiding it with my Gentile acquaintances in the area so I could hide with them and leave him behind. My counterclaims were in vain. He refused to back down and, with knife in hand, threatened me. He demanded that I return the package or he would kill me. My daughter began to beg and cry until he relented and agreed to wait until the following morning. The next day, we searched in the daylight for the package and found it by a nearby tree. Kwachke broke down in tears and begged for forgiveness for his wild behavior. We understood his distress and forgave him.

We lived in a bunker that we built in the forest. We prepared meals using vegetables and potatoes that we gathered from the fields. We cooked those potatoes by lighting a fire, even in the winter snow. During the day, the fire was hard to see from a distance because of the fog in the forest. However, we were careful not to light a fire at night.

The liberation was approaching. My daughter, Kwachke and I, along with Leizer and another girl [who had previously joined us in the forest], lived in the bunker. One day, we felt that someone was moving above us. My daughter, who was very courageous and agile, poked her head out of the bunker to see who had just passed by. She saw two armed men, one of whom was carrying a tin suitcase. Fearing that these men or their comrades, who also might be armed, would return, Kwachke and Leizer, two healthy and strong men, took axes and hoes to search for a suitable location for a new bunker. I stayed behind with my daughter and the other girl. About half an hour later, we suddenly heard a command in Polish: “Get out of the bunker, we will throw bombs inside!” These men positioned the three of us, each by a different tree. They aimed their rifles at us and began to interrogate us. They asked for our names, where we came from, and other similar questions. We described our experiences to them. Afterwards, they ordered us to return to the bunker. One of the men stayed to guard us while the other two went to search for Kwachke and Leizer, as we had told them the whole truth. Immediately after that, we heard gunfire coming from the forest. It was so close that we thought the shots were directed at us. We were sure that our end was near, and each of us began to pray heartful prayers customary for such situations. The two men who went to search for Kwachke and Leizer returned in the evening. They pulled us out of the bunker and positioned us near trees again. However, this time they did not threaten us with their rifles. They said they were from the Russian “Rozviadka” [?].

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They also said they shot and killed two Jews in the forest. However, they blamed it on the Jews who began to run away when they were ordered to stop. If they had obeyed the order, they would still be alive. They made us promise not to tell anyone what happened. They instructed us to go back to the bunker because the Germans had surrounded the forest. We parted ways with a handshake, and they asked us to forgive them for killing two of our people. When we asked them for some food, they replied: “We eat snow. You should do the same. You can survive for a few days; liberation is near. Perhaps you will survive.” And then they left.

Late at night, we heard footsteps; it was Leizer. He explained that he and Kwachke had run away in different directions when they saw the armed men. Leizer did not know what happened to Kwachke, but he managed to survive the ordeal. When the gunfire erupted, he fainted and fell to the ground, lying in the snow until he regained consciousness. By that time, the two armed strangers were no longer in sight.

In the morning, we set out to look for Kwachke. We didn't find him and he didn't return either. It turned out that he died and we didn't discover him because he was covered by snow. All of that happened on Monday. Beginning on Tuesday and continuing through Friday, there was horrific and terrifying gunfire and bombardments between the Germans and the Russians. That marked the battle for control of Brody. The intensity of the battle sounds increased day to day. Trees in the forest fell due to the force of the air blasts. At night, the sky was horrifically Illuminated. We heard a tremendous explosion on Friday evening and the ground trembled beneath our feet. After that there was an unsettling calm and silence which was difficult to explain. We could hear voices in the distance, but we did not understand what was being said. On Saturday evening, Leizer and I decided to go see Turkowski or Mischko in order to find out what had happened. We were hungry and tired, and the walk was challenging, but we managed to drag our feet while bullets whistled overhead. Miraculously, we eventually arrived at Turkowski's house. We knocked twice on the right side of the window, our agreed-upon sign. Turkowski opened the window and said that he had nothing for us. “I ran out of everything, but I will give you some coals to keep you warm,” he said. He suggested we visit another Gentile named Kamitz, where we might find something we needed. So, we decided to follow his advice. We opened the gate to the yard and went inside. Suddenly, armed men rose up against us, yelling, “Raise your hands!” We became frightened, thinking these were the Banderovites”^[i] who harassed and killed Jews. However, we quickly learned that these armed men belonged to the regular Russian army. The soldiers asked us who we were. When we answered that we were Jews from the forest, they invited us to enter the house. Noticing that we were tired and hungry, they offered us bread, water, and sugar and let us lie down on the hay in the corner of the house. I informed the commander that my daughter and another girl were waiting for us in a bunker in the forest, and I wanted to bring them to the house. He stated that the journey was dangerous at night and advised me to try to get them in the morning.

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He also mentioned that he would provide us with an escort. He said he would send us off after the girls arrived. The following day, accompanied by two officers, we arrived at the bunker. The joy of reuniting with the girls was immense. They had been worried about our safety and were afraid something terrible had happened to us. It was Shabbat evening, April 4, 1944.

