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Friday September 8 1939, Hitler's airplanes flew over Markuszow bringing bombs, fire, destruction, and human victims. The panic then was great. People fled in all directions. The goal–to get away as far as possible from the hell spreading death and destruction. The Polish population looked for shelter in the small woods (Burek) nearby, while the majority of the Jews fled to the neighboring villages. For the first time, there were no Shabbes candles burning in Jewish windows on Friday night.

My parents and the whole family did not have the opportunity to leave the house. That evening, my fiancé, Levi, had come from Korew. He told us about the air attacks on his shtetl, and that it had entirely been burned down. Jews from Korew also fled to the villages. His parents went to Bogucin. My mother asked him to arrange horse and wagon for us so we could get away. He went immediately away to fulfill her request.

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Early Saturday morning, a farmer from Bogucin arrived with two strong horses in harness, and asked us to get in the wagon as quickly as possible. A ray of hope appeared to everyone. It was, after all, safer in the village than in the shtetl. Maybe we could sit out the stormy times there? We started to gather the most important things, when our parents declared, “We're not going. We will not desecrate the Sabbath!”

The children began to plead and cry. But our pious parents were set against travelling on the Sabbath. My father issued a stern, but for us, a holy, order, “Kinderlach, you get up on the wagon. We are staying here, and nothing bad is going to happen to us.”

Father commanded…We the children, the small ones as well as the adults, had too much reverence and respect for our father to contradict him with even a hint or a word, even in such a fateful moment. Father was everything for us–teacher, and educator, respected father, and the very highest authority. Children did not want to engage in debate with him, primarily out of respect for his piety and faith.

The first one on the wagon was my sister, Temeh, with her son and two little children–Itche Mayer'le, and Hershele. She asked of me, “Esther, take the children and get up.”

I called them in their order: “Shaindele, Tsvi'ele, Yehudit'l, Tsadok'l, Itche-Mayer'l–everyone get on the wagon. Father said to do so!”

I sat on the wagon and reminded myself that there was one name of our household I hadn't called out, our dear brother's, Alter-Leib. He was then in the Bialystok yeshiva–and God will protect him from evil.

Upon arriving in Bogucin, we went straight to the residence that my fiancé had prepared for us at a farmer. The next day, Sunday, we heard the loud reverberations of bombs. The farmer we were staying with, went up on the roof and yelled, “Markuszow is burning!”

The news left us shaken. The worry about our parents left behind was transformed to fear that something had happened to them. I left the younger children under the supervision of my older sister, and Levi and I set off for Markuszow. We broke through smoke and flames to get to our house.

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It was whole, undamaged, but we didn't find anyone inside. After running around the shtetl and asking those who had stayed, we found our parents in an orchard not far from Markuszow. We returned to the house, and sat on the threshold all night watching the fire consume Jewish property, destroying years of toil and effort. That night, we were not the only spectators of the Jewish destruction. Many Markuszow residents had come back from the villages to the shtetl, and experienced horror and fright, especially after the news that Yakov Glasman's two children, ten-year-old Aharon, and 8-year-old Moishe, were torn apart by bomb shrapnel.

Early Monday, our parents and us returned to Bogucin. Now the whole family was together.

A week later was Rosh Hashanah. In neighboring Lugow, a minyan was created at Leib's the village's Jew. My father went over there to daven. There he met the Markuszow cantor, Moishe Weinribber, who davened this time with a special feeling. There was a reason for it–torn from home, rootless, in war with a savage enemy.

Before Yom Kippur, my father gathered the whole family, and we returned to Markuszow. My fiancé's family also came along, and everyone settled into our house. At that time, many Jewish families were resettling in the shtetl, although the Nazis were already ruling over Markuszow. The fear of the Germans was so great that during Yom Kippur, when they were praying in the house of Chaim Shoichet (the besmedresh had burned down) the devils came by and asked what kind of meeting was going on. After we told them it was a house of worship, they went away. But the Jews ran away after they left, in the certainty that the Germans would bring tragedy.

The Jewish population of the shtetl felt the brutal hand of the Nazis on a daily basis. Cleaning the streets, the city hall, the toilets were now the jobs of the Jews. The work was always accompanied by beatings, cursing, and humiliation. A little later, the Germans ordered the creation of a Judenrat composed of seven people: Michal Weiner, Pinchas Liebhober, Shlomke Goldwasser, Chaim-Yosef Kuropatwe (shoichet), Mendl Ettinger, Simche Ettinger, and Yitzchak Fishbein. To help the Judenrat, several policemen were chosen from the Markuszow Jewish youth. The duty of the Judenrat was to provide a contingent of workers every day on the demand of the Germans;

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to receive and carry out all the orders and decrees affecting the Jewish population; and to levy fines or contributions for the local German rulers.

Winter 1940. When the roads were covered with snow, the Judenrat had to supply a greater number of Jews to clean the covered roads, plazas, and streets. The intent of the murderers was not to carry out important work, but rather to torture and debase the Jews of the shtetl.

Business was practically dead. From sheer fear of the occupiers, the Jews did not want to engage too much, or to show themselves with merchandise at the market. Although my parents' factory and shoe store survived, they did not carry on any business. But we still had to live. As result, many shtetl Jews carried on a secret business bringing different kinds of merchandise to the villages in return for produce. This was all done at night, because no one would dare to be seen on the roads in the daytime.

It was also hard with bread. The only Jewish bakery in the shtetl consisted of part of an oven from Moishe Baker's (Kaveh) bakery. The bread was actually baked under the open skies, because the wooden bakery building had burned down in the first bombardment.

Spring 1940. New decrees against the Jews. The first–shaving off the beards. This was a severe blow for religious Jews. In addition, everyone had to wear a white armband with a Star of David.

My father decided not to shave off his beard. He therefor went to Baranow, to Beile, the oldest daughter. After six weeks there, he was forced to return, because the decree had reached even that remote village. The murderers were still not satisfied with the harsh limitations, and now forbade Jews to leave the shtetl. They warned they would immediately shoot any Markuszow Jew they found outside the shtetl. We could rely on their carrying out the warning. But who can exist in the locked-down shtetl? So Jews used the darkness of night, and risking their lives, they slunk like shadows to the villages just to ensure a pitiful existence for themselves and their families.

In the summer of 1940, my father got together with my future father-in-law, and they agreed that my wedding to Levi should take place in the month of Kislev. I was not

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especially delighted by the agreement, because getting married during Hitler's regime meant taking on a big and difficult responsibility for family life in the harsh conditions of the occupation.

But my father wanted it so…Our wedding took place on the agreed-upon schedule. We rented a house on the edge of the village, on the Lublin side. My husband worked for the Germans all winter. His job was to clean the snow off the roads.

Pesach is coming, the holiday of freedom. But instead of freedom, we were enslaved by a much worse and gruesome Pharaoh who was already set to disturb our lovely holiday. On the second day of Pesach, Chaim Shoichet's son, Shloime Goldstein, was shot in his home. He had been hiding when the Germans came in and asked for women. He replied that there were no women there. The Nazis shot him on the spot. The murder of an innocent Jew created great panic in town. We looked on the future again with unease and worry, picturing the worst.

In summer 1941, we learned about the German attack on Russia.^[1] In the first days of the war, we were witness to big military transports rolling through the shtetl. When German war vehicles or armies came through Markuszow, the Jews would hide in their homes, afraid to show themselves in the street.

Once on an autumn evening, the door of the Judenrat opened and a German officer appeared. He ordered us to immediately prepare a truck loaded with cheese and butter for the soldiers marching to the east. Of course, the Jews had to bear the expense of the contribution, which was not the first (and also not the last). At every opportunity, the Germans demanded various gifts, mostly foodstuffs.

