[Page 429]

[Page 430]

Toporov		409-421
Stanislavtchik		422-428

[Page 431]

With the outbreak of the Second World War in 1939, the town of Stremiltsh [Stremil'che] came under Russian control. My family and I were well-off and respected in the community. In addition to our successful commercial business, we acquired a well-managed, profitable, and clean agricultural farm. It served as a model for many farmers, who learned their craft from their ancestors. I had a strong inclination to work in agriculture. In 1934, I sent my 14-year-old daughter to expand her farming knowledge at a farm in Jerusalem that was managed by Rachel Yanait [Israeli President Ben Zvi's wife]. For five years, I sent the tuition fee every month with reverence. However, fate was cruel to us. In 1939, before the Passover holiday, our daughter came to visit us and stayed with us for some time. Before she could return to Eretz Israel, the war broke out. Tragically, she was killed along with the rest of my family during the Holocaust. Only one of my sons and I survived.

The Russians became our “guardians” and landlords. However, the regime change did not lead to significant changes in the economic or social life of the Jewish town. Initially, we did not feel any difference. High-ranking officers stayed in my house; two among them were even Jewish, good Jews–not “Yevseks”^[1]–who showed no signs of alienation or desire to assimilate. Among the officers, there was a non-Jewish “enthusiastic communist” who harassed us frequently. When I suggested to him that I would be willing to give him a gift, one of our cows, along with some cash, things changed overnight, and the enthusiastic antisemitic communist became a true lover of Jews.

Our lives under Russian rule continued without significant interruptions. On Shavuot 1941, we gathered at the synagogue as usual. My brother-in-law, with his pleasant voice, delighted the worshipers with his beautiful renditions of the holiday's liturgical poems “Akdamut” and “Yatziv Pitgam.” These were our last happy moments before the Germans entered the town.

The Germans arrived in June 1941. They immediately pulled our seven member family and me out of our house. After being moved several times, we were taken to the home of Reb Israel the tailor,

[Page 432]

a miserable, impoverished man whose home consisted of a single room. We were forced to reside with him in the same room. Such overcrowding might have resulted in some misunderstandings from the homeowner. Fortunately, Reb Israel treated us with understanding, most likely because of what happened in the past.

The story goes like this. When the Russians ruled our town, Reb Israel came to our house and said, “Reb David, you have lived your whole life in wealth and comfort. Times have changed. Please give me something to survive; give me a cow from your cowshed.” I replied to Reb Israel, “Why would you want a cow? Where will you find hay to feed it, and who will take it to pasture? What you really need is milk. Let us make a deal. I will provide you with milk daily, free of charge if you agree to give up the idea of having a cow.” Reb Israel agreed, and he began receiving his daily portion of milk. Thanks to this agreement, we were able to live together in understanding, peace, and tranquility, even though we had neither a cow nor milk.

The main question was what to do to stay alive. We gradually realized that the Germans were plotting to murder all the Jews regardless of where they were. One morning, they captured Friedman, Reuven Pardes, and me. They took us to the back of the house I used to own, where trenches had been dug for people to jump into for protection from bombs. The Germans lined us up near one of the trenches and were about to execute us for no reason. At the last moment, the shoemaker, Luczak Zaluzhni, a gentile who had learned his trade by apprenticing with Shalom the shoemaker, appeared like a redeeming angel and a sincere advocate. He began to negotiate with the Germans and pleaded for mercy on our behalf, claiming that I had once saved him from a certain death during Russian rule. Somehow, he managed to persuade the German soldiers, who believed him. He saved us from a certain death just in time.

On Rosh Hashana [September 12] 1942, The Germans took my entire family to Belzec. I survived because I managed to stay in a field at a distance from the town. My son, Motali, jumped from the train and also survived. We reunited two weeks later in a miraculous way.

I needed to find a safe hiding place for us. I went to Vigoda, a farm owned by a Jewish man named Krantz. I knew I would find the Gentile Yatski Volozhin, [who worked there], who would likely be in the tavern. He struggled with alcohol addiction but understood that if he helped me hide, he would secure financial support, which would allow him to drink day and night. Because of this, he suggested that I hide with him, and that was just what I wanted. At his place, we arranged a proper bunker. Afterward, I set out to search for any other survivors from my family. At the same time, my son Motali, who had jumped from the train, was wandering the roads looking for me.

During my search, I traveled all the way back to Radekhov. Many people I encountered scolded me for wandering around, warning that the Germans were swarming in every corner and that I was risking my life. I chose to ignore their warnings. In Radekhov, I discovered many bodies of victims lying in the streets,

[Page 433]

the result of an Aktsia that took place the night before, in which 65 Jews were killed in the city. Here in this spot, a Jewish man stood in the middle of the road beside one of the victims. He chanted “Kaddish” in the simplest, most customary way as if it were normal to be standing there reciting the prayer. I asked him: “What has happened here?” He replied, “This is my sister.” He added, “At least she will be given a proper Jewish burial, and what about me?” Tragically, the man, whom I knew well, was killed several days later.

