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The Days of the Holocaust

The members of the Bershṭein family were among the first that their property, their houses and everything inside them, was confiscated. They also didn't shy away from their tableware and clothes. The heads of the families were arrested and sent to prison where they met their death. For unknown reasons, only Lioba Bershṭein wasn't arrested. He wandered like a shadow in the streets, wondering and waiting for his fate.

One morning we were called for a mass meeting in the fire brigade's square. All the townspeople went there, and here's Lioba standing next to me depressed and white as chalk. The speakers are praising the new regime and remind us that we should be thankful for the redemption and rejoice that we've left slavery for freedom. Everyone is applauding, I look at Lioba and he's cheering enthusiastically, more than anyone else.

Yosef Rosenblatt was among those who have foreseen the future, and made an effort to acquire special privileges from the next regime. To do so he helped and supported the communist movement during the days of the Romanians by paying membership fees to this movement. However, when it came time for repayment, he was among the first who were sent to a desolated place with his family.

A few days after the arrival of the Soviets a son was born to Feivel Schneider's daughter. She was the first to sanctify the name of the communists when she announced that she wouldn't circumcise her son. All the insistent pleading of her relatives and the mohel, Leibish the ritual slaughterer, who offered to pay for the circumcision didn't help. She stood firm in her opinion and didn't give permission to arrange the ceremony which was contrary to her “Ani Ma'amin” [credo].

Yisrael Gruzman was immediately accepted to work as chief accountant (there was a shortage of such professionals), but together with it he was invited frequently by the NKVD for nightly investigations. He refrained from telling his family what he was accused of and what they demand from him. He became sad, depressed and introspective until

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one morning when it was published that Gruzman was found hanging in his home. Later we learned that they demanded that he will work for them and give them the names of the people who opposed the new regime.

With the confiscation of the brandy distillery Isaac B.R.G was removed from his post as manager, and the position was given to the women who washed the floors in the office. Every day the woman, who was illiterate, brought Isaac to the office in a carriage so he could show her how to manage the factory. Shortly after, he felt that the ground was burning under his feet because he and Moshe Wieseltier were called to the NKVD for questioning. They were asked to give an account on their Zionist activities, but they denied that they were involved in Zionist activities, and said that they only gave financial assistance to poor people who wanted to immigrate to Israel. When I met them I expressed my displeasure that they desecrated the honor of the movement, and told them that if the NKVD would call me for questioning I'll confess and tell them the truth. Thanks to my brother-in-law, Dr. Grupenmacher, who was involved with the rulers and their Jewish followers, I haven't been called for questioning on this matter. I was only fired from my job after they learned about my past “sins.”

A dairy factory was established at the home of Karl the shoemaker. The director, who was one of the party's leaders, decided that he needed a special room for his office. He called Shalom Guzman, who lived next door, and asked to rent him a room in his house. Guzman explained to him that he has a family of nine and there's barely enough space for him and his small children in the two rooms that he has. Yet, he said in a trembling voice, “for the government's sake I'm willing to sacrifice one of my rooms.” Before long, the director invited him for the second time and demanded that he would also give him the second room on the grounds that the family interferes with his work. Guzman cried and begged, told him about his situation, how he and his family were left without an income. His family is hungry for bread, and he has no money to pay rent somewhere else. The director's anger rose and he started to shout: “That means that you're against the Soviet regime!!” When the fateful night arrived, he and his family were deported to Siberia.

At a late hour on that awful night, about 70 members of the NKVD, who were brought from the environment, scattered across the city. Accompanied by their Jewish followers they knocked on the doors of those whose names appeared on the list and ordered them to get ready to leave within a few minutes. About eighty people, entire families, were loaded on wagons and sent to the train station, and from there… In many cases families were separated and sent to different locations.

Here's a partial list of the exiles (according to my memory):

Yosef Kaufmann (Yosil Feikis) and his family;
Yisrael Kaufmann and his family;
Mordechai Pen and his family;
Chaim Kirshner and his family;

Mashke Katz and his family;
Shelom Guzman and his family;
Yosef Rosenblatt and his family;
Yitzchak Fuks and his family;
H.Y, Guberman and his family;
Davud Keub Ledrshinder and his family;
Michel Morgenstern;
Frida Halperin and her son'
Lioni Zilber's wife.

Only the next morning the city's residents learned what happened that night. The shock and disbelief were terrible. There was a general fear of what might come. We were convinced that this is just the beginning and the rest will come.

Yasha, a remnant of the Bershṭein family, was on the deportation list but by chance he didn't sleep at home on that night. When he returned home in the morning, he found it empty and his wife and small son were missing. He immediately pursued the convoy and caught up with it in Ocniþa. He asked them to let him join his family, but his request wasn't granted under the claim that he should have been in the place during the imprisonment… He returned to Briceni depressed and lonely.

It's clear that these events have raised the absolute question: What to do to be saved? This fact will serve as an example to the mood that prevailed in the city and attacked people like me: among those, who escaped to Chernovtsy, was also my son Zizi z”l who was an activist in “Hashomer Hatzair” movement. It wasn't long before the news came to us that he continues with his clandestine Zionist work. This work was extremely dangerous and several of his friends were caught and disappeared… It's impossible to describe the shock that took over my family. They ordered me to write him immediately and demanded, as an order from his father and mother, to stop his dangerous work and move elsewhere or back home where he would be under the supervision of his family. Enraged and agitated I went to write him, but I didn't write him to stop his activities. I only asked him to be careful and also reminded him what is told about Rabbi Akivah: when he was executed his flesh was combed with iron combs and he accepted his sufferings with love. His students said to him: - Rabbi, to such extent? He said to them, “All my life I was worried about the verse, “with all your soul” even if they take away your soul. And I said to myself, when will I ever be able to fulfill this command? And now that I am finally able to fulfill it, I should not?” The answer from my son wasn't late coming: father, I was impressed by your words but I will continue to follow the path that I've chosen to the end. In Chernovtsy he managed to survive the heavy arm of the Soviet regime, but he wasn't able to survive the Kirilovitch Ghetto where he died a martyr's death.

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Once upon a time there was a city in a remote region of Northern Bessarabia and its name was Briceni. It was a flourishing settlement which counted about ten thousand Jews, the majority of them honest and good. They struck roots there for many generations, lived a vibrant and self-sufficient life, built and established social institutions of education, health, economic and religion until the bitter and impetuous day had arrived and they were brutally annihilated. The city was destroyed over several days, the toil of many generations was destroyed and robbed, and the desolated city was emptied from its Jewish residents who were expelled without knowing where and why.

When we come to write on the tombstone of our city the course of events that led to its destruction and the annihilation of her sons, and also the situation and the reasons that accelerated this destruction, we must distinguish between the dates and the process: if the Holocaust started on 22 July 1941, the date in which squads of Romanian soldiers entered with a clear purpose: to kill, lose and destroy, the depletion and destruction process started a year earlier. The Red Army entered our city in June 1940. Immediately after, the army began, with the help of its local followers, to confiscate the property, shops and houses, of many Jews. Indeed, among them were several rich people, but the vast majority were members of the middle class who lost their meager possessions. The few, who managed to save something, became destitute during the year of the Soviet regime and were left without a source of livelihood (we felt the saddening results of this year later in Transnistria, when there were more victims of famine than victims of the sword, and those who brought money or valuables had a slim chance to stay alive).

The arrests, deportations to Siberia, and escape to other cities didn't leave active people who engage in public affairs. In time of trouble we lacked people who were able to respond to what was happening. And I will say here to those who ask: - the Bessarabian Jewry, which was blessed with Zionists and well-known public activists who also didn't flinch from clandestine activities, with its vibrant youth movements, how could it walk like sheep to the slaughter and fulfill the orders of deportation and extermination without trying to respond in any form of organized resistance? The answer is: its active forces were destroyed and annihilated beforehand, and a depressed and broken crowd remained.

For that reason, that terrible day, the day of 22 July 1941, found us in a state of depression and impoverishment. The Russians had left the day before and many of our townspeople followed them without knowing what their fate would be in the unknown road.

And what the hail had left the locust consumed. Upon their arrival the Romanians gave freedom to the black troops, in the city and the environment, to rob and murder. Masses of peasants were summoned, and they rioted and looted. The first day ended with the murder of dozens of Jews. Under the threat of death the authorities forbade us to leave our homes, a matter which caused suffering and hunger. Thus, our life was in great danger in the days before the expulsion.

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Within a few days the Romanians assembled the Jews, who were expelled from Sokyriany, Lipcani and the surrounding villages, in our city.

The first to be deported were the Jews of Lipcani. On Friday, 25 July, in a pouring rain, they were gathered in the city center, and under the blows of unruly soldiers they were forced to walk, in the rain and in the mud, to Yedintsy [Edinet]. On the way many of them fell and died. Two days later, the same fate have fallen on the Jews of Sokyriany, and then came the turn of the Jews of Briceni and the surrounding area. On 28 July, at two o'clock in the morning, we were awakened with the terrible command that by eight, we, men, women and children, need to concentrate in the fire brigade's square and be ready to set off. Since we lived in the illusion, based on the promises of the local authorities that they wouldn't deport us, we didn't have the time to get ready and stock up on food. And thus, in a morning of a clear summer day, but a day of darkness and gloom for us, we left our beloved city within the tears and sobs of women, elderly and children who barely dragged themselves after the camp, and within the laughter and glee of many of our neighbors.

The first victim fell close to our city, beside Trivisivitz Forest. David'l, son of Rabbi Shalom, collapsed under the heavy weight of a big sack of books that he was carrying. Stunned, we left the first victim where he fell, and continued with our slow march. Despite the blows that the soldiers rained down on us we weren't able to walk faster because of those who straggled and fell. We arrived to Sokyriany at dusk. We hoped that they would let us rest there a little, but, woe to us, with whips and blows they urged us to walk in the direction of the Dniester River. When we left the city we were attacked by a gang of Gentile boys who forcefully pulled our meager belongings from our hands and shoulders. Only late at night, when our strength ran out and our tormentors became tired, we fell helplessly in the field and rested for a few hours. In the morning we continued on our way to the Dniester's river bank and crossed the temporary bridge to the village of Kozolov. They didn't allow us to stop in the village to get some food or water to drink. They gathered us in a plowed field and forced us to dig pits. They placed posts inside them, surrounded the area with barbed-wire and forbade us to leave the place.