I want to take this opportunity to remember that it was actually during the years of occupation that my oldest sister, Beileh, gave birth to two children: Itche-Mayer, and Rucheleh. I point this out because, in the first ten years of her marriage, my sister did not have any children. My father was overjoyed that after such a long interval, his oldest daughter had brought him grandchildren. They brought him great joy, and he believed in better times. But suddenly he became sick, and developed angina. At that time,

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it was impossible for a Jew to get medical help, much less any medication. He lay in bed for only a few days, and then on the 28^th of Shvat he gave up his gentle and holy soul. All the children felt a horrible loneliness. He was a protector we strongly depended on in these stormy times. His death strongly affected the children, but more so our mother, Malke-Leah. It was hard for her to even find consolation in the children and grandchildren. Life had no appeal to her anymore. When on the last day of Pesach the order came for 500 people to be deported from Markuszow, she was the first to go to the town square. With her also went my sister Temeh, her husband, Yakov Warrenheiser, and their child. The words of my mother, who was very worried about me, still ring in my ears today. I was pregnant then. My mother knew that in the first deportation in Korew, the murderers killed the pregnant women first. She now begged my husband to take me to a village, to a friendly farmer. He immediately carried out her wish. We went on foot through the “laches”^[2] of the shtetl. On coming to Zelig's fishpond, we heard cries of distress and shots being fired. We understood that the murderers were already in the shtetl carrying out their bloody business.

Around two in the morning, we came to Garbow, and went off to the farmer, Jan Wartacz. We told him what was happening in the shtetl, and asked him if we could stay with him. After much hesitation he agreed. We stayed in his house, but our minds were troubled: what is happening to our near ones in the shtetl. Are they still alive? Why did we forsake them? We are nervous and jumpy, constantly looking at the clock. It is six pm. The worry and anxiety grow larger. We beg the farmer he should drive over to Markuszow and find out what's going on. Two hours later he returned. His report shattered us. “There are no Jews in the shtetl.” We don't believe him, and ask him over again, to get more details. The farmer reported that at the beginning the Germans had ordered all the Jews to assemble at the town square. There they carried out a selection, picked out 500 older men and women, and interned them in the school building, letting the young go free. It seems that those who were not shut up in the school have left the shtetl, because no Jew can be seen there.

We could not sleep all night, and begged the farmer

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to travel to Markuszow again. When he returned from his second visit, he told us that he had learned that the 500 Jews had been driven on foot to the Naleczow train station. They were accompanied by Germans and young Poles who beat the unfortunates with clubs. Their blood seeped into the dusty road that stretched for eight kilometers. In this manner the following were killed: Moishe Beineshe's (Weinribber), Benyomin-Yosef Eisenberg and his wife, Itche-Mayer Raguski and his wife and child, Chantche Fiertog, the widow, Malke Glasman, Itche Chane-Roise's, and others.

Later we learned that the Judenrat had paid a Pole handsomely to follow them and find out what they did to the 500 Jews. He returned after several days and reported that the unfortunates were stuffed into freight cars, tightly packed-in, without a drop of water, taken to Belzec, and killed in the forests there. About other details, he had no knowledge.

We spent six days with Jan Wartacz. The news came to us that the Markuszow Judenrat gave the Germans sixty thousand zlotys to leave the rest of the Jews alone. “Leaving alone” in those days meant–hard work on the roads under the strict supervision of the Germans, and their Polish or Ukrainian accomplices. We decided to return to the shtetl, and do the slave work on the roads like everyone else. This lasted four weeks, from after Pesach to Erev Shavuot, 1942.

On May 8^th, an order came for all Markuszow Jews to assemble at the town square again. Everyone already knew the significance of such a decree. There was an outbreak of panic and at the same time thoughts of saving oneself from the murderers' hands. The surviving Jews, with the exception of about 20 to 30 men, decided to flee wherever they could. Those that showed up were sent off to Konskowola. My husband and I decided to go to the village. On the way to Gutanow, we encountered Isser Schneidleder, Ber Laterstein, Mordechai Mast, and other Markuszow Jews. Together we decided to first hide in the Gutanow forest. We had barely time to catch our breath, and to sit down to rest under some trees, when a group of young Poles from the

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neighborhood, armed with large clubs, appeared. They demanded money from us. We could not give them any money because that would have had fatal results. The shkootzim^[3] swung their clubs and hit my Levi in the head creating a deep wound. Then they ordered us to walk, and they led us around all day. Once they were convinced they weren't going to get anything, they handed us over to the Gutanow soltis in the evening. He was well acquainted with Ber Laterstein, and Isser Shneidleder. He gave them a wink they should go to his stable. Since I was pregnant, I moved over to Ber and his family, and together we went into a small stable. A Pole appeared right away and demanded money. Ber gave him a few hundred zlotys. I had no money on me, so I took off my wedding ring, and gave it to him.

Then the soltis explained that it was dangerous for him to let us hide there. We had to leave the stable. At 12 midnight we left Gutanow for Lugow, to the farmer, Michal Pietrak. We spent the night there in the loft of his stable. He brought us food in the morning. After stilling my hunger, I decided to go look for my husband who had fled wounded into the Gutanow forest. I decided to go to Bogucin. Arriving there, I began to ask the farmers about Levi Grossman, because practically everybody knew him. A farmer told me that Levi had paid someone 500 zlotys top take him to his sister who lived in Belzec. The German authorities still allowed Jews to exist there.

When I got back to the loft in Lugow, I discussed going to Belzec with Ber. We could not decide. But because I was pregnant, the farmer was afraid of complications, and he himself decided to take me to Belzec. On Sunday they dressed me in farmer clothes, harnessed the horses to the wagon, and travelled to Belzec.

After staying for eight days with my sister-in-law, Chaneh-Tobe, my first daughter, Chaneleh, was born on June 1 1942. The joy of the birth was mixed with sorrow about her future.

A week later the Germans issued an order

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demanding a contingent of 500 Jews. The Belzec Judenrat, of course, did not want to hand over its own local Jews, so they sent out their police to capture the newcomers who had come from elsewhere. The Judenrat emissaries carried out their work efficiently. But luck was with us for now. We found a place to hide. On July 1 1942, my husband met with several Markuszow Jews in Belzec: Simcha Ettinger, Ber Laterstein, Yitzchak Fishbein, and a few more. They discussed the situation knowing in advance that in further aktions, which would definitely follow, they would be the first victims. There was word that the Tomaszowice nobleman, who was a good acquaintance of Ber Laterstein, had the right to employ Jewish workers. So it was decided to send him to the landowner. The latter agreed to take 20 families on his estate for the price of 500 zlotys per work card. He immediately ordered the village Jew, Avremeleh Tomaszowicer, to prepare space for 20 families. We were already on the site by July 15^th. We were the following families: Simcha and Sarah Ettinger and their children; Ber and Feige Laterstein and child; Israel and Eidl Fishbein and children; Yosef and Rivke Fishbein and children; Yitzchak Fishbein, the Glasman brothers; and the children of my uncle Binyomin Capa; Mindl, Ruchel, Freide Rubinstein-Iberkleid with her husband, Avrum and children; and the two sisters, Leah and Nechama Weiner, the daughters of Leibish Pesach; and others whose names I can't remember.

We worked alongside the owner's farm hands, but accomplished more than them, although they received the full salary, while we didn't get enough to eat. There's no need to even mention clothing. Thanks to our stay with the landowner, a few more Markuszow Jews managed to hide with us and avoid certain death for the moment. Our life went on this way almost all summer, until October 5 1942. On Saturday, we went to work like every other day, not knowing that the nobleman had received an order from the Germans to send everyone to Belzec the following day. When we got back to the compound that night, the soltis, with a stern tone, read out the order, and declared that the work at the estate was at an end.

So a few of the shtetl Jews got together to consult on what to do next. One thing was clear: not to take a bullet, but to dodge it. That same Saturday evening, we split up. Me, my husband, his sister, and our child; Simcha Ettinger and his family; Ber Laterstein and his family; Freide Rubinstein and her family. Our first journey

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was to Bogucin village. Terribly tired, we arrived at the house of the friendly farmer, Stanislaw Gnieczak. Our hearts were as bleak and dark as the night outside. It was midnight, and we wondered if he would let us in. Would he open the gate to the stable or stall? My husband knocked on the window. The farmer opened the window and was inclined not to let us in, but he was ashamed in front of my husband. It seems the many years of acquaintance, even friendship, did not allow him to refuse. He told us to go up to the attic over the room. There, with our four-month-old baby, we spent the night.