While searching through the alleys, I encountered Simcha Winitzer (now in Australia). He asked me what my plans were. I replied that I was hiding with a gentile. Take me with you; I, too, want to live. I told him I agreed, but first I would have to ask “my” gentile. One guest is enough and he should not bring another guest along, but Simcha had a friend and he wanted to bring his friend with him. I asked the gentile and he agreed to take both of them, of course for a substantial fee.

In the meantime, my son Motali searched all over the area for me. People warned him not to wander around, as his life was at risk, but he ignored those warnings. On one of the roads, he encountered an eight-year-old Christian girl and asked her if she had seen any Jews nearby. The girl answered: “I will show you Jews,” and led my son to the house where my two friends and I were hiding. Our joy at seeing each other was immense–a deep joy in our souls and hearts–but it was mingled with pain and sorrow for those we had lost and would never see again. All four of us stayed with that gentile, Yatski Volozhin, for nine months.

I was far from being naïve, so I made sure to keep a few gold coins on me to save myself in times of trouble and distress. To my gentile landlord, Yatski, I claimed that I did not have the rent money stored in the bunker and that I received money every month from the partisans in the forest. That is why I would go out every first of the month as if I were heading to collect the money. I would wander around for a while before returning to pay him. With that story, I gained more respect from him as the local farmers feared retaliation from the partisans. Yatski even considered waiving the rent for a month after hearing from the neighbors that partisans had been spotted in the area. He was convinced that these partisans were the ones who delivered the money for my rent.

Life at that house and in the bunker was neither easy nor simple. The following story is just one of many. Yatski's wife was a kind and honest woman who treated us with understanding and respect. However, she endured great suffering because of her husband. He was an alcoholic in the cruelest sense, and when he drank, he completely lost his sense of humanity. He would squeeze the last penny from her, bringing promiscuous women into their home and lying with them in her bed in front of her. She would roll on the floor in grief, crying from jealousy and pain. Her hatred for him grew day by day. One day, in her distress, she came to me with a proposal–no more and no less–that together we kill her husband, load his body onto a cart, take it to one of the fields

[Page 434]

outside of the village, bury him there, and wash our hands of the whole situation–not seeing anything nor hearing anything. Her anger and hatred toward Yatski were so intense that I could not simply give her a negative response to get her off my back. Doing so would have only made her angry with me. I needed to diplomatically demonstrate that it was impossible to carry out her plan at that time for various reasons. This was how I managed to extricate myself from that troubling scheme. Later, I heard that Yatski was killed by the Banderovites. Perhaps his wife was involved in that.

After I learned that the local gentiles were aware of our presence at Yatski's, I realized that our lives were in danger and that we needed to find another place to hide. I approached another gentile named Nikolai. He initially hesitated but hinted that even if he were to help me, he would not want money; instead, he needed a horse. I promised to buy him a horse but advised him to sell some of the agriculture tools on his farm to avoid raising suspicion about the source of the money for the horse. We then moved to Nikolai's house, where we built a bunker. It was built outside, but the entrance was from the cowshed. We stayed there for eight months.

One day, Nikolai brought us “good news”: the Banderovites would be arriving the following day to conduct a search. We escaped as quickly as we could to the farm of the gentile named Wolinski. Arriving at his home without his knowledge, we opened the cowshed and found shelter for the night among the cows and the pigs. We survived that night thanks to the warm breath of the animals; otherwise, we would have frozen to death. In the morning, Wolinski's son entered the cowshed and became frightened when he saw us. He said his father would have had a heart attack if he had seen us. Nevertheless, we stayed with Wolinski for a week before returning to Nikolai. On the way back, I encountered a gentile acquaintance named Philip and asked him to sell me a loaf of bread. The gentile responded: “I will sell it to you, but why are you asking me if you are staying with Nikolai?” I tried to deny it, but Philip noticed my fear and sought to calm me down. He bent down, and whispered: “I, too, am hosting a Jew.” Curious, I went in to see who that Jew was and recognized Friedman, a resident of my town. He wore torn and tattered clothing, making him unrecognizable–a mere skeleton of a man. The suffering he had endured was evident in his very soul.

I suggested he join us at our bunker because I believed it was more appropriate. He listened to my advice. We expanded the bunker, and he stayed with me until the end.

During the last Passover before the liberation, new songs began to emerge. We were aware that the situation at the fronts was improving, and our freedom was drawing near. However, we still harbored many doubts. Who knew if the circumstances would take a turn for the worse? However, when we heard, almost for certain, that the Russians had arrived, we felt compelled to investigate further to confirm the news. We wanted to understand whether the Russian forces were strong enough for us to leave the bunker and breathe the fresh air outside freely. Our initial desire was to “seek revenge.” We completely disregarded the commandment, “You shall neither take revenge from nor bear a grudge...” [Leviticus 19:18]. We provided the Russians with a comprehensive list

[Page 435]

of the hostile gentiles who aided the Germans in the annihilation of the area's Jewish population, and the Russians punished them severely for their actions.

