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There is a well-known Jewish proverb, “The apple doesn't fall far from the tree”. But when there is a storm, the apple could be carried away very, very far.

Hitler's brutal storm carried and scattered us from our little town Bilke to all corners of the globe.

When I mention this word “Bilke”, it's like I would touch a very soft delicate spot – it hurts. It hurts very much. In that word is hidden a fountain of remembrances. There we were surrounded by so much love from parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, neighbors, and landsleit. We had an identity – we were somebody.

The very air was pure, clear, unpolluted, everything natural, nothing artificial. No evil deed, not even evil thought entered our minds. Every day was a preparation for the holy Shabbos, and every week was an expectation of the upcoming Yom-Tov. Shabbos was a great spiritual enjoyment. Yom-Tov was a festival.

Until the storm.

The Brutal, barbaric hurricane which turned over our entire lives.

Suddenly we became cattle-wagon passengers. Lost our dearest, lost our belief in humanity, lost our identity. We had to start from scratch.

I found (G_d be blessed), a wonderful life companion – my husband. We built up a unique family.

But the past is haunting. The sound of the word “Bilke”, even after

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fifty-two years awakens in me an ocean of emotions. Sometimes it grips me in the middle of a Simcha like a seizure. How can I laugh? How can I have a good time? How can I forget what happened to us? Or, if I am aggravated about a minor thing, did I lose my sense? How could this bother me when my brothers perished in such a dreadful way? And a deep pang pierces my heart.

Many a night when the mercy of sleep eludes me, I shed hot tears, only my pillow could be my witness.

Bilke, my home, my parents, my sisters, my brothers, nothing will ever replace you and never, ever will I forget you.

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One maniac, one murderer destroyed the whole European Jewry! How can a human mind perceive the possibility of such an occurrence?

Very simple. He used the right method; a very powerful, effective tool – namely anti-Semetism. Who, which nation or individual was not ready and willing to give a helping hand to destroy a Jew? Especially when the reward was so promising – to inherit all the properties and belongings of the Jews.

So it amounted to that unfortunate number, six million Jews. To this number people already react with lame, numb, feelings. It has become a cliché. It doesn't awaken any compassion any more. Yet these millions consisted of single individuals. Each victim who survived could write a book about what he or she went through and how miraculous was their survival.

I wouldn't like to go into all the details. I would just like to mention whom I lost.

My noble, holy parent, may they be of blessed memory, and my married sisters; Leah with five sweet, smart children; Sarah, with one blond gorgeous little girl. One wave of Mengel's hand sent them to the gas chambers.

My oldest brother, Chaim Leib, the most devoted son to my parents and very dear to all of us. He was first taken to forced labor with inhumane

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conditions. He became sick with typhoid and was put in a stable together with 800 young men. That stable that was called “hospital” was set on fire and the patients were burned alive.

My brother Nachum Uri was first taken to forced labor and then captured by the Russians. He died of a stomach ailment, since the beginning he did not accept the non-kosher food. By the time he realized that was a matter of “Pikuach Nefesh”, a matter of endangering a life, it was too late and he died at the age of twenty-four.

Allow me to say a little bit more about this brother. Nachum Uri was a genius. Very handsome, a beautiful physique. He spoke five languages. He was always the first in his class in all subjects. He was exceptionally thorough in the Talmud. I am quoting a man (a real Talmid Chacham) who said, “when I hear Nachum Uri learn a piece of Gemarah, I can like my fingers from it”. He never stood idle for a moment. He especially enjoyed studying the many works of the Rambam. When he noticed a beggar approaching our house, he ran out to meet him with a generous donation.

Yet, with all these ma'alos he was the greatest “Anav”, such a modest boy.

When a Bilker man (Shlomo Dovidowitz) saw him lying dead in Russia on the ground in front of a gate, he said, “This scene is testimony to the tragedy of the Jewish nation”.

My younger brother Yossi, a very handsome, innocent seventeen year old boy lived through the horrors of the war almost to the end. People had seen him swollen from hunger enter a hospital. He has never been seen or heard from since.

But G_d didn't take away everything from us. From eleven siblings, five of us remained alive: three sisters and two brothers. After a lot of wandering we came to the United States. Each one of us established his

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own home and family.

With every birth of a grandchild, we celebrate a triumph over Hitler!

Thus his plan and that of his cohorts – may their names be eradicated – did not come to fruition. We picked up the pieces that were scattered and put them back together the best as we were able to do.

We continue the golden chain of our unforgettable ancestors.

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Testimony of Bizi Zisovic
Yakubovic Zivic

Bitzi zisovic (Yakubovic) – Zivic is the daughter of Reb Shlomo who passed away before the Nazi domination and Yente who perished in Auschwitz. Bitzi submitted the following testimony regarding life in Bilke and the events of 1944.

You hear a lot about the Nazi Holocaust: Books are written, films are made, Rabbis sermonize. I wonder what impact it makes on the fortunate ones who were spared that tragedy?

To me, it was the end of a happy youth in a quiet, peaceful small town named Bilke which is in the Carpathian Mountains in Eastern Europe. My ancestors lived there for many generations. We were a devoted family of eight. Our town was more like one large family – you knew everybody.

From 1938, a cloud of fear was hanging over our people. We lived in hope and prayed not to fall victim to the dreadful Nazi Holocaust. In the spring of 1944, my dearly beloved family was among the six million Jews martyred in the gas chambers of Auschwitz and the other death camps.

It all started in 1944, before Passover. Orders were to wear a yellow star. They did not permit us to leave town. We did not give up hope until the last minute. The last day of Passover, rumors circulated that we would be placed in ghettos. Early the next morning came a knock on the door with orders to leave. They permitted us to take fifty kilos of food and belongings. Our beloved synagogue was the gathering place for the transportation to the ghetto at Beregszasz. I will never forget my dearly beloved mother's frightened, worried face. The feeling to leave my home roots – the house that my dearly beloved parents had built with hard work, where I grew up – was fearful. Leaving our synagogue, where we had

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It was taken on August 17, 1937. On this day Leah Zisovic emigrated from Bilke to the U.S.A. Standing from right to left: Leah Zisovic, Abraham Zisovic, Beatrice (Bitzi) Zisovic Seated: Yente Zisovic (Yakubovic)

enjoyed our festival and Sabbath services, was sad

The few weeks we spent in the Beregszasz Ghetto, with all the hardships and threats, were tolerable because we were still with our loved ones, but did not last long. Transports started; this was the end of togetherness with our good, devoted neighbors and friends. The Nazis shipped us off in cattle cars to an unknown destination that was for most of them the last, where they perished sanctifying G_d's name.

Here I am, a survivor of the Holocaust, a witness to the war crimes and insanity that grew from anti-Semitism. It is our obligation to urge that all constituent organizations and the Jewish community set aside the date and participate in the observance dedicated to the sacred memory of the six million “Kedoshim”.

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Suddenly S.S. men surrounded our barrack and started to push us out of the bunk by screaming, hitting, kicking and clubbing. The Czech supervisor marched in front of us. He did not want to abandon his children at this critical moment. The S.S. guards lined the path from the doors of the children's barrack all the way to the gate of the camp. We had to march between these lines so that we would not be able to escape back into the barracks and hide. Each Nazi guard held in one hand a gun and in the other a club. When we passed between these devils there was a deadly feeling, we felt that this was the end. I was very weak and each step required tremendous effort. I prayed silently and wondered from whence shall my help come. I was thinking in my mind and heart and asking: “Father in heaven, why did these young children deserve such a horrible fate?”

As we came closer to the camp gates we heard the shooting, louder and clearer, and one could hear that these were machine guns. Just as we were about to go past the gate, the alarm system went off and the German guards began to run for cover. We were left standing on the inside of the fence near the closed gates.

Out of the blue sky there appeared bombers that strafed the Nazi military barracks. A number of bombs also fell inside the inmates' camp. At that moment we started to run back into the barracks of the inmates. The bombing continued all day and through the night. With the help of friends I made my way back to the barrack and laid on the ground all during the bombing.

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As the morning arrived there was complete silence, a deadly silence. No more shooting, no guards around, not a living soul was seen outside. Suddenly we saw some prisoners running outside with guns in their hands. The S.S. guards were abandoning their posts, jumping off the towers and disappearing into the forest. A few minutes later some inmates raised a white flag. This happened so fast that nobody could believe their eyes. It was unbelievable that the super race was defeated and was now on the run.

