For the next few nights we slept fully dressed, ready to run and hide in the attic at the sound of a knock on the door. Our presence was now “illegal,” and I stopped going to school. We had no idea how to cope with this situation, but the Soviets, with a wonderful lack of logic, solved the problem for us. They announced that if those refugees who had escaped the roundup would register immediately, they would receive Soviet citizenship papers or temporary residence permits. So those who had not hidden from the NKVD had been sent to Siberia, while those of us who had disobeyed were now safe from persecution, at least for the time being.
When spring came, letters from home were less frequent. It was now much more difficult to cross the border, and there was no regular mail service. We did hear, at least, that Mother, Hanka, and Fred were all in good health, and that, since the initial wave of shootings in December, mass killing of Jews had stopped.
In April we learned of the German invasion of Denmark and Norway. Hitler’s audacity surprised us. We had thought that England’s mastery of the seas would surely prevent the Germans from crossing the Kattegat and Skagerrak straits in the North Sea. But with the help of paratroops, they succeeded in occupying every major Norwegian city. Only in the north did the British finally manage to land, at Narvik and a few other points, but even there they were unable to hold out for long, and eventually were forced to evacuate their troops.
This was gloomy news, but we were still hoping that the “phony” winter war in the West would soon come to an end and the Western armies would launch their long-awaited offensive—although we were no longer quite so confident as we had been. After Hitler’s successful occupation of Denmark, and especially of Norway, the British no longer seemed so invincible. We tried to rationalize their defeat by telling ourselves that Norway, after all, was of only peripheral importance, and that the Allies must have decided to concentrate all their efforts on a massive attack on Germany itself later on.
The Danish people and their king now provided a shining example of courage and character to the whole world. Immediately upon occupying the country, the Nazis exacted heavy “contributions” from Danish Jews, and in general made their lives as miserable as possible. The Danes, led by their king, went to great lengths to demonstrate wholehearted support for their Jews and, at a considerable risk to themselves, resisted the German orders in every way they could. Such behavior was in striking contrast to that of many other occupied countries, and stands out as one of the proudest chapters in human history.
That spring Felek and Sam were able to get jobs in Uściług. Felek became a teacher, and Sam started off on the Uściług schoolboard and eventually became the head of it. He became friendly with Mojsejenko, who was the Secretary of the local Communist Party. Because of his friendship with Mojsejenko, he was able to help a number of people who were considered “unreliable” by the Russian secret police and had problems with them.
All our hopes came crashing down during the next few weeks. On May 10 the German army struck on the western front. Against all our expectations, it was they and not the Allies who opened a major offensive in the west. In a lightning attack they surged across the Belgian frontier, following the strategy of the Schlieffen Plan and, supported by mobile tank formations and diving Stuka fighter-bombers, quickly scored their first successes. The French and British sent forces into Belgium as well, but they had no chance against the efficiency of the German war machine. Belgium soon capitulated and the German flood poured through the gap, sweeping across into France, sending the British and French forces into disorderly retreat. The celebrated Maginot line, boasted of for so long as impregnable, was attacked from both sides—a contingency not anticipated in its planning—collapsed with little resistance, and fell to the Germans.
Farther north, the rapidly advancing German mobile attack forces drove deep into France, taking hundreds of thousands of prisoners. The roads were jammed with refugees fleeing the onrushing Germans. It was a catastrophic rout. The victorious invaders drove a deep wedge between the French and the British. In a swift enveloping movement they swept around the British Expeditionary Force, now retreating toward the sea, and reached the English Channel west of Dunkirk. The British were now cut off from the main French forces and surrounded, with their backs to the sea, while the French army was escaping south, completely demoralized.*
The French, who were now isolated, made a halfhearted stand on the river Somme, but the Wehrmacht broke through in a matter of days and the French resistance collapsed. Paris was occupied on June 14, and the French wept in the streets as they watched the hated Boche marching in triumph down the Champs-Elysées.
On June 22 Hitler went to Compiègne to receive personally the surrender of the French army. The ceremony took place in the same railway car in which the victorious Allies had received the German surrender on November 8, 1918. In a single stroke Hitler had accomplished what the Kaiser had never, in four bloody years, been able to do. The incredulous world watched with astonishment as this barbaric madman became master of the European continent. Nightmare had become reality. It was clearly of no use resorting to logic or common sense to predict what would happen next. Churchill vowed that England would continue to fight on alone, but her armed forces were still pitifully weak and only the English Channel stood between the Nazi border and their homeland. America was not yet anywhere near to entering the war. Even Mussolini, who had stalled until the last minute, fearful of repeating the mistake Italy had made in World War I in coming in on the losing side, now jumped into the fray and stabbed France in the back after she had already been defeated.
These events were a terrible blow to us. Our hopes for a quick end to the war evaporated. The outlook for our future was bleak. We were refugees in the Soviet Union, with no home or reliable source of income; Mother, Hanka, and Fred were in Hitler’s clutches. Our chances of being united again in the foreseeable future were slim. Our hearts were heavy with apprehension; only a miracle could help us now.
