More than half a century after the end of the war, this is what Charlene Schiff remembers about the loss of her mother and her struggle to stay alive:
I was in the water up to my neck. The water was cold. We were hiding in the bulrushes and I knew we could not move. It was very quiet and any sound would give us away. Mama gave me some soggy bread. It tasted awful, but she insisted I had to eat it to keep strong. I was tired and wet. The night was dark and dawn came suddenly. In the light of day we saw that many other people from the ghetto had made their way to the river. Shots, which had been sporadic during the night, became more regular now. The Ukrainian guards kept yelling, “Come out, Jew. I can see you,” and most of the people were doing just that.
Mama kept whispering to me to stay put and not to make any sound. Days passed in confusion. Shots kept coming, seemingly from every direction. It was hard to remain quiet while listening to screams and cries and watching fire and smoke coming from the ghetto.
“When are we going to cross the river, Mama?” I wanted to know.
Mama tried to keep me calm and assured me that we could cross the river as soon as the Ukrainians and Germans left.
“When will that be?” I asked rather impatiently. After all I was only eleven years old.
“Soon, my sweet child, soon,” Mama replied.
“At that time we will make our way to the farm of the K. family,” Mama explained.
Farmer K. had promised to hide Mama and me. We knew his family. We used to buy dairy products from them before the war.
It was very tiring to stand in the river and at times I dozed off leaning on the bulrushes. One horrible moment I woke up and Mama was nowhere in sight. I was terrified, all alone, lost. I felt betrayed and guilty for falling asleep. I felt like screaming and crying for Mama, but could do neither. By evening, all had become quiet.
I thought Mama had not been able to wake me and had made her way to the farm where she would be waiting for me. I crossed the river and walked until I reached the farmer’s place. He greeted me in the barn like a stranger who was not welcome at all. He would not even let me in the house. I noticed Papa’s gold pocket watch and chain dangling from his dirty coveralls. He told me my Mama was not there.
I never saw my mother again.
In search of her mother, Charlene began a forest journey that lasted two years.5
5. See Charlene Schiff’s wartime recollections in Echoes of Memory: Stories of the Memory Project (Washington, DC: U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum [USHMM], 2003), 2:59–60. Over many years, as a member of the USHMM Speaker’s Bureau, Charlene has lectured to a wide range of audiences, including college and high school students. She was married to Brigadier General Edward Schiff, who had shared his wife’s interest in the Holocaust. Charlene is the sole survivor of her family of four. Her father, Professor Perlmutter, was a distinguished Professor of Philosophy at Lvov University. As most Jewish elites he was murdered during the early stages of the German occupation. The circumstances under which her mother and sister perished are unknown.
In countries under the German occupation, the survival rate of Jewish children was consistently lower than that of the general Jewish population. By war’s end, the Germans had succeeded in murdering at least 1.1 million Jewish children. In France, out of 350,000 French Jews, an estimated 75 percent survived; among them, the number of child survivors ranges from 5,000 to 15,000, or about 2 to 4 percent. After the war in Łódź, social workers collected evidence about the fates of 1,246 children under the age of fourteen who had registered with different Jewish committees, offering some information about the history of their survival. The distribution in the following table shows how these Jewish children endured the Holocaust.6
6. Lucjan Dobroszycki, “Redemption of the Children,” in “An Inventory to the Rescue Children Inc. Collection, 1946–1985,” Yeshiva University Archives, 1986, http://libfindaids.yu.edu (accessed November 20, 2010).