In the morning, the farmer showed up and openly stated that he was afraid to keep us there. Since my husband had found out that, in Korew, his hometown, there was a work place where, along with the chairman of the Judenrat, Avrumtche Goldberg, there were 40 Jews employed. Levi sent his sister there to find out if we could come work there. A. Goldberg was a good friend of my father-in-law, a”h. So he ordered us to come, but without being able to work. After a day with the farmer, we went to Korew via the back roads. We spent a hard month there as illegals. We “hung around” the 40 workers. One day, the Volksdeutsche informed us that the 40 needed to assemble at a given place. We already knew what that meant, and we quickly got out of town knowing that such a step was associated with great danger. That's why we decided to separate for a while. Separately, it might be easier to find a way to get by. I went off to Plinek,^[4] a village near Markuszow, with my child in my arms. Incidentally, I came there for the first time, didn't know anyone, and no one knew me. Despairing, and resigned, I sat down at the river's edge. My unlucky child cried with fearful yowls, and her cries more forcefully described the tragic situation we found ourselves in. My parents, whom I was very strongly attached to, were no longer among the living. I had had to separate from my husband. Now I sat by the water, lonely, friendless, unlucky, with no goal or way out. I wondered, where will help come from? My tearful face was reflected in the river. I turned my head around, and saw an older Christian woman. I stopped her, and asked her if she wasn't, by any chance, coming from Korew. She answered yes, and to my further question about what was happening there, she said she had heard talk that, today, the last Jews had been shot. After this bitter news, I asked her if I could go

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to her house to warm the baby, because night was falling. She was not enthusiastic about it, and said she was afraid of her husband. After pleading and crying for a while, she said to go with her.

Coming into the hut of the old couple, Shikora, I felt immediately better. I felt a warmth in the household, and alongside it, a ray of hope. Maybe my Chanaleh would survive. I unwrapped the child, and her shining, beautiful little face, it seemed, had an effect on the farmers. The old lady began to fuss over the baby; heated up some milk. I saw how the baby greedily drank the milk and ate some bread. My heart was overflowing with joy, and it seemed to me that only here, with the childless couple, could my Chanaleh survive the dreadful times. I screwed up my courage and asked the farmer's wife if she didn't want to keep the child. It was the only way to avert danger. They did not respond immediately. But their reaction momentarily made me feel better, because I was now feeling the happiness of my child.

That same evening, I had another happy surprise. My husband appeared in the Shikora's cottage. They allowed him to spend the night. So we went off to the stable, and made our bed next to the cow.

The next day–another surprise. My husband's sister showed up. But the news she brought filled our hearts with lead. The forty Jews had been shot.

We got on very well with the old couple. They agreed to keep us for a little while for money. This agreement was dictated more by profit than by pity. The loft over the cow shed now became our stable living place, and we hoped to stay there as long as possible, because the old couple behaved very well to us, and did not stint on food. The cold, however, ate into our bones. We could have borne this affliction as well, but for a five-month-old baby, it was hard to endure. She cried terribly when her diapers were changed. We saw her pain and suffering, and lived and felt them with her. Chaneleh was oblivious to the danger of death that threatened us every minute with her crying that could be heard in the village.

After three weeks in the loft, old Shikora came and invited us to eat in the house. We immediately understood that such a sudden invitation meant eviction. In those circumstances, it meant the same as

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death. Like those condemned to death, my husband, his sister, me and little Chaneleh came to the farmer where a set table was waiting for us. The asked us to sit and eat. We took our places at the table, but didn't touch the prepared food.

“Why are you not eating?” asked old Shikora. “You have to eat well now, because you will soon have to leave.”

The words struck us in the very depths of our souls. The specter of homeless wandering looms. We know the taste of it. We try to avert the fearful decree, but the old man keeps talking in a sincere tone, “My house stands near the road. Yesterday, a neighbor came by and asked, ‘Why are we hearing a child crying? Everyone knows you don't have any children.’ I tried to divert him with various excuses, but the neighbor interrupted me, ‘Michale, you are bringing tragedy to your house and to the whole village.’ He went away angry. Don't you understand what this means? It means certain death for me and my old wife, a burned down property, and in the process the neighbors will be burned too. To avoid this tragedy, you must leave this place right away.”

Now we saw that our fate was sealed. My husband still had something to say. “Well, we are already lost…But seeing as you don't have any children, take the little creature. The child will bring you joy in your old age.”

We thought that the couple really wanted the child. They quietly discussed it, exchanged meaningful looks, and at the end, both of them, crying and sobbing, declined to take the child. Their only reason was fear. We understood that further talk would be of no use.

How then to save the child? The thought tortures and won't desist. Without talking about it, we each understood that the baby could only be saved if she was separated from us. If we left the child in a house, she would have a better chance to survive than in our aimless wandering, full of danger. Since my husband and his sister decided to go look for a new shelter, I begged the farmer to let me and the baby stay another few hours, until my husband comes to bring me to a new place. Michal Shikora hesitated, then agreed. I said good-bye to Levi, and we discussed what place to meet at should he fail to come and get me. We parted.

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I stayed in the house with the child. My brain was completely engaged with the baby: how to save her? How to prevent the death of a child that has just come into the world? Leaving her with good people was certainly a way out, but the pain of separating will be great, and who knows how long we could endure it. Nevertheless, leaving Chaneleh with a farmer was better. If luck was with the parents, and they survived, we would collect her back, and raise her in the Jewish way. But where do you find this good farmer who would want to keep a child in these savage times. Can we find someone in whom pity will triumph over fear and evil? If such a person can't be found, I think further with dire consequences–will we have to maybe abandon her? A shudder passed through me at the very thought of such a possibility. But what then to do? Maybe abandon her at the Shikora's house? They would take her. Then Chaneleh would be saved. And if not?

My thoughts were interrupted by the farmer's words, “Your husband said he would be back in a few hours. Night is coming. It hurts me very much, but you will have to leave. At night, unwelcome guests are always coming, and your presence could bring us trouble.”

“You are right”–I sighed–“Good night and thanks for everything.”

I left the old people's house.

It was the evening of November 11 1942. I went down the hill to the road. There were farmer's cottages on both side of the road. Smoke was coming from the chimneys, and with sorrow and disappointment, I thought of the warm secure houses, about children who have a home and a bed there, plentiful food, and the tender care of their parents. Only my child and I are condemned. Where to go, whom to depend on? I glance at Shikora's hut that only a few weeks ago had seemed to me like a lifejacket in a stormy sea. But what do I see? Yes, the old couple was standing at the door and watching me go…

I went further on my way, opened the gate of a fence. The owner, a young farmer lady, saw me and asked what I wanted. “A drink of water,” I replied. “Go, get out of here,” she began to scream. “Get away. I don't want to see you around here!”

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I left the yard chased away like a dog. It began to snow. What to do? How do I protect the child from the cold? The thought of leaving the child in some house was renewed with greater power. I thought: my father is standing on the other side of the fence and is saying, “Esther, come in.” He removes a plank from the fence and displays a little room in the yard. I run over there. It looks to me like the altar where Abraham laid Isaac. Should I leave my little daughter there? I want to lay her down, but my arms don't obey. I press Chanaleh to me. “No, I will not be separated from my only child. I will take her with me.” I want to go on my way, but my father appears again, and I see his index finger pointing at the shed. His lips whisper, “Lay the child down here…you will be saved. All of you will be saved…”

Chaneleh Grossman, 5 months old, photographed 8 days before she was placed in the village of Plinek

Physically drained, and spiritually broken, I ran without a goal, with no direction. I lost all sense of time or place. I had no awareness of whether I was going east

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or west, north or south. Maybe I'm delivering myself into the hands of the enemy? But now there is no enemy either. If any thoughts at all occur, they are of my abandoned child. My disordered thoughts focus on my only little daughter. The anxiety over her fate obliterates any fear for my own life. Will she be lying there in the snow? Maybe a compassionate hand picked her up?

