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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
A close call
At last the long winter was ebbing. By the end of April the ground thawed, and big hawk-like birds perched on poles.
Trainloads of gravel stopped more frequently. Each time the train passed through, the railroad buckled. So did the brigadier – his behavior, his undoing.
Every morning he, unlike the others, stashed away his food, fasting all day long, then he rushed home with the evening meal, crushed the bread in the accumulated soup, adding water, filling his stomach like a balloon.
One morning the former blacksmith was found at the edge of the forest, dead, bitten up by bugs.
Bolek, sick with nyctalopia, completely blind as soon as the sun set, cried for his mother. That beautiful hunk of a boy did not make it either.
Like the ground sagging, so were these men. The stronger they were, the harder they fell.
Summer was a shortlived period, the sun in a cloudless blue sky warming, news of Italy’s surrender, Mussolini’s capture, a good reason to celebrate. As soon as the bread wagon arrived Jacob cashed in five bread coupons, eating with gusto – a delight in every bite.
It is starting, the beast it losing his grip, a good feeling overcoming. Meanwhile, tomorrow, and the rest of the week, he’ll fast, but who cares?
Stretched out on the grass he dreamed of his girl, instead of a plate of soup, satisfying his hunger for her.
"I hate to do this," said Leon, poking him lightly. "I wish you could see that silly grin on your face, but it’s time to get back to work – Gaidayev is here."
The long days went unhurried, but summer disappeared all too quickly, one dreading to think of the next season.
Autumn is not pleasant in this part of the world. The sun a total stranger, no end of gray skies, backbreaking labor, filling gravel between the tracks, invariably washed away by a steady drizzle.
Swarms of tiny flies appeared from nowhere. Wave after torturing wave attacking anything exposed, eyes, nostrils, earlobes, and like zombies the gang ogled their superiors in long black raincoats, nets over their heads.
Then as suddenly as they appeared they vanished, giving way to mosquitoes, their sharp sting not missing any part of the body – even in the wagons unable to find safety – smoke the only remedy. But as soon as the smoke settled, the pests reappeared, continued the torture, luckily not infecting anyone with disease. … They just wanted blood.
It was the last day of the month. Leon, with two coupons for bread, hurried toward the kiosk to redeem them.
Suddenly – a terrifying screech, freight cars banging into one another, everyone running toward the scene.
A man white as a corpse lay alongside the rails, eyes bulging through the sockets, coupons in his clenched hands.
It was Leon. A miracle that he was alive.
The only explanation by the relieved motorman was that he, unable to stop the train when the poor fellow was hit, then thrown aside, and the strong impact of the wind tossed him between the rails. The injured Leon was taken to the nearest clinic and the motorman continued on his way.
Jacob visited him often, then was forbidden to see him altogether.
Suffering is a feeling beyond comprehension, there is no measuring stick available. If a similar discomfort afflicts two people, then it is up to the individual.
Under normal circumstances, one, used to luxuries, had no problems, for him it was a cinch. He was promptly helped.
The other, not having a shirt on his back, did not have it that easy – he rolled with the punches.
Here, at the crossroads of Europe and Asia, was the testing ground of the two. The first one did not survive, whereas the latter had an uphill struggle, a crucial test.
Dispirited, disillusioned, Jacob rested in his bunk, the past unfolding. No more than two decades old, he already had more experience than others have in a lifetime; an odyssey of a long winding road from Radom to Warsaw, Minsk, Fergana, the heat of Central Asia and the cold of the Ural Mountains, fighting hunger, bureaucrats and the elements.
The only one left of more than a dozen vigorous young men, crumbled physically, and morally. An Alien, Yevrey, boldly written on his passport (Statute 38). Is he going to die also?" Is he? No! He is not! He’ll fight as long as he has an ounce of breath. …His struggle has just begun.
Sunday again; the men toasted the bread, Davidson patched his gloves, Jacob musing, "Wherever there were three Jewish boys, two of them were bound to be tailors." A partnership developed.
On the following Sunday they scouted the village, the screeching "laptches" (a footwear made of narrow strips of a tree bark) disturbing the serenity of the snowed-in hamlet, punctuated by smoking chimneys.
On the first try they were given work, shared a hot bowl of soup, and promptly returned home. But something was amiss, a small locomotive coughing up smoke, two platforms with gravel, a handful of men unloading, Gaidayev nearby, cursing.
Someone had to be punished for its insubordination, and it was Jacob, the Ukrainian satrap’s choice.
The temperature in December of 1943 reached 42 degrees below zero. Blinding blizzards created changing snow dunes; all remained in the wagon except four hardened rebels, Jacob among them.
The next morning he called it quits.
The door of the wagon opened, and there was Izhinkovitz, Gaidayev’s faithful little dog barking.
In haste, one by one swallowed their soup, the last crumb of bread, leaving, when he spotted Jacob.
"Hey, you there, get down!" But Jacob did not budge, when the guy got inside and with an uncanny force pulled Jacob by his foot. … That did it.
Jacob jumped off the bunk, took the little punk by the collar, dragged him to the door, and with a kick in his pants pushed him down the steps, climbing back into his berth. It happened so fast – surprising not only himself but Gilzenrat, his huge hand patting Jacob’s disheveled hair, skipping the middle rung broken by that little asshole.
Minutes later the door was pried open by the big man himself, one foot on the steps, the other on the ground, panting, his face purple with rage, his eyes bloodshot.
"You there! Are you that strong to throw me out too?" he shouted. "Are you?"
He didn’t have to wait. Raising his head, Jacob met him eye to eye, and with a sneering defiance replied:
"Whoever deserves, will, Comrade Gaidayev."
"Today you will not go to work," the commander muttered, hissing like a serpent.
"I will do just that! Not today, not tomorrow, not ever, Comrade Gaidayev," Jacob said slowly, sarcastically.
Soon after, a diminutive Korean appeared, reading a list of indictments – treason … sabotage …capitalist propaganda against the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Davidson and a drifter, Solovey, alongside.
Jacob had company. Why? What was their crime? But to his surprise, they were not unhappy, commenting that compared to this place, anything else would be an improvement.
Thus on December 13, 1943, the bread coupons already exhausted for the rest of the month, Jacob with the entire possession of a sheet, pillow case and blanket, was on his way to Serov, to be court-martialed.
Suddenly he had an idea. "We’ll not go with him, we’ll try the train, hopefully making it to the south."
"How would you do it?" asked the drifter. "You have pipe dreams, you’ll never make it."
"Do you have a better idea? Say so! Under the circumstances we have nothing to lose, because, if ever confronted by the prosecutor, we’ll be cooked. Don’t you know that, Solovey?"
Thus at the next intersection, instead of following the man they turned toward the village.
The unarmed guard ordered them to follow him, but to no avail. "We are not going with you, and there is nothing you can do," Jacob said.
"But why? I am responsible for you," he cried. "Then, if you have decided otherwise," realizing his weak position, "hand over your military papers, and I won’t stop you."
He did not fool them. They knew that without documents one could not get away from there. However, those papers did not fit into their plan, and only would lead back to Gaidayev. So they handed them over.
At a lone stand of the deserted village stood a freezing woman with a chunk of bread hard as a rock, for which Jacob paid not only with his sheet but also with a chipped tooth. Then, after a hot drink in the nearby "Stolova," they walked toward the railroad station, a small hut in the middle of nowhere, climbed into the upper berths of the lone open Pullman car, then waited to be connected to the impending train. Soon, there was a sudden jerk, the train slowly picking up speed, the rhythmical clank of the wheels putting them to sleep.
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