|
|
[Pages 647-652]
by Devora Rakavitch-Resel
Translated by Chanan Zakheim
After several years, suffering, cold and hunger and constant dangers, after years of wandering in forests, fields and marshes, and being in our "liberated" native village for over a year, we decided to leave that place, the earth soaked with innocent Jewish blood and to set out for the great[er] world [outside].
Elul 1945.[1] The village is quiet. No sign of the former Jewish life. One remembers the atmosphere that reigned when our dearest lived here, when life was normal.
Early [in the morning] Jews would hurry to the synagogue to attend Selichot [2] services. Jews would arrive from abroad, from other towns and villages in Poland in order to pray in the famous Mirrer Yeshiva[3] during the High Holy Days. A mysterious awe would awaken strange thoughts and emotions in all; some would visit ancestral graves at the cemetery during the days of Elul, and pour out their hearts of all their cares and woes at the silent graves. Women would say aloud petitions and prayers.
Unfortunately our village today possesses not only this ancient holy site, but [also] four more related graveyards have been added, besides tens of [other] individual graves spread out over various sites.
We both go to bid farewell to the graves, silently, each one deep in consideration of his thoughts.
The first related graveyard is located behind the forest on the Gorodzier Road, a kilometer away directly alongside the forest. Here the sadistic murderers cut short the lives of 24 victims - 6 Gentiles and 18 Jews, including also our dear brother Yeruchim Ressel, upon him be peace. He [was laid to] rest fourth in the first row. We bow our heads, tears pour from our eyes. How frightful, simply incredible was their last journey, the twenty sixth of Tammuz[4] 1941, three weeks after the occupation of our territories by the murderers. We had already experienced the great shortages and hunger, cramped dwellings but who can imagine that there awaits each one of us- a premature and gruesome death? Never-the-less we had begun to sense it.
Now to that day of the first massacre. The village is quiet. [People] are gathering together at minyanim in order to complete the prayers. Actually there is no need to assemble a minyan;[5] we are living [in such] cramped [conditions] that there is no shortage of men. We are living [in] such cramped [conditions], squeezed together, 5-10 families to a small house. But we do not notice this cramped condition because the nocturnal fear of attack by gentile neighbors, the fear of murder, beatings and robbery make us forget the discomforts. People seldom go about in the streets because they are insecure. A German could [suddenly] appear and be inclined to shoot us; and gentiles in general, who until recently smiled at us [in a ] friendly [manner] - a hellish fire of murder had suddenly ignited within them, and they beat and tear pieces out of innocent passers-by.
We sit quietly in the houses, the door closed and marked with a Star of David with "Jude"[6] in the middle. [The situation] is bad, but the families are whole, with a few exceptions. Suddenly towards evening Germans arrive: no one understands the technicalities of their troop formations. They call individual Jews, create a Judenrat,[7] instruct [us] to wear yellow patches and order all men to gather in the marketplace the next day. Whoever will hide, will be shot.
People begin to scramble and search for a piece of yellow cloth; experts in cutting and in attaching the yellow patches make their appearance. As these symbols are worn, our fate becomes sealed. We are public [property], we lose all our rights. The yellow patch can be seen from afar; it arouses mockery and scoffing in our gentile neighbours; our hearts are heavy with great pain and sadness.
The first order has been carried out. The yellow patches are now upon us; now each day new orders and decrees are issued.
The following day, Sunday, in the morning: Jews of various ages - long-bearded Jews, minors- have been lined up in rows at the marketplace next to the Russian Orthodox church, with the patches on the breast and back, cap in hand and with frightened faces they stand ready to follow orders. "Fetch leather"- an order is issued- "Fetch spades." Assistants are found: two Gentiles. One [named] Kirke, previously a peasant [an indentured labourer at Zamirer Yard"]; and Yalak, a leather worker Miranker Street. They both indicate which [persons] should be taken out. Eighteen Jews are taken out, well known people of the village amongst whom is our brother, Yeruchim, R.I.P. Six Gentiles are also brought. They are placed next to the wall of the church, [and they] are murderously beaten with feet and guns, [and then they] are instructed to get into the vehicle which is [used to take] them on their last journey.
Our parents, becoming aware that Yeruchim was taken away, are the first to arrive at the scene of the tragedy. They draw close, the earth trembles. The murderers' unextinguished cigarettes are lying about. A gentile, who had been herding cattle nearby approaches [them] and describes what occurred; murderously beaten, they dug their own graves and were buried alive, because the murderers would not spare a bullet.
A short while thereafter, at the request of the neighboring peasants [who advised] that wolves were gathering around the graves, the Judenrat was permitted to transfer the dead bodies to a deeper grave. My father, upon him be peace, joined the group of workers and, with his own hands, he took hold of his son like a small child and laid him to eternal rest. There was no sign of shooting on his body, only battered teeth and a twisted jaw. On the one side next to our Yeruchim, upon him be peace, Yashe Razovsky, upon him be peace, was laid to rest. His nose was missing; on the other side, Yona Pisetshner, upon him be peace, without ears. Thus all eighteen Jewish victims died, by having living pieces [of flesh] torn off them.
