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[Page 255]

The group originally from Kolki gathered in Baltimore at the home of Yankl Liplewski. We assembled in honor of the guest who we had invited from Washington. The guest was Meniuk, a man who had lived through the hell of those years in the places from which all of the assembled here had beheld the world. He was the only one who had lived through the hell and emerged whole. And we waited with beating hearts for what he would tell us – we intended to go down the road of our pure and holy ones. The was the purpose of our meeting.

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Meniuk brought with him two photos from those years when we had not even imagined such a decree would be carried out against our people. We passed them from hand to hand, looked and remembered the times before the flood.

Yisroel Meniuk was not from Kolki. He was from Komarove. [His family was there] for generations. And Komarove was known by us – it was a village of Jewish settlement, like Sofivka, Azov and so on, like the other Jewish shtetlekh [towns] and villages, and yet different. Komarove had its customs. Village and shtetl are neighbors; they are linked to each other in friendship. One remembers entire families, with children and grandchildren. And they are dear, because only they, the memories remain.

We looked at the old father who had survived by a miracle and we remembered, we asked about each other and we began to feel as if tears were flowing deep in us… There was…was…and nothing survived.

So, we had the Styr [River] before our eyes. The river was like a boundary between Volyn and Poleisia. It ends in Kolki and on the other side, it seems, the same people, the same people, and a different life. On one side, colorful Ukrainian houses, the roofs covered with tin and with shingles. The ground includes a succulent sour-cherry orchard and small gardens near the peasant cottages. However, walk in the direction of New Chartorysk, Rafałówka [Rafalivka], in the Sarny district, and the appearance changes – a very different landscape: with straw-covered roofs, polished by the wind, a yellow-green dirt road and forests all around. Further is Polesia; more barefooted people, more poverty. Komarove actually lay there, where the nature changed, the life, 10-12 kilometers [about 6-7.5 miles] from Kolki, on the other side of the Styr. Komarove looked at the world through glass lenses that knew of the beauty of the sunsets, but further away, windows were pasted over with thick paper and only a bit of windowpane, to say

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welcome to the on-coming day. In Komarove, the person and the animal, the calf, the sheep, lived separately. Further away, clay floors and the person and the animal lived together, in the same cottage. It was still Ukraine, but already not Ukraine.

Jews – not Jews: we lived as neighbors, but a Jewish house was visible. Jewish houses were recognizable from afar.

Komarove. The local Jews were rooted here like the trees. They had settled here not because of a fire or because of a misfortune. They lived here and lived and lived and no one remembered the beginning. The Komarove Jews were like trees, oaks woven into the damp earth – rooted. And faced the sun with wide, combed, stately crowns. A generation went and a generation came, a generation went and a generation came – the accounts lost… The Yiddish intertwined with the Ukrainian and the Ukrainian with the Yiddish. Try to recognize among the village children who was from Abraham's race [who was Jewish]. We lived together, toiled, talked from behind the fences. The cattle grazed together; the horses grazing together…

There was in Komarove – everyone remembers – a small Jewish shop, what else? Without wealth! Everything, pitifully, in small amounts: several packs of matches, several herring in a barrel, half a sack of sugar, salt, a jar of candies, strings of cheap beads, a bundle of colored ribbons, a box of nails, buttons, thread, yarmulkes [skullcaps] and odds and ends, as well as a tin can of kerosene, several straps and…flies… Naturally, not to sell, unlimited flies. And ask: what drew [people] here, which king's delicacies? To a small shop with a few wooden stools for the distinguished customers. They would sit for hours and talk with the Komarove merchant, who had to “carry” the entire village on his head.

Everyone was drawn to the shop. Peasants would meet at the shop, tell practical stories and made-up stories; here they would spread gossip, comment on the priest's Sunday sermon. Of course, at the small shop Komarove “Valva” supermarket – with “goods” for a few tens of zlotes…

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Friday was different. The small shops would be closed in time for Shabbos [the Sabbath]. In the shtiblekh [small synagogues], in the Jewish houses, one after the other, on white-covered tables, they would light in candlesticks the two candles, which piously began blazing, lighting the now-silent outside. Holy Shabbos descended over the village. The callused hands raised goblets that sparkled and warm voices recited the blessings over them. The neighbors, the peasants also became quieter and restrained as if the holy Shabbos had also moved their souls like a soft breeze; they moved measuredly, to not disturb the Shabbos rest.

Today, who speaks of the Days of Awe? People then were struck with dread. In advance, one hitched up the horse and wagon, loaded the family on it with everything necessary for the Days of Awe and traveled to the shtetl – to Kolki. The door and shutters were closed and the empty house was left in the full certainty that when one returned the house would be found untouched, just as it had been left. The Komarove Jews would say that even during the great First World War, when Jews in other cities and shtetlekh ran, leaving their possessions abandoned, the Komarove Jews remained in place, in their houses – in the certainty that nothing would happen to them here.

After the Holocaust, Yisroel Meniuk gathered photographs from wherever possible. Several were even protected by the priest. He placed them on a table and the Kolkers in Baltimore looked at them with interest and with sadness, as one looks at murder victims. The only trace of acquaintances. We were particularly interested in a large photograph in which was seen a large group of well-dressed women, men, children. Our interest grew immensely. Who in the photographed group of Jews had survived? Not one! Not one!

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This was a photo of guests at a Komarove wedding. We began to remember the Komarove weddings. I was present at such a wedding and it had always remained in my memory. Jews from other smaller settlements and villages would celebrate their weddings in the shtetl [town]. Entire families in larger and smaller wagons harnessed to hot stallions, traveled together from everywhere, relatives near and far. It was the habit to celebrate the wedding in the shtetl. But not those from Komarove. They did not move from the spot; one came to them. Komarove weddings had a good reputation.

The entire village went topsy-turvy. The tasty aromas of fish, golden broth, fresh-baked goods and condiments hung in the air; the Komarove cakes, their stews, abundant foods, the roasted meats. The tables strained. Faces sweated. Today, fruits of all kinds! One does not marry off a child every day; a great time, lived to see it.! All of the guests had something to remember and of which to think.

We sat at the table at ease. There were no privileged people – everyone was served with great respect. Pesakh the klezmer [musician], with his fiddle, would not skip the guests at any table. Skipping them would be an insult for an entire life. When Pesakh would approach a table, the eater would lay down the spoon and fork; interrupt the puffery and just listen. How else? Otherwise, it would be an insult to Pesakh the klezmer. No one had been bred this way, they all knew how to “keep up appearances,” to act with respect. And Pesakh, with his height, width, blond beard and blue eyes, enchanted with his melodies that reached the souls and people sensed that there is beauty in the world, there are melodies that flow like delightful, pure springs. Pesakh brought everyone's soul together and flew with them where there is only blue color and rapture.

However, the real wedding began in Komarove; when we stood up at the table and inundated the largest room. The orchestra struck

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on all of their instruments and a dance began. Not a charming rikudl [Hasidic dance], but a circle that grew wider and wider with every second. First, only the men and then, also, the women. And the circle broke up and hands were thrown on shoulders and with such great enthusiasm that everyone revealed the heat of his soul, a fire that the others did not notice. Faces ignited, raised to the ceiling, and feet in lacquered shoes and shiny boots suddenly began feeling as if the body was no longer there, no longer had any weight, became strangely light; they swayed as if the earth beneath their feet had disappeared: “Stronger, higher, the circle, make the circle larger!” The rhythm grew, jackets hovered swaying, caftans, caps, beards. The joy flowed like a river in springtime. Male and female peasants gathered near the windows of the rooms; they clapped their hands and shouted repeatedly one word: “Mazel-tov! Mazel-tov!” [Good luck; congratulations]

We looked at the wedding photograph and everyone remembered how loud and noisy a Jewish wedding was in Komarove. When was this?

– Yisroel, do you not remember when this wedding took place?

Yisroel took the photo in his hands and his eyes were filled with dark sadness.

– If I remember? My heart breaks when I look at this photograph. This was in 1938. Borukh Fajerman from Bielska Wolya [Bil's'ka Volya] married my cousin, Rukhla, the Komarove dark Rukhl Meniuk.

I look at Yisroel Meniuk – a vigorous Jew in his fifties, a fighter, with a stubborn head on his shoulders. I see as if through a thick fog, as if through an opaque windowpane. And I think that I see his face through his voice. His voice is brimming with horror and I myself am horrified. I knew him as a young boy and when I want to remember him well

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I close my eyes which have lost their shine. My memory “sees” better, clearer. I wonder how such a young boy, Srolik, can speak with such a not-young voice, in which all the horrors through which he had lived have been gathered. I feel as if the air around me thickens, heated to a glow with fire-red clouds and thunder. May he not just break out in a wail. I do not know why, but choked-back words exploded from my lips:

– Srolik, calm yourself! Be calm!…

– Am I not calm? – he murmured – I am calm. Yes, the wedding… It took place in 1938. Yes. Three years later…My God… I still do not believe it, that this happened… I still do not believe everything, that the same neighbors… the same ones, with whom our great grandfathers, grandfathers, father and, we ourselves lived… Was this possible what happened? It happened and we do not want to believe it, although this is all written on my body, burned into my soul. You came to hear, so listen:

- Jews, as is known, know everything, alas for their knowing! Jews knew that large divisions of the German Army would go through Komarove. And Jews dared not appear in [those places] through which they went. Neighbors therefore advised us to go to the forest and when they passed, we could return. So, if we were given advice, we would obey. My father, Moshe, my mother Mishka, my sister Rukhl and I, then still a young boy, escaped from the village to the forest with others. My mother took along a few breads, a piece of butter, a pitcher of milk. What more did we need? We would soon return. I do not know if the Germans really did go through Komarove, but when we returned, the doors of the Jews' houses stood open and the shutters were torn off, lay around on the ground. Everything in the house was a mess, like a pile of rags:

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shirts, tablecloths and other things. Obviously, those who were here did not look for this. They took more valuable things: silver spoons and forks, the brass candlesticks, the kiddush cups [cups used for reciting the blessing over wine], the copper basin, our boots, my father's fur – in general, the treasures in our house.

