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I am one of the few people who found themselves in Tishevits during the fire. I will try my best to describe it a little further on, but first, I want to refresh the memory of my fellow townsmen so they may know who I am. I want, in addition, to mention my entire family who were called “Diber.”

My uncle Sender Diber had 2 sons, and one daughter who always lived in Tishevits. Their names are Aaron Berish Diber, Mendl Diber, and Sheindl Diber. Sheindl Diber got married to Leibish Ashpiz who was also my uncle, because his brother was my uncle, z”l, who was called Yankl Diber.

My two sisters, Leah'ke and Feige were called “the Diber girls,” and had a dry-goods store. I was the youngest in the family. Before my father opened the store in the city, I studied with melamdim in Tishevits, and lived with my uncle Leibish and cousin Sheindl Diber, until my father bought the house from Zuker's son-in-law, Moishe Brenner, who emigrated to Peru. Our neighbor was Moishe Sumess. The house was on the road coming from Komarow, on the street called Pilsudskego.

Now we come to the year 1939 when the war broke out. Our shtetl had a more elegant appearance than earlier. The market was completely paved–Yankl Panich had built a white little fence that beautified the appearance of the city. There were new sidewalks, and it was a lot cleaner.

But a great tragedy arrived with the outbreak of war. Already in the first days of the war everybody had begun to look for ways to save themselves from the bombardments that had not yet reached Tishevits. But the explosions from afar were terrible.

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With the defeat of the polish army, Germans were beginning to be seen. They had not yet shown the evil they were capable of.

Our shtetl became almost empty. Entire families moved out to the villages, some to the suburbs, some to Mikulin, some to Przewale, others to Perespa. We went to Dib [Dub], to a goy we knew. There we were together: My mother and father and I, my two sisters, Leah'ke and Feige, and my oldest sister, Sheindl's, boy, Yosele. My sister, Sheindl, and her younger son, Mendele, remained in their home in Shebreshin [Szczebrzeszyn], and we heard nothing more of them. There were other Jews in Dib, residents of many years. Binyomin Diber and his son, already an adult with grown-up children, Volvish Diber about whom I will write more later, and also Yoski Diber's children, and Zalman Diber who was the son-in-law of Falik Shuster of Tishevits, and also a Jew with the name of Abraham Borg nicknamed, Bidnonye. He used to come to town in a horse and little wagon loaded with flax and other articles that he used to buy in the villages. A long-time resident was also the young tailor, Moishe Goss, now in Israel. There were also Jews who came in from other places and were not originally residents of Dib. These made the local goyim very angry. They told us local Jews that we should expel the newcomers, because the Germans would be more likely to bomb the village because of the foreign Jews.

This lasted several days. Frequent bombardments. Roads filled with people fleeing their homes. Since we were in Dib, father said that it would be more secure if we brought our merchandise over to Dib and hid it in the village. Our store did not have a cellar. But the question arose as to who would drive the carriage. Not one goy we knew was willing. So my father went to see Yankel Moishe Hersh who lived in the forest. He undertook to do the job even though it was dangerous. At night, they did bring a large wagon covered in straw.

Here in Dib, my mother and sisters and I dug a large hole in the stable where we stowed the merchandise, wrapped it well so it would not get ruined, and covered it well with earth on the top because we were afraid of a fire. My mother, a”h, stood over me and wept while I dug the hole. She kept saying,” My child, may you at least survive to retrieve the merchandise.” She was most afraid for me, because I was then 21 years old, and had been drafted

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into the Polish army, but when the war broke out, I was not mobilized. They had only called up the veterans.

We lived in fear and a lack of food. The starving retreating Polish soldiers took every thing my mother baked or prepared. It was impossible to manage otherwise. We got a little rye, and my mother took it to a neighboring village to be milled. When she returned, she told us how the goyim taunted her, saying that it was certain her men had run away to the Bolsheviks. This was how they made fun of the Jews for the fear that consumed us.

Our house looked very poor. Everything we possessed, even the jewelry, I buried, putting it into the mortar, on the spot where the table stood, burying it deep, and finishing it so no one could tell. But we had a good sign. Rosh Hashanah Eve, around 10:00 o'clock in the morning, we saw heavy smoke in the distance, rising up to the sky, and by our visual calculations we quickly decided Tishevits was on fire. We couldn't tell if it was the suburbs or the city itself. I couldn't help myself, and with the permission of my parents, I ran to the city. Maybe I could save something from our house.

We had only taken away the merchandise. All the household things remained.

A just-married young man, Yoneh Borg, came with me. He was the son of the above-mentioned Abraham, nicknamed, Bidnonye, who was a resident of Dib, and was occupied with buying flax and similar things from the villages. This son married a girl from Tishevits, a seamstress. Her father was Moishe Glazer. I think he was called Moishe Chazer. We agreed to run to Tishevits together. He had new furniture in his newly furnished home. The closer we got to the city, the clearer it became that Tishevits itself was burning. When we got there, we saw the entire side where our house stood, from the Komarow road to the pharmacy, was already incinerated. The pharmacy and the whole row of houses kept burning.

We heard loud explosions, and it was impossible to move about because of the fire. However, seeing that our house was already burned down, I ran over to my cousin, Mendl Diber's house, because the fire had not yet reached there.

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There, I saw goyim from the Ostrow road packing out as much as they could carry.

The fire was burning on all sides. The town hall was already destroyed, as well as the side of Moishele Pshivaler and the Bashisters up to the school, down there where the Mazar family lived. This was all burned down except Srulke Farak's side, Meir Brick's soda water factory was still standing, but the fire grew stronger with the burning of the pharmacy. You could hear loud crackling. I don't know how many people I saw running around, but very few, less than ten. Suddenly there came a loud roaring from bombers overhead. Then I ran back to the bathhouse, and over the bridge that was near the bath, to the toilets. There were several trees there, and I lay down under them.

