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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
The Soviet Union
Henceforth on Jacob’s 20th birthday he landed in the Soviet Union, in the little town of Bezhenkovitch, Belo-Russia. He was handed 10 rubles and assigned to living quarters and work. There was no fooling around, everyone had to share, help build socialism; and those were the words of the local commissar, "V Sovietskim Soyuzie kto nye rabotayet, tot nye kushayet."
He shared a corner with an elderly Jewish couple, slept on a narrow bench – his coat his only blanket – awakened by a voice emanating from a table disk, greeted in Yiddish – which was shunned in the place of his birth.
Assigned to work in a flax factory, he supervised farmers in unloading shrubbery, then stored it in heaps, the rest of the day browsing around the hothouse where the finished product was drying.
Each morning Jacob was ferried over a brook by an old, husky man with red, tearing eyes, heavy sacks underneath, pulling a metal wire connected to two poles on each side of the river, repeating it after work. … Mendel, his rusty disheveled beard blending with the army trenchcoat.
The daily walk in the mud to the small bakery shop, and to the pretty young tutor’s improvised school room was the least stimulating; nor were the landlady’s worries for her sons, fighting on Finland’s Mannerheim Line, uplifting.
Though away from the Nazis, life in these parts of the country was hard to come by. The atmosphere was not conducive to his physical or mental attitude. The declining autumn days gave way to freezing nights. Jacob had to leave, the sooner the better; winter was on its way.
After receiving his passport and a letter of introduction from the bakery lady to her brother, a manager of a clothing factory in Minsk, Jacob left, huddled on a half-truck on a bumpy, winding road, reaching Witebsk. Then, after endless waiting, pushing and shoving, he boarded the train to Minsk, arriving late in the evening. Passengers were hurrying in all directions and he, tired and hungry, tripped on the icy street on the moonless night, searching for the address.
But luckily the place was nearby. He was greeted by a pleasant, plump young woman expecting her husband, and there he was, a rotund man in his late thirties, eyes bulging through thick spectacles. After the introduction, and a quick glance at the letter, he took a step backwards, shouting.
"No! No! I will not help you or your kind anymore. You are a disgrace to the Soviet Union and its Jews. We greeted you like brothers, offered you freedom, shelter, instead you demonstrate, halt traffic. You want to return to the Nazis.
"You ungrateful capitalists, stooges of imperialism, you saboteurs, dirty Pollacks (it was a distinction not to be called a dirty Jew) deserve no help, no hospitality!"
Finished with his diatribe, he slammed the door and left, his wife and Jacob aghast. Then she said:
"Young man, do not fret. I am sure that you’ll succeed in your pursuit." She spread a coarse blanket on the kitchen floor, and with an encouraging smile bid him good night.
The next morning, after a sleepless night, Jacob roamed the shops and factories, asking for a job, without success. He tried another fenced-in factory, dreading the same reply, when the old guard unhesitatingly directed him to the office. That in itself was a good omen.
He climbed the outside stairs of a two-story building, with two rooms underneath, in one mechanics attending sewing machines, in the other a young nurse at a desk, writing.
Across the yard stood a massive three-story brick structure, the noises reminding him of a familiar setting. A truck, a warehouse, and a German shepherd on a chain, growling.
He entered the office, facing a handful of girls typing, a man using the abacus, a short, stocky man in a beige Nehru tunic, a brown leather belt on his ample waist – a perfect Santa Claus – only his face shaved, gray hair sparsely covering his pate.
"I am Samuel Sherman, technical director of this plant," he said. "What can I do for you, young man?" He took off his glasses, and examined Jacob’s coat, almost touching the fabric.
"I need employment," Jacob blurted out.
"What is your name?"
"Jacob Brotgeber, from Warsaw."
"All right, Jacob, I’ll be happy to hire you. Many of your landsmen work here.
"You can start tomorrow, but there is one problem, rather two. You need proof of residency, and a permit to work in this city of ours.
"These you can get at the city hall. Get those papers, and I will be happy to hire you. To prove my good intentions, I will put it in writing," and he handed Jacob a letter.
Minutes later Jacob faced a huge building in the shape of an arc, its white walls partly adorned with marble. A wide paved plaza, patches of shrubbery and flowers, and in the center larger than life a statue of Lenin.
He ran from office to office, inquiring, and at last was led to a basement where a long line of young men and women stood waiting.
But to his astonishment, they were there not for the same purpose as he. They demanded to return to Poland, Jacob so painfully realizing why that bureaucrat did not trust him.
But how could they? How could anyone? Did they forget the Nazis? Was their memory that short? But most importantly, their foolhardy act would prevent others from leaving, not only causing their demise, but also that of thousands of others so anxious to leave Poland.
