husband and with two small children to support, Uchka needed to earn a living. She borrowed some money from my father to start a used-clothing business. She would sell Jewish clothes to non-Jews.
As the summer wore on, we started to emerge from our state of numbness. Uchka had such a good reputation that women were now coming from other towns to buy from her. Mania and I were together more than we had ever been in our lives, but we rarely went out of our front door. Like Papa, we travelled from one backyard to another, passing through fences where we had pulled out the nails so we could move the slats. Weâd either go to my friend Genyaâs house or down to the orphanage three backyards away where weâd play with the children. I read anything I could get my hands on.
As desperate as we were, I knew we were privileged: we were together, we had enough to eat, we lived in a rich town. The elders in the Judenrat had come to an arrangement with the commandant of the SS in Lvov. Almost every Saturday, month after month, the commandant drove to Zolkiew to collect his tribute. Jewels. Gold. Coins. Ingots. Family silver. Watches.Fabric. Furs. Lumber. Clothing. Stamps. Art. Rare books. Somehow we scraped enough to buy us another month. Others werenât as fortunate. Town after town around us was being decimated; the inhabitants either slaughtered or moved to ghettos in Lublin or Lvov. We knew that our safety was a matter of whim. We were in the eye of the storm.
In the autumn, Mama decided we needed to learn and she organized a school. There were five or six girls: Mania, me, and my friends Giza, Genya, Klara and Lipka. We met in a different house every day for our safety. We studied Hebrew with Gershon Taffet, mathematics with a famous university professor from Warsaw who had fled to Zolkiew. We even had Latin. I donât think any of us studied harder in our lives then we did in those months.
Â
When the United States entered the war after Pearl Harbor in December 1941, there was a burst of optimism that died within weeks. The American involvement changed nothing for us in Zolkiew. By February 1942, there was nothing left in Zolkiew with which to bribe the SS. The commandant had bled us dry. On 25 March, every category-C man and his family was herded like swine down the mansion-lined street that led to the train station. The cattle cars were waiting for them. The Nazis were sending them to the camps. Mama saw it all. She told us that the streets were red with blood. Those not moving fast enough were shot on the spot. From the balcony of the biggest mansion on the street, the wife of the head of the Gestapo was pulling out her hair and screaming, âWho will pay for this? Who will pay for all this?â She knew there would be a day of retribution. At least a dozen girls I knew from school were on that transport. I didnât know how to begin to mourn them.
Sooner or later everyone would share the same fate as thatof the category Cs. But we didnât know exactly what that meant. Nobody knew where the train was headed. Somebody, I donât know who, hired some peasants to follow the train. They reported back a few days later, telling us that the train had stopped near Belzec, where the Nazis had built a camp in the deep woods. They said they couldnât get near the camp because there were too many soldiers. Although they were still kilometres away, they said they could smell the stench of burning bodies.
There were no more illusions for us. Every family we knew was trying to find a way to get out of Zolkiew, either with false documents, or escaping to Romania or Hungary, which hadnât been overrun by the Nazis. We continued to live our day-to-day lives, but we knew that time was running out. The oil press would not save us for ever. Mania would not let up on Mama and Papa. She drove my parents crazy.
âPapa, Papa, please, stopâ¦listen to me. We need a hiding place. We need to find a
As the summer wore on, we started to emerge from our state of numbness. Uchka had such a good reputation that women were now coming from other towns to buy from her. Mania and I were together more than we had ever been in our lives, but we rarely went out of our front door. Like Papa, we travelled from one backyard to another, passing through fences where we had pulled out the nails so we could move the slats. Weâd either go to my friend Genyaâs house or down to the orphanage three backyards away where weâd play with the children. I read anything I could get my hands on.
As desperate as we were, I knew we were privileged: we were together, we had enough to eat, we lived in a rich town. The elders in the Judenrat had come to an arrangement with the commandant of the SS in Lvov. Almost every Saturday, month after month, the commandant drove to Zolkiew to collect his tribute. Jewels. Gold. Coins. Ingots. Family silver. Watches.Fabric. Furs. Lumber. Clothing. Stamps. Art. Rare books. Somehow we scraped enough to buy us another month. Others werenât as fortunate. Town after town around us was being decimated; the inhabitants either slaughtered or moved to ghettos in Lublin or Lvov. We knew that our safety was a matter of whim. We were in the eye of the storm.
In the autumn, Mama decided we needed to learn and she organized a school. There were five or six girls: Mania, me, and my friends Giza, Genya, Klara and Lipka. We met in a different house every day for our safety. We studied Hebrew with Gershon Taffet, mathematics with a famous university professor from Warsaw who had fled to Zolkiew. We even had Latin. I donât think any of us studied harder in our lives then we did in those months.
Â
When the United States entered the war after Pearl Harbor in December 1941, there was a burst of optimism that died within weeks. The American involvement changed nothing for us in Zolkiew. By February 1942, there was nothing left in Zolkiew with which to bribe the SS. The commandant had bled us dry. On 25 March, every category-C man and his family was herded like swine down the mansion-lined street that led to the train station. The cattle cars were waiting for them. The Nazis were sending them to the camps. Mama saw it all. She told us that the streets were red with blood. Those not moving fast enough were shot on the spot. From the balcony of the biggest mansion on the street, the wife of the head of the Gestapo was pulling out her hair and screaming, âWho will pay for this? Who will pay for all this?â She knew there would be a day of retribution. At least a dozen girls I knew from school were on that transport. I didnât know how to begin to mourn them.
Sooner or later everyone would share the same fate as thatof the category Cs. But we didnât know exactly what that meant. Nobody knew where the train was headed. Somebody, I donât know who, hired some peasants to follow the train. They reported back a few days later, telling us that the train had stopped near Belzec, where the Nazis had built a camp in the deep woods. They said they couldnât get near the camp because there were too many soldiers. Although they were still kilometres away, they said they could smell the stench of burning bodies.
There were no more illusions for us. Every family we knew was trying to find a way to get out of Zolkiew, either with false documents, or escaping to Romania or Hungary, which hadnât been overrun by the Nazis. We continued to live our day-to-day lives, but we knew that time was running out. The oil press would not save us for ever. Mania would not let up on Mama and Papa. She drove my parents crazy.
âPapa, Papa, please, stopâ¦listen to me. We need a hiding place. We need to find a
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