There were other men and women sheltering there, as well as some children. Lying there too was the young man who had come with me from Dib, and we both came to the conclusion that even though it was too late to save anything, it was perhaps fate that we should be there to witness the destruction of our shtetl Tishevits.

The roaring of the airplanes, and the cracking of the fire were very loud. The women and children who were lying there under the trees were crying and screaming, and the older ones yelled at them to keep quiet so that we would not, God forbid, be noticed.

When the noise settled down, we both began to return to Dib. Remnants of the houses were still smoldering. Nothing was left, not the synagogue, not the besmedresh. If I remember correctly, the bathhouse remained.

These were my last moments in Tishevits as a city. When we got back to the village, I related everything about our house. Understandably, they broke out crying, but we hoped to survive, and afterwards, God would help. Unfortunately, the hope only applied to me–not to my parents or my sisters. In the evening, we went to the minyan to daven. It was after all Rosh Hashanah Eve. We davened together in fear, but we davened. Around us, there was a large movement of Polish military, shooting, bombs exploding, but we Jews did what we had to. The owner of the house we were davening in was Volvish Diber, Binyomin Diber's oldest son. He bought my uncle Sender's house before the war, and since we davened in that comfortable house during the holidays, this year we also

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got together a minyan in the house. It was, of course, dangerous for so many Jews to come together in a village, but the spirit of Rosh Hashanah overcame the fear.

It was a time when there was practically no government, the Polish army completely disorganized.

Gangs were running around, they threw away their uniforms, their weapons, and burned them. We still had not seen any Germans in our neighborhood, because they went to the larger places first, and where there were paved roads. There were in Dib already a lot of refugees, Jews who had fled their homes, and from territories that had already been taken over by the Germans, mostly around Krakow. They fled with whatever means they could, some with horses and large wagons, some in automobiles, some in carts.

My father invited two men for a meal. They were very fine and rich people, but they were already homeless. They told us about the difficulties of finding food along the way, and of travelling. The military filled the roads, and civilians were barred. I did not imagine that I too would soon be homeless. After a few days passed, my father and I went to town.

Coming into the city, we came to our little hill with its destruction, and we looked around and we saw many people doing the same thing. They were looking into cellars, to see if the fire was still smoldering there. In the market, several people were standing around talking about politics just like before. Some had hammered together shelters in order to have a roof over their heads, like Moishe Pshivaler and his son-in-law, Leibish. My father and I started to gather some charred stones, but the work didn't go well, and we abandoned it, and we went back to the village to our family. As I mentioned earlier, there were a lot of Jews in Dib. Among them was Mendl Diber, my cousin, and his wife Esther, and son, Gedalia, and another young boy. He lived in one of the colonies, that is to say, with a goy who lived close to his fields. Berish Diber and his family lived on the Ostrow Road. He had a house there because his previous big house near the river had burned down, and Sheindl Diber with her husband and children went to another village. They had fields there. My uncle, Sender Diber, also came back to Dib, because a little time before the war, he had sold

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his big house in Dib to the previously mentioned Volvish Diber, and moved to Tishevits.

On Yom Kippur, a lot of Polish soldiers assembled in a large field near the yard, gathered their weapons together, and burned them. After that, they went away, some on foot, and some captured horses that were wandering around. One of them was leading a horse and had a hand grenade in his hand saying, “No one is going to take his horse from me.” I also managed to get a little revenge on the Polish antisemites. There was a young schoolteacher in Dib. He was a big antisemite. When the Polish army fell apart, he, with the rank of second lieutenant, hid near our house. There he lay, deep in the earth, full of fear like us. Within a few days, we already knew that the Germans had taken the entire neighborhood and that they were the bosses now. It was sad enough for us, but there were very few of them still, and they were staying in the orchard where Hershel Brown lived. It was even said that they were handing out chocolates to the children. We had not yet heard of any terrible things. Then suddenly, they disappeared. For several days it had been rumored that the Red Army was coming to our area. Suddenly we heard a lot of shooting and the entry of so many soldiers the like of which we had not seen to this point. They brought with them lots of heavy artillery. It was fearful to look at. When they entered Dib, there was a lot of heavy shooting. My father and I were not at home. So we began to run, but we had to hide under a pile of straw, because the volleys of bullets were so heavy. When it had quieted down a little, we got back to the house, and we saw a piece of artillery near our house shooting into the forest.

With the first shot, all the windows in the house shattered, and all the lime fell off. We all jumped into a nearby hole, and we all took cover there. My mother cooked a pot of grits, and we ate some, and stayed there until evening.

With the new bosses, the Jews could breathe a little easier. We thought we were saved. Better the Russian than the German. My father went to Komarow. We had a lot of family there on my mother's side. They were my aunts and uncles. We brought them some food because it was easier to get food in the village. When my father returned, he brought the good news with him that the Russians were very good to the Jews. They call everyone “tovaresh,” they give rides in their cars on the roads, they give out bread, it was a holiday! On another day, when we went to Tishevits, to see what was going on, I found it quite changed. The market was full of Russians. They were buying everything available from the Jews, like a piece of material to make pants, or material for a woman's dress. They paid very high prices. At the time a Russian Ruble was equal to a Polish Zloty, but you could get any price you asked for. Anyone who had anything dragged it out for sale. What will you do with the money? Nobody knows. Everybody knew there was no merchandise available to buy in return. This was on the day of Sukkot.

