by Andrea Simon
From the wagon, the soldiers hauled out the arms and legs of those who were near-death, crushed to death, or who had died because they had already been starving when we began and gave out. Somehow, I stumbled outside. It was difficult to stand. I tripped over dead bodies. I no longer cared where we were. I only wanted air.
I stood still and hadn’t stripped. An SS man approached me and pointed the bayonet at my arm, its blade lifting the edge of my sweater. He shouted to hurry, “Schnell, schnell, macht schnell.” I was so filthy, he didn’t want to touch me. By then, at twelve, I was so skinny, and wore a few layers—everything I owned—so my clothes hung in shreds; each holey layer revealed another garment underneath, plus exposed skin in places. Anyhow, I stepped out of my clothes as if I were shedding a second skin, letting the rags slip to the ground. Rivke did the same.
The Germans didn’t want to miss a thing. They checked our hands for rings and yanked them off, sometimes breaking hands or fingers.
The soldiers directed us nearby onto a huge platform. On the train, some had sworn they would run into the forest when we stopped; they would rather be shot trying to escape. But there was no way to get out as the platform was encircled with barbed wire. One young bearded man found an opening in the wire and tried to shove himself through. An SS man shot him several times and his body splayed across the wires, his arms outstretched like Christ on the cross. Soldiers dragged several young women through this mangled hole. I heard their screams above the din; they were being raped and killed. In the ghetto, we had learned about rapes. You could say I was lucky that I had lost my femaleness, or it remained undeveloped.
The weather was warm yet I was cold. My budding nipples hardened and I crossed my arms. I had thought I had no modesty left, but it didn’t last long. I blended in with the other walking skeletons.
Then the SS arranged us into lines through an increasingly narrow corridor, also with barbed wire, and we stumbled about thirteen hundred feet from the station. There was a sudden halt and collective intake of breath. As far as I could see, there were gigantic pits.
On some level, I heard screaming, murmuring, groaning, crying, eardrum-piercing wails, strangulated breaths, screeching dogs, blaring music, pleas to God, begging to mothers. On another, I heard nothing. I saw the lines moving forward. I saw people shot. I saw naked bodies upon bodies, masses of pulsating flesh and bones, spurting blood, poking arms, severed limbs. I saw nothing. There were leaking feces, exploding brains. I smelled nothing. I know there were bayonet piercings and rifle pokes, banged heads, wet flesh. I felt nothing. In every fiber of my being, in every sensual receptor, I was absent. Where I was, I do not know.
What I do know is that an SS officer started to pull Rivke’s arms. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled in the opposite direction. An object smacked me in the head and I fell to the ground, but I heard Rivke calling my name, her voice getting fainter. I yelled for her, but nothing came out of my mouth.
In Brona Gora prayers and sounds were listened
The birds crying said “Kaddish.”
—Elizabeta Zilbershtein (Leah Berkovitz), “By the Common Grave”
JUST AS QUICKLY as I wasn’t there, I reappeared in the scene. A woman pulled me up and the crowd pushed me forward, single file. A ladder led to the bottom of a huge pit, maybe two hundred feet long and twenty-one feet wide. Ahead of me, people tumbled down the steps. I searched for Rivke in the melee of falling bodies. My mother and Perl were somewhere behind; I couldn’t be sure.
Using a combination of dogs, rifles, and shouting, the SS forced the Jews to lie face down close to each other in rows like sardines packed in a can. After a row was filled, the Nazis shot people with machine guns and the victims lay on the previous row. Bloodied bodies lay on top of layers of bloodied bodies.
Ahead, I saw another pit overfilled with piled bodies. Then, the SS finished them off with rifle shots, and workers shoveled earth and poured smoldering lime over the bodies.
It was like watching a horror movie. I was in such a state of suspended disbelief and my emotional reactions were so stifled that I was only aware that there was something I needed to do.
Here is where the details stand out like a relief on a building’s frieze. I moved down the steps, getting closer to the pit in front. The nearly dead were shrieking and wailing like animals trapped at a hunt.
