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A memoir of the Holocaust
By Jacob Zylberman
The online version
© Copyright 1995, 2000, Jack Zylberman
Warsaw
Soon after the outbreak of World War I, a young couple and their infant daughter left Warsaw. The presence of the dreaded Cossacks, "pogroms," put fear into every Jewish household, causing the exodus.
They settled in Radom, a provincial city under the benevolence of the Austria-Hungary occupation. Seven more children were born there.
Then, in the spring of 1931, the belongings of 16 years were loaded on a truck filled to the top, and the children tucked in feather beds on a journey to the capital, arriving late that night.
Jacob’s new home consisted of a store large enough to absorb the residue of many years – but not a family of ten.
His mother took charge, inspecting the sink, the gas stove, a welcome novelty appreciated by him, an incident of the recent past (unable to start the fire in the coal stove, he poured kerosene into it, when shooting flames singed his hair and eyebrows, luckily doing no damage to the rest of his face). But there was no toilet or bath tub.
Disappointed, she hired carpenters to erect a showcase, a workbench, and a partition to the store. In the back, because of the high ceiling, another room was added, a ladder leading up to it, a "Galleryika."
Zysyl joined the family. Hardly a year had passed since she left Radom, and what a change! One could not stop marveling at her slim figure, perfect features, lovely forehead and her combed-back ebony hair, her brown sad eyes.
Soon, all was as before. Jacob’s father, the perennial optimist, saying: "True, most definitely, we could use more space, but we are together, that is what counts" – finishing with these words: "In a small cage, geese get fatter."
Laibl attended evening school, during the day learning the art of watch repairing. Though barely past Bar-Mitzvah, he began helping his family, the imperative duty of a son. Meanwhile, Jacob explored the city, the wide boulevards, and parks, admiring its cleanliness.
For the first time he saw streetcars, "tramways," driven by electricity, Jews in black caftans, the round cap, small visor. Others, more modern, imitating the Gentiles.
The city did not lack churches. Every major street had one or more cathedrals decoratively ornamented, its bells pealing away for the greater part of the day.
But where are the synagogues? So many Jews and no visible places of worship. Then he found two – one on the Twarda 6, "The Nojik Shul," the other on the fashionable Tlomackie Street, appropriately named "The Tlomackie Shul," where world-famous cantors shared the pulpit, supported by the wealthier members of the congregation.
But where are the poor, the indigent, praying?
The answer came from his father. He, like many others, joined a "shtibel," one of many scattered around the neighborhood.
Most of Jacob’s relatives lived in Warsaw: his maternal grandfather, two aunts, three uncles in the poorest section of the city, but one – on the Krakowskie Przedmiescie across from the presidential palace.
No poor Jews lived there, and for that matter no poor Gentiles – the sidewalks wide, clean, paved with fancy cobblestones. At each intersection policemen in white gloves directed traffic, uniformed men swept the streets, picking up a butt, a scrap of paper. At night lights illuminating the entire neighborhood. Elegant stores, antiques, expensive jewelry, quaint boutique shops enticing prospective shoppers. One of these jewelry shops belonged to his uncle.
Neither he nor his family visited his brother – and if there was any reason no one knew, the only explanation, one assumed, it was not fashionable.
One Sunday afternoon, the only day of the week when no business was allowed, his father asked: "Yankele, would you like to visit Uncle Mayer?"
"Yes! I’d love to."
"All right, then, wash your hands and face, put on a clean shirt, and we’ll go."
Jacob was all dressed but his father was still grooming, trimming his beard, changing his white plastic collar.
"Are you ready?" he finally asked.
"Yes, father." His father looked behind his ears, at his hands, and patted him on his behind.
"Your fingernails are dirty. Clean them, and you’d better do a thorough job, otherwise you will stay home."
Perplexed, Jacob ran over to his mother for help, after a while asking: "How do you like me now?"
"That’s much better," his father said, smiling. "You are a handsome young man."
"And you are the handsomest father I know." And they were on their way to explore a new world.
It was quite a walk. Jacob could not keep up with his father. He had to slow down, so he could absorb the change. And what a change it was!
The streets gave way to wide boulevards, trees embraced by flowers. No Chassidim with beards, peyes or tsitsis, no screaming children, no peddlers.
Elegantly dressed men and ladies walked hand in hand, a car passing in a hurry, a droshke, the rhythmical trotting of a groomed horse, muted horns of yellow taxicabs speeding by, and the ding-dong of the street cars.
"Here we are," Jacob’s father said, stopping at a rather small store, five steps up; a large window, displaying a medium-size clock encased in a shiny copper enclosure.
Presently, they were greeted by a man, his wife, two daughters and a son. As soon as the introduction ended, Jacob found a place to sit. He would have liked to stretch out on the couch, but did not dare. This was the house of his rich uncle; that alone demanded respect.
But no one forbade him to look.
