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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
Panic in the city
The next Sunday, June 22, while Vladek and Jacob visited the girls, the somber voice of Molotov solemnly declared…
"Unimanie, Unimanie"
"The German armies have surreptitiously crossed the borders of our country, attacking cities, towns and villages, sowing death and destruction. We are at war with a cruel enemy aiming to destroy us, but the citizens of our beloved land and the glorious army under the leadership of the great Stalin will repulse, and defeat, the invaders."
A deadly silence pervaded, interrupted by martial music, the stunned vacationers hastening to the trams.
The next morning, panic began. The militia, the N.K.V.D., left the city. Men, women and children on loaded carts, elderly folks barely walking …an exodus of major proportions.
To Jacob’s consternation, he did not have the letters or the pictures of his family, only the passport which everyone over 18 was compelled to carry at all times. He was about to go get them when he was stopped by two schoolmates, who advised him against it. Thus, together they followed the others, avoiding low-flying German planes disguised with Russian insignias shooting at anything that moved – they dashed into the tall wheat, but a convoy of prisoners did not make it. They were cut down by bullets. So was a dying officer in a shallow ditch, expressing his last wish to give regards to his wife.
At last they reached a cargo train, facing east, finding refuge in one of the empty wagons. The train stirred, wheels screeched, drowning out the noise of the planes. Hours later they arrived in Gomel. His companions had left, and Jacob was advised by the authorities to move on, when out of the blue he bumped into Vladek, promising to meet him at Heniek’s place. That was the last Jacob saw of him.
Reinforced with half a loaf of pumpernickel bread and an address in Tashkent, Jacob moved on to Tambov, boarding the Moscow-Tashkent express train.
The locomotive entered Kazakhstan, a vast, barren land, bundles of dry grass rolling in the wind, Mongols, Tatars, selling the only produce they possessed, melons and kumiss, sharing a Pullman car with a handful of passengers, for five days and nights in dismal solitude, matching the panorama.
At last a change took place, the scenery getting vividly animated. The parched ground gave way to green fields, fruit trees, their sweet aroma titillating.
Here and there a man in colorful attire appeared, a jackass braying, sheep, rams grazing. A touch of the Orient, mysterious Central Asia approaching Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan, an industrial city interspersed with small houses populated by transplanted Russians, and indigenous Moslems suspicious of newcomers.
The militia thoroughly checked his passport, asking many questions. Finally cleared, Jacob was given the directions to the address about which he inquired. A tall, lean man emerged, staring at him, eyes widened in disbelief, shouting "I know you! You are Fishel the watchmaker’s son!" The man called his wife.
The next day Jacob continued his journey. The old engine passed Bukhara, Samarkand, places of Biblical times, ancient roads as far as China, nearing the valley of Fergana.
Leaning at the window, he could not help but marvel at the breathtaking scenery. A fading sun revealed snow-covered peaks of the Pamir Mountains, stretches of pristine land.
Amid these sublime surroundings, his faltering heart was inspired with hope that … "All’s well that ends well."
In the morning Jacob landed in Fergana, the last stop of his odyssey. He crossed a huge plaza, a dirt road, a long-legged camel flapping, a braying donkey, and the roar of a dilapidated car disturbing the peace.
Natives in pajama-like trousers, colorful robes brushing the ground squatted under a century-old oak tree having an early party. Chunks of white bread (lepioshka), bunches of green and purple grapes, slices of melons, peaches scattered over a white cloth. A kettle of green tea and a single cup shared by all, talking simultaneously, swarms of flies buzzing undisturbed.
Not only was he fascinated by the unusual scene, but also by a voice repeating his name (wishful thinking). But before realizing there was Bolek, Jacob expecting his mother, but she was not there. He did not have to ask. It happened so fast, Bolek cried. The invading Germans stormed the region, he was unable to reach his mother.
In anguish and sorry, one could empathize, thinking of children forced to abandon their mothers, and the grief of a mother waiting for her only son.
"Bolek," Jacob uttered, "one cannot despair. Behind dark clouds there is always a silver lining – we’ll survive."
Resolute, they reached city hall. The accommodating mayor handed them a key to an apartment owned by an elderly widow, a room with a separate entrance, facing Lenin Street lined with "Uriuk," a kind of peach tree prevalent in the region, overshadowed by century-old trees, their thick branches and enormous leaves blocking the sun.
The hub of the city embraced by mountain crests formed a halo. Narrow brooks rushing toward it, foaming, supplying power to a mill, as old as the city itself.
Every morning there were Moslems in their colorful garb, with long horns on flat rooftops, calling the populace to pray.
Armenian vendors peddled their home-made wares. Cheese, blintzes, rolls filled with rice, beans, tasty to the palate, and the bazaar. Apples, pears, apricots and plums; grapes of all shapes and colors, pomegranates, citrus fruits and a variety of vegetables. Meat, mostly lamb. Live rams, their buttocks like a metronome swinging. At the very end, a lone stand of pork, sausages, hams, a pig, shunned by Moslems. So much food and cheap, here one will not go hungry.
Bolek got a well-paid job with the local newspaper, and Jacob as a machine operator in the only garment factory, where sheep pelts, for officers of the Red Army and party members, were manufactured.
The shop consisted of a handful of operators, their trimmed moustaches, whiskers betraying high-ranking officers of a defunct tzarist’s army, an attractive girl and a cutter, only interested in her.