Suddenly, I tore myself out of my frozen state. With open eyes, I look around at my surroundings. There seems to be a familiar building. Yes, it's the Kaliner^[5] water mill. I now became aware of the great danger threatening. The Kaliner farmers were always known for their antisemitism. The Jew who fell into their hands during the occupation was not to be envied. Fortunately it was already dark. The night gave me a little security, and I quickly got out of that awful spot. I went quickly to Markuszow, and arrived at the shtetl which seemed dead at night. I slunk by the houses so as not to be seen. I was mostly scared of the dogs. Their barking could quickly betray a stranger. I was now a stranger in the town of my birth where I had lived for years. I managed through side streets to come to the house where I had lived after the wedding. My landlady, Janka Trombicka, recognized me at once, and allowed me to come into the house. Here, in the light, she noticed my appearance, and said frankly that I gave the impression of not being normal. I told her about the abandoned child. I didn't want to live anymore after that deed. Janka said, “Estherke, you did right. Your child will live and you will be able to hide.”

She took me up to the attic, made me a bed, and brought me food. As tired and hungry as I was, I did not touch the food. I was also unable to close my eyes and sleep. My unhappy child's face was always before my eyes. Who am I? I asked myself for the thousandth time. Can I still carry the name of mother after having abandoned my flesh and blood? I lay there all night with those thoughts, unable to fall asleep for a second.

Janka Trombicka came up in the morning, and brought food, but when she saw that I had not touched anything yesterday, she began to shout, “What's going on with you, Esther? Why don't you eat? You look terrible. You put the fear in people with your appearance.”

I answered her resignedly,

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“Listen to me, pani Trembicki! I am going straightaway to Plinek. I must reclaim my child. I don't want to live without Chanaleh.”

The Christian woman explained to me that it made no sense to go now to save the child. My showing up in the village and demanding my daughter would only betray her origin, and both of us would perish. “Better, Estherke, to go find your husband at the agreed-upon place, but not now in the daytime, but when night falls.”

With a broken heart, I had to recognize that this woman was right. I remained in the attic for the day, and as soon as it got dark, I went to Garbow. There they told me they knew nothing about my husband, so I went to Bogucin. But I didn't recognize the village. I ask an older farmer passing by where I was, and he said it was the village of Lugow. It was then I realized that my memory and my mind had suddenly left me. I asked the farmer to explain to me how to get to the Bogucin colony. He explained the route to me, and through roads and back roads, I set off running again. In normal times, the way there would have taken not more than a half hour. Now I wandered for four hours. After such a long and tiring day, I gave no thought to danger. As soon as I saw the first cottage, I knocked on the door and asked about Levi. The whole village of farmers knew him, and had he been with any of them, I could have been certain that I would get the right information here. Yes, he had been there, but he left. Several farmers confirmed this. Nevertheless, I found him at the farmer, Karol Drozd. Levi told me that the situation was not good, because several farmers refused to hide him. Karol Drozd too would not hear of it. I begged the farmer to let me wait there. He did not reply. I sat there all day. The farmer never asked me if I wanted anything to eat. My husband explained that the farmer wanted me to leave right away. He had told his sister openly to get out. We began to cry and beg the farmer not to condemn us to the angel of death. Our tears were useless. Levi called him to another room, handed him a larger sum of money, and that had an effect. He agreed to allow just my husband and I. He did not want to hear about the sister, for any price. As soon as he got the money, he drove her out of the house, not letting her stay for one more minute. He showed us both to the potato pit in the yard. That would be our

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hiding place. We let ourselves down into our new “house” covered with a straw roof. There was no question of being able to stand up there. The farmer handed us a little food two times a day, but it did not agree with us. The thought of abandoning the child, and the homeless wandering of the sister did not leave us for a second.

Our life in the pit, the living grave, meant days of despair and sleepless nights. Farmers kept bringing news of Jews, who had been hiding in the surrounding villages, betrayed. We were certain that, any day now, the same would happen to us.

On December 23 1942, a day before Christmas Eve, our landlords demanded we leave the pit. Like most of the superstitious farmers, he did not want to be together with Jews on this holiest Christian holiday. They were convinced it was a transgression to be found with Jews on such a holiday. We saw that no amount of pleading would help; the farmer was determined to drive us out. We left for the Wole Forest to one of the bunkers where my sisters, and other Jewish families from Markuszow and surrounding areas were hiding.

I met my two sisters, Tzviah, and Yehudit, my brother, Itche Mayer'l and my cousin, Tobe. I got tragic news there. My sister, Shaindl, was shot a few days before by the Germans when she went to the village to acquire food for the children. My 18-year-old brother, Hershl, was found frozen to death in a hole.

After hiding in the bunker for about two weeks, we began to feel the cold and frost that seeped in from outside. That would not be so bad, but what about the snow? It began to fall, covering the roads, and each step out of the bunker left footprints and betrayed our hiding place. Getting food turned out to be one of the most terrifying things. My husband and I decided to go to Bogucin, and create a shelter for us and the children.

Sunday night, January 7 1943, we again visited several farmer acquaintances, and asked them to hide us in exchange for money, but we were refused everywhere. We spent the night in several places, and Monday morning we went out again to try our luck. This time at our farmer, Karol Drozd. We were ready to pay, and brought up

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our old friendship. The wife shook her head, we thought that she had changed her mind.

“You don't need a hiding place for the children anymore. We were at the market in Markuszow today. The farmers talked about the Germans discovering bunkers in the Wole forest. They, and Polish policemen, surrounded the hideouts, emptied their bullets into them, and when they ran out of ammunition, they placed straw around the entrances, lit it, and the suffocating smoke completed the murders.

We heard the bad news with heavy hearts. Now the Wole forest too had stopped existing. The few Jews who had sought protection under the dense trees were no more. We could not spend much time thinking about this, and as for mourning–of course not. We repeated our request, but the Drozds were unyielding in their refusal. Where to go? To whom to go? I remembered Janka Trembicka, the Markuszow resident who said a while back, that in case of need, I should call on her. We snuck into the shtetl like thieves in the night, and barely made it to her residence. Knock on the door? We were afraid. We showed ourselves at the window. Janka saw us. She approached the window and yelled, “O la Boga,^[6] Estherke!” And she quickly added, “Get away from here. You cannot be here for one second. Ja chce zyc!” (I want to live).

We stepped back a few feet. We asked ourselves, “Is there no corner of the world where we can lay our heads, rest our weary bodies?” My husband reminded himself of the farmer, Stanislaw Burek. We went to his house via the back roads to where an old chicken coop stood. In the summer it held chickens, but now, in winter, the chickens were transferred to the warmer stable. We crept into the coop. It seems that they had heard a suspicious sound in the house. The old mother-in-law came out, and recognized me and shouted, “Estherke, where did you come form? You know nothing about what happened today. There were a bunch of Jews hiding in a bunker. They had decided to temporarily set themselves up in a nearby unfinished building in order to mislead the Germans in case they came to search the hideout. It seems that someone saw them moving to the unfinished building. As soon as the Jews began to settle in there, farmers showed up,

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tied up the terrified Jews' hands and feet, and threw them into wagons like calves, and took them to the gemine authorities in Markuszow.

She knew the Jews well and listed their names: Simcha Ettinger, and his little girl, Blumeh; Mendl Ettinger; Tobe Schwartz; Yitzchak Schwartz, his wife, Leah, daughter, Tobe; Sheva Rubinstein and her little girl Sarah, Yoineh Teitlebaum; Dvoireh Rosenberg. The 18-year-old son of Simcha Ettinger tried to run away, but the farmers ran after him and cut his head off with an axe…

In the middle of the old lady's story, her son-in-law, Stanislaw Burek, appeared and without any introduction, he asked where we were coming from and what we wanted. My husband said we had a little gold for sale. We wanted him to find a customer, and take care of the thing. Since day was beginning to break, we asked him not to drive us away. He gave us a price for staying in the chicken coop for 8 days. We agreed. He immediately brought some straw, put it in the coop, and also provided a good meal.

Burek reported that Ber Laterstein had stayed with him several times and had asked about us.

Sunday evening, our landlord said that tomorrow, Monday, was market day… A lot of German gendarmes come then to the shtetl, and with the help of Polish collaborators, they search the houses. We had to go away that night. If it became hard for us, we could return.

