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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
Astrakhan
They were awakened in Nizhnyi Tagil by three militiamen with flashlights in their hands, hoping not to be seen – but they were not that lucky. Like trained dogs smelling their victims, the militiamen asked for "Documentchikyi."
Now was the time to execute the plan, to make the police believe they were left behind by a Number 95 train the previous day – but to no avail. The police did not budge. No one without documents is allowed to travel, was the reply.
Hours later, like a registered package delivered to the railroad militia at Serov, Davidson and Jacob shared a cell with a drunkard, Solovey, in an adjoining cell.
In the morning they were given a chunk of bread, hot soup, much better than in camp, Davidson commenting that he would rather stay in prison than on the outside.
Soon after the officer in charge, a woman lieutenant with the report from the poker-faced militiaman, grunted, without ever glancing at them.
"True, a train of your description passed by the other day. Still, you had no right to leave without your documents, therefore you are considered deserters, and will have to stand trial." She ordered the sentry to take them to the prosecutor, the same one intended in the first place.
Crossing the street, Solovey was already on his way back, a sentry shadowing – his only word was "ten" (ten years). Jacob, not anxious to know his verdict, slowed down.
At the courthouse, a long line was ahead of them, a cold wind blowing. The guard, angrily stamping his feet and cursing disdainfully, ordered them back to the station, and without uttering a word he handed them a saw, pointed to a heavy tree laying nearby, and disappeared.
Staring at the chore, the guys began to laugh, tears warming their frozen faces, not making a dent. Disgusted, he chased the boys away.
Blocked by the system, evaded by passersby, they were approached by an elderly fellow from camp, another victim of Gaidayev on his way home, saying that the train had moved closer to the city, a mere three kilometers away.
Rejected by all, they decided to return.
The walk was tiring, but the result satisfactory. They were greeted like heroes, even by the criminals, their bear hugs crushing … a most pleasant surprise.
But the best surprise was the line for the next month’s bread coupons. Nudged to the front, with the cards in hand, they disappeared.
The next days were crucial. Obviously Gaidayev, like the animal that he was, wouldn’t let Jacob get away unscathed, and was waiting for an opportunity to dispose of him in one way or another. Two days later a high officer from the railroad commissariat arrived, urgently in need of a hundred men for a special project. Gaidayev himself did the selecting, got rid of the undesirables, and for good measure threw Jacob into the deal.
Thus, he became the lucky beneficiary of a happy ending to a most trying period of his life.
Cramped in three cattle cars, and with adequate provisions it was obvious that he was destined for a long trip, the stove like a blushing maiden happy to accommodate, the days were more promising. …The Germans were stopped at Mozhaisk, at the outskirts of Moscow, then retreated from Caucasia, and got entangled in a fierce battle at Stalingrad.
American aid vital to the Russians that had been stored in Iran waited to cross the Caspian Sea, and a bridge over the Volga River was of the essence.
At the end of March, after thousands of miles and weeks of traveling, Jacob arrived at Astrakhan, the site where the bridge was to be erected, then quartered in a cozy dwelling, a dirt-covered barrack ("ziemlianka").
Small groups were formed, supervised by engineers, who in turn answered to a master builder, a general, each doing a specific task.
For the first time in many months, Jacob worked side by side with women, placing trees on the bottom of the river resembling enormous braids, rocks on top diminishing the force of the foaming waters nearing the project. One wrong step, and one was a goner.
Illumined by the moon, a raft discharging its cargo and suddenly a piercing shriek reverberated the stillness of the night. Another victim, a young girl afloat, like a dead fish, belly up.
But work continued unabated, the mighty river, wild and restless, was tamed, a huge structure, pillars of steel emerging at regular intervals.
Three months later the job was completed. The long train with its F.D. engine rolled over the long span like an overloaded heart throbbing, squeaking, the bridge withstanding the test.
American cargo, brand-new locomotives, sleek heavy trucks, half-trucks with huge cases covered with tarpaulin passed by twice a day, one at noon, another in the late afternoon.
Many of the workers left, but not Jacob, he and others building dikes, protecting the lowlands from floods, the rest of the time enjoying the weather, reflection, and fish.
Occasionally sturgeon, the source of caviar Astrakhan is well-known for, appeared – forbidden to catch – controlled by the government, strictly for export.
One late afternoon Jacob bought a fish, unaware that it was stale, and its smell made him sick for many weeks afterward.
It was a blessing in disguise, for those who ate only fish quenched their thirst with water, causing their legs and ankles to swell up.
The winter home was dismantled and the crew moved into an abandoned house infested with bed bugs, wondering what was worse, the onslaught of the creepy bloodsuckers or the gales from the steppes.
On one of his daily excursions to the broken-down cave, Jacob found an old coat. After cleaning it, he created a jacket, hoping to barter it for food on the bazaar.
The bazaar in the Soviet Union is a leftover from the Tsarist rule. The Communist Party, in an effort to convert the world, transformed the Ukraine, its breadbasket, into a giant "Kholchoz," leaving its natives starving. Yet those fortunate enough to have a garden, or a cow, did not go hungry, selling their surplus, the bazaar becoming a necessary evil.
Thus in these crucial times those little people not only helped themselves, but others too. The government benefited also, charging a tax to the entrepreneurs.
