[Column 586]

Early in 1943 fights began to break out between the Polish and Ukrainian gangs, mostly at night. At that time, we were in a bunker at Bronek Skzhak's, in Viekhov, 12 kilometers from Ludmir. ^[1] One morning he told us that he had to leave the village because of roving gangs. We had to make the decision whether to stay or go into the Ludmir ghetto.

We decided to enter the ghetto. It was a difficult 12–kilometer trip to the ghetto, as we were easily recognizable by our shabby appearance. Our group included Ethel the seamstress (I don't remember her last name) and her two daughter Tsupe and Sore. They went to a different place, where the third daughter and her husband were hiding. They left me with a non–Jewish acquaintance of theirs, named Stakhe; I did not know her at all. She wanted to try me out and ordered me to do all the housework. I exhausted my strength trying to please her, and waited for night, hoping to lay myself on the floor and rest my weary bones. As I waited for sleep, Stakhe let me know that her husband, who was in the police force, came home drunk every night and might shoot me. She also assured me that she would hide me under the cabinet before he came in. Meanwhile, I stretched out on the floor but couldn't sleep, for terror. The moment I started to doze off out of exhaustion, I heard footsteps: her husband and a policeman friend. They were standing by the cabinet, laughing and describing how Jews were pulled out of their hiding–places, in return for a bounty. Then Stakhe's drunken husband turned to her and shouted wildly, “If I find a Jew here, I'll shoot you both.” Such were the torments in which I spent several nights under the cabinet. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I begged Stakhe to lead me to the ghetto. I finally convinced her, and she took me there, risking her own life.

When I got to the ghetto, Kadosh and Ringel from Hruibyszow, who knew me well, started to question me about where I had been. The orders stipulated that every newcomer be taken into custody for a few weeks until he was legally registered in order to get work and food. I was not arrested, but as I was not legal I had to hide in an attic day and night, together with others in my situation, under terrible sanitary conditions. Conditions were unbearable, and I decided to sneak out of the ghetto, although I had nowhere to go. The only road out of the ghetto ran by the prison. The watchman on his rounds noticed me, though I was already far away, and yelled at me to stop. I pretended to ignore him and went on. I'm sure he thought I was non–Jewish, because I was barefoot and had a white shawl around my head. I cannot express the terror I felt.

I noticed a house on the way, and, not knowing who was inside, I saw a non–Jew with a crutch; with his shock of white hair, he looked like a robber. I stood at the door, petrified with fear. When he asked me who I was and what I wanted, I burst out crying, and told him everything I had been through. He was silent for a long time, thinking, and then asked me to wait until he talked with his wife. They decided to take me as a servant for their children. They themselves were refugees from the village of Stepakovitch, and destitute. ^[2] While they were preparing bread and potatoes, I made myself at home with the children, especially with the five–year–old girl Genia, who took to me with all her heart.

[Column 587]

Once the harvest was over, they did not need me anymore. At the same time, more posters started to appear, announcing that anyone hiding a Jew would be shot along with his family. As I was packing my poor bundle and preparing to leave, the little girl burst out crying loudly to her family, and started shrieking in spasms: “If Polya goes away I will go with her, and let them shoot me along with her.” The child's voice was so powerful that her parents took pity on me and decided to let me stay. Sometime later I convinced a non–Jew to dig a bunker and a stable, and hide a few more Jews, in return for pay. This enabled 13 people to stay alive, including Shlomo Shtern from Zamosc, Shiyeh Shtemer, Moysheleh (I don't remember his last name), Rivele Rayz and her three children, Dr. Landau, and a few more Jews whose names I can't remember. One Saturday morning our landlord, Piotr, called us to the window, close to the ghetto, and showed us that the third pogrom had started. From a distance, I saw the terrible scenes: young and old were taken out, naked, and loaded onto trucks. They were taken away to the nearest stand of trees past the bridge, drenched in kerosene, and burned alive. Anyone who tried to run away was shot. The stench of the burned bodies persisted for a long time. The people I mentioned above, who had previously been in the ghetto, hid in “my” non–Jew's bunker, survived the pogrom, and went their separate ways. This was in the early winter of 1943, because as I remember there was already frost and snow.

[Column 588]

One Wednesday afternoon Before sunset, A truck came by, full of police – The disaster took place. They shot my husband, and two small children. When I remember this, Oy, how my heart aches!... I lay further away, I heard it all. I couldn't help them at all, Couldn't move from the spot. Oy, oy, babies, Oy, oy, little swallows! Where are your bones? Wrapped in rags, I lie there and weep…

  Volodymyr Volynskyy, Ukraine     Yizkor Book Project     JewishGen Home Page

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