We spent two days at the Russian headquarters. On Tuesday, I learned several officers were leaving for my town, Łopatyn. I requested permission to travel with them, and it was granted. Upon arriving in town, I visited a farmer who had stored some of our clothing for us. Suddenly, a rumor spread that the Germans were coming back. My daughter ran away without waiting for me. She left a note with one of our farmer acquaintances, explaining how she escaped and how to find her. Fortunately, the Germans–may their names be blotted out–did not return, and I reunited with my daughter a few hours later. The Russians sent me to Równe [Rivne], where I was appointed to manage a wine distillery. They returned me to Łopatyn three months later to fulfill the same role.

At the end of my story, I want to describe several additional experiences I had previously forgotten, and which I did not include in the previous chapters.

Many Jews took their own lives in the forests. The reasons varied: hunger, fear, losing the strength to continue suffering, a lice plague that wreaked havoc among these people, and more. For example, a man named Yehoshua Rawer and his wife hid in the forest. Their son now resides in Israel. Yehoshua was a wealthy Jew who surrendered his entire property to a Gentile so he could hide with him until the war was over. The Gentile held him for a certain period of time, but after acquiring all of Yehoshua's property, he did what many other Gentiles did. When winter came, he expelled the Jew, leaving him at the mercy of the Nazis. That was the grim fate of many Jews during that period. Tortured, hungry, and humiliated, many felt hopeless and chose to end their own lives. Rawer was a devout and God-fearing Jew. He wandered into the forest carrying his tallit and tefillin, and his wife brought along a “Korban Mincha” Siddur. One day, they walked to the cemetery in Stanisławczyk and dug a grave for themselves. They approached the local militia and asked to be shot in the grave because they were disgusted with their lives. Of course the militiamen granted them this tragic “favor.” Reb Yhoshua Rawer, covered with his tallit and tefillin along with his wife, lay down in the grave as a militiaman shot them. A Gentile named Shishka, an honest and kind-hearted man who saved many Jews on various occasions recounted the story to me. Moshe Waldbaum from Dymytrów, who also hid in the forest, confirmed that account.

When we were in the forest, we worried more about food in the summer than in the winter. In the winter, we ate potatoes, but during the summer when the days were long, we saw farmers working in the fields the whole day. Our fear of encountering them kept us from going out to gather potatoes. We hardly had any bread, and even the Gentiles sometimes suffered from occasional shortages. Once, while I was near a wheat field and was very hungry, I picked wheat seeds from the stalks and chewed on them. At the time, I did not feel a seed get stuck in my throat.

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Later on, two days before Yom Kippur, I started experiencing a choking sensation along with severe pain in my throat. My face swelled up, making drinking, eating, and talking difficult. The pain was so intense that I felt as if my end was near. My daughter brought several Jewish acquaintances to the forest to comfort me. If I were to die, God forbid, being that it was after the liberation, they assured me they would take my body to Łopatyn for burial. After receiving such “comfort,” I realized I needed to take action to prevent my death. I sent my daughter to Kamitz, the good-hearted Gentile who had helped us on occasion, to bring me a sewing sack needle. I then asked her to heat and sterilize the needle over the fire and then give it to me. Since I could not talk, I communicated all of this in writing. I inserted the needle into the swollen area several times until the abscess broke. Pus and blood came out of my mouth and I was saved. My eyes lit up. The following day was Yom Kippur, and I fasted along with everyone else.

After the liberation, I remained in Łopatyn for a year, where I worked as the manager of a spirit factory. My financial situation was stable, but we did not want to stay there. We registered for a transfer to Poland^[ii]. After the war, only a few Jews remained in Łopatyn, however, we were the only Łopatyn natives. We left Łopatyn on July 6, 1945 and settled in Poland, in the city of Bytom [near Katowice]. I was elected as the head of the local Jewish community and later served as a judge. I presided over many court cases involving Nazi criminals. I had a job at the textile center in Bytom and earned a living inspecting warehouses.

During the German occupation of Łopatyn, the local militia was comprised of Ukrainians and Volksdeutsche. One member of this militia was Aloisi Lipa, whose name deserves to be forgotten. He was notably skilled at capturing Jews and uncovering their hiding places. When the Germans withdrew, they took Lipa with them. The Russians searched for him but were unable to find him. In 1945, I spotted Lipa walking down the street and immediately notified the police. They subsequently arrested him. I was called as the sole witness to testify against him in court. However, during the trial, the priest from Łopatyn, a known anti-Semite, appeared alongside 20 other Gentiles. They claimed to know Lipa well and insisted that he was a Volksdeutsche who had never harmed any Jew. As a result, my testimony was dismissed, and he was set free. I was distraught and demanded that the prosecutor charge me instead since I had sworn to tell the truth, and by dismissing my claim, the judge claimed I lied. By seeking to become a defendant, I aimed to invigorate the discussion of the issue. Unfortunately, all of my efforts were in vain. Although I had the right to appeal to the Polish Supreme Court in Warsaw, other considerations led me to forgo that option. Ultimately, I abandoned the entire matter.

I stayed in Poland until 1948. After falling ill, I underwent surgery in Vienna. On December 31, 1950, I arrived in Israel and settled in Gedera, where I worked as a bookkeeper. My daughter is employed at the Weizmann Institute in Rehovot, and her husband works in the IDF as a warehouseman. I have two grandchildren. My granddaughter, who is the eldest, serves in the IDF, and my grandson is a student.

