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by Shmuel Fraynd, Tel Aviv, Israel
A year before the outbreak of World War II, the mood in Poland was oppressive and stifling – a mood of impending war. Horodlo lived in fear of what was to come.
1939 saw heavy German pressure on the Polish government to vote to abandon all claims and demands concerning Danzig and other territories. Germany's threats of war led to a gloomy mood in Poland, as well as suspicion and fear, especially among the Jews, as Hitler (may his name be blotted out) threatened all the Jews of Europe (including those in Poland) with total extermination.
It is easy to imagine the terrible panic that seized our town, along with all the towns of Poland, with the appearance of the large posters bearing the word “Mobilization” in red ink.
I remember the day the war broke out, when the first bits of information came to Horodlo, over the radio and in newspapers, that German airplanes had carried out heavy bombing of Poland's large cities. People were overcome by a dull sadness. The Jews of Horodlo began seeking advice, and ways to avoid the oncoming storm.
Horodlo, on the western bank of the Bug River, was acutely aware of the terror that would envelop the city if it became a prolonged battlefront, with the Polish forces retreating to the eastern bank of the river and the river itself becoming the front line, as in previous Polish wars.[1]
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Before long, the forebodings became concrete fears. When the Polish forces retreated from the advancing Germans and began digging large trenches along the eastern bank of the Bug, the Polish soldiers were visible digging defensive trenches between the village of Czerniawka and Uściług. It was clear that the Polish army was preparing for a prolonged defensive campaign at the Bug, and that Horodlo would become a German-held front line.
The town's Jews feared falling into the hand of the Germans, as they were already aware of the horrific deeds the Germans had done to the Jews of the Czechoslovakian and Austrian territories.
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| Chaya Kulish |
Several days later, the sounds of the approaching front became audible: the echoes of shooting and explosions were evidence of the nearing Germans. The Polish army hastily pulled back to the eastern bank of the Bug, and the German army – which had not yet entered the town – was shooting in the forest along the Bug as well as at Uściług; the latter had a large Jewish population. For several days,
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there was no authority in Horodlo.[2] The Poles had left town and retreated to the eastern bank of the river, and the Germans were still somewhere to the west but had not yet entered town. Cannons shelled the town steadily across the Bug.
It was just before Rosh Hashanah, and I decided to procure some fruit and vegetables for the holiday. I went to Pilsudski Street, which was populated by people who owned vegetable gardens and fruit orchards. I was walking to the Polish school, when the noise of powerful engines resounded. Suddenly many German tanks appeared. A “Halt!” command rang out, and I instinctively ran for cover. After some time, I crept back home through the vegetable gardens to the north of Pilsudski Street. I witnessed the German army marching into the large marketplace of Horodlo.
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| Tzipi Fayl and her husband |
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As the front drew closer, the Jews of Horodlo sought refuge in hideouts and in the few basement apartments that could serve as shelters against cannon fire. My family, and a number of other families, hid in Mendl Lerner's home; it was on a side street and suitable for hiding. You can easily imagine how terrified we were when I came in and heard the report that the Germans had entered the city.
The day after their entry, a few German soldiers came into a room of Mendl Lerner's home; they looked at the trenches that we had dug as protection against bombs. They called us to them and informed us that we had dug the trenches as firing positions against German aircraft. They ordered us to stand against the wall with our hands in the air. We realized that they wanted to shoot us, and began begging and explaining that the trenches were meant as shelters. Suddenly a German officer burst in and ordered us to go to the marketplace immediately. We had been a hair's breadth from being murdered, and were saved by a miracle.
That same evening, the Germans made their presence felt in Horodlo. They broke into Moyshe Tenenboym's shoe store, and flung all the merchandise out on the street for the Poles who ran up with sacks to pick up the property of the Jews. It was not long before Moyshe Tenenboym's wealth, for which he had worked for years, was gone.
The next day, they broke into other Jewish shops and dumped the merchandise into the street for the Polish mob to gather. A few shops were more protected, and the Poles made every effort to force entry.
Two days later, on Yom Kippur, we sensed that the German army was drawing back. We saw them coiling their telephone wires and packing up their tents. We did not understand
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the reason for these preparations. This became clear later, when a Russian military contingent arrived. It was clearly the first wave of the Russian army's arrival in Horodlo.
