When we reached the train station and set the stretcher on the ground, we saw at once that Dr. Weintraub was lifeless. His face was silent, pale, motionless. The other stretcher bearers came and surrounded ours. Their faces mirrored the pallor of this man who had just passed away. Dr. Weintraub, who had been aware of the mistakes he made in life, hid nothing from us in his final hours. Now he lay still, as if he had given up on living.
We stood and waited for the next group of stretchers. The station was filled with soldiers, refugees, and abandoned dogs. Isidor wept, and I didn’t know how to console him. “Dr. Weintraub died peacefully,” I said. I was immediately angry with myself for saying “died peacefully.” How did I know that? He didn’t die in his home or his bed or in the bosom of his family. Who knows what thoughts scorched his final moments?
The group that had been delayed arrived in late afternoon, and Dr. Weintraub’s death shocked them, too. Few knew him, even among the survivors, but his dignified conduct during his time with us made an impression on many.
PEOPLE WHO HAD EXPECTED to find friends or relatives who had come back from the camps found chaos. Danzig, who had taken command, did not waste time. He saw a large warehouse near the train station and claimed it for us. He ordered Isidor and me to carry the stretcher with Dr. Weintraub’s body to the cemetery, and a quorum of fighters and survivors accompanied us.
About five hundred yards away from the train station, we encountered some Ukrainian youths who yelled “Jews to Palestine!” Danzig fired a few shots in the air, and they ran for their lives. The burial took place slowly because of the weeping, and one survivor fainted. There was a feeling that we were giving a Jewish burial not only to Dr. Weintraub but also to all those we had seen dead and dying alongside the death trains, who were abandoned to birds of prey.
Isidor tried to suppress his crying, but tears flooded his Kaddish and shook the rest of us.
On the way back to the warehouse there were again youths, this time shouting “Dirty Jews!” and Danzig fired shots in the air without hesitation. Reality again hit us in the face.
But despite the gloominess, there was a degree of satisfaction: the third group arrived in the evening and was allotted space in the warehouse. A joyful smile crossed Danzig’s lips; Milio clearly spoke a word that everyone heard. “Papa!” he cried out. “Papa!” Danzig hoped for one more word, which was not late in coming: “My Papa, my Papa!” The words pushed Danzig past the brink of emotion: tears streamed down his face, and he hurried to wipe them.
Not far from the big warehouse, we found a smaller, empty one, and we moved into it. Fortunately, we had brought the blankets and sheepskins.
Felix, who oversaw the descent from the summit, sat down, drank tea, and smoked a cigarette. He knew well that the battle was not over and that tense days awaited us, but like any commander worthy of his name, he needed a moment to collect his thoughts.