A few hours later, General George Patton with his Third Army Tank Corps entered and liberated Buchenwald. Those of us who could walk went out to greet the liberators. Almost all were hysterical with joy. I was in bad shape; I could not stand on my feet and had no strength to overcome my weak condition especially at this moment of liberation. I reminded myself of Samson's prayer and I whispered it, “O Lord G_d, remember me I pray Thee, and strengthen me only this once”.

As the American soldiers entered the barracks, you could see in their faces the shock at the unbelievable condition of the prisoners. They found skeletons of human beings who were dying. During the entire war they had not witness such a ghastly scene. Although they did experience the death of their comrades and of the enemy, they had never seen atrocities of such magnitude.

The final liberation of Buchenwald took place on April 12, 1945, the day President Roosevelt died. We were informed by the American soldiers that in the forest thousands of prisoners lay dead, those who were shot during the last few days before the liberation. These were the victims of the last evacuation. It was estimated that sixty thousand people were killed. Only twenty thousand inmates were alive in Buchenwald on the day of liberation.

We were also informed by the Americans that on the way to

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Buchenwald they captured a train with thousands of “Hitler Youth”. They had instructions to take over the remainder of the prisoners in order to relieve the S.S. men for front duties and annihilate the rest of the prisoners. We were very lucky that the Americans blocked their way and thus we were saved.

After the liberation, a number of military doctors and nurses arrived in Buchenwald to look after the liberated prisoners. We looked upon these people as if they came from another planet. Could you imagine, after years of horror, there is suddenly humane care and interest? We were given food, clothing, cigarettes, candy and many other goodies. The American soldiers did not know what to do with us.

They made a terrible mistake by giving very rich food to such very sick people who had not tasted this kind of food for such a long time. Instead of feeding us bland to rich food gradually, they unintentionally caused many deaths due to the rich diet. Thousands of people died from grabbing whatever food they could find. Their stomachs were not accustomed to it anymore. What should have been done was to take all of us to hospitals, examine everyone and treat us according to the diagnosis.

Many thoughts entered my mind, one reminded me of the innocent victims of my family, of all the Jewish people and for that matter all the decent human beings who were murdered by the enemy. A voice was commanding me, “Take retribution for the blood of thy family, for the babies and the children, the pure and innocent who were destroyed before they had a chance to live; take retribution for all the victims of all generations of this long and bitter exile.” More than once it seemed to me that I heard the voices of my family that brought me to the breaking point.

Another thought that occurred to me at that moment was that there

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are moral values in Judaism that emphasize that a Jew should have pity and compassion even for your enemy. It is not befitting a Jew to learn the ways of the wicked and become a murderer. This is the symbol of Cain – the label of the cruel non-Jew and not the trademark of our people.

For some time, there was a tug of war in mind about this problem and to this day the struggle continues. One moment I have a great urge to take revenge and moments later the Jewish moral obligation comes to mind and overpowers this desire. I can imagine that this struggle, this unrest and the terrible memories of those horrible years, plagues most of us survivors.

Since the Jewish moral fabric that does not permit us “to do unto them that which they did unto us” is deeply implanted in our souls, we will probably never find peace and tranquility. These two opposite forces will continue to struggle within us.

I have seen, on the day of liberation of Buchenwald, the Russian prisoners of war grab military vehicles and speed to the city of Weimar where I was told they attempted to take retribution. Do you know what the Jewish inmates did? They gathered to pray, to cry and to say Kaddish for their dear ones. In spite of all, they somehow found the strength to overcome their grief and anger, and rose above everything. If the Jewish survivors would have decided to put entire cities on fire, or even the entire country of Germany, one could find justification because in everyone' heart there was a tremendous accumulation of anger, frustration and deep despair.

A chapter in itself is the blessed activities of the American Jewish Chaplains, immediately after the liberation of Buchenwald. In the military code there were no specific orders on how to handle the survivors. However, the Jewish chaplains had a wonderful guide for such an unprepared situation. This was the Bible. I remember Rabbi Marcus and Rabbi Herschel Schachter and their tremendous efforts to help us and the wonderful comfort they gave us. There were times when they had a conflict

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between their army duties and the needs of the survivors, but their Jewish hearts overcame many obstacles.

There were a number of mines around Buchenwald where the Germans had employed the prisoners. After the liberation the Allies found these mines full of Jewish silver ornaments which the Germans robbed from the Jews of Europe, such as Torah crowns, Torah breast plates, pointers, Kiddush cups, spice boxes, menorahs, candlesticks, estrogim boxes, Chanukah candelabras, Sabbath knives, eternal light lamps and many other holy objects. For days and days, military trucks carried away all those precious Jewish ornaments. Who knows who became rich from the Jewish victim's property.

Those of us who did not die shortly after the liberation gathered strength little by little but with this their tragedy did not come to an end. The tragedy only deepened because only then did they realize how great their losses were. There was also a tremendous feeling of guilt. How is it that I am the one who survived? Am I more worthy to live than our dear ones who were annihilated?

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Bilke …. beautiful childhood memories. Growing up in a home, nurtured by a loving family. Life was serene, though not rich in material things, but rich in love. Jewish heritage was passed on to us, the family of Moshe Benjamin and Gittel Klein, through their exemplary living.

Father would say, “Live each day and plan ahead as though you will live forever; but do your good deeds – Mitzvot – as though each day is your last one”. The word Tzedakah is understood to mean charity, yet my father saw it not as much an act of kindness, but rather Justice. He would teach us that if anyone stretches out his hand you do not question whether that person is really needy, but give to your best ability.

He readily gave not only money, which was scarce, but he gave of himself. The poor traveler who slept in our home would be welcomed with care, and father himself would clean the straw pallet and tuck the men in for the night. He felt and appreciated it as a mitzvah that came his way.

The world situation was getting more and more explosive, but we tried to go on with our daily lives till ….

In 1939 our world came crashing down around us. Our adored father, delayed after evening minion, trying to collect money for a needy family was caught in the crossfire of the local militia and the Hungarian army. Shot in the head, he died, never regaining consciousness. Although this

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In this picture (113) which was taken in Bilke in 1935 we see the Klein family (Sitting from right to left) Reb Moshe Binyamin Kelin, his wife Gittel Klein (Standing from left to right) Their daughter Tuby, their daughter Selma, their son Samuel, and their daughter Etu

incident was not directly related to Germany's aggression, it set the stage for future horrors.

We were devastated and felt the sun would never shine again. Dear Mama, her religious faith, the support of her children both at home and from America sustained her. How she waited for “this brievele der Mammen” and the financial help from her children. Leib, Victor, and Selma were lucky to have left home before it was too late, to the U.S.A.

Mother was an example for us, even from the little we had, she would insist on sharing with those less fortunate. We did not think it could get worse, but it did.

In April 1944 we were forcibly removed from our home; gathered in our shul, synagogue, searched and stripped of any valuables and marched to the train and on to Ghetto Beregszaz. While the train passed the cemetery, I prayed for father to intercede with G–d for our safety, and thought he escaped this humiliating and dehumanizing treatment, and is resting in a Jewish cemetery. The world has truly gone mad.

After a few weeks we were herded on to cattle cars for the indescribably agonizing trip to Auschwitz.

Upon arrival, my mother, grandmother Rifka, Nat's wife Malka, their beautiful children Sara and Tili and Sam's family – wife Gitel and Moshe Benjamin, the child named after our father, and baby Hershel were sent to the crematoria.

Toby and I were told by a man in striped uniform to stay together; he sent us to a line of able bodied young women and thus saved our lives.

After about six weeks in Auschwitz we were sent to Gelsenkirchen where we would be cleaning bombed sites. When the air raids sounded everyone was running to underground shelters. The Jewish girls were not allowed in. We ran into the fields and were fire bombed by the Allied forces. As many as 500 girls were killed; the unrecognizable bodies, limbs

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and hands, were collected by the surviving inmates, set in a pile and burned. Later we worked in a munitions factory in Sommerda. In spite of threats to us of severe punishment, we tried to sabotage by making tiny screws and bolts smaller – our way of getting some revenge.

The survival instinct was strong. We fashioned from the wire we worked with, needles, knitting needles, safety pins and such. We knitted from yarn that we cut and unraveled from woolen stockings, caps for our shaved heads and mittens to keep somewhat warm. The overseers (German) would comment that they knew Jews were “dirty pigs”, why then did we line up at 4 A.M. before work to wash in ice cold water. We even ironed our washed dress by moving it back and forth around the one pot boiled stove available.

By the spring of 1945, we heard rumors that the war might soon be over. I used to dream that my American brothers (Leon and Victor) might parachute in to rescue us.