That meant–homelessness again. No amount of pleading would help. If we are ordered to leave, we leave. No one cared that my husband had a high fever, that there was no place to go. So we crawled out of the chicken coop and went on our way without a destination. Our feet carried us on their own to the Garbow colony. There were farmers we knew there. Perhaps one of them would show some compassion for unlucky hunted Jews? But better not to be seen by anybody. No farmer must know if there are Jews hidden. We crawled into the stable of Stanislaw Filipek. Bundles of wheat and straw filled the giant granary. We climbed up to the top, our goal was to stuff ourselves as deeply as possible into the straw so no one could see us. Higher, higher, snuggling into the straw, finding a little rest. Suddenly we heard a question in Yiddish. “Who is there?”

We recognized the voices of Shloime and Itzchak Morel, sons of Chaim Morel. They helped us get up in the straw. We asked about

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their parents. One of the sons told us that several Polish policemen, actually very good friends of theirs, grabbed the old couple, and openly shot them by the church. This happened in fact, on a Sunday, when farmers from 18 villages of the parish had got together, and in front of everyone's eyes they put to death two more Jews. In fact, that will be our fate. Germans themselves don't have to be our killers; they have others to rely on…

The next morning, quite early, we heard movement in the stable. From the words we overheard it was clear that the farmer was getting ready to thresh. The doors of the stable creaked open. We heard them harness the horse to the carriage, and the machine began to swallow sheaves of wheat. The stable began to empty out. The Morels had expected this. They moved over to the unthreshed straw, and made a new hideout. Forewarned is forearmed. Suddenly the noise of the machine stopped. The farmers sat down to rest. They rolled some cigarettes, lit them, and began to talk. As was the custom in those days, their favorite theme was Jews. They talked about the case of the Morels. The farmers expressed their happiness over the shooting of the old couple. We lay there stunned. Have people become so transformed into beasts? These very farmers had been the very closest friends of the Morels. They did business with them, borrowed money, came into the house and shared many things. Now they openly expressed their joy at the death of two Jews.

One farmer reported that Leibush Grossman (he meant my husband–Levi Grossman) was wandering around the neighborhood. In addition, he expressed the hope that, in a couple of days, we would catch him too and get rid of him…And they talked about this cold-bloodedly, calmly, as if it involved the life of a rat…

We had the good fortune of staying in the stable for a week. Our food consisted of a loaf of bread that we shared.

To continue to live like this was impossible. The Morel brothers decided to go to the Wole Forest, to the partisans, mostly Markuszow youth. They said farewell to us. We remained alone and didn't know what to do. Since we suspected that the farmer would continue threshing the wheat, we moved over to the loft over the cow shed. There was a ladder outside against the loft. I used to creep down at night and take some beets from the pit where the farmer stored them.

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The beets were the only nutrition we had to sustain life. In the meantime it began to snow. The leaky roof let in the snow and the cold. Out of fear that the ladder would rot in the snow, the farmer took it away, and away went the chance of getting a few beets. It was clear; we had to go again. But where to? We had spent two weeks in the barn, and one week in the stable. But where do we go now? We remembered that our Markuszow acquaintance, Stanislaw Burka had once told us to go to him in an emergency. We ran to Markuszow. The snow was falling continuously, the night was fearfully dark. We went on for several hours then realized we were lost. We were actually in the Gutanow forest. We plodded through deep snow all night, and reached the shtetl at dawn. Stanislaw Burek greeted us with a sour countenance, and quickly informed us that it was dangerous to stay with him. Seeing as it was day already, he allowed us to stay until evening in the chicken coop. After, we had to leave. The farmer told us that my husband's sister comes often to him. He gave her a loan of 500 zlotys on our account, and she was now at a farmer's in Plinek village.

We crawled into the coop. At ten in the morning, Burek came running demanding we leave the place right away. The danger was great, because showing ourselves during the day meant certain death. But what should we do? We ran to the Markuszow cemetery through the “laches.” We lay hidden by my father's tombstone. We envied those who had died a natural death. Their shtetl accompanied them to their eternal rest. Who will accompany us? By what violent means will we be killed?

With such dark thoughts, we waited for our very best friend–the night. Hungry, frozen stiff with the cold, we left the cemetery and began walking in the snow, without a destination. We have to decide: clearly, we have to return to the cowshed. But where do we get a ladder to climb up to the loft? As we were engrossed in thinking about the loft and the ladder, we didn't see what was happening on the ground. Until my husband realizes that we are in the middle of the village. In fear, we began to creep by the walls of the huts, until we got to the hut of Jan Wartacz. Here we had to settle two things: getting a ladder that would allow us to climb up to the loft, and the two comforters we had left at the farmer's that we had to get back. They would always be useful in such cold and snow. We hid in the stable waiting until whichever of the

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landlords comes first. Knocking on the door is dangerous. At dawn, the farmer came to get straw for the animals. He thrust the pitchfork hard into the spot we were actually lying. He nearly pierced my husband's head. The shining tips of the hayfork passed a millimeter by Levi's head. We held our breath, did not make a sound. When the farmer left we could breathe easier. We decided to wait there until night. When it had just begun to get darker, we heard the farmer's wife let herself into the stable to milk the cow. My husband threw the ladder out of the stable, and went off to the wife to get our comforters back. Greatly surprised, she returned our goods.

My husband with the two comforters, and me with a big heavy ladder set off.

Only 3 kilometers separated Garbow and the colony. We were sure we would be there in a half hour. This was around 6 pm. No sooner had we taken the first steps than a thick snow began to fall, and evolved into a blizzard. Forward progress became difficult, hands were frozen, bodies stiff with cold. Adding to that the blizzard whipped in our faces, and we couldn't see where to tread. With superhuman effort, laden with the comforters and ladder we continued onward not wanting to stop to rest for a second. Suddenly, I saw my husband drop his pack, and stretch out on the snow. I ran over yelling and coaxing him, “Levi! Levi! What's wrong with you? I heard a quiet reply, “I can't go on anymore…I have to sleep now.” No sooner said, than he was asleep. I knew, however, that this could not happen, because sleep in such a terrible night, on the snow no less, is certain death. With the last of my strength, I began to tear at his clothing, shaking him and trying to wake him up. I barely got him to awaken. We looked around, and saw the sky beginning to redden in the east. Was that possible? We had left Garbow at 6 in the evening. Did we blunder around all night? Did the 3-kilometer trip take 11 hours? My husband looked at his watch. Yes it was 5:00 am. What to do. Not far from us, we saw a few trees. It seemed to us that they belonged to Filipek's property. With the last bit of strength, we dragged ourselves to the stable, put up the ladder, and–up to the loft. We wanted to pull up the ladder so it wouldn't betray our presence. Our bodies did not comply. We made another effort, another pull on the ladder–but without success. Half dead we fell on the straw and fell into a deep sleep. We slept for twenty-four hours.

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We opened our eyes hungry and frozen. It was day. We must not be seen anywhere. As soon as night fell, my husband went down from the loft, and went straight to the Filipek's house. He asked for food.

“Who are you, where did you come from?”

He told them a few lies and…and asked again for food. They invited him to the table. He swallowed the fatty potatoes, thanked them for the meal, and asked them to cook up two kilos of millet kasha. “We're going a long way,” he explained, and gave her 100 zlotys for her to cook a chicken. She returned 20 zlotys change, and promised to have the chicken tomorrow. My husband said goodbye to the hospitable couple and left with the warm kasha the wife had put in a bag. He left the house, and after going through the yard, he kept walking a ways so as not to attract suspicion. Then later he doubled back, climbed up to the loft, and handed me the food. I fall on the warm millet, and ate with great appetite. We stilled our hunger, and refreshed our souls.

The next evening, my husband went down to the farmer's wife again, but here–a new surprise. She spoke in anger about the great sin we are committing against her, why do we want to kill her. She told us that yesterday morning she had noticed a strange ladder in the stall, and immediately went to tell her father. She reckoned that unknown guests, certainly Jewish partisans, had spent the night in the loft. Now when my husband showed up in the evening, her suspicion fell on him. “When you left here,” she said, “I cleared the frost from the window with my breath, and saw you go a little ways, and then return to my shtetl. I went and told my father again that Leibush and his wife were hiding at our place. My father is very fond of you, although the day before he wanted to tell the local police commandant that lives with him about the uninvited guest. But now he regrets it. Especially since the commandant and the few policemen are not in the village having gone to Pulawy for several days. But the danger for me is great; you know that the Germans killed my husband. You will bring catastrophe on me now. You have to go away from here right away.”

