The Remnant - Stories of the Jewish Resistance in WWII (Boomer Book Series)

by Othniel J. Seiden

  Officers, political prisoners and Jews were put into a separate enclosure where their life expectancy was even shorter than in the main camp. Yorgi had made every effort to keep two facts to himself since the Germans had occupied the Ukraine: that he was an officer and a Jew.

  There had been a relatively large number of Jews conscripted into the Russian army. It was a method by which the Russians had tried to assimilate the Jews out of existence. For a Jew in the Russian army, it was almost a matter of assimilate or die. They weren't too eager to assimilate them into their society, but into the military, that was acceptable.

  Few of these Jews had become officers, but Yorgi was an exceptional Jew. He had an appetite and an aptitude for survival. Even now, as he looked around Darnitsa compound for the first time, he thought escape.

  He got up. The warm, dusty ground felt good to his bare feet. From past experience, he knew it wouldn't be too hard to get another pair of shoes. The death rate in such camps was so high that many pairs of shoes would become available every day. Right now, he enjoyed the feel of the earth against his feet. It reminded him of the dirt roads of the village of his youth. A million years ago, he thought. He was a little concerned about the night when it would cool, but that was several hours off, according to the sun.

  Yorgi started a walk around the Darnista camp. In a few days, I'll be like all the other prisoners-unable to help myself-and not caring. I have to escape before they drain my strength.

  Walking, he memorized everything. The entire enclosure is barbed wire. Guard towers at intervals of two hundred meters. It's amazing that most of them are unarmed. Those have Ukrainian guards. Germans don't quite trust them with weapons. Just lookouts to yell an alarm if someone breaks. Armed Germans and unarmed Ukrainian guards walked outside the wire. They joked with each other more than they attended to their business. But if someone made a try for it, they'd have him full of bullets before he got through the wire. But they obviously expected no escapes from these broken spirited creatures.

  The guards were bored.

  It was an ideal situation for escape-when the time is right. Yorgi wondered if he could find anyone here to help in an attempt? "It's got to be soon... Maybe it's better if I keep my plans to myself; don't know who I could trust," he mumbled to himself.

  He walked on and observed, while doing his best to be unobserved.

  There were two single fences around the camp. No electric barrier, no mine fields that he could sense, not even large clearings to cross. Along one area a road passed right by the outside barbed wire. Lines of women stood there on the chance they might catch sight of a husband, brother, father or son taken prisoner. They knew if a loved one were there, he'd be dead in a week or two. Many carried a basket or small bag from which they threw potatoes, turnips or onions over or through the fences. Like feeding animals in a zoo. When the camp first opened the Germans had shot at women for throwing food, killed them, but in time they stopped. They'd come to find it entertaining to watch the starving men fight each other to get at the food. Often one would kill another for a small morsel. It was one of the few times anyone in the camp showed signs of life.

  It was along this section of fence that Yorgi thought he might find a few comrades still interested in and capable of escape. He also knew he would probably have to join that scramble for food to maintain his strength.

  There were no buildings in the compound. Men slept, relieved themselves, lived and died wherever they happened to be at the time. There were a few trees, but their bark had been picked off as high as men could climb-picked off to be eaten. Starvation was everywhere. Here and there Yorgi saw men chewing leather belts and shoes. Men picked lice from their own bodies and popped them into their mouths. If a mouse or rat or squirrel or rabbit happened into Darnitsa, it would be captured instantly and eaten raw-bones, entrails, skin, all-but not before it had caused a near riot. It was so entertaining that often the Germans would catch them and throw them in. Even stray cats and small dogs had been thrown in, but now there were few of them left because the starvation in the city had made them a delicacy there, also. It was commonplace for those who died during the night to be discovered in the mornings with areas eaten out of them by starving humans.

  Disease was rampant, especially dysentery. The smell of urine and excrement was everywhere. A rubbish heap was near the German military kitchen where they threw their garbage into the compound. Here, also, there were always a large number of prisoners rummaging through the refuse, picking out anything edible. Onion and potato peels, apple cores orange rind-delicacies all-could be found. "Slop to the pigs!" the Germans laughed.

  Yorgi continued his walk. At the back of the compound, an area was fenced off and under guard. Inside the wires were building materials. The Germans planned to build barracks in which to keep some of the healthier prisoners. They would be worked while they still had some strength left. But the work programs would come too late for Yorgi. If he stayed in Darnitsa he would be dead long before the program began.

  He continued around until he was back in the approximate area from where he'd started. After dark he made another round of the camp to see what the nighttime security was like. Also, at that time he'd knew he'd find a pair of shoes.

  He lay down and went to sleep.

  * * *

  Yorgi slept longer than he'd intended. When he awakened, a quarter moon hung high in the sky, but a layer of clouds diminished its light. Without sitting up, Yorgi carefully looked about, scanning the camp while his eyes got used to the darkness. There was no movement, only a few moans and snores could be heard.

  Several searchlights intermittently swept the entire compound, but they covered it sloppily. Yorgi correctly assumed that the night guards were as bored, probably more bored with their work as were those on the daytime shifts. In addition, they had sleep to fight, a more difficult fight than they'd expect from these prisoners.