His uncle was a handsome man, as tall as his father though heavier, broad-shouldered. Dressed in a brown silk robe with matching slippers; a yarmulka on partially receding grayish hair, a beard similar to Jacob’s father’s, groomed immaculately. Golden pince nez glasses concealing brown eyes. Nearby was a towering, expressionless, long-faced lady – his wife.
The room was tremendous. A large crystal chandelier and a myriad of small lights hanging over a mahogany table with six heavy chairs. An oversized sofa with numerous pillows, two upholstered chairs, one at each end. White walls adorned with paintings, a portrait of a young couple, three small children. The smooth parquet floor partially covered with a colorful carpet; and in the far corner an upright piano on three legs (one wondered why), underneath a white fluffy cat licking its paws – a very impressive sight.
One of the daughters, the more attractive one, brought cold refreshments. Jacob had milk and cookies, the others lemonade. The one resembling her mother was at the piano playing, their son in a chair staring aimlessly.
After a while, it seemed hours, all shook hands again, his aunt kissed Jacob’s cheeks lightly, the uncle and cousins walked them to the door, and the visit was over.
Outside, Jacob blurted out: "You know, Dad, this place is beautiful, but I wouldn’t live here for all the money in the world. I’ll take the Twarda street anytime; there I am free, among my own, doing what I want."
"Yes, my child," his father said. "You might be right, but rich or poor, it’s good to have money, though it does not always bring happiness. Yet it erases a lot of misery."
"True, Father, but I would rather see poor Tante Gella, Tante Sarah, uncle Moishe, Shmuel. This place is artificial, stuffy. Yet I am glad of this visit. I know what I’ve got and am thankful for it."
He held onto his father’s hand, happily trotting home.
"Tante Gella is here. Let’s go down!" shouted Malkele.
"You go," said little David. "I will not. I don’t like her kissing my lips. Brrrr. …You go." A minute later, the girls were down the ladder, greeting Tante Gella.
"Where are the boys?" the aunt complained. "Where is my Prince David?" she said loudly enough for all to hear.
After a while, David came out of hiding, saying to Jacob quietly, "I guess I am trapped, but you go first. Maybe she will forget to kiss me," and he pushed Jacob out the door.
She greeted him in her usual fashion, wetting his face, but not the lips, this she saved for David’l, who was trying to get in unnoticed, but she spotted him.
"There is my little prince!" she said, beaming. She picked him up, smothering him with kisses, and he wiggling, wiping his face with his shirt sleeves. Finally, she let him go.
"That was good! Wasn’t it?" she said, licking her lips.
Nevertheless, everybody liked Tante Gella, as she stimulated a lot of laughter and cheer.
Her visits were infrequent, usually on Saturday nights after the Havdalah, always in company with one of her children, seldom the same one – she had six, four daughters and two sons. One of the sons was two years younger than Jacob, the other was his age; his namesake. Most often she came with her daughter Deborah, her eyes wandering, searching for Laibl.
She was a pretty girl, with brown eyes, and a hint of a smile ever present. Her complexion was sprinkled with freckles, her nose slightly turned upwards, her only shortcoming – a limp.
After an hour’s stay, Laibl and Jacob walked them home. All along the Prosta, a great part of the Zielazna, Novolipie, Smocza, and Dzielna streets, heart of the Jewish population, and Pawlak, the famous prison – being rewarded with a big twisted fresh bagel sprinkled with sesame seeds.
Jacob often took the long stroll to Smocza 63, to meet with Tante Gella, who lived in a one-room apartment. A table, six chairs, a huge credenza, plates, and glasses. Two beds, a venetian window; a stove, a big drunk, grayish sink, and another bed partially concealing a white pot.
Two statuette twins, the others blended in with the rest of the furniture. Her husband, a house painter always looking for work and seldom finding any, sitting on the trunk, guarding the tools of his trade, leaving the worries to others.
Tante Gella was the breadwinner, owning a stand in the meat market, the biggest bazaar in the vicinity.
It had apparel of all kinds, men’s, women’s and children’s, new and used, suitable for the neighborhood – predominantly known for its variety of food.
Stalls stocked with an assortment of bread, rolls, and bagels, challahs, cookies, cakes and pastries.
Candies, chocolates, syrups, marmalades, jellies and jams. Milk and dairy products. Cheeses, domestic and imported, and eggs.
Live poultry, cackling, quacking, gobbling, advertising their demise, their relatives, featherless, headless, buried in ice. … Delicatessen: Pastrami, corned beef, roast beef, frankfurters and knockworst, long salamis hanging from the sides of the stalls.
And then the meat: rows of freshly butchered carcasses, chunks of lard, hams. Tongues, intestines, sausages, handled by the red-faced butchers; pig heads and tails in showcases.
Lambs, sheep, rams already scalped, swinging from a hook, stray dogs sniffing, their tongues hanging out.
And there, separated by a wide crosswalk, was the kosher meat section – his Tante Gella’s domain, preparing steaks and flanken, her husband nearby grinding chunks of meat.
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