It is easy to imagine the joy that overtook the town's Jews, at the thought that they were freed from the Germans. The day after Yom Kippur, the Jews opened their shops (those that had not been sacked), and the mood lifted. A large Russian army force arrived; however, it moved off in the direction of Hrubieszow and Chelm.
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| Moyshe Tenenboym |
The lighter spirits, however, did not last for long. Only a few days later (during the week of Sukkot), it became clear that the Russians and the Germans had struck a deal concerning the border: it would be the Bug River, and Horodlo would be on the German side. The Jews were overcome by confusion and dread as the Germans returned to the town, and its future was unclear; there was a sense of indecision about the best course of action. Some Jews maintained that the opportunity to cross the river to the Russian side should be seized; others argued that it was foolish to leave without their property and to arrive penniless. It should be emphasized that the Russians
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announced that people could cross the Bug freely for a few days, before it became the official border of Russia.
My brother Fishl and I decided not to spend a single day under the Germans. Before Hoshana Rabbah, we crossed the river to Ustylúh, and continued to Ludmir.[3]
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| Chaim Druker |
My father (may his memory be for a blessing) and mother refused to leave their property, and stayed in Horodlo with my sister. Once in Ludmir, we went to my uncle, who was overjoyed to welcome us. He insisted that we write our parents and urge them to join us in Ludmir. I returned to Ustylúh and sent a letter to my
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parents, at my uncle's demand. I stayed in Ustylúh for several days, going to the riverbank every day to watch for my parents and family. They finally arrived, only minutes before the bridge was blown up.
It is worth noting that the Jews were greatly affected by absence of clarity concerning the final disposition of the border and the general lack of security. Quite a few families had already crossed over to the Russian side, but could not endure their nomadic existence and life as fugitives among strangers. They returned to their previous homes, which were now controlled by the Germans. Among them were Dovid Katzhendler and his family, who had spent time with us in Ludmir. Dovid himself survived, after having escaped somehow from German-occupied Horodlo.
Even after the border was sealed, a few people managed to flee from Horodlo. These included Mordechai Shochet, Avrom Shek, Note Perlmuter, and Dovid Katzhendler. However, generally speaking, the border was blocked, and crossing was impossible.
While we were in Ludmir, we heard of the harsh new edicts against the Jewish population. This news arrived by way of Gentiles who had come from Horodlo; it was easier for them to cross the river.
Our hearts were full of dread, as we awaited news of the fate of those who remained in the town.
The Jewish Refugees in Ludmir
We thought that Ludmir would give us respite from the troubles of warfare. At first, we enjoyed a degree of freedom: Jews traded in various goods, and we were generally able to make a living. This continued for about one year.
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Overnight, the local Russian authorities announced that all the refugees, Jews and non-Jews, had to move 100 km away from the border. We refugees were immediately loaded onto train cars that carried us to Siberia. Following a long, exhausting journey, we arrived at the final stop: a labor camp 120 km from the city of Tomsk. It later became clear (after Germany attacked Russia) that this had been done for reasons of security, and proved to our benefit in the long run. I should also emphasize the positive attitude of the Russian authorities towards us; they took care to supply us with necessities, despite the difficult wartime conditions and a general food shortage.
Initially, our situation seemed hopeless, and the community of refugees was overtaken by despair. But God's ways are mysterious; the forced move to Russia was our salvation. Most of those who were not transferred, or who evaded the order, were later murdered by the Germans when they attacked Russia and took Ludmir.
Once in Siberia, we were put to work in the forests, felling large trees and milling them into lumber for various purposes: railroad ties, poles for telephone and telegraph wires, construction boards, etc. We had trouble grasping our new reality in the endless, snow-covered steppes of Siberia, and struggled to understand our new life in this strange, alien land.
We were in Siberia for eighteen months, until we were released by an agreement between Russia and Poland to release refugees of Polish origin. The freed refugees headed to Russian Central Asia, where most of the Jewish refugees gathered. We spent the rest of the war years there, and returned to Poland after the Germans were defeated.
Once back in Poland, we were able to see the total catastrophe that the German murderers brought upon the Jewish population of the country.
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We shuddered as we passed through the cities and the towns of Poland, in which Jewish life had thrived for centuries and which were now emptied of Jews. The old Jewish communities had been uprooted and destroyed. We realized that this was the end of the magnificent Jewish community of Poland.