My main incentive to live was my silent vow to my mother that I would take care of my little sister Toby, who is till this day my dearest friend.

They made us march under guard to avoid capture by the approaching Russian Army. We'd be herded like animals to spend a night in a pig sty; we had to crawl on our stomachs to get in. I became sick with dysentery and felt I was too weak to continue. When we rested one night in a hayloft, Toby and I dug in deep into the hay and stayed there for two days. Miracle of Miracles! We heard voices in Slovac. In desperation we came out and begged them not to report our whereabouts.

The Germans retreated, we ventured out and because we were not far from the Czech border, we left in that direction. We kissed the ground after the Czech border guard gave us directions to the nearest village. In Monetin, a small village, a Czech family took us in and nursed us back to health.

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We were eager to move on and left the Czech capital – Praha. With help of the Jewish Relief Agency and the Red Cross we learned that Nat survived Dachau and Sam survived in Budapest. My brothers and sister in the U.S.A. shared with us in rejoicing that we survived, but our joy was marred by the knowledge that our mother and so many of the family perished in the tragedy of the Holocaust.

We will always remember our fathers saying, “Change things that are bad if you can, but learn to accept things that cannot be changed”.

A formidable task, yet with the help our husbands, Bill also a survivor and Michael – Toby's husband – we remember our families lovingly and teach our children of the righteous ways of our dear loved ones. May they rest in peace, but in our hearts they will live forever.

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Moshe Friedman is the son of Rabbi Meshulam Friedman, an illustrious Bilker cheder instructor. Moshe had already been conscripted into Munk Tabor, the Hungarian forced labor paramilitary in 1941 when his family (who lived in nearby Irshava) were disenfranchised and deported to Poland. The following details emerged from an interview conducted in German between the author and Moshe Friedman, then translated into English.

I was first assigned to Kashau, Slovakia, then later assigned to the area near Yasin on the border between Carpathia and Poland. All the forced labor units were very strict and we served without privileges. I received word that all my immediate family – my wife and child, my parents and younger brothers and sisters, and my brothers and sisters who were also married had been declared stateless and were being deported from Hungary, where we had lived since World War I. Now they were termed stateless, unwanted and former citizens. When the edict was finalized, thousands of Jewish families, men, women and children were “officially” forced to pack their belongings and journey to the Polish side of the border where they were to be resettled.

I learned that my own family had been deported to a Polish town near Yasin, where I worked on the Hungarian side. Then I decided to rescue my wife and child at all cost. I worked for two labor units, one on either side of the border and began to establish contacts that would enable me to rescue them through bribery.

I already had a close friendship with the chief officer of our company

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of Jewish conscripts. I became friendly with the local Burgermeister (mayor) who also had children and whose youngest was the same age as my child, one and a half years old. He was a kindly man who urged his people to share warm blankets and food with deportees.

We worked out a plan whereby he could escort my wife and child from the ghetto, by pretending that they were his family, and telling the authorities that he was taking them to a nearby hospital. To convince my wife to trust the Burgermeister, I gave him a letter and photo to show her. We agreed that if the plot was successful, he would signal me by breaking a window in the Jewish Committee building.

Later, the Burgermeister's older son who had approached me while our unit was practicing “exitz run” (training drills) told me what had happened. When the Burgermeister gave my wife the letter and photographs, she was so astonished that she lost her strength, fainted and had to be revived. He urged her, “Schnell! Come with me quickly!”

The Burgermeister had found two Polish women, peasants who agreed that they would hide our child in a pocket of their clothing while my wife pretended that she was working with them in the fields. Later the women covered them both under a wagon load of freshly cut grass and smuggled them into a stable where eight other Jews were already being sheltered. The women provided warm milk daily for the mothers and children who were hidden there.

I knew I could not send my wife home to Bilke; we did not know who there might betray them to the police. Before I could make further arrangements for their safety, something terrifying happened. The chief officer of my labor unit told me that the German authorities were aware of the Burgermeister's activities and where he had hidden the Jews. He added that the Germans planned to “smoke them out” in the morning. When I heard the rumor, I knew that I must immediately inform the Burgermeister to be aware of the threat and to watch that he himself was

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not arrested.

I told my friend Fuchs to follow me for action and we stole two rifles from the commando. We arrived at the Burgermeister's house and told him. We were all frightened, with tears in our eyes; we were fearful of the consequences. “How can we have a chance to safely survive?” We knew that we could not make the slightest mistake.

We “arrested” our fellow Jews, men, women, and children, and “escorted” them under “armed guard”. On the way, we encountered a German battalion; we informed them that were escorting these prisoners to our commandant and they let us pass. All of those we “arrested” were safely hidden in another stable.

Almost immediately, we were told that our labor unit was being transferred back to Kashau, Slovakia. A new plan had to be made to save the escapees. We arranged to acquire small amounts of strong whiskey every morning until we had enough to make the soldiers drunk and harmless. The entire unit became so drunk that we were able to send the rescued prisoners on their way to Munkacz, Hungary where they would be safe.

As the Nazi grip tightened, Moshe Friedman escaped to Vienna where he remained hidden until the end of the war. His wife and child did not survive.

In 1941, the Friedman family was disenfranchised. The full story of their disenfranchisement and deportation to Kamenec–Poldolsk appears in this book elsewhere. Rivka, a younger Friedman daughter, was sent to Slovakia to live with her older sister Chana and her husband, Moshe Rosenberg, all of whom were later deported and perished in Auschwitz.

Isaac Friedman, a younger son, had bravely made aliyah before the war began. He arrived just as the ship departed; undaunted, he threw his suitcase into the boat and swam out to it. Later, from the Holy Land, Isaac

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attempted bribery and rescue efforts to save his family. Two other Friedman sons, Chayim Benyamin, a shochet in a nearby town, and Avraham Pinchas were selected for slave labor and sent to Auschwitz; they survived and made aliyah to Israel.

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Who could have imagined the changes that took place in my life in just a few short years. I was born in 1931, to a highly acknowledged “Baal Tzedaka”, who both Jews and gentiles respected. My father had the “zchus” to feed hundreds of homeless each “Erev Shabbath”. We were very content with our lifestyles, until 1939 when the Hungarians took over. Bilke, where we were raised as little children, and and started our long journey through different concentration camps.

The first step to Judenrein was when the Nazis suspended all Jewish store owners' licenses. In April, 1944 we were told to leave all our treasured belongings behind to feed the greedy Germans! Having no other alternative we were dragged toward the dreadful Beregsaz ghetto.

Early one morning, my father called me over to a corner and told me the following, “Yanky, the years to come will be very difficult. You'll be going through terrible ‘tzoros’ and hardships. Please, I beg of you with mercy, always remember “Hashem”; strengthen your ‘emunah’ and ‘bitachon’ and you're sure to survive. I know you will. When I look down at you from ‘Olam H'emes’, please make me proud. Just always remember you are a Jew and be and ‘ehrlicher Yid’.

I was only twelve years old at the time and until my father confronted me, I never really faced reality. My father's few words suddenly made me feel so grown up and so alone. Despite my confusion, I promised my father that I'll never forget his words and always be a true “Eved Hashem”.

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This picture (100) of (Yancu) Rabbi Jacob Eckstein, the son of Reb Meir Eckstein, was taken in England after the Holocaust in 1947

We had a three week stay in the Beregsaz ghetto together with a few famous ‘Rebbes’ and a couple of hundred people. Each day, more Jews were deported and supposedly taken to work on a nice farmland. We were all convinced and couldn't wait our turn; but somehow something deep inside kept on telling us that things might just be worse. We didn't know the Germans dirty tricks yet; unfortunately we quickly learned about them.

After a long train ride, we arrived in Auschwitz and were greeted by scary looking SS men. Within minutes the cheerful looking Germans transformed into mean beasts. It was then that our worst fears turned into reality.

“Ladies and children to the right and males to the left!” they bellowed. To ensure that we stay in line, “kapos” were circling between the hundreds of people. One kind “kapo” came over to me and whispered in my ear, “You look like a smart and mature “yid”. Let me tell you the key to survival. I know you are only twelve years old, however you can definitely pass for seventeen. Whenever you are asked to tell your age, always claim to be seventeen. Soon you will be inspected by Mengele. Tell him in a confident strong voice I am seventeen and I want to work! Listen to me, young man, this is the key to survival”.

I made sure to remember his warning. I knew that the “kapo” is definitely s ent straight from the ‘shomayim’ and directed to me because I was destined to live.

