Chapter 3

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months. Endless as they seemed my family and I were surviving, but only because we were lucky. Calming down after the initial shock of war, humiliation, imprisonment and mental and physical pain, we began to accept more readily what ever would come. The love in our family extended to those living with us, and kept us strong in will despite our forever-weakening strength.

After the ghetto was sealed my father and I did not return to the labor camps. We were two of the fortunate ones who were recognized by the Judenrat to be very qualified carpenters. As it happened, Reihne was a carpenter working in Shultz’s shop and he put in a good word for my father and I to the owner. Soon we had become recognized as his top workers and we shared many good memories, joking and reminiscing. Our spirit had suddenly become vibrant and full of energy, as it once was. I will never forget the joy I felt when I was told that I had become exempt from forced labor. This joy carried on to my parents who, for the first time in over a year, had managed a smile.

This new found glimmer of happiness enabled us to cope with the conditions. We had to pay heavy taxes for those living in our room and were once charged for those living there before us. The smoldering heat and the habitual cold added to our habitual hunger. But we never complained. Instead, on the nights when the electricity hadn’t been cut off, we gathered around and read passages from the Torah. ON other nights after work, my mother and Anne would sing to us just like my mother had done for me when I was ill, holding me in her arms, the look on her loving face so beautiful, making me feel better instantly. I grew closer to Marcus too, after a few months. To me he became like a brother, and to my mother, another son.

But on the streets the doom and gloom hit many. Dealers, who bartered anything they had to the more fortunate ones who had a loaf of bread or some potatoes to spare, continued to fill the streets. Beggars, dressed in rags, would plead in a high voice, crying out when the sullen crowd passed by, unable to relieve them for they had not enough themselves.

Many found food by means contrary to the usual. I must have seen at least one hundred ‘snatchers’; little girls and boys who would ambush women leaving stores with baskets of food in their hands. I was knocked down at least ten times by those snatchers who had managed to escape the gathering crowd, eager for revenge or justice, as they still understood it. At times I would let them pass purposely. They obviously were in dire need of food and starving and if the person they had stolen from was fortunate enough to buy a basketful of food, what did it matter?

Already knowing that my devoted parents deprived themselves to feed Miep and I, I was shocked to fine one day on my return from work, my mother outside our home, supplying a beggar with half of our daily ration. Walking up to her I implored, "Mother, you know we don’t have enough for ourselves as it is. How can you throw away the little we have?" How selfish had I been, She answered me, "Yickheil. We are fortunate. There are so many dying because they have been reduced to skin and bones. Never turn your back on them." Despite all the suffering she had accepted without complaint, she was always willing to give as much as she could to others.

In mid 1941, my father began to suffer constantly from abdominal pains and my mother kept vigil over him every night, at the expense of her won health, losing a great deal of sleep. The days passed this way; some days he was able to work, other days he was unable to walk. In August, this became permanent and I became the sole provider for my family. Several doctors paid visits to our home but not much was done to ease his pain. Despite this he was not admitted to hospital because ‘there were many more worse than him, and there was not a bed left to put him in.’ That was what we were told.

The moments of joy we had known ended and never returned to my family again.

One night in September, the terrible cried of my father jolted me from my sleep. The lack of injections and drugs resulted in his worsening pain and there seemed no chance of his survival. Gathered around him were my mother, Anne and Reihne. The night wore on and my father constantly cried out in pain in a cold sweat. The doctor had been again that day and again told us that nothing could be done. But, I couldn’t just sit and watch my father dying without lifting a finger to help. I clasped his hand and told him, "Father, I’m going to the hospital for help. Don’t worry. I’ll bring someone to help you." He didn’t respond. He just held my hand as tight as he was able, his eyes looking into mine as if for the last time.

I ran down the narrow street as fast as I could, the rain pelting down on my back. When I arrived at the hospital the entrance door was closed. "Help, open up" I yelled, trying to compete with deafening rain. I knocked as hard as I could until one of the staff finally opened. In fifteen minutes or so, I, and a doctor who had finally agreed to come, arrived home.

My father was already dead. Two hours later the burial police took him away. With him they took away a part of me as well.

The next six months passed and everything went on as usual, only with increased suffering. In December 1941 any warm item of clothing was stolen to clothe the Germans on the Russian front. Early in 1942, Marcus was shot dead by a German guard who caught him smuggling in food from the ‘Aryan’ side. A labor camp worker who was just returning into the ghetto saw as he was shot in the neck. It had only been five months since my father’s death and I was still recovering.

On April 16^th a rumor spread around the ghetto, that an uniformed German had been killed in the no-man’s land between the ghetto wall and the Aryan side. I had a very eerie feeling about this. For the next two days the streets seemed to quieten down. It reminded me of the quiet before the storm.

On the eve of the Sabbath, April 18, my mother and I awoke to the terrible sound of gunfire. "Yickheil" she cried, "What is happening?" We both rushed to the window. Looking out we could see armed SS Troops as they stormed into a few homes, dragged out the inhabitants and callously shot them in the back. It only took a short time and soon the Germans had retreated. A deep sense of panic spread. For days on end we lived in constant fear of a further massacre. Everyone had weakened further. Much later I found that the Nazis who instigated this night of blood, had intended to do just that. By heightening our psychological stress causing internal conflict and thus the weakening of the ghetto from within.

In the coming months the execution of specific individuals was repeated a number of times, usually on a Friday night. My mother never slept peacefully again and my lust for revenge on the Nazis increased with every sleepless night that my mother endured without complaint.