Chants of the death prayer: “Shema Yisrael Adonoi Elohenu Adonoi Echod.” rose like an orchestrated chorus. Others begged for their mothers. An intoxicated SS monster lifted a wasted girl of about two and threw her into the air; her skull separated precariously from her neck. I closed my eyes. This should not be my last view of life on earth.
More descended the steps, lay on the heap, and were shot. The bodies piled high—the pit was full—and we were led to another grave. This time, the Germans didn’t wait for the next group to step into the pit; they positioned them around the rim and began shooting the back of their heads, causing victims to fall inside face down. Not everyone was killed immediately. Naked bodies writhed. More shooting and the mass stopped moving.
I was suddenly at the edge of the grave. A soldier aimed his machine gun toward my head and I looked down at the pit, bracing myself for the final blow, praying it would be swift, deciding I would fall no matter what. But his aim must have been off and the bullet hit my arm, grazing my skin. I fell, more at the edge than deep inside. I wasn’t sure if I had a head wound and just didn’t feel it, if my arm was my only wound, or if I would be shot again. I closed my eyes, waiting, immobile, pretending to be dead. This was the worst torture, lying there. Lying there among the still and barely moving.
Could it really have happened—amidst all the screaming and shooting? I suddenly heard Rivke calling, “Esfir, Esfir.” I couldn’t be mute again. I tilted my head slightly, though the weight on me didn’t allow me to rise. This time, I yelled for my sister. The others around me disappeared. There was Rivke, standing defiantly with her arms in the air, shot in the head. Logically, it was another girl. Logically, it didn’t even happen.
Rivke had been ahead of me; she must have been shot already. Before, I had thought Drora’s death was unendurable. Now I am so glad Drora went first.
SHOOTING AND SCREAMING. Bodies dropped over me. Red and yellow and brown liquids seeped into my pores. After a while, I gently removed arms and legs and crawled upward, edging slowly, slowly. I made my way out of the rim, expecting to be shot any second. I continued creeping away, wildly digging my fingers into the earth, propelling my body forward. When I got far enough that the sounds were more distant, I stood hunched, tiptoeing, and then I ran wildly. I didn’t know where I was heading, only to get away.
The Germans were busy with the shooting. There were so many people jammed together, by some miracle, they hadn’t noticed me. As I stopped to catch my breath, the thoughts came: Maybe I really was invisible. Maybe I was still lying in the pit. Maybe I was already dead and this was hell.
As I crouched behind a tree, I spotted a soldier watching me from the hilltop. He aimed his rifle and I ran. Shouting, whistles, dogs. The chase started. Several Germans ran after me and bullets flew. On my knees, I snaked in and out of the trees, lying flat, and then sprinting.
I was an animal. Naked, the wound in my arm throbbing, with one terrified instinct: the need to flee. I ran and ran. I got farther into the forest. I fell in a small clearing and lay in my blood and must have blacked out. A German shepherd found me, and here is my second miracle. For some reason, the dog didn’t attack me. When the Nazis came and saw me lying in a bloody puddle, with the dog licking my wound, they figured I was dead. One said, “Kaput,” finished, destroyed, and they left.
Until the last one they were murdered, nobody was left
In the skies their last scream still float,
They clamor not to forget their suffering and pain.
Many still alive, all of them were covered
And the blood sprang from the earth like a river,
&n
bsp; The innocent blood sprouted a long time,
Said the gentiles that looked from a distance.
My dear mother! I want to ask,
Who left first to eternal road?
Sure you have seen the suffering,
How? do they throw your children to graves?
Words are pale to describe,
The misfortune, the pain that suffered our generation.
I stayed alive, but I feel like a stone,
Because I lost everything, I am alone.
—Reizel Navi Tuchman, excerpts from “Brona Gora”
Thirty-Five
I LAY LIKE this for a long time. Finally, I stood and started running again, in and out of the forest. I saw peasants in the fields; they saw me—a bloodied and muddied naked girl, probably I didn’t look like a girl anymore. Probably they thought I was near-death so why bother?
