I Shall Live (14 page)

Slowly the sun rose. It was going to be a glorious day, not a cloud in the sky. It was September 1, the day of the action, and we were trapped. The ditch was long and narrow, its top covered with long grass and weeds growing across it from either side, so that from a distance it was almost invisible. We decided to hide all that day and try to get to the river at night, if the Germans didn't find us first.

From time to time we heard machine-gun and rifle fire. It was hard to believe time could drag so slowly. Twelve o'clock came, then three o'clock, four o'clock. I would never have believed a day could last so long. At five minutes to five I decided to stop looking at my watch, hoping that would make the time pass more quickly. After what seemed at least an hour later I allowed myself to look again. It was just five o'clock—only five minutes had elapsed! I really thought my watch must have stopped, and checked it against Sam's. It was correct. I shall never forget that experience; it was as though we had entered some new dimension outside the normal movement of time. Five-thirty came. We began to hope. Maybe we would make it to nightfall without being discovered. At six o'clock we began a whispered discussion about the best route to take to the river.

It was six-thirty when suddenly we heard a harsh German voice bark:
“Juden—raus!”
(Jews—out!) At the sound my brain seemed
to explode. This was it. They had us. Slowly we climbed out of the ditch. The sun was still very bright. There were two Germans with machine guns and a Ukrainian policeman with a rifle. Both Germans were of medium height. I still remember the eyes of one of them: they were shiny, almost glazed, like mirrors. Neither of them hit or cursed us; they were merely efficient, impersonal professionals who wanted to get their job done without delay.

Quickly they herded us into a group. The two Germans led the way, fingers on their gun triggers, and we followed. The Ukrainian, tall and lanky, his rifle at the ready, walked right behind us. We walked in silence. No one wept, no one pleaded for mercy.

Soon we turned into the main street of town. A strange calm came over me. The day was still beautiful, the sky still blue, even bluer against the orange red of the setting sun. The colors pierced me with their vividness. I remember my thoughts very clearly. I knew this was the last day of my life. I looked at the sun and thought, “I will never see the sun again.” I looked at the trees, and thought, “I will never see trees again.” I felt no bitterness, but there was a great sadness in my heart. I was not yet nineteen. I had never slept with a girl. My mouth felt very dry, and I couldn't swallow. My tongue seemed swollen to twice its normal size. I had to hold my mouth open.

As we walked down the street, I watched the reaction of the Ukrainian townspeople. They seemed undisturbed at the sight of Jews being led to their deaths. A few even laughed and joked about us. I can never forget a young woman who, seeing us from a window on the second floor of her house, turned and called to her little girl, whom she held up to see us as we passed. That there was a little girl among us seemed not to trouble her at all. I remember thinking: “How can these people be so merciless? Don't they have any hearts?”

We were now three or four blocks from the end of the street and only a few hundred yards from the execution pits. Father said to us, “One should not have children.” He didn't care what happened to him, but he was in despair at the prospect of having to watch us die.

We were now approaching a narrow street that led to the tile shop where Felek and I had worked. Sam suggested that we shove our money and our watches into the hands of the Ukrainian policeman and run for it.

In a few feverish seconds we took off our watches, wrapped them and the paper money in a handkerchief, pushed it into his hand, and started running to our right, toward the narrow street. I expected the shooting to start immediately, so I ran the six or seven steps before we reached the corner with my head turned toward the Germans and the Ukrainian, to see what they would do. The two Germans weren't even aware of what had happened, and continued walking on in front of the group. The others Jews stopped and looked in our direction, confused. The locksmith reacted quickly enough to follow us, a step or two behind. The Ukrainian stood still, holding the handkerchief.

Everything was in a whirl. In about thirty seconds we had reached the back of the tile workshop. Through the windows we could see that there was no one inside. We tried the door, but it was locked and the windows were closed. To this day I don't know how I found the strength, but I managed to grab the window frame and pull it out with my bare hands, along with the two or three nails that held it. We climbed inside the room where Felek and I had worked before the action started. There were large windows all around it, and empty tile racks and a few pieces of equipment, but no place to hide. Behind the door was a storage room for cement and other materials, but it was locked. Several bursts of machine-gun fire erupted outside. They were shooting the rest of the people from our group.

