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The ADMo”R Shmuel Rabinovich

The young Rabbi, at age twenty-two, delved into studies day and night, and was also involved in matters of community concern. In a short time, his residence became a committee meeting place for sages from all walks of the city.

The number of visitors to his home continued to grow, and rabbis came to discuss matters of the Torah. Many came from all over to take counsel in matters of marriage, etc. A steady contingent for a prayer quorum was established in his house for morning and evening prayers. Worshipers streamed to the Rebbe's house from all parts of the city to enjoy his speeches and prayers on the Sabbath and festivals. The prayer service for Rosh Hashana ended in the afternoon, but the Rebbe's admirers stayed on and filled the prayer house till there was no more room. They would not be refused the opportunity to hear regal sayings, memories, and Shofar blowing by the Rebbe. His blessed influence was recognized by all segments of the population of the city and its surroundings - in the congregation of Hasidim, among the intelligentsia, ordinary citizens, to the assimilated officials of government. They all related to the Rebbe with respect and admiration.

When Rabbi Rimmelt, the Rabbi of the city, left Zolkiew at the outbreak of the First World War in 1914, the community still needed answers to their questions. The Rebbe went beyond the conventional limits of the Halakhah, took on the leadership of the city and dealt diligently with

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the community's needs. Every embittered person in the city and war refugees from other cities, found a sympathetic ear and a supporting hand from him. The Rebbe's home was open during all hours of the day.

The education of the city's children experienced upheavals and difficulties during the First World War. Many parents were drafted into the Austrian army, and those who were sent to the front and fell in battle, left orphans behind. In addition, there were children of war refugees in Zolkiew who had no education. The situation demanded the implementation of a rapid resolution. This matter was brought to the attention of R' Shmuel Rabinovich, who, with the help of the city dignitaries, revived the education at the Talmud Torah, a place for Jewish education which was established for all the children of the city who were in need of study and education.

One of his undertakings worth stressing was the initiative of ‘Kicha d' Pascha’.^[1] He personally committed himself to this, together with other dignitaries from the citizenry. He did not allow anyone to avoid carrying out their responsibility toward the needy and poor of the city, and put the pressure of tradition on those who tried to avoid it, by saying: ‘You belong either to the givers or the takers’. In a specific instance, when someone was not quick to donate, the Rebbe put two lists in front of him - one of donors, and one of receivers, and he was to choose on which list he wished to add his name.

The community appreciated the many activities undertaken by the Rabbi, and supported him in every possible way. He was formally accepted by the community council in Zolkiew where he was accorded much honor. Almost every Jew in the city visited him several times a year. All of the synagogues attempted to invite him to conduct their services at least once a year, because everyone enjoyed listening to his sweet voice.

He had a great attachment to and affection for the Land of Israel. He kept a special box for collecting donations for the Land. It seems that the work of his three brothers had a strong influence upon him. He ordered etrogim from the Land of Israel before the Sukkot holiday, distributed them to the synagogues in the city, and passed along the donations he had received on behalf of the Land of Israel.

The thread would run short describing the greatness of the ADMo”R Rabinovich זצ”ל, his nobility and the largeness of his heart. His many students will never forget him. The ADMo”R R' Shmuel Rabinovich was taken out to be executed, together with the members of his family, by the Gestapo in the year 1943, after they found him hiding in a bunker.

Editor's note:

1. Obligation to provide money or food to the poor before Passover. Return

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Dr. Meir Wachs

He was highly regarded for his medical practice and his humanity in the entire Zolkiew and Lvov vicinity. He earned a great deal of honor because of his extensive medical knowledge, his good temperament, and his relationship to the well-being of humanity. He also displayed a good sense of humor through his knowledgeable joking.

When he was not engaged in his professional work, he spent time on artistic endeavors and was indeed a talented artist. All of his pictures that were hung in his home were pillaged by the Nazis and sent to Germany. He also was fond of gardening, and he worked in his flower garden every day. He did not belong to a partisan group, and did not lean in any particular direction. His interest was in the living nation, and he supported all Zionist initiatives, and also never refused to provide assistance to those who needed it.

My father committed suicide on October 21, 1942 during the Aktion in Zolkiew. Before he died, he returned to our home and said that while he was still alive, he would not be touched by a Nazi murderer.

For the entire summer of 1942, until the Aktion of October, Jews who were removed from Eastern Galicia (Kolomyya, Kuty, Tarnopol, Stanislawow) passed through our city to the extermination camp at Belzec. The people already knew that they were being taken to their death, and having no hope, many jumped from the trains along the way. The Gestapo people would shoot these escapees, and many were also wounded just from the jump. Those who were severely wounded and needed medical attention, and reached as far as Zolkiew, were gathered up from the path of the railroad tracks, and placed in ordinary homes for their care.

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The first person who organized help for these people, called jumpers, was Pap'keh Fish. Everyone in Zolkiew knew her. She was the only Jewish nurse in the city and was a recognizable figure because of her hunchback. She lived with her mother in a small room in which there were two beds. She shared one bed with her mother, and the second bed was allocated to a severely injured person from among the jumpers who needed special attention. These two women supported themselves by selling their possessions, but they always gave help even to the general community.

Pap'keh put young girls to work. I was in a group together with my friends Genya Astman, Klara Letzter, and Monida Dagan.

The wounded were put up in simple homes. Those who needed surgery were brought to the hospital. The hospital was somewhat safe from the Germans. As there were so many infectious diseases among patients in the hospital, the Germans were afraid to enter into it. But there was also a problem of how to support these people. The residents of Zolkiew were unable to give food to the wounded lodged in these houses, and it was only in very rare instances that a family could spare some thin bread for the wounded person. Even the hospital was unable to provide food for the sick and wounded.

My mother, Mrs. Melman, and Mrs. Patrontacz cooked soup together, all day, and we carried the soup to houses where the wounded were staying, in the Lvov square, the market and alleys in the area, up to the edge of ul. Glinski, to every place where a Jewish family volunteered to house a wounded person. There was also a need to collect clothing, because the jumpers arrived naked and without anything of their own. We also made bandages for the wounded who could not reach the ‘pharmacy’, which was the house of Pap'keh Fish.