Never before had something similar occurred and could not have happened. And if we had been warned in time that this could happen, we would not have believed it. Our neighbors? Now all of the neighbors, when we returned, stood with downcast heads; no one raised their eyes to us. We did not think of asking them anything. We also understood: it had started. Everything that one was, was gone with the smoke. With silent fear, we understood: we live among enemies. The returning families huddled together; we all moved into three rooms together. Our family immediately moved to Uncle Shia. The Jews who were not old village residents traveled to Kolki. However, we, who were rooted here over the course of generations, where should we move? So, we remained. We could not imagine that it would be safer somewhere else. “We spent a day going through the abandoned houses and… Quiet, it will again be still.” Thus, we thought; however, we made a mistake…

Two or three days passed quietly. No one came close; it was as if our house no longer existed for those around us. Yes, the days were quiet, terribly quiet. It was as if we became shrunken from the silence. Therefore, the nights, the nights were a horror! One could lose one's sanity. At first, we were numb, as if demons had attacked us. They suddenly began to throw stones at the Jewish houses. A hail of stones. Where had they found so many stones? Apparently, the devils had done nothing for entire days, only gathered mountains of stones to stone us.

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Dovid! It cannot be understood with a human mind. We did not see who did it. The hail was so strong and lasted for an hour or two without a minute's interruption. A true bombardment. A cannonade! Sodom and Gomorrah. Such wild cruelty?! Such animal-like anarchy. We pressed ourselves to the back wall; every muscle tensed and waited: what would happen next? Just an attack with sticks, crowbars, iron bars and axes. First, they wanted to destroy the walls, the chimneys with a cannonade and then they wanted to end our lives. But, no. The cannonade finally ended. It became dreadfully quiet and no one came. How many of them were there, the stone throwers, to bombard us for so long without interruption? Who were they? With the throwing of stones, there was also wild firing in the air, laughter, a roar and singing. Who could this be if not those who had lived here with us for a hundred years?! It was a true horror to think this. A horror! What people are capable of doing to the innocent and totally helpless.

Then, when it got quiet, the quiet was so “thick” that it was as if it could be touched… The night did not comfort any of us. We sat stiffened and waited for the arrival of the day. What would the new day bring? We sat silently at the empty table and thought: to whom should we go? Who knew who was a friend and who an enemy? To whom could we knock on the door or window? These were our old neighbors. We often helped each other. My father and my Uncle Shia had real friends here.

We let pass the first night, which stretched unendingly for us. However, morning finally came. We sat in our houses. It was quiet around us and a wild unease was inside us. Let at least one of our neighbors appear. Let us hear a living voice and according to the voice understand if we can count on a friend somewhere, on help, on a hope.

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Previously, we had waited for the night to pass, now we waited for the day to go by. What would the evening bring us? The night?

Night arrived… Suddenly, at once, as if by an order, the same devilish attack began, but this time mixed with shooting. Later, we began to situate ourselves; the stones flew into the walls, into the windows; the shooting turned to the roofs, at the chimneys. It was calculated to frighten, not to murder. Then, they shot lower – past the shutters. And again, it lasted very long, again death was so-so close and again we remained unmoving as if for an execution. Three Jewish houses with Jews. And around us? Who knew how many of them there were. They shouted, but did not come to us.

On the third night, the nice game repeated itself, but they also came. It was a bright, moonlit night. A group of young Ukrainians broke into the houses. They took the men from our house just like from the others. From our house, they took my father and my uncle. The men were assembled near the road and were driven to the river. Under the threat of weapons, they were forced to go into the water in their clothing. When they were in the water, gunfire began, not at them, but over their heads. With each shot, the Jews put their heads under the water, dove and this was a real entertainment for the murderers. The Jews dove in order to avoid the bullets and the torturers were delighted with pleasure.

As we later learned, similar “concerts” were organized in Kolki as well as in other shtetlekh.

One must assume that this was an elaborate psychological method of torturing the Jews, of breaking the strongest ones and turning them into defenseless victims during the further aktsias [actions, usually deportations] to erase their remains from the earth.

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Over the course of a few days, we all in the three houses remained without a bit of bread, without any food. Simply dying of hunger. However, the folk-saying is not said unjustifiably: need brings iron. We saw little by little that we did not have to throw all of the neighbors in one sack. The entire village did not consist of pure, dark bandits. There were those who did not agree to treat their Jewish neighbors in that way. There were cottages in which everyone, as a family, came out against us; others were neutral and kept their distance; individuals, perhaps, felt a heartache and probably were ashamed.

During the quiet night, my mother and a neighbor sneaked through the gardens and paths, through fences, to a peasant woman who we considered an old, good friend. With horror and fear, we waited for their return. A few hours later, they returned, exhausted but satisfied (in such circumstances we could also be satisfied and perhaps even more). My mother brought bread, flour and other necessary food to eat.

That is, in the village lived people! People who were even ready to help us. This was a great consolation and helped keep us alive. Closer contact with certain peasant families began. We learned from them what awaited us, what was being prepared against us.

True, not everyone gave us help from a pure heart; randomly. Some demanded money, things of value, clothing. Let it be like that. However, somehow, we survived, and we were thankful for that.

Two months passed. Then, the starosta [village elder] came to us from the village and read an order that Jews were no longer permitted to be found in the village. They had to travel to the shtetlekh [towns], where ghettos had been created. We traveled to the shtetl where we had relatives.

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Our family traveled to Kolki. Approaching the shtetl, we felt the whole horror of our situation; small children ran after our wagon, shouting, Żydi [Jews] and pelting us with stones. Among the children we saw faces full of hate. A shiver went through our hearts; such small ones and such dark hate! No one defended us; no one drove the children away from us; others turned away their heads as if they did not want to see us.

Traveling to Kolki, two Ukrainian policemen jumped out as if from under the ground. With an artificial friendliness, they told us that they had to check our wagon to see if we had weapons. Naturally, they did not find any weapons, but they took everything that had any value. We hobn gebntsht goyml [recited the blessing said after escaping danger], because we knew that often during these searches, many Jews received death at their hands.

They only robbed us – thank the Lord!… And told us to go.

– You, Dovid, and all of you here, already know something about what happened in the Kolki ghetto. However, you certainly want to know more, so listen: Believe me, each fact cut me in my heart; one wants to forget and one cannot, as if everything that has happened were hammered into the brain with such large nails that there is no strength that could withdraw the nails and free the mind.

You know me, I am a simple Jew, not a speaker and not a writer. Often I wake up, feel myself and grit my teeth to check again: and yet I have remained alive. Through what kind of miracles! I began to talk at the table; so let me go through the hell for a second time. Together, go through a second time, because those who did not go through it cannot understand and, therefore, we must go through the hell together.

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It is a great good fortune for people that no one cannot experience another's pain, going through the life of another person, even when it is described by the greatest writer. A piece of evidence: it happens that a writer describes exactly the life of a person who has committed suicide, but it does not happen that the reader is so moved that he himself commits suicide.

It was thus:

The ghetto was located on the street along the Styr [River]. The ghetto was not fenced in. Ukrainian guards stood day and night and made sure that no one left. Jews were driven to Kolki from all of the surrounding villages. It was densely packed and crowded here. Five to six families lived in one house; two to three families in one room. Eight people lived in one small, room; we did not need to complain; others lived in even greater suffocation. No fewer than 2,500 to 3,000 people had to find a place to live in several dozen houses. Can you imagine? It was half a hardship during the day – we could go outside; we would sit on the stoops, even in the cold and rain in order to at least have a place to breathe. However, at night, as the song says: “Hands and feet braided together.” We slept crowded, one pressed to another, without exaggeration, just like herring in a barrel.

Already in the first hour, when we arrived in the ghetto, we learned of the terrible murders. They shot people for no reason. Dozens of Jews drowned in the Styr [River]. Others “disappeared” and we did not know where or how. They had, it was said, been taken to work and they were not seen again and no one knew where their bones had gone.

The life of a person in the ghetto was so cheap and death was such a frequent guest that naturally we began to notice it. And

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yet, we felt better here than in that day in the village, now among our own. Here there was someone to talk to; we could go into a neighbor; we hurt and tormented ourselves together. Young men met with young women. We learned something from them; what was happening in the world – there smoldered a so-called bit of hope in the hearts. With miracles, actually, but we could anyhow survive. Survive and then tell people about how they wanted to kill us alive, that this was the beginning and the end would come… However, as long as an artery pulsed in a person, there was hope; may He have mercy, perhaps it would be destined…

We would be driven from the ghetto to work. If there was no necessary work, the torturers thought up “work.” The Jews were employed in a special, more organized forest management in the Kolki area. We were also driven to forest work in the winter. And the wages consisted of 100 grams of bread a day. Ask yourself, how could we live from such a “bounty?” We “added” hidden potatoes, beets and flour that we had known to hide in time. We lived…barely dragging our feet, and lived. The Jewish mothers showed themselves to be magicians. Literally from nothing, as if from their own 10 fingers, they would cook a thin soup. Where had they gotten the beet or the several potatoes – this was their secret. As usual, the mothers would eat last; we had to make sure that they at least had something to taste.

True, there were Ukrainians who wanted to help us, but very few. Those who grew up in the village like me were no different from the Ukrainian boys. We would sneak out of the ghetto and move around the peasant cottages in mortal danger. Like hares, we could disappear during a danger. The Germans did not recognize us as Jewish children when we took off the patches. We were afraid of the peasants and policemen. The Banderowces [members of the Bandera faction of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army] understood this very well.

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[They] immediately recognized a Jew. They rarely made an error, even when this was a blond-haired [person], with a turned-up nose; in general, children with a “good appearance.” So the smart, young Jewish boys received a piece of bread, a few potatoes from peasant acquaintances, from good people. The children also began exchanging clothing and other things for food. If a policeman caught a young child in such a “crime,” even if he had only begged for a piece of bread, he would mercilessly beat and demand that the boy tell him from which cottage he had received the piece of bread. I myself tasted the flavor of their disgusting paws when they caught me with a piece of bread. I returned home completely bloodied and beaten. Hunger was a great strength, gave the children extraordinary daring and heroism. I do not remember a case in which a Jewish child, murderously beaten, gave out the name of his benefactor. During the first year it was not difficult for us to have access to quickly leave the ghetto or quickly return. Particularly at the end of that year, it was not difficult to successfully leave the ghetto to obtain some food by exchanging things. The Germans took “things in their hand.” If they caught a Jew, they demanded a ransom; gold, furs, pelts, leather; they were well versed in this, what was of value. The Ukrainian policemen did not need any reason to beat Jews. They beat them without any reason, only for the pleasure of beating Jews, only to feel their authority over them.