NumberPercentage
On the Aryan side74259
In concentration camps28022
In the forests12510
In the Łódź ghetto615
In partisan units383
These figures point to certain patterns. The fact that about 60 percent of the children survived on the “Aryan side” suggests that most of them were protected by Christians. Moreover, additional evidence shows that in countries under the German occupation, the survival rate of Jewish children was consistently lower than that of the general Jewish population. With time, the Germans succeeded in murdering 1.1 million Jewish children. Also, right after the war, according to lists compiled by ad hoc committees, five thousand Jewish children were left alive in Poland.7
7. These figures are discussed in Nechama Tec, “Jewish Children: Between Protectors and Murderers,” Occasional Paper of the Center for Advanced Holocaust Studies (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, 2005), 2–3; see also Nechama Tec, “Between Two Worlds,” Journal of Literature & Belief 18, no. 1 (1998): 16–17.
As an eight-year-old Jewish child, how did I fit into German-occupied Poland? At the time, I heard my parents say over and over again that childhood was a luxury Jewish children could not afford. They elaborated this idea in a variety of ways. Clearly it meant that if I wanted to live, I had to grow up fast. But what did growing up fast mean? It called for my willingness to learn, to follow directions. Most significantly, it required keeping secrets. Time and the changes around us had inevitably taught me that some things could not be mentioned to anyone associated with Germans—or even to anyone I was unfamiliar with. My parents were watchful, ready to explain, to clarify any of the changes that continued to evolve. Gradually for me, to be silent, to deny knowledge of things, became second nature. Explanations that came with examples helped me grasp all kinds of situations. When we were forced to move to less desirable quarters and lost valuable possessions, I heard my parents say, “You cry for people, not for things.”
Indeed, my father, owner of a candle factory and co-owner of a large chemical plant in the city of Lublin, never complained about the loss of both. The candle factory he fictitiously transferred to one of his friendly employees, Mr. P. The Germans had confiscated his chemical plant and installed in it a German director, known as a commissioner, who offered my father a job. Father hardly talked about this switch of roles. As we relocated to a modest part of this plant, my parents and my sister worked all day. I was too young to be given any kind of responsibility—a fact that I resented. I would have liked to visit my family during the day, but my father felt that the workers might object to a child’s presence, and he advised me to stay away.
The factory consisted of a cluster of simple structures, some of them one and others two stories high, arranged in a half circle. In the back of the half circle, stairs led to an upper level, on which there was a house divided into a few apartments and a garden surrounded by a wall. Beyond the wall was a convent that an order of teaching nuns ran as a boarding school for girls. I found a small opening in the wall from which, unobserved, I could watch the girls at play. To me they seemed so content, so carefree, and I envied them their fun. Did they know that a war was on? At times, as I watched them, I too became engrossed in their games and almost forgot about the war. But the bell, which called them back to class, called me back to reality, and at such moments I became more acutely aware of my loneliness. In the end, these small excursions made me feel more miserable than ever. The girls in the boarding school were so near and yet so far. The wall that separated us was thick indeed, and eventually I could not bear to go near it.
My parents were aware of my loneliness and depression, but there was little they could do to comfort me. Then, one day in 1942, I heard that many young Jewish women would be coming to work and live in this factory. Sure enough, about fifty of them moved onto the same floor, a portion of which had served as our old living quarters. They were
young, between fifteen and twenty. They came from the ghetto, in the Majdan Tatarski suburb on the outskirts of Lublin.8 Most of them had lost their families. Each was given a bed with curtains around it for privacy so that all of us had an illusion of small separate rooms within the huge space. These newcomers made a fuss over me, and for a while I felt less lonely. But with time the novelty wore off, and even though it was lively and pleasant after working hours, I still had to be alone during the entire day. My depression returned more strongly than before. I lost my appetite, as well as all interest in my surroundings, and when it became obvious that I was losing weight day by day, my parents began to worry. Because at that time it was peaceful in the ghetto, to improve my state of mind, mother took me there for visits. I could see Czuczka, the teacher I loved, and I would visit other children. Each time I went, my urge to stay grew stronger. I found it harder and harder to leave.
8. See “Lublin Ghetto,” in U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum Encyclopedia of Camps and Ghettos, 1933–1945, Vol. 2: Ghettos in German-Occupied Eastern Europe, ed. Martin Dean (Bloomington: Indiana University Press in association with the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, 2011), 30.
