Soon 1939 came to an end. The new year brought more restrictions, more humiliations, more acts of violence. The Germans ransacked our homes and took away Jewish property and businesses (often simply handing them over to the Poles). I remember our apartment suddenly being empty because we had to give everything up. I remember the echo in the house.
I can vividly recall my father’s reaction when he learned about the first victim in our family—my Uncle Henek. Henek was married to Aunt Sonia, one of my father’s younger sisters. Aunt Sonia and Uncle Henek lived not far from us in the town of Rzeszów. Henek was a wealthy man in Rzeszów, a leader in his community.
Uncle Henek was out of town when the Gestapo (the German secret police) came for him. The Gestapo arrested my aunt instead. When Henek learned of her arrest, he hurried back to save her. The Nazis released Sonia, who rushed home to Vitek, their only son. (Both were later killed in the Rzeszów Ghetto.) The Gestapo then sent Henek along with other leaders of Rzeszów to the newly-built Auschwitz, which, in 1940, functioned as a camp for political prisoners. Some weeks later, my Aunt Sonia received her husband’s ashes in an urn. My father broke down and sobbed. It was the first time in my life that I had ever seen my father cry. It would not be the last.
Throughout 1940, German soldiers patrolled the streets in search of victims. Sometimes the victims were learned rabbis or Jewish scholars. The Nazis would shave off or tear out the beards of these pious old men and force them to pray out loud, dance, and perform various humiliating acts for the Nazis’ entertainment.
Murder of Jews became commonplace. We faced instant death for failure to wear the white band with the blue Star of David on our left arm. I remember embroidering mine. It took hours, but I was very proud of my handiwork. I wanted the band to be a sign of pride, if only to myself.
In April 1940, the Germans declared that by November 1 Kraków had to become a German city which must be rid of its “Jewish element.” Jews who wished to remain in the city had to apply for special permission. The authorities issued about 30,000 Ausweise, or permits. Jews were constantly required to produce these documents for inspection and were immediately deported if they did not have them.
Many people left Kraków voluntarily in order to avoid forced deportations; others were forcibly deported. I think that it was around this time that my parents took me to nearby Tarnów, where we had some family. Perhaps my parents felt we would be safer in a small town.
Uncle Henek’s only son, Vitek (center) was killed in the Rzeszów Ghetto.
In time, other relatives from Kraków joined us in Tarnów. Among them was Leon, one of my father’s four brothers. He came with his wife Berta and their two daughters, Blania and Niusia, both of whom were close to my age. Since they lived near us in Tarnów, my cousins and I became very good friends. We all worried about Uncle Leon, who was sick with tuberculosis. His constant coughing was like a knife in our hearts because we could do nothing to help him.
By now the Nazis were rounding up Jews and shooting them in public squares. Blood flowed in rivers down the streets of Poland’s cities, towns, and villages. Tarnów was no exception. Most of my family was killed there, including Leon, his family, and my beloved grandmother Rachael. Another member of my family was hacked to pieces in a public square.
The story of Bronia, my father’s youngest sister, is particularly haunting. Bronia was a beautiful girl only about a year older than Blanca. She was married to Willek, a handsome, reckless young man. Somehow they managed to obtain false “Aryan” papers. With these papers, they defied the Nazis in every way possible. They did not wear the mandatory Star of David. And they traveled gaily around Tarnów on bicycles, defying the law that forbade Jews from owning bikes. Eventually someone turned them in. Bronia and Willek were shot and killed on the street.
Another tragic memory involves a friend I had in Tarnów. Her name was Miriam. One day Germans stopped her in the street. They hit her in the mouth, knocking out all her teeth. I remember gazing in horror at her bloody disfigured face. After this, she disappeared, and I never saw her again. For months, maybe years afterward, I had nightmares about all my teeth being knocked out.
In reality, I was living a nightmare. Still, I was only twelve years old, and I had a young girl’s hopes and dreams. So in the midst of all this killing, I fell in love for the very first time. He was the milkman’s son, and I was crazy about him. He had a guitar. I have a very special picture in my mind of him playing his guitar outside my window.
I also had a child’s view of the world. I was deeply disturbed and puzzled by my own mother’s bewilderment and suffering when my grandmother Rachael was killed. After all, I reasoned, mamusia was an adult and I did not think that adults needed their parents. But I was only twelve years old. And I did need my parents. I needed them very much. No matter what happened around me, as long as I had my parents, I felt safe.
In March, 1941, we returned to Kraków. The occasion of our return was no cause for celebration, for we were not allowed to return to our homes. Instead my mother, father, and I—along with thousands of other Jews—were forced into the Kraków Ghetto. Blanca and Norbert came too. Perhaps they felt it was safer to be inside the ghetto than to be in hiding on the outside.
On March 29, 1941, the ghetto was sealed off within a wall topped with a barbed wire fence. German soldiers stood guard at the gates so that no Jew could leave without special permission. The gates leading out were always closed, but the gates leading in remained open. In the following months, the Germans forced thousands of Jews from neighboring communities into the ghetto. The ghetto became so crowded that at one point my parents and I shared a room with three other families. For privacy, we hung blankets from the ceiling. But nothing could keep out the sounds of misery.
Within the walls of this prison, our days were filled with hunger, filth, and disease. Our nights were filled with terror of the unknown. Any moment might bring a fate worse than living in the ghetto and that was the fate of leaving it for an unknown destination.
These forced exits, known as “transports for resettlement,” were part of the big lie told to us by the Nazis. “We need your skills; your work is essential. You will be fed, reunited with your family.” We heard the lie, but in our heart of hearts we did not believe it. Somehow we knew that those taken from us were being sent to their death.
The old (anyone over fifty), the young (anyone under fourteen), and the sick (those who were physically or mentally handicapped) went first. Since the magic age for children was fourteen, my parents managed to get me false papers that claimed I was fourteen.
The Nazis rounded up those who had been “selected” and herded them onto cattle cars. Most of us never saw these people again. The words in this poem express how I felt at the time.
my eyes once gazed
upon eternity
my ears once heard
a silent echo reign
without compassion ...
love ... humanity ...
to dull the pain