That day a heavy rain, which also continued the next day, came down on us. Our clothes got wet, the chill froze the body and the plowed field turned into deep mud which stuck to the wet body. Those, who dared to cross the fence to find a little water to drink or take a bundle of dry straw from the nearby piles, were shot on the spot. The meager food, which some of us had, was destroyed. In this terrible condition we stood or sat, day and night, on the wet bundles. Shouts and wails are heard from all corners of the camp. The weak died and remained in place. The emotions became dull and no one is interested in what is happening around him or near him. And thus, within a day or two, there has been an unmatched change: instead of the chosen people - here are dirty creatures that wallow in mud and muck, and they are unable to respond to what is happening around them.

Only on the third day, when the skies cleared, the survival instinct awoke.

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We collected between us money and gold jewelry and were able to bribe the Romanian officer. He ordered us to organize companies, up to a thousand people in each company, and transfer them from the place of calamity to the nearby villages. When we parted we left in the field many people, old and respected, who perished there,

Under the leadership of Dr. Grupenmacher our group left early in the morning in the direction of a certain village. We got there early evening. Under the officer's command the head of the village took us to the kolkhoz's shed which was filthy and full of mud. We spent the night there crowded and in torture. In the morning we spread out in the village to look for food, some by barter - a piece of bread in exchange for a garment or an object, and some by begging…

Before we were able to rest and wash off the mud that we were immersed in, two German officers lunged on us like demons. With shouts and blows they drove us out of the village and ordered us to walk to Mogilev. Again, we walked for two days through villages and towns. We passed the town of Irshava on the eve of Tisha B'Av (it's worth noting the attitude of the residents, the Ukrainian peasants: the elderly among them, those from the Czar's period, expressed signs of sympathy, but not in a tangible way, because the Germans ordered them not to help us even with a glass of water, and not to come in contact with us. While the young people who were born and educated in the communist system, assisted the murderers and participated in the extermination actions).

We arrived to Mogilev on August 4. There, we found many of our townspeople who came from other villages. We were ordered to stand in the town's center and wait for an order. We stood all day in the heat of the burning sun without food, and waited for our bitter fate. Only at a late hour in the evening the Germans lined us in a military order, forced us to jog to the Dniester's river bank, and shot those who trailed behind. We were transferred back to Bessarabia and in Ataki we were delivered again to the hands of the Romanians.

The Romanians kept us in a field, under the open sky, next to the Dniester River. There, we met the Jews of Khotyn who were expelled at that time from their city.

Suddenly, it was announced in the camp that it's possible to return to Briceni. Indeed, it was as if we were given the freedom to do as we please because the guards were gone. We set off in the hope: maybe?… As we left we encountered the soldiers who directed our steps to Sokyriany, and everything repeated itself - beatings and oppression, a distance of a day's walk lasted three days, an overnight stay in a pouring rain under the open sky, until we arrived to Sokyriany.

There, they concentrated us in a ghetto of several side streets which were surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. Our desperate situation was eased because we were able to contact the Jews of Chernivtsi and receive material help from them. We set up a committee for mutual aid, and in comparison to our previous situation it seemed that our situation has improved. The starvation and sickness, which were brought by our wanderings and the ravages of the roads, have caused havoc among us. There wasn't a day without a few dead, and there were days in which dozens have died.

We also started to get used to life of idleness with a prayer in our heart: if it can only last until the end of the war.

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The will and the desire to live have increased in us because we lived in the hope that we will be able to see the destruction of our enemies. The optimists among us, like Moshe Perel and Avraham Vatenmacher, predicted in the camp that that salvation is near, and the heart was drawn to believe. However, this relative rest only lasted for about two months, until the day when the knowledge that we must leave again for the Ukraine have struck us like a thunder.

God, Lord of the universe, we cried in our tents, from where can we gather the strength to wander again in the roads when we are so tired and weak? And the days are autumn days, the days of Sukkot. They take people from their homes and drive them out in small groups towards the Dniester River and on the way they execute the old and the weak. Large pits for their burial were prepared in advance.

I was among the last to leave on the third intermediate day of Sukkot. Again, we walked for two days in terrible roads, heavy rain, frost and cold nights until we crossed the Dniester River. After we spent the night in an abandoned house in Mogilev we continued for several more days, in the rain and in the mud, through the towns of Ozarintsy and Luchinets. There, we found several people from our city who were in the groups that left before us. We tried to join them, but the soldiers' whip and rifle butt wouldn't let us stay. We walked for three more days through many villages until we arrived to Kopaygorod [Ukraine].

On the way I fell helplessly several times, and only with my son's help I was able to drag myself. I felt that my strength was running out and my end is approaching. In Kopaygorod we were allowed to sleep at the homes of Ukrainian Jews who didn't manage to escape to Russia (it's necessary to note that the Jews of Luchinets also met us on the road with bread and hot soup). I, and several others, decided to connect with these Jews and stay in their town. Those who managed to hide from the eyes of the soldiers remained there, and those who lost their way and remained alive joined us. Many of our townspeople, who got stuck in the surrounding villages, also walked in this direction. In this town, a place that we hoped to finally find some rest for our failing legs, the true hell called “Transnistria,” began. When the deportees of Khotyn and Bukovina joined us we became a community of 5000 to 6000 exiles. The Romanian occupation forces started to arrange us in two to three narrow streets. At the lower part of this small town we crowded together with the Jewish residents, a number of families in one room.

Our people filled all the storerooms, shops and cellars to capacity. The cold winter has come with all its might. There's no firewood. The hunger is nagging and forcing us to leave the ghetto despite the dire warning that whoever left the ghetto would be shot. Every day they also take the hungry and the sick to forced labor without a food ration (also, and especially, with the help of the oppressors from among our people who were chosen for this job). Infectious diseases, mainly typhus, spread at an alarming speed and kill many. The dead carts pass every morning and those, who fell and died, are taken from the houses. Throughout the day piles of skin covered skeletons are being thrown into the carts, and we, who are still alive, wonder when our turn will come…

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When I remember it all, I can't understand how we were able to stand it and from where, we, the few survivors, drew the strength to stay alive.

At the end of the summer the German officer, who was appointed on us, found that too many Jews remained alive and that we live in relatively good conditions. He ordered to expel us from the city to the nearby forest with a clear goal: to eliminate us. They gathered us in a section of the forest which was surrounded by barbed wire. All the sources of obtaining food were completely blocked, and without a shelter from the rain and the chill of the night the number of victims has reached hundreds. We felt that our end is approaching. Despite the excellent guarding of the Ukrainian volunteers, who murdered left and right, a mass escape, especially of the young who still had some strength, started from the forest to ghettos in other cities (my son, who fled to Kirilovitch, was also killed in this way). The murderer commander, who came to the camp every morning, also killed many with his pistol.

The escapees, who managed to reach Mogilev, summoned our brothers who were there (they had a secret contact with the Jews of Bucharest), and a little help of food have reached us. The hateful commander, who received a gift of a bribe, allowed the survivors to return to the city. A short time later he was replaced by a Romanian commander.

Only in the winter of 1942/43, after the Germans defeat near Moscow, the cruel treatment of the Romanian authorities has changed a little. The few survivors, together with the Jews of Mogilev and Chernivtsi, managed to contact Bucharest - and a little help in the form of clothes and money started to arrive from there. The distribution was done by people who called themselves the “community.” It was composed of violent people who had close ties to the government and received bribes from it. We continued to live under intolerable conditions for two more years, and hoped that the day of redemption and retribution will come. Indeed, this day has come, but it didn't find people who were able to rejoice in it, only shadows, human skeletons.

In March 1944 we received the liberating forces with open arms. We took out the last piece of bread from between our teeth and gave it to them (because they also arrived hungry and weary). But they didn't pamper us at all. The very next day the soldiers broke the windows of a Jewish home. There was also no shortage of insults and derogatory names because we were in the rear and not in the front…

The immediate mobilization of all the young people among us was announced. I was a member of the delegation which turned to the battalion commander with a request of mercy. We described before him everything that had happened to us and asked him to let us go back to our city. We told him that we're unable to do so without the help of the young people, and when we get there they will join the army. Our pleas were to no avail, and all the people of military age were taken and sent right away to the front.

We were forced to remain in our place of exile for two more months and only in May 1944, after many hardships and difficulties, we managed to reach our city.

And here: instead of a city - a desolated wilderness. Wherever you turn you see ruined and burnt houses and a constant pain attacks you. We were close to ten thousand when we left, and about a thousand survivors, fragments of families, returned.

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We sat on the rubble and cried: “Is this the city?”… And indeed, a short time later the escape began, some fled to Chernivtsi, some to another city, and some across the border.

After we sat for several days, cramped and crowded, in a plowed field near the village as a in a torrential rain came down on us, the camp of thousands was divided into small groups and each group was sent to one of the nearby villages. My group remained in the place and was sent to reside in the village's school. Before we managed to remove our clothes to dry them, four small cars with Germans entered the schoolyard. It was the regional headquarters which included a high-ranking commander and a Ukrainian interpreter. They immediately gave an order to expel all the Jews from the place. The Ukrainian civil militia, which was armed with sticks, came and took us to a large meadow outside the village. Jews from the nearby villages were also collected there, and we became a large camp that also included the Jews of Briceni, Lipcani and Sokyriany. This large camp was moved in the direction of Mogilev and was led like sheep to the slaughter by a few militia men who were only armed with sticks.

After we passed some distance, the entire transport stopped. The German commander and the interpreter, who were accompanied by a soldiers armed with automatic weapons, caught up with us. The commander entered between the lines and told me to follow him. My mother begged him not to take me from her, but the interpreter told her that if I'll refuse to obey the commander's order they would open fire on the entire camp. With a heavy heart I separated from my family and walked with the Germans. Old and sick people, who didn't have the strength to walk with the camp, were scattered on the road. Among them was Breina, the sister of Dr. Gleizer who was carried in the arms of her daughter because she was paralyzed in both legs. The commander ordered the daughter to catch up with the camp and told her that he would take care of her mother… I was given the task to bring her and also the others who lagged behind to a shed next to the village's school, without food, drink and a place to lie on.