My mother, little sister Perele and I were on the right, clutching together and crying bitterly. My holy father, especially, looked thirty years older than he was because of the constant flowing of tears. After four long hours, we were finally standing in front of the inhumane Mengele. I was separated from the rest of my family because I told him I was seventeen and I want to work. Women, children, and the elderly were immediately sent to be exterminated because the Nazis claimed they're useless. The merciless doctor gave me a harsh spanking and I

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brokenheartedly watched as my family cried ‘Shema Yisrael’ and walked into the gas chambers. Then the Nazis grabbed my precious ‘Tefillin’ and burnt them in front of my eyes. My father gave me this brand new pair so I can use it when I become ‘Bar Mitzvah’. This only added to my terrible devastation. With all that, somehow, I strengthened my ‘bitachon’ and forced myself to go on.

I remained in Auschwitz for a few unbearable, bitter weeks, with a shaven head, striped uniform and a number around the neck. The daily menu consisted of black bread and black coffee for breakfast, a ladle of inedible sand soup for lunch and for dinner we had some petty leftovers. We were expected to work harder than husky dogs, with no food to sustain us.

Our next destination was Plashov near Cracow Poland. We stayed there for months with even less food. Our job was to build foundations for barracks. The Russians were fast approaching Poland, so extra people were just a burden to the Poles. We were therefore sent off with approximately one pound of bread per person to our next unknown destination. We knew it would be a while till we would arrive, but out of sheer hunger we voraciously devoured our bread. Sure enough, the trip took three torturous, long days. Most of us had no choice but to fast. We came off the three–day train ride like stumbling, meatless skeletons.

The conditions in Grosse–Rosen only deteriorated until we were taken to Bokenheim that was situated up north. This meant the weather was an added hazard.

At this point of the war, the Germans began to realize their plan to exterminate Jews was failing because we are to an extent invincible! Therefore, now more than ever, the immoral Nazis looked for the best methods to torture and mass killings. They woke us up in the coldest part of the night, made us undress, and as we shivered we were forced to take snow showers. The monsters ranted and raved at our frail goose bumped bodies. This

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was a nightly occurrence. If by chance someone was caught ‘davening’ or handling ‘Tefillin’, the entire camp was summoned to the gallows to watch the beating and then the hanging of the afflicted Jew. Many died ‘Al Kiddush Hashem’.

Thereafter, we went on a hundred mile walk because the Russians were once again taking over. Every few days we stopped into a camp. Whoever couldn't make it was shot dead. We carried a weak, sick friend of ours.

The last camp we were in before liberation was Dirno, Czechoslovakia. A far cousin of mine recognized me, and since he was a doctor of the camp, he arranged that I get a double portion everyday. I constantly felt as if a ‘malach’, an angel, was right above me, watching and giving me strength and directing me to the righ ‘Shlichim’. People were dying like flies. We woke up every morning in Dirno to find lifeless skeletons surrounding us in our barracks.

On May 9^th, 1945, the Russians came finally to liberate us. My friends and I went to live temporarily in German deserted houses and we had plenty of food. Hundred died because after months of fasting their bodies couldn't tolerate food. Miraculously, my body was able to withstand the drastic changes.

I was fourteen years old by then, and I stayed in Budapest for a while with my half brothers and sisters. I then went to Gateshead, England to lean by Rabbi Dessler's ‘talmidim’ for five years. In 1951, I came to America, learned in ‘Torah v'Daath’ and got ‘Semicha’. In 1955, on November 13, 1956, I got married.

The ‘Yad Hashem’ revealed itself so vividly every minute of the way. It all started when the “kapo” warned me never to tell the Nazis my real age who asked for children to please come with them to a ‘chocolate factory’.

They took those poor children to the crematoria! I was only a kid and

[Page 774]

sometimes it sounded so enticing to go, but ‘Hashem’ gave me ‘sechel’ (intelligence) and I didn't go.

Whenever people got sick or were just too weak to continue, they were taken to the infirmary. In most cases those ‘yiden’ were never seen again. With all the terrible conditions, somehow I never got sick, never complained, and was never taken to the infirmary.

In the camps, we wore wooden shoes. Since they weren't quite my size, I found rusty metal wires and tied them to my feet so they would stay on. They constantly cut into my sore skin, but wonderously the broken skin never got infected.

I knew my family's tremendous ‘Zchus of Tzedaka’ and always pictured the hundreds of homeless in front of our store. My “Rebbe's” words always echoed in my mind. (‘Tzedaka will save one from death’.)

Way back at the beginning, my father told me, “I know you will survive”. These words pulled me through the worst of times because of what “Chazal” say, A righteous man decides and G–d fulfills”.

[Page 775]

Over Fifty years have passed since I was liberated by an Afro-American soldier from the atrocities of a succession of four concentration camps: Auschwitz, Mathausen, Melk and Ebensee. In Melk, a work/death camp, I was one of roughly twenty survivors out of six hundred.

Over Fifty years have past since I lost my sister Sarah, her daughter Reisel and her two sons, Israel and Jacob. Her only child to survive was Mickey. Over Fifty years have past since I lost my oldest brother Daniel to the hospital at Melk just weeks prior to liberation.

Over Fifty years have past since I was fourteen – my childhood in the small village of Bilke, Czechoslovakia was brutally yanked away and I was forced to become an adult at the gates of Auschwitz. I could no longer act like a child. My brother Daniel whispered to me, “Stand Tall” and I tried. I made it through the selection process. My eldest sister Sarah and her three children did not.

Reflecting back upon the year 1944, it is hard to believe that two years prior to 1942, I was living a fairly “normal life” in Bilke, Czechoslovakia, a small peasant village with roughly two hundred Jewish families. To understand the climate of the time, it is important to understand the events that led up to our deportation to the concentration camps. In 1938, the climate started to change in my small town of Bilke. Czechoslovakia was

[Page 776]

In this picture (160) we see Manny Mechlowitz, the son of Noah and Fayge Mechlowitz of Bilke. It was taken in 1948 in the A.D.P. camp after The Holocaust.

divided into three nationalities: Czechs, Slovaks, and Ruthenians. In 1939, the Germans marched into Czechoslovakia – dissolving the Czech army and establishing a puppet Slovakian government. Ruthenia was divided between the Hungarians and the independent Ruthenian Government headed by Volosin. Five moths later, after two hours of fierce fighting, the Ruthenian government fell and the Hungarians took over the rest of Ruthenia. Bilke was located in Ruthenia.

My family, like all the families in Bilke, lived without electricity and running water. My parents had ten children, two died from typhoid fever before I was even born. We lived in a three room farmhouse and owned two horses which were used to plow the fields and haul firewood from the forest. These horses were also our only form of transportation. We owned one cow and some chickens that provided us with milk and eggs primarily in the summer months because the winters were too severe.

My parents were adamant about educating their children. My day as a ten or eleven year old was probably a bit different from the average ten or eleven year old. From 5:00 – 7:00 a.m. I attended Hebrew school. From 7:00 – 8:00 a.m. I went to the synagogue for morning prayers. From 8:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. I attended regular school, then off to dinner. Typically dinner consisted of meatless soup and corn bread.

When the Germans attacked Russian, life had changed as I had known it. The Hungarian children were trained in a semi-military school. The gentile children played soldier with wooden guns, and the Jewish children had to carry shovels.

In the early 1940's, the Jewish men were drafted into labor camps. Many of them were sent to the Russian front where they performed menial labor such as building roads, airstrips, and burying the dead. Additionally, all of the Jews were ordered to wear the Star of David.

In 1941, the Hungarians gave orders for deportation of those Jews who could not prove their Hungarian citizenship. About twenty families in my

[Page 778]

village were given notice to leave their homes. About 50,000 Jews from Ruthenia were sent to Poland and we later found out that on August 27^th and 28^th they were machine gunned to death at Kamenets Podolks.

In 1943, my mother died suddenly. My brother-in-law who lived in Paris became a French prisoner of war. Five months later, my father died. My life basically had turned upside down. I did not think it could get any worse. Five months after my father's death, I began my journey to the ghetto.

On March 26, 1944, we were deported to a town called Berehove, fifty miles from Bilke. All of the Jews from the region were housed in a brick factory. Each family made futile attempts to have some privacy by erecting blankets to make cubicles. We lived in the ghetto for four weeks prior to being herded into “cattle cars”, eighty people to a car. No food or water was given to us for days. Each step of the way I honestly believed it could not get any worse. Of course, I was very naïve. I remember very clearly when the doors of the “cattle cars” were opened. The SS were screaming, the dogs were barking, people were moving frantically in an attempt to avoid the blows from rifles. I separated from my two older sisters, Roslyn and Helen and my younger nephew Jacob.