  Quietly, he got to his feet and started around the compound. As a sweep of a floodlight approached him, he'd lie down and feign sleep until it passed, then get up and go on. An important difference between the day and the night was that now each watchtower was manned by armed Germans. Each had a light and swept the area between the two lines of barbed wire.

  Slowly, carefully, he continued on until he reached the area of the building materials. Not many prisoners were sleeping in that area. Three German guards were stationed inside the wire around the supplies. Yorgi lay down so he could study the area a little longer in safety. One of the lights swept over him without pause and went on. Now Yorgi focused his attention on the lights from the towers sweeping between the two lines of barbed wire fence. It took about fifteen seconds for the lights to make a complete sweep. Too short a period for me to dig under a wire, run across the alley between and dig under the second, he thought.

  He moved on.

  At about fifty meters beyond the building materials, Yorgi came to a sudden stop and fell to his stomach. He was among some sleeping prisoners. Something had caught his eye. He had to check it further. He watched a sweep of light between the towers at this area. He watched a second and third time. "Damn!" he mouthed.

  Each light swept the area between it and the next tower to its left, but the light at the tower directly in front of him didn't make a complete sweep. It swept out to the next tower, but when the beam came back, it was three meters short of where the light from the tower to its right reached.

  Yorgi watched through several more sweeps. In each sweep, there was an area of at least three meters which was never illuminated. He crawled to the area on his stomach. When he got to the spot he dug at the earth under the first fence. It was loose, sandy dust. It came away easily. Before he realized what he had done, there was an opening under the wire large enough to pass his body through.

  In a completely unplanned and spontaneous move, Yorgi slid his body under the first line of fencing. He was in the alley between the two fences, looking up at the base of the guard tower. In a few seco
nds he knew he would either be dead or free.

  The two searchlights were converging on him, one from the right, the other from the left. He held his breath. They stopped at the end of their sweep, leaving Yorgi still in darkness. He bounded across to the second fence. The ground was loose there, too. He dug in a panic now. Two more sweeps of the lights came and went-and a third. Yorgi remained in the darkness. And then he was out.

  He ran. His heart pounded feverishly, his chest a kettledrum. Finally, in the protection of some woods he fell to the ground. It was a miracle! He was out almost by accident; when he realized, he was still barefoot. He got up on his bare feet and ran some more. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and Darnitsa as he could before morning.

  All night Yorgi forced a rapid march on himself. He first headed due north until he reached another suburb of Kiev, Sotsgorodok. Keeping in the outskirts of that district, he turned northwest to the Dnieper River. Reaching the eastern bank of the river, he headed back south in search of a crossing.

  In a short distance, he found a road with a bridge. It was guarded by two Germans. A sign near the bridge disclosed that this was not yet the Dnieper, but the Kesenka, a tributary that paralleled it. The water was low at this time and to avoid the guards on the bridge, Yorgi crossed the tributary in its shallows, keeping to sand bars. He stayed in the water to the edges of the sand isles so as not to leave footprints or scent that could be followed by men with dogs.

  He crossed the narrow land strip between the Kesenka and the Dnieper and found himself due east of another subdivision of Kiev, a district called Kurenevka. Now he had the Dnieper to cross. There were no narrows or shallows on the Dnieper and all the bridges crossing were sure to be heavily guarded against saboteurs and contraband traffic.

  Yorgi hoped he might find a deserted boat along the bank, but there wasn't one. For awhile he contemplated swimming, but decided the risk was too great. He continued his search upriver, taking him several kilometers above the city. No solution offered itself on the bank.

  It will be dawn in less than two hours. I've got to put this river between Darnitsa and me. If the Germans search for me in the morning, it will be east of the rivers. He was about to change his mind and make a swim for his life when he came across a log floating with the current of the river. His decision was almost a reflex. He plunged after it, fearing the rapid current might carry the big log beyond his reach. "I've got it!"

  He let the log carry him along for a few moments. Then he started the slow sidestroke that he hoped would force the log and him out into the center of the river and to the other side. He furnished the power to cross the current while the river furnished the force to carry them back toward the city. He stroked, rested, stroked again. Though not attempting to fight the current, Yorgi was very fatigued a half hour later when he found himself less than thirty meters from the west bank of the Dnieper River. It was still dark. He rested briefly, clinging to his log. Now he could see the outline of a huge bridge crossing into Kiev, perhaps two hundred meters ahead.

  "Hell, I've got to be out of the river before I drift to the bridge."

  Gathering together what strength he had, he began stroking vigorously. By the time he had stroked twenty meters closer to the bank, he was less than a hundred meters from the bridge. He let go of his log and swam the last distance. It took him only a few seconds, but also all the strength he had left.

  Yorgi Tzarof pulled himself up onto the western bank about fifty meters from the bridge. Drenched and breathing painfully, he lay there trying to regain his strength and his bearings. He figured he had to be northeast of the city. Directly west of him was a totally unpopulated area. After a short rest, he started across it. Five minutes later, he came to another body of water, which struck fear into his heart.

  "I don't have the strength to cross another river!"

