Nobody was more pleased to see the throngs of Jews lining up as far as the eye could see at the corner of Melnykovoi and Doktorivska Streets than Oleksander Boyko. Boyko, at just thirty years old, had risen to the rank of police captain as a result of his personal charm and his lust for punishing criminals without compromise.
“I knew we would get all of these Jews eventually, but I didn’t expect them to all show up so easily,” Boyko said to a Gestapo agent sent from Berlin to oversee the liquidation of Kiev’s Jewish community.
“You’ve done well, Boyko. Let’s see how your men eliminate this vermin,” the German said matter-of-factly.
“I think you will be pleased, sir. They are as eager as you are to rid this Jewish filth from our cities.”
“Good, they better be. Berlin will not want to hear anything less.”
“So far so good. They have showed up, and with all their valuables in hand, and they think that they are being transported to labor camps. It looks like our propaganda campaigns thus far have been effective. I thought we would get thousands of them here today, but I am pleased to see its actually tens of thousands.” For Boyko this was a proud moment. For Kiev’s Jewish community, it was sheer terror.
The process of reaching the disembarkation point had been long and tortuous. Rumors were passed up and down the lines of Jews tightly packed along Kiev’s city streets. The line to the ravine, however, did not take long. Load by load, the Ukrainian Auxiliary Police, at the direction of Oleksander Boyko, ushered groups of Jews over a narrow wooden bridge that led out towards the ravines on the outskirts of town. From that point forward, gunshots became audible. With every step came the realization that no work camp was waiting for them. As the Jews approached the Babi Yar ravine, all of their belongings were taken from them. They were stripped of their clothes. Then they were forced forward one hundred and fifty meters to the edge of a fifteen-meter cliff. There, German and Ukrainian soldiers and auxiliary policeman aimed submachine guns at their necks. Unceremoniously, they watched as Jewish bodies fell backwards down the ravine and on top of the corpses of the previous group.
Boyko was tall and handsome with a darker complexion than most of his Ukrainian compatriots. His thick, powerful shoulders and muscular torso served him well in his authoritative position over other policemen, who were not easily intimidated. Rarely did anyone speak out of turn or tempt the wrath of Boyko. Not only did he have the ability to unleash a storm of violence on anyone who disrespected him, he actually enjoyed it. He was known for his trademark wry grin, behind which was a mind swimming in evil thoughts. Boyko knew that he had impressed the Nazis with his ability to round up Jews and deliver them to the slaughter. But he was not content to let others take revenge on the Jews without getting a proper taste himself. Boyko had long seen the Jews as his enemy. To him, these Jews pulled the strings of Moscow’s Bolsheviks, who had thrown his family off their land. Since his youth, Boyko had foamed at the mouth when he heard anyone talk about the Jews. He always believed that one day vengeance would come. If it would take German intervention in his country in order to rid Ukraine of its greatest threat, then so be it. Just as long as he had the opportunity to quench his own thirst for revenge.
As the captain of the Ukrainian Auxiliary Police, Boyko had free rein to traverse the grounds of Babi Yar. He was generally pleased with the efficiency of the plan and reveled in seeing the reaction of each Jew at the moment when he or she realized they were headed directly to their death. Boyko stationed himself just beyond the trucks where the belongings of the victims would be loaded. For the Jews headed to their deaths, there were many different reactions to the first sight of the killing lines at the ravines. Some were crying. Others were in shock and on the verge of going mad. There was confusion among the youth and terror in the eyes of parents who clung to their babies as tight as possible. This was the sight Boyko was looking for. His thirst for blood was sated by the innocent babies that he would rip from the arms of their screaming, incredulous mothers.
Virtually no one survived the machine guns of Babi Yar. The few who did manage to avoid the hail of bullets would never forget the gruesome actions of Oleksander Boyko. He sat contentedly as group after group passed by towards the ravine, biding his time reclining in his wooden chair. He waited patiently for a young mother clutching her infant son or daughter to pass before him. As soon as he saw one, he would spring forward, approach the mother, and stare deeply at the baby with his satanic grin. He then proceeded to rip the baby from the mother’s desperate arms. Next, while Boyko brandished his handgun, one of his attending policemen would hurl the baby high into the air. Boyko aimed, fired, and smiled, before heading back to his wooden chair to await his next victim.
Most of the mothers were so hysterical that they had to be shot right then and there. By that time, Boyko had already moved on and left the cleanup duty to his underlings. Sometimes Boyko would walk past the family of his latest victim and coolly reassure them not to worry because in just a few moments they would be dead too. Afterwards, as if nothing had happened, he would nonchalantly return to his chair and settle back comfortably with an evil grin resting eerily on his face. There is no way of knowing how many infants Boyko murdered at Babi Yar, but the memory of those who saw him do it never faded.
By happenstance, when fifteen-year-old Vera Groysman arrived with her group to the ravine, she saw her best friend Rivka Vinitsker at the back of her group. Her grandfather was holding her hand tightly. It became clear what was happening as each group got closer and closer to the front. The gunfire grew louder and louder. Vera knew they were about to be murdered. Parents and grandparents looked helplessly at each other, knowing that all hope was lost. The youth were significantly more confused. Some of the older kids realized what was happening, and they began devising plans to run away or fight back. Of course, there was nowhere to go, and anyone who made a rebellious move was either beaten back into line or shot on the spot. Vera wanted to call out to Rivka as she was being led with her family towards the ravine. Even if she wanted to scream, her body was incapable of emitting any sound.
