by Lucy Lipiner
Soon, the family discovered that their home and the rest of the property were plundered and demolished. Overturned barrels of beer and many broken bottles of wine flooded the entire basement and the bar area at the street level. Huge piles of glass littered the property. Hava’s leg never healed properly; it was scarred for life. But the family survived.
Anshel-Usher died in 1938, at the age of sixty-eight, one year before World War II broke out. He was spared the Holocaust and witnessing the tragic murder of four of his adult children—Hanah, Hava, Isaac, and David—and seven of his grandchildren.
The family members on my father’s side lived in the house on the square for a great many years. My great-grandparents Cyla and Isaak Landerer, accompanied by a flock of youngsters— my paternal grandmother Fanny (Frymet in Yiddish) among them—came to live in the house on the square in the second part of the 1800s.
My grandfather Solomon came to live in our old house right after he and Fanny were married, when she was only sixteen years old. They had seven children. My father, the second-youngest child, was born in the house on the square in 1901, when the town was Austrian. My sister, Frydzia, and I were also born in the house on the square, but my town was no longer Austrian. Sucha became part of the newly independent and free Poland.
My father had a happy childhood. He was pampered and spoiled by his older siblings. Often, he escaped corporal punishment for misbehaving when the siblings simply created a physical barrier with their presence, thereby protecting him from his mother’s anger.
My town and its tiny Jewish community had the distinction of having produced a famous person. Billy Wilder, the screenwriter and director of such films as Sunset Boulevard and Some Like It Hot, was born in Sucha in 1906. He was my father’s contemporary. I heard interesting stories about the Wilder family. Billy’s parents ran a restaurant in Sucha’s railroad station. Billy’s mother read a great deal about America; she was especially interested in the Wild West. She named her son Billy after Billy the Kid, although his real name was Samuel. The Wilder family moved to Vienna when Sucha was still Austrian.
My grandfather Solomon died of pneumonia at the age of thirty-nine. Grandmother Fanny was a young widow with the responsibility of providing for seven children. She also became a guardian of her orphaned niece Cyla and her nephew Benjamin. My father was only five years old when his father died, and being one of the youngest, he was doted upon, especially by his oldest siblings, my uncle Mehul and Tante Esther; they were like parents to him.
Life was hard for the family. It was a constant struggle for my grandmother Fanny to feed her large family. Mondays through Thursdays (Fridays she prepared for the Sabbath), Fanny got up before dawn, in all kinds of weather, and traveled by horse and buggy to many marketplaces in the surrounding countryside. She sold dress fabric, buttons, thread, and needles to farmers who came to market.
Sometimes, she bartered her goods for food that the farmers brought to market. She was able to provide only the most meager essentials, but it wasn’t enough. Still, my grandmother, my aunts, my uncles, and my father never felt alone. Help was always there from family and townspeople.
I heard many interesting stories about how, on a Sabbath, the family never went without a decent meal, sometimes left anonymously at the doorstep. Looking after widows and young, orphaned children was always considered a great mitzvah, a good deed, and anonymous charity was considered the noblest form of giving.
When my father turned twenty-seven, the family found a bride for him. Although poor, he was extremely handsome. My mother—called Raisil in Yiddish—came from a wealthy family, and while she was also good looking, she was admittedly not as handsome as my father. They were married in 1928, and Mama came to live in the house on the square, which by that time had been enlarged to accommodate a large family. My mother brought furniture from Vienna, Persian rugs, hand-embroidered linens, lovely, hand-tailored clothing, and a Persian fur coat— her dowry, an important custom in that community.
Mama and Papa’s engagement photograph
My parents were devoted to one another from the start, in that house on the square. Our life was totally normal—at least, that is how I remember it —until the war.
Grandmother Fanny lived with my newly married parents only one year. She died of complications from diabetes in 1929.