Only the lives of those people who were taken along with the people of Zolkiew to be exterminated in the Aktion of October, or died of Typhus in the ghetto, were counted.

Mrs. Orenstein and her daughter Hella, who currently live in Petach-Tikva, were among those who jumped from the train cars and reached Zolkiew, received help and then passed through the events of the war without harm. The city of Zolkiew had a tradition of being steeped in culture, and there were Jews there who were always ready to come to the aid of their brethren in trouble.

Although my father, Sender Lifschitz, spent most of his time outside of the city because of the work he did to earn a living, there were very few people in the city who did not know him. He was an energetic man with an extraordinary ability for hard work. He did not know what it meant to rest in his concern for supporting his house. He passed through many villages surrounding the city over the course of a month and developed ties with nobility, property owners, and rich and poor farmers, from whom he purchased excess crops. He brought grain to the city and sold it to affluent merchants.

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Those who were not of our people and dealt with him and trusted him. They relied on his honesty and knowledge, opening their hearts to him with affection, and listened with care to his advice.

Sender Lifschitz was a tradition-observant Jew and worshiped his God with all his heart. He was not fanatic in matters of religion or party. He had many friends to whom he was committed without bounds. His friends, as well as ordinary Jews of the city, frequently requested that he serve as a single arbitrator or one of the arbitrators of various disputes in which they were involved. The Ukrainian judge, Singlewic, occasionally invited my father into his courtroom to arbitrate cases, in order to eliminate the required expenses of a trial, and release him from handling the disputes. Sender had an amazing ability in matters of this sort, not to mention his extensive general knowledge despite the fact his education had been limited to a few grades in the elementary school.

Sender occasionally encountered trouble with people in difficult disputes because of his involvement in community affairs, but he never favored an individual over another, whether Jewish or non-Jewish or if he liked or did not like someone.

During the terrifying fate of our people in Zolkiew, Sender Lifschitz survived and lived in a bunker together with his wife and son until 1943. He was captured and killed on 1 Nissan 5703 (April 6, 1943), only ten days after his wife died. He also saw no purpose in living without her.

Wolf was his name, but many just called him the Engineer. He was one of the first Jewish engineers in the city, and was very well liked. He was of medium height, had curly hair, a small but alert face, and a warm heart. He was a man of energy and getting things done. He brought his wife's orphaned brother, Iziu Zager, into his home, supported him and sent him to the gymnasium and polytechnic institute in Lvov. When Iziu decided to marry, Wolf provided the couple with a place in his home and took them both in. His teachers at the gymnasium understood the greatness of the man who was supporting Iziu, and occasionally canceled fees for Izio that were levied on the students.

Lichtenberg was a Zionist, completely committed with all of his heart to the concept of a renaissance and a reconstruction of The Land. It was not the Bet HaMedrash or the Heder, nor the writing of Peretz, Smolenskin, and not the education he got in his father's home that brought him into the Zionist camp. Rather, it was Khoyla, the international newspaper distributed to the Jews of Eastern Galicia in the period between the world wars, the general atmosphere of the city and the country at the time, and his own deep spiritual calling. He never attended the fiery speeches at gatherings before elections. He found satisfaction in the Drama Circle, a Jewish cultural group that was founded by Meir Melman. Wolf was not an actor in the drama club, but rather a worker behind the scenes who helped to prepare the stage and its sets. He was very interested in the Agudah, which he saw as an entity to fill the idle time of young men and women. He enjoyed pleasant group leisure, and reading newspapers and books.

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In 1934, his oldest son Romek studied at the Polytechnic in Prague. Lichtenberg was concerned about his son's future and decided to send him to Haifa, in the Land of Israel, where Romek finished his studies at the Technion in Haifa, and he serves as an engineer for the Solel-Boneh group.

He was called Der krumer Berisz, Berisz the Cripple. He was one of the Hasidim of the Rebbe of Belz, as were all the members of his household, but he did not have the fervor of Hasidism in him. He found spare time to read stories and legends and secular books.

Battles occurred in the center of the city between Russians, Austrians, and the Germans, during the First World War. One time, Ettinger's family visited the house of Moshe-Michael Rad. The adults talked about the events of the war while the little ones gathered around Berisz Ettinger, who told them stories and legends that they had never heard before. I remember an incident that took place when Berisz Ettinger saw me holding a book by Shimon Branfeld, which provided an analysis of scripture. The book contained many elements that are considered to be heretical with regard to Jewish tradition. A believing Jew would not want to know the arguments in the book, in order not to forfeit his place in the World to Come. But Berisz the Cripple, the simple and repulsive person to look at, was not dissuaded from reading the book, and to significant wonder, he did not get angry at the author and his book.

Berisz Ettinger was a saloon guy. He frequented taverns in which farmers from the villages gathered on market days and fairs, and smoked cigarettes and pipes. There was always an odor of strong drink and vomit, and the voices of drunkards abounding. Berisz the Cripple was supposed to be earning bread for his wife, his sons, daughters and grandchildren all of whom were crammed into two rooms, one of which served as a kitchen. The house was full of furniture and bedding, and bedbugs got into every place, the cracks in the wall and even the homes of neighbors. However, when Passover drew near, a great deal of activity began in R'Berisz's house before the evening of the seder. The women took out all of the furnishings, beds, closets, tables and books; they aired everything out and cleaned it all. They washed the furniture and floors with warm water and patched the walls. When the night of the Seder arrived, his family had the feeling of a good holiday just like most of the rich and wealthy families in the city, and like kings and princes, they surrounded the table and sang out their songs with a happy heart, as fervent Hasidism.

Moshe Rad was the son of Gudl Rad. He studied Torah to an excess, and when he reached eighteen years old, he married his cousin, the daughter of his aunt Sarah Rachel. Sara Rachel is the daughter of Meir Apfelschnitt from the Vynnyky neighborhood, who had a store in the marketplace and a partnership in tobacco sales. He became wealthy during the time of the First World War, because the kingdom of the Emperor Franz Josef II sold cigarette tobacco to the merchants at a pre-war price. The merchants re-sold some of it at a regular price and the rest was spirited away to the very active black market.

