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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
Homeward bound
Of all the traveling Jacob had ever done, this was the most exciting, stirring, in reality he was going home. After a thorough check of his papers by the border police, he, in tattered clothes, arrived in Lvov, then took the next express train to Warsaw, arriving early in the afternoon and given a lift by a friendly Russian truck driver.
There was his house, transformed into a diner, steam all over the place. Jacob, like a moth attracted to a flame, sat at the spot where his cot had been, his eyes shut, rudely awakened by a husky fellow, a white apron reaching all the way to his ankles, in a hoarse voice asking what he wanted.
"A glass of milk."
If he was not recognized, the walls did rivulets of steam like tears flowing freely. This haven of wonderful memories, this solid rock was shattered, gone forever.
The city had not changed much except the craters filled, traffic moving freely. The burned-out houses, its skeletons mum. If they could speak, how much one could have learned. But they don’t speak, so were passers-by, just scrutinizing. The bewildered young man roamed the streets in search of a familiar face, but without success. There were none.
Where are they? he mused. Are the warnings of the good major true? when he heard a voice. ... "Du redst Yiddish."
Before him stood a young man in a beige suit and white shirt with open collar, repeating, "You speak Mama Loshon?"
"Yes, I do. How come you do?" Jacob asked.
"Because I am Jewish. I could not help watching you. You seemed so distraught – lost. Obviously you are a newcomer in need of advice. It is not healthy for a Jew to walk the streets of Warsaw, for that matter any place in Poland," adding, as if he were reading Jacob’s mind, "If you expect to find Jews here, you will be disappointed."
"But why?" Jacob stared at him sheepishly. "Why? This is my city, my family and friends lived here for many years. What happened to them? Where did they go?"
There was no reply. The perturbed, handsome man hastily handed him a note, saying, "This is the address of the Jewish Committee. Anyone who survived the war is registered there," and then he disappeared.
Praga, a suburb of Warsaw, divided by the Vistula River, is connected by a handful of bridges, one exclusively for local traffic, the Kerbegia Bridge, where Jewish youngsters crowded the beaches, Luna Park, Jacob finally reaching the address. He registered, inquired about his family – the clerk patiently turning page after page – then removing his glasses and shaking his head mournfully.
No? Not one of his people alive? Is this the end of the road? Thunderstruck, utterly forlorn, Jacob walked toward the door when the registrar shouted:
"Young man, come back, there is a name similar to yours. … Brotgeber, Leon, born in Radom. Father, Fishel, mother, Syma – a watchmaker, initially registered in Lodz, where he resides." He wiped his glasses, replaced them on his chubby nose, and closed the window.
Jacob began to tremble, his heart pounding, then asked him to repeat it, the clerk obliging.
"It’s Laibl," he sobbed, the crowd crying along, "it’s my brother Laibl," and the clerk wiping his smudged glasses.
Reborn, with fresh blood flowing in his veins, Jacob was on his way to see his brother.
The next morning he was in Lodz, at the site of four newly erected buildings, with innumerable balconies, tall windows heavily draped.
"What are you doing here? What are you looking for?" asked a man, a broom in his hand, his breath smelling of alcohol. "What do you want?"
"Can’t I be here, is there a law against it?" Jacob said, handing him the slip with his brother’s name and address.
The man scrutinized the paper, attempting to decipher it, then said, "No one by that name lives here. A few miserable Zyds were here last year but no more, I threw them out and you better leave too," holding the broom in midair.
It was of no use to argue with a drunken bigot, but before Jacob left he threw him a glance, and if that had any power he should have dropped dead on the spot.
The Jewish Committee confirmed Laibl’s presence a while back, assuming that he like others had left Poland.
Jacob had one more place to go – Radom, where Zysyl and Uncle Shmuel lived – huddled in a dark corner of the train compartment, waiting for daybreak.
There was the Podjazdowe street, one side adjacent to a fenced-in railroad, the other lined with chestnut trees already in full bloom. The fields where Mayer Glatt and Jacob played remained unchanged, memories unraveling.
He crossed the Jarmacka street, site of the largest church, where no Jew dared to venture, and the Skarszewska.
There was Weckselman’s dry good store – the cheder. The small deli, Itchy Krull’s tailor shop, Uncle Shmuel’s store, the painted clock still in evidence. Leah’s bakery, the busiest place in town, a broken shell, his sister’s place and the house where he was born, nailed down with wooden boards, derogatory remarks, garbage all around.