This served as a small retribution for the Jewish blood that had been shed like water and for those who were slaughtered in broad daylight for no reason.

I returned to Stremiltsh, the place where I had found a home, a wife, and children. In Stremiltsh, I also lost everything. Only my son Motali and I remained. We fled from the killing field –as far as possible.

The author of this article Mr. David Sitzer and his family

[Page 436]

In 1939 with the outbreak of World War I, the Russians became our new bosses. A stream of refugees flowed through our house, those from Poland and Germany, on the way to Russia. In terms of the economic and social life, I was not disrupted. The new bosses, both the public prosecutor and the party secretary, took up residence in my house. The prosecutor, a Russian Jew, used to teach cynically about the future political social-economic situation: “As long as we don't set up a collective farm, you can continue freely running your business. But you know,” he said as he taught me a principle, “that every “kol” [“all”] meaning anything that has to do with an “all” is not good. You say “Kol Chamira” [“all leaven”] for seven whole days and then can't even taste a single piece of bread [on the seven days of Passover]. Just say the words “Kol Nidrei” then you fast for a full 24 hours, and not even a drop of water enters your mouth. But if we make a kolkhoz [collective farm], then our whole lives will be taken away.”

Incidentally, Major Meisels, a Jew from Odessa, the commandant of the second district in Vienna, confided in me in the year 1945, these words: “I have been a communist for 18 years, but I haven't even for one day, forgotten to put on a tallit and tefillin.”

These were, understandably, Jewish souls and not, God forbid, Yevseks [Jews of the Soviet Communist Party]. But there was a communist who was an antisemite, who drove everyone a bit crazy. I gave him a cow, and put something else in his hand, and everything became agreeable and right. But this was something different.

Shavuot we still spent in school. Leibishel, my brother-in-law, still heartily recited the Akdamut [prayer for Shavuot], and the Yatziv Pitgam [another special prayer for Shavuot]. This was the last bit of juice that we absorbed.

[Page 437]

Then in June 1941, the Germans arrived. Immediately, my family was thrown into a stable, and the house was turned into a school. Later, all seven of us souls were taken off the farm and housed with Reb Yisrael Schneider, a very impoverished man, whose whole house consisted of only one room, that was it.

We had had a small dispute during the Russian occupation. Once Reb Yisrael came to me with a complaint: “Listen, Reb David, you have already been rich enough. Now give me a cow.” “Why do you need a cow?” I asked him. “And what will you feed her? Perhaps the pieces that fall from your work, tailor's waste? But is it that you need milk? I will give you milk every day.” And Reb Yisrael accepted my offer, which was firmly upheld.

Now we lived in peace and tranquility in one room like the best of neighbors but without a cow and without milk. The main soul-haunting problem: How can we save our lives?

Early one morning they sent me to the middle of the city with Friedman and Reuven Pardes, to be shot and thrown into a pit behind my former house, which people had prepared for themselves as a shelter. All day we sat and waited for death. Then the shoemaker, Luczak Zaluzhni, a gentile, arrived (he learned the trade from Shalom the shoemaker). And he began to argue with the Germans that once I had intervened for him with the Russians and saved him from certain death.

He was really a true advocate, and he saved us at the last second. And what was next?

My two daughters, my son and I worked for the Germans on a farm that the accursed ones had stolen from a Jew. We did all kinds of field work without pay. The only thing we earned was that, with all means possible, we were able to stay alive.

It was a Friday in 1942, on the eve of Rosh Hashana. I sent my Motele from our house, that is the house of Reb Yisrael, to try and get us a little food. In the meantime, we sensed something bad in the air, a preparation for a new evacuation. We discussed among ourselves a plan to pretend we were going to measure the fields, while meanwhile we would disappear until this passed. Said and done. We went into hiding, as if it was nothing. The following day,

[Page 438]

as it is inscribed on Rosh Hashana, my entire family, as Mikolai later told me, was sent with the Aktion to the crematorium at Belzec, and Motele was among them. Only he, may he be healthy and strong, saved himself by jumping off a wagon. By the time we found one another it was two weeks later, which seemed like two years. And it was a miracle.

Some were taken away to Shtervitz, but due to a lack of transport wagons, some were turned back. For how long? Mikolai, the lord of evil, who brought me the bad news, provided us with a place to stay at Wolinski's farm. From there we went to Vigoda and hid at a farm that belonged to a Jewish man named Krantz. At Malka's, the Jewish pub, we met a gentile named Yatzki Volozhin. When he served in the army, he was stationed in Barylov, not far from Vigoda. Once back then he had bought 60 or 70 sacks of potatoes from me. I gave him a wink, and we discreetly made a proper l'chaim [had a drink]. Yatzki Volozhin, who was not opposed to a drop, was delighted, and so enjoyed himself that the taste is even now in his mouth. Recognizing me, he tried to repay me for it.

“Tell me,” he said, “where are you staying now? They are going to kill everyone here.”

“Well, what should I do?” I asked him, making myself seem ignorant.

