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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
Gaidayev
"My name is Gaidayev, Grigor Grigorovitch Gaidayev. I am your ‘prorob,’ commanding officer, and you are soldiers, partners of the defenders of this great land of ours.
"Our beloved country is hurting, and our purpose is to alleviate her suffering. We can do it, and we will!
"Your task is to keep the railroad open, the lines of communication in perfect order. The transportation of the materiel, resources for our armament are of the utmost importance and must be utilized expeditiously.
"Your duty is to contribute your share, and I am here to make certain that it is done.
"I must strongly emphasize," he reiterated, raising his voice to a high pitch, his stony face expressing a hidden defiance, his forefinger pointing at them. "Let it be known to one and all that no one will be spared, no one!
"If you cooperate, your motherland will not forget you! If not – you’ll be sorry for the rest of your lives; you’ll curse the day you were born – my name will haunt you. I, Gaidayev, will be the end of you, your untimely death.
"That is all, comrades. Let us get organized, there is no time to lose. My assistants will answer any questions you may want to ask," and he abruptly disappeared into the quarters of the Pullman car.
It was a short speech but to the point. His message was without question whom they would have to deal with. Bolek, Leon and Jacob exchanged glances and followed the others to line up for the monthly booklet of bread coupons, then another line, for soup, the clamor of the metal containers heard from afar.
In the prewar days, one could not dismiss the importance of the long queues, starting with bread, mechanically asking the proverbial question, "Shto dayut," and the irony of it, very often after a long wait to realize that one was in the wrong line.
Here again, in the wilderness of the Ural Mountains, was a repetition of the same. Every day at dawn men rushed to be first in line for their ration of bread, soup, then in line to be counted.
They were divided into brigades – 12 men to a brigade. The brigadier, a kind of caretaker, distributed shovels, picks, objects of work, to fill sand, gravel, between the tracks and rails, keep the railroad intact – a backbreaking, monotonous task, at the end of the day again in line for the watery soup, occasionally a scrap of meat in it.
Infrequently a long train of roofless wagons passed, to return days later with ore, an indication that further up life was worthy of exploring.
And explore they did.
Sunday, the day of rest, was not wasted. The ones more ambitious went out scouting for food. (The constant exposure and hard work in that clean, mountainous climate boosted the appetite, young bodies demanding more food, much more.)
Armed with a cake of soap, a bag of salt, and matches, a fistful of machorka, two of the fellows ventured into the forests, the third remained. Farmers bartered potatoes, turnips, carrots, their only produce, and as an extra bonus they let them dig the already harvested fields. Eventually that bonanza ended. The early winter hardened the soil, blizzards, deep snow made it hazardous to leave the habitat.
Yet work continued. Every morning all waited in line, shivering, to be counted, and those missing were forcefully dragged out from the wagons to do their patriotic duty, no matter how sick they were. As long as their eyes were open they must work; the only excuse was death.
Life was a huge battleground, approaching the law of the jungle, an undisputed test for those with imagination and daring, particularly the Russians. Skillful in killing, they eliminated a goat, a pig from the poor farmers, the leftovers hidden in ditches, preserved by the natural freezer.
Material began to arrive more frequently, the shrill whistle of the locomotive a reminder of the dreary work ahead. At times they were dragged out in the middle of the night to unload the long iron rails, wooden ties, remove the basalt. The smoke-blackened faces washed with the melted snow, then starting a new day.
Miles away was a bath house, a shanty, supervised by the local miners. Often by the time the boys arrived the hot water was already gone. The dirty clothes were thrown into a steaming kettle to be deloused, followed by a cold shower, all waiting outside, shivering.
Winter was in full fury, heavy blizzards, arctic winds dropped the mercury far below zero, exceeding the norm of human endurance – working from darkness to darkness, the crackling fires illuminating, flying sparks like fireflies burning the quilted rags, exposed flesh. But Gaidayev and his orders prevailed, he was the law, nothing else counted. His fanatical quotas had to be fulfilled.