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The next morning all the people were removed from the shed. They were loaded on wagons, taken out of the village and shot there. The sound of the gunfire was heard in the village. A young Ukrainian, who served as a guide to the Germans, told us that all the Jews were exterminated. The work, which I assigned to me, was to polish the shoes of the headquarters' men twice a day, and clean their rooms.

I was there for twelve days, and then I fled. I arrived to Mogilev but my family had disappeared. For two months I wandered from camp to camp, between the Dniester and the Bug, and I even found myself in Pechora which is known by the name the “death camp.” I was there for about ten days and managed to escape. I wandered many kilometers, by difficult routes, until I found my two brothers and my sister, who thought that I was among the dead, near Berșad. My parents were no longer alive. My father was taken to Skozinitz Forest and murdered there together with many other Jews, and my mother froze to death in the difficult winter of 1941-42.

On 21 July heavy clouds covered our city. By word of mouth it was reported that we're about to be deported. The heart didn't want to believe it, but on 22 July, when we saw that the Jews of the neighboring cities, Sokyriany and Lipḳani were concentrated in our city, we knew that our fate was also sealed. The next day the farmers from the surrounding area, who were given freedom of activity, came to rob us to their heart's content. The robbery lasted three days. I escaped and hid at the home of a Christian acquaintance. When I returned, I found a total destruction in the house, only broken dishes remained.

On 28 July the entire Jewish population was ordered to gather in the firefighters square, the place that was used for market days and fairs. Our wanderings began at that hour. We were expelled to Sokyriany where we slept outdoors. At 5 o'clock in the morning they moved us across the border to Kozlov [Ukraine], and a torrential rain started to fall on the way. We lay outside, in the rain and in the mud, without food and water, and our guards stole what little we have left. On the fourth day, when the sky cleared a little, they took us again on the road with shouts, beatings and abuse. We weren't allowed to walk on the paved roads, only on the roadside and in the ditches. We were ordered to climb mountains and the policemen stood at the bottom and shot at us to their pleasure. Many fell and rolled down like stones.

When we reached the bridge they didn't let us cross it. We were chased into the water and those, who weren't able to cross it by swimming, sank and drowned. It was very hot but the policemen, who stood next to each well, didn't allow us to draw water to quench our thirst. Young children died from thirst in our arms, and we were unable to help them.

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We walked the entire day, from 5 in the morning to 8 in the evening - and then they put us a pigpen for the night. We lay in the mud, in the pigs' filth, in pungent stench, but we were happy that finally our bodies and our stiff legs were given a little rest. In the morning, when we were awakened, we walked by the bodies of those who had died at night…

Thus they chased us for several days until we crossed the Bataki Bridge and arrived to Mogilev-Podolski. As soon as we arrived they lined us in a large plot and removed all the old people from the rows. They said that they were sending them to a hospital… The young people were caught by the Germans and sent to work. Among them was also my son z”l. The next day he returned and told us that they dug a large pit in which all the old people were buried alive. My son buried his grandfather with his own hands….

They kept in Mogilev for three days - and we were sent back to Bessarabia. When we crossed the bridge for the second time many of us jumped into the Dniester's water and met their deaths there.

Again, we wandered for days until we arrived to Vertiujeni in Bessarabia. There, they established a ghetto for us, surrounded it with a barbed-wire fence and didn't let anyone to approach us. There was a great shortage of food and water. Epidemics broke out and people fell like flies. Corpses were placed on ladders and brought for burial - about two hundred a day. It was very crowded. A number of families crowded into a narrow room. In the room with me were Aharon Steinhaus and his family, Shalom Kilimnik, his wife, her sister and her children.

We spent six weeks in Vertiujeni, days of sufferings and torture above human virtue - and suddenly, we were informed that they're going to take us back home. We believed - and we were happy…

However, it was only a dirty joke to provoke us and our feelings. In the morning they lined us in rows and counted ten-ten, some to the right and some to the left, those - to the Ukraine and those in the direction of the Bug River from which no one returned. Our group, which left for the Ukraine, also received a punishment.

After two days of walking we arrived to Suroka Forest. On the side of the forest we saw piles of bodies. We were stunned and didn't understand the meaning of it. Suddenly, we were given freedom. The villagers were allowed to approach us and sell us a few food items. We exchanged a suit for a loaf of bread, and a shirt for a little water… Immediately after, we were surrounded by policemen who held long whips in their hands. They took from among us all the young strong men, including my husband Moshe son of Pinchas Sapir, and our son Nisan z”l. They lined them in a row and told them that they were taking them to work. Our heart predicted trouble because we understood the meaning of this “work.” I asked to be taken with them, but I was severely beaten and dragged back to the forest.

In this fashion the men were taken from 3-4 groups, and the rest were allowed to continue to walk, and this time without a beating.

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We also received a little food. Again we arrived to Mogilev-Podolski. From there, some were sent back to the camp in Vertiujeni and some to Ukraine. My sister-in-law and I were sent to Lesniza Kolhoz in Ukraine. There, they put us in a large pen that was open on all sides, without windows and doors. We entered and found several dead bodies which froze in the snow. A sentry guarded the pen so no one would be able to leave it. “This is the end!” - I thought. I decided to escape from there - at any cost. I had nothing left to lose in life. I told my sister-in-law that I was going to try to crawl down the mountain and if she'll not hear shots she would come after me with her son, and that's how we fled.

We knocked on many doors in the village, but no one took us into his home. It was very cold outside and lots of snow. Eventually we arrived to a house and the farmer, the homeowner, had mercy on us. He let us into his home, immediately sat us next to the hot stove and also ordered his wife to cook potato soup for us which we ate very greedily. The farmer took us to the barn, scattered straw for us, gave us blankets and kept us there for three days. Then, he told us that he could no longer take the risk and keep us in his house because the neighbors saw us and danger awaited him and also us. The next morning, when it was still dark, we have to leave for the Jewish camp in Berșad, a distance of 12 kilometers. He showed us the road and separated from us with tears in his eyes. “May God protect you!” - he said, and disappeared into the darkness.

We walked - did we have another choice? A policeman, who stood on the bridge at the entrance to Berșad, didn't let us enter the city but he relented after I gave him two gold earrings and my wedding ring.

The day after I arrived to Berșad I fell ill with typhus and lay six weeks without any medical help - and yet, I remained alive. When I recovered from my illness I had no clothes or shoes. I had to rip a shirt to rags and used them to wrap my feet, and so I walked for three years, until 1944.

When I saw the first Russian soldier I decided to return home immediately, and was one of the first who have done that. When I arrived there a great fear had fallen on me. I was afraid to enter the city. Everything was deserted, the street was covered with grass, many houses were destroyed…

I found my father's house intact, but it was occupied by local Christians. I entered to sit with the robbers of my property. A few days later more Jews returned, but I could no longer sit in a place where I was once happy and returned to it so miserable. I left for Chernovtsy, from there to Romania, and from Romania I arrived to Israel in the illegal immigration.

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Your prayers, grandfather, have blown away with the wind. And with “G–d's name” between your fuzzy fingers, You went to meet your fate like a child. And when they led you to the bloody valley, Your wish was to die alongside the Rav And to cry out long and deep, the “Shema Yisroel” [“Hear Israel” …, the final prayer before death]. The sky was walled in with barbed wire And your eye wandered around and searched for G–d, And you saw, how they were also leading him [the Rav], with a spear in his heart And bloodied Torah scrolls wrapped around his feet. –– “Reb Daniel, look,” you fearfully cried to the old Rav. “Oh, look. They are leading the shepherd to slaughter him with the sheep, Oh, look, Reb Daniel!” But the elderly Rav, exhausted and depleted, Heard only how a machine gun was shooting in the valley. The old Rav saw only how Jews were dying And the Heavens were far, and the Heavens were silent. – “It is not G–d, my friend, that they are leading here to the valley of blood;” “It is the sun that is setting now in the western glow.” “Oh, Reb Daniel, listen! These are the angels' last song, listen!” “No, no, my friend, these are the final struggling pains under The hangman's sword.” “See, they are throwing the little birds into the grave alive, And mothers are standing by silent, ready to die.” “Enough for me, enough. I want to die with them, To die with these small martyrs. Woe, and forever woe!” And suddenly you saw: There go Reb Chananya ben Teradyon and Reb Akiva [two great martyrs in Jewish history, who had horrific deaths, 2nd century BC], Their beards spread out like white Ark curtains.

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“Come, Reb Daniel, did you not recognize them?” But the Rav was already dying by the hangman's hands. His gray beard was already bloodied under the hangman's feet, And death already shivered over his tall stature. You looked around and did not see anyone any longer And remembered that everything was just a vision. You look around and searched for someone And remembered that this was just your imagination. You lifted your tired hands to the Heavens: “My G–d, did they spit You out and rape you as they did us?” “Were You laid out, as we were, for robbery and murder?” But the last word smouldered in your throat. The final phrase fevered in your broken voice, And the mouth of the bloody valley swallowed you in its mouth.

The great tragedy of the Jews in Bessarabia and also of our town, began right with the deployment of the Germans into Soviet Russia.

Already on June 21, 1941, Rumanian radio delivered the declaration of Marshal Antonescu several times that day, that “those who spit at the Rumanian military will wipe it off with their blood.” We, the Jews, well knew what the enemy meant and where he was headed… Only one year ago, the Soviets took over Bessarabia, and at the time, some of our youth welcomed them with enthusiastic joy, and openly laughed at the receding Rumanian military and even took some of their horses and wagons and distributed them to the peasants of the nearby villages. This was done,

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… truthfully, only by some of the hot–headed youths, but now, for sure, all the Jews would pay for this, and that's exactly how it happened.

Bricheni experienced it all, but, as they say, with mercy: In total, there were 12 dead. But, in Jediniez, the Jewish population paid with 800 lives. Also, there were horrifying events in Sekuran. In the nearby village of Czeplowicz, the local peasants slaughtered all 80 Jewish residents in the village, from young to old – not leaving one living soul. And they divided up all the possessions among themselves.