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Sitting: R. Shalom Shechna and his wife, and between them, the son Yosef Standing from right: Daughters Sara, Rivka, Chava, Hodel, and brothers Chaim and Eliezer

Her son Yentzi z”l		Reitza Friedman

Translator Notes:

1. The Banderovites were militia gangs led by the Ukrainian freedom fighter Stepan Andriyovich Bandera who collaborated with the Nazis during World War II. The gangs were known to conduct pogroms against Jews and murdered many of those who hid in the forests. In Lviv alone, the Banderovites assisted the Nazis in killing 4,000 Jews. [Based on Wikipedia articles] Return
2. The Polish population transfers which took place toward the end of World War II and its aftermath resulted from a Soviet Union policy that the principal Allies of World War II had ratified. Essentially, the Soviet Union took over the eastern territories of pre-war Poland and forcibly removed over a million people. Many Jews who were transferred from Soviet-controlled areas arrived first in Poland and then emigrated to Western Europe and the United States (and later to Israel). [Based on Wikipedia articles.] Return

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Nevertheless, a form of inner impetus, which I cannot evade, pushed me. It urged me, commanded me, and said – write! Therefore, even though these words have been said and there is no novel idea – it is a commandment to tell. It is a commandment to tell not only how we once came from freedom to liberty, but also how we reached the times of tribulation, atrocities, and threats that afflicted our dear ones and the entire nation of Israel, when destruction, slaughter, and annihilation overtook them without mercy.

Let these words serve as a monument in memory of our dear ones – to them and to all who perished with them – an eternal monument.

The Jewish community of Lopatyn existed for no more than 200 years. Prior to that, it was a remote gentile village with only a few Jewish families. If I want to divide the history of our community according to eras that differ from each other in status, social, cultural, societal matters, and the way of life of the Jewish population – I see three or four such eras that placed their mark upon the life of the Jewish community in this town, whether positively or negatively.

The first era can be seen as spanning from the beginning of the community until the outbreak of the First World War. This is the Austro-Hungarian era. The second extends through the First World War, from 1914-1918, and the attempts thereafter to reconstruct and rehabilitate the ruins. The third is the era of economic and social decline between the two wars, with the increase of anti-Semitism in Poland and the rise of Hitler, may his name be blotted out. The third and final era is the Holocaust period.

The first era can be rightly considered as the shining era in terms of feelings of security among the Jewish residents. It was as if the community rested on calm waters. Nevertheless, questions of livelihood were vexing. There was poverty, but there were also good days of quiet and security, in the sense that “the people who dwell within it are secure and confident, and lack for nothing.” This was “the world of yesterday” in the words of Stefan Zweig. However, the Jews of the town knew and sensed that they lived in exile, as they repeated three times a day, “And let our eyes witness Your return to Zion with mercy”. However, the world continued in accordance with its custom, and it was a merciful regime that protected them from all tribulations, albeit not with a full heart. There were bad gentiles as well as drunks who bothered the Jews, but our Jewish brethren were believers descended from believers. In their great naiveté, they believed that this era would continue until the end – until the advent of our righteous Redeemer – who would return us upright to our Land. From this perspective, our town was not different from all other Jewish towns. It was the same as all others both from an economic and a social perspective.

Aryeh Kurz Wilder Founder of the first Hebrew school in Lopatyn and the first teacher

Already in 1914, a native of our town made aliya to the Land – the writer and poet Asher Barash. After the war, the idea of aliya gained skin and sinews. In 1918, a native of our town, my cousin Mordechai Distenfeld (Yalon) took off his army fatigues and put on civilian clothes but did not return to civilian life as was customary and understood. He settled in Vienna, and waited for the first opportunity for aliya. In the meantime, he was at work on hachshara (formal training for aliya) activities along with several friends from the Vienna area. He made aliya in 1920, at the first opportunity that presented itself for immigration, without taking leave of his family in Lopatyn. He turned to physical labor, and was the first chalutz (pioneer) and laborer from our town.

His older brother, the famous translator and grammarian Chanoch Yalon, made aliya to the Land in 1921 and settled in Jerusalem. Their nephew (son of their sister) Akiva Distenfeld, a member of “Hashomer Hatzair”, also made aliya around that time. He was one of the first settlers of Beit Alfa. Several other people from our town made aliya, even before the terms chalutz and hachshara became known words, despite the strong opposition of their parents who were Chasidim of Belz and Husiatyn. In actuality, these parents were influenced in no small way by the deeds of their children. The fierce battle with their children slowly calmed and quieted, and in their heart of hearts, they began to accustom themselves to these new, recently arrived “customs.” They accommodated themselves to the new realities. This was perhaps the secret of “unity” and “specialness” in this town, separating it from other towns in the area. The town appeared to be more progressive, educated, tolerant, and less strictly pious than others. This was a result of the mutual influence of the young generation on their forebears, and to a small degree, also the reverse.