The owner of the candy store, Jan Savicki, avoided any answers, advising him to visit the city hall.
There was the familiar park, Lublin street untouched by the war, more stores smeared with the Star of David.
This was not real, the fountain of his youth turned into a strange world, a twilight zone. A woman with her young ones crossed herself, her eyes cold, old men staring in surprise.
At the intersection Jacob was stopped by the head of the local Jewish Committee and his wife, a sad-eyed beauty who could easily pass for his daughter, inviting him to his house.
"What brings you here?" he inquired. "I have never seen you here before. If there is anything you need, I’ll be glad to assist you."
The forlorn boy knew already what to expect, then said: "True, you might not know me, but I was born here, attended school here around the corner.
"My folks moved to Warsaw 14 years ago. There I was informed of my older brother’s survival, but the fate of the rest of my kin is still unknown.
"This is my last resort, my sister and my uncle resided here. Any information would be appreciated. The natives are unfriendly – one, our former neighbor, advised me to try the city hall, and I am so tired, so afraid."
"Yes," concurred the young lady, smiling sardonically. "We are all afraid, one never knows who is lurking behind. Only last evening a young man in Praga warming his meal was killed, a grenade exploded in his face."
Instinctively Jacob held onto the chair, his face drawn.
"What is it? You are white as a ghost," said the young lady. "Did I say anything wrong?"
"No, no. I happened to know where that murder occurred. Only the night before last I was there at that spot warming my meal, and that is so disturbing. I cannot fathom how men can be so rotten, so contemptible, so vicious. How much can one hate. How much?"
"Oh," she murmured. "We know, how much we know. Stay here tonight, tomorrow you could have a look at the passports of Radom’s Jews; who knows, maybe you’ll find some of your relatives, if not in the flesh, then their image."
Jacob was among the first at the city hall, in his hand a fistful of letters, two postcards, one from Paris, France, addressed to his aunt, the other he had sent from Russia, all unclaimed. Next an elderly man led him into a lighted room, pulled over a chair, sat down, then pointed toward a shelf and a stack of passports, stamped with the swastika, images of familiar faces, his rebby Shlomo Litwak, the stark pale face of Zysyl’s schoolmate Leah’s father, his long beard untrimmed.
Panicky, yet drawn to it, was Mayer Glatt’s mother, the Krulls, Weckselmans. … And then her, Zysyl, his beautiful sister, her gentle features, delicate lips tightly shut, her head high, sad eyes staring, accusing.
Jacob began to sob, crying his heart out for the loss of her, all of his dear ones who perished so untimely, guilty of nothing. … Their only crime being Jewish.
Presently he was reminded by the guard, wiping a tear, that it was time to leave. With Zysyl’s passport in hand, he tore the picture, pocketing it. The guard protested, but pacified with a few zlotys, he let Jacob go.
That was the end of his search. With the warning of the Russian officer, his tenacity crumbled. Then and there he decided to leave Poland – never to return.
Two days later he arrived in Wierzchoniow, Upper Silesia, a picturesque town on the Czechoslovakian border annexed by Poland. A safe haven – more Jews than in his combined travels in the place of his birth.
Shulman was there, too. Penniless, benefiting from the generous American welfare organizations.
At one of the many memorials Jacob was not the only one in search of his family, also men of good will helping them leave the bloody place, cross the border to Czechoslovakia.
Thus, after a fortnight, he was told to meet at a red brick house, a smuggler’s place, preferably in pairs but most importantly to be on time.
There was an uneasy quiet, not a soul around but the two of them, faint chimes of a midnight clock, heavy clouds overhead, the dimly lit window of the meeting in sight.
Suddenly his companion squeezed his hand. The poor kid gasped for breath. "I am afraid someone is in back of us," she whispered.
Seconds later they turned in to the house and closed the door behind them. But before long a man in a four-cornered hat, bemedaled beige tunic, faced them.
It was a moment of horror. Of all the devils he was the least expected. All their planning backfired.
But to their great surprise, and greater relief, the officer said in Yiddish, "Don’t be alarmed, Gottlieb is my name, humbly asking permission to cross the border with you," shedding his uniform and changing into civilian clothes.
