On August 23 Germany and Russia stunned the world with the announcement of their “nonaggression pact.” We couldn’t believe it. Polish Communists who had been rotting in Polish jails for years and had been taught by their leaders that Hitler and fascism were the devil incarnate were bewildered by the sudden flip-flop. White was black now, and black was white. Colonel Józef Beck, the Polish foreign minister, was seeking a peaceful solution, but the country was in a hopeless position. England and France, unwilling to subject their people to mass destruction in a war that promised to be even more savage than World War I, were searching desperately for an honorable way out, all the while knowing deep in their hearts that there was no way to deal with Hitler except by going to war.
On August 28 German troops moved toward the Polish-Slovakian border, effectively surrounding Poland on three sides. On August 30 the German foreign minister Joachim von Ribbentrop presented Nevile Henderson, Britain’s foreign minister, with a sixteen-point memorandum that amounted to an ultimatum demanding Poland’s capitulation to all Hitler’s demands. That same day Poland ordered the mobilization of the Polish army. On August 31, on direct orders from Hitler, the Germans staged a phony “Polish attack” on the Gleiwitz radio station in Upper Silesia. The attack was carried out by German soldiers dressed in Polish army uniforms. This charade provided Hitler with the “proof” of Polish “provocations” he needed to present to his own country, and gave him an excuse for his impending invasion of Poland.
Western civilization thus saw itself slowly slipping into the abyss of the greatest catastrophe in its history, fully aware of what was happening, yet totally unable to do anything to prevent it.
World War II Begins
I remember the morning of September 1, 1939, very well. After days filled with tension, the German army attacked Poland. The Polish state radio announced the news with bulletins that spoke of German assault forces, led by tanks and supported by Stuka bombers, penetrating Poland’s frontiers from the north, west, and south. The bulletins emphasized the brave resistance of the Polish army, and even reported a counterattack by the Polish cavalry, which supposedly had advanced into German territory, but we were skeptical about the latter.
It was a depressing morning. We all knew that we were in for very tough times, but it was Mother especially who, perhaps thanks to her feminine intuition, sensed the enormity of the impending disaster. The minute we heard the news she began weeping and sobbing, which was very uncharacteristic of her. “This is the end,” she kept repeating. “This is the end of everything.” But she soon stopped crying and became our positive, energetic Golda once again. From her experience in World War I she knew that food and fuel would soon become scarce, and she set about at once to lay in supplies of these and other necessities.
The German radio was boasting of deep penetrations by German armor, but most people dismissed this as propaganda. The hope we clung to was that the Polish army, which, although inferior to the Germans, was famous for its patriotic bravery, would be able to hold off the Germans long enough to give the Western powers time to mobilize, come to the rescue, and crush their common enemy.
We assumed that Hitler, who had begun building up his military machine only in the last few years, would be no match for the combined Western forces; we believed that Churchill’s repeated warnings of the huge increases in German armed strength were exaggerated. England and France we thought of as lazy giants, who at the moment were pacifying Hitler in order to prevent bloodshed, but whose powerful armies, once unleashed, would dispatch the Germans with one swift mortal blow. We were hoping that after the fiasco of Munich and all Hitler’s broken promises, the Allies, faced now with the invasion of Poland, would see at last that the only way to deal with him was through force of arms, and would immediately declare war on Germany.
But September 1 and then 2 passed, with no declaration of war from either France or England. We were shocked and frightened, unaware of the frantic efforts on the part of both countries during those two days to persuade Hitler to halt his advance into Poland—efforts that were unavailing. Hitler, exhilarated at the success of his Blitzkrieg, would not be denied his victory. Finally, on the afternoon of September 3, England, convinced that she had exhausted all possibilities for a peaceful settlement, declared war on Germany, and a few hours later France followed suit.
A tremendous wave of relief and joy surged through Poland. Now the great armies of the West would teach Hitler a lesson. Most people believed that Western arms superiority was so overwhelming that for all practical purposes the contest would be over before it had properly got started. Hitler had bluffed and lost. We expected to see him on his knees any day now, suing for peace.
But amidst our rejoicing, news from the front continued to be ominous. Polish communiqués were vague and confusing, but it was clear that the Germans were advancing rapidly, and shortwave radio from the West seemed to confirm German claims of victory. We began hearing horror stories of German Stukas attacking peaceful towns and strafing civilians, singling out the columns of refugees that were beginning to jam the roads. Our euphoria over the entry of the Western powers into the war soon gave way to the immediate problem of what to do in the face of the approaching Germans.
German planes began to appear in the skies over Hrubieszów, often flying so low that we could see the black crosses on their wings. For several days that was all they did; at first we ran for cover, but after a few overflights without incident, we assumed that we were safe, especially since there was neither industry nor Polish army units, at that time, in Hrubieszów.