Our position was desperate; at the moment the narrow street was empty, but anyone who happened to pass could see us. We couldn't understand why the door, which was usually open, was now locked. Suddenly we realized: There were Jews hiding in the other room, and they had locked the door from the inside. “We are Jews, open the door!” we called. No answer came, but we heard a noise like the shuffle of feet. We tried to frighten them. “We know you are there. If they catch us, we'll tell them where you are.” After a few seconds we heard the click of the turning lock and the door opened. Two old Jews stood there, shivering with fear. We went into the storage room and locked the door behind us. There was an attic above with straw and bags of cement. We climbed up the ladder and lay down on the straw.

We tried to think what to do. It would be too dangerous to try to reach the river during the first day or two of the action, so we decided to stay where we were until the hunt and the shooting had slowed down. It continued sporadically for another couple of hours, until nightfall, when it stopped. Exhausted, I fell asleep at last and slept for seven or eight hours.

Early in the morning we were awakened by the renewed clatter of machine-gun and rifle fire. The action was in full swing once again, and the hunt was on. It was Wednesday morning, September 2. At about eight o'clock we heard a voice outside that we recognized. My heart was pounding hard. It was the voice of the Ukrainian supervisor of the shop, who was knocking at the storage room door. “I know you are there,” he called out. “Don't worry. I'm your friend.” In a quick, whispered consultation, we decided we had to take the risk and let him in. We unlocked the door. He came in and told us the Germans were shooting every Jew they could find. “You'd better stay right here,” he said.

The only possession of any value that we had left was Felek's
coat, a fine English brown herringbone tweed. “Give him the coat,” I whispered. Maybe with such a gift he would not betray us. After hesitating a moment, Felek handed his coat to the Ukrainian, saying, “Here, take it. If we don't make it you'll have something to remember us by.” The Ukrainian made a dismissive gesture, but he didn't need much persuasion. He took the coat, saying, “I will be back,” and left.

New discussions ensued. “Is he going to betray us?” The Polish engineer had made us skeptical about trusting people, but we had no choice in the matter.

Machine-gun and rifle fire continued throughout the day. It would have been suicidal to go out. Once again night fell. We decided against going out as SS patrols were everywhere. I was in a state of nervous exhaustion, and that night slept fitfully.

The morning came, Thursday, September 3. Although we had eaten nothing in two days, we were not hungry. Thirst, however, was becoming hard to bear. My mouth and throat were very dry. Late in the afternoon a Russian who was a friend of our Ukrainian supervisor came to the door. He was not a local man but a Soviet citizen who had come with the Russians in 1939 and had been unwilling or unable to escape with the Russian army. He came into the storage room half drunk. His speech was slurred as he assured us that we had nothing to fear from him; he was a friend. On and on he kept assuring us of his friendly feeling. We couldn't figure out at first what he was getting at, until it occurred to us that he wanted something from us, money or a gift. But we had nothing left. Half of our money had gone to the Pole, the other half and our watches to the Ukrainian policeman. Felek now had no coat, and the coats of the rest of us were old and valueless. We didn't know what to do. Felek had a straight razor that we all used to shave with, but should we offer it to the Russian? Perhaps he would be offended by such
an insignificant gift. We were reluctant, too, to give it up because we had talked about using it to cut our wrists. Better that than to be shot by the Germans. Giving the razor away would mean losing the chance to take our own lives.

The Russian kept gabbling away. Finally Felek said, “We have nothing left but this razor.” He handed it to the Russian, who examined it, opened the blade, tested its sharpness, closed it, put it in his pocket, and staggered out of the room, as we tried to assure him of our sincerity. “Really, we have nothing else left. Please believe us.”