Last week I visited my sisters, Roslyn and Helen. For the first time Roslyn told me what happened to her during the selection process. My sister Helen and my nephew Jacob were separated from Roslyn. Roslyn was sent to a labor camp while Helen went with Jacob along with other young children, their mothers, the elderly and the sick. While Helen was walking, she turned around frantically searching for Roslyn. However, Roslyn was in the other line that was destined for labor. One of the inmates who helped direct the traffic told her, “I am not looking, go over to the other side quickly,” which she did.

My sisters remained in Auschwitz for six months where they were tattooed on their arms- A6637 and A6638. Their job was to separate the

[Page 779]

clothes which were left behind on the station platform: not only from the people sent to work, but the women, children, elderly and sickly who were gassed. In Brikanov, there were four crematoriums surrounding the area where my sisters worked. They had enough to eat there because they found a lot of food between the clothes. My sister, Roslyn, knew what was going on in Auschwitz as soon as she stepped out of the railroad boxcar. An old-timer who was working at the railroad pointed out to her the smoke from the chimneys and told her to look up and see where her parents had gone. Of course she did not believe that woman.

Every night they heard people screaming as they were being gassed. Roslyn told me when the smoke started to come out of the chimneys, she was relieved because the people were no longer suffering.

There were times when the crematoriums could not keep up with the gassings so the stacked the bodies outside the crematoriums. The stench was overwhelming. The people who worked at the crematoriums were periodically (every three months) sent to the showers to be gassed to eliminate any future witnesses. Roslyn related to me one incident where people who were working at one crematorium refused to enter the gas chamber. The SS shot them as they were singing the Jewish national anthem. Roslyn and Helen never expected to survive. As the Germans evacuated Auschwitz, my sisters were sent to Germany to work at an ammunition factory.

I was walking with my brother Daniel in columns of five until we reached a group of SS – one of which was Doctor Mengele. He was standing there pointing to us as to where we should go – to the right or to the left. At that time we did not know that he decided who should be gassed and who should be sent to a labor camp.

I remained with my brother Daniel. My identity became #68583 and Daniel's became #68584. As #68583, I have a lot of memories I would like to share with you which for a long time I tried to forget.

[Page 780]

Within the first few hours at Auschwitz 1, #68583, became a fourteen year old adult, I lied my way through the selection process saying that I was seventeen. My hair was crudely cut and a 2” strip was shaved in the middle of my scalp indicating that I was a prisoner. This made it impossible for prisoners to escape without being recognized. The shaving was very painful as the Germans did not waste soap on Jews. I was deloused, sent to the showers, given a uniform that would have fit a grown man, and waited for hours, and hours in freezing weather in front of the barracks to be counted, recounted, and counted again. In a futile attempt to stay warm, we huddled closely together and stuffed newspapers in our shoes. After hours without food or water, we were given a small piece of bread and coffee-colored water.

My tenure at Auschwitz lasted a week, at which time I was transferred to Mathausen where I remained for another week and then off to Melk where I remained until shortly before liberation.

Melk was a work/death camp in Austria where I worked helping to build an underground ammunition factory. I was responsible for taking drill bits to be sharpened. One night I fell asleep and was consequently promoted to shoveling dirt and carrying rail tracks. This was very unfortunate because the way to survive was to work as little as possible without being detected by the guards. Of course, I was lashed twenty-five times for falling asleep on the job.

Several times inside the tunnel where we were shoveling, sections of the tunnel caved in and people one step to the left of me and another time one step to the right were killed. Melk was not known for gas chambers; however, in my opinion, it was worse for me than Auschwitz. Here people were worked to death instead of being gassed to death. Of my group, twenty people out of six hundred survived in the timeframe of about eleven months.

After working all day, the day was still not over. The Germans were

[Page 781]

extremely efficient. We had to carry bricks from the railroad station back to the camp. We found out later that these bricks were used to build a crematorium at Melk.

One day, we were ordered to line up outside for hours. We were forced to watch a Russian prisoner hang for attempting to escape. The guards did not even have the decency to cover his eyes. To this day, I still remember the horror and torment in his eyes.

I would do anything for an extra piece of bread or an extra minute of rest. I used to steal an extra few minutes of rest by going to the latrines. But even the latrines were not sacred. The guards would hit anyone who stayed too long. The only thing to look forward to was the half day off we received every two weeks which was spent delousing ourselves with stones.

In March 1945, Melk was evacuated. We were marched to the Danube, loaded into freighters and transported to Linz, Austria. After the boat ride, we were marched for days. Those that were too weak to march were shot. We went through a village where I saw a water pump. As I tried to drink a little water, the SS hit me with the butt of his gun. We finally arrived at another camp called Ebensee and were imprisoned there from April 1945 to May 1945. I looked like one of those skeletons you've seen in the pictures. I knew my days were numbered but I continued to fight, trying to stay alive. I ate coal and chewed on tar just to have anything to eat. I got very sick from eating the coal. When we arrived at the barracks, people were just laying on the floor waiting to die. I recognized my second cousin, Izchak. He had given up, but I would not let him.

I told him that liberation was imminent in just a matter of days. He started to cry and said there was no point. His wife and children were already dead. But he did fight and too was a survivor, living to eighty-five in Israel with his second wife and their two children. He passed away about a year ago.

[Page 782]

On May 6^th, 1945 the guards had vanished. Our biggest fears were: 1) were the guards? And 2) what would they do to us? We thought we were all going to be shot to eliminate all witnesses. I decided to grab a blanket and go to the railroad station to catch a train to go home. Of course, the railroad station and trains were all bombed. I decided to go back to the camp. On the way back to the camp, I stopped at several different homes asking for food. The Austrian citizens were more anxious to give me food swearing they had no knowledge of the camps. An hour after I returned to the camp, not really sure what to do or where to go, the American tanks rolled in. The American soldiers were all crying in utter disbelief as to what they saw. The American soldiers set up a field kitchen and gave us plenty to eat, not realizing that the skeletons in t he camp were physically unable to absorb the rich food. Many of us got dysentery including myself, and many others died. The American soldiers proceeded to round up all able-bodied me from the local population including the mayor to clean up and bury the dead.

With all the atrocities that occurred within the time span of less than two years, there were a few acts of kindness that for me, I believe, made the difference between life and death. An old man would hide a piece of bread under a large rock. I would break the bread in half and give half to my brother as we passed each other on the way to and from work while at Melk. Was on the day shift and Daniel was on the night shift. I saw him every day until just weeks before liberation. I found out he went to the hospital. I was never to see my brother again.

One day the old man stopped leaving bread. To this day I wondered what happened to him. I can only hope that he was not caught leaving bread because of course that would be punishable by death.

There was also a guard who gave me a piece of bread when we passed through the dark tunnel on the way to the work site and a French prisoner of war at the camp assigned me to take the sop kettle back to the kitchen. An extra piece of bread here and an extra piece of bread there, a scrap

[Page 783]

in the soup kettle, I am convinced that is why I survived.

Even when the war was over, and the distance from the camps increased, it was not over. Where should I go, this boy of fifteen? Were my sisters alive? Of course, I knew that Daniel, Sarah, Reisel, Israel, and Jacob were not. Could I perhaps find my sister Margie who my parents managed to get out of Europe to the United States before the devastation started? Was my sister Irene alive, who happened to spend eighteen months in camp set up by Vichy government in France? How fortunate it was that my mother and father died some months before these events began. They would not have survived and did not have to witness the a agony of their children and families.

Now out of the camps, I was determined to find my way home to Bilke. I was deathly ill and still looking like a skeleton. Most of the trains had been bombed. However, the American army provided us with trucks to take us across the border to Czechoslovakia after which I had to fend for myself. I wandered aimlessly going from town to town hoping to find my surviving family. I got off one bus in Budapest where I was walking to find a place for shelter. Somebody yelled behind me – “uncle”. I turned around and saw my nephew Mickey. Mickey had made it through the selection process by running away from his mother and others going to the gas chamber, and jumped on a train going to a labor camp. He did not know what was going on, but his instinct told him to go with the men and stay away from the women and small children. He was thirteen at the time.

Mickey told me later he is convinced that part of the reason he survived after the war was because upon liberation, he crawled into a pig sty and fell asleep rather than eating the rich foods that were handed out. Even if he had wanted to eat some of the food, there were cans of food being dropped everywhere and Mickey had never seen a can before so he did not know how to open it.