A few days after June 21, Rumanian military units marched into Bricheni on their way to Woskowycz and Romankowycz. I remember that day very clearly, and will remember it forever. It was Sunday evening, after a great rainfall. We went out to greet the murderers with bread and salt, but they didn't even glance at us. They promised us only one thing, that after them, one special unit would be coming – especially to settle with the Bricheni Jews.

The promise was fulfilled. That same evening, at around 11 o'clock, terrifying screams were heard from various corners. The penal battalion arrived and spread out across the houses (the better ones, understandably), chased out the owners, and snatched up the beds and the linens.

The real “wedding,” however, began the following day, Monday, at 8 o'clock in the morning, when the peasants from the surrounding villages, at the call of their commanders, stormed en masse into the city. On foot and on wagons loaded down with sacks, they spread out across the city, and the looting began. They took everything that the eye could see and the hand could snatch. They left only the furniture. For that, there was already the mayor's office [city hall]. They sent prepared wagons and completely emptied the houses: beds, divans, tables, chairs, cupboards, and so on. They left only the four walls. All the Jews who ran away from the nearby villages came to Bricheni, as well as the Jews from Lypkan who fled to Bricheni, because the Rumanians were shooting in the Jewish streets – also they were looted on that same day.

One day later, an order was given by the commander that all men ages 16–60 must report every day at 6 AM for common labor, and whoever did not report, would be punished by death. The work consisted of unloading boxes of ammunition from cars which came from Rumania, onto peasant wagons that were being sent to Sekuran in the …

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… direction of the Dniester. The work was very difficult, and they provided no food. There was nothing to bring from home, no bread, no other food – everything had been stolen. Later, we heard from the Sekuraner Jews that their fate was even worse. They were forced to carry the boxes on their backs for a stretch of eight kilometers, approximately, and if someone collapsed, he was immediately shot.

In a few days, all the Sekuraner Jews were herded out and brought over to Bricheni. They came to us naked and barefoot, because the peasants from the villages Kolokyszna and Wozdowycz attacked them while they were on the roads, and they stole everything, even tearing off the clothing. We welcomed them warmly and shared our last bits of food. That's how we sat and waited for a miracle. But no miracle came….

One day, Friday it was, they grabbed up the Lypkaner Jews and sent them off to Jediniez. Woe, woe, what a day that was! Even nature was avenging those who were herded out! … On the way, a torrent of rain broke out. The heavens actually opened, and there was no place to hide. Many children died then, as they were carried away by the water. The little poverty that the Lypkaner Jews carried on their backs in their rucksacks was destroyed and lost on the way.

Two days later, they sent the Sekuraner out of Bricheni – and actually back to Sekuran…. This awakened some hope in us. “This means,” we wanted to comfort ourselves, “that they won't herd us out any more, and we will be staying in this place! … So, whatever, they destroyed us, they broke us, but at least we can stay here, more or less guaranteed with our lives!…” But our hopes very quickly went up in smoke.

Through Marusye Zilber–Trakhtenbroit, who was a friend of the prefect, it soon became known that we would also be sent out, and actually, so it was, the following day, at six in the morning. There was great panic. They began running around as if mad, just to get some food. There was no money with which to buy anything. Russian money no longer had any value, so we gave away the last of it to get some flour to be able to bake whatever possible.

Monday, July 28, at six in the morning, the Rumanian gendarmes pounded on every door to let us know that everyone without exception must report at eight o'clock in the fire station area. They picked up the entire population, no child in a cradle was left behind, removed the sick from the hospital …

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… the mentally ill and the epileptics – and the march began. The officials of the local civil government tried to ease things a little, and provided wagons for the sick, elderly, and frail. Those on foot suffered terribly, because the peasants intentionally whipped the horses so that we would have to run, and not everyone could do that. The lineup stretched kilometers long…

We thought that they were sending us to Sekuran, but they did not let us rest there for more than a few hours. It seems that the Sekuraner did not even merit this much: They were not allowed into Sekuran at all. On the second day, when we came to Koslow, which is on the other side of the Dniester, we found the Sekuraner there.

Shortly after we left Bricheni, Sholom, the Rav's son, died. He remained in the Trebisiwyczer forest. Was he buried, or did the birds feed themselves on his body – I do not know. The second sacrifice died soon after we arrived in Koslow, from a horse whose foot kicked him in the head. The third was walking and went over to an Oster'te [someone from Oster] to take some hay – for this “sin,” a Rumanian soldier shot him on the spot. All of this was just a prelude to what was yet to come.

In the village, we were sitting in a pig sty and we were all filthy and full of lice. Who knows what would have happened to us if we would have, Heaven forbid, remained there for a week. The regime was very strict there: We were not allowed to go into the village, we simply starved. It is amazing that while searching for ways to save ourselves, many of us grabbed burnt straw to eat… There was a Rumanian officer who loved money, and he gathered about 300 people (who, understandably, paid well for this) with a doctor at the head, and he was going to send them, he said, to a kolkhoz [collective farm] to gather grains from the fields. He even provided peasant wagons for the elderly and the sick, and emphatically said that they should not, Heaven forbid, leave us in the middle of the road.

Where is the kolkhoz? Where were we going? – None of us knew the answer. And that's how we arrived in Skoziniec. Many Bricheni met their deaths here. Here, among others, Aron Goldsmidt died along with his wife Malka, Khaim Szwarcz's wife; Neigas the hatmaker – he wounded one of his feet as he was walking, so they shot him. Other than that, they herded us without a destination and without a specific direction. It happened more than once …

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… that someone went out into a village to search for food, and when he came back, he no longer found any of his family. Where did they take them? Which direction did they take? – Who knows the answer?…

We approach Mohyliv–Podolsk.

When we were crossing the Dniester, Khaim Szwarcz and his daughter drowned, but they absolutely did not want to get out of the river. Boris Babanczyk, because of being so very upset, jumped off the bridge and met his death in the water.

In Mohyliv itself, we were detained for only three days (we slept in the gardens!). Suddenly, we were separated, and half of us were taken across the Dniester – to Ataki. Heartbreaking scenes played out here, because families were separated, parents ripped away from their children, who, on top of that, almost all died.

We go! … Our feet are swollen from walking. We are being herded without stop, tens of kilometers a day. The pain–filled road stretches on every day, all day. There was no opportunity to get a little food for yourself. We gave away expensive clothing or linen for a few onions or radishes. The month of July came. There is terrible heat and there are no wells practically anywhere on the roads. If we found a small pond somewhere, we ran to the water and drank like animals; we just could not leave. In fact, many became sick with dysentery, and people died like flies. Few merited being buried. The peasants – with few exception – demonstrated their cruelty to us and more than once attacked the exhausted people and beat them murderously or set their dogs on them. They tortured us from all sides. Many times without any purpose, only to have that pleasure…

We came to Kryzhopol at midnight, after having marched that day for more than seventy kilometers. Dead tired and starved, with our last energies, we dragged ourselves there in the hope that we would get a little rest. But there was nowhere to rest our heads. Everyone dropped to the ground, wherever he was standing. There was no opportunity to stretch out our legs, and it was difficult to fall asleep. But at five in the morning, they woke us up to continue the march.

Now there was also a new kommandant – a wild, raging …

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… animal. There was one Jew in the lineup who could no longer stand on his swollen feet, so he sat on the ground for a while. The kommandant ran towards him, grabbed him by the beard, and that's how he pulled him to his feet. He then began beating him with his rubber stick over the head, across the face, so that soon the tragic figure was all bloodied and fell down again.

We lived to see him somewhat avenged. In a short time, the kommandant went mad, would run across the camp naked, and dance. He shot to death two of his soldiers, wounded another four, and in the end shot himself.

In general, the kommandants would change frequently, and each of them had different caprices, and developed other methods of torture. There were those for whom the gun never left their hands, and for each small thing they would shoot. But one kommandant – the one from Jampol – behaved more humanely towards us. When we arrived there, he demanded that each of us be given half a bread and two cups of hot tea. When we left, he ordered the soldiers to stop and rest overnight close to a haystack – nothing like the other Rumanian thugs …

It was completely different when we arrived to Olszanka, a town in Ukraine. There was already no memory of the Jewish population there. We found Hungarian military. They told us that soon they would be distributing kasha [buckwheat] with soup, and we were very happy because we were starved. But our regulation guards were not too pleased about how we were standing in line. So they attacked us and beat us murderously, and so we did not receive the promised bits of food. We lay down hungry and woke up hungry. Pained, with broken backs and swollen feet. We did not receive even a little bit of water – not for drinking and not for washing, because the peasants did not allow us to use any of the wells. They complained – and to a certain extent this was true – that our containers were not clean and we would make the water dirty. That's how we began our march again and that's how we went until Simkhas Torah [final day of the holiday of Sukkos].

In reality, we lost count of time, did not know when it was Shabbath or when it was yom tov [Jewish holiday]. But we came to Brszad and there found some of our Brichener. We were very envious of them, that they had the good fortune of having already thrown their rucksacks off their backs and having already been able to stretch out their pained bones – true, it was on the …

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… bare ground. We, however, were meanwhile not worthy of even such a place of rest. We were chased [we marched] another eighteen kilometers, until the Bug River, and we remained there in a kolkhoz [collective farm].

There were other Brichener in the kolkhoz, but they were spread out across the three villages which the kolkhoz comprised. I, Leyb Rozenberg (Leyb Nissan's), Avrohom Rabinowycz, and their families, stayed together and found an empty stall. We, after much labor and hard work, and forfeiting the last of our possessions, got an empty, small peasant's hut. We set up four families there, a total of 14 souls, on three–leveled beds.

The cold was terrible, and there was nothing with which to heat. To get some straw in order to be able to cook some potatoes or a mamaliga [corn meal porridge], you had to walk for six or seven kilometers. The food quantity was far from sufficient. There was simply nothing to buy. In order to get some products, we had to give away some of our clothing and linens that we still owned. Many went out to work in the kolkhoz, to clean the beans that were picked. For eight hours of work, you got some beans or lentils. But this was tied to life and death. Once, a Rumanian patrol beat up twelve Jews who were going to work, and the soldiers, without complaints, shot all twelve. Among those murdered was also a Brichener (Meyer Lipel): a sheepskin merchant (his father–in–law lived near the Jedineczer Bridge). He was very badly wounded. He suffered for a few weeks until he breathed out his pure [kosher] soul.