True, Jacob is homesick, but he is a human being, not humiliated. Here he walks on his feet, not on his knees. Defiantly explaining that he intends to stay, that a job is waiting, but he was pushed aside, sneered at, laughed at. His heart, soul, wounded – wondering who to be sorry for, them, their ignorant, myopic action – or himself.
In desperation, he leaned against a wall, when a slender, tall woman took his hand and walked him to the door. The guard respectfully ushered them to a spacious room, a heavy-set officer, his ample chest heavily bemedaled, greeting her.
At that instant, Jacob knew that his efforts were not in vain. He was handed two notes signed by the big man, and ran all the way with the greatest treasure to Mr. Sherman.
"You did it! You did it!" he shouted, vigorously shaking his hand. "Jacob, from now on my son you’ll be ‘Yasha.’
"Welcome to Minsk
and to
The Artel of the Proletariat."
He was handed a package and a handful of bills. "Now, my boy, let’s go and find you a place to stay," Jacob behind the heavily breathing Mr. Sherman, in one hand the package, in the other the bills, an advance toward future earnings.
"Here we are," Mr. Sherman said, entering a walk-in apartment, greeted by a woman puffing a cigarette, her disheveled, crippled daughter at her side.
Again, his new boss shook hands with him, and before he left said, "Tomorrow morning at seven we start the first shift – make sure you are on time."
With money, a brand new quilt cover, a pillow, two sheets, pillow cases and towels, what else did Jacob need?
Back for his belongings he went, the gracious lady, tears in her eyes, kissed him goodbye, wishing him good luck. Upon his return he threw himself on the bed, without interruption sleeping for 15 hours.
Running downhill, he mingled with the rushing crowd and entered a huge, rectangular room, white girders dividing it in half, powerful fans, two lines of electric sewing machines separated by chutes. Pressing tables, loaded carts, racks, and Mr. Sherman like a proud father greeting his children.
"Belsky, this young man is Yasha," he said, introducing Jacob to the foreman. "Make good use of him."
The heavy-set man walked him over to the pressing table, saying, "This is a piece-working shop. Each person earns as much as he produces. Your task is to open seams. If you’re good and fast, you’ll be all right."
Thus Jacob became a presser, decreasing heaps of accumulated work. The bell rang, everybody left, a cleaning woman readying the place for the next shift.
Jacob was tired but at ease. Only yesterday troubled, so miserable, now the doors of the future were wide open and nothing could stop him.
The following day he continued with his chores, friendly faces welcoming him into their midst. Russian girls, their sandy long hair in braids; Asians, their almond slanty eyes smiling, singing. The atmosphere congenial, contagious.
At lunchtime two girls introduced themselves. "I am Eva," one said, "and this is Magda, my best friend, my roommate. We are from Warsaw, happy to meet you."
"Leave something for me," the girl with long rusty braids said, grasping Jacob’s hand. "I am Magda, the darling of the shop, favored by Mr. Sherman and Belsky. Stick with me and you won’t be sorry."
"And I am Yasha, as of yesterday. Happy to meet you."
"All right, Yasha. Come, and I’ll show you around."
Jacob continued with his chores, eyeing the nonstop operators and the long-legged Magda constantly on the run.
At 3:30 work stopped. Magda was waiting for him to meet the rest of her friends. But he could not move, an agonizing pain shooting up his left arm.
"What is it, Yasha?" she asked. "What happened?"
"I cannot move my arm," he replied, trying to put on a brave front. "Go ahead, Magda, I’ll meet them another time."
"No, I won’t," she said, walking him over to the clinic.
The doctor in attendance helped him undress, staring in bewilderment. From the armpit a bluish line was boldly emphasized, a bulge the size of a golf ball protruding.
"How could you work like this?" he shouted in Yiddish. "What made you wait that long? Are you trying to kill yourself?" And Jacob, numb, stood there half-naked, in agony. What could he say? Explain the anxieties of the recent past? Would he ever understand?
"Right now," the elderly doctor said, turning to Magda, "this foolish friend of yours is in trouble, and hopefully this will help." He handed her a salve, then wrote a note to the foreman not to expect Jacob for a while.
By the weekend the swelling had subsided and the pain diminished. Jacob continued his chores, but not for long. He became a machine operator, excelling in speed and in quality of any given task.
He joined the factory brass band, participated in all kind of physical endeavor, but most importantly, he resumed school.
Toward the end of December, the president of the factory cheerfully announced that the year of 1939 was very productive; the government quotas were fulfilled, inviting all to celebrate the New Year of 1940.
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