When I saw Mickey in Budapest, he told me of rumors that his father

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(my brother-in-law) was alive and was working in a seltzer factory in the town of Uzhorod. We knocked at the door of the factory and a woman told us to leave. The third time Mickey's father answered the door carrying two bottles of seltzer and yelled, “Didn't you hear the lady? She said go away”. Mickey said, “What's the matter? Don't you recognize your own son and his uncle?” Of course he did not. He couldn't believe his eyes…he had lost his wife and three children. He presumed he had lost his four children. He dropped both bottles of seltzer. My two sisters Helen and Roslyn had also survived and heard that their older brother Daniel was still alive. They made it to Uzhorod and that's where they found me instead of Daniel. My sisters decided to put me into a hospital where I stayed about two weeks. When I was released from the hospital in order to go home to Bilke it turned out to be no home at all. Our house was in shambles, our neighbors had stolen everything – windows, doors, furniture, even the few things that we had buried were gone. Since we had nothing left in Bilke, we decided to leave and try to make it to the United States. By the time we decided to leave, the borders were closed. We were now part of the Soviet Union.

We sold our barn and with the small amount of money, we began our next adventure – illegally crossing borders at night, jumping trains, getting arrested, and bribing guards. We finally ended up in a DP camp in Germany where we stayed for three years.

First, Helen decided to travel to Chust to solicit help from our cousin to cross the borders. My cousin took Helen to Budapest and left here there in the middle of the street. Helen was eighteen and stranded. Roslyn proceeded to travel to Chust to find out how to get to Romania while I stayed behind because I was very ill. She sent me a telegram in Bilke a few days later to come join them in Chust. I was extremely sick doubled over in pain at the train station. I somehow managed to get on the train and the only way I could stand up was due to the crowds pressing against me. When I arrived in Chust, we hired a guide to smuggle Roslyn and I

[Page 785]

along with three others who had joined our group across the border into Romania. Directly across the border, in a town called Satu-Mare we were caught by the Romanian police and spent half the day in jail. With the small gold rings that the women had, we bribed our way out of jail. We hopped on a wagon going to the Hungarian border and hired a guide to help us cross to the Hungarian side. The guide left us in the middle of nowhere. We heard dogs barking so we followed the sounds to a farmhouse. One of the girls in our group knocked on the door, waking the farmer who then pointed us in the right direction telling us that guards were sleeping in the barn. We retraced our steps and proceeded in the right direction. Finding another farm, we hid in a pig-sty while several of the girls talked to the farmer. The farmer took us in his house and made us a fire to warm ourselves. With an apron that my sister Roslyn had, we were able to barter for the help of his thirteen year old daughter to take us across the border into Hungary. Upon crossing the border, we waited for a train for two days to go to Budapest. We jumped the train along with a lot of others with the same plan. While on the train, my sister Roslyn received numerous proposals of marriage. The only condition for the marriage was that she leave me behind. You have to understand that people had been devastated by the loss of their loved ones and were desperate for companionship. There was no rhyme or reason for some of their behavior.

We arrived in Budapest two days later hoping to get the required papers to go to Prague. No more papers were being handed out in Budapest.

We hopped on yet another train to cross the Slovakian border. The train we jumped on was a Russian troop train; however, one car was open and empty which allowed many others to travel to Slovakia. In the broken car were two Russian soldiers who were going for a joy ride. When we stopped in the train station, the soldiers got off the train to confiscate a bench so the girls could sit. The Slovakian police noticed the soldier's actions and chased all of us out of the train except the two Russian soldiers. At this point we found a Jewish agency which was helping refugees to move

[Page 786]

on with their lives by giving them money. We used the money to buy passage to Prague. Upon arrival in Prague, my sister Roslyn took me to the hospital. I am unsure to this date if she took me because I was sick or I needed some place to stay. Roslyn set out to find my sister Helen, whom she found. Ironically we ended up crossing the border into Germany. We thought that because we were in the American zone, there would be no problem to get to the United States. Instead, we found ourselves in a displaced persons camp where we stayed for three years.

Mickey joined us at the displaced person's camp for a short time. During that period Mickey and I decided that we were going to smuggle ourselves into France. We had no idea where France was, but we bought a map and started our journey. The reason was to find my sister, Irene, who, after eighteen months in a concentration camp, was in France with her prisoner-of-war husband David who had also survived. As we set off on our adventure, we ended up smuggling ourselves into the French zone of Germany. We decided to go to Austria on a boat and it all seemed very easy until we were met at the other end by the Austrian police. We were arrested and subsequently bailed out by some local Jewish citizens. At this time our little adventure became exhausting, so we decided to join a kibbutz which was located in Hohenems, Austria. The people of the kibbutz were preparing themselves to be smuggled into Israel. My sisters persuaded me to come back to Germany, and Mickey went back to Czechoslovakia. A little later he joined the Haganah and went to Israel to fight in the 1948 war.

Finally, in 1948, an executive order by President Harry Truman allowed 400,000 refugees to come to America; my sisters and myself were among this group. The story doesn't end there. Within one year I was drafted into the U.S. army during the Korean conflict and sent overseas to a place I had left a short time before – Germany.

I have tried to make sense out of my experience. There is none. I am left with one thought…we must all ensure that atrocities and inhumanity

[Page 787]

of this magnitude must never ever happen again. The Bosnia/Serbian conflict in my opinion should not have been allowed to have gone on for so long. The Palestinian/Israeli conflict has dragged on for years. We need to take a pro-active stance and not allow lives to be needlessly sacrificed over the land, oil, or political convictions.

Two points I must try to leave with you. Some may think of the Holocaust as something horrible that took place a long time ago – over there where insane Nazis reigned – and to someone else, someone more unfortunate than ourselves. I ask you to think of the Holocaust as something that can happen anywhere. As former NEA President Willard McGuire said in Jerusalem some years ago, “the memories of the horrors of the Holocaust must echo through this and coming generations of Americans so we shall never forget”.

Secondly, as I talk to you today, in March 1994, let's ask ourselves how much real progress have we made in the past forty-nine years.

80,000 Neo-Nazis have surfaced in Germany and G_d only knows how many more around the world. Kids go to the movie Schindler's List and ridicule the movie.

The conflict between the Jews and Palestinians continues into its 50^th year; and although a treaty with some Arabs has been signed, it will take generations before real peace occurs.

Guest speakers in the Cobb County school district in Georgia are teaching that the Holocaust never occurred. People are making a living telling that lie in many places around the world.

Louis Farrakhan, who is one of the most controversial leaders of the Black community refers to Jews as “bloodsuckers”, Judaism as a “gutter religion”, Israel as an “outlaw state”, and Hitler as a “very great man”, “wickedly great” he later explained. According to a poll conducted by Time/CNN, seventy-three percent of those surveyed were familiar with

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Farrakhan and two-thirds of those familiar with him viewed him favorably. More than one half viewed him as a good role model for the black community.

Frightening as it is to say, the list of ills is without end.

Our world is not plagued only by ethnic hatred and anti-Semitism. Look at the oppressions of black persons in South Africa, and the Serbian and Bosnian conflict. Racism runs rampant in parts of our nation with rabble like the Ku Klux Klan reminiscent of European fascists. Our world is plagued by prejudice and discrimination that must be attacked at an early level in our schools. I am not saying that I have the answers, I don't. Building awareness and having discussions on race, on prejudice, on intolerance, on discrimination, on hatred, can't but help. Discrimination will not disappear easily but perhaps in another forty-nine years, our society may have a better grasp of the problems we face.

I would like someday to be looking down upon my children and hear,

Today is March 2042.
Ninety-eight years since the collapse of the Nazi empire;
Forty years since the acceptance of the Israeli-Palestinian peace treaty.
Thirty years since the collapse of the new Nazi movement;
Twenty years since the demise of the Ku Klux Klan.

[Page 789]

Reszi (Rivka Josovic) Bohm is the daughter of Reb M. Josovic, a Bilker carpenter. She submitted the following detailed testimony:

The Germans occupied Budapest in the middle of May, 1944. The destruction of the Jews was imminent. For the past couple of years I had worked in Weiss Mandel's Restaurant at Weseleney 18, with Shmilu Braun, Basie Chajemovics (who died in Auschwitz) and a Bilker Gentile girl named Ilona Lipcsej. My residence was Weseleney 11.

An order was issued stating that Jews were not allowed to employ Gentiles, so Ilona decided to return to our hometown, Bilke. I begged her to sell me her working book, but she refused and she went home. My intention was to get Aryan papers and live through the war somehow, somewhere. However, her misfortune was my luck, because she forgot to declare her departure at the food rationing office.