Levi began to plead and weep for the woman, told her about our hopeless state, that we have nowhere to go. He tells her that I'm in the loft, sick, with frozen infected hands.

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A feeling of pity was awakened in the farmer, and she tells him to get me down from the loft, and she would do something for us. As soon as I got in the house, she smeared oil on my hands, bandaged them, and said, “ There is an empty stable in the field that belongs to my father-in-law. The best thing would be for you to move over there. My father will take care of getting food for you. Even if it doesn't work out, none of us will be endangered, because the stable is in an empty field.”

We took the two comforters and went to the new spot. There was a chicken coop in the stable. We put two bunches of straw in it, and covered ourselves with the comforters because we were shivering from the cold.

The next day, Saturday, around ten in the morning, we saw through a crack two young farmers coming towards us with axes glistening on their shoulders. We stiffened with fear. There is a disaster coming. The gate of the stable opened with a bang, and we recognized the voice of the young Tkatch, “Leibush, come out!”

My husband began to howl, and began to beg the shkootzim^[7] to have mercy on us. They don't want to hear about it. Their murderous intentions are clear. I feel that I have to do something. I go out of the coop, take the golden signet ring off my finger, put it in the shaygets's hand, and ask him to leave us alone. It seems that my pleas and tears moved the murderers. They put their axes down, and told us they were giving us just one week to stay in the barn, after which we had to get out. Seeing such a change, I mustered my courage to ask for food. They promised to bring food tomorrow, Sunday, when all the farmers were in church. So it came to pass. Sunday, before noon, they threw in a sac containing several loaves of bread, and two bottles of milk. Monday, the older Tkacz himself came playing the good landlord, covered the open areas, did repairs of the barn, and without uttering one word, left.

We lay stiff with cold and with dulled thoughts. The nightmare of the days past disappeared in view of the present danger. Here it comes now. We hear footsteps, the gate opens, and in the still of the night we hear the voice of the young Tkacz, “Leibush, you have to get out of the stable at once. They're going to be coming here tomorrow to work, and you know what that means.”

Yes, we had a good understanding of what that meant.

Fatigued from hunger,

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bodies dehydrated from living for days without water or cooked food, we took the comforters–and again forced to wonder. Where?

We went off to the Bogucin colony, and not asking the landlord, we went into the stable belonging to Karol Drozd, a lame farmer. We crept up to the loft and stayed there for three days without eating or drinking. We felt that hunger and cold were now capable of putting an end to us.

There was a woodshed not far from us. When Drozd's daughter went in there for wood, my husband decided to show himself to her, and beg her to bring her father to the stable. The girl got really scared when Levi appeared, she even began to scream, but my husband calmed her down. She promised to send her father. A little later we heard the thumping of his crutch in the stable. Karol Drozd called Levi for a talk, and asked about certain issues. We knew Drozd was a poor farmer. He was unable to work the few acres he farmed because of his crippled legs, so he relies on workers. We proposed to him that he should keep us with him, and provide food. And for this, he would be rewarded. The farmer quickly agreed. He stipulated it was only for a month, because the wheat would have to be threshed then. It was agreed that we would say with him for 100 zlotys a month. To the farmer's credit, it must be said that he treated us very well, and thanks to the food and his good behavior, we revived somewhat. The month went by quickly, and although we had a promise from the farmer to take us back after the end of the threshing, we had to now leave into the unknown.

At the end of February 1943, the cold frosty nights had one good attribute: no moon. The darker it was, the better for us alienated people. We trudged in the snow. The road led to our Markuszow. Suddenly a small figure comes toward us. We wanted to avoid her, but it was too late already. The person goes by and says, “Levi!”

We stopped in our tracks. Who recognized us in such a dark night? Yes, it is Rivkeh, my husband's sister. Before we could even embrace her she said all in one breath,

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“Your Chaneleh is alive. She is staying with the old Shikora couple…

Sweet music fills my bones. My head is spinning, but my spirit feels so good, so light. Chanaleh lives. I don't know what is going on. I only hear someone begging me, “Esther, Esther! Get up, have pity on yourself. You must be strong. It is terribly dangerous on this spot. You have to muster your strength, so we can go look at our child. Come to Markuszow.”

My husband was right. We had to go see our little swallow. I made an effort, they helped me get up off the snow, and after some time walking, we came to the shtetl. Markuszow is a cemetery for us. So we actually walked among the tombstones, lay down there, and decided to wait for Rivkeh. Here no one will be able to overhear our sister's telling of how Chanaleh was saved:

On November 11^th, when Esther lay the child down in Wladslaw Zachniaz's yard, I happened to be there in hiding. There was a party in the farmer's house, because he and several of his friends were celebrating Poland's independence day. Being a little drunk, he went out to the yard, and heard a baby crying. He picked up the swaddled baby, and took it in the house. The farmers present there, quickly sent someone on horseback to maybe find the woman who had abandoned the child. The rider got to Kalen, and asked about a wandering woman, but no one could tell him anything. So they reported it to the soltis in the village of Plinek, and he ordered them to take the child to the gemine in Korew, or else, the entire village could end up in trouble. The Zachniaz farmers, old Shikora, and the soltis immediately went to Korew. The commandant of the Polish police happened to be away, so the gemine clerk decided to put the child into the jail cell, and told the farmers to return the next day. The child was yelling fiercely, and the secretary's wife was so moved that she took the child to herself, fed her a little warm milk, cleaned her up, and changed her. The secretary meanwhile phoned the gendarmerie in Pulawy. Early Monday, two Gestapo showed up to find out what was going on. Their first question was if this was a Jew. The others replied that there are also plenty of Christian women now wandering over the roads, and abandoning their children. One of the Gestapo had a brilliant idea. He took out a coin and showed it to the child. She stretched out her hands to the money. “You see,” the German triumphantly shouted, “A Jew is cunning, the child

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is already attracted to money.” The other Gestapo proposed trying another method. He showed her a cigarette lighter. Chanaleh wanted to grab it as well. The second German came to the conclusion that you can't know for sure. And the proof–every child is attracted to shiny objects. Furthermore, the lighter was lit; they even held it close to her little face, but she wasn't afraid and wanted to touch the fire. The Germans then decided to send the child back to the village. So that it wouldn't be a burden for one family, they said everybody should look after her for one day. Here the soltis spoke up, “You can't take a child to a different place every day. Therefor…”

The impatient German interrupted him, “Do what you want.”

The soltis and several prominent farmers decided to give the child to the childless, old Shikora couple. “I know,” Rivkeh ended her story, “that the Shikoras are looking after her like their own child. Chaneleh lacks for nothing…”

Levi and I are overjoyed. For three months we saw death before our eyes so often, said good-bye to life more than once. The child lives, she is healthy, and if the war ends and one of us is alive, we will reclaim the child and raise her Jewish.

Nice dreams, bright hopes. But where do we go now? Waiting for victory here, among the tombstones, was an impossible thing. We were again in despair. Our sister does not lose her wits. She believed she could arrange a hiding place for us with the neighboring farmer. She warned us not to go to Markuszow, to the Bureks. She thought it was better for us to go back to Garbow, to Karol Drozd. She would find us there, and bring us to our new quarters.

We separated from Rivkeh. After a night of wandering, we arrived at Drozd's. we explained to the farmer that we have a shelter, but it will take several days for it to be ready. We agreed that for 250 zlotys, we could spend the few days in our old habitat–in the loft of the cowshed.

We lay covered in the comforters, wondering whether our sister would be able to convince the farmer to take us in. The short winter days are frightfully long. On the fifth day, Rivkeh shows up with the good news that Stanislaw Wiejek agreed to take us in.

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Now the joy was boundless. We will be close to our child. Maybe we would see Chanaleh from a distance? My hear beat faster at just the thought that I will see our child. We waited impatiently for night, our savior and redeemer.