We did not want to stay in Poland any longer – the land that was soaked with the blood of millions of Jews – and began our journey westward, hoping to join the Jewish displaced-person camps and wait for the chance to emigrate to the Land of Israel, the old-new Jewish homeland.
Translator's Footnotes
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by Ze'ev Frucht, Israel
I learned about conditions during the German occupation of Horodlo, and the destruction of the town's Jewish community at the end of World War II and afterwards. I was not an eyewitness to the tragic events; I was able to slip out of the grasp of the Germans at the beginning of the war and settle, together with a number of families from our town, in Czerniawka, a small settlement on the east bank of the Bug. The Horodlo families in Czerniawka were Ya'akov Zuberman and his family; Aharon Asher and his family; Aharon Chayim and his wife; Mordechai the Shochet (ritual slaughterer) and his family; Berl Stav; Chayim Mastenboym; Zelik's son-in-law Chayim; Moyshele Miler (the bricklayer), and his son. We all lived near the tar-works.
Conditions in Czerniawka were extremely harsh, and one needed profound patience as well as a strong will to adjust to the abnormal situation. However, Moyshele Miler and his son, Chayim Mastboym, and the ritual slaughterer's wife with her four children all abruptly returned to our town. (Her husband, Mordechai, and his grown son stayed with us.) Those who turned back maintained that life under such difficult conditions in Czerniawka was impossible, and they would not suffer as much in their own homes in Horodlo.
We heard that the Poles informed the Germans immediately, and the returning Jews were ordered to report in a nearby town the next day. The next morning, as they were on their way to the assembly place,
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two Germans appeared and killed them on the spot. When word of the murder reached Horodlo, Chayim Mastboym's daughter raised the alarm in the marketplace. The area was full of Germans, who murdered her on the spot.
The tragic fate of Petachya Blat's son-in-law, and of Shloymele, the son of Mordechai the Shochet (ritual slaughterer):
When we were staying in Czerniawka, Gentiles would come to buy salt from us (salt was a rare commodity at the time), carry it to Horodlo, and resell it at a profit. One day, we received a letter from Petachya Blat, informing us that he had leased a boat from a Gentile to bring his son-in-law (who had been in Ludmir the whole time) back to Horodlo. The letter contained information about the location of the waiting boat (not far from our lodgings), and the trip's schedule.
The day before the trip, Petachya Blat's son-in-law and Shloymele, the ritual slaughterer's son, visited us and let us know that they would be crossing the Bug and returning to Horodlo. We tried to change their minds, but Shloymele said that he had heard of the famine in Horodlo, and wanted to bring his mother some food. As I knew that the Russian guard at the border points had changed that day, I advised them not to try and cross the river. However, they thought differently, decided to keep to their original plan and to cross at the prearranged time. As soon as they approached the boat that was waiting as planned, the Russian guard discovered them. Thinking that they had just come from Horodlo, they ordered the Jews to swim back over the river. Shloymele, who could swim, crossed successfully, but Petachya's son-in-law, together with a Gentile (a former Polish official who had joined them), drowned in the river.
When Shloymele arrived in the town, he immediately went to
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his mother's house. However, it was too late. His mother and brothers were no longer there. They had been replaced by the Polish barber, who had proved to be a fervent Nazi during the German occupation. The barber handed Shloymele over to the Germans, who arrested him and tortured him to death. We heard this from the Gentile Stasz.
One evening, a Gentile from the village came to tell us that the young rabbi of Horodlo (the Rabbi's son-in-law), who had just arrived from Horodlo, was staying at his house. I immediately went to the Gentile's house, and found the young rabbi, who told me that he had fled from Horodlo, that many Jews had been killed in the town, and that the Germans had ordered him to bury the Jews near the river. The next morning, he and I approached the river. While still at a distance, we could see the old Rabbi surrounded by Germans who were forcing him to bury the dead. When the Germans spotted us, they began shooting. We quickly slipped away. The next morning, the captain of the Russian guard came over, holding the shtrayml of the young rabbi, which he had lost as he fled.[1]
These events took place in 1940. Not long afterwards, the Soviet security forces forbade people to live close to the border, and ordered us to go to Russia. We left our new, temporary home, and travelled to distant parts of Russia.
Translator's Footnote
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