On about May 20^th, a proclamation was posted on the wall in the project at Weseleney 11: Every Jew must register within three days. Of course, I didn't want to be among those registered, so in order not to be deported, I had to do something drastic quickly. I obtained a blank declaration, filled it out and forged the housemaster's signature. I took off the yellow star and went to the police station to register the declaration. The next day, I lied to the housemaster and told him that I received a card from Ilona Lipcsej that said she had lost her declaration; would he please give her another one because she would not be able to register at home, in Bilke. He gave it to me reluctantly. This was a start at working toward the false papers. With the declaration in hand, I took off my star again

[Page 790]

and went to the food rationing office, where I received a rationing book.

On Thursday, I bought a religious cross with a chain. I took off my yellow star permanently, replaced it with the cross and started job-hunting. I preferred going to the country where food would be more available and I would also be safer from the city bombings. In the newspaper, I found an advertisement for a housekeeper in Shiofak. Immediately I went for an interview.

The place was in Buda: Preda Leba and Sons bakery, Alkotas 10. While the lady was interviewing me, someone else called on the phone about the job. I was sent away and told to call back in about two hours. Those two hours were endless. In order not to just roam the streets, I rode in a trolley car most of the time. When I came back, I was hired. The next day, on Friday, I had to take my new position in Shiofak near Lake Balaton.

Everything that I did went on with great secrecy. Somehow, the people around me suspected that I would be leaving soon. Sure enough, I said goodbye to the older Mr. and Mrs. Weiss, Surika, Shmilu and Basie. Nobody knew of my destination. The restaurant was still going fairly strong, but I left and went on the Southern Railroad station directly to Shiofak.

My emotions were so mixed. I asked myself the same question over and over again: Who am I? Is this real? Will I be able to play the role of a Catholic girl who doesn't know anything about Christianity? Although I bought a Catholic prayer book, it was still a far cry from the way I was raised in a truly Jewish home where every fiber of my being was interwoven with our religious heritage. Will I be able to sustain this? I prayed to G-d that He should help me and show me the way in this strange atmosphere.

I arrived in Shiofak in the late afternoon. The two Preda sons owned a villa there. Within the two families there were three children and two nannies. The parents came down only for the weekends. I was their

[Page 791]

housekeeper. I always had to remember who I was, my exact name, birthday, etc. One day I was called to the city hall; I was terrified. My fear vanished soon when I received a personal identification card, and later a work book. Now I really felt a little more secure with all those papers in my hands.

To church I went only once, because the family wasn't very religious; to me it was a blessing. My thoughts plagued me with guilt. I was constantly thinking about my family and friends whom I had left behind. My only hope was my strong faith and courage to live.

Listening secretly to the BBC radio news from London, I gathered that the war would end soon. I was determined to struggle through it, whatever the cost. Heartaches were sometimes unbearable. At bedtime I used to lock the door because I had nightmares. I was afraid that perhaps I would say something in Yiddish and, therefore, could betray myself. One had to be extra careful.

I kept on working until the end of the season, September 1, 1944. They all returned to Buda and I was left without a job. I rented a room in Budapest on a day-to-day basis. I was living in torture because I was afraid to go out, and staying in would arouse suspicion. There was still some money due to me from Preda's. I went to collect it, they offered me a job as a sales clerk in the bakery. Of course, I accepted it with pleasure, food and board included. I took to the business as a duck takes to water.

One day, a man wearing a yellow armband came in, supposedly to buy some bread. Lo and behold, here I saw my friend and schoolmate from Bilke, Itzik Reisman. When he saw me behind the counter, he sneaked out in order not to betray my Gentile disguise. Later he told me that I had turned all colors. A policeman, whom I knew from Weiss Mandel's restaurant, also came into the store once. Quickly I bent down underneath the counter, pretending to look for something. When he left, I said “Shema” with a sigh of relief. There were numerous crucial incidents like that.

[Page 792]

Ruth Bohm (57) acting as a Christian in Budapest during the war in 1944

[Page 793]

My friend, Armin Gelb, also lived on forged papers and called himself Pista; he was under Swiss protection. He came to the bakery once a week and I gave him about twenty kilos of bread and other food I was able to get; this he smuggled into the ghetto. I was stealing and hiding one or two loaves of bread every day in order to fill up his rucksack. Bread was precious, rationed in very small amounts a day per person. People stood in line from 4:00 a.m. for their daily rations. I was offered gold and other articles for the bread. Later on, the shelling became too dangerous for Pista (Armin) to come, so I sent him the bread with a messenger a couple of times, which he acknowledged when he received it.

After Christmas, the Red Army surrounded Budapest and fierce fighting began. The store was under constant shelling. We wore helmets all the time. My good fortune played an important part in my life. The cook had a fight with the boss, so she left. The kitchen was in the basement, near the air raid shelter, so I offered my services as the cook, although the work was much harder. I had to cook for twenty people every day, but it was much safer than in the store.

On January 22^nd, 1945, the Russian planes dropped six bombs on the bakery, and it was destroyed, three dead and three injured. Thank G-d, I was unharmed. Four of us girls fled across the street into an air raid shelter. I stayed behind a little while until I could get enough food from the storage in order to survive. Life in the shelter was horrible: There was no drinking water and only one toilet facility for fifty people.

The Russians liberated us at about the end of March or the beginning of April. This was another experience in my life. It should have been happy, but it certainly was not. The Russians came in very drunk, with a large German shepherd dog. They had weapons in their hands and they were shouting lewd things. Inasmuch as I was looking forward to this liberation day, it was spoiled by their uncivilized actions. When I saw their behavior and lust for women, I hid in a coal bin, where I stayed for three days. Sure enough, women young and old were being raped.

[Page 794]

As soon as things quieted down, everybody came out of the shelters. At last, I was liberated, but still, like being in a cocoon, I was completely cut off from my people. Everything around me was destroyed. The stench from dead bodies was unbearable. We cleared away the rubble from the bakery. One oven was left intact; things started rolling again slowly. Bread was baked only for the people who brought their own flour. I weighed and taste-tested the flour; people were mixing in plaster and other materials. By the end of the day my tongue was like glue. For all this work, I received one kilo of bread a day, which was a great reward because I was able to exchange the bread for other necessities.

By the hour, I was getting more restless and very anxious to know what happened to my people. Here and there, Jews were returning from the ghettos. It was very difficult for me to continue any longer under an assumed name. I wanted to cry out to the world that I am Jewish and no longer a Gentile girl. I removed the cross as soon as the Russians liberated us.

About two weeks before Pesach in 1945, I had an opportunity to go to Pest with a police officer as a guard. We walked all the way down to Csepel since all the bridges were bombed. My thoughts were to look up the Weiss family and all the other people that I knew; perhaps they survived. I wanted to be in touch. I made the date with the police officer for Sunday at 8:00 a.m. I made up my mind to tell my bosses about my identity. I arrived in Pest about 4:00 p.m. my destination was Kosiney 10, to look for the Weisses. Thank G-d, I found them. It was a very happy reunion.

The next morning I went to the American consulate to send a telegram to my Uncle Louis in New York. Of course, I had thrown away whatever personal papers I had with my Jewish name and address before I assumed my Gentile disguise. Vaguely, I remembered my uncle's address in New York, and sent him a telegram through the Red Cross.

[Page 795]

On Tuesday, I returned to Buda by canoe via the Danube near Margit bridge. Somehow I felt good, thinking to myself about when the day would come for me to sail the ocean and be reunited with my family in America. In Pest, the streets were full of refugees looking for and asking about their loved ones.

Now the time had come to tell my bosses the truth about my identity. When I saw them in the office, I went in and started: “Gentlemen, being that up until now I was unable to keep my religion, and now that Passover is approaching, I was invited to the Weisses, my friends, to celebrate my holiday with them.” They looked at me as if I were crazy.

“The truth of the matter is this: I am no longer Ilona Lipscej. My real name is Reszi Josovic and I am Jewish. In order to live, I had to save my life in this manner. I didn't want to be slaughtered like the rest of my family.” I couldn't hold back the tears any longer; I broke down and cried. My bosses were astonished at how cleverly I was able to hide my identity. There were numerous questions and answers. I was very well liked there. They didn't want me to leave, so I stayed on another three months. One of the bosses told me, “You should have remained a Ilona Lipcsej; you never know, history repeats itself.” My reply was, “Now the tables will turn on you for your misdeeds.”