“Come stay with me.”

It was not for nothing, I paid well.

I went to his place and considered how best to build an underground room. I proposed to him that the pit should be made from the outside, but that its entrance should be from within. The main thing was that whoever entered should not fall through to the bare earth. Yatzki Volozhin agreed to my plan.

In the meantime, l went out to search. Who knew, maybe god would be merciful. Maybe I would find someone from my family? And Motele, who saved himself and escaped from the death-wagon, was meanwhile running around like a poisoned person, looking for his father.

Going around like that, people criticized me. Yes, there were still some people:

[Page 439]

How could I risk going around as if nothing had happened? The Germans were here and there. And so I crept to Radekhov. There was dead silence in the streets because of the many dead bodies scattered all over. The Germans carried out an Aktion at night and murdered 65 Jews. There was Bari, the miller, standing by one of the bodies, and joyously saying a happy Kaddish. “This is my sister,” he responded to my astonishment at his behavior. “At least I know her burial place. And who will know my burial place?” Bari the miller, was also killed some time later.

As I was going around the back streets, Simcha Winitzer (now in Australia) approached me and asked: “Where do you think you are going, Mr. Sitzer?”
“I am just going to hide.”
“Take me with you. I also want to live.”
“Fine, but I have to discuss this with “my” gentile. I'm also an invited guest at his place.” As the verse says to such life-and-death questions: Don't overuse the kindness of a host. But Simcha wasn't coming alone. He also had a friend who worked for Bari the miller.

And the gentile also agreed to the rest of the tenants. Naturally not for free.

And my Motele was still searching for me, ignoring those who were stopping him and asking: “Why do you risk running around? The Germans were just here.” But Motele did not give up his plan. When he met an eight-year-old gentile girl, he stopped her and asked: “Tell me, dear, do you perhaps know where the Jews can be found?”

“Who are you and where are you from?” she asked him, as an adult.
“I am also a Jew,” he answered her.
“There are Jews staying with us,” she said.

How great was the joy when we met each other again. It could have been the other way around, that the girl could have unwittingly led us to the Germans, or to the Banderovites [Ukrainian nationalist partisans] Well, it all led to the good. All four of us stayed here nine months, as in a mother's stomach.

Here Motele gives his father his dry, dramatic report

[Page 440]

about what had happened to him during these two weeks, and mainly about running away from the war's death train. He said, “The wagon took us to Vigoda. Nine men were immediately shot there. Three of us grabbed an opportunity and ran. But bitter fate chased one of us three, and he was caught and brought back by the murderers. To the Germans, fleeing from death was a crime, and whoever did would receive the death penalty on the spot. The second of us three, Apelfeld, was later killed at the hands of an antisemitic gentile murderer, Yatziruk, may his name and memory be erased.”

Now, he [Motele] is the only living witness of the living-death wagon.

We knew that we should not rely too much on another person. When we left the house, we divided ourselves up. Each of us received a small pouch of gold coins in case they would be needed in a time of trouble. I carried some valuable coins well hidden so they would not be noticed, in case the good gentile Yatzki found out about it and his evil inclination told him to kill me. In any case, everyone should always be warned.

I did tell him a story that the partisans in the forest had paid the rent for me for a few months. Every first of the month I used to go out to my place, wander around here and there, pretending that I had been in the forest, and only after that would I pay him. He really thought that I had been in the forest, and that I had gotten the money from there.

He really was afraid to betray us. What if the partisans took revenge on him? On the other side he was afraid of the Banderovites. One time this was a day after the first, after I had gone outside and almost run into living beings who, like wild animals, could have easily betrayed us. Yatzki came in and said that even if he didn't want money from me, he satisfied himself knowing that local Christians had joined a group of partisans that night, and since I was outside, he was sure they had come to me to bring the monthly payment. His brain was working hard,

[Page 441]

and he wanted to be a saint in everyone's eyes. It was important that my value to him increased greatly, and he took it upon himself to use all means to protect us from danger.

We continued to pay him regularly. It was not easy, but we remained loyal to him, even though the devil was walking around us. We did not allow ourselves to be incited by him. Once this happened: Yatzki's wife, it must be said, was a righteous woman. Yatzki himself was very fond of drink; he would get drunk and, for a treat, he would bring in a mistress. One time his wife found them lying together on the bare ground.

For his lustful needs he used to take the last penny from his wife. So understandably her hatred for him grew intense. Once she came to me and proposed plainly: “Let's kill Yatzki. It's enough already. I can't stand him anymore. I get charity money and he takes it from me,” she complained. “He doesn't leave me a penny. How much can I stand? And what will I use to feed you? It's a bad situation.” I asked her, “what will we do with his body?” “We'll take him into the field on a cart,” she replied. “And what will happen if the Germans see he has disappeared, or what if they find him?” I confused her with questions, wiggled my way out of the evil deed, and our hands spilled no blood. Some time later, the Banderovites murdered him. We had to leave Yatzki's because of the danger to our lives. We had to find a way to leave safely from this place of refuge. The first reason was Yotziruk, and this was the story: Once Yatzki left to go to the fair, as the gentiles usually did, and there he met his friend Yotziruk, the bandit who murdered Apelfeld. They were talking together, and Yatzki was bragging, with his clever folksiness that he was now doing very well. Yotziruk, the clever rascal, demanded to know how Yatzki had acquired such luxury, and Yatzki answered, “I have a few Jews hidden at my place,” Yatzki smiled to himself. No more had to be said. In about a week his ugly visage showed up; the point is he found us, the renters, at Yatzki's place, and became a regular visitor.

