cemetery to pave the roads for German tanks. Some of the gravestones were over 300 years old. They even took the very first gravestone, which had been given to the Jews by Sobieski. It was the most sacred responsibility of the Jewish faith to find hallowed ground in which to bury our dead. It came before building schools or a mikvah or even a synagogue. Dozens of our family members were buried there. Mama couldnât stop crying.
We knew there would be no more letters from Rosa and Babcia, but at least we knew what had happened to them. Uchka knew there would be no letter from her husband. The children asked about their father all the time. âWhen is he coming home? Why isnât there a letter?â Zygush was old enough to pester Uchka. What was sadder was when he stopped.
Just as Papa was getting ready to leave the house on the appointed day and hour for those men whose name began with âSâ, a soldier came to the house ordering him to come to the town hall. We were terrified. I donât think I took a breath until he came home. He had been told that he would carry on running the oil-press, at no salary of course. It wasnât an offer but an order. As soon as he had told us, Papa ran across the street to the factory, where the workers shook his hand. They told him they were lost without him and couldnât run the damn machines.They were terrified that the SS would think they were incompetent and shoot them, so they had all signed a petition. Papa said the most important thing was that the Nazi army needed oil; the police needed oil; the SS needed oil. He hoped that his job would buy us enough time to find a way out.
Just like Papa, Mr Melman and Mr Patrontasch had also been spared by their work at the factory. The men got together and started a business in contraband oil. Papa and Mr Melman kept the factory open several nights a week while Mr Patrontasch would liaise with the black market. Word spread quickly among the peasants. The farmers who had been bringing their family grain to the press for generations now came at night. They paid with a sack of potatoes, eggs, cheese, onions, anything that could be sold on the black market. The Russians had moved part of the factory from across the street to a building six doors down on our side. Papa would go out the back door and cut through the backyards to get to work.
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Uchkaâs armband hadnât been worn enough to get one speck of dirt on it when she showed up at our front door weeping. She was crying so hard that we knew something must have happened to Hersch. She told us a peasant from a small village who brought his grain to my fatherâs press had heard that Hersch Leib had been killed just a few days after marching out of Zolkiew. His unit had been headed to Tarnopol when they were bombed by German fighter planes. If not for this peasant, we never would have known anything of his fate. In their engagement photo, Uchka and Hersch shared the same dreamy expression, the same half smile on their lips, the same dark eyes looking off together. Their wedding was only a few years ago. I could see Hersch in Zygushâs face as he was struggling to make sense of this new world in which he would have no father.
I was beginning to understand that when we grieve, we not only grieve for the loss of a loved one but also for the part of us that is lost with them. The Hassids say that we perform the mournerâs Kaddish for the prescribed eleven months because the souls of the departed linger, still hungry for those they have left behind; with words unspoken and deeds undone; with the spark of their transgressions still burning. It is only with Kaddish over that period of time that they will understand that our love and devotion is enough to free their souls to ascend to Heaven.
We were all in a state of shock. Hersch Leib was the third member of our family to die and we knew there would be more. Uchka was heartbroken, but brave. Without a
We knew there would be no more letters from Rosa and Babcia, but at least we knew what had happened to them. Uchka knew there would be no letter from her husband. The children asked about their father all the time. âWhen is he coming home? Why isnât there a letter?â Zygush was old enough to pester Uchka. What was sadder was when he stopped.
Just as Papa was getting ready to leave the house on the appointed day and hour for those men whose name began with âSâ, a soldier came to the house ordering him to come to the town hall. We were terrified. I donât think I took a breath until he came home. He had been told that he would carry on running the oil-press, at no salary of course. It wasnât an offer but an order. As soon as he had told us, Papa ran across the street to the factory, where the workers shook his hand. They told him they were lost without him and couldnât run the damn machines.They were terrified that the SS would think they were incompetent and shoot them, so they had all signed a petition. Papa said the most important thing was that the Nazi army needed oil; the police needed oil; the SS needed oil. He hoped that his job would buy us enough time to find a way out.
Just like Papa, Mr Melman and Mr Patrontasch had also been spared by their work at the factory. The men got together and started a business in contraband oil. Papa and Mr Melman kept the factory open several nights a week while Mr Patrontasch would liaise with the black market. Word spread quickly among the peasants. The farmers who had been bringing their family grain to the press for generations now came at night. They paid with a sack of potatoes, eggs, cheese, onions, anything that could be sold on the black market. The Russians had moved part of the factory from across the street to a building six doors down on our side. Papa would go out the back door and cut through the backyards to get to work.
Â
Uchkaâs armband hadnât been worn enough to get one speck of dirt on it when she showed up at our front door weeping. She was crying so hard that we knew something must have happened to Hersch. She told us a peasant from a small village who brought his grain to my fatherâs press had heard that Hersch Leib had been killed just a few days after marching out of Zolkiew. His unit had been headed to Tarnopol when they were bombed by German fighter planes. If not for this peasant, we never would have known anything of his fate. In their engagement photo, Uchka and Hersch shared the same dreamy expression, the same half smile on their lips, the same dark eyes looking off together. Their wedding was only a few years ago. I could see Hersch in Zygushâs face as he was struggling to make sense of this new world in which he would have no father.
I was beginning to understand that when we grieve, we not only grieve for the loss of a loved one but also for the part of us that is lost with them. The Hassids say that we perform the mournerâs Kaddish for the prescribed eleven months because the souls of the departed linger, still hungry for those they have left behind; with words unspoken and deeds undone; with the spark of their transgressions still burning. It is only with Kaddish over that period of time that they will understand that our love and devotion is enough to free their souls to ascend to Heaven.
We were all in a state of shock. Hersch Leib was the third member of our family to die and we knew there would be more. Uchka was heartbroken, but brave. Without a
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