Each city, town or hamlet had a bazaar where men and women of all persuasions spent their free time and their money. They created the bazaar ("Toltchok"), an important facet in every Russian life, a meeting place. If one was not home, chances were that he would be at the bazaar.
It was also a breeding place of flies and pickpockets, leaving shoppers not only without their money, but often without their documents.
Astrakhan, former capital of the Tatars, conquered by Ivan the Terrible, had two bazaars.
One Sunday morning Jacob walked to the market, proudly displaying his jacket, when a boy spotted it.
He liked it despite his mother’s protestations, and at the end the young woman relented, paying 800 rubles, in return for two containers of corn meal and a can of melted butter.
Among the remaining crew a close relationship developed, one, Jacob’s namesake, the other Misha. The lazy days of summer lingered on, the mighty Volga receded, turning into breeding places of snakes, mosquitoes, and malaria.
By mid-September the crew moved on, their destination Nizhnyi Tagil, their task three overpasses, a direct link with one of the great metallurgical centers.
Knowing from experience, all decided not to let this opportunity pass by, to take advantage of the situation.
Russia, one-sixth of the globe and 11 time zones, is rich in coal, oil, gas – unlimited resources of energy. Not lacking in iron, bauxite, precious metals and minerals. Impenetrable forests with wildlife, seas, rivers teeming with fish, fruit, and vegetation. Yet the majority of its people lacked the bare necessities, and that was in normal times. Thus one seized the opportunity to assist some lucky citizen, at the same time helping himself, filling every corner with crates of herring, and sackfuls of dried fish.
The last-minute shoppers were helped into the wagon, the plaintive whistle of the locomotive bidding goodbye to the bridge and pride of "Mother Russia," the mighty Volga.
Hours later, the train stopped at Saratov, a port rich in salt. All was fine, only a hot bath was missing, when the motorman, after filling the engine’s belly, obliged them with a cold shower.
They were refreshed in their wagons, yet totally unaware that they wouldn’t leave it for many days. Almost everyone was stricken with malaria. … No one could ever anticipate the effect of a mosquito bite – the vengeance of a female!
Jacob hoped to be spared, already having the taste of it, but he got sick also.
At first a feeling of discomfort overcame him, cold winds gradually freezing his bones, his teeth chattering violently, in fear of biting his tongue off, buried underneath covers without any effect. Never had he been that cold, not even the day at Gaidayev’s camp – that was a heat wave in comparison.
At last the icy tremors subsided into a soothing warmth. Jacob removed the covers like peelings of an onion. Then fever took over, tongues of fire licking his parched mouth, dry body, his heart palpitating, losing consciousness.
For three days and nights the alternating heat and cold continued. Jacob ate nothing, yet vomited his insides out, not having the benefit of a doctor or medication.
Finally help arrived, quinine, a pill bitter as gall.
A week later, they arrived at their destination.
If quinine was helpful, nothing could substitute for the climate. The unadulterated cold air killed the germs.
Some recuperated, but Jacob was still too weak to walk the few steps to the doctor’s office. But sick or not, everyone had to work, there were no excuses.
Appointed as a night watchman, he made rounds around the periphery with an unloaded rifle, his only ammunition two bullets, sharing quarters with an elderly man subtly hinting that his weakness was due to malnutrition.
The next afternoon Jacob was at the bazaar, with a bundle of salt and a couple of herring – his merchandise a great success – the old man and he having a feast.
The following day as a favor to a friend he was again at the bazaar with a sackful of salt. But as soon as he crossed the gate he was stopped by an officer of the militia.
"What do you have in there?" he asked.
"I have salt, Comrade Lieutenant."
"Let me see it," he said, looking inside.
"This salt is stolen," the officer angrily declared, confiscating it outright, making Jacob carry the contents to an empty loft, where an old man was napping, and without batting an eye ordered him to go home and left.
That was where the officer made his mistake.
If the salt was stolen, Jacob should have been arrested, and if the officer thought of getting away with it, he was sadly mistaken. Thus, as soon as he disappeared, Jacob returned, passed the snoring drunk, and took the salt. Still with the entry ticket to the bazaar, he took a chance, sold the salt for a reduced price, and left.
Upon boarding the tram, he saw the grotesque, confused militiaman running in circles, sweating profusely.
Later that day when Jacob mentioned it to the Russian, he in gratitude offered him a reward.
"Vania, I had my reward," Jacob said. "Outsmarting that sneaky officer was my greatest reward."
He was compensated in another way. After recuperating, Vania as his superior showed more consideration to Jacob than to the others.
The bridges were finally completed, all cultivating small gardens, girls in their best attire frequenting the wagons, twirling to the music of the balalaika and the accordion.
Occasionally there was a movie. A great romance, the boy going to war, the girl crying, waving goodbye.
News from the front was encouraging, 1944-45 the turning point. The once-invincible Germans began to disintegrate.
Buried hopes, dreams reemerged – soon the war would end, but Jacob painfully missed Bolek and Leon.
Soon he was ordered to move again – destination Northern Caucasia, the train on a side track, making way for the victorious soldiers loaded with souvenirs, transforming the railroad station into a dancing arena, an emotional mass of exalted people warmly embracing, local girls, a handkerchief in hand, whirling, participating in the celebration.
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