[Page 442]

He demanded hush money from us, and he got it. Did we have a choice? He came four or five times like that until we disappeared from there for another reason, not a good one at all. As ugly as it was, sad to say, truth must be told. A lost Jew came to us and said, if we did not let him join our little group, he would immediately go to the officials and reveal our hiding place. Of course we took him in knowing that to keep this person was impossible. We began to think about leaving this good place. The third reason was that I met a gentile I knew and tried to use him; I asked him to get me something to eat from my house. What do you think he replied? “Why not send Yatzki since you are staying with him?” Now I felt how great the danger was.

Thus all was revealed, nothing was secret now, Yatzki's place was burning; our nine months were over. To not suffocate we had to leave our lodging, regardless of how enormous a step this was. But where should we go?

We left after Passover and divided into pairs. I left in the middle of the night to go to Mikola's, not the above-mentioned Mikola, but a different one. I knocked at the door. “Who is it?” “Can I perhaps stay at your place?” “No, but I will ask my wife.” Meanwhile, I wanted to smoke a cigarette. It wasn't that I wanted to smoke, but it was my nerves. The gentile gave a choked cry: “No, don't you dare! The night is dark and the fire can arouse suspicion.” He did not demand any money, but he needed a horse for work. “Good,” I said to him, “I will buy you a horse. But you must have an excuse if they ask where you got money to buy the horse.” So, I went to him on Lag b'Omer. Our place was in the cow's stable, and there we did the same thing as before, dug a pit outside, well-covered, and not recognizable at the entrance of the stable. So we lay in the ground again, for a whole eight months.

One day, Mikola came in with the news that the Banderovites were coming the next day to conduct a search. We left in the middle of the night to go to Wolinski's, and without his knowledge we opened the stable and found

[Page 443]

a place to bed down with the animals. It was only with the steam that the animals gave off when they breathed that we were able to warm up. We climbed into the attic, wrapped ourselves up in straw, and slept. In the morning, Wolinski's son came, clasped his head, and said, “If my father sees this, he'll immediately have a heart attack.” We pleaded with him, “You have to provide the pigs with food, so imagine that now you have two more pigs. And we won't overeat.” So, we stayed there for a week, and then we returned to our place of refuge. But we had to leave. Once again a Jew from Radekhov came and threatened to give us up if we did not hide him. As living with such a person was very dangerous, we went back to Mikola, to our old stable cellar.

Once at night, I asked a second gentile to sell me a little bread. “I will sell it to you,” said Philip, “but why do you need this favor from me? You are staying with Mikola, as if I do not know.” “I ask you for bread and you give me a sermon.” “Listen to me,” said Philip discreetly. “I am also hiding a Jew.” “Can you show him to me?” Seeing the Jew, I became like a crazy person. This was Friedman, my countryman! What happened to him? As I saw him, he was naked and barefoot, almost no longer a recognizable human. “Where are you staying?” I asked him. “I am in the attic.” With my suggestion, Friedman dug out a ditch at Philip's place. That was the way we did it at Yatzki's and at Mikola's, and that was without permission from the municipal council. And, well, did we have permission? A Jew had no right to live.

On the last Passover, when the Germans and British were standing at Tobruk, I took from my safe … twenty gold dollars and went with boldness to Alinik, the priest from Barylov. I said to him, “I have regards for you from Kunish, the priest from Stremiltsh, I knew him well from the Lemberg [Lviv] monastery.” The story, of course, was completely untrue. He told the servant to bring something to eat. When she went out, I said to him, “I don't need anything to eat, but I need you to change 20 gold dollars.” He then crossed himself.

[Page 444]

“How did you get here? There is a German guard on the bridge…” Meanwhile, I had a chance to listen to the radio and find out what was happening on the military front. “I don't have the key with me,” said the priest. “And anyway, we don't have enough money in the monastery today.” Without a choice, I left the gold dollars with him and then left. He accompanied and guided me through the twisted and paved road, and the main thing was that we passed safely. One week later, I came back to him, and the priest now paid me the money in German coins. When accompanying me, he blessed me with the following words: “May God watch over and protect you.”

Not much later, we believed that the Russians were already here. As in the story of Noah's Ark, we first sent out a responsible gentile to determine with absolute certainty that these were indeed the Russians. And when he came back with a strong yes, we left the cavernous cellar.