I looked around and saw there was no purpose [to live]; there was almost nothing to trade, so I decided to take the family and escape to Brszad, 18–20 kilometers from the kolkhoz. “Escape,” because it was impossible to drive for two reasons: first, for this you needed two permits – one, to leave the kolkhoz, and two, who had money for a wagon? So we rented, for a few marks, a carrier [porter], so that he would help us carry our meager poverty, and on one evening, we took to the road. There were no disturbances until Brszad. I was dressed in peasant's clothing and was blackened and unshaven, so I did not attract the attention of the patrols at the Brszad Bridge, and they did not bother me. However, they detained my wife with the child and the carrier, and stole some of our belongings; they beat the carrier and ordered him back to the kolkhoz. No talk or pleading helped.

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They had to circle the city the entire day, and it was only at night, risking life and death, did they cross the river that was then already beginning to recede.

I had already reserved a room earlier, for 15 Marks a month. Leyb Rozenberg also rented a room in Brszad, but he could not pay that price, so he remained in the kolkhoz. In fact, that is where he actually lost his life. When the Russian army crossed the Bug and shot up the kolkhoz, he had a heart attack and did not merit salvation.

Now, in a good hour [thank God], I arrived in Brszad. But how can we subsist? While we still had some things, we were able to trade for products. But this also had an end. So I began trading with whatever I could: with foreign currencies, with golden five dollar coins, with matches, with cigarettes, which I brought to the surrounding villages. Once, I was caught, and they took away the little merchandise that I had, and paid for it all with some tough beatings. That was the end of my trading.

I started writing to relatives and to friends, asking for help. There was no talk of getting a loan from anyone, even from those in Bricheni for whom I had done favors more than once. The word “mercy” did not exist in Brszad: If you don't have anything, then you are left out to die from hunger; and that's actually how people died: At first you swelled up, then in the end you expired.

And now new troubles begin: We are taken to work in Nikolayev to build a bridge for the German military. I used all my protekzia [influence] and I succeeded in getting them to take me as a guard in a nail factory, for one Mark a day – the price of a half a kilogram of bread. But it's still better than to go to the Germans. Sometimes they took me as an arbitrator, and so there were some more earnings from that. The situation became more difficult and bitterer.

The kommandant that I met in Brszad, treated the Jews relatively humanely, and it even happened that he returned the confiscated merchandise to the traders. This also affected the ordinary soldier. But he didn't last long. A new kommandant came, a devil of evils. He was from Bukowina, and the Jews from there knew him as a teacher. But he boasted that he studied in Germany and was an SS, and aside from that, his father, according to his words, was the head commander of all Transnistria, and so he was permitted, therefore, …

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… to do as he wished – he feared no one. For days he would ride around on his motorcycle, making sure that the peasants, should not, Heaven forbid, sell their products to the Jews. He also enclosed the Jewish streets with double barbed wire. If one of the peasants managed to sneak in with a few products, and if he was caught, he would be punished very severely.

Once – and I witnessed this with my own eyes – he caught a young Jewish boy who had bought a few kilograms of potatoes from a farmer. First, he beat the boy murderously, and then he tied the boy to his motorcycle and told him to run behind it. Fortunately, an officer of superior rank arrived, not a local one, and saved the boy. When the war ended, the kommandant was sentenced to death, but then the death sentence was reversed for a life sentence of hard labor in the salt mines of Targu–Ocna.

When the Germans had their downfall through Stalingrad, the commander hung up a black flag and we silently celebrated. However, soon a field commander [feldskommandant], a German, came down to Brszad, and let all his rage out on us. He wanted to take his revenge for Stalingrad out on us…. It was a danger to go out in the street for fear of meeting the kommandant. Two young Jewish men actually did pay with their lives when they met him in the street. He did not approve of their tone when they greeted him, so he shot them, and for two days did not allow them to have a Jewish burial.

At that time, the partisans increased their activity in the area of Brszad. Our Nunye Nisenboim (Moshe Nisenboim's son) joined them, and Feny Fleiger (Dr. Fleiger's daughter). It is said that the partisans took them forcefully with them. They were in a kolkhoz, some ten kilometers from Brszad.

Later, when we had returned to Bricheni, and we lived together in the house of Dr. Fleiger, Nunye told me how the partisans would annoy the Germans and the Rumanians. Once, the Germans encircled the forest where the partisans were hiding out. But the Germans found out, and one night, the partisans ran off hundreds of kilometers. For two days and two nights the Germans bombed the forest, and on the third day they saw that their work was for nothing…

The partisans would attack the sugar factory at night, and each …

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… time, they would cart off hundreds of sacks of sugar. They distributed these among the peasants of the surrounding villages, and they, the peasants, would bring these sacks to Brszad and sell the sugar or trade them for watches and clothing. In Brszad itself, a partisan, a Jew, was walking around. A former captain in the Red Army. When the kommandant found out about this (they found out who informed!) he decided to offer a reward of 1,000 Mark if they would catch him. So, they carried him [that partisan] out in a casket to the cemetery, and from there he found his own road… When the Russian army came into Brszad, he returned with them.

The partisans turned for support to our community activists, at the head of which was Dr. Szrenczel, and they [the partisans] received a few thousand Marks from them [the community activists] and some clothing from that which had been donated for the evacuees. Also, private individuals supported the partisans – some out of goodwill, some out of fear – and gave whatever they could. This brought really tragic results.

A Rumanian secret agent befriended a young Jewish boy and several times he invited him into a tavern for a drink. Once, when drunk, the boy began to babble, and slowly he revealed secrets, at the beginning, not such important ones. But when they arrested him and beat him and tortured him cruelly, he couldn't withstand it, and told them about some of the partisans' helpers, and even showed them the place where there was a hidden list of many names of those who assisted with their support for the partisans. This they found out only later, and meanwhile, every night, they arrested tens of people. In this way, they gathered up twenty odd Christians and about 200 Jews. They were tortured horrifically, and finally taken out of the city, shot, and buried in prepared ditches.

It is not possible to relate everything that we experienced in these three–and–a–half years. It is hard to believe that we could survive such things. In reality, the majority of evacuees died tragically. A few months before our liberation they quoted that the number of surviving Jews in Transnistria was about 42,000. Bessarabia itself counted approximately 300,000. The calculation is, therefore, clear: No less than 250,000 Jews found their graves in Transnistria.

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… Once I had two homes – my birthplace, Bricheni, where my grandmother and grandfather, uncles, and aunts lived, and Lodz, Poland, where my parents were, brothers, sisters, and where I later had my own home. In Lodz, I would sometimes decide – I was going home: that meant, to Bricheni. In Bricheni, after a few weeks, I would say: I am going home; that meant to Lodz… So, now I was on the same road as I once was – going home.

It's war. Will they defend the city (Czernowycz)? Or will we leave just like that? But certainly they won't give away Bessarabia just like that. First, we have to run home, to Bricheni.

The bus that runs between Bricheni and Czernowycz, had stopped [its run] on the first day. We negotiated with a driver, and we paid for a horse and wagon. He came in the morning, bringing the news: It is no more, there is no longer a road to get there, the road was destroyed … We are in an uprising, there is nowhere to run.

…They took away a good friend of ours, Mekhele Wolstajn, and his son Lojsik, a few doctors, teachers, and others, and they disappeared. After, when Lojsik's old nurse arrived, and told us how she saw with her own eyes, a mountain of dead bodies at the Prut river, and the first she uncovered was actually Lojsik, and the second was Mekhele, and others known to us, we simply did not believe her… did not want to believe; but it was the truth, the horrible truth; later, we were convinced [of the truth] of this.

… From Bessarabia, at that time, came the occasional worse news. They evacuated the entire Jewish population from the Bessarabia cities and towns and threw them across the Dniester to the Germans. Soon we found out that they were not taken in there but they were chased back, locked into camps in Jediniecz and in Sekuran…

There is a village near Bricheni, Hrubna, a Russian village with katzapes [derogatory name which means “stupid Russian” or “primitive Russian”]. They have gardens and the best fruits, vegetables, and honey, produce, and so on. They would bring all that on fair days to the Bricheni market. Now that there are no more Jews in Bricheni, the Hrubna katzapes bring their products to Czernowycz. Once, I met a familiar Hrubna katzap at the market, Vasil. He was the first to give me the honest news, that there was a tragedy, the capturing and evacuation of the Jews …

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… of Bricheni. That's how it was in Bricheni and in the other cities and towns of Bessarabia. First, he brought me greetings from Mottel and Simele; they were there in Bricheni, and were taken with all the others, the evacuees. He also told me a detail of the evacuation, that at the home of one of my relatives, Lojsik Szwarcz, a lawyer, at the time of the evacuation, two children were sick with scarlet fever, with temperatures higher than 40 degrees. He pleaded that they leave the children in the hospital for now; but it didn't help. He had to take them with him even in this state.

At six in the morning, in Bricheni, they ordered that all Jews had to assemble by nine o'clock on the “taleke” (a meadow, field). Military, police, and a few underworld people made sure that by nine none of the Jews would be in their homes. In the “taleke” (how we, children, would often play, stroll in this “taleke”; it was once the Shabbath promenade for the town, and now there was the tragedy there), wagons were already set up there for the children and the sick. Heartrending screams and cries were heard the entire time in the town, across the road and the field. We had to take everyone, not one Jew was allowed to be left in the town. Left dying, in his final moments, was an elderly Jew. His children asked that they be permitted to show their father their last respects. They had only one choice: Mercifully, they could leave this dying man where he was, but they – they had to leave.

The regular Jewish population in Bricheni totaled 12,000 people; now there were 16,000, because the Jews came from Lypkan and Sekuran. At the beginning of the war, this was in the front line.

The elderly, sick, and children, and also some of the items that belonged to those who could go on foot but who could not carry their possessions, were organized on the wagons. The rest were set out in rows, 300 people per row, encircled by military – and march!