I never knew my grandmother Fanny. Her photograph hangs on a wall in my home and has always roused my curiosity. In the photo, she stands against a wooden fence, serene, in a dignified pose. She wears a very unremarkable woolen coat over a long, heavy cloth dress. What always appeared remarkable to me is that she is wearing a sheitel, a wig worn by Jewish Orthodox women, yet her facial features seem distinctly Asian. The combination of the sheitel and the Asian features is more than striking. How strange she looks—a round face, broad nose, high cheekbones, sensitivity, and quiet intelligence peeking out from the narrow, slanted eyes.
How did my Jewish grandmother, who had lived a very Jewish and sheltered life in a ghetto-like environment, inherit such un-Jewish facial characteristics? I can only speculate where our genes come from. No doubt we represent a mixture of races. Perhaps invading Mongol or Tartar warriors on horseback, pounding the earth on their way to conquer Eastern European lands, are my distant ancestors as well.
Grandmother Fanny
Purim Costume Party. Sucha, March, 1939. Lusia (front row, first on the right). Frydzia (on the right of the teacher). Syma (front row, third on the left), the only survivors. The other children and the teacher perished in the Holocaust.
3
My Town
I recall a water well in the center of town when I was a young child. Our town had no running water. From my window, I watched people pumping the water at the well, lifting and then pressing down the wooden handle several times until the water came rushing down the spigot into the old, moisture-stained, wooden pails. Sometimes, people carried modern pails of galvanized metal. My town had professional water carriers as well. Often, they carried two pails suspended from a long, wooden bar. It was hard labor; for a pittance, they delivered the water to the more prosperous residents.
When I was little, I had the natural curiosity that most children possess. I was intrigued by activities that adults were engaged in. Even simple wood chopping or splitting logs into long, flat boards fascinated me tremendously. Often, I made a nuisance of myself, asking questions, always wanting to know what came next and how things were done. Eventually I was told to go home or to “go play with your friends.”
My town was a fascinating place for a young child. I loved the sights and sounds of my town that seemed almost to transport me out of the house and into the street. I loved marching and singing to lively music and bands playing old, familiar tunes. Sometimes, I’d sneak in and march and sing alongside the band players.
The most-anticipated event of all was the carousel that arrived in town every summer. What great fun my sister, Frydzia, and I had galloping round and round on top of the old, brightly painted, wooden horses.
I didn’t much care for the funeral processions; a Roman Catholic horse-drawn hearse was so different from the horse-drawn wagon transporting a Jewish person in a simple, pine casket to the burial grounds. As young as I was, I recognized the differences in Jewish and non-Jewish funerals. Yet relatives, no matter their faith, mourned the departed with much the same crying, something that was very disturbing to me and always made me run home looking for Mama or Papa.
Best of all, I liked the market days, usually Tuesdays. On those days, I was out of bed with the first light in the sky. I could not sleep for fear of missing out on the most exciting adventure of all. Five groschen, my allowance, placed on my nightstand by Mama the night before, was ready and waiting to be spent at the market. I could not wait even a moment for someone in my family to help me dress. Getting dressed in the summer was easy—a dress and underwear, a pair of slipper shoes or sandals. In the winter, it was more difficult. In addition to coats, sweaters, hats, an
d scarves, we wore woolen stockings that were fastened to garter belts. I could not handle a garter belt.
My room had a window with a view. Early on market days, I was able to observe the first staging of the market—it was like a moving theater. From my window, I could see horse drawn wagons full of goods and people pulling up into the square. Some vendors set up their goods on wooden stalls. Some fed their horses. It was fun to watch the horses eating their breakfast, their heads deep inside cloth bags hanging from their necks, sometimes lifting their heads and showing off mouths full of hay.
Some vendors brought dairy products to the market. The milk was not refrigerated, not pasteurized, and was often still warm. I loved the taste of that milk, and I never once got sick. The milk and kefir, the fermented milk people love in that part of the world, were ladled out into containers people brought from home.
Vendors sold household goods—white enamel cookware, inexpensive silverware, and best of all, miniature, glazed-ceramic cups and saucers. Those were my favorite and very rare purchases at the market. For the ceramic dishes, I needed to save my allowance. Mostly, I spent my allowance almost immediately; the temptation to sample candies, soda pop, and ice cream was too great.