With all this, what influenced the change of paths that came to expression in such a prominent fashion? Of course, not the assimilated or half-assimilated “doctor” or “optometrist” – the intelligentsia of the town, so to speak, whose sole desire was to appear as gentiles in every way. They were not the ones to do all this. This was accomplished through the Zionist idea, the idea of the return to Zion and national revival. This appeared as a paradox, but it is a fact that the new generation, with all its new ways, was, above all, a direct continuation of the previous generation of Belz and Husiatyn Chasidim regarding the change of ways and ideas. The mourning for Zion and dirges over its ruins by the Chasidim of Belz and Husiatyn turned to a positive commandment. Let us make ascent to Zion!

I will cite here a moving chapter of Asher Barash regarding the night of Tisha B'Av in the Husiatyner Kloyz, describing the recital of the kinot (dirges) by my grandfather Reb Yosel Shou'b.

I sat with my friend, the Zionist lad with peyos, in the Husiatyner Kloyz, on an overturned bench. We both held a single candle, as we were bent over for one dirge, as Reb Yosel Shou'b called out with a weeping, trembling voice, “The crown of our heads has fallen, woe to us, for we have sinned.” I was not astonished as I heard my friend sob with weeping, and saw his tears being shed over this crushing dirge, I felt something warm falling on my cheeks, salting the corners of my lips (from his article, 20^th of Tammuz).

Thus was the first era of Jewish life in our town. I was not a child of that era, but echoes of it reached me as well.

The second era in the life of the town, which took on a completely different form, came with the outbreak of the First World War and the drafting of all good youths to the war against Austria's enemies. This era appears before me and is exposed in all its appearances, with the flames that consumed almost the entire lion's share of the Jewish town – from the sound of the shouting of the masses of soldiers from the kingdom of Russia, to the joy of our gentile neighbors and our agony – the agony of the Jewish children and their parents. The town of Jews went up in flames. We stood at the heaps of ruins next to the pillars of smoke, and wept great and heartrending tears. The Russian soldiers who entered our town, which was approximately 30 kilometers from the Russian border at Berestechko, immediately upon the outbreak of the war, displayed their force and might and their great “bravery of heart” against the Jews of the town. In collaboration with our “good” gentile neighbors, they pillaged and robbed the meager possessions of the Jews of the town. Reb Henich Hershorn was murdered at that time. I did not know him personally, for I was only nine years old then; however his name penetrated my consciousness as the first victim of our own Jews, who was murdered at the hands of the gentiles. This incident shook the foundations of my young soul.

Our gentile neighbors assisted the hooligans in this. They etched or painted the image of the cross on the walls of their houses, or erected a large icon of one of their saints, so that they would know that a holy, pure Pravoslav (Christian Orthodox) or Catholic lived there, and not, heaven forbid, a Jew. In this manner they exposed the houses of their Jewish neighbors for pillage and robbery. This deed also left a deep feeling in me of mistrust and suspicion of anything that is not Jewish.

I do not recall anything of the life of the town or the life of the family that is worthy of note prior to the burning of the town. During that conflagration, and with the entry of the Russian Army, I received the impetus that woke me out of my childhood, and placed me in the face of the bitter reality. A nine-year-old child grew up and became an adult in one night. From that time, I recall everything. I began to see things as they were, with all the tragedies and disasters that afflicted the Jews as Jews. From that era of the outbreak of the war, I recall, albeit as a dream, the wailing and weeping of the members of the household. My cousin Yitzchak Friedman (Itzu, the son of my uncle Shlomo Friedman and his wife Rachel – my mother's sister, the brother of Ben-Tzion who lives with us in Israel) came to us in order to take leave as he was drafted into the war. He was completely free, quiet and calm. He comforted the members of the household by saying, “I am going to take revenge for the blood of our brethren in Kishinev.”

At that time, I did not know what Kishinev was, or what the murderers perpetrated upon us there. This only became clear to me after time. However, my poor cousin did not know that he too would perish in this war. As was told, he fell as a hero already in 1914. He did not realize that on the other side, the Russian side, there were also Jewish soldiers, such that Jewish blood was shed from both sides. Several other townsfolk did not return from that war and all the Jewish residents mourned them. As I stated, I recall everything from the time of the outbreak of the war and its atrocities. The war lasted four years. It seems to me that there was nothing unique in this town that was unlike other towns. It was as if the town was orphaned. The synagogues were emptied of worshippers, with no new month [prayers] and no festivities – a form of an elongated Tisha B'Av. The special Sabbath clothes of the Jews, the shtreimels and bekishes disappeared from their garb, due to the evil eye of the gentiles and the soldiers. Only the elderly and children entered the synagogues, and there was one prayer on their lips – that the war should end as quickly as possible with the victory of the benevolent kingdom of Austria and Kaiser Franz Josef, may peace be with him, and that the parents and their children should return home in peace. Perhaps the King Messiah would arrive in the interim, of which the day of his coming is hinted in the Book of Daniel. All this was during the period of the war.