In springtime, in 1942, they needed to secure the bridge across the Styr [River]. The ghetto Jews had to do this. The police would pack so many Jews onto three or four small boats that everyone had to stand and the boat sank so low that only three or four centimeters [one to one and a half inches] of the edge [of the boat] was above the water; the boat would turn over with the slightest loss of balance. After packing the boat, the policemen would push it from the shore with oars. We would reach the other shore barely with our lives where we had to do the assigned work.

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We would return late at night. Then the Jewish workers could cross via the repaired bridge, but they were also forced to return floating dangerously in the boats… The murderers hoped that at least one boat would turn over and they would have the pleasure of watching the scene of Jews drowning and going to the bottom. But what do Jews say: Netzah Yisroel Lo Yeshaker […the Eternal One of Israel does not lie and does not relent…], God helped; [the murderers] were not granted their pleasure by the Higher Power – not one boat turned over.

It was a monologue. Yisroel was enraptured when he spoke. My eagerness grew. We wanted the details which he had left out, but my questions disturbed him. He would arrange his hands as if he had not understood, as if he found himself in another world. I decided not to interrupt him, try to remember the questions that had arisen for me and ask him later at an appropriate moment. In the middle of talking, when words would be lacking for him, he would call out:

– Help, how could we have lived through this and not lost our sanity? A horror, a terror!!!

In 1942, it was already a mortal danger to go out into the street. A Jew went out of his house. Let us say that he wanted to go to a neighbor; a policeman shot him without warning. He had done it on a whim. A Jewish life was dependent on the mood of every scoundrel. He shot because he wanted to hear how Jews cry and scream – this was his pleasure. We understood this and everyone tried not to furnish such “pleasure.” When they took a brother or a father from the street, we were quiet and in pain.

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Terrible things are said about Jewish policemen, about the Judenratn [Jewish councils]. I have to say, and this is the truth, the Kolki Jews had no grievances against the Judenrat and how it was elsewhere I do not know. In Kolki, I know, when the Germans prepared something, we learned about it from the Jewish policemen. I encountered no cruelty from them, just the opposite. Dovid, I do not know if you remember the Jewish teacher from Warsaw, I think we called him Hirszbaum. In 1940, he lived in Kolki as a refugee. He was a policeman. I know of a case. The Germans would take the cattle from the peasants in the villages and drive them to the train station to Manevich [Manevychi]. They used young Jewish boys to drive the cattle. They would catch the boys and send them to this work. None of them returned. At first we thought that perhaps they had been sent to Germany with the cattle. Later, we learned that they shot them in the Manevich Forest. I myself was present at such a scene: the teacher Hirszbaum, the policeman, walked with his arm around a boy – he was called Simkha – and both of them were crying. The teacher begged him – you stay here and I will drive the cattle to Manevich. Later, the teacher was murdered when he tried to escape to the partisans and fell into the hands of the Banderowces. I did not hear anyone say anything bad about the men of the Kolki Judenrat. They were considered honest people, who wanted to save as many as was possible, although, naturally, they carried out the German orders. God forbid that any of them enriched himself at the expense of the unfortunate ones! God forbid – such did not happen.

– Dovid, what Perl Tine told you about Yakov Szlajen's death is correct. I know that it happened this way: the Germans called three Jews from the Judenrat to come to them and they gave a strict order. We did not know exactly about what, but only that it smelled of Jewish blood; this we understood. Yakov Szlajen and the other two

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refused to carry out the order, so they were beaten bloody; thrown onto a truck and taken in the direction of Kiwerce [Kivertsi]. They did not arrive in Kiwerce; they were shot in the forest outside Trosteniec.

In the summer of 1942, the Kolki Jews understood that their end was near. They seriously began to think about escaping to the forests. Only Jews who were taken to work could escape and hide in the forests. The terror in the ghetto increased. The Ukrainian fascists, the Banderowces and the police no longer limited themselves to just murdering Jews; they began to attack the ghetto at night and by day, dragging Jews from the houses and murdering them on the threshold. The ghetto was transformed into a butcher shop. At the end of August and in September (I am speaking about 1942), three large slaughters took place. The S.S. men led them and the Ukrainian police carried out the murders. Once, they selected 40 healthy Jews. They took them outside the shtetl, to the mill, and threw them in the cellar of the electricity plant. My father and I were among the 40. We were certain that we would be shot. This had already happened in Kolki during the first days of the ghetto, when they gathered 30 influential Jews and shot them. We all waited, that is, for death.

We waited calmly, resigned, without lamenting and without complaints. We wanted only for it to occur more quickly. However, they held us for a day and a night. We began to think: if they were going to shoot us, did they need to make a ceremony of it? Something had probably happened in the ghetto. It was too far for a noise, a tumult from a slaughter to reach us. We transformed ourselves into a pure sense of hearing and from time to time detected individual shots and full series of automatic weapons.

We stood unmoving at the small windows. If death was raging in the ghetto, it would also reach us soon. We were certain, and yet the hope that lives in people whispered: why had they

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brought us here and imprisoned us under lock [and key]? They probably had something in their bandit heads! What? We could not imagine what. Another night passed. Very early the next day, we were driven out of the cellar with curses and they began to chase us in the direction of the ghetto.

When we arrived, everything became clear. The ghetto was liquidated; its residents murdered. There were no longer any living souls. The doors of the houses were open; all of the windowpanes were broken. Everything was looted, pillaged. Only piles of rags, broken pieces of furniture, feathers from cut open pillows that were not worth taking lay around. And – corpses! The slaughterers worked here with their families: the men did the slaughtering, the women the looting.

– And who were the corpses? The Jews from the ghetto who had hidden when the ghetto was attacked and those caught were taken to their deaths. Then a chase after the hidden began. Everyone with a bit of a hiding place hid, but the slaughterers searched for them in their hiding places: cellars, attics, chimneys, ovens, bunkers, pits and they were shot on the spot, slaughtered with knives, their heads chopped with axes.

Wherever the instinct to live found a hiding place at the last moment, the blood hounds sniffed it out – under the floors, huddling the body to the shingles on the roof, in crevices. Death reached them everywhere…

– And we? We were the ones who had to gather the murdered from all over. We were those who were “destined” to see the horrible, cannibalistic savagery with our own eyes! We were the witnesses who would rather have become blind rather than see this. We found men shot in the forehead with bullets, women with knives in their hearts, an old man whose stomach was opened with an axe. We gathered several dozen of the murdered…

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These are forever etched in memory, particularly the corpses. Adults hid alone or in pairs. Where they hid, they were found. Others tried to escape – they were either shot or slaughtered. However, we did not find any child who was killed alone. The small ones died with their friends with whom they had played. They hid in pairs, or in threes: in chimneys, in ovens, but always together. We gathered their small bodies in horror. Most had received a bullet in the head. There were also signs that they had resisted with their teeth and nails and were murdered with knives. Tiny heroes! They all lay in their own blood. We laid the corpses on long drabines [carts] and when the wagons moved, blood still ran and left traces on the ground. The entire road to the Biala shores was marked by the blood of the Kolki Jews.

This was the end of the Kolki Jews, but not the end of the ghetto. We, the gravediggers for the hidden ones, after we had done our “work,” were told to go to our houses. We entered our own houses like mourners – no one in our families was still alive. With our father, we sat down on the floor of the ruined house that had previously been so full as to suffocate and now it was lonely and empty here as if left over for the wind. We did not look at each other as if we were guilty for each other. It was dreadfully quiet and the Angel of Death lived nearby. Why had we been left [alive]? To torture us more before our death?! How much devastation can a person live through?! How much death?!

The murderers knew what they were doing. They let us live; there again was a bit of a ghetto. Little by little, Jews crawled out from holes in which they had not been detected. Jews who had escaped to the forests slowly returned to their destroyed nests;

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wandering around, they had convinced themselves that their chances of remaining alive were negligible and they cautiously made their way to “their homes” and found Jews. Those Jews, too, who were on the roads and in the woods and were caught by policemen were no longer murdered by them, but taken to the ghetto. Others escaping also slowly learned of this and began returning to the ghetto. Thus 150 Jews or perhaps more again gathered…

And it was astonishing! Jews! It was astonishing and admirable. We lived again; life began again… Surviving young men met with young women who had survived through a miracle. The several children – where did they come from?! – again became friends and played. The strength of life!… What strange strength! A bit of Kolki – six or seven houses with Jews – skeletons, skin and bones, shadows, with death and sadness in their eyes, with wrinkled, pale faces – we could no longer figure out who was young and who an old man. A shard. But the shard was alive.! And a sign that we were alive was this, that we began to think about what to do to remain alive.

If the remaining ones were destined to have the same fate as everyone, there would only be a certain time until the new slaughter would come. Therefore, one needed to use the time between life and death to save one's life. The few young boys racked their brains about how to leave the ghetto for the forest. How could they reach the partisans when they were surrounded on all sides by enemies who lay in wait for their lives. There were no partisans in the area around Kolki. Kolki and its surroundings were ruled by the dark, wild souls. They had to make their way to Polesia. It was said that there were partisan groups there and they accepted Jews and they even gave them weapons. However, now, reaching them in such a situation was like an elephant going through the eye of a needle…

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Every young Jewish man who tried to leave the Kolki ghetto would immediately stumble upon a policeman. If he succeeded in avoiding a policeman, he would encounter a band of Banderowces. If he was fortunate and he avoided the Banderowces, he came upon Stepanowces, Bulbawces, Melnikowces, Zelinowces and who the devil knows what they were called there; and simply bandits who lurked waiting for Jews, in order to rob them, to completely bleed then of their lives or, in the worst case, receiving a payment for turning them over to the Germans. Of the several dozen Kolki young men who left the ghetto after obtaining an obrez, a short rifle, or a revolver, only five or six made it through the ring of the hundreds of deaths that lurked. It was a dream, only a beautiful dream. If it was a desert, they would have gone through it, but how does one go through a forest, villages that swarm and abound with all kinds of predators who are searching for a Jew to devour? However, Jews live with miracles. Without miracles, would Jews still be living on the earth?