My favorite market days were in the summer. In addition to vegetables, wild mushrooms, and wild berries, the farmers brought to town bright red and yellow cherries. But these were no ordinary cherries. These cherries were woven into circular wreaths. We called them cherry crowns. We ran around town with cherry crowns on our heads. Sometimes we played a game called cherry queen. The person who resisted eating the cherries the longest won the game. Frydzia made a practice of tempting me into eating my cherries, which was not hard at all, and seeing my crown of cherries half-eaten and hers still perched securely on her head, she delighted in teasing me. I’m the cherry queen! I’m the cherry queen!”
4
Sabbath Candles
The war came on a Friday. I know because I remember my mother setting the table with Sabbath candles. Usually, Fridays were festive and busy, with Mama and our housekeeper cooking and baking, filling the house with the most wonderful aromas—aromas that defined the Sabbath. But that Friday, Mama told the housekeeper to go back home to her village and her own family.
As the sun set, my mother lit the candles. Our home seemed strangely quiet. In the hope of preventing bombing, Sucha’s residents had been ordered to avoid the use of electric lights and to paste blackout paper over the windows. The darkness felt confining. We ate our simple dinner in the dim light of the candles.
Frydzia and I were sent off to bed early. We were awakened in the middle of the night. Our clothes were neatly laid out for us. My parents said we were going away on a little vacation for a few days, a week or two at most. They had already packed our things, but they instructed us to wear layers of clothes, even though it was still summer. Frydzia and I each wore two dresses, a pair of slacks, a sweater, and a coat. I never did get to wear my school uniform. I left it hanging in the closet.
When we were ready to leave, I saw Mama looking around the house. Her gaze was drawn to the silver candelabra. She stared at it fixedly, as if she were reluctant to leave it on the cloth-covered table, as if she might be abandoning something dear to her heart.
Papa locked up the store and warehouse next door. He put on his coat and hat. Mama too wore a coat and a very elegant hat. We took turns kissing the mezuzah on the doorpost of the house. Then Papa took my hand, and Mama walked with Frydzia as we descended the serpentine stairs, not knowing it was for the last time.
5
A Day in September
Mama, Frydzia, and I stepped outside as Papa was locking up the front door of our house. To my amazement, and in spite of the darkness in the street, I could discern at least a dozen of Papa’s closest relatives quietly loading their belongings into a horse-drawn wagon. I didn’t understand what all these aunts and uncles and cousins were doing in front of our house.
Then I understood! This was not meant to be a vacation. In the darkness of the night, all of us were departing from our homes, in great haste and taking great care not to draw attention to our escape.
Thus began our flight eastward to what we hoped was safety. I was frightened most of the time and cried a lot. More than anything, I wanted to go back home. I didn’t understand and didn’t care to know what the other members of our group felt.
My father’s knowledge of Nazi Germany—and, in particular, of the Nazis’ hatred of the Jews—is what ultimately saved our lives. Because he had sensed that the war was imminent, he had been planning our escape even before the war started.
He persuaded his two sisters and their entire families— three generations in all—to leave their homes and businesses and join us on the difficult and at times dangerous escape. There were fourteen of us—aunts and uncles; cousins; my parents, Abraham and Roza; my big sister, Frydzia; and me.
Yet there might have been more. On the first day of our journey, Saturday, September 2, we made a stop in Bochnia, a city on the main road east, where my oldest uncle, my father’s brother Mehul, and his entire family lived. My father spent half a day begging them to depart with us. But my uncle and aunt could not see it. “We have children and grandchildren,” they said. “We cannot leave.”
We left Bochnia and continued our eastward flight.
We were hoping to reach Soviet-occupied eastern Poland, desperately trying to outrun the German Army advancing from the west. We were traveling eastward, confining ourselves to narrow, out-of-the-way dirt roads, while the Germans with their war arsenal were everywhere, especially on paved roads.