On the road, farther and worse. Only a few Christians from home drove their passengers a little farther. The majority quickly became tired and threw out their passengers with their bundles, and returned home. This was the most civil. Later it became worse, we were involved with Christian strangers. They themselves turned their wagons onto the roadside, took all the things, and emptied out all the passengers. Further on, it became even worse. It was as if pre–decided with the convoy …

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… and the gangs in the villages: They separated entire groups from the rows, from the entire crowd, took them to the side of the field or forest – and there robbed and murdered them. The road was planted with dead bodies. In the march, we were chased, herded, beaten. Many could not withstand this and remained on the roads. We left behind parents, brothers and sisters, and children, and we had to run, still being herded … and the closer to the Dniester, the more the murders.

The rows arrived in Ataki (a town near the Dniester, at the side of Bessarabia; on the other side of the Dniester lies Mohyliv–Podolsk), already very thinned out. And now began the crossing of the Dniester. The bridge had been blown up, and we were taken across on boats, ferries; they threw people and their possessions into the water, continued to beat and murder…

And on the other side of the Dniester, in Mohyliv, there is a mountain; they chased us to the mountain. People threw off every extra gram of weight. After such a trek, who could run up the mountain with [the extra weight of] packages? And when we were almost at the top – they herded us back down. First, whoever could still manage this, threw down the rest of his things, because for many people going down was even harder than going up… Afterward, other people gathered up their things. They chased the Jews again, only for fun, up and down, up and down; until they remained without a soul, without a heart.

Tormented, crushed, many orphaned, finally the remaining few arrived in Mohyliv. The city, ruined, bombed, destroyed, was ready to accept them into its ruins, but now something new began: The city was still in the hands of the Germans who say they don't need the Jews, they should send them back …

And it starts again, back through the water, and the rows, with renewed theft and murder, to Sekuran. They made a camp there. Here now were all those who remained alive after the march. The Brichener, the Khotyner, the Lypkaner, all of these were now in Sekuran. Mine too; how do I find them? Maybe I should try to pull them out of there?

Now the entire Czernowycz knew about the tragedy of Bessarabia, and there were all kinds of connections, even among the Jews, to the tragedy of Bessarabia. The Czernowyczer, meaning the Bukowiner, considered themselves as having more esteemed lineages. The Bessarabians, meaning them, had a little black mark on themselves; they were almost Russian, always pro–Russia, and have even earned [the reputation] that you can argue with them a little; but with them, with the Bukowiner and …

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… particularly with the Czernowyczer, you couldn't get away with that – that's what they think – and still, you are edgy, you are afraid.

The Bessarabians in Czernowycz had other worries: How do you snatch out dear ones, your own, from the camps, from Sekuran, and from Jediniecz? In Jediniecz, we also knew, they already slaughtered almost all the Jews in the entire town. The remaining few were chased out onto the road to the Dniester, across the Dniester to “Transnistria.”

I received greetings from them – from those who were evacuated to Transnistria. Woe to those greetings! Anatoly Yefifanovitch Balbashenko brought those greetings. He was the son of our Brichener priest, a “good friend” of ours. A good friend to the Jews in general – he was not! An ideological Kuzawecz [from Kozowa?], and a former classmate of many Jewish children from the Brichener vocational school, and because of that, he [maintained] the connection and inclination from his side to help ease the pain from some of his Bricheni former classmates and friends.

He tells: “On the road to Mohyliv, while paving the highways, there are Jewish young men working – naked, barefoot, starved, wasted, half–skeletons. Someone had pity on them and from a car that drove past a group of these workers, they tossed out a bread. The young boys threw themselves onto the bread like wild animals. They tore at each other like dogs, bit one another's hands. The guards ran over and chased them away with their dogs. After that, it became an amusement, for a few “warm–hearted” men. They would drive by intentionally, throw out whole breads, and watch how the boys tore into each other.

“In Mohyliv itself, people are lying, swollen like mountains, in front of doors, with enlarged heads, hands, and feet – swollen from hunger, they are lying and begging for a death that is taking its time, not coming to free them from their pained lives. Others, meanwhile, are emaciated like skeletons. People are crazed from hunger and are walking about naked, completely naked, on the streets. A sack, or paper – that's clothing.” And he stops, especially [to mention] the naked women with bared breasts that hang like empty bags.

A year ago, they talked about 185,000 deportees from Bessarabia and Bukowina. After the summer, there was talk of 250,000. These were the official numbers: The Jews have their own accounts and refer to about 400,000 deportees. And during the winter, 80% of these people died of hunger and cold and epidemics. And besides that,

[Page 156]

… in the summer deportations, part of the deportees were sent from Transnistria further on, across the Bug [River].

The exhausted, tormented people were chased again. And once again, here in Transnistria began what had happened before in Czernowycz – whoever still had the capability, bought himself his life, getting new authorizations to remain here, pushing off the Angel of Death for a little longer. Whoever could not buy himself out, was sent across the Bug to the Germans, and no one knew what happened to him.

“Those who are wearing the yellow sign, bear the cross of pain; those who are bearing the cross – are also wearing the yellow badge of shame for the suffering that is being caused to an innocent person.”

I told this to the Jewish woman with a cross around her neck, just as a witty comment, but soon regretted it: What kind of complaints can I have to a worm that gets its color from its surrounding nature, the protective color – so that the enemy does not notice it? Nature alone wants to save it, and here people have to think about themselves, save themselves. The cross in this case is the protective color, a hiding place.

September 1, 1942. We now have more precise numbers from Transnistria: a smart Rumanian, who considered himself a good friend of the Jews, described the lives of the Jews there in a short and concise manner, with one phrase: “The Jews there have no right to live.” They are doing everything so that the Jews would die out. From the entire Bessarabia and Bukowina there remained only eight to ten thousand Jewish souls, found in Czernowycz, and they are sitting with their souls in their hands, waiting for a new deportation. The new deportation is now going directly across the Bug.

…In Transnistria they are sending larger groups across the Bug to the Germans and from there they disappear somewhere. No one knows anything of them afterward, and each of us has dear ones among them.

S.O.S. – Save our souls! For nothing! There is no one to whom to scream. No one will hear, and no one responds. A nation is being destroyed and no one is coming to help us. A postcard made its way here, written by a Rav from Rawa–Ruska, written in Latin letters, with Hebrew words. The Rav writes that you have to involve worlds, you have to scream, you have to include all corners of the world: They are destroying a nation. They are gathering tens of thousands of people in one place; they are exhausted from labor, hunger, and thirst, and then they are murdered, thousands at once, with electricity. Scream and run! Tell everyone in all corners, in all worlds, writes the Rav.

[Page 157]

To whom should we tell this? Who should scream? We ourselves are set aside for death. If not today, then tomorrow.

From Transnistra, my friend Espir A. Berstajn, received a note from strangers, in which it was written: Save me, it's winter. I am wearing a sack–cloth with a hole that was cut out so that my head can go through, with a rope tied as a belt. I have nothing on my feet. My child is also dressed this way. We do not sleep at night because we are cold. We have nothing to cover ourselves with. Send something to wear so that I can at least go out to beg for some alms.

Indeed, a transport rode through Czernowycz with the remaining few from Transnistria, naked, barefoot, ragged, exhausted, drained. They gave the impression of a group of scruffy beggars… And these were our dear ones, our relatives and friends! A horror, of what has become of them.

In one breath, someone screams out news from there; from those who remained, from those who died: This one and that one – died from hunger; this one was shot, this one was left behind and passed out on the road, these were frozen to death, and so on – all this about our dear ones… When they say: Thousands of people died of hunger, from cold, froze to death, this makes an impact as a statistic; but when you find out that your own elderly sick father went on these roads, across fields, was chased by wild beasts [humans], and then roamed around, lost, in strange places, crazed for a piece of bread, and no one gave him this piece of bread, and he swelled up from hunger, and then died from hunger – oh, this is not a statistic – this is your father who died of hunger!...

(M.Tz.) The following Brichener who were murdered or who are no longer alive are mentioned in the book:

Zena Gelfenstajn–Shiller, Asher Rzowinski, Mottel Breitman, Zisele Shiller, Moshe Breitman, Freidele Szwarczer–Hekht, Meyer Szwarczman.

Those alive, may they have long years: the Dimitmans sisters, Yoshke Khoyrisz, Dina Roitman, Yehudis Rzowinski, Grisha Szwarczman.

(Excerpt from her book “Wanderings across Occupied Regions.” Buenos Aires, 1947. The excerpts were collected by M.Tz.)

[Page 158]

When the Red Army retreated, our city remained intact (when they left Khotyn and Lypkan, they burned the cities down). A large part of the Jewish population, knowing what was waiting for them at the hands of the Rumanians and Germans, left with the Red Army. But at the shores of the Dniester, in Neporotowa, a group of Brichener, as if they were Russians, created a sort of committee that decided who had the right to cross the Dniester and save his life, and who did not. That's how they negated everyone, according to their own opinion, as bourgeois or Zionist. Among others, Lusik Szwarcs and his family came back, as did Meyer Snitiwker and his family, later to become human sacrifices of Transnitria.

At the time of the expulsion, while climbing the mountain near the cemetery, many looked with envy at the graves, wishing themselves to remain there with their own dead rather than to stay on the road where no one knew where their own bodies would end up.

The expulsion ended only on the second day, when they sent out the less capable: the sick and the handicapped; and among them the blind Yakov Malakhson. The unfortunates were accompanied by the mockery and laughter of the Bricheni scoundrels.

During the march on the road to Sekuran, Bitman turned to us, near Avrohom Bitman [a different Bitman] and Froike Wajnstajn: “Well, it's okay for me,” he said, “I didn't believe in Zionism, in the Land of Israel, but you, who all the years promoted and worked for Israel, why did you sit here and wait for this tragedy?”

In Sekuran, feeling that we were losing the last of our strength, and we could not continue going on foot, we, I and Moshe Wieseltier, used some jewelry to bribe a Rumanian officer to give us a wagon so that we could ride. We also took Rav Ephrati with us. We had been riding for only a few meters, when a Rumanian came and beat us and threw us down from the wagon. The Rav, of blessed memory, received particularly strong beatings. Even though we were deaf and dulled to everything, our hearts were broken as we watched the Rav cover his head with his hands to protect it from the murderous beatings.