  Despairing, he began to follow the water's edge. After a few hundred yards the bank turned due east. Yorgi realized he'd just come across a cove in the Dnieper River that extended a finger of water inland.

  The water fell away behind him and he could see the first buildings of Kiev's Kurenevka district ahead. Aware of the curfew, Yorgi hesitated to enter the city before daylight. He was still barefoot. His ragged clothes would not raise too much suspicion in the city where German occupation had brought poverty to a majority of the citizens, except that they were soaked. But the bare feet bothered him. That would draw the most attention. That, with his lack of identity papers, would be fatal.

  He decided it would be best to get through the city as soon as possible. With caution he might get through before the day advanced too far. If not he'd find a basement to hide in until night. The eastern horizon held a hint of daylight.

  Looking in every direction, he entered the city, avoiding main thoroughfares. He hadn't gone too far when he stumbled upon a body in the street, shot through the neck and head.

  "Poor bastard," Yorgi said under his breath, "caught out after curfew."

  The man's misfortune was Yorgi's good luck. The corpse still wore shoes, not only that, but a threadbare suit coat with which Yorgi covered his tattered shirt. He also had papers that, though they would not withstand close scrutiny, might increase Yorgi's chances a little. The shoes were tight on Yorgi and hurt his feet, but they'd have to do until a better pair became available.

  "Thank you," Yorgi mumbled solemnly to the corpse and hurried on his way.

  As he made his way through the back streets, he became aware of the risk he was taking. In the brief time he'd been in the streets of Kiev, he'd seen no less than three bodies-all, he presumed, shot for curfew violations. After sighting the third, Yorgi decided not to press his luck. He hid in an alleyway behind some trash containers to await the rapidly approaching daylight ending the lethal curfew.

  He rested but could not sleep.

  Soon the sun was up and with it the activity in the street increased. He hoped he would be able to lose himself in the gathering crowds. After six in the morning there were a good number of people on the streets. Yorgi fell in with them, continuing constantly westward.

  As he walked, he was aware of a constant, repeating sound of gunfire.

  It took him only twenty minutes to get through the west edge of the city, which led to the cover of woods-the same woods that had hidden Solomon Shalensky on the day he'd escaped the death pits of Babi Yar.

  12

  Father Peter...

  The Roman Catholic Church came to the Ukraine and Russia by way of Poland. Its greatest influence was, therefore, in the Western Soviet Union. Though not a large population, most of the Roman Catholics in the Soviet Union now fell under German occupation.

  Father Peter Rochovit's parish was in the countryside surrounding Kiev. It was a poor parish, his congregation mostly peasants. The economy was hard on them, as it was on every non-Bolshevik Soviet, but in the Ukraine the Roman Catholic Church was a minority church. The Bolsheviks discouraged religion and the Vatican considered communism its most dangerous enemy.

  Father Peter was the second of six sons born to a peasant who came to the Ukraine in 1897. He was born in 1910 in the parish he now served. The Church was central to Peter's family's existence. Peter had been attracted to the Church at an early age, finding it an escape from the harsh life of the Ukraine. He became a favorite of the elderly priest of the parish, who encouraged Peter to pursue a life of service to God.

  Because the parish was poor, the church school provided only a basic education. It was adequate for most, since most peasants considered formal education a luxury and frankly, a waste of time. Education didn't plow, plant or harvest. If a child learned to read, it was a great accomplishment. Literacy did little to help provide for the family. If one member of a family could read, then that family was no longer illiterate and it did not seem important for more than one member to learn the skill. In the Rochovit family, Peter had the greatest aptitude, so he'd been chosen to get the education.

  After Peter fi
nished his education at the church school, the old Priest arranged a scholarship for him at divinity school in Poland, with the understanding that he'd return to his district and follow in the footsteps of his old mentor.

  Peter went to Poland at age seventeen. At age twenty two, in 1932, he returned as assistant priest to his parish. When the old priest died in 1935, Peter took over the parish and served the people he'd known and loved since childhood.

  Father Peter believed in what he preached and lived by his teachings. In spite of his youth, he had good judgment, wisdom and compassion. An avid historian, he was an insatiable reader. His knowledge of other religions was vast. His interest in political philosophies was deep and he felt, as did the Vatican, that communism was a great threat to the Roman Catholic Church and to all other religions.

  Even though Father Peter kept up an active correspondence with several priests in Poland, with whom he'd gone to school, he had no idea what German occupation would mean to the people of the Ukraine. His colleagues in Poland did not write of political matters. That was too risky since government perusal of the mail was common. He was a victim of the same news censorship that kept all Soviets uninformed. When the Germans came to occupy Kiev, which included his parish, he too saw them as liberators, believing they would lift the yoke of religious persecution off all the faithful, but especially from the Roman Catholic Church, since Hitler and most of his top officials were Roman Catholic.

  He believed that the industrious, cosmopolitan Germans would bring his people new opportunities to throw off the heavy burdens of poverty and ignorance. But after the Germans entered his parish on September 19, 1941, he heard only the distant sound of machine gun fire, carried on the wind from Babi Yar.

  13