Two young Warsaw men and their sister lived in Kolki. The young men had, as is said, “golden hands,” There was nothing that they could not do. They could repair machines, motors; they were watchmakers, jewelers, goldsmiths. The Germans spared such hands. They needed them. This triplet lived as if behind a wall of protection; avoided all killings. Germans would come to them to repair watches, acquire gold rings, engrave inscriptions on tokens and, mainly, to melt their robbed and looted gold into bars. They were busy with work. The bigger the thief, the more influence he had. In general, they did not bother the two brothers.

Once, the older brother came to me and, for no apparent reason, asked:

– Srolke, do you not want to escape?

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I did not understand; just looked at him. The question marks in my eyes were so clear that he did not let me think of an answer and said:

– For gold, we bought two old revolvers from a Starasól [Stara Sól] peasant. We repaired them so that they can be considered new and we also received bullets for them. So?…

I was silent.

– Listen – he said to me – there is no doubt that they cannot hold us here for long; they will take us to the Biala shores. Let us stay together on the road. When my brother and I begin to shoot at the S.S. men, we can try to escape in the tumult.

I later heard that the brothers said the same thing to other people.

But, on one beautiful day, their employer rushed to the brothers and took the gold from which the brothers had not yet been able to complete the order. They also took what was being worked on. Drawing a conclusion was not difficult. The last day or the last days were on the threshold.

One morning, the ghetto was surrounded with several thick chains of policemen from the surrounding villages. The members of the S.S. stood at a distance of about 20 meters [about 11 yards].

I do not remember the date. However, I remember: It was a gray, wet, dark day. Two German officers, Saczkowski and several dozen policemen entered the ghetto. The aktsie [action, usually a deportation] began immediately. Everyone was chased out of the few houses in which the Jews lived and were driven into the synagogue. Everyone knew: this was the end. The end for the last ones. The synagogue was empty and looted. The curtain covering the ark was taken, the Torah scrolls were no longer there. An open, empty ark. No

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voice was heard. Everyone was silent as if they already were in the grave. No one cried, no one prayed. Two Jews stood near the ark, bowed their heads to the empty void. My father stood near me. He no longer was like himself, but a drained body with large eyes full of grief. He looked at me:

– Do you want to ask me something?

– Father, I said to him – stay near me the entire time. We will begin to shoot; in the tumult you will escape with us. Perhaps, we will succeed. We have nothing to lose.

My father was silent and watched as if in surprise.

– No, Srolik, I will not go with you. I will not be your death and I do not want you to be mine – he patted me with his right hand and repeated: I do not want you to be my death.

As I saw him at that moment is how he remains in my memory. Not the broad-shouldered, strong, black-bearded Kamorove Jew, but old, gray, in the last hours of his life, in the large, ruined synagogue among the living corpses before their burial.

We heard the noise of a motor. A large truck stopped near the synagogue. The doors opened quickly and widely and we saw the Germans and Ukrainians jump from the truck and place themselves in two rows with wire sticks in their hands, raised high over their heads. A German officer with a cutting metal voice ordered:

– Verfluchte Yuden, aus [cursed Jews, out]!

I do not know why I remember one second when weeks, months and years are erased from my memory. Only this second have I remembered forever. There are hours when this second fills my entire spirit. I am afraid to live with this second and it returns to me again and again…

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All of the Jews in the synagogue stood up, as if frozen in place and began to move backward, faster, faster, as if they wanted to disappear through the walls of the synagogue, as if they wanted to extend their lives for one more minute. They all felt as this was their death and they wanted to escape from it, knowing that there was nowhere to go. Oh, how dear life is when someone wants to take it; how dear is another minute of breathing. See, feel the limbs! These are no longer people from the world, although they desired it with all their strength. Quietly retreating, silent, with madness in their eyes, and, suddenly, a wail from every throat, a shout of pain, of misfortune, of fear of death, of death from the bandits who want to take their lives from them. No one wanted to be the first to step forward; everyone wanted to be the last. And just as unexpectedly, as they stepped back, they threw themselves at the exit. The hangmen were already waiting with extended iron crowbars and they began to beat the Jews, chasing them into the wagons. When they arrived at the wagons, they already were half alive. They had to be lifted from the ground and thrown like pieces of wood. Under a hail of blows, several remained dead on the ground.

I found myself in a truck with the young Warsaw men. We drove past the Ukrainian Vigan (that is what they called the street). The street was packed with people. We were thrown into the wagons like sacks. We lay, sat and stood literally one on the top of the other – a bloody mass that moved, groaned. I had one thing in my mind – not to take my eyes off the two from Warsaw.

When we drove by the last cottage and the truck neared the forest, shooting was heard from automatic weapons. The truck stopped. Before my eyes, the two brothers from Warsaw were cut through by a series of bullets and fell. The Germans had shot at everyone.

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At that moment, I jumped down from the truck and began to run with all of my strength in the direction of the last cottage. Perhaps, in the tumult, I had not been noticed, but they immediately began to shoot to my side. I jumped over a wide ditch, then over two fences; the shooting chased me and I ran like the wind forward and onward. Running, I noticed that several others were running, but I did not run to the forest, but in the direction of the last cottage; I jumped into an open barn and immediately went up to the attic which was strewn with hay and with bales of wheat.

Where does one hide? My mind worked with terrible energy and precision. I understood that I could not hide here. They would turn over all of the bales and all of the hay and find me. The roof of the barn was covered in straw. In the corner, where two edges of the roof came together, lay thickly braided straw and as if they were winking at me: “Srolik, here is your salvation!”

I entered the straw roof, half-standing, held my breath, waited. Every minute was an eternity. Two policemen came in with the owner. I heard them, the policemen, say on entering:

– A Jew ran in here; he is in the stable. They went up to the attic. They stuck through every inch of hay in the bales with iron pitchforks. They were already near me. I heard their gasps; I sensed even the moonshine that they were carrying with them. I was a pure sense of hearing and I understood that if they did not carry out the same procedure on the roof, for the moment I was saved.

– Not here! They finally said and began to go down from the attic. However, one policeman began to argue:

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– It cannot be; we saw it ourselves how they ran into the barn – one policeman said – piercing the entire attic, jabbing the hay, not here and…done, agreed the other.

– The peasant suggested – Perhaps he escaped to the forest? In anger, the policemen hurried away with pitchforks and ran out of the barn. The owner locked the barn and also left.

Joy flooded my heart: I had been saved! However, what would I now do? I found myself a total of several hundred meters [100 meters = about 109 yards] from the Biala shores. There, near the pits, they were killing the last Kolki Jews. I heard the trucks traveling; I heard the crack from a series of bullets. I waited… I waited.

The shooting stopped. It became quiet. Suddenly, I heard quiet voices from the country path. These were not the voices of the murderers. It was a so-called whisper. I carefully scraped away a little straw from the roof and looked through the crevice. I saw a group of old Jews and old women and tens of little children. No, these were not from Kolki. Apparently, these were Jews from a nearby shtetl [town] who had been caught in the woods. They were walking and crying quietly, as if they were saying their confession. They were walking with their last [remaining] strength. A limping woman was being pulled along behind them. When she would stop, the accompanying policeman would give her a light push with his rifle. They went further away, but all closer to their graves… I watched them until they disappeared into the forest.

I remained alone, hidden in the straw and it was so bitter and dark for me that I could no longer hold back the tears and they poured from my eyes as if the flood of tears had poured over me internally. I hiccupped and held the noise in with my hand so it would not be heard outside. The storm of tears somewhat washed off my mood. I forced myself to be calm, but immediately I

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again began to hear shooting. This was the shooting of the group of old people and children who had passed earlier. I heard the shooting and with the innermost look (in my imagination), I “saw” how they were shooting at them. And in that moment, I thought: Is it worth struggling to fight for life in such a world? Is it worthwhile? Why am I clinging so to such a life? Does it have any value? But part of me stubbornly kept repeating: You must live! To spite all of them, live! Live!

It became darker and darker. Night fell. The most horrible day in my young life, when I had already had so many horrible days, passed. I was tired. My nerves were agitated and I could not stop thinking: What does one do now? How do I get out of the barn and where do I turn when I do leave the barn? Such a large world and there is no tiny place for me! Death waits for me everywhere! Does the peasant really know that I am hiding here? Why did he lock the gate of the barn? It stood open earlier! Certainly, so that I would not be able to escape. Does it mean that in the morning renewed searching will begin? And perhaps, a hope whispers to me, this peasant is a good person and locked me in so that the Germans would not come in to search for me? Foolishness! I reject [the idea]. There is no hope except in one's own commonsense. Be smart, Srolik, do not give in. Fight for your life until the end!

So, let us say, I leave the barn unnoticed, should I return to Kolki? No. While in another shtetl one could still meet a person, Kolki is completely hostile, Sodom and Gomorrah; may it burn! Perhaps search for a hiding place in Komarove? We had good friends there and my mother received bread from them… Yes, to Komarove where I still have a piece of familiar ground. However, reaching the village is an impossible thing. You would not be able cross even one footbridge without meeting a policeman or a German. One needed to try taking a detour; crossing the river

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and walking on the large country road was a lot safer than through Kolki, although this, too, was not without mortal danger. Yes, through Kulykovychi, I decided; there was no other way out.

I let myself down, tried to open the gate carefully. No, it did not open. I crawled back up to the attic. I began to scratch out and tear out straw from the roof, making a hole. There opened for me a pure, beautiful word. White-washed clouds swam across the sky. Such a bright moon. And it was my enemy. Every straw that fell down on the ground was visible; every tree and all of their branches could be seen; the distant forest also was illuminated by the moon. Go out on such a night?