We bid farewell to our beloved brother. We bid farewell to each one individually. We stare at a cross that has been placed upon the grave; the gentile families erected it for all.
We go further to the other two mass graves [created] after the massacre of the 19th of Cheshvan[8] 1941. One mass grave is located on the new Shtolptzer Road, behind the site of the former Polish courthouse - a grave of hundreds of Jews, without any sign of a graveyard: No tombstone; no mound of earth. [Simply} a hole [in the ground] from where lime used to be extracted, and [subsequently] deepened and filled with the [prematurely] ended lives of children, women, men and the elderly. The second grave is situated on the road to the slaughter-house, a corner in the form of a "T " and enclosed with wires.
Sunday; white snow covers the earth which was red with Jewish blood. Unexpectedly, early in the morning, the town is encircled on all sides and the Jews are assembled at the market place. Mothers bearing their children in their arms; young people arm-in-arm; Jews wrapped in their prayer shawls.
We stand at the graves, we see them all and we bid them farewell
We draw near to the last mass grave of the last massacre which occurred on the first of Elul[9] 1942. The grave is located at the edge of the forest, at the same site of the first grave. How heavy are our hearts; how tragic the memories.
On the way we pick the blue cornflowers in the fields and place them upon the grave of hundreds of Jews, including our parents Fruma and Moshe Ressel, of blessed memory. We fall down upon the earth - we see before us father [and] mother in the depths of theirtragedy occasioned by the loss of our brother Yeruchim, and our sister Minia Ressel-Rosenthal, may her memory be blessed, in Ravav on the twenty-eighth day of Tammuz[10] 1941, at the age of only 28 years. We see them on the last night when we left the ghetto. We hear their soft weeping, their overpowering dread of our fate. We hear their last words; "Run, dear children, run. You must live and take revenge, and survive to live a decent life."
We now approach the old cemetery of Mir. There are many graves, but not a single tombstone. Not a single tree remains in an area once so densely overgrown. The gentiles tore out the tombstones to cover the muddy parts of their homes. We do not find the graves of our grandfathers, grandmothers and close relatives. We bid farewell to this sacred site, and to all those who rest eternally here having died a natural death.
We now go to bid farewell to the village.
At our house at the central marketplace, we go up to the yard, and we sit down on the cement bench. As arranged, and as directed by an inner force, we do not cross the threshold of the burnt house. Too difficult. Here we were born. Here we were raised by our parents, and from this place we were sent out to study in the town. Here we celebrated happy occasions, and married off children. Here we would enjoy a carefree moment with other youngsters; here the door would not be locked from early morning until late at night - a merchant's house, a house that gave sustenance to many people; labourers; coach drivers transporting food to the train; merchants from surrounding villages; merchants from farther afield; Jews and gentiles, peasants and wealthy Polish noblemen. Everything has been wiped out.
Silence all about, no one, no sign has remained. We wish to say goodbye, but we do not hear a "go well." We do not say "stay well." Slowly we walk about the market and the streets that used to be populated by Jews. We go as if in a funeral procession, stopping at each house of our close ones; we remain at length at the synagogues, at the synagogue-heath. We approach the Yeshivah, stand quietly - there is no sign of the sacred Yeshivah, the Yeshivah that radiated Torah to the whole Jewish world.
Everyone and everything has gone up in smoke, [has blown away] with the bloody windthe heart aches who can express with words our thoughts and feelings?
Notes on Translation
A. General
B. Individual words and dates
by Rishe Pozniak-Berenfeld
Translated by Chanan Zakheim and Eileen Zakheim Fridman
My village (shtetl) Mir, how it has shrunk, how can one forget it? I lost a part of my life there, my dearest and best childhood years was spent in your surroundings.
The Yiddish Folkshule which was situated in Miranker Street was headed by Mendel Tabachnik during my time that I spent there. We used to run to school very happily. We all used to write stories, poetry, and sitting with Libka (Liba) Kanterovitz in the class of the schoolteacher Raizke. Mendel and Fikus would peruse and correct our written work.
The name of our newspaper was “Green Little Twigs”. Our poetry was even heard in the streets of Johannesburg. In every place in the world, a spark of our small town Mir shines.
The Children's evening, the White Snow Queen with Fania Cynkin of blessed memory, who was dressed like a real queen. Her pale features charmed everyone, and, we, dressed in white like snow, were shining all around her. After this, we sixteen little girls, who were dressed in white blouses, stepped out and performed gymnastics. Everything evaporated like a dream. Amongst the sixteen children, I lost my best girlfriends; Raizelle Kostrovitzki,
[Pages 653-654]
Sarale Dobrin, Chayale Yoselowitz, as well as both Yoselowitz sisters, Yehudis Menaker, Sonya Iskolski and Liba Ozerowitz. We were always together; we studied together, played together, and went for a stroll in Vilna Road. It was said; here comes the “roadblock”, because we would occupy the full width of the street.