Vibrant Jewish life was restored in 1918 with the return of the soldiers from the war. The community began to reorganize. The soldiers brought with them a new spirit from the army and the wide world – a more secular spirit of progress, rather than a spirit based on the beit midrash and the kloyz. The youth, who had grown up during the war in the interim, believed in the redemptive Zionist idea. Communal life began to revive, more or less in accordance with the spirit of the times. The world war had ended, but district and national wars continued: The Poles, Ukrainians and Bolsheviks had not yet settled their scores with each other. Miraculously, not one of the Jewish residents of the town was injured, despite the shriek of the bullets over our heads and despite the shelling that damaged some houses. One battle that took place on the Shabbat prior to Rosh Chodesh Elul is especially etched in my mind. My father always mentioned this. The battle lasted for an entire day. A large brigade of the Polish Army with all its weapons hid in the forest near Lopatyn without the Bolsheviks realizing this. They surprised the large camp of Bolsheviks who were camping in and around the town by suddenly opening fire on them. Panic gripped this whole camp and a large tumult arose without their knowing what was going on. A battle broke out, which resulted in the annihilation of this entire brigade of the Polish Army. I would not have told this entire story were it not for its Jewish aspect. I recall that we were all lying on the ground in the room, as bullets shrieked overhead. Suddenly, we heard a terrible, strong call in Yiddish: “Open the door quickly, there is danger, Jews are in danger.” My father quickly opened the door, which had been locked. Two Jewish soldiers from the Polish Army appeared, carrying a third wounded Polish soldier on a stretcher, who was also Jewish. How did these Jewish Polish soldiers find each other in the midst of the battle, one can only grasp by considering the Jewish sense of brotherhood and mutual love. There was no water in the house. Father endangered himself and ran to the nearby well, with shots ringing out from all sides, to fetch water for the soldiers. They bandaged the wounded soldier, took him from the house, and went somewhere. However, who knows about the fate of these three? The Polish soldiers were all defeated.

When we calmed down a bit and ran to the windows to see what was taking place outside, we saw Polish soldiers here and there with their hands raised as a sign of surrender, and Bolshevik soldiers on horses cutting off their heads without considering the surrender. At the end of the battle, we, the Jewish youth together with our parents, went out to search for Jewish soldiers from among the victims of the Polish Army, so that we could bring them to a Jewish burial. We found nine. They were buried in a communal grave in the town cemetery. There was no end to the shock and grief of the Jews of the town. To our surprise, the majority of victims were Jews. This aroused the ire and complaint of the Bolshevik Army camping in the town, for they regarded this as a sign that the Jews were against them. They did not understand that the Jews were participating in the Polish Army based on a decree, and that army service was an obligation rather than voluntary.

The news of the pogroms in Ukraine and even the pogrom in nearby Lwów shook up the local Jews once again. We also saw the Hallerczyki cutting of the beards of Jews as well as perpetrating all sorts of other atrocities. Nevertheless, when the winds calmed, everything was done in town to rebuild the ruins and reestablish the societal and economic life of the community. The days of splendor of the life of the community from before the war gestured and called out for continuity. There were energetic efforts by the youth to establish a Hebrew School as a complement to gentile public school and Jewish cheder. The blue box of Keren Kayemet LeYisrael (Jewish National Fund) entered all the Jewish homes, and only a few abstained from contributing due to “treifa—pasul”.

The relatively large procession, in accordance with the size of the town, in honor of the Balfour Declaration and the San Remo conference stands before my eyes as a bright light within the darkness. The procession went through the entire town, as all its Jewish residents, from the elderly to the youth, participated in it. My father, who had never been a Zionist, took me by the hand, as a young lad. Furthermore, flags and ensigns fluttered from all sides, and there were songs of Zion on our lips: “It Has Not Yet Been Lost,” “Let Us Raise Up toward Zion,” “There in the Place of Cedars.” The songs were repeated over and over again. We did not know any other songs of Zion at that time, however those filled our hearts with joy and gladness. It was the beginning of the redemption – said the elders. The rabbi himself, The Chasid and Tzaddik of Belz, and Reb Zelikl – later my teacher and rabbi, also preached in praise of Zionism and the return to Zion. In the eyes of us young children, this was not only the beginning of the redemption, but rather actual redemption: there would be no more gentiles, no more shkotzim. We would be like all the nations. We would also have our own country. The intoxication dissipated very quickly, and day-to-day life quickly returned to its normal routine.

Attempts to rehabilitate and rebuild continued. Things were done even from a social perspective to improve the social life of the community. I often thought: there was no small number of poor people, and even desperately poor people in our town of Lopatyn, but it seems to me that everything was done in the town itself so that nobody would be hungry for bread, and so that everybody would have bread to eat and clothes to wear. The story of our fellow town native Asher Barash in his book “Foreign Love” is instructive and typical from this perspective. Reb Zalman Leib Segal was a wealthy householder of the town. (It wasn't Segal but rather Wasser. Asher Barash used to expose only a part of the name, and hide part of the name in his stories, which were partly made up. Sometimes he did this with the first name, and at other times with the family name.) He decided to replace the leaky roof of the shaky, poor house of Reb Arale (not Arale, but rather the father of Reb Benyimchi) and install a new roof. He sent for the gentiles (uncircumcised ones in his words) to dismantle the roof. They went up to the roof and began to dismantle it. A tumult arose on the street. They did not understand what was taking place – until the wagon came bringing the new lumber from the forest… Nobody would have known who it was who had given the orders to fix the roof had Dobrish not told his friend…” I recall that there were desperately poor people in our town who had gone bankrupt, and went door to door. However, they were from other places. I do not know of any Jew who lived in our town who required help and had to utilize this denigrating means.