One day, casually, Czuczka said to my mother, referring to me by my pet name, “I wish I could keep Helka with me. This would make the two of us happy.” “And what if there should be a new deportation, and we lost her?” my mother asked sadly. Her fears, after all, were justified. One never knew what the Germans would do or when they would do it. But as my depression grew and I lost more weight, my parents became increasingly concerned about my health. After much hesitation, and despite serious reservations, they agreed that I should move to the ghetto and stay with Czuczka for a while. I was delighted. It did not matter that Czuczka worked in an office during the day. I knew that she would be happy to devote all her free time to me. I had no doubt that for her I was special, just as she was special for me. Welcoming me with a hug, she said, “Helka, this time there will be no regular lessons—we will only enjoy each other’s company.”
On its surface the ghetto looked tranquil, but it was vibrating with anticipation and anxiety. It was a community predominantly of young people, most between eighteen and thirty, most of them unattached, and they appeared to be throwing off all social restraints. The breakup of families, the Nazi restrictions, and the imminent danger all led to an emphasis on the now. The few older members of this community were neither willing nor able to impose their authority. After all, why should they try? These were perilous times: why should the young not feel free to enjoy themselves for as long as they could? Furthermore, what claim to authority did older people have when their traditional roles had been completely undermined: men had lost their ability to provide for their wives and families; women lacked the means to care for their children.
As a matter of policy, the Nazis had concentrated on the extermination of Jewish children. Because we were in special danger, adults looked upon us as a precious commodity. No Jew would have thought of mistreating a child, and almost all of them refrained from even the mildest form of discipline. In the Lublin ghetto, children like me formed a tiny minority. We came to expect our elders to treat us with indulgence, and they did. It was the summer of 1942. Because few of us were left, we felt close to each other and relied on one another for support, for entertainment, and for enlightenment. We children managed to enjoy ourselves as we roamed about the ghetto. We spent our days outdoors. In the evenings we took turns visiting each other’s homes. One house in particular we enjoyed—the home where our friend Hanka lived. Hanka was an accomplished pianist, as the Germans knew, and sometimes they would summon her to entertain them and their guests. They even provided her with a piano of her own, the only one in the ghetto. We loved to gather at Hanka’s. She would play both popular and classical music, and we would join her in singing. We were all aware of the special value of these gatherings. Although unable to express the presentiment in words, we felt that our carefree existence could not last much longer.
We knew that we lived in a dangerous and unstable world, but we preferred not to talk about it. Did we think that the danger would go away if nobody mentioned it? Or was the situation simply too frightening for discussion? In the crowded house in which I lived with Czuczka and her family, there also lived the agronomist Stach. He was a tall, good-looking man, with dark hair and intelligent black eyes. There was an overall sadness that never left him, even when he smiled. Mixed with his sadness was a touch of resignation. I learned that during the last deportation, his wife, who was eight months pregnant, had been beaten to death by a German right in front of his eyes. According to Czuczka, the image of his dying wife was always with him. Yet he was not bitter but kind, eager to help in whatever way he could. When he was doing someone a favor, when he worked in our garden—that was when he smiled. During the day he had a laborer’s job outside the ghetto. His evenings he devoted to our garden. His love for gardening, coupled with his great fund of agricultural knowledge, transformed our garden into a showpiece.
Frequently, as we worked and chatted, Czuczka would join us. Sometimes Stach, Czuczka, and I would go for a walk. I walked between them, holding each one’s hand. They both spoke softly, including me in their conversation, trying to make it interesting for me. They never talked down to me. They gave me a feeling of importance. Those were precious moments; I was acutely conscious of their value, knowing they would not last. The friendship they felt for me and for each other I valued highly. I observed them, and I understood enough to know that they cared for each other in two different ways. Quietly and tenderly, Czuczka was in love with Stach, but she never made her love known. Stach respected Czuczka and appreciated her as a friend. He talked to her, confided in her more than in anyone else, wanted her support and her understanding, and needed her comfort. I was impressed by the depth of their friendship. I was also aware that other women tried to press their attentions on Stach. Sometimes they interrupted our work in the garden, and I got angry with them—angry that they dared to intrude, that they were trying to spoil something so precious to me. I was glad that Stach did not encourage them. Interpreting his lack of interest as an act of faithfulness to Czuczka, I was grateful that our friendship could continue untouched by the distractions of our surroundings.