The first desire was to take revenge, and the phrase “do not seek revenge or bear a grudge,” became nullified. “No, stay calm,” the Russian colonel, a Jew, said to me. “First we will mobilize the youth, some for the army, and some for work. Then we will figure it all out with them.”

We revealed all the informers who were hiding from the Germans, and those Russians who were hiding in the forest, who were on the other side of the Styr River, were actually shot by the Germans. The Russians felt this was justified, a measure for measure act. All those whom we revealed actually got what they deserved.

But can revenge save our dear ones, our victims? In Stremiltsh, I came to a woman, to a house, to a home, and now that there is no longer a woman, nor a house, nor a home, Stremiltsh is no longer a place for me. Then, I and my only remaining friend Motele, left for Dubno, and later we went to Berestechko. There, in the year 1944, Motele was drafted into the Russian army and left for Smolensk to fulfill his military duties. I went as far as possible from this hell, as far as possible from the cemetery.

Motele relates: “As an explosives specialist, I went to Lithuania, and then after about a month and a half, I went to Krakow. There, there was a concentrated general offensive that was being carried out.” In January

[Page 445]

1945, in Germany, Motele, as a soldier in the first Ukrainian front, under the command of General Konyev, was one of the first to march into Berlin. Being in the army, he found special satisfaction in the opportunity to activate his feelings for revenge. While still in Smolensk, he ran into many gentiles who caused great trouble for the Jews. He reported this to his Jewish lieutenant colonel. The accused all confessed before the court. These pogromchiks were happily no longer seen.

This lieutenant colonel had a lot of respect for everything connected with Judaism. His mother lit candles faithfully every Friday evening. “In 1945 we searched for Germans in the occupied areas, even in mouseholes,” Motele said, “and especially in stables. Just as they had done, we poked spears into the straw in barn after barn. And when the Germans crawled out we arrested them, the former victors, and transferred them to the investigation office. I was the interpreter at the proceedings and had the opportunity to participate in some revenge. In East Germany, about 15 kilometers from Dresden, I had to deal with German prisoners. A large portion of them were commanders from the prisoners' camp in Mariampol. According to the documents that came to us, it showed there were 300 prisoners, but only 140 of those remained. Where were the other 160 prisoners? The former commanders claimed they had only carried out orders. When the situation had more or less stabilized, our little group took walks on our furloughs through the occupied areas, far from the Russian territory, searching with glazed eyes. And if someone found a relative, they ran off. The number of those who disappeared (deserters) became unbelievably high. That is why an order came from Stalin to send anyone back to Russia thought likely to vanish. It was enough that my father was abroad; that meant I could be considered a future deserter, so they did not take my high achievements into account. I was assigned to a work in a battalion as a wood chopper, and with others I was sent to the forests in the Urals.”

“In 1949 we were officially released from military service

[Page 446]

and from forced labor. Where would we go? I went to Lopatyn, not far from Radekhov. Yes, I was drawn to the closeness of my former home, even though there was hardly anything left of it. I became an official at the culture center in our area. Then I went to Lemberg and was a warehouse manager. Then I got married to a girl from Voronizh, and in 1965, when I discovered that my father was in Canada, the large Russia became too narrow and too small…”

I went through two great world wars. One in the years 1914-18, and the other in the years 1939-45. During the First World War, I married my wife and built a beautiful Jewish, happy family life. She bore five children for me. And in the Second World War, Hitler's, I lost my wife along with the children.

My relationship with Stremiltsh was accidental, and this was connected, as usual with a woman, because in fact I was born in Stryi and was raised there. It happened like this:

The almost first meeting (I had already met her once in Stremiltsh), took place by the water of the Styr River, and this is what happened: Since I knew several languages, I held a very important position in the Austrian army which today we call the S.B. [the Polish secret police during the Communist era] and when the Jews from the Galician border towns and villages were evacuated and a flood of the refugees arrived in Stryi, the family of Wolf (Wolvish) Lieberman did not flee, because I took them under my military protection, and they served me happily, and later took me under their family's wing.

Not all the refugees at that time were able to put themselves back on both feet. The ruin of the evacuation had a strong impact in later years, even after the war. My brother-in-law,

[Page 447]

Reb Wolf Lieberman, would sharply describe this as follows: Earlier, in Brody, things would be as described in the morning prayer – “all are beloved, all are pure, all are mighty” – but now what happened to all this? It is as if the world turned upside down, and now it is as is said in the next verse: “… and all open their mouths…”

Every year, Reb Wolf Lieberman would go from Radekhov to Carlsbad for a treatment. Understandably, en route, he would visit my father in Stryi, talk a little about me, but not criticize, heaven forbid, and that's how the two in-laws connected with each other. Clearly, the main subject was us, the young people.

After the war, in the year 1918, I was released in Ludmir Wolyn. Because the roads were blocked, I stayed in Stremiltsh. There I celebrated Passover with the Lieberman family. After the second seder night, Reb Wolf turned to me with these words: “My dear child, my health is not so good; I think the time has come for me to join my forefathers. My ancestors, you know, found their resting place in Brody. My strong will is that you should very soon take me to Brody, and then if things will be as I feel, I will find my resting place in the Brody cemetery along with the Segals, my ancestors, and so on.