I don’t know how long I wandered like this. I reached the road, watching all the time for cars, motorcycles, horses, or carts. There was a pregnant woman sitting on a boulder with bundles by her feet. She took pity, my miracle number three. Without asking me a thing, she untied her head scarf and wrapped it around my arm. Then she opened one bundle, removed a dress and slipped it on me; it was so big it swept the ground. She said she was waiting for a ride to Kobrin. Kobrin, my Kobrin! Could I be hearing correctly? She explained that she had come from her mother’s house nearby, pointing toward the direction I just ran from, and was expecting a neighbor in a horse and wagon.
She must have heard the shots, the noise, the screaming. She said to me, “Come with me. You can survive the war. I will have a baby soon, and you can stay with me and help look after it.”
Could I believe this woman? Why would she trust a dirty girl with her newborn? Would they drive me back to the pits? Would she take me to the commandant in Kobrin? It didn’t matter anymore. Whatever would happen, would happen. I no longer cared; I just wanted to be in one place.
The man with the wagon came. The woman—her name was Berta—said I was a poor cousin and she was taking me to help with her baby. The neighbor was expecting only one woman. I was wearing an oversized dress; my face and arms were smeared with mud and blood. I can only imagine what my hair looked like. But the driver barely glanced at me and shrugged as if it was none of his business. I don’t think it occurred to him that I had escaped the killings. No one would have believed this was possible.
We passed trucks and motorcycles with Nazis. They took little notice of us, shooing us out of their way. Any minute, I expected a Nazi to stop us and haul me back onto another train going to Brona Gora.
We sat like three strangers, which we were, and rode to Kobrin.
THE DRIVER BROUGHT us to Kobrin’s outskirts, to an area I didn’t recognize. It was dark and most of the streets were empty. The woman pushed me in the back alley somewhere, and we climbed a flight of stairs attached to the outside. She opened a rickety wood door and deposited me on her couch. I fell into a deep sleep.
Had Berta been lying to me? Had she explained the situation to her husband, who had his own suspicions? I ask these questions because the next thing I knew, there was a Gestapo man standing over me. He took me to the station house and questioned me, accusing me of being a Jew.
I said, “I’m not a Jew, I’m a Pole.” God forgive me for that lie. With my blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin, they almost believed me. I elaborated on my story, that my name was Ruta Jablonska (the last name after a teacher), that I was an orphan and had worked as a maid for a rich Jewish family in Kobrin. I even gave this family a name. After they had been taken to the ghetto, I said, I had no place to go. I slept in the streets, changing places each night. I hid in barns, sheds, outhouses. I was starving. One night, I tried to flatten myself between bales of hay inside a wagon. The driver discovered me the next morning and took me to a deserted area and raped me. Then, he stole my clothes and left me alone in the forest. That’s when I happened upon Berta. This was what I made up on the spot.
What happened afterward? I’ll describe the rest in a general way because the important part of my story ended at Brona Gora.
THE GESTAPO KEPT me there, in prison, unconvinced of my story. I couldn’t prove anything one way or another. Many times, they took me out of the cell and shoved me in a waiting area with other prisoners who were slated for execution. For some reason, they brought me back to the holding cell and I heard shots for the others. This happened several times. It had been the commandant’s idea. I was a target in a cruel game for his entertainment—and to show off in front of his underlings. I begged him to go through with it, to have me shot and I meant it. That must have soured his enthusiasm. Eventually, he got tired of the game, or felt some sense of mercy, and handed me to the nearest convent.
The nuns treated me nicely; though they gave me a tiny room—I think it had been a linen closet—in an area separate from them. It was dark and very cold. There was a little candle wall sconce and a towel folded neatly on the floor.
I wasn’t the only stray child. The convent housed four young children, orphaned by the war, and the nuns occasionally took in a sick person, usually a child. I was happy to help take care of them.
