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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
A time to go
The Germans retreated in disarray. The Russians began to demobilize. But the communication commissariat, the railroad in particular, was not in any hurry to release its people, the price for their labor was just fine – it was free.
After getting acquainted with the terrain, a foursome of Moldavians, two Rumanians, two Polish Jews, one German from the Volga region, one Ukrainian, a Mongolian, and one Central Asian continued with the task at hand, working side by side, constituting a congenial atmosphere.
Jacob found lodging with an elderly couple, a Cossack from the Don steppes and his Polish wife.
Like "Laban" having two daughters, the father offered Jacob one, implying that he wouldn’t have to work seven years for the prettier, boasting that they were both beautiful, a shadow of a smile behind his huge moustache.
But determined to return home with no strings attached, Jacob resisted the temptation. As they say, "He travels fastest who travels alone."
For a while everything was satisfactory. Then the dreaded malaria struck again. The nurse took his temperature, and as soon as she turned Jacob disappeared. The last he recalled, someone grasped his hand and left him in the care of the landlady.
When he opened his eyes, Natasha, the older daughter, was by his bed, smiling. Shortly after, he joined the gang again.
They were chosen for a special job, destination Armavir, boarding the train to the displeasure of a handful of women, sadly waving goodbye to their men.
It was a meaningless task, not worthy of the trip, but who was one to argue? Then they were allotted two rooms, young women volunteering to host their stay, hinting, "Take a good rest, boys," and leaving with a smile.
Soon after, one of the Moldavian boys brought a gallon of home-made booze, offering everyone drinks. Only Jacob refused; it smelled like turpentine, but the wavering giant, his eyes glassy, one hand like a vise on his shoulder, with the other forced the cupful of the fiery liquid into him.
When Jacob came to his senses, everything was in a tousle. Beds unmade, one broken; pillows, clothes and cups scattered all over – all in a daze, but not the girls, laughing mischievously, subtly insinuating that they would be back.
After five days of revelry they left this beautiful city and its fun-loving girls, missing the local train, chancing the midnight express on the rooftop, in one hand their belongings, with the other gripping the ventilators. Moreover, the train did not stop at their station, just slowed down, all jumping in midrun. Thus ended this jolly, adventurous escapade.
Spring of 1945 arrived early; the enemy retreated in panic, his days numbered. The victorious Russians returned home, many without limbs, others blind, withdrawn, the price of their victory – overwhelming.
Geroy, the three-legged dog, greeted Jacob at the entrance to the house, his tail wagging. The old invalid waiting for the customary pat, then bundled up in his favorite corner, his eyes following inside.
They were all there. "Levka," a bemedaled young tankist, Natasha’s beau, a cigarette in hand. Tamara, who had returned from the Rostov Technicum, and their parents – their eyes glued to magazines.
"Hello, Yashenka," Tamara greeted him, her hazel eyes smiling, a dimpled cheek inviting a kiss. "You are pale, thinner since I saw you last. Are you in love?" She giggled.
"No, dear," her mother replied instead. "He had a bad bout of malaria," and Jacob, just watching the others, said, "It must be fascinating. Let me have a look!"
"No," the old Cossack said, tears in his eyes. "It’s not for you. Why don’t you and Tamara go out for a walk?"
"But, Pops," said Levka. "You are wrong, so very wrong, he of all the people should see it," and he handed Jacob one of the magazines.
It was a French publication Jacob could not read, but the pictures said more than any words could. One exposure more shocking, more devastating than another.
One recalled scenes of degradation, barbarism, humiliation, but this had an entirely different twist.
A boy, no more than ten years of age, a long black coat branded with the "Star of David," short pants, oversized shoes, a black cap hiding a dainty pale face, terror-stricken eyes, tiny hands over his head, a tall German – his bayonet pointed at him and at the sides men, women and children surrounded by soldiers and dogs.
In another scene, a young woman, an infant at her breast, its face oozing blood, a German officer nearby, his smoking Mauser in hand. A boy pushing a cart, a dead sibling on it.
And there, the Warsaw Ghetto in flames, an elderly man wrapped in a tallis jumping from a window, a woman screaming, her daughter forcefully taken away.
One horrifying exposure after another, staggering one’s imagination. The young boy personified David’l, the young mother, Zysyl, the distraught woman, his mother, and the man with his flaming white beard, Jacob’s father.
Overcome with revulsion, the indignation mounting, he could not stay, he needed fresh air. He left the room, the others remained, their bedazzled eyes following. Hunched in a corner he began sobbing, the dog at his side, its tongue lapping all over his face.