These few days with the Russians went by quickly, and suddenly, we heard that the Russians would be retreating from our area. They were going back over the river Bug, and the Germans would reoccupy our area. From that point on, the flights began. Anyone who was able ran away. I talked it over with my cousin, Berish Diber, about whether he would go away. He answered me, “If you want to, run away! I'm not running. How can I? My kids are grown up already. My daughter, Sheindl, has a fiancée from Laszczow. I don't want to separate them,” and so on. He was not willing. My father also claimed that he could not, because with the girls, how could he. But among the young men I heard that many were getting ready to go away. So I was tempted as well. I was lucky that my cousin, Elke, actually my uncle Sender's daughter, had gotten married in Zamosc to someone called Moishe Rubinstein. They also had a dry goods store in Zamosc. During the bombardments, they had also buried their merchandise with a goy in Dib. When the Russians were beginning to leave Zamosc, my cousin, Elke, convinced a Russian soldier to drive to Dib to collect the merchandise, because when the Russians were leaving they said to everyone, “Come with us, and if you have anything, we will take it with.” And so she came from Zamosc with an automobile. This was exactly on Simchat Torah.

The driver of the truck said he would take as many as could fit.

Then all the young people in the Village began to get ready to leave, because we had a good opportunity.

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I approached my father: What do you think, father? What should I do? Other young men were looking to see what I would do. If my father would give me permission, they could go too. My father answered with these words: “You, my child, are young. Maybe you can save yourself.” This was my father's blessing which accompanied me during my worst suffering and the pain to come. The following people came with us: Moishe Goss who is now in Israel with his family, Israel Goldman who is now in Israel, Etl Yoski Diber's daughter, a divorcee and her two daughters. She was married to David Treger of Tishevits. There was also a young boy Abraham Goldman, a grandson of Falik Shuster of Tishevits. A Jew from Komarow who was a son-in-law of Yoski Diber. I don't know if the latter survived.

This Simchat Torah was very sad for us. My mother put two small loaves of bread, a little sugar, and a few other things to eat, in a kerchief, and my father embraced me and kissed me. His long beard pressed against my face, a feeling that will stay with me for the rest of my days. My mother wept bitterly. My sisters hugged me, and my little nephew, Yoseleh, was also weeping. And the Russian driver was shouting, “Faster!” And so in haste we parted. I climbed up on the truck and cast a last look at my father, my mother, and my sisters, Leah'ke and Faige, and my little nephew, Yoseleh.

From that point on, I wandered as a refugee through all kinds of inconceivable hardships until the year 1947, a span of eight years, until I ended up in Argentina where my older brother had already been living. If I would have the opportunity to describe my further experiences, that is, from 1939 to 1947, it would surely be a chapter of Jewish suffering. When I arrived in Argentina, the Tishevitsers already here organized a get-together where I gave them an overview of the devastation I had lived through. There are about 40 families from Tishevits in Argentina. Every year before Rosh Hashanah, we get together to remember our home that was destroyed, and all our dear ones who were so brutally murdered. In ending, I want to describe an episode that I heard about involving 50 young boys and girls from Tishevits and from Komarow who were brought together by the aforementioned Volvish Diber. He was the milkman

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of the Diber court. The landowner at the time was a German officer, but one who wanted to save the lives of some young people by giving them work. He managed to get together 50 children. There, they worked and lived with plenty of hardships, but hope still lived on. Unfortunately however, after the harvest, when the wheat was being threshed, three officers from the SS arrived. They dug a grave in the Diber Woods. The children were stripped naked in the orchard of the court, and from there, they were driven to the grave. All 50 children were shot there. Volvish, who felt he was to blame, asked to be the first, along with his wife and children, to be martyred, so he wouldn't have to see the many children he wanted to save, murdered. Among them was my sister, Feige.

Holy is their memory.

I am not in a position to express my sadness on the destruction of our shtetl, Tishevits.

The first victim in the Second World War was my younger sister, Toba, z”l. Instead of being led to the chupah, she was led to the cemetery. May these few words serve as a consolation and everlasting memorial.

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In the village of P'yatydni, a distance of about seven kilometers from Ludmir [Volodymyr], Wolyn Oblast, there is a huge mass grave. More than thirty thousand Jews, men, women, the elderly and children, were shot to death there, and also buried alive. All from the cities: Ustyluh and Ludmir, the survivors from the surrounding area, and also from our city Tyszowce z”l, who fled to the border of the Bug River from the Nazi hell after the Stalin-Hitler pact.

The Kuperstein family

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The German murderers gave instructions over the loudspeakers: “The people should take off all their clothes and also remove prostheses and eyeglasses.” There were some people who refused to undress, so their tore clothes were torn off and they were beaten brutally.

A period of twenty-five years has already passed since the great disaster in the history of our people, the likes of which history has not seen before. Ever since the German Nazis invaded Europe, and annihilated European Jewry, they specifically chose Poland as the place of murder and annihilation of the magnificent Jewry in this country.

It is impossible to believe that someone is able to write, and remember, all the horrors we have gone through.

Therefore, we will vow, and will remember and perpetuate together, in this holy book, everything that happened to our people, and it will serve as a tombstone for those who perished during the Holocaust.

In the aforementioned mass grave is also my family, the Kuperstein family z”l - the grandfather, R' Menachem Mendel, the father, Eliakum Getzel, the mother, Leah, the sisters, Ruchele and Chayale, her son, Shalom and her husband, Yosef of the Appelbaum family of Ludmir, and the brothers Avraham and Moshe.

I write down their names to commemorate them for eternal memory in this holy book.

A native of Hrubieszów from a very privileged family, the family of Shalom and Basha Zimmerman (my grandmother was known by the name, Basha di esik makher [the vinegar maker]). Who didn't know my mother? A noble mother, educated, dedicated in heart and soul to the Zionist idea and kind-hearted. She did not refrain from giving help and encouragement to the needy, and, above all, was endowed with courage and fortitude.