It was night again, but I could scarcely sleep. My mouth was very dry and there was not a drop of water anywhere. Friday morning came, and the shooting still continued, although now it was less frequent. We decided we couldn't stay any longer where we were. At least two people knew we were there, and they might have told others. And our thirst was becoming unbearable. We decided to leave that night—if only we weren't betrayed in the meantime.

Late in the afternoon the Russian returned, even drunker, and rambling still more incoherently. He became abusive, calling us
“Nadoedlivye Yevrei.”
There is no exact English equivalen for
nadoedlivye
, but it means people who are a nuisance to others.
Yevrei
means Jews. We knew it was just a matter of time before he betrayed us, and could only hope he was too drunk to do it before nightfall. When he left he was reeling, so drunk he couldn't walk without holding on to something. After he had gone, we counted the minutes.

It finally got dark outside. We decided to go first to Mietka, who had been Sam's friend and lover during the Soviet occupation. She lived in her father's house on the outskirts of U
ś
ciług, and we were hoping to get water and food from her, and then go to the river Bug.

At about midnight the locksmith wished us luck and went out. Then the four of us stepped out into the dark. (The two old Jews had decided to stay.) We dashed from one dark spot to another,
hiding whenever we saw a guard until he passed. When we arrived at Mietka's house, Sam called out her name in a low voice. A wave of joy swept over me when I saw the tall blond girl come to the door. I'll never forget her face—a sweet face with a strong nose—and her long, straight blond hair. She was surprised to see us, and glad that we were alive.

Nor will I ever forget the sensation of drinking the milk she brought us. That milk was an elixir of life, filling every dry cell of my body. It was heaven. We drank and drank and drank. Only after we finished the milk did we realize how hungry we were, and we wolfed down the bread.

The girl warned us to be quiet. Her father was asleep, and she was afraid that he might not want us there. Evidently he was not so brave and humane as his daughter; I had the feeling too that he didn't approve of her friendship with a Jew. She led us out to the barn so we could get some rest. I lay down on the straw, enjoying the bliss of a full stomach, and promptly fell asleep.

Just before dawn we were awakened by a loud man's voice. It was the girl's father, and he was not in the least friendly. “Out, out you go,” he ordered. We pleaded with him: “It's almost day, please let us stay here just until night. It would be very dangerous to go out in the street now.” But he was adamant. “If you don't leave immediately, I will get the police.”

We came out of the barn and started walking toward the river. The sun was not up yet, but soon it would be daylight. Suddenly we heard a voice say, “Stop!” There was a Ukrainian carrying a rifle but not wearing a uniform, only an armband—he was one of the auxiliary militiamen who had been enlisted for the duration of the action. We knew right away that he was no danger to us—he even showed us which way to go to avoid the SS patrols. We thanked him and walked on a few more blocks.

Soon we realized that we were near Lipi
ń
ska's, whose son I used to tutor; Sam and Felek knew Mrs. Lipi
ń
ska, too. It was almost daybreak. We had to find a place to hide for that day, and so we cautiously entered the Lipi
ń
ski yard. The house was on the edge of a property of about two and a half acres, with vegetable and flower gardens in front. Farther down was a barn with a cow, and a stall where Mr. Lipi
ń
ski kept a horse. On the opposite side of the path, facing the stall, was a haystack. Behind it was a fruit garden with raspberry bushes and other fruit trees and bushes. The hay was packed tightly between four poles about twelve or thirteen feet high, which formed a square, each side seven or eight feet long. A tile roof rested on top of the four poles, and a ladder leaning against the hay led to the top of the haystack. It had been made from the trunks of two young trees, with small branches for rungs. We climbed the ladder to the top of the stack and wearily lay down on the hay.

Soon we saw Mrs. Lipi
ń
ska come out of the house and walk toward us. She was a woman of about forty with blue eyes, light brown hair, and a round, pleasant face. Cautiously I called out, “Mrs. Lipi
ń
ska!” She was startled but calm. “How many of you are there?” she asked. Father, Sam, and Felek raised their heads so that she could see the four of us. She nodded and told us to be very quiet and not come down, because the SS and the Ukrainian police were searching all over town for Jews. She said she would come back later, then went into the barn.