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His store was put out of business by the many farmers and thieves who came in groups from the nearby city of Rawa-Ruska during market and fair days. On more normal days, and during the days of Polish rule, Mr. Melman did not have a reason to complain about the lack of buyers and absence of income. As a respected homeowner, he knew what he was worth, both from the standpoint of his connections, and also his wealth and Torah study. Accordingly, he demanded honors for himself in the Great Synagogue when he led services and was called to the Torah. He also expected to be honored at the time of elections to the community council and the Municipal Council. He was a Zionist and member of the Mizrahi Party, but he was also a faithful Polish citizen and spoke well about the government. He demanded things for his own good and tranquility, in a way that was not opposed by his fellow Jews. He also had plenty of opponents, in the Bet-HaMedrash, who did not forgo any opportunity to block or steal honors from him, which he claimed as his. Or they angered him during elections, by calling attention to his shortcomings. It is possible that his pursuit of honors and his wealth created the development of his opponents.

Moshe Michael loved to play chess. He spent many hours bent over the chess board in his home and in his store. Occasionally customers would stand over him, and wait for him to raise his head and turn to them. His game directed his spirit more than his concern for a customer.

Moshe, and most of his family, were short in stature. His father, Shmuel'tzi Katz, was a kohen in the synagogue and known for his short temper, but Moshe'leh was quiet and very modest. He was intellectually gifted and diligent, a good son to his parents, and readily received and loved by his friends. He taught elementary lessons, and he turned over the money he earned to his parents. He didn't study to prepare himself for a direction in life, but he did eventually enter law school. What is the surprise? After all, his brother Chaim finished his studies in history and was without work, and no chance to find work in his field, as was the case with many of his friends.

Moshe'leh Katz became a lawyer and opened an office. His income was sufficient enough for him to pay rent and the excessive fees of the authorities, and he was left with only pocket money. He was not like the fiery and stormy lawyers in his profession, but the interests that he pursued in Keren Kayemet, in Hitakhdut, and in an academic group, he served seriously and with commitment. His friends loved him, not only for his modesty but also because of his honesty and love of the truth.

Moshe'li Sobol, the youngest son of Shammai Sobol, was a man of the book, and a well-to-do egg merchant. Moshe'li used his father's money, especially for his studies. As one of the regulars of the Bet-HaMedrash of the past, he was not a man of deeds. Effort and nerve were his hallmark, and he took the paths to reach his goal. When he was young, he traveled to Vienna to study Hebrew Pedagogy from Rabbi Tz. P. Khayot. He studied commerce at the high school,

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and then economics in Italy. He returned to our city after receiving the degree of Doctor, but there were not many opportunities for a person of his education to become established. He revealed a particular talent for organizing group work, such as the Zionist Organizations, and the Academic Group, and assisting his father in the management of his businesses. He strolled through the streets of the city, accompanied by male and female friends, engaging in discussions laced with humor and joking. He lived in a darkened anticipation for a better future, more purpose-oriented, and honed his skills. He was fluent in Hebrew and German, and also spoke English and Italian. He even learned Arabic, but he did not make aliyah to Israel because he lacked the nerve to do so. He was also discouraged by the aliyah of his older brother Avraham, who was not able to put down roots in The Land, and returned home after a year. Moshe'leh tried his luck in France before the First World War began, but in those days, the environment in France was not particularly comfortable for immigrants from Eastern Europe, especially Jews, and Moshe'leh returned to Zolkiew.

His fate was like that of the entire family of Shammai Sobol and all the Jews of the city.

He was in the habit of signing his name as M. M. M., meaning Mendl Metzger, Mathematician, and his friends made fun of him by adding a fourth M for Meshuggener.

He finished only four years in the public school and when he started in the gymnasium, his personality changed almost immediately. He became a poet, a thinker of ideas, a man of science, a reader of many books, especially science books, and he even delved into hypnosis. He tried to invent a telephone and other things. He did not particularly stand out in the gymnasium, not for the lack of ability, but because of his many interests in different areas outside of school. Sometimes he would stay in class, but he was not inspired by his classes. Mickiewicz, the leading Polish poet was left behind his grade in school, and Einstein was left back in the sixth grade.

Professor Wohlman taught the higher level classes in the gymnasium. Mendl grated on this teacher with his questions and observations that were meant to demonstrate the mistakes of the elderly teacher, and the paucity of his knowledge. He was forced to leave the gymnasium in Zolkiew, and he attended the Jewish gymnasium in Lvov instead. He praised the studies and the teachers there, especially teachers of Hebrew subjects. He taught mathematics to his classmates during his free time, and simple lessons to younger students. He earned a great deal of money doing this, which raised him out of poverty. He did not abandon mathematics, and after he completed his studies at the high school, he signed up to study mathematics in the university. It was said that he failed many tests. Is this possible? It appears that he learned and knew a lot, but not what was required for the test.

He worked hard on behalf of the Revisionist Party in the city. He praised Jabotinsky and supported his ideology and the Zionist movement. However, we do not know why his fiery spirit for Zionism began to cool. After a while, it became known

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in the city that Mendl Metzger was an ardent and active communist. This ended when he got into a disagreement with the Polish police, found guilty and sent to prison for five years.

After serving out his time, he decided to return to studying. Or so he said.

The pressure of being near Lvov influenced their clothing, attitudes, and use of the Polish language. Some of these young women studied at the government gymnasium for boys and even passed the test for graduation. When a secular seminary for female teachers was established in the city, the young ladies studied there, however, when they graduated they were not able to work as teachers. The gates of the government schools were closed for Jewish teachers and the Jewish schools required its teachers to know the Hebrew language, the Tanakh, the history of the Jews, etc., in order to work there. The women spent their time in their parents' homes or taking evening strolls on the main city streets, especially the street which led to the train station, to see who was arriving and welcome those coming from Lvov. From time-to-time they attended the theater play presentations by the drama group founded by Meir Melman, the movies, and dance parties that were organized for Purim, Hanukkah or the night of Sylvester.