In 1932, she drove away a masked robber with a gun in his hand who attacked us in our house in the evening. “Silver and gold!” he shouted and demanded. Mother didn't stop to think: she quickly jumped through the window to the balcony, summoned help, called the police, and after a battle with the policemen, he was seriously injured and died. Then we learned that the robber was Franek, the well-known communist from Ostrów. That's how my mother was, and I will never forget her, may her soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.

My grandfather: R 'Menachem Mendel z”l, was very devout, from the strictest of the strictest. An honest man, rich, and yet he lived modestly. He always lived together with my grandmother Rivka at my parents' house. He engaged in Torah and Talmud study day and night. May his soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.

My father was a public activist, cantor, community leader and chairman of Agudat Mizrachi, and was loved and accepted by all the strata of townspeople. A member of the Jewish community committee, philanthropist and hospitable, and was among the major and richest merchants, and always worked not in order to receive a reward. May his soul be bound up in the bond up of eternal life.

My brother, Avraham z”l, was a real genius in the written and oral Torah, observant and devoted to the ideology of the Betar Movement. May his soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.

According to hearsay, he managed to escape from the ghetto to the forest, to the Jewish partisans, but the Polish partisans frequently attacked the Jewish partisans, and after a battle with the Poles many Jews fell, among them Moishele. May his soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.

Honor to the memory of my family, my sisters and brothers, they will remain engraved in my heart, and in my memory, for eternity.

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It is not possible to remember every moment of the tragic war era. It is hard to believe that a person can undergo such frightening experiences. And in truth, still today–so many years later–I can see before me the sorrowful moments and shadows of that tragic experience. I was born in Tishevits, and lived there until 1928. My wife was from Hrubieszow which is why we lived there until 1939.

With the outbreak of the Second World War, fate landed us, after fleeing and wandering around, in a shtetl, Tyczyn, near Rowne.

With the entry of the Germans, the Jews of the shtetl, along with the refugees who had fled from various places, were imprisoned in a ghetto. Their number was from two to three thousand Jews. The Jews lived there for about a year. The leader of the Judenrat, a certain Getzl Shwartz, had good relations with the residents. He was not one of those who collaborated with the Nazis. He was among the first to call for resistance.

When by chance it was discovered that the Germans were preparing to liquidate the ghetto, and they had prepared graves in the forest not far from the shtetl, we decided not to allow ourselves to be led to our graves, and every family got some naphtha or benzene ready with the goal of setting the houses on fire, and even to be burned alive, so as not to allow ourselves to be murdered by the Germans.

In 1942, two days after Yom Kippur, the Gestapo came with trucks to take the Jews to their graves. When the Gestapo informed the leader of the Judenrat, H' Getzl Shwartz, that they wanted to take the Jews out of the ghetto, H' Shwartz expressed his opposition,

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and was shot on the spot. The shot was a signal for the ghetto residents, and the ghetto went up in flames immediately. Very many were burned alive. Among them, my wife's mother, Beile Fink, z”l, with one of our children who was with her.

The Gestapo surrounded the burning ghetto and shot anyone who tried to escape. Only a small number succeeded in getting to the forest. We split into groups in the forest, so we would not be concentrated. Naturally, the groups consisted of city families and acquaintances. Every group was a family of its own.

Once, I left the village to look for food for my wife and children, but I could not, under any circumstances, find my way back to them. I wandered around day and night searching with no luck. My wife, seeing that the children would starve to death, went off to look for me in the forest leaving the children alone. She met people from other groups along the way, but no one knew where I was. At one point she came across a young man, and asked him if he had heard of a Hersh Englstein. So he told her in secret that there was a Hersh in a certain group, but not Englstein. She had heard about this Hersh, because we knew him. She figured that she might learn something from him, so she went along with the group in order to find that Hersh. But the group was against her joining them, because it would make their lives more difficult–yet another person in the group, a woman to boot, weak and exhausted. But my wife told them categorically that she would under no circumstance leave the group without finding her husband. Seeing her determination, and having no other option, they agreed to let her go along. Going with them, she did in fact find the other Hersh's group. He really did know in which group and where I was, and he brought her to me. As soon as we were reunited, we went off to return to our children. We found them half unconscious from hunger. I gave them something to eat and they revived.

We decided to build bunkers, and to find ways to get some weapons for self-defense.

We suffered like this for two years from 1942-1944. A life of pain, suffering and hunger. We used to work for the farmers in the villages, and

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get some food that way. We also scoured the fields for anything to still the hunger. The situation at the fronts worsened. The Germans began to retreat from their positions. As a result of the complicated situation, the Germans, with the help of the Banderites^[1], began to rampage through the area. First they killed the Poles in the area, and then they turned their attention to the Jews.

Some farmers from the village let us know that the Germans, with the help of Ukrainians, were planning attacks on the bunkers in the forest. What could we then do? The situation was hopeless.

One day, in 1944, the Germans, and the Banderists, entered the forest, and wherever they ferreted out a bunker, they threw in hand grenades. We could hear all that, and we were in fear of death knowing that our turn would come soon. We really expected to die, because what sense does such a life have? But, it was either fated, or simply a miracle, that night had fallen before our turn came. The attacking units, it seems, received the order to stop the attacks via a trumpet signal. That night, we resolved to go to the river Sluch that was in that area.