Around 10 in the morning Mrs. Drozd appears on the ladder. She told us breathlessly that the Germans were in the colony, and we must get out right away. But right away; she won't listen to another word. All three of us climb down from the loft. Where to direct our feet? About a kilometer away, we see several piles of manure out in the field. But how do we get there? The blizzard had darkened the brightness of day. We crawled on all fours to our goal. With our last strength we crawled on our bellies on the snow. Our hands became stiffened with cold, our feet–blocks of ice. Only our bodies are hot from the great strain. The manure pile got closer, just a little bit more–and with our stiffened hands we tore at the frozen pile in order to get in. Finally we sat there in the manure, shielded from stranger's eyes, teeth chattering, exhaustion and cold overtaking us completely. We dug deeper into the manure, waiting for night. When it arrived, my husband ran back to say good-bye to Karol Drozd.

We began to walk to the Bogucin colony. To get to Plinek, a 15-kilometer road awaited us. In normal times, it would not take more than two hours. But we heard the echoes of shots and saw people marching in some places. Perhaps they are Germans? Or maybe fighters of the A.K., or bandits who behave toward Jews exactly like the Germans? In any case, every suspicious noise interrupted our march. We arrived in Plinek at dawn. Rivkeh took us to the farmer, and introduced us. Wiejek made an unsympathetic impression on us. He looked like shabby and lazy. At the first meeting, his wife, who gave the impression of being half-mad, called him a “lajdak.”^[8]

We agreed on a price. For 1000 zlotys a month we were to get food and a hiding place in the stable. It seemed to us that we would have a relatively peaceful time. But it was not destined to be. Our half-crazy landlady used to become very talkative on certain days. At those times, her mouth would not shut. She talked up a storm.

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We were very afraid she might start to blab about Jews. Fortunately, in her monologues, she talked about everything, except we didn't exist. That's the way the first month went–our pockets were empty. There is no money. We asked the farmer if he would keep us for my fur coat. He agreed, but without food. We gave him 25 zlotys for 50 kilo potatoes. Every day, he took 10 potatoes and cooked them for us. From this, my husband and I subsisted.

But even the potatoes end. We are left with no resources. Rivkeh visits us once a week, but she has nothing to be able to help us. True, we are owed some money from farmers in Bogucin and Garbow. But how do we get to it? Leaving a hiding place is always dangerous. Farmers in the village could notice a stranger leaving Wiejek's gospodarka^[9] --and we're done for. But we, nevertheless, have to collect the debts, because sitting idly means perishing. The best is the evening, because there is a little movement in the village, and two more people passing through will not be so noticeable. Now, we are outside the village, and along the narrow rail lines that lead to the Garbow sugar mill, we set out.

That was at the end of March 1943.

Not far from the village of Zablocie, we suddenly saw coming toward us, a tall man smoking a cigarette. We wanted to turn back, run to the side, but it was impossible, because there was water on both sides of the rails. Turning back was risky, because the man could shoot after us. Without talking about it, we walked toward the man wanting to avoid him. We were already a few steps past him, when we heard a shout, “Levi! Levi!” We were very startled, but the man turned around to us and asked, “ Levi, you don't recognize me? How come I recognized you right away?” we still didn't know who he was, although the voice was very familiar. Finally, we heard his name, Aharon Rubinstein, a Markuszow Jew. To his query as to where we were going, we replied, to Garbow-Bogucin. He warned us not to go there, because lately there had been a skirmish in those places between Jewish partisans and farmers. They were shooting for hours. The neighborhood was agitated, and we sensed strengthened patrols in the area. Aharon Rubinstein relayed how he had been hiding in a haystack for the last 6 days without food or water. Now he was on his way to Bronice to the magnate Laniewski to get some money owed him. My husband warned him not to go there, because they had recently killed several Markuszow Jews: Nachum Feurtog,

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and Mechl Weiner and their families. To his question about where we were staying, we told him with a friendly farmer in the village, Plinek. Our landsman proposes going with us, money would be no problem. We explained to him that it was not so simple. In the end, the farmer has to agree to take in another Jew–and obviously, he would not want to. Rubinstein was however determined to go with us, and having no choice, we went back to Plinek.

In the middle of the night, we knocked on the farmer's window, and he came out frightened, knowing that we were supposed to return in two or three night's time. When he saw Rubinstein, his panicked question, “What happened,” comes out in a shouting why did you bring me a third. He didn't want to hear about taking in one more. He was ready to drive us away, because he was afraid to be hiding Jews. “The Germans,” he reasoned, “ don't give you a pat on the cheek for this.” The farmer thought that the Jew we brought was a partisan, those the Germans called “bandits.” In anger he said, “What, a bandzior^[10] I needed?”

We begged the framer to go into the house, and there with tears and weeping we tried to convince him to have pity on unfortunate people, and not drive them into the arms of death. Let the newcomer stay until tomorrow night, and he would be well rewarded. Finally, we were able to break through the stubbornness of the farmer. He agreed to keep the third for just one day.

The next day Aharon Rubinstein had a talk with the farmer, and promised to pay him 1000 zlotys a month for himself alone. That means the same sum we had to pay for the two of us. Because of that, the farmer changed his behavior to us, exhibiting more care and interest in the new “client.”

This situation obtained for three months. The time came to leave the place. Like in all similar cases–quickly, unexpected, and in great haste.

One day, a Jewish girl came to Wiejek from Korew. She was dressed as a village girl. The goal of her visit–to collect a debt from our landlord. The result was that, in that moment, a danger appeared in his yard, and it was soon spread around the village, that there were Jews on Wiejek's property. The farmer only found out about it the next day when he went for guard duty at the city hall in Korew. (By German orders, the farmers had to guard the city hall every night) Wiejek overheard the other farmers in the guard talking about hidden Jews in Plinek, and that it would be

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the right thing to do to immediately inform the gendarmes. The farmer secretly left the guards, and ran to us with the unconditional demand that we leave. We asked him, where to, but the farmer knew that danger threatened him, and that his entire farm would go up in smoke, and he and all his household would be shot.

Having no choice, we left the stable

After several obstacles, we arrived at the Bogucin colony, travelling the 15 km road. We found a ladder, and at 1:00 am, we went up to the loft of our old acquaintance, Karol Drozd. Without his knowledge, of course. It so happened that early the next morning, it occurred to the farmer lady to look for something in the loft, and she discovered us right away. She began to shout, “Zlaszto stad!” (Get out of here). We begged her to call her husband, but she wouldn't hear of it. She fell into a bigger rage, and threatened to tell the neighbors that Jews stole into her loft. With these words, she left.

Depressed, we stayed where we were. Moving out from here by day would result in our certain death. Then, her daughter came to get some wood from the shed. Levi went down to beg her to call her father. The young farmer also reacted with hysterical screams, and threatened us with the worst. Nevertheless, she sent her father. We heard his crutches banging on the cement floor of the stable. I went down to him, and with tears, I begged the good farmer to allow us to stay just two more weeks, until we could return to the previous hideout we temporarily had to leave. He agreed to let in just me and my husband. As for the third, Aharon Rubinstein, he did not want him to stay for even one minute. We explained to the farmer that the third is very capable of paying. He is owed money by the farmers, and even by the magnate, Broniewski. We promise Drozd 500 zlotys for us, and the same from Rubinstein, and this for only two weeks. The farmer did not want to give in. We argued for a long time with him using various arguments–until he let himself be convinced, and he underlined, not more than two weeks.

All three go back to the loft.

After fourteen days, the farmer informed us that they were going to repair the roof of the stable. We had to get out–and the sooner the healthier. In the meantime, my husband's sister, Rivkeh, visited us, and told us

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that in Plinek no searches had taken place at all, the village was quiet, and it was quite likely that we could return to the previous place. So we went off to Plinek. Wiejek was happy knowing that every month a little sum awaited him.

The first night, my sister-in-law stayed with us, and at dawn, she went to her hideout. She returned a few days later, and told us that quite by chance, she saw our child. The old Shikora woman was carrying her in her arms, but her clothes were quite tattered. Rivkeh also promised to see us twice a week and bring bread that she received in a larger portion.

From left to right: Esther Grossman-Kitenkorn, her rescued little daughter, the farmer lady, Shikora Standing center: Levi Grossman

One evening, we overheard a conversation between our

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landlord and his brother-in-law. He was bragging that he lacked nothing now that he was hiding Jews. Revealing such a secret in those days meant–putting us in danger, because everyone wanted to share in extracting money from Jews. That same evening, we decided to leave this place, and move over to Karol Drozd's loft (in the Bogucin colony).