Jacob must have dozed off, when Tamara coaxed him back inside, all quietly sipping tea but Natasha, her face flushed, angrily blurting out:
"What kind of world are we living in? Where are we headed? I know what the enemy did to our boys, but this is perversion. How low can one sink? What is a mother’s crime, an old man’s sin? Why should little children suffer? Because they are Jews? How could those dirty ‘Krauts’ be so mean, march innocent people at gunpoint? If this is heroism, I wonder who the hero is, the German bully or the little boy.
"So what if they are Jews, don’t they have a right to live?" the flamboyant girl cried. "I don’t understand. Papa, Mama, can you explain it?"
"I wish I could," her mother said quietly. "I only know that those pictures give me shame, to see that is terrible, appallingly shocking.
"When I was young I was taught to hate them, avoid them, but this is barbaric, it should not even happen to them."
"Yes, Mama, I feel the same," concurred the old man. "I remember the pogroms. That was nothing in comparison. Thank God, times have changed, and I would not mind, I’ll be happy to have one in my family."
But Jacob was not responsive. All he could see was the little boy, the dead sneer on the young mother’s face, the elderly woman’s burning eyes, the old man in flames.
Jacob was browsing in the bazaar one sunny Saturday afternoon when he was surprised by a man speaking Yiddish, inviting him for Passover. A fortnight later, he was on his way, greeted by two girls, a pretty brunette, "Chantche," and a redhead, "Rivkele," and before long they were there.
This casual encounter was an immediate success, a cozy, amiable atmosphere enchanted by a familiar vernacular, and Chantche’s mandolin playing, reminding him of Zysyl, all sharing the fervent enthusiasm, impending repatriation.
Meanwhile, Jacob did not waste any time, writing home, counting the days to departure.
Finally the Soviets let his people go. Jacob’s friends were the first to leave. Soon after, Shulman and he were released, papers in one hand, in the other a goodbye present – two packs of Bielo-More Canal cigarettes and a couple of herring.
On the way out, Jacob was coaxed in by an officer to his office, closing the door behind.
What now? Hopefully they haven’t changed their minds. He can’t be detained any longer, it’s time for him to go home. Six years is enough! Jacob had paid his dues.
"Sit down, make yourself comfortable," the officer said.
"At the outset I want to tell you that you are a free man, I have no more jurisdiction over you. But before you leave, I want to talk to you not as your superior, but as one Jew to another. I feel obligated to prepare you, mention some facts you are not aware of.
"Recently I returned from the West. In my official capacity I was in Warsaw, and in other places. What I must tell you is not pleasant, not at all.
"I was in Kielce, saw dead Jews, a woman with child, her swollen belly cut open – and I must warn you, if you want to see your relatives, you had better take along a big shovel. That place is strewn with their corpses, the earth saturated with their blood.
"Many who survived the concentration camps were killed by the A.K. (army of the land). There, the dream of Hitler was implemented to the fullest, Poland became ‘Judenrein.’
"Young man, why don’t you stay here, there is a future ahead for you. Start a new life. Continue your studies, build a family, enjoy socialism, a society free of prejudice. Stay here and you’ll avoid disappointment and heartbreak."
This bemedaled officer, in fancy tunic with shiny epaulets, cast off his outer shell, with the burning butt lit another cigarette, his eyes sweating.
"Comrade Major," Jacob, overcome with emotion, replied. "I am deeply touched by your sympathy, and will always cherish it, but my mind is made up, nothing can change it. I have waited a half-dozen years for this moment, enduring many hardships. I have witnessed the death of friends stronger than I, and if I persevered, it is because I tenaciously clung to the one thing I had left, a dream.
"Though fully aware of the consequences, I must go, that much I owe to myself and my family. I am sure if you were in my place, you most certainly would do the same. As to the fate of the Jews in my land of birth, I still after many years feel the bitter taste. I know how much I am hated.
"If I may, let me confess, sir, no one likes us, although during my stay here I did not encounter any official anti-Semitism, on the contrary, I recall an incident when a young Russian insulted a Jew, and he, one his knees, had to apologize or face prison. Although, one must concede, that was not by accident or love toward us.
"For years the Soviet Union was overwhelmingly concerned with a bloody war, everything else was put aside, at least for the time being.
"It was the policy of Stalin to utilize the best and the brightest of the Russian Jews, attract attention of their counterparts, the Americans – the means toward the end.
"Now, when not needed any more, I fear that the Jews like dust swept under the rug would not remain there, evil winds will disperse them like a deadly germ.
"The infamous blood libels, pogroms are not that easily forgotten – they might recur – and if I may add, I don’t trust the man from Georgia. The former priest possesses all the ingredients of prejudice, and if the need arises he, like many others before him, will find the ever convenient scapegoat, the Jew.
"So let me thank you again for your concern, your sincerity."
Jacob arose, shook the major’s outstretched hand, and with a choking voice, said:
"Goodbye, good luck, and may all your dreams come true."
When Jacob emerged, Shulman was already waiting outside, happy to see him.
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