There was not enough space in the open, horse-drawn wagon for all fourteen of us. So, early in our journey, it was decided that only the children and Cousin Bella, who was pregnant, would ride in the wagon on top of our meager belongings bundled up in sheets and blankets. My parents and the rest of the family had decided to leave the suitcases at home. They felt that bulky suitcases would be impractical in time of war. My parents, who were still in their thirties, and aunts and uncles—already in their forties—all walked beside the wagon. Sometimes, they took turns resting in a seat next to the coachman.
By the third week of our journey, everyone in the family had grown unusually quiet. Still, I was too young to know what was in their hearts and minds. I do remember sadness and tears—probably from aching bodies and the exhaustion from weeks of marching next to the wagon. I also remember sleepless nights, lack of food, poor hygiene, and the women in my family arguing over a dishpan we used to wash ourselves and our clothes at a riverbank or a stream. “Today, it’s my turn.” “No, it’s my turn.” But worst of all was the fear of getting caught by the advancing Germans. We were quite certain it would happen—that it was just a matter of time.
I remember vividly one day that September. How do you forget a feeling of being paralyzed with fear, unable to make a sound?
It was a warm day. We were caught up in a long, congested column of refugees, all fleeing eastward. The narrow dirt road was packed with horse-drawn buggies and wagons like ours. Some motor vehicles were carrying defeated Polish troops who were probably trying to get back to their families.
That day, I saw many people traveling on foot with bundles on their backs, sometimes tied to their waists or shoulders. I saw people dragging their tired children and women cradling babies in their arms, while older children clung to the edges of their mothers’ dresses.
Suddenly, out of nowhere came a loud buzzing sound. Big, black, angry birds appeared on the horizon. Within moments, the black birds became a uniform squadron of flying machines high above our heads.
Pandemonium erupted around us. “German planes! German planes!” people shouted. Some began running, pushing, elbowing their way out of the crowds. Some were trampled on the ground. Some just stood and stared into the sky. In the midst of the turmoil, the sound of children sobbing was heard everywhere.
In spite of the noise around me, I heard Papa calling,
“Raisil! Raisil! Run! Get away from the road! Run quick!” Mama stood a distance away. She just stood there. I’m not sure she heard him. Suddenly, I felt my hand being pulled. Papa was pushing against the crowds, dragging Frydzia and me away from the road into an open field.
Frydzia began to cry so hard that she was almost hysterical. She was crying as loud as she could. I have never heard anyone sound so desperate—“Mamusia, mamusia!” (“Mommy, Mommy, please come, come, please!”) she screamed as she struggled with Papa, all the time trying to disengage her wrist from Papa’s grip, determined to reach the place where Mama stood. But Papa persevered. We ran, and in an instant, we reached a tree thick with foliage.
Papa threw us to the ground and threw himself on top of us. It felt like a ton of bricks had fallen on top of me. I felt a choking sensation in my throat. But very soon, Papa’s strong arms gave me a sense of being in a safe haven.
We remained in a tight embrace, not moving, listening to the hissing sounds of falling bombs, and the ear-splitting sounds of bombs hitting the ground, followed by an inferno of blazing explosions.
The planes disappeared from the sky. They left behind the most terrible destruction.
“We have to go back to the road and find Mama,” I heard Papa yelling, trying hard to be heard above the din of explosions. But I didn’t want to leave the security of our tree.
“Papa, please—I don’t want to go! Please, I need to stay here,” I pleaded. But he was determined to find Mama. Again he dragged us by the hand, this time back to the road. And Frydzia never stopped sobbing. “Mamusia, mamusia,” she kept saying over and over.
As we got closer, the scene became more unreal. People on the ground were covered in dirt and blood, their clothes torn, moaning, calling out names. Nearby was a huge crater where a bomb had exploded, dust rising high, smoke and fire everywhere. I saw a horse stretched out on the ground near an overturned carriage. An old woman, with a scarf still neatly tied around her head, seemed asleep. Yet I knew that sleep was different from any I had ever seen before. I knew the old woman was dead.