Chanaleh Grossman, the rescued child–now in Israel

At the agreed-upon time, my sister-in-law and I arrived at the colony. Before we could even enjoy the reunion, Levi told us the following story: “Around midnight, I knocked on the lame farmer, Karol Drozd's door. He received me quite amicably, served bread and sour cream–

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a meal I hadn't eaten for years. We had hardly finished swallowing the last bite of the delicious meal, when we heard a commotion outside. The farmer said that several sleighs with strangers arrived, and he asked me to hide under the bed. I crawled under the spot he showed me, and at the same time, I heard knocking on the window, with an order to open it fast. I lay under the bed in fear of death, although according to the answer that the farmer gave, I understood that they were partisans knocking. Karol Drozd shouted through the window that Germans are expected momentarily to demand their allotment, and if they find anyone staying with him–he is lost. “We're not afraid of the cursed Germans,” was the reply from the other side of the window. The farmer opened the door, and an armed man appeared. He examined every corner of the rom with an electric flashlight, and looked under the bed. “Why are you hiding from me?” I heard in a homey Yiddish voice. “Levi, do you not recognize me?” It was the partisan, Moishe Pelz. He helped me crawl out from under the bed, and we heartily kissed. Then more partisans came in, all Markuszow boys: Isser Rosenberg, Shmuel Rubinstein, Shmuel Laks, David Rubinstein, and others. The joy at our reunion was extraordinarily great. They asked about you, Esther, and about our baby. We sat at the farmer's house almost all night, and we took turns asking each other about various issues. They stayed for the day, and Isser Rosenberg gave me a souvenir–a leather briefcase that once belonged to a Polish landowner. To his question as to whether I need money, I thanked them. The partisans left in the late evening, and I felt so good that our Markuszow youth roamed over field and forest, weapons in hand, ready to take on a powerful, pitiless enemy.

Karol Drozd agreed to let us hide in his stable. All three of us took to the work, supported the dugout with beams and lumber, and achieved a pretty good hideout. There we lived in a group of three until the end of May 1944 surviving more than once moments of terror and death angst. Once a relative of the landlord, a 21-year-old Pole came to us, and threatening us with a revolver, he took our watches, and the last of our money.

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Until the worst happened. Especially since the good news from the front had reached us, and the hopes of being free began to seem real. Karol Drozd came to us with his daughter, and categorically demanded that my husband and I leave the stable. By his tone, we felt that this time, we could not avert the bitter decree. We also tried to get A. Rubinstein to lobby for us–but without success. We left the stable dejected and embittered. A. Rubinstein remained in the place.

Majdanek was already in flames… Times were so terrible that even the boldest farmers were afraid to stick their heads out.

The two of us wandered on the Lugow-Garbow road. Suddenly we saw a man with a rifle. We began to run. My husband threw himself on the ground disappearing among the stalks. I heard a cry in Polish, “Stay still!” I see a rifle aimed at me “Are you a Zhidovke?”^[11] the stranger asked me. “Yes,” I answered resigned. “Who is your husband?” “Leibush Grossman,” I said quietly. “So you're the wife of Leibush. I almost shot you both. I think he just ran away from you. Where is he? I'm very fond of your husband. I know you don't trust me. You don't actually have to tell me where he is right now. Take this basket of cherries, and take some to him. But go carefully. The road is now full of danger.”

The armed man went away. Then I found my husband, and I told him about the extraordinary meeting. We both continued on our way. But where? Sha, let's go to Plinek–specifically to the farmer holding our child. After a night of wandering through fields while bullets and even rockets are flying over our heads, we arrived at dawn in Plinek, and knocked on the door of the old Shikora couple.

“Who's there?” we heard from behind the door.

“The parent of the child,” we both answered.

The old man opened the door, and very lovingly welcomed us, and honored us with a good meal. We didn't want to go near the food, and asked him about the child.

“She's sleeping now with the “matke.”

On tiptoes we went into the other room, and saw our two and a half year old Chanaleh, her eyes shut, lying in the arms of the old Shikora. Her breathing was calm and a bright smile appeared on her little face. Maybe Chanaleh had felt the presence of her real parents?

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And maybe she's just dreaming about them? The child continued to sleep her quiet sleep. It was just us who felt complete joy, and sublime good fortune looking at our rediscovered child. As quietly as we entered the room, we left it. The farmer led us into the stable, wished us goodnight, and told us consolingly that we won't have to struggle much longer, the front was getting closer and the Russians were chasing the Germans nonstop.

Again in hiding, but how different from all those other hiding times. We see our child every day, but Chanaleh cries, doesn't want to come to me… “Ja chce do matki,” (I want to go to my mother)–Chaneleh begs, and the mother in her mind is the old farmer…

After two weeks at the Shikoras, we suddenly began to hear artillery fire, and the sound of hundreds of airplanes carried to our ears. Now it rang like the most beautiful music. We knew that it meant the end of the occupation, and our troubles. That Sunday, there was a terrible rainstorm. Nevertheless, old Shikora did us a favor and drove to Korew to find out what was really going on at the fronts. He returned and told us that the shtetl had already been liberated, but that the Germans had returned a day later. That's why he advised us not to leave the shelter yet, but to wait for a week or two, because you can never predict what happens at the front. We took the good farmer's advice–and remained in the stable.

On Monday, farmers returned from Korew to Plinek, and reported that they had seen massive columns of Soviet military going through in the direction of Warsaw. Lublin was already liberated. And Markuszow as well. We decided to go to Markuszow. There we met with Jan Burek who looked at us as if we had returned from the other world. I then went to my father's grave and told him that we have been left alone, forlorn, because all our close ones have been killed by the Nazi murderers.

The next day we travelled to Garbow, to our farmer acquaintance, Wartacz. He received us cordially, gave us a good meal, and harnessed a pair of horses so we could go to Lublin. There, in the once police-commissariat on Zielona Street, which was now the headquarters of the militia, we met many Markuszow young people, the security guards of the city. Yankl Kesselbrenner helped us get settled in a room on Lubartowska Street. My husband got employment with him, and I went to

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Plinek three times a week to see my child, and bring toys and treats. Until the moment came when I asked old Shikora how much she wanted for returning to me my flesh and blood. She did not want to hear of it. I gave her to understand that I could take Chanaleh back with the help of the police. She understood that the matter was a losing one for her, and after long negotiations, she returned my daughter to me for the price of three pigs, two pair of boots, and two fur coats. For most of the two years–from November 11^th 1942, when I laid Chaneleh down by the Shikora's fence–until now, Novemebr 17^th 1944, when I got her back, a stormy and tragic period had been lived through. But we didn't want to dwell on the past, because the luck of finding our child was so great, so moving…

Overjoyed, I returned to Lublin, and the father too lived to rejoice in the rescued child. After several months in Poland, we travelled to Germany–at that time practically the only way that led to Eretz-Israel. In 1949, we arrived in the Jewish land so yearned for.

1. Germany broke the Molotov-Ribbentrop non-aggression pact with Russia, and launched Operation Barbarossa in June 1941. Return
2. A grassy lawn area Return
3. Young gentile punks Return
4. I believe Plinek is the Yiddish version for the village of Plonki, 3 km SE of Kurow Return
5. Kalen, 3 km east of Plonki Return
6. Oh God Return
7. Young gentile punks Return
8. Polish, scoundrel Return
9. Farm Return
10. Polish, thug Return
11. Jewish woman Return

The daughter of Ber and Faige, born in 1939 in Markuszow, saved from death thanks to the efforts of our partisans

Since the Markuszow partisan bands were already active at that time, they became interested in Miriam Laterstein's fate, and found out where she was. From that point on, the child was handed from one farmer to another with the agreement of the partisans who paid for her support, and took an interest in the fate of the little orphan.

After liberation, the child was reclaimed from a farmer, and taken to the first Jewish orphanage in Lublin. Miriam had been very neglected in that time, and it took a lot of time and effort before the child got back a human face. Thanks to the rescue-aliyah of Poland, Miriam was taken to Switzerland, and after a health recovery stay of several months, she made aliyah to Israel. Now she is in the Kvutsah Neve Eitan,^[1] in the Beit She'an Valley.

1. A kvutsah is a collective agricultural settlement, precursor of the kibbutz. Return

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