I Shall Live (19 page)

(
Left to right
) author, Hy Silberstein, and Bencio Fink, ca. 1975.

Author and Fred Orenstein, ca. 1977.

One of Mrs. Lipi
ń
ska's letters to the author. Respected Dear Family Orenstein:

This is to let you know that I received your letter and the photographs. I'm very grateful to you. If you only knew what a joyous day that was for me. I started to cry from joy when I looked at your photograph. You are so pleasant, nice-looking. Every day I take a look at it, put it away, the next day I look at it again, and I remember those scary, horrible times, which forged such a bond between us, made us like family. And I am grateful to God that He helped me to accomplish such a good deed to the end. I am proud of it. When I think about it, I see that with every step, God was helping us.

A few days after you left us, they took us to Germany to do forced labor. It was horrible, they took me, my husband, and my daughter who was only nine years old. Our son was not home at the time, so he stayed behind. In those times miracles happened.

But all of that is in the past, and may it never happen again. You suggested that I try to get papers to visit you. I tried to get documents so that I could come to you. I would like very much to see you but it seems impossible, because I am old, my health is poor, and I have chronic bronchitis, and also my legs hurt. That's how it is with old people. I have all kinds of problems, but one thing that is very lucky for me is that my daughter is very good. I often stay with her. My son lives far away, he visits rarely.

I am very pleased that you live well and I shall pray to God to give you health and good life. I tell you, you are such a good man. There aren't too many like that in the world. So many years went by, and you still remember me. I am very appreciative of that. You are such a good person. I wish you and your family happiness and good health. I kiss you all.

Your friend,

Lipi
ń
ska

ABOVE LEFT:
Author and his wife, Susie Orenstein.

ABOVE RIGHT:
Mark and Annette Orenstein (author's children).

Edward I. Koch, mayor of New York City, at the dedication of the Orenstein Building.

TOP:
The Lejb and Golda Orenstein Building.
ABOVE
: Lejb and Golda shelter.
RIGHT
: Plaque at the shelter

Author at the Lejb and Golda Orenstein Building.

From left, Mark, Henry, Susie, and Annette Orenstein.

In the afternoon the baby started crying, and with Germans and Ukrainians all around us roaming the streets, the noise could easily lead them to our hiding place. The baby's parents took turns rocking her in their arms to quiet her, but nothing helped. The mother tried to cover her with a blanket, but at this she only screamed louder. Finally the mother had to hold her hand over the baby's mouth, which made her face turn blue, but when the mother lifted her hand for even a second, the baby's shrieks cut through the air. All of us were panic-stricken. Even her own family began muttering, “This baby is going to get us all killed,” and urged the mother to keep her hand over the child's mouth. Nobody said so, but the feeling was palpable that if it came to it, the baby should be sacrificed to save the rest of us. This state of things continued for a couple of hours. Each time the baby cried out I cringed; her cries were so loud it was only by a miracle that the hunters didn't hear them.

By nightfall my family had decided that it was too dangerous to stay where we were. A few blocks away was a small skrytka where an elderly couple we knew were hiding. We took with us some food and water, said good-bye to the others, and left. On the way we passed many houses with the doors standing wide open, just as the search parties had left them after dragging their unfortunate inhabitants out. We moved along very cautiously, hiding in the hallways of the empty houses whenever we heard a noise. When at last we reached our destination, we found that it was a double-wall
skrytka, and, as we expected, hiding inside was the elderly couple who owned the house. They were glad to let us in even though our presence made it very uncomfortable for them. There was room for us all to lie down, but just barely. In the attic we had left, there was at least some light coming through from outside; here it was almost totally dark. We had no idea what was happening outside.

We spent the next seven days in the skrytka, and it was awful. We couldn't wash or change our clothes. We had either to stand or lie flat on the floor. At night we sneaked out one by one to relieve ourselves, but even this was difficult because to reach the outhouse we had to crawl through an open space. Usually we waited until three or four in the morning, when the searchers had stopped for the night. Our greatest fear was of running out of water, and we drank ours very sparingly. Those three days in the tile shop in U
ś
ciług had taught us a lesson.

It was heartbreaking to see my parents, who were both sixty, suffering so much, and so stoically. They had lost all hope for themselves, and were concerned only that we should not die. We talked about Fred and Hanka, and how glad we were that the old colonel had taken them in; perhaps with his help they might survive the war.