For a while, the summer of 1942 continued without any major disasters. Then one afternoon my mother came to Czuczka’s house, very upset. She had heard disturbing rumors and wanted to take me back to the factory. She insisted that I would be safer there. The prospect of leaving all my friends and Czuczka as well was unbearable, and I pleaded with my mother to let me stay at least until the next day so I would have time to say good-bye to everyone. I cried until she agreed, saying she would stay with me at Czuczka’s until the morning. That night I lay silently beside my mother, feeling angry and sorry for myself. I had been having such a good time. What did she want from me? Why didn’t she leave me alone? My questions were soon answered. At about 4 a.m., mother shook me violently out of my sleep. “Hurry, Helka, hurry. There is no time. We must hide.” Someone had come to warn us that there would be an Aktion in the ghetto. Children and the elderly were, as always, in particular danger. I did not need to ask questions, and in no time I was ready.
My mother grabbed me by the hand and ran across the street to the house of friends who had a special hiding place, a skillfully camouflaged cellar. Breathless, we knocked, and my mother begged for admittance. But there was no room there. They were crowded, sitting virtually on top of each other. They could not take us. “Save at least the child, please,” my mother entreated. They refused, suggesting another place. Frantically my mother ran, dragging me along. I could not keep up with her. Twice I fell and got up again, not daring to complain. We knocked at a number of doors, all in vain. But my mother had courage. She did not give up easily. She ran—she almost flew. She knew many people, and she was convinced that someone would help. On our way we passed a few baby carriages in full view, babi
es inside. There was no place for them. No one would allow them into a hiding place for fear that they would cry and lead to discovery. At last mother’s pleas were heard, and I found myself squeezed into a cramped cellar, where I almost had to sit on someone’s head. There was no place for my mother, so she left me there. I learned later that only at the last minute did she find shelter.
Loudspeakers blared that all Jews were to come out of their houses and into the square. Farmers were needed in recently reclaimed lands, and those selected would work them and lead good lives. A thorough search of every house followed this announcement, and many people were removed. When the Aktion was over, the population was reduced to a fraction of what it had been. Again, an unusually large proportion of those taken were older people, women, and children. Many were killed immediately. All the babies in carriages were shot, and so were some adults who desperately attempted to run away. A friend of my mother’s tried to escape through an opening in the barbed wire, holding a child in her arms. A Ukrainian guard shot at her, and the child, a boy, was killed. Half crazed, she was pushed into the group for deportation, clinging to the dead child. She was taken away, still holding him in her arms.
Only after some hours did the people with whom I was hidden allow me to leave. I walked out into a deserted, lifeless street. When I looked into the baby carriage, I saw an unrecognizable, bloody mass that seemed strangely alive. I felt weak and dizzy. All curiosity left me and all courage as well. I began to run, trying to avoid the bloodstained baby carriages and the bodies scattered in every direction on the ground. I felt all the dead were trying to keep me there with some terrifying, inexplicable power. I had to get away. I burst into Czuczka’s home, straight into my mother’s outstretched arms. Only so close to her was I able to let myself cry. Then, relieved, I noted that Stach, Czuczka, and her family were all there too. I stopped crying. But there was no happiness in our reunion. Without asking questions, I began to pack. This time I knew that my departure was inevitable, and I felt numb with guilt for having caused my mother so much pain and anxiety.
Children during the Holocaust Page 3