While on the road, in a carriage, obviously, as it was in those times, Reb Wolf said to me: “Listen to me, my dearest. Afterwards, when I die, the Angel of Death will come to me and will probably show me the door to hell, where I will have to go. But I will say to him right away, “Lo mit an alef! [Yiddish expression meaning absolutely not], I am not going!” “What does that mean you are not going?” is what the Angel of Death will quickly respond. It is well known that there is no one on this earth who has not sinned and you have to have a little taste of hell and nothing will help you. “Listen here,” I will say, “I have run my business with faith. I have never cheated with the weight of my merchandise.” Then I will turn to him with these words, “I lived with my Breina for 40 years, exactly the amount of time the Jews spent in the desert. I did not have any paradise with her. So now, I am begging you

[Page 448]

dear angel, and I beg strongly, please subtract these 40 years, this hell that I have already spent with her.”

I married the daughter of Reb Wolf Lieberman at his sick bed during Sefirat HaOmer [the days between Passover and Shavuot]. A short time later, he died and was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Brody. After our wedding, we lived in Berestechko for almost two years, but after the currency crash, we moved to Stremlitsh. There we established a new and beautiful family life, traded, earned a living, and set up a farm on about 20 morgens of land [one morgen equaled approximately two-thirds of an acre], which was well preserved and much better than other farms in the area. The cow shed was known throughout the area for its cleanliness and neatness. My mother-in-law was not a burden to us. She was famous in the whole region for her maturity, business smarts, and her honesty.

I was also active in the shul and in all the philanthropic institutions that were located in Stremiltsh. In the year 1934, I sent our firstborn, our 14-year-old daughter, to Eretz Israel to study agriculture, and at the same time was able to use a free certificate which I acquired for her to study at the training farm for girls in Jerusalem that was established and led by Rachel Yanait (later the wife of the second president of the state, Yitzchak Ben-Zvi). Month by month, in the course of almost five years, I sent the school fees. But as it turned out, it was not meant to be like this, and unfortunately, her fate was bitter and tragic. On Passover of 1939, our daughter came to us for a visit and she could not be separated from us until the war captured us, and, sadly, there was to be no way back.

[Page 449]

The place called Stremiltsh [Stremil'che] was referred to as a town, perhaps thanks to the signs posted at its entrance and exit. However, it was actually a village, like many others. The designation of the place as a “town” may have stemmed from the 50 Jewish families who settled there before the First World War. At that time, the esteemed Rabbi Zusia Mazal ztz”l served as the rabbi of this community. There was also an ancient synagogue, which, according to tradition, was visited by the Baal Shem Tov for prayer. There were some respected individuals there such as Reb Velvish Lieberman, a wealthy merchant known for his exceptional hospitality, and Leibish Lifshitz, who helped Jews migrate from Russia to Austria during times of distress. Other notable figures included Hersch Stolyar, Ben Zion Heimlich, Asher Gruber, and others dedicated to charitable work and caring for their community. Whenever a new family moved to Stremiltsh, they welcomed them warmly. They viewed them not as competitors but as brothers and partners who would contribute to the growing number of Jewish families in the village.

In 1908, a local pioneer named Chaya Lieberman made Aliyah, becoming one of the first to help lay the foundation for the homeland, which later became the State of Israel. When the First World War broke out in 1914 and the Austrian army retreated from the town, the Jewish residents of Stremiltsh left town, fearing the Russians who were rushing in. The residents scattered to where the winds carried them. The town itself was destroyed. Initially, only seven families returned to Stremiltsh after the war to revive the Jewish presence and the Jewish community in town. They were the families of Ben Zion Heimlich, Moshe Kahane, Moti Apfelbaum, Leibish Lifshitz, Shmuel Friedman and Reuven Pardes, may their memory be blessed, and the family of David Sitzer, may he live long. These families received one Torah scroll back from Radekhov, and the second Torah scroll was found hidden beneath the burned synagogue. To ensure a minyan for the prayer, they would bring in a Jewish person from Berestechko or utilize any Jewish guest available. They initially prayed in the home of Leibish Lifshitz and later moved their services to the house of Ben Zion Heimlich. At the same time, they began to think about a permanent synagogue, an undertaking that would not be easy. However, the determination of Jewish residents who were committed to observing the customs of their ancestors could not be deterred. The foundation for the new synagogue was laid in 1925 in the presence of the rabbi of Stremiltsh who lived in Choliv [Vuzlove], and the rabbi and ritual slaughter of Shtervitz.

[Page 450]

When the four walls were completed, the roof was hurriedly covered in preparation for the Days of Awe. When the time for the Maariv prayer during the holiday arrived, Reb Ben Zion Heimlich passed in front of the Ark with his usual enthusiasm. A tremendous sense of joy enveloped the entire Jewish population, drawing even gentiles who came to witness the joyous occasion. I will never forget the elation that filled that prayer service. I particularly remember the heartfelt singing of the verses by Reb Shmuel Friedman, my father's z”l chanting of “Adon Olam,” and Moshe Kahane's recitation of the “Musaf” prayer.