A little sinister looking hunchback appeared, in a hushed voice saying that it would be safe to leave within the next half-hour, by that time the patrol would have passed the juncture.
Counting heads and finding one too many, the smuggler reneged, but with the proper persuasion he relented. There was the dividing marker of the border, a large rock; minutes later they crossed a cemented road into a shallow ditch to Nachod, Czechoslovakia. Gottlieb opened a bottle of wine, all drinking L’chaim – a poignant reminder of years ago when Jacob crossed a border drinking to life.
At dawn a friendly milk truck driver gave them a lift to the city. Then they were escorted by a woman to the Americans.
The place hummed like a beehive, people speaking in their native tongue, registered, inoculated, then were led into a dining hall, where long tables were stacked with food.
All conversation stopped. Chunks of heavily buttered rolls, eggs, cheese, lox, fish cooked and smoked, herring, shmaltz and marinated, disappeared, like locusts devouring everything in sight, though constantly reminded by the bewildered officer to take it easy – there is plenty more.
"Then why is there so much of it? What is the reason?" a young boy asked.
"That’s just it! That’s the reason. That spread is not only to satisfy your stomachs, but to satiate your eyes," the tall man said, trying to convince him, wiping his forehead.
After having their fill, Gottlieb, Shulman and Jacob took a stroll in the warm spring sun, mingling with the crowd.
A woman in her forties, her drawn, pale face, black hair revealing signs of gray, waited in line to be registered. Suddenly there was a shriek – a tall young girl spotted her. Glued to the spot, they ran toward each other, in a tight embrace, sobbing, the girl crying, "Oh, Mama! Mama!"
It was a stirring scene, not a dry eye, all in reverence, happy for them. Their dream had come true.
Young men and women with numbers on their arms freely described their experiences; of death factories – soap made of human fat (R.J.F., "Rein Juden Fat"); experiments on living bodies cut apart like pieces of cloth.
At last, moving on, to Germany. What a paradox, a twisted turn of fate. Who could ever fathom that from all the other places, one had to find shelter in the beast’s den?
Guided by the ever-present Americans, they stopped at Bratislava, the first leg toward their destination, then after a night’s sleep in a dilapidated hotel, transferred to a comfortable Pullman car speeding toward Austria – advised, if asked who they were, that they should reply "Greeks" on their way home. … Who knows why, was being a Jew still taboo?
Mr. Stone, an American correspondent, interviewed young survivors, who freely related shattering satanic stories unheard of, anywhere, anytime.
The "Umshlagplatz," where people like herring were pressed into sealed cattle cars hastened to extermination camps. And the bathhouse. Lethal gas instead of water, asphyxiating young and old, their corpses rushed to the cremoratoriums, huge chimneys, smoke blackening the sky.
Factories of death around the clock supervised by the SS enthusiastically assisted by Poles, Ukrainians, Lithuanians and Latvians, forcing the victims to dig their own graves.
Calcium pits of Chestochowa, site of the black virgin, Lemberg, and Babi Yar vibrating with people buried alive. Tales of hell, the tall sniffling war correspondent smudging the notes with tears, and the stunned, red-eyed returnees from Russia listening in disbelief.
At a nearby corner an old man wrapped in a huge tallis prayed, his eyes blinking, one wondering whether he was at peace with himself, his creator, and the "Chosen," the eternal wanderer. The world like leeches to suck his blood, wilfully benefiting from his wisdom, skill – and what was the reward?
"Deicide." The greatest lie ever concocted, culminating with the most infamous bloodbath on earth, "The Holocaust."
Even those converted were not spared. The name of Heine, Mendelssohn, Mahler and others were taboo. The purity of the Arians had to go back, far back. One wondered if Wagner, Nietzsche, or the Fuhrer himself had not traces of those impurities flowing in their blood.
And the heinous massacres continued unabated like a plague overflowing the continent, the lament reaching the rulers of the world democracies, religious leaders hiding in their state houses, palaces, cloisters, and cathedrals, in lethargic indifference – like the three proverbial monkeys, they did not see, did not hear, did not talk.
Biding their time, they let the fire burn out, only when the conflagration closed in, then, only then, to save their own skin, they began to extinguish the fire, destroy the monster causing it.
By then it was late, much too late; scores of millions perished, among them, six million Jews.
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