Few of the young women married at an early age. Many reached the age of thirty and up, and never married. Some of them remained old maid spinsters, possibly because the men of their age were not able to make a living and were still supported by their fathers. A dowry was required for marriage, and sometimes that was not possible on their part.

A few of the women were as follows.

Klara Apfel was the only daughter of Nathan Apfel. She studied in the gymnasium early in the day, before noon, and developed her talent as a pianist in the evenings. Apparently, she had good results with her music, and participated in musical presentations. She was fed up with sitting idly in her father's house and yearned for a young man to come and free her. She was pleasant, with blonde hair and a heavy and long braid that went down her back. She came from a respected Zionist family, but she had no dowry. For a long time she went out with a young Jewish judge, an unusual graduate who was invited to her city to work in government offices. He frequently visited the Apfel home, but this courting never reached the stage of a marriage. It is possible to hazard a guess that the parents had sleepless nights. Young men of her age and position made no effort to approach her.

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Who in Zolkiew did not know Fried'ka Shtiller? Many spoke of her, few took an interest in her, but there were some who were friendly and visited her in her home. Her parents moved from a village to Zolkiew when she was a little girl. She was educated only through elementary school. She was tall and pretty, clever and charming, spirited and had a skill for heartfelt conversation. Young men from the Boys Academy in the city were attracted to her and paid attention to her, and were not bothered by her limited knowledge. She was ignored at dance parties, and she was laughed at because of her village roots. She chose to minimize her contact with those who bothered her as such. When the time came for the men, who were born in 1905 to be examined for service in the Polish army, as required, they spent long nights running around the streets of the city, to punish their bodies so they would not be fit for military service. These men would remember her, and knock on her window, and invite her to come out with them, because she also was born in 1905.

My sister Chay'tcheleh, was so beautiful and cherished, quiet, and dedicated whole soul to her home and parents. We wanted her to live on the Christian side so she could be rescued, but she had such a strong fear of the S.S. and the Ukrainians, that she trembled out of terror, enmity and revulsion, even when she saw them from a distance.

As the youngest daughter in our house she was bound to her precious faith and remained with her parents in the Zolkiew ghetto at the time when my groom and I went to the camp at Mosty'. It was our intent to bring our family over there, but while we were busy making an effort to get permission for them, I received a letter from Chay'tcheleh. With an aching heart I read her letter in which it was clear that she had written it with a trembling hand. She said that she was sick with typhus, with a temperature of 41.6 Deg C. Despite this, she was taking care of our beloved parents who had also contracted the same dangerous disease. Before we had a chance to connect with them, the third Aktion fell upon us like a thunderclap on a clear day. My groom and I succeeded in saving ourselves during an Aktion in Mosty'. But what was the point of remaining alive? The deadly news reached us that during the Aktion that was carried out in Zolkiew, my sister Chay'tcheleh and my dear parents were taken out of their hideout, and with them, all the precious martyrs who were in the ghetto. They were transported to the Boork and killed there.

From that time on, a picture of my three precious ones did not leave my eyes. When I wake up from a night dream, I think that I saw them, all of them, my mother, father, and sister, holding hands and kissing each other at the threshold of the pit beside the Boork of Zolkiew, while a transgressing and a forever accursèd hand holds a rifle and shoots them with the bullets of death. I am agitated and frightened that I always see them in my dreams. I cry, I am angry with myself because I was not with them. I feel guilty. My heart tells me that instead of living, I should have been together with them. But despite it all, what could I do? I continue to live and I am not fit to do anything, just to cry for them, and to write down these few modest and pale words dedicated to their memory!

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Regina Orlander was my cousin, my aunt's daughter. She lost her father while still young, and with the help of her uncles, brothers of her father, and my family, she succeeded in completing the Teachers Seminary. She worked for a few years before the invasion of the Nazis as a religious teacher of Jewish History in the government school in our city, in Mosty' and Zolkiew. She was cherished and beautiful, beloved by friends and family. It is possible to say she was a complete person, but how bitter was her part in this cruel war.

We met from time-to-time even after the second Aktion, but suddenly, all traces of her vanished. I also left the city, and we no longer met during those terrible days. After liberation, and after all the tribulations and troubles that I withstood, I returned to my city, where I was surprised and gladdened to find out that Regina was still alive, and could be found with a farmer named Zakus, who lived in Vynnyky, a Christian neighborhood in Zolkiew.

I went to see her, and found a woman with a broken heart and soul. She spent almost two years in her hideout in the small village hut of the farmer Zakus, who used to deliver milk to their house. The hideout was under the floor, beside the oven in the kitchen. She told me how the Ukrainians were a threat to the farmer's life, and the lives of his children, and how he helped her to flee from the murderers. I proposed that she should join us now, as we prepared to leave this city of death and build a life anew. She was exhausted and full of worry. She said: ‘Now it is exactly before the harvest when there is so much work for the farmers, both in the fields and at home. How can I leave him and his children?’ At this time after liberation, she felt a need to thank him and reward him for all of the fear, worry and danger of death that he suffered during the entire whole time she was in the hideout. She said that after the harvest, she will come to us.

But to our sorrow, even after the grain harvest, she didn't manage to reach us, because a malignant hand shortened her young life. One night, a few weeks after the liberation, armed Banderovists (a band of Ukrainian nationalists, named for their leader Stepan Bandera) attacked the house of Zakus, shot and killed Regina and severely wounded Zakus and his children. These contemptible murderers wanted to punish and take revenge against a Ukrainian who had the nerve to rescue a Jewish woman. That is how she paid for the will to live with the one who saved her. The gentiles buried her in the Christian cemetery, because there was no more room for dead Jews, just as there was no more room for living Jews.

May her soul be bound up among all the martyrs of our city, she too, fell as a victim of the Holocaust and to the evil deeds of the Nazi murderers.