Leon, half frozen, smiling faintly, tried to lift the sagging spirits; Bolek, like a robot, working, Jacob rested on the shovel, taking in the pitiful scenery.
A half a dozen feet away stood Landau like a scarecrow, wrapped in a long dirty army coat in shreds, grimacing in pain, attempting to unbutton his fly with his frozen fingers, finally succeeding, thawing them with his urine, a while later becoming more rigid than before.
The New Year of 1943 started with a bad omen. A fellow collapsed on his way to work; he died before anyone could help him. Within a week, two more succumbed.
By the end of the month a Moslem squatting in a ditch was found dead – his woollen caftan wrapped halfway around his torso, his frozen buttocks exposed.
Yet Gaidayev did not deter from his ambitions, driving harder due to the fact that there were no replacements. But the bread rations from the deceased were taken away, he and his cohorts furtively stealing, capitalizing on their helplessness.
But Jacob and his friends did not falter; steadfast by their high morale, they were determined to survive.
Jacob wrote to the railroad commissar, Lazar Kaganovitch, to the governor of Svierdlovsk, and Stalin himself, decrying the mounting deaths, the dastardly deeds of Gaidayev.
How astonished, utterly surprised he was when in the midst of the cumbersome work he was called to the office, confronting an officer of the railroad, a middle-aged man, and Gaidayev, standing, rigid, his face ashen.
"Are you the one who wrote to the authorities?" he said, looking Jacob over. "Did you complain about the difficulties here?"
"Yes," Jacob said, with an unexplained defiance, furtively scanning the distorted face, the pent-up indignation of the livid Gaidayev, cherishing every moment.
"Sit down, son. Tell me about it. Maybe I’ll be able to help you," he said, his features hardening. Then and there, Jacob knew that the price for his anger would be costly.
But it was too late. Thus, he related the misery, hunger, the harsh conditions the men were confronted with.
After a short pause, the prematurely gray man shook his head and, emphasizing every word, he said:
"I agree, your hardships are real, truly I do sympathize with you, and I wish I could help. But try for a moment to compare your problems with others. Away from the front, you are the lucky ones. Yes, my son, you are the fortunate.
"I am a native of Leningrad, the great city of Peter, pride of our land," he continued. "Not long ago I escaped from the besieged, starving city, where the natives ate dogs, cats, rats, where parents were in constant vigilance, in fear of their young ones being snatched away.
"So you see, to make any comparison is meaningless. Your rebellious spirit might be better on the front line, and that is a pity. But you are here, therefore do the best you can, and if it makes you feel any better, I appoint you to inspect the kitchen. …Anytime," he said, turning to Gaidayev. "If he wishes, he is free to do so." And with a wave of his hand, he ordered Jacob back to work.
Jacob related this encounter to his friends. Their faces betrayed concern, all agreeing he was a marked man. Gaidayev, his insolent pride wounded, would not forget it. He’ll find a way to get even, Jacob will have to pay for his daring, unmitigated "chutzpah."
Days passed apathetically, gloomily. The winds increased, blizzards continued unabated, the temperature dropped to 40 degrees below zero. But notwithstanding, it was a blessing in disguise. The frozen earth turned like a rock. The railroad did not buckle.
The heavy trainloads moved freely, at intervals Jacob cleaned the snow, warmed by the crackling fire, others walked the track, inspecting the ties, securing a loose spike here and there.
Gaidayev did not show himself for days at a time – only his adjutant, Izhinkowitz, the little informer, like a dog chasing the men back to work, barking.
A half a dozen or so miles away as the crow flies was a new settlement, a newly discovered mine of bauxite.
One sunny Sunday morning, after the usual breakfast, Bolek and Jacob, half of their ration of bread in their pockets, were on their way scouting a hamlet – about a score of wooden houses, a tiny marketplace on the main plaza – when minutes later the miners appeared. One by one, then in groups, wrapped in dirty, long caftans, most of them with a large cake of soap; others, a handful of tobacco, an old coat, exchanging for a slab of bread, or money.