Moments after Rivka’s group disappeared, Vera and her family arrived at the undressing station. There were two large trucks parked next to the bridge. Rivka’s group moved further out of sight, and the next group was ordered to undress. They were told to place all their belongings on a wooden table that had been set up in front of the trucks. Vera noticed a man with dark features sitting contentedly behind the table with a whip in one hand and his other hand straddling the handgun at his holster. He was Ukrainian, and it appeared the Germans had given him a lead role in coordinating this mass slaughter. The smile on his face was unsettling. It was as if he were entertained by this demonic, grotesque display of human behavior. He appeared perfectly comfortable reclining in his chair, until he saw Vera’s mother approach. Vera’s mother was holding Vera’s infant sister, Devorah. Their arrival on the scene caused the man with dark features to startle from his chair and burst forward to the other side of the table. One of the man’s underlings instinctively moved towards Vera’s mother and forcibly removed the infant from her hands. Within moments the police captain was walking off with the baby while Vera’s mom fell quietly to her knees. She helplessly reached both of her hands in the direction of Devorah.
“We got a nice one here,” the police captain said to a few German soldiers who were taking a break from the killing to enjoy a cigarette. Moments later, as Vera was looking to her parents with complete hopelessness, she heard one single bullet fired just several meters behind her. Then she heard a thump as Devorah’s lifeless body fell to the earth. While another Ukrainian policeman ran to remove the infant’s corpse, Vera’s group was ushered ruthlessly over the bridge and towards the ravine.
When the murderers raised their guns, Vera could feel her father’s arm around her back. He was whispering Shema Yisrael, and she joined him. Slowly the soldiers raised their guns. They pointed them directly at Vera’s family and twelve other Jews from their neighborhood. Just as the commander shouted his order to fire, Vera felt a stomp on her foot as her father lunged in front and simultaneously pushed her backwards at the same time. Seconds later, everyone in the line was dead, their bodies sliding fifteen meters downward towards the pit of the ravine.
For a moment, Vera wondered whether she was dead as well. In reality, her only injuries were the bruises she’d sustained from crashing into the bones of the corpses already in the ravine. Her father had succeeded in sheltering her from the bullets, but though she was alive, she was still in hell. Her dead family was above her, and she could hear moaning of some of the Jews who were not yet dead. She was aware that if the guards above heard her move, they would lean over and shoot at her again. For a few moments she lay still, too scared to make a noise, and too stunned to move an inch. But moments later she thought she could hear the familiar voice of her friend Rivka, who was whimpering for her mother.
With all the strength she could muster, Vera whimpered, “Rivka! Rivka!”
Within moments the loud eruption of gunfire sent another group sliding down the ravine. Vera was pushed even further towards the bottom. She had no idea if her friend had heard her calls. She didn’t even know if her voice had been audible. It was getting darker and darker, and harder to breathe under the weight of more and more corpses. Others were alive, but barely. She could hear the cries and the moans, and she wondered if there was anyone else who had avoided being hit by the storm of bullets. After a while, Vera lost consciousness.
By the time the sun set, the killers were gone, and a grotesque silence filled the air. Vera had not stirred for hours until suddenly the voice of her friend roused her into consciousness. At first she thought it was only in her mind, but it persisted.
“Vera, are you there? Vera, are you there? Vera, answer me!”
And then finally, she responded, “I’m here. Rivka?”
“It’s me. I’m alive.”
“Oh my God, Rivka, are you shot?”
“No, are you?”
“No. I hear you just below me. Can you move? We have to get out of here before they come back and bury us down here.”
For hours, the two girls crawled and thrashed through the sea of their dead family, friends, and loved ones. Eventually they reached the wall of the ravine. Fighting back their nausea, they used corpses as steps to reach the top of the pit. When they emerged, they sighed with relief that the area was deserted. Hand in hand, they quickly ran into the nearby forest.
With nowhere to go, Rivka suggested that there was one home they might be able to try. Her father had been in the metal business, and his partner, a religious Christian named Oleg Volarsky, lived deep in the woods. Rivka recalled how the two men would constantly argue over the Bible. “He was always trying to convince my dad that he needed to accept Jesus,” she told Vera. “But he was a good man, and I think he might be willing to help us.”
“Rivka, he must know that they will kill him if they find him helping us. He could turn us in. We cannot trust anybody,” Vera pleaded with her friend.
“I also do not want to trust anybody, but we have nowhere else to go. If someone sees us out here, they will report us to the police. We have to try Mr. Volarsky. He is a good man.”
Too weary to argue, Vera followed Rivka several miles into the forest. It was late in the evening when they finally arrived. Exhausted and fearful, they hid behind some juniper bushes to make certain there were no patrols in the area. When all appeared clear, they emerged from their hiding spot and knocked on the door of Mr. Volarsky’s wooden log cabin. Moments later, a petite man toting a vodka bottle appeared before them.
“Oh my heavens! Rivka, you are alive! Come in here now, both of you.”