We moved like shadows at the edge of the forest in the direction of the river. The farmers from that neighborhood told us that the river was not frozen in spite of the cold weather. Not having any option we went all the way to the river. But how to get to the other side? The river was pretty wide and deep. There was once a farm near the river with a large horse barn. We noticed a deep, large trough the horses used to drink out of. We wanted to turn the big wooden trough into a boat. We tied ropes around it, and lowered it into the water. But when the first two people got into it, and pushed off from the shore, it was caught by a strong current, and the two people barely managed to make it back to shore. We saw that our “boat” was unfortunately not feasible. Not having any other options, we decided to go back to the forest. We did not, however, know which direction to take. After a short discussion, we gave a young boy who was with us, Moishe Weisbrod, the job of pulling out a handkerchief with a knot in it, to determine which of us would go left and which right. Our group was to go right. We divided ourselves into two groups: one to go left and one to go right. In the middle, we sent out

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scouts. While walking along, we saw two human forms in the distance. They looked very fat. The closer they got, the fatter they looked. Fear in those days was a natural phenomenon for us. We ordered the two forms to halt! If not, we would open fire! They stopped, and we got closer to them. They were carrying sheaves of straw on their heads. We saw that they were farmers who lived in the area.

They exchanged hellos with us, and with enthusiasm, they told us that there was a village not far from there where there were more of “your own.” By this, they meant the Russian partisans who had come to scout out the area before the Red Army arrived.

We felt some relief at that, of course. As we continued along the road toward the village, we noticed smoke and light issuing from the huts. When we entered the homes, the farmers told us that they were baking bread for the partisans who were in a nearby village, and that the partisans were going to come and pick up the bread. We waited impatiently for the partisans, but they did not show up so quickly. We couldn't wait much longer knowing that day was coming, and the light would put us in an uncomfortable position. So some of us went off to the village where the partisans were, in order to find out the truth. When the delegation returned, we found out that the partisans had left for another destination. We determined to follow them. We got to that village and met the Russian partisans. They greeted us amiably, and actually helped us get over the river Sluch, where we came to a village called Stara-Huta.We came across Soviet army units stationed there, as well as partisans. We breathed a little easier then.

Our only desire was to rest and to get something to eat. But typhus was raging through the whole village. We entered a house where everyone was laid up sick. Near them was some food. I took some of it and gave it to my children.

The memory of these frightening experiences makes me shudder, thinking about how people could have survived this.

One of the Soviet officers told me then, “I know you Jews don't like to fight, and you will certainly now go to Palestine.” They younger ones among us were immediately drafted into the army. The rest went to Poland hoping to find family members. From our group, only 60 people remained. Among the 60, only two intact families. We went to Lodz, where the returnees were concentrating.

After a certain amount of time in Lodz, Poland, we saw that we could not continue to live there, and to tie our children's future there. So we decided to go to Israel somehow. Our children left with the children's aliyah before us. We came via the DP camps of Germany, after the founding of Israel. We live here now, and are happy. From our children, we have nachess. We have eight grandchildren, and beg God for health and peace in the land. The specter of war makes us tremble, remembering the tragic times we lived through.

Footnote:

1. Stepan Bandera, Ukrainian antisemitic, far-right nationalist. Return

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At the beginning of the war, when they had begun bombing our shtetl, Tishevits, all the Jewish residents fled to the closest wooded areas outside the city, hoping to survive the first horrible days of the war. A few days later, the whole shtetl was engulfed in flames.

The panic was unbearable, and cries echoed through the whole forest.

Everyone was faced with the same question: where will we go now? And what awaits us in the future? Like other young people then, I gathered my courage, and went back to the city to see if our house had also burned down.

On the way out of the forest stood our rabbi, R' Artshele, with his whole family, huddled against the wall of a farmer's house. His gentle face was white as chalk. His blue eyes were full of fear. His whole body trembled. In his face, you could read the entire Jewish experience of grief.

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His eyes were pleading for help, and at the same time, expressed all the pain of the Jewish population of the shtetl, Tishevits.

But I was shattered even more by the distress of his wife, the Tishevits rebbetsin, and their helpless children.

Although I was not especially religious, I had always had special feelings for our religious, spiritual leaders, and my heart was truly breaking. But unfortunately, I could not help them in any way. That was the last time I saw our rebbe. But this scene has remained forever in my memory.

In the first row, standing, from right to left: Yechezkl Singer, Sholem Rov (Spodik), Chaimtche Zwillich (chazzan), Moishe Dovid Samit, Yankl Adler (Dutche's), Leibish Gelber, Berish Gelber Second row: Moishe Singer, Dovid Adler (Ozer's), Artshe (the rabbi), Moishe Zalman Lifsh (Kvetcher), Nataniel Gelber (Sani), Yasheh Shammes, Moishe Adler (Pshivoler)

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Chaya Halfman z”l was born in 1922, was a member of the partisan organization in the Tyszowce forests (Lublin Province).

In the summer of 1942, she was killed in the forest by a soldier of the Polish Home Army.

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Tishevits is considered one of the smaller shtetls in Poland. Nevertheless, it possessed a goal-oriented youth, an active youth, in almost all political movements and hues of Jewish life.

Shaya Shtengel, z”l

No, they wanted to take part in all the historical struggles occurring at the time, whether in Poland, or in Russia.

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This active contingent of young people went out into the world to fight, each according to his intellect and moral convictions.

Moishe Krempel volunteered to fight in Spain in 1936, in the Botvin Brigade^[1] against Franco and his fascist regime. Other young people left for the larger cities to fight and to be more effective in their national and social aspirations.

One of these idealists was Shaya Shtengel. Shaya began his idealistic social activities in “Yung-Bar,” continued in “Yugent Komitet” of the leftist Poalei Zion, was a a keen student in the “evening courses for adults.” In 1931, he moved to Warsaw and immediately became active in Poalei Zion “Yugent.”

By trade a painter, he was very active in the professional association of his trade. He was treated by everyone with great love and respect.