Well-dressed men and their mates subtly scrutinized them, buying the soap, the only items they were interested in. Unobtrusively, Jacob asked the V.I.P.s if they could use a tailor, or any help around the house, only to be snubbed. Downhearted, they left the place and headed back.
Near the railroad tracks, a well-dressed civilian stopped them, inquiring of their business there. He seemed to be a high-ranking militiaman, or N.K.V.D. But his manner, and the fact that a woman was with him, did not justify it.
Obviously he was one of the big shots of the mine; his companion dressed western-style, so they were offered work, any work, in return for food.
"Come," said the lady, smiling. "Come, we’ll find you work." Minutes later they approached a small house. Big Bolek began chopping wood outside, guarded by the gentleman. The lady and Jacob entered into a tiny, clean, warm kitchen. She handed him a winter coat, buttons missing, the lining torn at the seams. Surprised at how fast Jacob handled the needle, the young woman piled more stuff to mend.
At noon they were rewarded with a deep plate of boiling soup, chunks of meat and plenty of potatoes sprinkled with slices of onion – one of Jacob’s favorite meals.
Shortly before leaving, there was more soup, pockets full of bread, a bagful of cooked, unpeeled potatoes, several lumps of sugar, a rare delicacy, the satisfied benefactors bidding them goodbye.
At the bazaar they exchanged some of the food for soap, and hurried home, like children with not a worry in the world, jumping the railroad ties two steps at a time, entering the wagon grinning, Leon with the watery soup – waiting.
How surprised was he, his eyes opened wide when they emptied their pockets and the bag full of goodies.
"This is for you, all of it," said Bolek. "Eat and be merry…" adding potatoes to the soup, the speechless Leon with a chunk of meat in one hand, a slice of bread in the other, sniffing intermittently – an intense emotional experience, three fools, crying unabashedly.
Soon the others returned, successful in their barter, but not nearly as much as the three of them.
The next Sunday Bolek remained; Leon and Jacob, armed with a cake of soap and leftovers of tobacco, ventured to the nearest farm, treading a new layer of a diamond-studded snow-covered path – an exhausting walk, nevertheless successful, returning after a short rest. Soon, the others came out of the thick woods, closing the short distance to the wagons.
Bolek and the foggy, hot soup were waiting, others already finished their meal. Gilzenrat, the former goalie of the Warsaw Maccabeans soccer team, tips of his long fingers collecting bread crumbs; Petia added coal to the little oven (stolen from passing trains). Sasha, one of the more affluent residents, rolled a machorka cigarette, sharing it with Kolia, the air pungent with its aroma.
Davidson, a native of Rumania, mended his hole-ridden quilted jacket. Stepanovitch sang a ballad, his melancholy voice soothing – all contented, drowsy, admiring the sunset, but young Flamm.
His older brother was due from the farm. A strong wind was whistling, and Saul was still out. Fooled by the noises, all waited for the door to open, minutes turning into hours, the young man, his eyes glued to the door, pacing nervously.
His neighbor tried to calm the trembling boy, not to worry – most probably Saul stayed over at the farm, he’ll be home by morning, in time for work. It was a most restless night, an ominous premonition prevailing.
Sure enough, the next morning it became known. Bad news travels fast. On the way home Saul decided to take a rest, and that was his undoing. He slowly dozed off in a sweet slumber, never to wake up again. He was dead, his body rigid, the pockets of his coat turned inside out.
How painful was the sorrow, particularly of those who knew him. The heartbroken brother, frantically trying to revive his only brother, thaw the frozen body with his own, had to be restrained.
But Gaidayev, unmoved, only after fulfilling the quota permitted the digging of a grave.
What a shame, what an indecent trick of fate. There, a young man escaping the Nazis, found his untimely death in that Godforsaken frozen land of the Ural Mountains.