Itta was one of my friends at the school of the HaShomer Ha'Tzair movement. I loved her. I remember her as being gay and happy, and there was always a song in her mouth. I saw her twice during the time of the Holocaust. At our last meeting, she was already living in a slaughterhouse on ul. Sokorna opposite

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the home of the Kayitz family. The song had already left her mouth, and in its place there was tension. At that time, we spoke a great deal about our wretched and poor circumstances. Even her holy soul was taken in one of the Aktionen

At the time when the Ukrainian militia, along with the help of the Jewish police, detained the Jews designated with a ‘D’, I looked out of the window in our house at the square of the Rynek and saw a scene that was so shocking, that even today, the memory of it is stuck deeply in my heart. A policeman led the Orlander family, who lived beside the church, as they walked in one line: the mother Sarah Orlander, a good-hearted woman, her daughter Dvora (Duzh'eh), her husband, also was marked with a D at a time when no one realized that this was a death sign, and their two children, Itzl'li eight years old, and Ruthie who was three. All of them carried large bundles, because at that time, during the first Aktion, the Germans still deceived us. We were told that the people who were selected were advised to prepare for life in a camp. They didn't think, and nobody believed that they were being straight to the furnace, to Belzec. A Jewish man could not believe that the German nation was capable of killing old people, women and children. Even after rumors began to spread about this, they still could not believe them.

I closed the shutters. All the families who lived in our house gathered in one room, and with a broken heart we prayed for them and for us. We were all eye-witnesses of this event. This terrible day passed, and new days arrived with new troubles.

Feiga Baumwohl was my closest and most beloved friend. She was loved and adored by everyone who knew her from school and our youth movement due to her intelligence and good deeds. She was the only living daughter of poor parents. Two or three other daughters died even before the war, and her parents loved her and carefully guarded her.

After the second Aktion, when the streets were cleaned around the ghetto as specified by the Gestapo, Feiga contracted typhus and was sent to the municipal hospital on ul. Szpitalna. I felt great sorrow for her at that time, and even more sorrow for her forlorn parents. Feiga was their only daughter, and her existence was hanging between life and death. Through bribery and other efforts, I was able to obtain ten bottles of glucose from Friedman, the pharmacist, and I brought them to the hospital for Feiga's care. This was the last time I saw the face of my precious friend, and I cannot pull myself away from that scene. She was lying in bed, pale faced and red-eyed as her body burned with a fever of 41 degrees C. A nurse, who was a nun, would not permit me to get close to her bed. Despite the high fever, she recognized me and waved and called to me. She asked me to tell her mother that it is good where she is. I stayed there for a little under an hour, and then walked to my house. I brought the glucose to the hospital office in accordance with management orders. She was unable to get the benefit of it. The following morning her soul was returned to her Maker.

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Many blessed her memory, and many even envied her because she died an easy death from the disease and so was shielded from further suffering. I am certain that all of her friends from Zolkiew who are still alive, remember her name in a good, positive way. May her memory be for a blessing.

Brunya Cohen was one of the most beloved and accepted in our group. She was full of energy, fervor, and had amazing organizational skills. She attained her objectives even under the most difficult conditions. Nothing stopped her. Brunya Cohen established the first kindergarten for Jewish children in our city. She nurtured it, and worked for it with great commitment. During the Soviet conquest, she worked as a manager of one of the Soyuz units. Many of us worked there, including myself, her brothers Akiva and Avraham Schwartz. Brunya married a Hebrew teacher and moved to live in Gorodok-Jagiellonski.

Brunya and her husband were seized by the Nazis in the second Aktion. During her final journey on a train to Belzec, her proud heart motivated her to write a letter which she was able to hand over to us as the train went by Zolkiew. Here is the contents of the letter:

We are tired of this dog's life, we are going towards death in the hope that our brethren in The Land will take vengeance on our behalf.

We spoke a great deal about this letter, about the last words of our murdered friend, and we cried bitterly about her fate. May her memory be for a blessing.

Waldman was a Jewish policeman who worked for the Judenrat. His work required him to help the Ukrainian militia and the Gestapo to carry out their horrors as a betrayal of his brethren. He did not refrain from all of the deeds that he was forced to do. It is not my intention to judge our brethren for their actions in those days. This was a great victory for Nazism in that it succeeded in forcing people to behave like animals. However, we would be mistaken to completely darken the image of those who betrayed us. A man cannot be entirely human under all circumstances, and we did witness the pure Jewish soul of the policeman, Ephraim Waldman. He was forced to act as he did because of the situation at that time.

During the first Aktion on Friday in the morning of March 15, 1942, Ukrainian militiamen together with Jewish policemen (at that time S.S. men did not take part in the activity), went out with a list from the Judenrat, to gather up the families of the men who were categorized as ‘D’ during the physical examination; that is they were not fit for work. The family of Rabbi Herzl

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Back, the son-in-law of Joseph Angelsberg, who lived with us, were among those included in Ephraim Waldman's list. Herzl Back was the Rabbi of Blowicza-Krolewska. He married Miriam Anglesberg, and they had ten children ranging from the ages of 3 to 15. During the time of the Soviet conquest, Miriam Anglesberg received the Stalin Prize for ‘increasing the population.’ All ten children were greatly treasured by their parents. I can even still remember their names, and even their inscriptions in the list of martyrs at Yad VaShem.

When the Nazis entered Lubicza, the Rabbi endured a night of horrible torture in the the synagogue, as if wild animals were at its gates. He was forced to pass through two rows of soldiers who beat him the entire way. Despite this, he miraculously lived, and returned to his family, and moved with them to his father-in-law's home in Zolkiew. However, since this house had been taken away from his father-in-law (the family of Itta'leh Honig and Sima Katz and her sons lived there) we took them into our house with the help of good people and the Judenrat, who bestowed their pity on this hapless Jewish family. Somehow matters were settled.