During the war years, Shtengel was the editor of Poalei Zion's monthly journal, “Die Freieh Yugent.” On November 11, 1933, my wife, Shifre, and I travelled through Warsaw on our way to Canada. Shaya Shtengel, with a cousin of ours, Yidl Danziger, a student at the religious teachers seminary, came to visit us and to say good-bye.

After receiving greetings from the shtetl, the talk turned to the sad world situation in general, and the Jewish case in particular where we saw a significant win by the Nazi party in the elections to the Reichstag; and the sad situation of the Polish Jews, who were not being allowed to travel to Palestine because of the British quota system. And whoever had the ability to save himself, should do so. It was an aware person and Jew who stood before us, who understood and had correctly evaluated the situation at that time, but who was nevertheless full of faith that our ideals were right and would triumph.

Looking for material on the subject “Tishevits in Holocaust literature,” I came on the name, Shaya (Yeshiahu) Shtengel in the large, monumental work of Melech Neustadt–“Destruction and Resistance of the Jews in Warsaw–Testimonies and Memorials–Tel Aviv 1948, 2 volumes. And in the section–the Fallen on Guard–page 693, Melech Danziger writes:

“Shtengel Yeshiahu (Shaya): From the shtetl Tishevits near Chelm. A construction worker, a rare occupation among Polish Jews. Shaya was very respected in his shtetl. A loyal member of the youth movement of the leftist Poalei Zion. Coming to Warsaw before the war, he faithfully continued his work as an active and important

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doer of “Yugent.” He was also involved in the youth section of the professional union of construction workers. In a letter from Poalei Zion to their colleagues in Eretz-Israel–of May 21, 1944–he is mentioned as one of those members who remained active at their posts until their final moment. He was 30 years old at the time.

In a second spot in the above-mentioned book, page 232, in a letter from Adolph (Dr. A. Berman) of the central committee of Poale Zion, Warsaw, May 24, 1944, to the comrades in Israel, Dr. Berman gives a report about the progress of the resistance and life in the ghetto, the activities of various comrade-leaders, how they conscientiously performed in all aspects of the work, and helped in the ghetto. Among others, Dr. Berman singles out a number of comrades “who actively worked up to the last minute of their lives, taking part in the organization of the armed resistance, or fighting until they fell in battle.”

One of the 35 participants cited was our comrade, Shaya Shtengel.

Yakov Kenner in his book, “Kvershnit,” 1897-1947, New York, 1947, in the third part under the name, Yizkor, memorializes with words of gratitude the martyrs, and holy warriors who died in the battle against the Nazis, may their name be erased.

Yakov Kenner dedicates a whole part of his book to Shaya Shtengel, page 271, which we publish here in its entirety.

“Shaya Shtengl, a painter worker from the shtetl, Tishevits, between Chelm and Hrubieszow–came to Warsaw in order to benefit culturally and to take part in a large mass organization.

As a painter, he also made a living in Tishevits. Tishevits possessed a strong Poalei Zion “Yugent,” but no party could develop there, because when a young person grew up, he wandered away abroad, or at least to Warsaw, because at home an adult worker had no future. An exception in this regard in Tishevits was Shaya Shtengel. Because of the painter's trade he inherited from his father and brother, he looked for bigger prospects than the shtetl could provide. Every Shabbes, he wanted to hear a new speaker, he wanted to see Yiddish theater, and

[Page 262]

he wanted to rise to greater political activity in the ranks of the party organization not available to him in Tishevits.

So he came to Warsaw full of naïve imaginings, and honest ideals. He quickly got himself set financially in his trade, and quickly became active in the youth section of the Jewish construction union under the leadership of the late comrade, Lazar Stolier. He associated early on with the “Yugent,” as a political-cultural organization, and he slaked his thirst somewhat for culture in the widely diverse cultural activities available.

The last few years, he belonged to the party, but he never gave up his ties to “Yugent” where he was politically and spiritually raised. He was strongly motivated to emigrate to Israel in latter years, where he could put his skills as a certified painter in the service of the country. He was just waiting for his newborn son to get a little older. In the meantime, war broke out which put an end to his hopes. Later came the underground activities of the Jewish battle organization, and he became its technician. He built the central bunkers, installed the secret underground command radio station, and when the ghetto uprising broke out, he died a hero's death. “

Shaya Shtengl received a Jewish upbringing in his home, and in his shtetl. In the Poalei Zion party, he learned the spirit of justice, and the synthesis of socialism in the workers' Eretz Israel.

And when the time came to fight against the greatest enemy of the Jewish People, Shaya Shtengel stood in the first ranks to defend Jewish honor in the spirit of our Maccabees. He died a hero's death on the battlefield.

Footnote:

1. In December 1937, a Jewish company, the Botvin Brigade, was formed from mainly Polish Jews and political emigrés from France and Belgium. It was named after Naphtali Botvin who had been executed by the Polish authorities in 1924. (Jewish Chronicle) Return

[Page 263]

Much has been told, and more will be told, by eyewitnesses to what the Nazi soldiers did to their Jewish victims. Many will never see the light of day. The massacred took their secrets to the grave. Only a few of the survivors managed to draw from the depths of their souls the tragic events that befell entire families and individuals who left no sign or trace of their existence on earth. And the oblivion- covers layer upon layer, a whole wide world that has been destroyed. About breastfed babies who were murdered before they tasted the taste of life. The heavens were shut. My cousin, Tovale, brings up one of the unknown tragic events that befell the youth who were plucked before they blossomed, helpless people who expected salvation from the grace of Heaven, and Iszai and her mother Rachel Pump of the Zwilich family (Mendelowic).