On September 7 or 8 I was walking through a field about half a mile from home when I noticed a single plane flying toward me. I assumed it was German because by then the Polish air force had virtually ceased to exist, but I didn’t run for cover because there was only one other person anywhere in sight, and surely the two of us didn’t present enough of a target for the pilot to bother with. Suddenly I saw the Stuka go into a dive, with a horrifying, ear-splitting shriek. I threw myself on the ground as the rat-tat-tat of bullets tore through the air. My heart was pounding wildly. As the sound of the plane faded in the distance, I stayed frozen on the ground for several minutes, afraid it might return. On reaching home, I learned that the same plane had made several other strafing runs over Hrubieszów. Fortunately, only a few people had sustained any injuries, and all of them were slight.
Refugees fleeing the oncoming Germans began to appear on the roads leading south and east through Hrubieszów. A few drove cars, some had horse-drawn wagons, others walked. The wagons had obviously been loaded in a hurry; piles of mattresses, trunks, loose clothing, boxes, umbrellas, even pieces of furniture were all heaped on every which way. The wagons were so overloaded that there was no room for anyone to ride on them; even the driver walked alongside, holding the reins. Only small children occasionally sat on top of the piles of family belongings. Those who had no transportation either for themselves or their possessions walked, carrying large packs on their backs. From time to time we saw Polish soldiers, some in groups, others singly, many without weapons, walking dejectedly along with the civilian refugees. Once or twice high-ranking officers drove by, but even they had lost all their usual dash and bravura.
On September 10, 11, and 12 the stream of refugees rose steadily, the most-traveled roads becoming flooding rivers of humanity. People pushed and shoved, cursing the owners of wagons that had got stuck in the mud and were blocking the road. Children were crying, and often people knocked on our door asking for food.
What were we to do? All of us were at home, except for Fred, who was in Warsaw. We had to decide whether we should join the masses fleeing the Germans or stay where we were. There were arguments for either alternative, and we spent many frantic hours weighing the pros and cons. On the one hand, we all knew that as Jews we were in great danger. We had the example of Hitler’s treatment of the German Jews to warn us of what we could expect: “Crystal Night,” when Jewish shops had been smash
ed, the concentration camps, all had been well publicized. At the very least, all Jews would suffer great hardships, with beatings, confiscation of property, even atrocities, and some would certainly be sent to concentration camps.
A minority, of whom I was one, had a sense of much more serious danger: perhaps great numbers of Jews would actually be killed. But these forebodings were not clearly defined, and no one certainly, seriously considered the possibility of mass killings that would include old people, women, and children. Most of us believed too that, however harsh, the occupation would be brief; perhaps a few weeks would be enough for the Allies decisively to defeat Hitler.
But attempting to escape presented many problems as well. In the first place, transportation was virtually unobtainable. The Polish army had requisitioned all the horses. In defiance of the orders the peasants had kept some, but they were unwilling to sell any because the future of the Polish złoty was so uncertain. To the owners of the few horses still remaining in the area, a horse was worth more than almost any amount of paper money. Besides, we could see that even those few fortunate refugees who had horses had the greatest difficulty keeping them moving in the mud. Many animals were collapsing on the roads, weakened from lack of fodder and from being forced to pull enormous loads day after day.
Nor was there any clear escape route to follow. The Germans were approaching from three directions, leaving open only the east, toward the Russian border, and the southeast, toward Rumania. The Russians were very unpredictable, and there was no telling whether they would open their borders to refugees. Certainly we couldn’t count on any compassion from Stalin—we knew all too well how many millions of innocent people had been deported to Siberia, and how cold-bloodedly he had murdered most of his closest associates. Rumania was more likely to open its borders, but it was much farther away. The speed of the German advance and the slow pace of movement through muddy roads with horse and wagon meant that our chance of reaching the border before the Germans overtook us was almost nonexistent.
Both options were risky, but time was running out and we had to make up our minds. In the end we decided to join the tens of thousands of refugees. Father went all over Hrubieszów looking for a horse to buy, but found that even his Polish so-called friends who still had several horses were unwilling to sell him one. Eventually he managed to buy a horse from a peasant whom he had helped many times before the war, but not before the man demanded and received in gold coins much more than the horse was worth. We decided to head east, toward Russia. The Soviet border was nearer, and time was running out.
On the morning of September 15 we loaded the wagon with a few belongings, mainly food and clothing. Having seen so many refugees get stuck in the mud from overloading their wagons, we were careful not to take too much. Mother supervised the packing to make sure we didn’t leave behind anything essential, such as Father’s asthma medicine.
We took the road to Włodzimierz, but it soon became obvious that we were going to have trouble with our horse. We already knew that he was underfed; now we discovered that he lacked spirit as well. We walked alongside the wagon, from time to time climbing on to ride for a while. The roads were full of refugees. Fortunately it wasn’t raining. Even so, the ground was muddy, but most of the traffic was moving, more or less. Our horse was capricious; from time to time he would stop without warning and look defiantly back at Father, who was holding the reins. I hated to see him whipped, but it was the only way we could get him going again.
By midday we had crossed the river Bug and stopped to eat. With all her other preoccupations, Mother had thought to prepare and bring with her many of our favorite dishes. We couldn’t stop for long, though, and before dark Father found a Ukrainian peasant who was willing to let us sleep in his barn. As we lay down exhausted in the hay, it smelled good. Despite all our worries, our flight, I thought, at least had an element of adventure.