On that same terrible Friday, Ephraim Waldman ז”ל, entered our house with a Ukrainian militiaman, and the Waldman family were told to pack bundles for their journey. It was still necessary to carry bundles by those taken in this Aktion, because it was before the time people knew they were going to be exterminated at Belzec. The Rabbi, his wife and ten small children were ready to go, but something suddenly occurred that no man anticipated. Ephraim Waldman burst into tears. He pushed the Ukrainian militiaman who came with him aside, and held a discussion with him for a few seconds, and mumbled ‘I cannot take them, I cannot take them’ and left our room with the Ukrainian militiaman, without the Rabbi's family. The Rabbi who had just been saved from mortal danger whispered ‘Bless God each and every day,’ sat down beside the table in front of an open volume of Gemara and bound himself with The Holy One Blessed Be He, through Torah study. The Rabbi and his family lived for several months, but they were all exterminated in the Second Aktion. May their memory be for a blessing.

The memory of the emotional reaction by Ephraim Waldman in this instance has not left me, and I must remember him as one of the martyrs of our city.

My father was born in Rawa-Ruska and came to Zolkiew at the beginning of the twentieth century from the town of Mosty'-Wielkie, where he was counted among the Hasidim of the town ADMo”R.

My father married a daughter of Michael Feier, who owned an inn on ul. Glinski. My father was already over fifty when his first son was born, and he donated a Torah scroll, parts of which were written by his own hand, to the synagogue in Zidichov. From that time on he was a regular worshipper at that synagogue even though he lived far away from there. He even led services in that synagogue. He derived great pleasure from dancing while holding the Torah during the Hakafot on Simchat Torah. He dressed the Torah scroll in a red velvet mantle covered with decorations and letters woven from pure gold, which he had special ordered from Vienna. He and the Rabbi arranged to keep the Torah cover in a special hiding place during the First World War.

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The people adored my father because of his refined soul and good mood, his modesty and simplicity. My father was known for his generous heart and love for his fellow man. He regularly provided food for the poor in his town, which he personally collected, sometimes with the accompaniment of his sons. He spent most of his time away from home in a location where he was appointed as an inspector of forest cut wood, designated to be sold out of the county.

Despite his very strict religious behavior, my father showed a lot of patience with his sons who were members of two competing Halutzim groups. I recall how he would donate to two collection boxes that he permitted in our house: the box for Keren Kayemet L'Israel, and the box for Keren Tel Chai, in order not to offend the sensibilities of his two sons. My father was closely tied to the cadre of Haredim, and dreamed of making aliyah to the Land of Israel when the Messiah came.

After I made aliyah to The Land, my father maintained our connection through letter writing between us. My father was fluent in the Hebrew language and was interested in maintaining its purity. He was interested in what was going on in The Land in general. I still remember the fear that he conveyed in his letters during the events of 1936-1939 when I was already serving in the police of the Mandate Government.

My father died in 1940 when Zolkiew was under Russian rule, and so he was saved from the talons of the Nazis, a fate that fell upon my mother, sister, and the rest of the members of my family.

Oh, I had a precious uncle, God-fearing, a Hasid and honest; My uncle was designated as the city Shokhet And he did his work faithfully. He eturned once from a nearby village, There he had slaughtered a cow of a village Jew, He traveled in the wagon of a gentile, He made his way at night through the forest. Suddenly the gentile unsheathed a knife Waved it towards my uncle and rasped: “ Give me the money that you got today as pay,” And if not – I will stab you to death! But my holy and pure uncle, Was of a brave heart and a strong man, He seized the gentile by the throat And took the knife out of his hand. The gentile was amazed at the man's strength And the murderous anger quickly subsided in him; He sat silently in the wagon And regretted the conspiracy that he tried. My uncle took the reins in his hands, and urged The horse to go quickly into the city; There, they put the gentile in a dungeon To await his punishment as the law says.

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What happened to the city in which I was born? In the old days I recognized every street and alley, every house and store, and every road and path, whether in the light of day or the darkness of night. My people were exterminated in my city, but what happened to the city itself? I am again within its gates, treading its streets, centers and corners, but my city is alien to me. It is strange and odd. I wander around, hoping to see a relative or friend but there is no one who I recognize or know. Everything is foreign and silent, empty of its faithful scions who so loved this city and who were so bonded to it. Even the name of the city is different today. The new name, Nastorov, replaced Zolkiew. I came to see my city twice. One time I visited under the authority of a special permit from the Soviet authorities in Lvov which I received after strenuous efforts, for my visit to ‘our’ Galicia in May 1965. I visited another time as a wanderer, without permission and without an escort.

The first time I returned to Zolkiew it was a gloomy day. I came by way of the road to Lvov-Zolkiew, riding in a Soviet Intourist taxi, armed with a pass that allowed me to visit the cities and villages of Galicia. Without such a pass, entry was strictly forbidden. There are only two cities one may visit today for a tour of Eastern Galicia of the past, which are now part of greater Ukraine, whose capital is Kiev. Not long ago, eastern Galicia was part of the Soviet Eastern Galicia, which was different from western Galicia, that is now called Western Ukraine Zapadnaya Ukraina. But even the memory of this has been erased from the language of the Soviet Union. Also, our Zolkiew is a Ukrainian city, or more correctly, a Ukrainian town in every sense of the word, as very few Poles remain, and there are only three Jews living there: one man and two women.

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Lvov and Tarnopol (of the past) are the two cities that one is permitted to visit if specifically noted in the Soviet visa, because these cities provide Intourist permits to enter, and have hotels in which tourists are allowed to stay. Our Zolkiew is off limits to strangers, but somehow I managed to obtain the required permit so I am now able to travel to the city on a proper road. We passed Kulikovo, the city of Kulikovo bread, which was well known in the past. Jews lived in Kulikovo, and some made aliyah from there to the Land of Israel. The turrets of the two large churches can be seen from a distance, and when I ask the driver, my escort, if they are still used for prayer, he replied, ‘perhaps those who pray there are old people who still believe that their God is able to vanquish the law of Lenin.’