When the war broke out in 1939 I was about eight years old. The school year had come to an end, and we had been looking forward to the festive ceremony of handing out the certificates for the end of the school year the following day. But the echoes of gunfire, and the panicked flight in every direction, transported us to a different reality. Tyszowce went up in flames. That night we found ourselves on a wagon loaded with belongings and a little food on the way to the village of Kraczew near Komarów. We were not the only ones who escaped on that sleepless night. Some escaped in wagons and some on foot, not knowing where to go. The sky turned red and lit the way to the entrance to the forest. The mystery of the forest did not frighten me at that time. I was too young to feel the magnitude of the threatening danger, and what we were afraid of. We kept quiet. Here we found shelter for a while with a farmer we knew. A considerable number of Jews stayed with gentiles in the Tyszowce area for another six months. Among them were my uncles Mendl and Melech Zwilich and some of their family members, as well as Iszai Zwilich and his family (my uncle Zachariah and his family had left Tyszowce at the outbreak of the war). From time to time I came to them with the help of a farmer from the village and brought them food. One day, a gendarme took my uncle Mendl outside while he was making soap, and killed him on the spot. The fate of the other families was no different. Some found their death in the Zamość Ghetto, and some saturated the damned Tyszowce soil with their blood with the active assistance of their neighbors. Twelve families from Tyszowce hid for about a year in the village of Kraczew, until a rumor spread that the Germans were conducting searches for Jews in hiding in the villages, and that every farmer who sheltered a Jew would be executed. The twelve families immediately left the village and found refuge with a landowner (pritz) from Chortkov. He badly needed manpower on his farm and probably with the Germans' knowledge. Here, they were forced to do hard physical labor from sunrise to sunset, in exchange of a loaf of bread and a place to live in a shabby storeroom.

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It was also a death trap for the handful of Jews. In the morning of November 12 1942, the illusion reached its tragic end in accordance with the best of Nazi organization and methods. At dawn, several vehicles loaded with Germans surrounded the farm from all sides, and took every Jew who was outside the farm, while shooting in the air in every direction. They gathered together all the inhabitants of the village, young and old, and the farm workers, to watch the horror show. It is hard to describe this horrible sight the way a ten year old girl saw it! I would never forget the screams and cries that reached the heavens.

The Germans, in order to sate their sadism, ordered three Jews to dig a large grave, and when it was completed they aimed their weapon at them and killed them. This is how they abused the last Jew in the place.

I don't know how it happened. When I stood there next to my parents by the open grave, a Christian boy, one of the farm workers, grabbed my hand, pulled me to the side and shouted at me to come home at once. The Germans were too busy and did not notice what was happening, that's how I escaped and saved my life. From a distance of several meters I heard the shots that killed my parents and my brother David. I fled from the place and hid in a pit in the field. At night I came out and returned to the big grave. I cried there all night. I knew that from then on I wouldn't have a living soul to take care of me and protect me. From then on I felt, in a tangible way, the concept of fear of humans. The animals were closer to me. They didn't hurt me. I hid in the forest in a tree, collected scraps of food in the forest and in the fields, and revived my soul. On days when I couldn't get anything to eat, I ate tree bark. I also collected some sacks from the fields which served me as clothes and cover from the cold. I wrapped my legs in rags, and so I wandered from place to place at the mercy of Heaven. Amazingly, I never got sick in the years of hell, not even once. Over time, I lost count of the days; I didn't know when it was a holiday. The ringing of the bells reminded me it was Sunday, and the gentiles' holidays aroused fear in me.

In 1944, when the first signs appeared that the war was about to end, I came out more in the surrounding area in order to hear news from the girls in the village. From them, I learned that a number of Jews who were hiding in the villages and the forests were flocking to Zamość, to a concentration station for Jewish survivors from the entire area. The son of one of the farmers took me to Zamość. There I met for the first time strangers brought closer to each other by the shared fate of being Jewish. From then on, I was no longer lonesome and haunted by my own shadow. I moved with them from place to place towards the final stop, Eretz Yisrael.

However, all the hardships of the war years did not pass without leaving their mark on me. First, I fell ill with typhus, and all the rest came one after the other. The wounds on my body may have healed, but I will never forget the scars left on my soul and spirit from that day and night of horrors of November 12 1942, and the years of loneliness in the forest.

In 1947, I arrived in Italy together with groups of Jewish youth who had survived the camps. Here, they took good care of us in an Israeli atmosphere, and tried to give us back some of the joy of youth that had passed forever. We studied part of the curriculum of the schools in Israel, geography, singing, dancing and the way of life in Israel, and here I also found my future husband in one of the instructors who, like me, was a Holocaust survivor, and we built a new nest in our country.

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Related by Berl Eidelsberg, (son of “Der Weisser Yosef,”and Fradl Oizer's) and his wife Elke (nee Adler, daughter of Bentche Datcheh Oizer's and Miriam, descended from the “Tsapess”) who lived in the suburbs. They left Tishevits with the arrival of the Germans, and survived along with their two children. They now live in Israel.