Farther down the road, as we went through an abandoned town, there were seforim [religious books] thrown in the streets. Moishke Grupenmakher, I saw, was tearing pages out of a chumash [religious book containing full Torah text] and was using the paper for everything. – “What are you doing?” I asked him. “I want to do this,” he said. “If the Creator of the World can do this to us, then I can do the same [to Him].”

[Page 159]

Among us there were also some sworn optimists. “What, don't you see?” Avrohom Watenmakher used to say, “that these are the times of Moshiach [Messiah]? Yes, we are suffering, but the salvation is near. The hour of revenge against the Amalek [enemy of the people of Israel] is now, and there will be light unto the Jews.” Also, Moshe Perl would show with letters and signs, logic and politics, that our bloody enemy must fall soon. The first one [Watenmakher] died in the Sekuraner ghetto from hard labor and hunger; the second [Perl] went until Bor and was shot there.

The Bricheni priest's son, Natarius Bolboshenko, came to see us in the Sekuraner camp. He asked about Yosef Leyb Shiler and other familiar people, and gave monetary support, but he stood at a distance for fear of becoming infested with lice.

Once, Stokh also came to see us. He was a pork–eating Jew from Bricheni. He stood on the other side of the wired fence, and to every Bricheni Jew that approached, he gave 20 Leu [Rumanian equivalent to 20 Polish zlotys]. He stood there, looked at us, and his eyes ran with tears.

Yekhezkel Gorodecki carried a small Torah scroll with him. On a day of Torah reading, if we were to stay in one place, he would take it out to read from it. After the second expulsion from Sekuran, he and his Torah scroll found their peace in a prepared grave on the way to Mohyliv.

It's worth describing: In the few weeks that we were in the Sekuraner camp, regardless of the neediness, hunger, or sickness that was spreading over tens of dead people that we buried every day, we along with the Khotyner who were with us, set up a community council that pleaded for us in front of the authorities, organized working groups that were sent to repair roads and clean up towns; divided up the little bit of food for the sick and completely helpless; gave medicinal help; provided a shul for the High Holidays; fixed the bathhouse and prepared for more activity, and then there would be the sudden order: “Move forward!”…

When the Russian troops in Ukraine were retreating, many Jews joined them, those who had the possibility to do so. The poor and physically frail remained in the towns. It is easy to imagine what they experienced when the Germans came, and after that the Rumanians. When they [the Jews] learned that the evacuated Jews were coming through their areas, they rushed to prepare and met us with food. After Mohyliv Podilsky and after Ozareniecz [Ozarowice?], where we encountered no Jews at all, after two rainy days, we came to Luczyniec. There, in the middle of the town, we met a group of Jews standing near large barrels …

[Page 160]

… of potato soup. Each of us received a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. It's hard to describe the taste that we felt in this food, and the strength and energy that this Jewish solidarity evoked for our downtrodden morale.

In order to have the most minimal picture of the horrific agonies that we experienced during the first year in the ghetto, it would be enough to mention some events and moments:

Ignoring the dangers of being beaten or shot, Jews hid themselves under the barracks of the Rumanian military (except in the ghetto), waited until they would throw out the peel from the potatoes that they cooked for the soldiers, and bring these treasures to the wives and children.

Some knew where they buried dead horses, so they brought home the meat from the skin [of the horses] that were in the ditches. They used some of the meat themselves, and sold the rest to others. When the authorities discovered that they were doing this, they poured naphthalene on the dead horses, but this didn't help.

When my wife, my children, and I were in a four–by–four room, without heat, in the strong throes of winter, and we were all sick at once with terrible typhus, having absolutely nothing with which to ease our weakness. Shlomo Kremer, also swollen from hunger, would come to see us, wrapped in torn rags. He came to us one morning (after which his son, the evening before, had banged on the window, pleading, “Have mercy, give me something to eat!”), and cried his heart out. I showed him a few things, whatever I still had, and told him to go sell them, use the profits for himself and also to bring something back to us.

Our family would also share things to eat from our very mouths with the wife and children of Itzik–Aron Gurwycz, all of whom lay sick on a stone floor in a former Soviet shop. One Friday morning, I came to them and found the mother and a daughter dead, the second daughter just about dead, and the son, Mili, lying between them, talking to me. And when I offered him a little bean soup, he wouldn't take it, but he said to me: “Shloime, there is a bundle lying near my head. I have a good pair of galoshes there. I beg you, take them, sell them, and for that money, buy me a piece of sausage and bread. Let me eat well at least once more before I die…”

[Page 161]

In this kind of situation and under these conditions, and in these circumstances, a sort of “community” was set up among us. Its tasks comprised: to provide workers according to the authorities' demands; to collect the clothes and things from the dead in order to have the means [a manner of covering the bodies] when burying the dead, and when possible, to cover the nakedness of those still living; to plead against or buy off bad decrees. Because of all this, the community would even apply certain taxes on those who were in somewhat of a better situation (the local Jews and the Bukowiner deportees).

We also tasted the curse of a few community members and Jewish militias, who, wanting to make a good impression on their bosses, gave plenty of problems to the wretched people, dragging them to hard labor or sending them out to work camps. That's a separate tragic chapter known by all those who experienced the dark years of the ghettos and camps.

But also the so–called privilege of producing organized help, of supporting one another, and in general the merit of having a roof over one's head, were all taken from us in a minute when at the beginning of the summer a German commander replaced a Rumanian “chief.” He [the German] found that too many Jews were still alive…

He chased all the Jews, except for a few workers [that he kept] for his own needs, into a forest in a small area, and enclosed them in barbed wire under the guard of Ukrainian military. And whoever tried to jump the border, was shot on the spot.

These rainy days and nights under the open sky in the cold; the suffering of hunger and filth, without any means of cleaning oneself, resulted in people beginning to actually die like flies. Wherever you looked, there were dead bodies, without a semblance of a human form. With my own eyes, I saw a child whose body was covered with lice that dug into his body and ate it up.

The peasants from the surrounding areas came over to the fence, and stood there, staring at the evil wonder. Some of them, as they teased us, brought food with them, and tossed the seeds of the cherries over the fence. The children threw themselves upon these, picked them up from the ground, and immediately put them into their mouths.

Salvation came from the few Jews who had remained in town. Secretly, they notified the Jews in Mohyliv [of what was going on]. With the help of a large sum of money the commander became nicer; first allowed food to be brought to us, and after that some of us were taken back to the town.

This scene, when they first brought small pieces of bread to the camp, I will never forget. When the wagon entered [the camp], everyone attacked it, so that it was impossible …

[Page 162]

… to distribute the bread. The cries and whines of the starved went up to the heart of heaven. When the distributors couldn't figure out how to do their job, they threw the bread over heads. One person fell on top of the other, tearing each other apart over a piece of bread, so that more was lost than used. Understandably, the majority, particularly the weaker ones, were left without a bite of bread.

Only when the commander was changed for a Rumanian, did the last few return from the forest to the towns.

It was the day of Simchas Torah [last day of Sukkos holiday, celebrating with the Torah scrolls]. I was laid up after being very sick. Two women came to see me. Suddenly, an acquaintance of ours came in:

“Why are you sitting here so calmly? There are great festivities going on in the streets! I myself read a telegram that all the Jews are going home!”

We looked at him in wonder. He wouldn't leave us alone, and chased us out. It was true, the Jews were dancing in the streets with joy. But the joy did not warm me; I was afraid that this was a trick. They made fun of me.

And that's how we, I, Nokhum Ber, and the child, followed the crowd of Jews that was asked to go into the city garden and register. Normally, no Jewish foot was allowed to step into the garden. And now, as we entered the garden, I felt like the earth was burning under my feet. I begged my husband that we should leave that place, because I had a bad feeling – people laughed at me.

There was a long line; I couldn't stand so long, so I went to my father, of blessed memory. I find him at the window, in thought, and worried. I asked him: “Don't you want to register to go home?” He replied: “My child, when everyone will go home, then we will go too. I don't believe them, the liars.”

I went back into the garden to summon my husband and child. I felt danger approaching. But it was already too late. The garden was surrounded by police. The women were beaten furiously and pushed out; the men set out in rows and under strict guard were taken to headquarters. From there, people would be sent away to hard labor, from which they did not come back.

[Page 163]

Like all the other women, I stood and cried, watching how they took away all the men. I thought to myself that you can't rely on miracles, and began to search for a way in, using the right connections – but it was for nothing. My landlord, a Bershader Jew, came with me at night to the headquarters. We stood under a tree and waited, maybe we would see someone. After a few hours, I saw my husband with another Jew, as the soldiers were pushing them and screaming: “Run! We don't want to see you here anymore!”

I ran over to my husband. “Where is the child?” He said we should leave and then later save the child. Only when we arrived home did he tell me that our son, who was only 14 at that time, pleaded with the officer that his father was ill, so then he, the son, would go instead and work for two. And then the son promised the father that in time he would escape; so we, the parents, should not worry.

But I knew that it was very dangerous to run away. At around 5 AM, it was still half dark outside, I ran to the headquarters; everyone there was locked in a stall. An officer and some soldiers were just walking around, ready to shoot anyone who would try to run away. With great courage, I approached the commander. I received terrible beatings until I reached him. The commander was busy with the lists of those who had been prepared to leave. I pleaded with him that the child was sick and was the last remaining of the family.

For a while he looked at me angrily, then said that if I will bring someone else in place of my son, he would let him go. Where do you find someone else? With great effort, I collected 1500 Marks from my friends, packed up everything I owned, and ran out to give it all to my son. Maybe he would be able to save himself. I found him already on the truck – and my anguish was indescribable. Suddenly, a young boy came forward, who was prepared to go for money, and he took my son's place.

I went over to the commander. He examined the boy and said: “Fine, they'll both go.” I fell to his feet with a cry. “Maybe you are also a father of children; have mercy. Give me back my one and only son!”