I enter Zolkiew in brooding contemplation. On the right side of the road is the cemetery where the citizen Jews of the city were killed, and where there is a mass grave of the martyrs of murder and asphyxiation, stoning and burning who fell into the hands of the exterminating Nazis. On the left is a broad tract of land that belonged to David Tauba, where he lived with his family, and where he had a large storage area for his wood business. Nothing remains of the wood business now; in its place are residential buildings and storage facilities. The right side of the road that enters Zoliew from Lvov is populated by small houses. Some of them are well cared for, and others are run down. One sees here a number of cabins that hadn't changed. My guide explains to me that Nastorov is a provincial city in every sense of the word. It does not have factories and factory workers. It survives on its citizenry, and those who come from surrounding villages, the largest of which is Glinski. Most of the Polish citizens who had remained during the war, left when the war ended and very few Poles remained. Some of them left for Poland, others went to Lvov. ‘This is a typical Ukrainian village of no artistic importance’, the guide told me.

The street takes us within the city, which remained as before. The street sign for Lvovska, Lvovska ulitsa, is written in Ukrainian as are all of the street signs. I turn and cast my glance to the right side of the road, in order to see three buildings I knew well from my childhood years: the oil factory of Patrontacz and Melman and Indyk's inn building. Of the three structures, only two, the Patrontacz and Melman buildings remained standing, both of which housed a factory, whose condition I could not determine for lack of time. Both are surrounded by yards filled with many kegs. Indyk's house no longer exists, the land parcel is empty. I turn my glance to the left, to look for the house of Radatza Fish, and the orphanage, Das Wohnhaus, but there is no trace of them. There is a building on the site which appears to house government offices. My glance turns to the entry to the Three Martyrs. The building is standing, but very neglected, with a lock on the entry gate. I am lost in waves of nostalgia, and my thoughts run through my head when I pass by the house of our Rebbe on ul. Szpitalna. After that we are on ul. Dr. Moszkat, the street on which my family lived for a number of years, and also where the municipal hospital was located. I searched for the large inn of the past on the left side of the street, which belonged to the Flafler family.

I ask the driver to stop beside the large elementary school opposite the Falafler house and across from the old municipal garden, Der Alter Wahl, in order to visit the school I had attended. At least there was not much substantive change to this building, which still serves as a school. It is not a public elementary school, but rather an intermediate level school, named for Mickiewicz. Incidentally, the highly praised Polish poet, Adam Mickiewicz is well

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received today, just as he was during the days of Galicia in the past. He was known as a strong fighter for the freedom of nations, lover of the common man, and wrote to glorify working people. His statue was in the center of the city of Lvov, and remains there, cared for by the government of Soviet Ukraine.

The school is called Serednaya Szkola. There are two sessions that take place in the school, one during the day and one at night. I went inside the building, and even into a classroom in which I once studied. The teachers were new, and as usual, they were not aware of the city of Zolkiew of the past. Ninety-five percent of the students are Ukrainian and the children of Russian officials, and only about 5% are of Polish extraction. There is not a single Jewish child in the school.

The large church beside the school, near the entrance to ul. Turinycka had no change to its external appearance. I could not ascertain what went on in this church as the gate was closed. When I asked the building watchman if I could visit the inside of the church, he answered curtly: ‘only on Sundays.’ I turn to the ul. Turinycka of the past, and throw a glance at the street sign, and read, Ulitsa Khmelnitskaya (in Ukrainian, the street of Chmielnicki). I remember the way to this street very well since it leads to Mosty'-Wielkie. My grandfather's bakery once stood here, and there was a broad expanse of space with a wood storage facility that belonged to Hochner. My good friend, Zelig Ka”Tz lived on one of the side streets to the left. He learned how to bake konditorei with his grandmother. Two-to-three houses further from the house of the grandmother of Zelig Ka”Tz, who today is a successful doctor in the United States, was a prayer house that my father attended called the Kadetnschule. I turn there in order to reach the location of the Great Synagogue, in front of which is an empty expanse, devoid of the houses that used to stand there. In his day, Emmanuel Chai wrote a poem of praise about the Great Synagogue, a museum-like building, which impressed people from near and far by its external beauty, and inner glory.

The Great Synagogue was once the pride and glory of our city. Woe unto the eyes that now see this Hall of God in its neglect, wreckage, with burnt and scorched holes instead of windows. Its entry gate is sealed off with boards. There is practically no trace left of plaster on the walls. The decorative ornaments are gone, and graceful stones are broken and smashed. There is no way to gain entry. Instead of stairs, there are just piles of sand and mud all around. As I stand across from the Great Synagogue, I am completely stunned, sorrowful and depressed. What did our Master of Worlds have in store for this glorious Synagogue of ours? A light rain is falling which looks like tears from the building's stones and the cellars of the sacred shamot, who were burned and slaughtered. Am I dreaming, or is this a summer illusion? I can almost hear a loud voice emanating from the locked Synagogue: ‘Let R' Shimon ben-Yaakov rise! Let him come up to the Torah and bless the minimal remnants remaining from this sacred fortress.’ I close my weeping eyes, and through my soul, I imagine the priestly blessing and other sounds of prayer which surround the Synagogue. The scions of the city, its Parnassim and Gabbaim, its elders and its young people, are wrapped in prayer shawls, reciting prayers. Are these prayer shawls or burial shrouds?

The Great Synagogue in Ruin (Central View)

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A passer-by from the city sees me deep in thought. He asks me in Ukrainian, what happened to me, why are there tears in my eyes, and for whom am I looking? I tell him the truth. I am a scion of this city who left its gates more than ten years ago, and have now returned to see it again, but I see it in ruins, emptied of everything. He shakes his head to indicate pity, and mumbles quietly: ‘nothing remains here of you, there is nothing to search for, I am sorry for your expressions of sorrow.’ The man himself is not from Zolkiew, but was brought here from a distant place, from greater Ukraine, to work on a farm to raise cattle, but he had heard something about this city as once was.

With his help, I get closer to the Synagogue and succeed in glancing inside. It is desolate and empty, abandoned, frightening, as if the reverberations of howling burst forth from the depths, and there is no trace of our past. The nearby Bet HaMedrash vanished entirely. What happened to Tall Meir, the shammes? I recollected that opposite the entry gate to the Synagogue was a platform that belonged to the family of Michael Lichter; now there is no trace of it. In its place stands a poor hut of a shoe repairer. The house of the Zimmerman family remains standing as a memorial to the destruction. I saw a pile of tiles close to the front of the Great-Broad Synagogue. Passers-by and returnees did not know how to answer my question as to whether or not there are plans to restore the building.