When the Germans, may their name be erased, left Poland, we began to look for our relatives, but unfortunately we were unable to find any alive. We were in Tishevits twice, once at the beginning of 1945. The goyim, our well-known neighbors like Frenek Dziabinsky, who lived in the same courtyard as my father, and other neighbors, said that they helped the Jews a lot, above all my father and brothers. But when I asked them why they didn't hide any of my brothers or sisters, they had no answer. We looked for traces of anyone at all, but we could not find any information. A year later, when we were living in Lodz, some goyim approached us to buy our house. We learned from them that my brothers Voveh and Laizer, and other young boys and young women from Tishevits were provided with work by the nobleman from Dobuzek, Kalaczkowski, My uncle, a”h, appealed to him that he should ask the Germans to give him ten young men, and several women for work. They worked there until, one day, some Germans arrived, demanded that the Jews be taken from their work, and shot everyone. They told me this took place in the summer of 1942. Then we traveled to Tishevits for the second time. We wanted to gather the bones together of all the martyrs in one grave. They told us however

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that no one knew exactly where the Jews were buried, because the majority of the Jews were sent to Belzec. There were gas chambers there, but they shot our brothers and sisters in the city and the suburbs. Obviously, we were unable to accomplish anything by ourselves. Where the city of Tishevits once stood is now an empty place. Where the market once was, only a few booths and stalls remained. It was a Wednesday, a market day, farmers brought everything like they had done before the war, only a little less, but the Jewish stores, the Jewish taverns, the Jewish mills, the Jewish granaries, the Jewish streets, were no longer there. We visited the place where the old cemetery was, now a field of rye. The rye was growing tall and beautiful, nicer and higher than in our rye fields. We also went to visit our mothers who are buried in the new cemetery. On the way there, we found ourselves walking on tombstones, torn away from the graves it seems, or maybe not yet inscribed, because we could see no letters on the stone. It was Wednesday, and the farmers were traveling to the market from the villages. They recognized us, and even greeted us. How are you? Where are you? Where are you living? They were “happy” to see us, showed us “love,” and spoke with hatred of the Germans. Every one of them assured us that we could come live in Tishevits together in peace.

Then we asked them about our brothers and sisters and why none of them were capable of hiding a Jew. They had no answer. We then traveled back to Tishevits with the thought that we would organize all the Tishevitsers found in Poland, and we would all make an effort to gather the bones of our martyrs. We soon joined with the Tishevitsers from Wroclaw. We decided on a date to meet in Wroclaw. I was then in Wroclaw. I myself contributed 25,000 zlotys to encourage others to contribute. We decided to establish a committee with Moishe Krempl as chairman, and approach the Tishevitsers from America, Argentina, Peru, and other countries to raise an amount of money in order to travel to Tishevits, and arrange for the burial of the scattered victims. But unfortunately, not everyone was so enthusiastic and dedicated to the task. The initiative went over to Wroclaw where the majority of the Tishevitsers lived. But they dragged it out so long that the Tishevitsers left Poland. Once in Israel, we heard that something was done in that respect.

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The following letter was written by a Christian from Tishevits in 1950 to Dov Shpiz in Israel. In the letter, she mentions his parents, Leibish Dovid Garbert and wife Ruchel Tzalkess, and their four children, and also Bentzieh Shpiz and his family.
The Milstein family is also mentioned here. They were called Rozers.
(The letter is translated from Polish)

2.1.1950

Dear Berko

The letter we received from you brought us a lot of joy, because we learned that you were among the survivors. None of your parents survived. They were killed by the Germans. After you left, Lubeh married a Jew from Warsaw. The Jews from Warsaw were brought to Tishevits to control the river flow. He got to know Lubeh, and they got married. He stayed on in the shtetl, because in Warsaw there was no food. People were dying of hunger there. Within the year, she gave birth to a boy who later died. The Germans continued to persecute the Jews, and in 1943, Shavuot, they attacked the Jewish homes at night, drove all the Jews out to a square, loaded them onto trucks and the remainder onto wagons, and took them to Zamosc, and murdered them there. Among those who traveled in the wagons was Lube, and with a few others, she managed to escape. The driver was an acquaintance, and the German had fallen asleep. Returning to the shtetl, she was unable to find her husband, and she went to her parents. Your father, mother, Etl Chava and Moishe were hiding in the house, Lube with them.

The Germans persecuted the remaining Jews even more. Your mother and children crossed the river and hid in the meadows, and your father fled to the forest. While Chavah was off looking for your father, your mother and the children were burnt in the Meadows. Chavah stayed with us because she had nowhere else to go, and was waiting for her father to come back from the forest, and take her with him. Your father used to come to us every second night to get some food, and he took her with him. There were four of them, your father, Chavah, Mendl Ruben's, and Somer's boy. They were in the forest until February. When they were captured, they refused to reveal who was providing them with food, so they were burned. There is no one left from your family.

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About your house: the Germans sold it for demolition, and it was demolished. The place was taken over by the “Tibulchikin.” We wanted to build a house on the place, but she wouldn't allow us. On your grandfather, Dovid's, place, where Bentche had built a brick house, Faral Leon lives there now. His wife and daughters were hidden at Maliss's in the stable. They were discovered and burnt in the “valley.” The sons, Yekl, Chaim and Motl worked in the village for a nobleman, and they were murdered there. The rest of the places are free. You should know that Ludwig Stelmalczik died, and his sons, Kazik, Vladek, and Franek, and Stelmalczik Ignaz, and Walaszen's wife and son, Stach, two Tibulik brothers from Komarow, and others, altogether 9 people were murdered in the Zamosc prochawnia. Now it's called the “rotunda.”

We are all in good health, but my brother, Tomek, died in 1944. My older son, Czecho, got married, and is attending a trade school. He lives in Szczeczyn. My mother is still alive. She is 80 years old. I write to you about certain neighbors. Masheh Chazer's had a bunker in her house where 10 people stayed. They were able to hide for a few days. After that they were discovered, and in the courtyard near the bridge at Hodes's place, they were killed. A lot of people were murdered there. Today the place is called “ghetto.” Itche Chazer, who went with you to Russia, stayed there a short time, then returned to the shtetl. He hid for a year in the village with his brother, Hersh. Later, they were murdered near Koles's house, and buried in the valley on the other side of the river.

I will end here. Next time, I will write you everything about who was killed and where they are buried.

Awaiting your reply, your neighbors,

Manke and Ignasz.

Greetings to your brother, Yakov, and greetings from all.

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