Assistance and help were offered locally, from the town, through internal concern and in a mass means, as well as through the giving of discrete gifts. There were also social organizations, of course in reasonable proportion to a small town, and not only “Chevrat Tehillim” (group for the reciting Psalms) or “Chevrat Mishnayot” (group for the study of Mishnah). These were groups that gave special content and purpose to their members, primarily the “Bikur Cholim” society that tended to the isolated ill person or unfortunate family not only with financial assistance, but also by spending the night and caring for the sick directly. Even respected householders who were members of the Bikur Cholim society did not evade their task when their turn came to spend time with an ill person, whether during the day or the night. I also heard of the Gemilut Chasadim (free loan society) that arose in the town after I left. The community and communal life was not a wanton field, with everyone looking out for themselves. There was oversight over the community, and a supervising eye on what was transpiring.

The youth were Zionist, imbued with a Zionist consciousness. As has been noted, even the older generation ceased its opposition to the Zionist idea. Nevertheless, only a few made aliya during that era. I am not saying that there was the possibility of large, mass aliya. It is known that there were serious restrictions, but nevertheless, the restricted possibilities that existed were not utilized appropriately. This was the problematic point that I see in the town from that era – and not only in the town.

The Satan, Hitler may his name be wiped out, was already lurking. Anti-Semitism and Jew hatred made inroads among the Poles as well. Poverty increased. Despair and lack of means was pervasive everywhere. When I visited the town in 1935-1936, six years after I made aliya to the Land, I found it already in the era of complete degeneration, both from an economic and a social perspective. The town was already like a broken vessel or shattered potsherd. People went about with no hope and no faith. I saw shadows of people around me, walking in the valley of the shadow of death.

According to my divisions, this was the third era in the life of the town. After it came the Holocaust that destroyed it completely.

I have not described the life of the Jews of our town or the lives of families, whether far or near. Let others who know this better than me do so. However, I will not hold back from presenting the images of several of the dear ones of our towns, who shone their light upon their surroundings during their lifetimes, served as examples, and imbued their spirit on every wise person with a pure heart.

I knew how to appreciate their precious legacy, their way of life, and their paths of holiness. Let their memories be blessed forever. We drank from their waters, walked in their light, and revered their deeds.

Reb Zelig Teitelbaum (Reb Zelikl), my rabbi and teacher, was apparently an ordinary Jew, a shopkeeper occupied in commerce. He conducted business. What is the big deal of such? There are many Jewish shopkeepers in the market. Nevertheless, how great is the worth and how blessed is the personality of this ordinary Jew? He was a great scholar, swimming in the sea of Talmud from his childhood. He had the ability not only to learn but to teach. He spread from his fountain of knowledge outward in the full sense of the word. He never studied by himself, but rather together with two or three youths. It was clear that he did this not to receive a reward, for he did not make the Torah a spade with which to dig [i.e. his livelihood]. He occupied himself in commerce, and despite his business, he had enough hours left in the day to study and teach Torah. These were the early hours of the morning from sunrise, and during the late evening hours at night, by the light of candles in his hands and in the hands of his students. He gave up his business during the latter period of his life, and spent most of the hours of the day over a page of Gemara in the kloyz. I studied Torah from him for about three years, some of that time was with my cousin Yosef Wilder who lives today in Kfar Yehoshua but most of the time was by myself. After this, the studies in the kloyz diverged from their typical form. I believe that I was the final student of Reb Zelikl, and seemingly also the last lad in the town, aside from the son of the Rabbi, Reb Chaim Leibush Hamerling, who occupied himself primarily in the study of Talmud and rabbinic decisors. This was around 1921. The fact that Reb Zelikl also took an interest in practical matters regarding his students was also typical. I recall one evening in the middle of a Talmudic discussion, he suddenly stopped his teaching and pointed out to me incidentally, “You know Elazar, it is worthwhile to also learn a bit of arithmetic, for you will need this in the future. Torah is good with worldly pursuits.” My rabbi and teacher Reb Zelikl of blessed memory did not know at that time, that I had not only filled my belly with Talmud and rabbinic decisors, but also with secular studies and outside books that I valued. However, he thought of me and concerned himself with my future in accordance with his ways and understanding. May the memory of this sublime man, my rabbi and teacher Reb Zelikl, be blessed. The bit of knowledge of Judaism and love of Torah that is guarded in my soul came from him. These studies were a continuation of the Torah education I received from my father's home.