I was reminded that beside the Zimmerman house was an alley that crossed to Baker's Street. I walk through this alley, reaching the street, and find that only the left side is partly populated. I also see a wonder: the Belz Kloyz that was in the middle of this street was not destroyed like the houses. Even the house of Shammai Sobl still stands and was only lightly damaged, but other houses on the right side of the street, including the house of my aunt Malka Bloch, disappeared from sight. I peer into the Belz Kloyz and see that it has been transformed into a store that sells salted fish. The stink of the fish fills the air. My head is dizzy.

My glance wanders from left to right, and all looks alien. The church with the sparkling copper rooftop is on the way to Shammai Sobol's house. I cross myself even though I have no permission to do this. A Ukrainian boy follows my footsteps, and asks rapidly: ‘Tourist? American? Give me some cigarettes!’ I was reminded that my aunt, Fried'ka Shtiller, lived in a house in this neighborhood, and here I am walking past that place, which according to my memory, was opposite the Ziditshov Kloyz, and the house is not there. In its place stands an elementary school. I reached the spot exactly at recess time. The children were joyous and happy. I said in my heart: ‘what do I have to do with this happiness?’ and I fled to the Magistrate building, beside which, as in the past, there still stands, with almost no injury, the home of my parents, on the Tailors' Street. Today the street is called ulitsa Czekhova.

Along my way I pass beside Moshe Acker's store, which today is a commercial site to buy writing supplies and books about the heroic battles of the Red Army. It is located beside the old café of the three Wilder sisters, which today is a store for proletarian linens, and also beside Dadlitz's pharmacy, which today is a pharmacy for veterinary medicine.

I cross the road beside the saloon of Shammai Ungar and by the house yard, I reach ul. Krawycka, the location of my father's house at the right edge of the street, with the old garden on its left edge. There are very few houses still standing along the entire length of the street, and the rest of the empty land parcel is gated off. I tremble as I approach my family's home where I grew up. The house had not been maintained or cleaned for some time. They have not yet sealed off the openings to the cellar in which we would

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store coal for heating in winter, and where we used to play hide-and-seek with our parents. This house stood almost entirely alone for the length of this side of the street.

As I stood in front of the house, deep in my memories, I heard a woman speak to me in Ukrainian. ‘Who are you looking for?’ In front of me, stood a woman in typical Ukrainian clothing, looking at me in amazement. ‘I am seeking my yesterday here, my youth,’ I said to her.

The Great Synagogue in its state of ruin

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‘Is this your house here?’ She gasped and pointed to the house. ‘It was here,’ I replied while adding the question: ‘where is your house?’ ‘Here, on the second floor.’ She pointed apathetically over to our house of yore. The woman became frightened, and nervously asked: ‘have you returned here to take back your house?’ I calmed her down, by telling her that was not my intent, and I told her that I came to see the home of my youth, perhaps for the last time in my life. The woman's eyes cleared. ‘Ahah’, she called out with a broad Russian heart, and invited me into the place which at one time was my parent's house.

We entered into the room with the gloomy staircase, and standing on the entry stairs was a large primus stove. There was a pail of laundry on it, and two children were amusing themselves by jumping all around. And here I am, standing in the middle of the house that once had two rooms and a wide space for entry, and now, two families are living here and share the heavy furniture and tight spaces. There is a distinct odor of onions, cabbage and other vegetables in the room. The walls are bare, but at one time a picture of the Kaiser Franz Josef hung over my father's bed. The women from the two families living in the house, whose husbands were at work at the time, and their children, gathered around me. ‘He once lived here’, the Ukrainian woman whispered to her friend and added an inaudible phrase, ‘but he is not one of us.’

I told the lady owner of the house that I had come from the Land of Israel and she asked me if that is far from the city. I explained that Israel is a Holy-Land and she then knelt, crossed herself three times and mumbled: ‘This is after all the land of the Lord and his Messiah Jesus, the land of Bethlehem and Nazareth.’ Afterwards she asked me if I am a ‘man of the Holy Church’ and asked me to give her a coin from the Holy Land. We parted as if we were old friends, and the Ukrainian woman asked me to say a prayer for her and all of the members of her family if I return to the Holy Land.

From here, my legs took me to the surroundings of the Rynek, as I am walking along the length of the street where there once used to be my father's watchmaker's store, the store of the Borer family, the butcher store that sold pork, the home of Hai-Wilder, the pharmacy underneath the overpass with columns, the store for the sale of tobacco essentials, and newspapers, belonging to Nathan Apfel, and a row of other stores whose owners I have since forgotten.

The house of the Samet family

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The widened parcel of land that used to serve as a place for farmers to enter with their wagons to sell their produce, was turned into a pleasure garden, in the middle of which Lenin's flag flaps in the breeze. Beside the flag are boards with a list of names, and their corresponding pictures, that record the heroes of labor. For each name, the details of their excellence are recorded according to each branch of work, and the size of the annual production.

The kazamatim^[1] are still kazamatim but without the classes of the intermediate school that had been there in the past. Today, the local government offices and the court are there. The water fountain is so much smaller, you barely know it is there. The road to the train is still attractive today, because of its small houses which are inhabited mostly by high officials in the government echelons and the professional union. I visited the Magistrate building where we would spend lovely evenings in the Kultur Union. City services now occupy all of these places, and the windows remain closed. The area of the buildings opposite the magistrate building, whose supports were still standing solidly, today leads to a large garden expanse which has everything, according to the Soviet expression, Univarmark. I stroll a bit in the new garden, enjoying the fresh air. Do you remember the park? I cast my glance at the heights of the magnificent Ha' Ari, but in each and every place, I am alone, having no related person along with me.

What else should I look for here? What else can I find here? The past has been erased from the place in which I was born and spent my youth. I left the town in the same somber mood in which I arrived and entered through its gates. I was sadder, still, when I left, because I knew that I would never return here again, and ‘those days’ would never return to the city.

A statue of Lenin in the Rynek Square

1. Window casements. Return

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