It rained that night, and when we started out early in the morning, we found the road very muddy. We kept getting stuck, and it took all our combined efforts to get the wagon moving again. The horse was not cooperating; now even whipping him didn’t help.
At last we reached Włodzimierz, a town of about twenty-five thousand inhabitants, and passed through it without much trouble, since most of its roads were paved. But after we left the town it started to rain again, and the going became even rougher. The horse grew weaker, and we had to push the wagon to help him. Late in the afternoon the wagon got stuck so deep in the mud that we couldn’t get it out by ourselves. Father went searching and found a peasant who brought another horse with him to help pull us out. After we got going again traffic was lighter because of the rain, but our horse was too tired to make much progress.
We decided that we had traveled enough for one day. Luckily we found a karczma (inn) with a room available. They even served us a hot meal, which was a comfort after all the hours on the road. We slept fully dressed. In our room there were two beds, which made it very uncomfortable for the six of us, and the next morning we were all tired. It had begun raining again, and soon after we got started we realized that we were fighting a losing battle—our progress was too slow. A couple of times the horse actually fell down, and it was harder each time to get him up again. At last it stopped raining, but we were moving at a snail’s pace.
Father, who normally dealt very energetically and capably with any problem, found himself helpless. We were dirty and exhausted, and we still had covered no more than a quarter of the distance to the Russian border. In a small town twenty miles or so east of Włodzimierz we found a Jewish family who were willing to take us in for the night. We were gratefully resting and drinking tea when a neighbor came in and said, “Did you hear the news? The Russians are coming.”
We were stunned, but the man assured us that it was true. The Soviet government had announced on the radio that because of the “unstable situation” in Poland they felt compelled to enter eastern Poland in order to protect the Ukrainians and White Russians who constituted the majority of the population.
This changed everything as far as we were concerned. Obviously, it made no sense to proceed toward the Russians when they were coming toward us. We knew of course that the Russians hadn’t made a major move of this kind without the prior knowledge and probably the cooperation of the Germans. The critical question for us was: What would happen to Hrubieszów? Would it be occupied by the Russians or by the Germans? It seemed clear that the Russians would occupy the entire territory east of the river Bug. Hrubieszów was on the other side of the Bug, but there were many Ukrainians in the area, and it could therefore be considered part of the Ukraine.
We discussed these new developments late into the night. For the time being, at least, we didn’t have to face the onrushing German army. As far as our hosts were concerned, of course, the war was over. The nightmare of German occupation no longer threatened them. Our own situation, though, was different. We were glad of the respite, however temporary, but now we were faced with a new set of difficult decisions. Should we go back to Hrubieszów, perhaps now occupied by the Germans, or should we stay where we were, with only a few of our belongings?
We decided that in the morning we would head back west and see what developed as we approached Hrubieszów. Early the next morning we were on our way home. The skies had cleared, and we found the going a little easier, although the roads were still very muddy and we all had to help push the wagon. But we felt much better. At least we knew where we were going.
Soon we were back in Włodzimierz, where we learned that the Russian army was not far away. We stayed overnight there, and the following morning the Russian soldiers entered the town. They were friendly; clearly they were under strict orders to behave like liberators, not conquerors, which was a pleasant surprise. The local people didn’t know what to expect, but soon they felt at ease and even began telling Russian stories and jokes.
It was obvious from the soldiers’ behavior that the newly “liberated” territories were far
more prosperous, with a much higher standard of living, than they were used to in Soviet Russia. Butter and meat were a tremendous luxury to them, and they were avidly buying things like fabrics and watches, which apparently were scarce in Russia. The soldiers were too proud to admit to any shortages of consumer goods in the Soviet Union and always asserted that everything was abundant in the Socialist paradise. The local Jews soon made a joke of it, and would ask the soldiers, “Say, soldier—you got plenty of tsures [troubles, in Yiddish] in Russia?” The soldiers standard reply was, as always, “Dovolno” (plenty).
The day after the Russians arrived in Włodzimierz, we learned that the Soviet army was also in Hrubieszów. Immediately we set out for home, arriving there in the evening. The horse collapsed just before we reached the house, and the last couple of blocks we had to push the wagon ourselves. But here everyone knew us and helped us. It was a relief, too, to find the house undisturbed and everything in order.
We unpacked, bathed, and rested. Mother was just as tired as everyone else, but she immediately started cooking dinner, and soon we were all sitting around our dining room table enjoying one of her delicious meals.
For the next few days the town buzzed with conflicting rumors. The Russians were in Hrubieszów, but the Germans were not far away. No one could predict what would happen.
To our surprise and disappointment, the Western front was strangely silent. Our hopes and expectations of a quick Allied victory had proven groundless. The “phony war” was on between the Allies and the Germans, and Poland was once again occupied by both Germans and Russians, just as it had been for more than a hundred twenty years before World War I.
Near the end of September, a new set of rumors swept through Hrubieszów: The Russians would be withdrawing behind the Bug River after all, and Hrubieszów would soon be taken over by the Germans. This unhappy news was soon confirmed by the Russian troops in Hrubieszów as they began preparing to depart.
I Shall Live Page 5