With a sense of awe and trepidation, I reflect on those cherished days when our mothers recited the blessing over the candles and fathers chanted the “Kiddush” over the wine, to welcome a holiday or Shabbat. I also recall the flurry of preparations surrounding the Days of Awe, our mothers getting ready for Yom Kippur by preparing the memorial candles and reciting blessings over the heads of the children to protect them from harm. The joy of Simchat Torah, Purim and many other festive occasions also comes to mind.

Later, several more Jewish families returned to Stremiltsh. They included Israel Kahane, Shlomo Orenstein, Hersch Stolyar and Zusia Werbner. It is worth noting that all of these families were engaged in productive work: carpentry, tailoring, farming and even fishing. They brought teachers from Brody and Leshnev to teach the Jewish children Torah and mitzvot. The pulse of Jewish life was felt in every corner.

The youth was engaged in Zionism. Menachem Kahane made Aliyah in 1932. The youth purchased Zionist Shekels^[1], which allowed them to vote for delegates to the 18^th Zionist Congress. The election took place in Berestechko, with supporters voting for all Zionist parties.

Life continued along its usual path, and assuming we would persist that way seemed logical. However, fate had other plans. The Nazi beast–may its name be blotted out–set its sights on everything dear to us. With the assistance of the Polish and Ukrainian thugs, they wreaked havoc upon us. Only a few survived, thanks to a small number of Righteous Among the Nations who came to our aid in our time of distress.

Translator's footnote:

1. The Zionist Shekel was the Zionist movement's annual membership fee. Those who owned them and were over the age of 18 were allowed to participate in the election of delegates to the Zionist Congress. Return

[Page 455]

I left you in the year 1930, to immigrate to Eretz Israel, but I haven't forgotten you to this day, for this was the town where I was born and spent my childhood years. Indeed, I moved to nearby Berestechko when I was close to 11 years old and I walked between the two towns every day for my studies. However, I still remember you with your approximately 50 families from before the First World War.

In the year 1915, I was a boy of three when we went to Radekhov because of fearfulness of the war, and still today I hold in my heart memories of our journey by foot with all our possessions in hand. We spent about two years in Radekhov and then returned to Stremiltsh. We found several other families and together with the Pardes and Friedman families we spent about a year in an underground hiding place. Horrors of hunger and suffering during the First World War were etched in my memory. Then we learned that the war had ended. This was on Friday, the eve of Shabbat Nachamu [the Sabbath following Tisha B'Av] in the year 1918. We then decided to go out into the open. We decided to stay with Stotzky -- and there in the morning, the Russians began shooting. We all exited crawling, but mother couldn't do this because she was holding my eight-month-old brother – and she was killed. We were left as five orphans.

My town Stremiltsh – many sad memories remain with me to this day. The greatest sorrow is for the fate of the dear Jews and the families that were murdered at the hands of the Nazi enemy and the Ukrainians. There is neither comfort nor condolences.

With trembling and holiness, we the survivors of the town Stremiltsh, weep and recite kaddish for the memory of our parents, our brothers, our sisters, our children and all the martyrs of the town. These people I recall, and for them I weep, beloved and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not separated. They were martyrs from Stremiltsh, who gave their lives in sanctification of the Divine Name and were killed and slaughtered by the Nazis and their collaborators the Ukrainians, may their names be blotted out, whose fate was like that of the martyrs of all generations, and their graves are unknown.

May their holy and pure souls be magnified and sanctified.

[Page 458]

Gila Steiner née Kremnitzer z”l

She had strong moral integrity in both her inner and outer character. This trait stood out and became even more pronounced after she again became an orphan at the end of World War I with the passing of her father and stepmother. They died in the typhus epidemic that raged in the area. The family home was destroyed, and the burden of caring for herself as well as for her little sister fell on her soft shoulders. Her devotion to her sister, who, with her resourcefulness and the help of family members, was accepted into a boarding school in Rovne, Volhynia, was heartwarming.

In 1936 she and her husband were privileged to be able to immigrate from Austria to Israel, where they established a lovely home. They had two talented sons who were steadfastly devoted to their parents. She excelled in her diverse talents, her kindness, and her positive influence on those around her. She was greatly loved by her neighbors and was considered by them as one of the family. The eulogy from the neighbor's son, Mr. Aryeh Simis, which was received by the editorial committee [of this book], to attest to the greatness of her character made an indelible impression, but for technical reasons was not printed in this book.

In recent years, she suffered greatly from various afflictions, but knew how to bear the suffering and anguish with dignity. She passed away on the 23^rd of Cheshvan, 5733 (October 31,1972).

Her memory is held in our hearts with admiration.

  Radekhiv, Ukraine     Yizkor Book Project     JewishGen Home Page

Copyright © 1999-2025 by JewishGen, Inc.
Updated 22 Jul 2025 by JH