Broken in body and spirit, uninspired – so in pitiful shape were the tools, shovels, picks and axes, dull, blunt.
Then, Gaidayev’s assistant found the remedy, the perfect solution. Deep in the forests were more than enough trees suitable to create charcoal, to satisfy his needs.
As second in command, this unpretentious Russian took it upon himself to prepare the fuel, hone the tools – surprise his chief, who was absent for the greater part of the week.
Thus work began. He supervised the work, selecting the trees to be cut into specified lengths, criss-crossing into layers, forming a cubic meter, covering it with sand. At each side an air tunnel was dug, permitting a slow, smoldering fire for the transformation of charcoal.
Then, the most important part of the project followed. To prevent the escape of smoke, a constant surveillance was required. Sixty hours in all.
During the day there was no problem. Someone was always present, if any opening or crack was exposed, immediately it was taken care of – but at night?
The nights were long and cold, bitter cold. The full moon and twinkling stars added an unearthly beauty, reminding one of picturesque winter postcards. But outside, it was totally different, a vivid contrast to the warm, cozy wagon.
Yet someone had to stand watch. If Gaidayev were here, he would have resolved the problem by selecting a couple of guys and that’s it. But not Ivan Ivanovitch.
Before lunch, he assembled the men for a short speech.
"As you all know, the project I have undertaken," the timid assistant said, "is of great importance. To have perfect charcoal, constant vigilance must be maintained.
"Therefore, I need two volunteers to stand watch for two consecutive nights; they may alternate, as long as the job is taken care of. For this they’ll get three days off, to do anything they wish; if not, I’ll do the selecting and there will be no free time. Think it over, fellows. I expect a reply by the time lunch is over."
They say "Necessity is the mother of invention," then "Diligence is the father of good luck." To survive in this hostile part of the earth, one not only has to be inventive, but also industrious.
Suddenly Jacob had an idea. It would be wonderful, if it worked. If not there would be no loss, surmising that he would be selected anyway if no volunteers were forthcoming. Ivan Ivanovitch will do it if no more than to please his boss, so Jacob stepped forward and volunteered, to the surprise of the others but not to the officer – his eyes with a hint of a smile in them.
"Now," he said, "I need one more," and left.
"Are you crazy?" shouted Leon. "Do you really intend to stay watch all night in these forests?"
"Then if you do," Bolek said, "I will go also. But I agree with Leon, it is a crazy idea."
"Okay, my friends, are you finished?" said Jacob. "Let me assure you that I am not crazy, though there is a saying that ‘Sometimes doing something crazy averts insanity.’ I have a plan. I’ll buy soap in the settlement Bolek and I explored, sell it in Serov, where the price is five-fold, and buy food.
"Look, boys, I don’t have to tell you, you can sense our predicament. We are constantly hungry, therefore we must help ourselves, because no one else will. We cannot ignore this opportunity, whether you like it or not."
The two of them looked at one another, then at Jacob.
"What will you use for money?" Bolek inquired sheepishly. "We don’t have a kopek to our name and you want to buy a marketful of soap?"
"Let’s assume that your plan is sound," added Leon, "but don’t overlook the circumstances – we are surrounded by the N.K.V.D. watching every move we make.
"How would you, my smart businessman, be able to get to Serov? Don’t you know that without a permit you won’t be able to travel one kilometer, and to Serov it is more than a hundred? The instant you step on the train you’ll be arrested, and we could kiss you goodbye forever. Is that what you want?"
"No! No! Silly boys, at least let’s give it a try.
"Moscovitz will lend us the money, I am sure of it. Ivan Ivanovitch will sign the permit, making him feel important, especially when I am going to visit a sick cousin.
"Let’s see, today is Tuesday, tonight and tomorrow night I’ll keep watch. The next three days I’ll be free, right? Thursday I’ll do the shopping, Friday morning I’ll be on the train. I’ll get off where Abram is stationed, which is only seven kilometers from Serov, and operate from there. I’ll be back Saturday afternoon."