One afternoon, a messenger brought me a letter from Suriko Weiss, saying that my sister, Rachel, had returned from Auschwitz and that she was in her house. I rushed with some clothes to meet her. Poor thing; she was all swollen, had barely any hair, but I was very happy to see her again. I placed her with a childless distant relative, very fine people, the Lasslos. The rest of my family, my parents, three sisters and two brothers perished in Auschwitz.

I met Menus Klein and he told me that he was going to Prague. Since the borders were still unsettled, one could travel without a passport. I told him I would go along. In the meantime, I had heard that my cousin, Mendi

[Page 796]

Bohm was in Prague; I surely wanted to see him. While I was in Prague, Mendi and I became engaged. On the way home from a restaurant, we saw a group of people standing in front of our apartment house. Among them was Mendi and a soldier. A man was walking toward us; he was Moshe Berger (whose father was Meyer Berge), and we were pleasantly surprised to see him. As we came closer to the rest of the people, to our great surprise the soldier was my Uncle Norman. I couldn't believe my eyes; the excitement was too much to bear.

We all went into the apartment. Uncle Norman told me that he had received a telegram from Uncle Louis, his brother. Uncle Louis had received my telegram from Budapest. Through the American consulate, he in turn cabled his brother, Norman, in Germany, where he was stationed, and asked him to look me up right away in Budapest. He was going to Budapest via Prague, where he made a stopover. The train was supposed to leave at 8:00 a.m. the next morning. In order to pass the time, he went to the YMCA where all the refugees gathered. He met a young man and gave him a package of American cigarettes, which was a great deal, and asked him to go from table to table to ask if anyone was from Bilke.

It didn't take long to find a table full of Bilker men, and they gathered around him: Chayim Bohm, Moshe Berger, David Heisler, Eliezer Schwimmer, Menachem Klein and others. Naturally, everyone was glad to see him. They asked him, “What are you doing in Prague?” He answered, “I'm on my way to Budapest to see Rifkele Josovic.” They said, “You don't have to go far, Rifkele is right here in Prague.”

This was the group of people waiting for me in front of the apartment house. After three days leave of absence, with a heavy heart, we said goodbye: “I will see you, G-d willing, in America.”

[Page 797]

On my wall are framed pictures of the people who are no longer there. I have the family portrait, with my serious looking relatives with expressions that would defy anyone to say they never existed. There is my Aunt Sarah looking so cosmopolitan in her stylish hat and collar. My Uncle Daniel is as handsome as any Hollywood movie star, in his army uniform. And I look at them often, knowing that if I look hard and long enough I will see my own eyes, my wide cheekbones, the wry smile.

Who do I look like? I look like them all. Sometimes when I look in the mirror I am surprised to see someone else's face. Today I'm Roslyn; tomorrow I'm Margaret; the next day I am Aunt Irene. But there are always my father's eyes gazing back at me, clear and blue grey.

I am very much the American flowing comfortably through the melting pot. Modern and educated, I live in the mainstream. But m face is that of the Mechlowitz family of Bilke, and a part of me will always live there. Over and over, I try to picture what it was like in the town of my father, of my grandparents. I seek the stories; I record the names. I imagine my grandfather's creative efforts to feed his large family – making matzohs one day, gathering grapes or lumber the next. And I can almost hear my grandmother inviting a passerby into their small house for “something to eat”. Just as I still hear my father say, “Are you hungry? Here's something to eat.”

Did you know my father Azriel Mechlowitz, as a boy? Let me tell you something about the man he became. In this country he was known as Ivan Miller. He married and had three children all of whom he adored. In

[Page 798]

my father's eyes his children could do no wrong, and from him I learned the joys and wonders of being apparent. My father had a reputation among family and friends alike of being incredibly kind and generous. Anyone who knew him knew he was a real “mensch”. He worked very, very hard all of his life and in his later years studied Torah and often read in the synagogue during the holidays. We were all so very proud of him.

When his first grandchild, my daughter Sara, was born, he was able to spend a great deal of time with her. I still have the picture in my mind of the two of them sitting side–by–side while he studied the “big book” (Torah). She would sit perfectly still, enthralled, looking from the book to his face, replacing the yarmulke when it slipped from his head – and she was barely a year old!

On a beautiful day in April, 1991, my parents went for a stroll on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City. The conversation turned to where they had begun their lives and how far they had come. How amazing it was that two “greeneh” from poor origins could now be owners of a condo on the Boardwalk. They spoke of many things: their youth in Europe, how hard life was in Bilke, and how little their children knew of such hardships. Nevertheless, my father proclaimed that his children had turned out quite well, and his grandchildren, in his eyes, were the most wonderful joy of all.

That night my father died.

I think of my father every single day because I miss him so deeply. Sometimes, I recall the stories he told me about growing up in Bilke. He never spoke to me of being poor nor of the hardships they endured. The stories I heard from my father were always lovingly nostalgic. I heard tales of his parents and siblings and their singular family life, of cousins, friends and neighbors and their humorous ways. As a child, I remember thinking that Bilke was a wondrous, magical place filled with interesting people and unusual stories. As I grew older I began to understand that in my father's eyes Bilke was home.

[Page 799]

Rivka (Friedman) Klein is the only surviving daughter of Rabbi Meshulam Friedman and Feige (Davidovitz) Friedman. Her parents, brothers Chaim Benjamin, Joseph Meyer, and sisters Chanah, Libe, Sara and Rachel were deprived of their Hungarian citizenship and deported to Poland on Tisha B'Av in 1941. Of their entire family, only Rivka, Eisik, Moshe and Rabbi Avraham Pinchas Friedman survived the Nazi atrocities.

Rabbi Avraham Pinchas Friedman was the shochet in the Karpato Rus town of Zalizsha, before he was deported to Auschwitz and slave labor. After the liberation of Europe, he settled in Kfar Ata, Israel, and worked in Haifa where he established a free loan service for the needy. He published Tikun Sofrim for Torah reading dedicating it to the memory of his parents, brothers and sisters who were killed in the Holocaust. Rabbi Friedman lived in Israel for forty–five years before he passed away.

[Page 801]

A stranger in Heaven Without a nest, On earth uninvited A guest Almighty, please Make me understand The reason of my being, And to what end. Friends of yore Long ago left, Here I stand All alone, bereft. There in the late fall A single leaf on a tree, Dangling in the air Exactly like me. To friends and foes alike Being always nice, Walking together through Hell In this Paradise

[Page 802]

Master of the Universe Creator of me and you, Why everything so beautiful Has to be ugly too. Why?

[Page 803]

In this (62) picture which was taken in 1930, we see Shlomo Davidowitz on Active duty in the Czech army during 1930–32.

[Page 805]

My ashes are crying to “Yad Vashem” Deploring the loss of my name. A partisan and two patriots from nearby, Caught by the Nazis; sentenced on the Gallows to die. Half a century, (plus five) exactly to The day, escorted, we marched our Fatal last way. Myself in the middle, flanked on either side By a partner of my fate, on my left and right. A placard on my back alerting in time, The People of Minsk our death–march, our crime. We halted at last with the yeast plant in face, Where the execution shall take place. I still a teenager only seventeen Old of our troika the first to mount The scaffold.

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Minsk interred a heroine to my Surprise, without a name What made me die twice. In history, war annals her in Stalin–land, quoting public Executions a nameless heroine I stand. What was the aim – or the Goal in erasing my name – And killing my soul! Was it done without reason or Rhyme, or by a well planned Purpose and design, To deny and prevent partisan Heroism to ascribe a descendant Of the Maccabean tribe A Word to Yad Vashem: Please add me, my name To our people lost, And count “six million one” In the horrible Holocaust.

This atanzaic versification is based on an article in The New York Times, dated September 15, 1987. The name of the young girl partisan is Masha Burskina of Minsk, Belorussia, which was occupied by the Nazis on June 28,

[Page 807]

1941. The date of the execution: October 25, 1941.

[Page 809]

An echo Tinkling in my ear, Getting stronger, louder Now sounds clear, “The Chanukah festival begins tonight, forget not the candle light” “Will you please make sure that it goes with Maoz–Tzur”. Me chanting? For myself, my silhouette, Or for the four walls Of my flat? Maoz–Tzur with grace– The Almight G–D We praise– For the miracles; our lot”

[Page 810]

In the memory of the Maccabean Glorious brothers, all five, Thanks to their heroism We, as Jews, did survive Our Ancestors had Chanukah set – In a humble way, On a magic oil “cruet” For a week and a day. The candle lit, I san Maoz–Tzur It filled my heart, my mind, With affection and love Of G–d, nature and mankind.

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