Staying is dangerous. I jumped down with the pitchfork and carefully looked around. Silence. I did not let the pitchfork out of my hand; I trust it with my life, with it I will defend myself until my last breath. [I] crawled over the fence and began running to the forest. Seeing a pit, I jumped into it. It was quiet and dead around me. There was no living soul. No one saw me. I ran further, further and I was in the forest. In the depth [of the forest] of some 150 meters [almost a mile], I stopped and caught my breath. I leaned against a tree and felt as if my heart beat in me like a hammer. I was so exhausted that I wanted to sit down. I did not let go of the pitchfork. I held it so tightly that I felt pain in my palm. I knew not to sit. If I sat, then I would be lost. I stood leaning against the tree and lost the idea of time. I did not see the sky. I saw nothing and with my eyes closed I began to move – to Kulykovychi; there, only there! I entered a path. I walked on it and suddenly felt that I had lost my fear. I stopped being afraid. I felt it with all of my exhausted consciousness. I walked like a man who had a purpose – a task.

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I walked thus certainly for several kilometers and suddenly saw a small fire on my left; I started for it. I was calm, but walked with all of my limbs, like an animal who nears its victim, goes to lie in wait in the great silence so as not to frighten it. I avoided every little branch, every hill. I walked only in the places where the grass was thick and swallowed the noise of my steps. Every once in a while, I stood still, looked around, listened. However, the forest is a living creature. A quiet rustle always reigned in it. The smallest breeze causes a movement. It is quiet; the silence resounds. It became dark, black. Envelope me, forest, cover me, hide me!

And suddenly I noticed a clearing and in it flares of a campfire. My feet want to go to the campfire and my head orders: Escape, flee, go to hell! I lay and I barely moved. I dragged myself and fear again attacked me. Pressed to the ground, I listened. I listened. Before I heard, I sensed that people were at the campfire. I was eager and I dragged myself so that trees would not block my view and unexpectedly I heard loud laughter. I saw several faces and around them packed sacks. I understood that these were goods [taken from] murdered Jews. That is, these were they…the murderers. I saw that they were drinking and eating. And several words reached me, then entire phrases. They were telling each other how they treated the Jews when they murdered them. They laughed.

Fear commanded: Turn around in another direction and disappear!… I was a cat and walked with cat-like steps: quiet and fast, completely noiseless. I got my bearings. Considered the direction: to Kulykovychi, Kulykovychi – flee. I walked a bit of the way with fast, cat-like steps, I began to run. The path was narrow. I ran, as if possessed, unconsciously, but according to an instinctive order – save yourself!

There is human strength that we know and strengths that we do not know. There are times when they take control of your strength, which you

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cannot. They lead you, not asking you; they dominate, these strengths are the only ones who know what they are doing. And then they actually ordered and I followed without question…

It became somewhat clearer; I saw several cottages mirrored in the water. It was a village near a river. Closer. The boats near the shore of the Styr [River] were attached by chains to poles and fastened with locks. I found myself at an open spot; I could be seen; I walked straight, quietly to the cottage and knocked in the window. It opened and I saw a peasant woman of middle age. She immediately understood who I was; perhaps she was afraid of the pitchfork in my hand, she began speaking energetically:

– Go away! I have children! I am afraid! I do not have a key.

I ran with all of my strength to the boats. With unexpected strength, I tore off the chain, entered a boat and began to row away from the shore with the greatest speed. On the other shore, I welcomed a new day. Fields lay spaciously spread out.

Free! However, they could see me from all sides! A fear attacked me that I actually felt in my limbs. I realized that I had left the pitchfork in the boat and now they could take me with their bare hands. Luckily, this fear had not been absorbed by my feet. I began to run, at first with stiff legs and then like a deer. In half-an-hour, an hour, the peasants will go out to their fields and then it will be the end of me.

I run and already know what I have to do: run across the country road that leads from Kolki to Chartorysk even faster, before a living soul appears here. When I stopped, I immediately understood where I was – at a farmhouse near Komarove. The sun had already begun to illuminate the cottages. At which door should I knock? Here, everyone knew me and I knew everyone. I left it to fate: odd or even… I knocked.

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I knocked at the first cottage. Kiril lived here. The small window immediately opened; he looked out and asked:

– Is this you, Srol?

– Yes, this is me, I quietly answered.

– Go into the house.

I entered and could not say a word. We only looked at each other. He stood barefoot, in linen pants with a shirt over them. He looked at me and scratched himself under the ear; apparently in great uncertainty, he finally decided:

– Sit down!

He entered the kitchen and returned with a clay bowl of sour milk and bread. I sat at the table but could not eat.

– Eat! – He shouted. I did not touch the bread but I downed the bowl of sour milk without stopping until the last drop.

When I finished, Kiril said:

– Listen, Srol. I am very frightened. I have children, a cow, a house. If they do not murder us all, they will set fire to the house. That is what they do, the Banderowces, when someone hides a Jew. Go to the forest. Srol Fajerman is wandering around there. Look for him and join him. Go to Khutor Zbolot'ye; Srol goes there from time to time, you will definitely find him. He even gave me the name of a peasant. He is called… Yes, what is his name…Kondrachuk.

I was not hidden for very long. I started running to the large farmhouse. Observed the cottage from afar. I looked around and, not noticed by anyone, I entered the house. The peasant looked at me with surprise and then stuck his head out of the window, probably wanting to convince himself that no one had seen me.

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Zbolot'ye was far from the village and Germans or policemen would rarely appear here. However, the peasant shook in fear. Finely, he asked me to sit, but standing, I asked if I could find Srol Fajerman. He did not rush to answer. He thought and was clearly apprehensive.

– I do not know where he is hiding, but from time to time he comes in, when his hunger twists his innards.

His wife came into the house. She looked at me in amazement. However, her look was mild, friendly. She stood sad and in thought, but it turned out she was not as afraid as her husband. She went into the kitchen and carried out half a loaf of bread and said:

– Go to the woods, dearest one; there you will surely meet Srul. It will also be easier for two. Go and when you are hungry, appear, but only at night, late at night. And saying this, she compassionately pushed me out of the cottage.

I left in the direction of the forest with a strange feeling of ease and thankfulness. Finally…a bit of support was present. A rope with which to grab a drowning man. And yet, I thought, there are people. What a consolation this was for such wanderers as we to know. An endless abyss and a “little hook” (fastener) to which to attach oneself. This little hook on which to hang and not fall into the abyss was the great prize in the lottery.

I left to go deep into the forest; a very different person then when I came out, Yet, in Sodom and Gomorrah, I found righteous people. Bread, instead of a knife, a mild hand and favorable eyes instead of hate. A promise to help instead of turning me over to the hands of the murderers for death. Who can feel more respect for the pious and good people among the non-Jews than those who were insulted and sentenced to death as we were?

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My soul relaxed and my body, my bloodied feet longed for rest. My entire body hurt. I sat down under a tree with the thought, “Just do not fall asleep…” No, do not fall asleep, do not fall asleep… And sitting like this, I fell asleep…

The cold startled me awake. I was surrounded by darkness. Little by little, my eyes adjusted and I began to make out the contours. The contours were absorbed in various forms by my tired mind. Fear again began to ease its way into my heart. A fear of the darkness and a fear of not knowing what awaited me. A long root that stuck out of the earth began to look like a snake to me; distant bushes seemed like wild forms of creatures crouching and would soon, soon throw themselves at me. I made a joke of my fear: “What are you thinking?” But the fear did not obey my commonsense; it bustled around in me and it filled my weakened, sleepy will with ghosts. “Wake up, wake up!” I cheered myself up.

It was cold, I had to move so that I would not become too cold. Tapping the path with my feet, I left on it to go deeper into the forest until it suddenly stopped and I got stuck in a lattice of bush branches that grabbed me like tens of hands. I wormed myself out of one chain of bushes and fell into another. Finally, I pushed against a pile of twigs and leaves. Wandering Jews probably had hidden here in the forest! I thought. Crawling under the braided branches strewn with leaves, I decided to warm up and rest here. I found myself between being alert and sleep. Later, I fell into an uneasy sleep full of changing nightmare images. I felt as if I was throwing myself from one side to the other, as if I wanted to throw off the sleep with its dreams and could not. Images and faces of the living and the dead – all entwined. I wanted to escape; they followed me. I saw a fire.

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The campfire frightened me terribly. I thought that I heard laughter, saw faces; I woke up. I was feverish. Run from here… Where to run? The forest was my home. From today on, my home. I wanted to think of a way out and I saw only a black wall in front of me. I sprang up and received a blow over my head. I waited a second for a second blow. There was none. I looked around and understood that I had banged into a branch.

Slowly, a grey morning woke up. Good morning, day! What have you prepared for me? It prepared nothing for me. Loneliness, fear, idleness…

During the day, the forest was my house. A wandering house. A large one, without walls, but I must not leave this house. At night, it was my “hotel.” Spending the night and wandering further. I was very sorry that I had forgotten the iron pitchfork in the small boat. Such a precious tool with which to defend myself against two-footed and four-footed wolves. I searched for a thick, strong, gnarled stick. It would be perfect with which to crush a head. I no longer remember how, but I had also created a knife. And I thought: Sooner or later, I will need to use my tools; they would not take me with empty hands.

From time to time, I would enter Kondrachuk's farmhouse at night and receive a piece of bread. I did not want to disturb him too often. I somehow had to find a solution myself in order not to die of hunger. I already knew where one could pick small, green, wrinkled apples from a small orchard not far from the village. For a time, I lived on the apples. They became so disgusting to me. Even looking at them became repugnant to me. My stomach was always empty and I had a bad feeling that mice were gnawing it. The apples did not give any satiation.

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Once, walking in the direction of the village, I sensed that someone was following me. I was afraid to turn around; I walked on. I sensed that the one following me was not withdrawing. He walked at a distance, did not come closer. I decided: I would turn around and, if there was a danger, to enter into a struggle; use the stick and, if I needed to, also the knife. Concerned, I turned around, remained standing and saw Kiril. He acted as if he did not see me. I walked by him and he clearly murmured:

– Run, hide, Jarasik is looking for you. And he went further, just as if he had not seen me.

I remained standing, as if riveted to the earth: Jarasik, Jarasik! How can I hide from him? He knows the forest better than I do. He knows every road and path here, every little hole, every crevice. He was born and grew up in the forest. One cannot hide from him here.

I took a look in the direction in which Kiril was going further away and noticed something from the distance that looked like a stone or like a loaf of bread. I went to it. This was a half loaf of bread. I grabbed it and began to move quickly. Having gone a distance, I began to run. I ran just as if I were being chased; straight ahead, fell and again ran. I tore my poor clothes in the bushes. Leave, leave even further from there.