I knew many of the prayers and hymns from Polish elementary school so I went to Mass several times, to play my part as a Catholic. I don’t think I fooled them; I always worried that I crossed myself in the wrong direction.
I was still very weak and frail. One day, I fainted during morning prayers. I was in a delirium state, gripped by dysentery and swathed in fever. I would sleep for long stretches and then awaken, startled at where I was. I heard the Sisters mention something about Christmas. Then I realized that I had passed my thirteenth birthday in November, nearly unconscious on this very bed. Thirteen. A teenager, almost an adult, practically a woman. My grandmother Ruth had gotten married when she was sixteen. Feeling my emaciated body, I hardly felt feminine, though a long while ago I had said good-bye to my childhood.
Sister Ursula was the one who saved my life. It was almost impossible to get good medical care; the majority of Polish doctors had been imprisoned, killed, or left the country. The German doctors catered to their own and didn’t bother with peasants. Thankfully, Sister Ursula was also a nurse, hovering over my bed to constantly check my pulse and temperature. She spoon-fed me hot soup and soothed my body with cool washcloths. More than anything, she got me to eat a little something and didn’t blame me if I threw it up on her.
The Sisters had gotten me a wool skirt and a blouse left by a postulant. Like Berta’s dress, these clothes were too big, but I could tuck in the blouse and tie the skirt with a rope around my waist. Once I could walk steadily, the Sisters let me be.
ON A FREEZING day, I think it was January, still delirious with fever, I took my ratty wool blanket, wrapped it around my shoulders and snuck out, barefoot in the snow. I had one aim in mind: to get to my old house in the city. I had to see if someone—anyone—from my family or my friends had survived. It was a crazy plan. I had no money; I had no papers; I had no shoes. I looked like a beggar. And Germans were probably living in my house. I had no reason to believe that any Jew would be anywhere near there—or alive.
About a hundred feet away from the convent door, I collapsed. Sister Ursula found me. A large, buxom woman, she lifted me in her arms and carried me back. I was grateful to her for not admonishing me; from that day on, she watched me carefully.
Eventually, I felt better, though I was still very thin and weak. When I wasn’t resting or helping with the children, I cleaned the rooms and worked in the gardens. Wash the sheets, milk the goat, mend a sock. Physical labor was the best medicine for me—to have a routine and no time to think.
Since we planted our own vegetables, had fruit trees, and a goat for milk, we had what to eat. Not that much, but compared to what I had in the ghetto, more than two kinds of food seemed like a feast. During those last months in the ghetto, Rivke and I spent hours detailing the preparation, cooking, odor, and tast
e of every morsel we had ever eaten. We had been beyond hunger or else we wouldn’t have been able to withstand the temptations. We were like schoolgirls giggling about unattainable boys. The most fun was in the dissection, not in the actuality, not that I ever had a boyfriend.
As I got stronger I let a thought creep into my head, that maybe Velvel was alive. Fighting and killing occurred in Palestine, but we hadn’t had contact with my brother for so long. I was totally out of touch with news of the day. The war could be over. The nuns were so sheltered, they wouldn’t know.
My mind let go. Maybe Gittel could have escaped into the forest and had been rescued by partisans. Maybe a relative or friend had been hidden by a Christian in our very own neighborhood. Maybe my aunt Perl snuck out of the line in Brona Gora and escaped to Siberia and is waiting on my doorstep; and maybe, oh God, maybe my darling sister Rivke, like me, had crawled out of the chamber of death and is now sitting on our bed, patting my side for me to lie down next to her in my rightful place.
I told myself, if I could survive, then who knows? Surely Ida with all her cleverness would have found a way. I held onto that hope with every ounce of my being.
Soon, I decided, I would visit Ida in Volchin and we’d play records on her gramophone. Together, we’d take the train to Brest, stop off at my aunt Perl’s and go upstairs, only to find Rachel, Fredye, and the twins peacefully asleep in their beds. We’d wake them and pack lunches and go to the riverbank for a picnic.