The people around stood there with their heads hanging down. The time went on forever. Finally, he said: “Give me everything that you have, take him, and both of you leave!”

That is how I saved my son from certain death.

[Page 164]

In the almost three years that we were in the hell of Transnistria, not for one day did the gnawing yearning of the hometown Bricheni cease, [the hometown] from which we were so gruesomely torn asunder by our bloody enemy.

When we were liberated, the earth beneath us actually burned with our desire to return home. But the Russian authorities did not permit the return immediately, with the excuse that the roads were overrun with military, and there was no security on the roads. But we could not withstand the wait; so even with the danger to our lives, we broke through all the deterrents and returned home…

But where Bricheni? How Bricheni? Pieces of former streets, burned down houses. In the actual center where there used to be Szwartzman's and Szpizel's shops – now a large place covered in coal and burned pieces of steel. From the few remaining houses, dark holes were gaping at us in terror – holes that were once doors and windows, reminding us that we were in this world. At least sit down on the ground and weep for the destruction…

And the welcome from the neighbors? Angry and disappointed; they didn't even think that we would return. And primarily, they feared justice and reckoning, in case they would have to return all that was stolen. And truthfully, some began to return the things that Jews who had remained alive gave to them on the day of evacuation. But it didn't take long for them to figure out that their fear was for nought. Because in situations where items were identified and then for which we went to the authorities, they sided with great respect with the thieves; and when these kinds of issues came before the courts, the judge always decided that [the thieves] were entitled to the ownerless things, and it all belonged to them.

Within several weeks, a thousand surviving Bricheni Jews came together (according to the list that I saw by Moshe Kornblum, secretary of the city administration), about ten percent of the former Jewish population in Bricheni. Those who had returned, together with the Bukowiner Jews, about 3,000 who had returned from Transnistria and for an entire year were confined, not having permission to return to their homes, filled up the houses that remained standing but were devastated (the better houses, which the Romanians took as their own institutions, were also now taken over by government institutions and their employers.) Soon, a rush began, a quarrelling over a table, a chair, a broken bed, that the Christians had left behind in the looted houses.

[Page 165]

Wherever possible, they boarded up doors and windows, and squeezed entire families into one room; they dragged boards from fences, and assembled some sort of bedding. This was all done without fear of the new government that was very involved with the activities of the returnees. I and Buzhi Rojter almost paid with our freedom for a bed that we took from an abandoned house, when an NKVD [Russian: People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs, law enforcement agency of the Soviet Union] commandant told us that he had left this bed for himself.

After the so–called organizing, there began a search [for means] to earn some money, to sustain life. And now winter was approaching, the houses were absolutely not suited. Some of the local residents offered to take on government jobs or work in labor cooperatives. Although the salaries could not cover even thirty percent of the needs of the poor, nonetheless – a shield of armor against poverty. It was more difficult for those who could find no work – especially for the Bukowiner, since they didn't hire any foreigners. As a result, illegal business began. At night they bribed whoever they could, and merchants would go to Dniester, also to Czernowycz, and bring merchandise that was needed, and the peasants themselves needed them. Everyone well knew what was going on, and there were times when they “fell in” [were caught], but there was no choice…

We lived through difficult moments, when, because of their specific situation, the Bukowiner involvement in the black market was particularly outstanding. They also created lively social activities: they organized their own elections, amassed help for the needy. Reports about their activity began to fly to the higher ups. It didn't take too long, and just on Rosh Hashanah an order was given by the commandant of the NKVD from Chisinau [Kishinew], that they [the illegal merchants] be assembled and sent off to Siberia. It's understandable what terror and chaos this decree created, but they did not lose themselves; they collected a large sum of money, valuable things, ran off to Chisinau and bemoaned their tragedy.

In this very struggle for existence, in fear of the government, for that morning several of us did not forget about our spiritual needs, as much as it was possible to do. We found the Houses of Study [Batei Medrash] in the city ruined, but the actual big shul [synagogue], of which the Romanians had made a grain warehouse, remained almost as usual, but in shameful condition. We had to chase out the pigs that were rummaging for bits of grain that they had found in the holes of the broken floor. With the help of the Bukowiner Jews, among whom were a Rav and a schochet [ritual slaughterer], the Holy Ark [where the Torah scrolls are kept] was repaired, and doors were made.

[Page 166]

And in passing, the Bricheni priest should also be mentioned for good things, that on the day of the evacuation, he went to the shul, removed the Torah scrolls, and took them to his home. He left together with the Romanians, and we found the scrolls in the attic, and collected a few religious books that were strewn about the abandoned houses. This is how a little bit of Jewish life concentrated itself in the shul. Daily, especially on Shabbath and on Yom Tov [Jewish holidays], there were religious services and traditional religious customs.

I wanted to be in shul with Jews on Shabbath and Yom Tov, but what could I do since I was tethered to my workplace and was afraid of a terrible punishment. I felt the worst pangs on Yom Kippur when I was especially under the watch of my director. At the time of Yizkor [memorial prayer for the deceased], I asked permission to go do some business at the bank in the street, and not thinking about the dangers, I went directly to shul. In pain, full of anguish of everything around, I couldn't withstand it, forgot where I was, and right after Yizkor I went up to the balemer [platform in shul that holds the table upon which the Torah is placed for readings], and cried for those who died, bemoaned our situation, pounded my chest with the “al chet” [confession of sins, special prayer recited on Yom Kippur, during which one pounds on the chest over the heart with the right hand], that we were not careful, that we did not obey our leaders, and for not praying at the right times. In a quick glance, I noticed the frightened looks of the congregants, and after that the great concern from those close to me, who asked: “What did you do?” But I was pleased that among the congregants, there was no one who would inform on me…

These spiritual and moral pains and the constant fear of strange and personal sin, ending my life in prison or in deportation, expedited my decision to finish faster, take the chance, and run away to whichever place I could.

That was just about how the thoughts were of the majority of the returnees. And at the first opportunity, when the Bukowiner received permission to return to their homes, many Brichener, also of those who already lived in Czernowycz, using any means and methods possible, went along with them.

When the Bukowiner left, we who remained felt empty – how hollow our lives were, how great was the destruction. The few elderly people who were able to come to shul, did not have anyone to lead the prayers for them, nor anyone who could read from the Torah scrolls. Chaim Shmuel Shuster argued that before an entire community of Jews will sin, he alone will take the sin upon himself. He took out his shoemaker's knife, and became …

[Page 167]

… the schochet [ritual slaughterer]. There was no one to take care of community issues because everyone was preoccupied with earning money for that small piece of bread, and was tired of getting up at night to stand in line for that sticky bread, depressed with fear, not knowing what tomorrow would bring.

That's how the new Bricheni looked in the year 1945, when I left it. My heart was ripped apart, looking at those miserable ones who could not move from their spot. When they started to whisper that I was going to leave, Moshe Trachtenbroit said to me: “With your leaving, the last Jew who knows some Jewish words [about Jewish life] and reminds us that we are Jews, is leaving as well.”

With tearful eyes, with deep pain in my heart, I said my quiet “be well,” to my dear town; on a rainy evening I left Bricheni forever, a place where I spent my most beautiful and best years.

After my departure, the story of the renewed Jewish life in Bricheni flowed in a tragic direction, as it was foreseen.

According to the narrations of Dena – Moshe Karlon's wife – who left Bricheni in 1956, Jews left the city at a quick pace. Whoever had even the smallest opportunity ran to Czernowycz, with the hope – from there to go farther… Few remained, those who did not have even the most minimal physical or material opportunities to move from their place; beaten, poor people, without any outlooks or hopes; as if intentionally staying behind to watch the oncoming destruction of the city.

Who are they? Workmen, several government workers – the rest, old, broken people. What ties them together as Jews? Coming to a minyan [ten men as quorum for prayers] once in a while. Hirsh Stelmach, who lived in a place that was called “the Ninth Municipality,” said that they should pray in his house on Yom Kippur. They waited until lunchtime when those workers were let out: some sneaked in quietly, completing the minyan and they said Yizkor [memorial prayer for the deceased]. If someone had a son that was born, and he wanted to have him circumcised, they would bring a mohel [the rabbi who performs the circumcision] from Jedinecz, and the circumcision took place discreetly, out of fear.

Particularly moving, was her story about the destruction of the large shul down to the ground. The beautiful shul whose very soul is bound up in the memory of each Bricheni Jew, that even in the years of the world's demons …

[Page 168]

… was respected by the Nazis, was gruesomely destroyed after the so–called liberation.

When they brought Christian workers to perform the devastation, they categorically refused. Efraim Zalcman's (the cantor) son–in–law took the holy mission upon himself. He brought workers from far away. When the bulldozer bit into the thick walls of the shul, the noise, like a long thunder, was heard across the entire city. Jews cried quietly for the destruction …

Planting in the forest of the martyrs of Bessarabia beside the sign for the community of Bricheni Standing from left to right: N.D. Richter, Z. Rabinowycz, Sh. Khorish, Mrs. A. Richter, Tz. Braunstajn, Mrs. R. Rabinowycz, Z. Szneider, M. Amitz, Ben Zion Rabinowycz

The only silent witness of Jewish Bricheni, that holy place, became ownerless. It stands without a fence and without a guard, and every day, becomes more and more shattered.

[Page 169]

Gardens in the forest of the martyrs of Bessarabia, may they rest in peace:   Kishinew grove: Harav Yehuda Leyb Tzirelson, of blessed memory Shlomo Berliand, of blessed memory Isser Rabinowycz, of blessed memory The children of Kishinew, of blessed memory Workers for the Keren Kayemet of Israel in Bessarabia, of blessed memory Akerman grove: Yakov Berger, of blessed memory Khutyn grove: Yosef Apelboim, of blessed memory Izak Barag, of blessed memory Bricheni grove: The community activists for Zionism in Bricheni, of blessed memory The children of Bricheni, in memory of Roza Choves–Khorish, of blessed memory

Sign in the forest of the martyrs of Bessarabia that marks the gravesite where two gardens were planted in the Bricheni grove 1. In the name of the Zionist community activists in Bricheni who died at the hands of the accursed Nazis 2. In the name of the children of Bricheni (in memory of Roza Chuves–Khorish)

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