The school year came to an end, and as the best student in my class I was awarded a prize: a book, which Father proudly showed off to the neighbors. I became a chess fanatic, spending almost every day of my summer vacation playing chess from morning till night. The trouble was that young Burstyn was getting bored because he was so much better than I. I had to beg him to continue playing with me, with Mrs. Burstyn interceding on my behalf as well. Although we played an average of eight to ten hours a day, I don’t think I ever won a game from him. I actually improved tremendously, but he had a psychological edge: I saw danger in his every move. I did much better against all the other players, and placed third in our school tournament.
Toward the end of August many of the refugees, including Father and me, were ordered by the authorities to move east to a distance of at least a hundred kilometers from the border. Evidently they didn’t trust us.
The nearest town beyond the hundred-kilometer limit was Ołyka, so we said good-bye to the Burstyns and our other friends in Włodzimierz and set out by train for Ołyka. Soon after arriving we arranged for room and board with an elderly lady who owned a small house in the center of town. Ołyka had a population of nine thousand, of which three or four thousand were Jews. It was a pretty town, with small houses and many gardens with fruit trees. In it were a high school, a library, and a Russian military base. The people were friendly and easygoing. I started attending the Ołyka high school, and Father joined the library. We frequently heard from Sam and Felek, but very rarely from Mother and Hanka.
The war news was not encouraging. Hitler’s expected invasion of England did not take place; instead, there were furious air battles over the Channel between English and German fighter planes, the “Battle of Britain,” as it later was called. None of it had much effect on our situation. Our one hope now was that America would soon decide to enter the war and with her enormous production capacity bring about the rapid defeat of Hitler.
Ołyka high school was much easier and less competitive than the on
e in Włodzimierz. I was far more advanced in my studies than the local students, and my reputation as a top student spread rapidly. Before long the principal was referring to me in meetings as “the best student in our school.”
The Soviets placed heavy emphasis on scholastic achievement. Sports such as soccer, volleyball, and basketball were encouraged, but the emphasis was on academic excellence. Teachers were greatly respected, and promising students received frequent praise and pampering. The principal and the senior teachers met often with the students to stress the importance of studying and good grades, which would lead to a high position in Soviet society. There was a great deal of rhetoric about youth and its vital role in the Socialist and eventually Communist world of the future.
A classmate of mine was called Yuri. He had been born in Moscow, and his father was an officer in the local unit of the Red Army. Yuri was tall and blond, with blue eyes and a very engaging smile. We became friends and spent a lot of time together, playing chess and volleyball and discussing all kinds of things. He was bright, but completely unaware of what the world was like outside the Soviet Union. He really believed all the propaganda about the decadent West; he thought the majority of the American people were starving on the streets. Father warned me to be very careful when I talked to him, and never to be critical of the regime; his father was a Party member. So I avoided all conversation that might lead to a discussion of life in capitalist societies. We spoke about books, but this was dangerous too because so many of my favorite writers were taboo in Soviet Russia. Talking to Yuri helped me to become very fluent in Russian, which I soon spoke without any Polish inflection. Sometimes when I met a Russian I would pretend to be from Russia too, and was never challenged. I quit doing that when Father pointed out that this too was a dangerous game that might cost us our freedom. What if I should happen to run into an NKVD agent?
However, to be known as “the best student in the entire school” in such an atmosphere made me a prominent figure. At almost every school meeting, the principal singled me out as an example for the other students to follow, which was embarrassing but pleasant nonetheless. This together with relief at not being threatened as a Jew compensated to some extent for being a refugee, separated from the family.
But I greatly disliked the “political meetings.” All too often, all the students, teachers, senior members of the local Communist party, town officials, and representatives of the local Red Army unit and the various trades would gather in the school auditorium. Seated on the stage, in a single row of chairs, was the “meeting committee.” Because of my scholastic standing I was on that committee representing the students. Seated next to me were the representatives of the teachers, the Red Army, the workers, and so on. The meeting was always chaired by the Party secretary, a man in his late fifties. He came from somewhere in Russia; apparently the Party would not entrust this important position to a local man so soon after the takeover of the Western Ukraine.
There were several speakers, each more boring than the last. They seldom spoke critically of anything or anyone, and most of the speeches were leaden exhortations to ever-increasing effort in building the great Soviet society of the future. The Party secretary always spoke last and longest, and invariably finished by reciting the names of the nine members of the ruling Politburo, large posters of whom hung in the background, praising them for their efforts on behalf of humanity. He began by calling out the name of the least important of the nine, listing his achievements in the service of the Soviet nation, and then worked his way up the hierarchy in reverse order of importance (following of course the line laid down by the radio and newspapers). Thunderous applause followed each encomium.