Among the operators was a little Armenian, among other things confiding that he and Jacob have a lot in common. His people, Christians, were slaughtered by Turks, Moslems, whereas Jacob’s people, Jews, were murdered by Germans, Christians.
Work on the coats was discomforting. The itchy hairy leftovers, though a nuisance, inspired an idea; if the furry scraps could be utilized, it might be profitable. Jacob took a sample of the shavings to his landlady for advice. If anyone was familiar with spinning wool, the old lady for sure would be the one. Thus a new undertaking was begun, with a welcome income, indeed.
A fortnight later Heniek and his wife and two girls filled the complement. The girls occupied the bed, and the rest slept on the floor. The landlady added another bed, the young couple readily confiscating it.
Bolek spotted a pair of bugs crawling on the wall, their tail-like ends curved up. Having never seen anything like this before, he asked the landlady what they were.
"Those were scorpions," she said, then left the room to return with a saucer of oil, in the center a dead scorpion.
"The tail of this ugly thing has a deadly sting," she said. "Trapped in the fluid, this one committed suicide, the oil becoming an antidote. So don’t ever touch them. It could be dangerous to one’s health.
"You were lucky that they were on the wall and not on the floor. If by any chance one crawled on you, and there was any slight disturbance, he would have released the poison and you wouldn’t be here to talk about it.
"But don’t be alarmed, they don’t harm people. Their main purpose is to kill bugs."
On the way home from work, Jacob met a young man, Leon Zeidman, in need of a place to stay, inviting him in. If there was enough room for six, one more would not matter. It turned out he became an asset, a model for the others, not afraid of any kind of work. He, Bolek and Jacob became inseparable.
But notwithstanding the camaraderie, the burden of the war reached them. The setback of the Red Army was enormous.
The German corps and the surrender of General Vlasov enabled the invaders to advance deeper into the heartland, blockading Leningrad, approaching Stalingrad, nearing the jugular, Moscow, plundering and killing.
The White-Russians and Ukrainians greeted the Nazis as liberators, volunteering assistance. But the Nazis’ bestial behavior toward them backfired. Patriots, by order of Stalin, declaring the war "Holy" (Otetchestvienna Voina), retreated, putting everything to the torch.
Intellectuals, Jewish writers, pleaded to their American counterparts for assistance, among them the renowned Ilya Ehrenburg, proud of his mother’s name, "Chana."
Yet despite the inroads, the war was far from over. Hitler and his masterminds miscalculated; the Russians were saved by none other than the "Russian Winter."
If the "Blitz" was not halted by humans, it was by the elements. Spread over vast terrains, motorized divisions were stuck in frozen mud, their engines dead. Scantily dressed soldiers, their teeth chattering, could not continue the onslaught – a stark reminder of the days of Napoleon.
Nevertheless, the impact of the war began to have its effect. Refugees flocked into the city, and in the valley autumn made its transition, continuous drizzle turning the soil into mud, dampening its expectations.
At last spring made its comeback, nature attempting to lift the morale, but the blaring of martial music a constant reminder of its seriousness – an urgent call to tighten the belts, and loosen the pockets.
Vendors with delicious snacks vanished. Bread lines were formed, restaurants were open only to V.I.P.s. By September of 1942, Bolek, Leon and Jacob were drafted, celebrating the occasion with a late movie.
On the way home, something unusual occurred. The peaceful street was crowded, an unruly mob like animals on a rampage, their hands clenched, shouting …
"Bey Zhidov, Spassay Rossyiu."
Like snakes dripping poison, beasts hungry for blood, the ancient call "Kill the Jews" reemerged. The scum of society attempting to quench their bloodthirsty demanding scapegoats.
However, the riot ended before it got out of hand; the mob was quickly contained. Yet that ugly event opened a deep wound, the age-old fear of the universal prejudice, the hateful legacy.
A fortnight later, Bolek and Jacob passed the medical exams, but Leon did not. Running a fever, he was deferred, yet by the time of their departure he joined them and they were ready to do their share – to fight the enemy.
But little did one know that instead of going to the front, those of foreign origins, "Aliens," were to join undesirables, riff-raff of the Soviet Union, in a huge "Working Gang" – fighting the enemy indirectly.
The long train rolled northward, leaving Tchelabinsk, Sverdlovsk, Nizhnyi, Tagil, way past Serov, uninhabited stretches of the Ural Mountains.
Henceforth on a cold, dreary afternoon the journey came to an end, a freezing drizzle exposing the rails, wooden ties as far as one could see – the object of work. The shrill whistle of the locomotive left them on a secondary track sandwiched between thick forests. The sliding doors of the freight train opened, men running in all directions to relieve themselves.
The new home took shape. Two double-deckers of 12 berths, an ironcast round oven secured in the center, a long pipe protruding through the roof; firewood, a bucketful of water, a stool, a low table and a lone wire connected to an electrical pole.
Word got around to meet the head man. A multitude of Russians, Tatars, Chinese and Koreans, Kalmicks, Germans from the Volga region, Moslems and Jews gathered.
Minutes later, a man of medium height dressed in a black trenchcoat, shiny accordion boots, matching leather gloves, a black hat with the insignia of the railroad emerged, his gray penetrating eyes scrutinizing the sizable crowd.
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