Suddenly, I had the thought that I was a fool; this is how I escape? My tracks would lead right to me. I already was very far from the village. I would have to go by a road well-trodden by many human feet. Go and think, where does one hide? And thus thinking, I saw a spot overgrown with bushes and trees and saplings, a wild, overgrown wilderness!…

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And thus at the beginning of my escape; the roof in the barn had winked at me: “Hide in me!” Thus whispered to me now the wild, intertwined wasteland: this is the right spot, a hiding place just for me. I went deeper into the large intertwined area and miracle of miracles, really as if for me: small, twisted ditches, overgrown with trees and bushes that covered them. They meandered and extended long and wide. I understood: these were the remaining trenches from the First World War. I looked for a spot in the trench, gathered branches and leaves and made a bed. I stretched out, covered myself with leaves and lay down. It was late. Need taught quickly. I already knew the language of the forest. The wind bent the forelocks of the trees, which meant that thick, dark clouds would soon arrive. Such clouds await rain. I already knew the difference between human footsteps and other rhythmic noises.

Having passed 15 to 20 days in the woods, I already felt like a bit of a master. I learned to understand its character, its secrets, its sounds and murmuring. I stopped being afraid of each twig. Jarasik could actually find me, but he would not take me. Luck and misfortune would find themselves struggling day and night. Who would win? Until now, luck had accompanied me, why would it leave me? I have a hiding place and I thumbed my nose [expressed contempt] at Jarasik. How many times had he already returned from the forest to his village with empty hands? This was a nasty reality, but I had a shield. My luck was the shield. I convinced myself that I had a shield and when I heard a shot, if it was nearby, my heart quaked behind my imaginary shield. I listened to shooting very attentively.

Jarasik, I am no longer such a small one! Jarasik was a son of a Komarove peasant, a not-distant neighbor of ours and even a friend. He was three or four years older than me. We lived the same life,

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never had conflicts between us. We saw each other almost every day for 19 years, from the time of my birth. Now he was searching for me to kill me. Why? I simply could not understand it. I knew: as soon as the Germans arrived, Jarasik had organized a group of young fascists in Komarove – “Wolves.” The group quickly called the Kolki “celebrity” by a new name and gave him the name, Sokół [Falcon]. They became Sokółowci [followers of the falcon]. They obtained weapons and became part of the Kolki kuren – a large fascist band. In 1942, when Jews began to escape from the ghetto to the forests, Jarasik and his comrades began to hunt for them; carried out searches. They wanted to kill Fajerman and other young people who were hiding in the forests of the area.

Later, when I left my hiding place, I learned that the shooting that I had heard was actually shooting at the captured, tormented Jews. They also threw grenades into the pits, in which the Jews hid. When the Kolki Jewish young men also had a little bit of arms, grenades, “sawed-off shotguns,” revolvers, knives, Jarasik and his “heroes” trembled at them as if at a fire; they carried on no fights and thought up pretexts to hide their cowardice.

This was the Jarasik who had searched for me. He knew, it seems, that I was alive.

When it was quiet in the forest, I would be sleepy. And I would sleep heartily in my hole like a bear in his winter den. When I would wake up after a night, the sun already stood high in the sky. A warm autumn was good. I broke off a piece of bread from the half loaves I received and went wandering in the forest and my intention was to come across a Jew. Or someone like me who wanted to save his life in the forests. I knew that Yisroel Fajerman was hiding in this way.

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Once, during an idle walk, I noticed a silhouette of a man under a thickly overgrown oak tree. I continued to stand in the distance. A feeling whispered something to me that this was not one of Jarasik's men. I stood under another oak and began to observe the shadow. I quickly grasped that the other one was also observing me. Who was it? Who could this be? Escape or go closer? The other one stood and, perhaps, he was thinking the same thing. I was curious. Fear and hope wrestled with each other. I started walking in the direction where the other one was standing. Would he run away; was he someone being chased, a friend? The other one thought the same thing. He did not run away, but watched carefully. We recognized each other and began running toward each other. This was Yisroel Fajerman.

Say whatever you want – in humans, as in animals, there is an instinct that advises and leads him on the right track. How could I have recognized Yisroel Fajerman as that shadow under the tree as he already did not look like himself at all? Skin and bones. Where did his wide shoulders go, his hands of iron? Before me stood a thin, pale, exhausted young man who looked younger than me because of his appearance although he was eight or even 10 years older than me. He had been in the forest for so long like a chased and starving animal. It appeared that his hiding place was not far from mine.

We sat in a convenient spot and talked until satisfied. He: about himself and about what he knew, and I about myself and about what I had witnessed. Then we began to think mainly about what do we do now…

The winter would arrive; first of all, we had to take care of finding a place in which to survive. We could not think of the village. Everyone who would try to hide us would “come to an end.” The forest was the only real [solution]. We would find no better place than the trenches.

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However, we needed to find a deeper and larger recess that we could adapt for a winter lair. We searched and found such an adaptable place. It was so overgrown and separated from a road that people would not get lost here by accident. We needed to get a spade from our friend, clean up the terrain, devise a concealed entrance, cover the pit from above, cover the branch-grid roof with leaves. [We had] to do this thoroughly, so that no wind would reach us, where we would be able to hide, digging out the walls of the hole, protecting our cave from the rain. And mainly to prepare a reserve of food. The construction “engineer” was Fajerman. I had to do the heavy work because he was so weak that he really could not hold a spade in his hand.

Little by little, but stubbornly, we prepared ourselves for spending the winter here. We prepared a few potatoes, beets and everything possible to gnaw and quiet our hunger.

The warmer days ended. A wet, cloudy and overcast sky lay over us. It lay so low as if it were leaning on the tips of the trees. A wet snow began to fall more often; the nights became cold. Little by little, after several decent and dry frosts, our branches and cover of leaves were covered with ice. We froze in our hole. We had to move closer to each other so that we did not freeze; to move. It was a mortal danger to go outside because every footstep left a trace on the snow. Just protecting our lives proved to be difficult, [took] great wisdom and demanded considerable effort. We rubbed our feet and hands, rubbed each other. We lay pressed together in order to warm each other with the temperature of our bodies, with the breath from our mouths. It was terrible; unbearable, impossible and inhumane. One could not compare the wandering cavemen

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to the proponents of higher civilization like us, two young Volyner Jews. We could endure a great deal for a short time. However, day after day, without the minimum that a person needs to live – such suffering – this was hard to imagine!…

We, from Kolki, who sat at the table in Baltimore and listened, sensed a cold in our hearts as if we were frozen. We really could not imagine, but the storyteller lived through it again; not with wonder, but with renewed fear and constantly interrupting himself by shouting out, horrific!. This word was said with various intonations. Everyone at the table thought of their father and mother, their sisters, brothers and their children who perhaps had lived through the same thing or were murdered during an aktsie and tried to save their lives, like both of the Yisroels – Meniuk and Fajerman.

When he interrupted himself to catch his breath, there was dead silence around him. It was the story of the buried alive; this was a description of torture that did not end, endured hour after hour, day after day, week after week…

When the cold began, Meniuk continued, we did not believe that we would endure in our grave. However, we lived. We were satisfied that we had survived for another day. Although there was not, I think, any expectation of survival. Surviving another was…it is difficult to find a suitable word. It cannot be called joy, but satisfaction – yes. Surviving a day, we set a goal to undertake surviving another one and another one. Until a miracle would come from

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heaven, because it must come. The miracle must happen. And it can only come when we showed an iron will to survive.

We decided to again try our luck in the village. This time with a different peasant. We worked out a so-called strategic plan on how to erase our footsteps from the snow. The frost became lenient; the snow was pressed down and turned another color, darker, but it still showed our tracks.

The peasant to whom we came showed himself to be a friend. A friend and a true human being were synonyms to us. It was very difficult to travel and we had to be very careful. We came to the peasant very tired and sweaty. We took many loops in order to conceal our footsteps; detoured on many roads. The peasant allowed us into the barn, gave us food to eat and a warm drink and asked that we disappear from Zabalotie. Banderowces particularly lived in the surrounding houses. If one of them noticed us, it would be both the end of us and the end of his family.

The peasant let us know that they lay in wait for us. They were waiting for us to come, because they were sure that we would not be able to bear it in the hiding place this winter.

We carefully went out into the darkness and ran breathless across the damp snow to our grave. The air was humid, thick and sticky – difficult to breathe.

We crawled into our hole. The hell of the unending tortures began again. Sitting in this cold dampness – was death. At night, we had to run around almost five to 10 kilometers [three to six miles] on the country road, only on the country road, only this could keep us alive. We tried it several times and came back exhausted and warmed up. We understood that we had to do this again, mainly at night, when the weather was bad. We had no strength, but we had the will to live.

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When the hunger annoyed us, became unendurable, we took further risks and went to Zabalotie, apparently giving up the idea that they would catch us. We also knew that partisans had appeared in the area and that there were Jews among them. The several friends that we had among the peasants were friendly, approachable, trembled less, permitted us to be in the barns. They did not know where the partisans were. They would not utter the word “partisan,” but constantly repeated “Shyshka's men,” “Maks' men.” When they began appearing in the area, the Ukrainian policemen became more careful and moved deeper into the forest. Two who did go into the forest to search for Jews were brought back dead. We were told that Shyshka's men had searched a village at night and shot several peasants who worked with the Germans; they had pointed out the Jews and the Russian soldiers who had hidden in the villages.

From this batch of news, there was more happiness in our hearts.

From this information, there was more happiness in our hearts, but the joy was no joy. Fajerman's health worsened constantly. Our situation got better in the sense that we succeeded in getting an old shirt, a jacket, a pair of torn pants, rags to wrap around our feet and ropes with which to tie them. However, we also froze in these garments and always had wet feet. Fajerman coughed dangerously and I saw that he was wavering all the more from day to day. His face looked like that of a corpse and his eyes were veiled with ice. He shook when he walked, began to talk in his sleep and then became so quiet that one could not hear a word from him. His silence was crushing. It reached the point where I

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could not bear it. I began to think that [although] he was present, he did not see me.