After he had finished with that, it was Stalin’s turn to be praised. I never ceased to be amazed at the range and variety of glowing superlatives the Party secretary came up with to describe this despot, who had sent so many millions of his innocent countrymen to their deaths. Stalin was “the brilliant leader, the wise teacher, the pacesetter for new ideas, the master theoretician, the prudent guide of the nation’s destiny, the visionary architect of the new society, the far-seeing builder of new cities, the heroic defender of our country, the fearless leader of the Red Army, the Sun that shines upon us all and to whom we are so grateful,” and on and on. A thunderous standing ovation would follow, which seemed to go on forever. Everyone knew that NKVD agents were scattered throughout the crowd, observing the people’s reactions, and no one would risk being the first to stop clapping or sit down before the Party secretary. During this period Stalin’s deification was at its height, and to me the whole spectacle was both sad and comical. I suspected that the Party secretary enjoyed playing this game of cat and mouse, and at times I found it difficult to keep a straight face.
Unexpectedly, we received a letter from my cousin Józiek, who had been seized by the NKVD during the wave of refugee arrests in December. He was now in a Siberian labor camp not far from the North Pole, had managed somehow to get in touch with Fred, and had learned from him where we were. We gathered that there was hunger in the camp, and we mailed a food parcel to him. From a local farmer we bought over ten pounds of fatback, which was high in calories and would stand up well in the long transit to Siberia. We also sent him some biscuits, sugar, and fruit preserves. After a month or so he wrote to tell us that he had received the food, and how much it had helped. Over the next several months we were able to send him a few more parcels.
To a great extent I was now the center of Father’s life. Before the war he had always been too busy, and I too young, for us ever to have had much in the way of conversation. Now we talked about many things. He was very proud of my scholastic achievements, and whenever there was a school meeting with the parents he would attend, to hear praise and compliments from my teachers. It made me happy to give him such pleasure, and for the first time we became very close.
Thanks to my academic record, the head of the local Komsomol approached me about joining the Communist youth organization. One could not advance far in the Soviet hierarchy without joining the Communist party, and the Komsomol was a preliminary step to becoming a Party member. He told me that even though I was a refugee, it was important that the best student set an example politically as well as academically. I was unprepared for this and became somewhat flustered. To gain time, I told him how grateful I was, but that I wanted to think over such an important decision, and would let him know.
It was a real dilemma. On the one hand, it would be helpful if we were forced to stay for any length of time in the Soviet Union, and in any case refusing might mark Father and me as “enemies of the people,” which could result in a long trip to Siberia. On the other hand, it might present a problem in the more distant future; assuming Hitler’s eventual defeat, it could jeopardize our chances of returning home. And more immediately distasteful was the prospect of having to attend still more of those boring, phony political meetings. In the end, we decided that I should say nothing, and wait to see whether the Komsomol leader would pursue the matter. He never did, but I suspected that I had made an enemy and felt uneasy about it.
May 1 was Labor Day, and one of the two most important Soviet holidays. (The other was November 7, the anniversary of the Communist Revolution.) The Party scheduled a big parade, in which all strata of society were to be represented. Students were to march first, followed by members of the various trade organizations, farm co-ops, municipal employees, members of the local Communist Party, and so forth. As always, the units of the Red Army, featuring a tank brigade, came last.
May Day 1941 was a beautiful day. We were all gathered in the schoolyard, where the teachers were trying to organize us, when the principal rushed in breathlessly and informed me that I had been chosen to lead the parade. I was given an enormous red flag to carry; luckily it wasn’t windy, or I might have been swept away.
So here I was, marching all alone at the head of the parade, the great red flag rippling and swirling around me. As I entered the town squa
re, I saw that it was jammed with thousands of spectators. Trying to keep a straight face at the thought of Father’s astonishment when he saw me leading the procession, I marched past the stands filled with local dignitaries, looking for him in the crowd. Unfortunately I couldn’t spot him, but this story became one of our favorites.
On the war front, nothing much was happening. England seemed safe now from invasion; Hitler had missed his chance, if ever there had been any. Still, Hitler’s domination of Europe was complete for the time being, and we knew we were in for a long wait. Our only hope for the future was still America. We heard rumors that the Germans were concentrating their forces on the Russian border, which was alarming; the Russian-Finnish war had lowered our estimate of the Red Army’s strength.
I became friendly with our math teacher, Mr. Urbaniak. He was a Pole who had spent most of his life in the Soviet Union, a graduate of Leningrad University who had taught high school there before being sent to Ołyka. He realized that I was capable of much more than our school curriculum required, and offered to tutor me in advanced math at his house after school. He and his wife, who was also a teacher, were near retirement age and had no children. They both took a liking to me, and I spent hours learning math from Mr. Urbaniak while Mrs. Urbaniak fed me tea and cookies. I developed a fondness for trigonometry, and spent many hours at home solving the complicated problems that Mr. Urbaniak set for me.
Graduation day came, and again I received a prize as the best student. I was even prouder of a gift from Mr. Urbaniak, an old trigonometry book that he had received as a prize when a student in Leningrad. He inscribed it, “To Henry Orenstein, the best student I ever taught.” Later, when we were on the run, I carried this book with me as long as I could.
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