I cannot refrain from mentioning my uncle – my mother's brother Reb Elazar Shou'b Wilder. My uncle was a man of wonders. He was pious in Torah and the commandments, a great believer and wonderful G-d-fearing person. The way of such a person was that worldly events, political matters, and secular issues were beyond his field of vision. My uncle was not like this. Along with his cleaving to Torah, the commandments, and good deeds, ensuring that he would not diverge from the path in any small way, he was also an enlightened person, who understood the spirit of the times, the ways of the world, and researched and studied every new issue. He wanted to understand everything. However, he would consider all the wise people and philosophers as the dust of the earth, for “there is nothing that is not hinted at in the Torah.” Nevertheless, he wanted to know and understand, for his soul was also filled with knowledge and content.

My uncle Rabbi Elazar had many good deeds and traits: He would heal the sick. The townsfolk without exception had faith in his medical knowledge. When someone got sick, they would first summon Rabbi Elazar Shou'b. He would respond and go for the sake of the good deed, and not in order to receive a reward, whether by day or by night. He would examine the sick person in his manner, take their temperature, make up his mind, and discuss and explain with humor and good spirit what the sick person should eat, and what they should avoid. This is how it took place… etc. etc. The sick person breathed a sigh of relief, and the faces of the family members lit up. For the most part, the condition of the sick person improved. Thus were the deeds of Rabbi Elazar Shou'b. If the situation of the sick person worsened, heaven forbid, they would summon a doctor, or Rabbi Elazar himself would tell them that they should call the doctor. The doctor would come and even ask, half seriously and half in jest, whether Rabbi Elazar Shou'b had been there yet. What did he say? At times, the doctor realized that the situation was serious. Then he would state in a serious fashion, with the obvious interpretation, “Everything is in the hands of heaven.” Then the family members knew that the situation was very serious. In any case, my uncle never studied medicine in any institution or medical school. Nevertheless, he apparently knew many things, whether through life experience from which he knew how to learn, or by peering through old medical books, written in Hebrew, which he owned.

My uncle Rabbi Elazar was not very wealthy. A Shou'b (shochet) in the town would not be rich. Nevertheless, I often saw how he would return the money for ritual slaughtering to families of minimal means – placing it into the basket along with the bird that they had brought for slaughter. He was blessed and honored by everyone. Internal disputes and controversies in the town did not affect him negatively, for he was accepted by everybody, even his opponents, i.e., those who did not travel with him to his Rebbe. Furthermore, he never showed favoritism to anyone. If he had anything to say, he would say it out loud without fear. May his memory be blessed.

Reb Chaim Bernholz was a unique person, a scholar, a beloved person, a scion of rabbinical lineage and “those who sit in judgment”. He did not turn himself to a Torah or rabbinic profession, but rather to a secular, physical occupation: land and agriculture. He had a plot of land not far from the fields of the gentiles in the far reaches of the town. It was an agricultural farm in the full sense of the word. He and his family members did not fail to tend to it and nurture it in accordance with accepted practice. This was an unusual phenomenon during those times – a scholar, sharp and expert, versed in proper mannerisms, who knew how to present his thoughts and ideas to everyone in a proper and orderly fashion – why did he see fit to immerse himself in agricultural work? Was there a lack of other honorable Jewish sources of livelihood in the marketplace? This was a great mystery for the older generation of his compatriots in the town. However to us, the younger generation, whose hearts were taken with the return to Zion, and to whom the airy pursuits of our parents were burdensome – the example of Reb Chaim Bernholz was especially positive. He taught us that Jews are also able to return to agriculture and manual labor, and to see blessing from their toil. Indeed, Reb Chaim Bernholz and his family saw blessing from their toil and were considered among the wealthy of the town. Those in need of assistance found much support and a generous hand in their home. Reb Chaim Bernholz also spent time studying Torah, despite his occupations at home and on his farm. I know of two of his sons: Moshe, may G-d avenge his blood, and Tzvi, may he live long, who is with us in Israel. Aside from the sections of Torah that they heard from Reb Binyamin Charap and Reb Zelig Teitelbaum of blessed memory, they also studied Gemara and learned lessons from their father Rabbi Chaim.

The rabbi of the city, Rabbi Chaim Leibush Hamerling, who served in Lopatyn for more than 40 years, must also be remembered positively. He was a great scholar, sharp and expert, as well as a faithful Chasid of the Tzaddik of Belz. I did not know from up close his holy mannerisms and his discussions and conduct with the members of his flock. There was a sort of partition of strangeness, enmity and at times also mutual accusations between the Chasidim of Belz and the Chasidim of Husiatyn to which my parents and almost all my family belonged. As a young lad, I saw up close the mannerisms and way of life of all those who came to the Husiatyner Kloyz, in which my parents and our family members worshipped. Until the end of the First World War, they even had their own rabbi, Rabbi Mendel Laszczower, a relative of ours. I knew nothing and was not even particularly interested in what took place in the other camp, that of the Chasidim of Belz, who centered in the beit midrash and around Rabbi Hamerling. I did not know their character, their ways, or their movements, and I was not even sure if the rumors I heard were even fundamentally correct. I was greatly astonished that, after the passing of my teacher and rabbi, Reb Zelikl, Rabbi Hamerling informed my revered father that if it suited him and me, I could come to study with him along with his son Lipa. I was even more surprised that all of this took place after it had already become known in town that I had gone out to a “bad crowd” and was studying many secular subjects. How is it that he did not suspect that his son Lipa, who was destined for the rabbinate, would not be spoiled by me? In any case, I regarded it then, as I regard it now, as an expression of a broad heart and good will to do something beyond the scope of his professional position and that was not connected at all to any financial gain.