First, of us two, he was a leader. All ideas arose from him; I obeyed all of his instructions and thought they were correct. Now I had to make decisions and carry them out myself. Second, he became so weak that I had to carry him on my shoulders. He did not answer my questions. He was silent with lips pressed and I was afraid that he had lost the ability to speak. His face was only animated by the word “partisans.” I would console him:

We will yet finally come across the partisans and then our luck will change.

It was just as if we would connect with the partisans like an Eldorado, a Garden of Eden on the earth. We had two thick sticks in the hole. Fajerman once grabbed a stick in his hands and began to shout:

– If I perish, I do not want to do so in the hole. Let us go!

Poor man! He could not stand on his swollen feet and he actually wanted to go… Go…

– Srolik, find out in which direction we have to go in order to meet the partisans.

Spring suddenly appeared. Appeared, no longer to depart. The sky turned blue; the sun was shining and melted the snow and dry winds created order in our little world: licked away the puddles, dried out the dirt roads and paths and ignored the snow sunk on the northern side of the trees… Skillfully, the spring youthfully and joyfully altered, strongly conquered. In a few days, it did the work that other springs need weeks to do.

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At night we would often crawl out of our winter lair and a few times we noticed people passing us by as if sneaking past us. No policemen and no Banderowces. Perhaps, these were Jews like us who had the audacity to want to remain alive? We decided to take this under observation. Once, laying hidden in the bushes, we observed two such “hares.” They did not look like experienced forest people. They were decently dressed, not shabby. Paying close attention, we [realized] that they were speaking Polish to each other.

Fajerman said to me: Go to Zabalotie and find out who these can be?

I sneaked in to Kondrachuk and learned that placards in the Ukrainian language had appeared in the area, on which was printed the following: “We have already slaughtered the Jews from Polisia and Volyn, now, with fire and swords, we need to annihilate the Polisia villages. If they remain alive, it would be better if they retreated to Warsaw.” They also told me a frightening story about what had happened in the Polish village of Paroslya. This village was surrounded by the Banderowces at night and no one was allowed to leave. In the morning, all men, women and children were gathered at the square near the church. The leader of the Kolki Cossack squadron, Hryc, read an order from the Volyn county leader of the Ukrainian rebel army (UPA [Ukrayins'ka Povstans'ka Armiia - Ukainian Insurgent Army]) for those driven together and when he ended with the words: “Slavo Ukrayini, slavo naveki” [Glory to Ukraine, glory forever], dozens of Banderowces with axes, knives and sickles threw themselves at those driven together. A frightening slaughter began; blood flowed! Those who tried to escape, were chased by a hail of bullets. When the last Paroslya resident was murdered, they began to rob the village and finally set fires on all sides.

– You certainly saw Poles escaping – I was told – perhaps you could learn the way to the partisans from them.

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(After the conversation, I told Meniuk what I knew about Hryc. His real name was Konotopchuk. The Banderowces were from the villages of Omelne, Sytnytsia, Kopyllia and Komarove, a series of other villages and from Kolki itself. His band slaughtered the Jews from Kolki, Szpików [Shpykiv], Osova, Wyszkowa and other settlements. Revenge finally reached him – he was shot by the partisans of the famous “Maks” – General Yosef Sabiesziak.)

Yisroel added: I decided to return to Fajerman with the bundle of news. We decided not to wait. We took our thick sticks and carefully started on the road to sneak into the Polish village, Majdan Komarowski. It was easy to say “sneak in,” particularly in the conditions that I almost had to carry Fajerman on me. However, we surmounted everything. We no longer went to beg for a piece of bread or for some kind of rag to wear on our bodies; we had a goal – the goal with which we lived for the entire time and prepared to endure everything. We went to Majdan as to brothers in the struggle. However, who knew how they would welcome us? We knew no one there.

We reached the village in the morning. [We] stopped and thought: “In which door, by chance, should we knock?” We put everything at risk – our entire exhaustion until this hour. Suddenly, there was a light in a small window. As if this was the finger of God, we walked there as if this was an invitation. When I pressed my face to the windowpane, I saw a young man who was writing in a notebook. Fajerman pressed the doorknob. The door quietly opened. We entered and stood. The young man jumped up from the stool. He looked at us and asked: Was the door not closed?

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Standing opposite him were two exhausted skeletons in rags, with overgrown hair like demons, leaning on thick sticks.

– Do you want to eat, he asked quietly?

Fajerman had approached him, raised his hand as if to take an oath and with a weak voice that trembled, he said:

– We are two Jews. You can go right to the Gestapo and denounce us. We will wait; we will not escape. And if you want, you can help us, show us the way to the partisans.

I did not take my eyes away from the young man and noticed that Fajerman's words had made an impression. He was quiet for a long time and then with a smile began to murmur:

– Little uncle, what are you talking about? What do you mean I will go to the Gestapo? I will help you; I give you my word.

He kept his word; he helped us.

The two days that we sat in the forest and waited seemed like months. Would the partisans come and, if yes, will they take us? Finally, the agreed upon time arrived; we left the forest and approached the agreed upon spot. The young Polish man was already waiting for us. Behind the young man, a few hundred meters [100 meters equal 109 yards] away, was a long row of tall pine trees like a wall. A silhouette appeared behind the wall of trees. He came to us and gave a sign. As if from under the ground, armed men appeared and told us to go with them. They were discreet and understood quickly that we were both not great hikers; I was not and certainly not Fajerman. They walked freely, without fear, giving us the opportunity to rest. They did not chase us, assured us that it was not too far. The consoled us:

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– You will rest, eat, and your strength will return.

We approached a few cottages in the forest not far from the village of Kukol. We were accepted at the first cottage as if we belonged. The peasant woman gave us an old, short jacket, pants, undershirts. We relaxed. The owners helped us as appropriate to wash at the well and we were human again, as if we had become new people. We looked at our physiognomy in a small mirror on the wall and did not recognize ourselves. Then everyone sat at the table to a large plate of potatoes, from which arose a delicious steam and we felt as if we had really returned to life and also felt such a taste that no rich men and millionaires feel with the most expensive foods. The peasant placed a bottle of moonshine on the table and the true banquet began. We ate to our fill and were somewhat tipsy from the few glasses; the partisans placed two of their comrades on guard and the rest lay down to sleep on the hay in the barn.

The march began in the morning. We walked for four days. The partisans had acquaintances in every village and we were welcomed with pleasure everywhere. We did not yet have our full strength. Fajerman's feet were swollen and hurt him with every step. Those accompanying us, therefore, decided to remain with us for two more days in a village.

Thus, gradually, we arrived at the first partisan outpost. All of the men, who wandered around the forests would be grouped at this outpost, hoping to reach the partisan divisions.

The village of Lischynivka was located 30 kilometers [18.6 miles] further along. Here was the central outpost and here they first began to ask us: Who and what are we; where had we hidden the entire time and what do we want in the partisans. After us, they brought in

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others, two or three in a group, former soldiers form the Soviet Army, escaped peasants from the villages and a few Jews.

We were in this village for eight days. Then, an order came about who could march further. Rested, sated, with healed feet, we traveled for more than 30 kilometers [about 18.6 miles] in the direction of the base – Krasny Bor.

It was April 1943. It was a bright world. The forest was our friend; we delighted in its beauty. The pine aroma mixed with horse and cow actually was intoxicating. There was a world. There were people. There was a life. We were a group; we were a power. This horrible chapter had ended. The zemlyankes [dugouts] in comparison to our holes were palaces. The food, which we cooked in cast-iron pots on a campfire was tasty to us and strengthened us. We were among brothers. Connected in death and in life. The first day, we walked around as if enchanted. I became acquainted with people, even found two cousins in the group – the Frajmans. A true mix of people. In the evenings, we sang together near the dugouts.

A second camp was located several kilometers from our camp. It was called Krig's lager [war camp]. I was a guest here. Here, there were workshops under the open sky. Near the dugouts, near every tree, we cleaned rifles, remodeled all sorts of weapons. There were many Jews here and they spoke Yiddish. Jews from other regions: from Rakhvalivka, Tsuman, Manevychi, Sarny, Kamiane, Kucherske, Kovel and even from Lublin and Biala Podlaska.

In 1942, when the Germans started to liquidate the ghettos in Volyn and Polisia, many Jews, particularly from Polisia, began to escape to the forests. The headquarters of the first partisan groups under the leadership of “Maks” – Józef Sobiesiak – decided to help the refugees. They began to gather them together. In such a manner arose camps for Jewish and non-Jewish refugees; for old people and children. They were called “family

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camps.” They exhibited much heart and concern for their closest colleague, “Maks” [Mikola] Konishchuk, whose partisan pseudonym was “Kruk.” The young people were taken into the normal partisan divisions under his leadership. There were many Jews, very many in the large partisan association under the leadership of Colonel [Anton] Briński – [pseudonym] Diadiya Pyetya. I, with Yisroel Fajerman, was sent to a group under the leadership of Commander Sivucha. Since Fajerman had served in the Polish military, he was taken into an active group. And I was sent to work at the “chemical laboratory” – without a doubt you surmise what that meant: manufacturing explosive materials. Filling bombs.

I was employed with this work for several weeks. I was already well accustomed to [the work] and worked as well as the others. Once, at night, the commandant called me to come out and said:

– So, young man, have you rested? You have already learned to shoot, can you go to a living work?

The same night, the entire group, armed with rifles, ammunition and grenades left for the “living” partisan work.

Our leader was a former officer in the Soviet Army from the Wasilenka family.

We walked in the direction of Kovel. We moved only at night, but without fear as if we were the bosses. The partisans knew the road like their five fingers; every trail and path, every swamp, every creek and stream. There were friends everywhere who would warn about a danger and share information about all of the changes in the area. We would usually pass villages on the side. However, this time we entered a village and neared the first cottage. I had no feeling about what kind of task awaited us. We surrounded the cottage, holding our rifles ready to fight. Wasilenka

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quietly “pushed” the door and it opened. We saw a rifle hanging on the wall. Someone was sleeping on the bench. Near him was the clothing of a Ukrainian non-commissioned officer. We instantly grabbed the rifle off the wall; from under the pillow, a large revolver. With the butt of his own rifle, we “let him know” he should “trouble himself” and deign to wake up…

He woke up lazily. [The smell of] moonshine came from his mouth. This was one of the worst bandits in the entire area. Our group carried out the sentence in his garden that the partisan leadership had pronounced on him. Wasilenka returned to his cottage and said:

– A dog – a dog-like death! And to me – So, Siemian, here, so you have a new German rifle. Take, also, his boots and his general's uniform! [Translator's note: Siemian is written as “Sienya” elsewhere in the text.]