In the photographs of us, I look very closely at your faces. We would dress up with our pretty Shabbes clothes with huge bows on our heads, and run to be photographed either by Golden or by Kronivitz. The best childhood years were spent pleasantly in our shtetl Mir. Thus the years passed and fate separated us. I joined the pioneer groups. I was attracted to another life, and I also left everyone. However, I always remember you both in good times and bad times. Today, on the day of the annual commemoration (yarhzeit) I light a candle in memory of my beloved and unforgotten home, as well as for you, my best friends, and also for you my beloved and unforgotten shtetl “Mir”.
by H. Leivik
Translated by Chanan Zakheim and Eileen Zakheim Fridman
… Truly, when we hear the voices from the ghettoes and from the concentration camp prisoners, now, after so many years of silence, the first thing we deal with is the yizkor (memory) of hundreds of Yiddish wordsmiths and masters. However, as well as remembering (yizkor) we also involve ourselves with the message that the Yiddish word, whether religious, or whether worldly was not lost in the ghettoes and in the concentration camps, but the words retained its freshness and its comfort in the darkest moments.
Various types of new poems emerged in the concentration camps; poems about slave labor and decrees, satirical poems, poems of prayer, uprising, struggles and guilt.
Guilt – why!!!
Guilt that was caused by remaining alive during the times when the closest were destroyed; guilt for not joining the closest and dearest in the fires of the crematorium.
In several of the poems, the guilty poet weeps, and begs of the victims that they should forgive him of his sin of remaining alive.
Occasionally some very sharp ironic thoughts about oneself, and, as it can be expected, in a revolt against the Almighty, as occurred with the prophet Job. Out of helplessness, a terrible sarcastic poem is created when performing self-criticism with blue and frosty lips and this overwhelms all other accounts.
Our literature is more than aware of such moments; many of our poets dipped his words in bitterness.
But, here, we are not discussing the well-known bitter and angry poems.
I now wish to introduce a poem written by an unknown poet, of whom I became aware for the first time. Even at this moment, it is someone about whom I know nothing and where he is presently located and whether he is alive – I hope that he is.
What is the story?
During my travels through the displaced persons camps in Germany, someone in one of the camps - I do not recall which camp, gave me a torn, crumpled piece of paper, upon which a poem had been written.
Thus I put the crumpled piece of paper into my pocket amongst other papers.
[Pages 655-656]
Only later when I started reading this, I started trembling. The lines started blinding my eyes with a terrifying light.
I found the name of the composer at the end of the page below the last line; “written by Yudel Pecker”.
Who is Yudel Pecker? I am unaware of a Yiddish poet by that name. One of the great numbers of poets who arose in the concentration camps and most of whom perished.
Where is Yudel Pecker today? Maybe he was the one who gave me this poem or possibly it was someone else?
I read, and I cannot believe that this was written by a new poet. This is a poem of great talent. It has the stamp of a real poet and of a great personality.
by Yudel Pecker[1]
Translated by Chanan Zakheim and Eileen Zakheim Fridman
| My insignificance which was unable to conquer the fear of death, I stole my life away from the graves, I hid myself in a hole in order to avoid the blade of the slaughtering-knife, Until death passed over me.
Later I leave my hiding place,
Spread out and broken in a tragic row
The community lies in a blood spattered entanglement of torn limbs.
The Rabbi's dislocated skull stares at me
- Rabbi, - a Jew rises in front of me
And once again, the Jew addresses the angry Head of the Beit Din:
Oh Mir - we took whatever we had with us,
We have bled for many generations, and waited patiently
What use is the sheep that he vowed to take care of living creatures,
|
[Pages 657-658]
|
The lonely herds will be swept away, And he, the forest, will devour greedily in a bloody way.
And when the enemy set fire to our homes,
How were those who were not shot survive?
Crazy, needy and wounded prophets,
A nation that allowed its ancestors with shame to go to the graves,
Bent and falling under the painful hail – |
| Translator's footnote:
|
|
|
JewishGen, Inc. makes no representations regarding the accuracy of
the translation. The reader may wish to refer to the original material
for verification.
JewishGen is not responsible for inaccuracies or omissions in the original work and cannot rewrite or edit the text to correct inaccuracies and/or omissions.
Our mission is to produce a translation of the original work and we cannot verify the accuracy of statements or alter facts cited.
Mir, Belarus
Yizkor Book Project
JewishGen Home Page
Copyright © 1999-2025 by JewishGen, Inc.
Updated 09 Feb 2025 by JH