Even then, when I studied with him for approximately one year, I was not able to get to know him properly. He taught us in a scholarly, rapid, and dry manner, obviously for several hours a day. We never diverged from the Talmudic topic at hand to side points, as happened during the time of my teacher and rabbi, Reb Zelikl.

These things about Rabbi Leibush Hamerling are stated as an apology for the paucity of my knowledge of his holy ways in his conversation and conduct with those around him, and in his manners as a rabbi and rabbinical teacher in our town – for he was among those who left their mark on communal life for approximately a half a century. I heard two versions about the departure of his holy soul during the terrible times. Even those were not from eyewitnesses, but rather from hearsay. According to Reb Avraham Tzvi Bernholz, he was murdered by an apostate from our town, may his name be blotted out. According to Ben-Zion Friedman, he was murdered by a Ukrainian gentile during the deportation from Lopatyn to Radekhov. This was his final journey of tribulations. May his holy memory be a blessing.

I have portrayed only a few of the personalities of the significant people from amongst our townsfolk, from whose waters we drank and in whose light we basked. There were many. All of them were holy and pure. May the memory of all of them be a blessing.

My family members who went up on the pyre in holiness and purity should also be remembered forever – My revered father Reb Yechiel Michel, the son of Reb Yitzchak and Eidel Wilder; my mother and guide Chava the daughter of Reb Yosef and Ronia Wilder, my sister Ronia and her husband Tzvi Friedman, my brother Isser may G-d avenge their blood, and my brother Yosef, who passed away prior to the Holocaust at the untimely age of 22. May their memories be blessed and serve as a blessing.

[Pages 231-232]

Yosef Parnes

He was born in the year 1915 in Lopatyn in eastern Galicia (then in Austria). He was the son of Gershon-Koppel and Yehudit and the youngest of nine brothers and sisters. He finished Polish secondary school and did office work, but found meaning in his life through the pioneering movement, which he joined in his youth. He was a member of “Gordonia” and “Hachalutz” and in his youth aspired to make aliya. In the year 1939 after much traveling, he successfully arrived in the Land. He had traveled by ship through the heart of the sea for three months. He worked as an agricultural hand in Rechovot. He was amongst the first to enlist in the British army and served in the excavation corps in the western desert, Greece and Crete. He escaped from Crete to the Land at the last moment, then joined the Hebrew brigade and once again demanded combat roles for himself. While still in the army, he dreamed of founding a Hebrew fishing village and went through appropriate training in Italy and Holland. After his release, he was one of the founders of Machmoret, a settlement of army veterans, and for a brief time, he was one of the best fisherman. He fulfilled his role in modesty, and stood on guard at all hours of the crisis. He had no children but his friends saw him as a father to everyone.

He fell in Haifa, while working as a fisherman on March 5, 1948 and was buried in Kfar Vitkin.

Above, from the right: Uri, Elimelech and Moshe Parnes, Yaakov Leider and his wife and their children

Above, from the right: my [David Parnes'] brother-in-law Yaakov Leider and my brothers Elimelech, Uri and Zalman Below: my sister Breintzy and my sister-in-law Ester nee Thieman and their children

One of the most beautiful memories of my youth is the summer I spent in Lopatyn. That same summer I completed seven grades at the elementary school in my small town Berestechko and I did not know what to do. In the town there were no opportunities to continue studying. Traveling to another city caused problems because there were other sisters of school age and my parents were sickly. And then the teachers of the school suggested that I go to Lopatyn to teach Hebrew to a group of youths in the town. I accepted the offer with the willingness and boldness that only adolescents possess.

One day two boys, David Parnes and another boy whose name I think was Bardach, came, towering over me in their cart with a pair of horses. With my parents' blessing and anxiety accompanying me, we set off together. At the entrance to Lopatyn, the strong scent of acacia trees, fine houses, each one neat and clean, surrounded me. In the house where I was supposed to live that summer (the Diener's house), my future students began to arrive: four or five girls and boys from every house, of all ages, beautiful, healthy and neat.

The lessons started and suddenly I began to feel a sense of inferiority in the presence of the students even though I was more fluent in the Hebrew language than they were. Nevertheless, they were the best youths: proficient in Polish and German literature, and they had full command of other languages. They took classes very seriously. A few months later when I left Lopatyn with the goal of continuing on with my studies, I received letters in Hebrew from these students. I cannot testify to the knowledge that they had gained in that short period of time, but I can testify to their intelligence and the seriousness with which they studied.

Here I would like to mention one of my students, Yosef Parnes, may G-d avenge his blood, who was laid to rest in a cemetery in a village in the homeland (Kfar Vitkin). He was murdered by Arabs at the port of Haifa while on a mission for his settlement of Machmoret, neighboring us.

This short article shall be a memorial to young men and women, the finest of the Jewish youth of a small town in the Polish diaspora, who also passed through the cup of bitterness.

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