I left the cottage.

On the third or fourth day, we left on a new task.

At the edge of the forest with its face to the train station, we lay with our rifles in our hands and waited. For me, the worst thing was always the waiting. It got to my nerves. However, calmly, patiently waiting was the most important practice for a partisan. We finally heard the earth shake from the approach of the train and… Three whistles – our signal: be ready!

When the train powerfully arrived with the locomotive in front, the earth suddenly shook violently – the train jumped up and fell into pieces. In the commotion, we again received a signal: escape immediately.

This was the beginning of my part in the railroad war. Eight times out of ten, the operations ended in success. Each time I felt stronger, as if I had absorbed new strength:

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we did not fall dead in the pits; the enemy was destroyed in the air. Here we lay in wait; here we paid for blood with blood, with death for death.

They often placed me in small groups for important tasks. After the first time, when to tell the truth, I lost my courage, I received the necessary equilibrium and the encounters with the enemy ceased to be a terrible experience. It quickly became a routine; our normal work. I took part in blowing up bridges five times. The most difficult work was done by our people placing mines. I belonged to the group that had to defend them in case of need.

Such a case is engraved in my memory:

Our operational group moved in the direction of New Chartorysk. Nearing the village of Medvezhe, we learned that many Germans and Ukrainian policemen were concentrated here, where we had to carry out our task. So, go further! It was the same as falling into a trap. Our leader was a young, Jewish man from near Sarny. There was no other way out: we had to return to our base. We sat in the forest and waited for an order. Our commander suddenly decided:

– Guys, return to Siwucha with empty hands? No to this!

From our spying we knew that policemen and German soldiers drove along the country road every hour in the direction of New Chartorysk.

– Let us wait for such a group of enemies and fix them… our commander said and ordered us to lie down in small intervals, 20 or 30 meters [almost 22 or 33 yards] from the country road and wait. “We have the time.”

In the evening, we waited on the sand on the side of the road – wagons were traveling. There were 12 of us. The order: Do not shoot without a signal!

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We noticed five or six wagons in the distance, on each wagon a few Germans and a group walking – Ukrainian policemen; about 20 men.

When they were nearby, we received the order:

– Fire!

My rifle began “to work.” I saw the schöne leute [beautiful people] falling on the road and I wished them an easy death. I sensed such pleasure for the first time. We shot dependably, rhythmically. Sent bullets after the escaping ones and watched them fall. I saw those who fell from my bullets and I was sure that these were from “mine.” For the first time, of the many confrontations, the enemy was so close to me and I would say that he was so close by that I could lay him down dead. I was surprised and sober simultaneously, as if I had grown wings.

I also was allocated to groups that had the task of requisitioning food. In the area where our bases were, our friends were found. We left them alone; we took nothing from them. We traveled far with our wagons to the villages of our enemies: we requisitioned [food] from them with pleasure, from the bosses of the new German management, from rich village magistrates who worked with the Germans and in the villages with reputations for banditry.

Often, we would be shot at by Banderowces and it would happen that in addition to the sacks of flour, potatoes, and meat, we would also have our murdered ones on our wagons… I witnessed the death of our partisans many times. I could not become accustomed to this. It was painful to us as if it had happened to our own brothers. Two of my cousins also fell in a partisan division in the fighting near Kovel.

We also brought food to the family camps for which we cared. There were no actually families in the family

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camps. Only splinters: old people, orphans, widows. Returning from such a camp I was always disheartened. They evoked thoughts of those I had lost, about the Jewish communities that were slaughtered; I would remember my father in the Kolki synagogue, how he patted me and said: “I do not want you to see my death.” These words often and long rang in my ears.

Thus we lived, fulfilling another task each time until the front grew close to us. Then, Diadiya Pyetya led all of the partisan divisions from the forest and we created a second front behind the enemy. On all the roads on which the Germans would retreat, they met bands of revenge takers. We did not have to look for them. They were all over and were running from everywhere and we cut off the roads: they died on the spot!…

Finally, we were joined to the regular army, but in April 1944, a partisan detachment of 500 men was organized with the task this time to go to the front in Kovel and there to again carry on normal partisan diversion work. Here, we were well armed, but our attempts were not successful. Very small groups succeeded, but the main strength remained as it was. Then the advance party was divided into two parts that were supposed in some manner to “smuggle themselves” through the front and enter the fight.

Then I separated from Yisroel Fajerman. His group left for Rovno [Rivne], and we in the direction of Rożyszcze [Rozhyshche]. I did not see him again. I do not know his fate. At every opportunity, I asked about him. He had been seen in Kiwerce [Kivertsi], in a Red Army uniform; others saw him in Lublin. I do not know what actually happened to him. He certainly persisted, but where and when, I do not know.

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We were both persuaded that we would meet each other after the war and marvel that we had both emerged with unbroken bones. He had many military distinctions. I, too, was decorated with medals for serving in battle, and, on the basis of a decision of the Óberrat [senior councilor], I also received the “Order of Service of the Fatherland, Second Class.” It was not destined that we should meet, whole, alive; sitting and remembering everything that we had experienced…

As said, I was sent to Rożyszcze with a group. Ten kilometers [about six miles] outside of this shtetl I went through a school for non-commissioned officers. Several weeks later, I was called into a pavilion in which officers of higher rank were sitting. There were other partisans who had been called in. They held a conversation with us and finally let us know that we would be assigned to an intelligence formation. Everyone who wanted to had the right to refuse, because one was sent to this division on the principle of volunteering. We were also informed of the kind of danger that would be connected to our work. Mainly, it would be dragging living Germans out of the trenches and capturing them. In general, we would only gather information, but mainly getting “tongues” [extracting soldiers who could reveal information]. I did not think and immediately agreed. However, when I reported and wanted to get out, a captain stood up, laid his hand on my back, looked at me in the eyes for a time and said:

– Stop, little brother, we need people who have already lost everything and have nothing more to lose except their own lives; have no fathers, no mothers, no relatives – they have been slaughtered, annihilated. You are such and I am such…

I joined the 41^st Special Intelligence Company. The captain was my commander. Thorough training began – everything that one needed to know for such work. Then, when the short “university” was completed, we

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left in a group of five for a task and returned with empty hands. The next night, we brought a German soldier, but this was no great bargain. On the third night, we chose 12 spies. They were divided in two groups of six. Our commander, the captain, said to us:

– Remember, you are going on a terrible task. Two new S.S. divisions have been brought to Kovel; they brought “Tigers” and “Ferdinands.” [Tigers and Ferdinands were German tanks.] We are not permitted to move from here. We are sending out many groups; I am going with one of them. It is very important to learn what we must learn. I believe that we will succeed. So, with luck!

We walked carefully and noiselessly. We neared the Styr River. We had to cross it and seclude ourselves behind the Germans. There were two experienced scouts among us, who were always fortunate. They knew how to capture a “tongue” so “it” would not open its mouth…

It was an overcast, dark night. We moved in our camouflaged smocks, crawling on our stomachs. Two in front and four at a distance from them. Finally, the two, quick as cats, began to move in front and we lay ready to open fire if something unexpected happened to them. Suddenly, we heard a series of automatic weapons. The Germans shot an illumination rocket and it became as light as the middle of the day. Large areas were pulled out of darkness. The rocket was extinguished and it became quiet. I felt that I was completely wet. I touched my left leg with my hand. I felt a warm, pasty liquid and with it an unusual pain, I realized “I had been wounded.” I heard a noiseless movement around me and a quiet voice in Russian. Two soldiers lay me down on a camouflage tarp and carefully dragged me out to the road.

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The sum: two from our group were killed, two severely wounded and two emerged uninjured.

A completely different life began for me: from medical location to medical location; from hospital to hospital – wandering on wheels. They came to one conclusion everywhere: they must amputate my left leg. I had lost a great deal of blood and was very weak. They said that if I did not agree to the amputation, I was in danger of gangrene and that meant the end. However, I had one answer:

– No and no. I do not agree to an amputation – the pain increased. I did not sleep that night.

From hospital to hospital and I reached Kyrgyzstan. I thought it was the end of the world. Here, the earth ended and further there was a void.

In Kyrgysztan, I found my Angel of Redemption. A women of middle years approached me, looked at me and I knew that I would again hear the same thing that I had heard so many times: “Rezat” – cut. However, she did not say it. She looked at the wound, paged through papers and wrote something. I thought that she had underlined my often-made declaration that I did not agree to let them amputate my leg. She finally said:

– We will do everything, think it over well, and perhaps we can save your leg and we will not need to cut…

And three weeks later, after several operations, I was sent to Fegana [a city in Uzbekistan] in the belief that everything was in the best order. I lay in the hospital there for seven months. Finally, they wrote: Go!

Travel! Where does one travel? Where is my home? Who do I have in the world? The world is large and where should I travel? In which direction? With two crutches, helpless. I sat broken on

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my cot, which I had to leave. My neighbor, on another cot near me, who had also been discharged, said to me:

– Sienya, travel together with me, to my mother!

I traveled with him to a village outside Odesa. Lonely, superfluous, I found courage: and there were still good people on the earth! I lived with his family for a month and his mother was also a mother to me. Just like him, I would receive a warm milk in bed. His mother bustled around me just as much as around her own son. There, I recovered, grew stronger, learned how to jump around on the crutches, did not feel so helpless. Then, I said goodbye to my new friend and traveled to Kovel. Let me finally look around there; perhaps someone had survived…

I visited Kovel, Lutsk, Rovno, Manevich – ruins everywhere, burned houses, bricks, ash, not one familiar face. I traveled from city to city, stood on my two crutches and felt such pain in my heart – impossible to describe… The ruins “spoke” to me, moaned, emptying my soul, changed everything in me to a desert and left only the pain, only the pain…

I did not travel to Kolki. I lacked the strength for this.

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