"I don’t like it," said one of the others. "The whole thing is very risky."
"I am surprised at you guys. None of you has shown any enthusiasm, not a sign of optimism – on the contrary.
"But I am going to prove that you are wrong. We cannot allow ourselves to think negatively – if we do, we are lost before we start. But if we think positive, then there is a chance of success. The plan might be a little complicated, but it will work, I am sure, quite sure, and I want you to have the same attitude.
"Let me tell you, this war will not last forever. The Nazis have stopped advancing – their Blitzkrieg a fiasco. For the second winter they languish in their foxholes, and that is only the beginning.
"How many more winters can they survive? Their end will come and I want to see it. No one is going to find me dead in a bunk, or frozen stiff in a ditch – no one!
"If this has to be my battleground, I’ll fight with all my strength, I shall challenge them all, the Gaidayevs and his kind. So will you. … We will persist!"
Hours later, another fellow volunteered, and before the day’s end, Jacob was in possession of a permit. After the lousy soup, Achmed, a young Moslem, and he took the long walk toward the post. They built a fire near the stockpile, alternating the vigil.
One more night to stand watch, and Jacob would be able to continue with his plan.
But Achmed reneged, he would not go into the forest, claiming he saw eyes piercing at him, heard howling noises, nothing could make him change his mind.
Bolek and Leon offered their company, but Jacob refused, determined to do it alone, just hinting that they should keep the door of the wagon unlocked, and he left.
Alone in the stillness of the night, treading the crisp snow of the railroad track, separated by miles of trees, he arrived at the scene, his heart pounding like a drum.
He examined the stockpile – everything seemed to be in order. No cracks, signs of smoke. For good measure, he threw another handful of sand on top of it, and hurried back in company of a full moon, the remainder of the night in the cozy wagon. At the crack of dawn – back at the post.
By the time the morning crew appeared, he was already through, and Moscovitz without any hesitation loaned him the money. Soon after, he was on his way to the settlement.
No one was at the bazaar, but before long men with dirty faces appeared with soap. They were filthy, but no one could blame the authorities, they certainly provided means for them to cleanse themselves.
The competition was keen, as there were more sellers than buyers. Inconspicuously, Jacob bought one cake of soap; minutes later two more, then he disappeared. Within an hour he had spent all his money, and he quickly left.
It was a success, better than he had ever expected. The next morning he boarded the lone Pullman wagon, took a seat next to a militia man, offered him some machorka, and climbed onto the upper berth, having a guard underneath, immediately dozing off – awakened by the long whistle of the locomotive nearing the familiar substation, and jumped off.
"What brings you here?" said Abram, directing Jacob to a half-broken chair. "Sit down, Yasha, tell me, how are you? How is the rest of the gang?"
Thus Jacob related about life at the camp, Gaidayev, the constant hunger, mounting casualties, and the death of the older Flamm.
"Yasha, we have no picnic here either, see for yourself," Abram said, mournfully. "Anyone able to move must work, and I have to mend these lousy, disgusting, sickening rags.
"And them," he said, pointing to two young men, one coughing, the other with eyes half-closed, long emaciated fingers resting on his lap, his wretched body eaten away by lice. Two living corpses waiting to be put out of their misery.
After a short rest, Jacob took part of the soap to the bazaar and immediately it was a success, having enough money to pay back Moscovitz. The rest he spent on bread, onions and garlic, vital in preventing scurvy.
The next morning, replenished, he left again, exchanged the soap for salt, tobacco, more bread. One cake he left to Abram, the last one he traded for a sackful of potatoes, returning at sunset, Leon and Bolek already waiting.
The trip was a huge success, good while it lasted. But for how long? That was the nagging question.
And in the camp the situation worsened steadily. Hunger predominated, only the hardened criminals had no problems. Boldly, they raided the poor farmers, stealing, filling their bellies. They were the heroes, the
"Stachanovtzes"
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