Born December 30, 1925, Chmielnik, Poland
The Road to Freedom »
Images Etched into my Mind »
A Pleasant Summer Day »
The Sonderkarte »
Deceptive Expectations »
Through a Wire Fence »
Do Not Forget Them »
Memories of a Remarkable Woman »
My Road to Freedom »
Their Destination Was Auschwitz »
One Snowy Night »
It was about the end of April 1945. Days in camp turned into long months, months into years, one day resembling the other. This day began like any other day. Wake-up call at dawn, with all my strength I gathered up my weary, aching bones to face another day of misery and abuse. If by chance I managed to rinse out my underwear the night before, it was often still damp in the morning, but I had to put them on anyway, even in the wintertime, there was no choice. Then I lowered myself from the upper bunk, with a bent back so as not to hit my head on the ceiling, my wooden shoes in one hand, being careful not to step on someone below, and I rushed to the washroom to get in line. I often tripped in the dark over bodies that had expired during the night. On the way I caught a fistful of water from the dripping, rusty faucet, to apply to my face in a hope to wake up. Again I rushed with the tin cup to get some of that foul-tasting brownish lukewarm brew called “coffee”. Sometimes it had a faint taste of the soup from the previous night, because the kettles were not washed well. But who cared? It tasted just the same.
The shrill sound of the Kapo’s whistle, like a whip cutting through the air and through our shivering bodies, reminded that it was time for the appell (roll-call). I rushed to get in line -- lines of grotesque-looking figures. In the winter we shivered from the cold underneath the striped, thin dresses, in the summer we sweltered under the oppressive heat, waiting to be counted. The countless reading of the numbers, no names, the faint reply “here”, counting by one of the Kapos then another; often someone in line fainted from exhaustion and weakness, and had to be supported by others. Even in this small camp it seemed like an eternity, being counted and recounted, again and again.
But that day was different. While standing in line to be counted, a Kapo accompanied by a military person walked up to our group, pointed a finger at about a dozen or so girls, and ordered them to step forward. You could sense the uneasiness and anticipation in the lines, the lines shifted like an ocean wave. What now? In those few seconds all kind of thoughts flashed through my mind. Why me? Where to? Sneaking a quick glance at the others around me, I tried to figure out how I differed from the rest. Again the thought, why me? And why now, when there is a spark of hope that this hell may finally end, judging by the frequency of air raids, and the roar of Allied planes above our heads. There was no use trying to find a reason, there was no reasoning in camp. To the many questions circling in my head, there were no answers. Though one thing was certain, a selection had never meant a better lot.
After the selection, our small group of girls, with stooped shoulders under the weight of uncertainty, resigned to feeling helpless and dragging our feet in the wooden shoes, was marched toward the gate of the camp, leaving the others behind, and not knowing what the future would bring. Would there be a future?
Outside the gate, a white, covered truck was waiting, a few Kapos and soldiers were mingling about, flirting and laughing, a familiar sight. The Kapos motioned to us to climb into the truck, but it brought few results. Though the truck’s tail-gate was down and we tried hard, we were too weak to conquer this hurdle, despite the fear that at any moment the Kapo’s whip come down on our emaciated bodies. Instead, to everyone’s disbelief and amazement the Kapos actually helped us climb up into the truck. Somehow, from nowhere a crate appeared which we used for a step to climb up. I thought I was hallucinating, or this must be a dream, I did not trust my senses any longer. But momentarily I recalled how the Germans often used all kind of tricks to get the people to come to an assembly point, using the pretense either to register, or to check and stamp the passports, but instead were put in trains or trucks and deported.
After being settled in the truck, each one of us received a “C.A.R.E.” package. Again disbelief, but no time to rationalize “HOW” or “WHY”, even if this would represent our last meal. Within seconds the packages were ripped open and the contents devoured. IT WAS FOOD. There was powdered milk, cocoa, sardines, crackers, everything was eaten at once, we were not even aware what it was. Some of the girls got sick, our stomachs not used to digesting such food.
The truck kept rolling on with its exhausted, helpless, resigned cargo, and we had no clue where to. No one spoke, each one of us preoccupied with our own thoughts. Then, lo and behold, the truck reached Denmark. FREEDOM? Incomprehensible! We were all dazed, unable to comprehend what was going on around us. (It was the end of April 1945, and Denmark was still under German occupation).
It appeared that the white truck that our group was being transported in was from the Swedish Red Cross. It had markings on the sides and on the roof, but we were not aware of it. Later we learned that negotiations were going on between the Swedish Count Folke Bernadotte, head of the Swedish Red Cross, and Himmler, head of the Gestapo, about the release of Norwegian POWs, but since it was the end of April, and Himmler was realizing that Germany lost the war, he agreed to Bernadotte’s request to release from the camps some Jewish women of Polish origin and hand them over to the Swedish Red Cross. Thus began the brave rescue operation.
The courageous Danish people were waiting for the survivors with food and a place to rest up. A small boat carried the few of us from Denmark to the shore of Sweden, Malmo. What a sad-looking group we presented. Now, out of camp, among normal-looking people, the sight of us was deplorable. Our short cropped hair growing untamed in all directions, the sunken wide eyes, the shapeless striped dresses covering our skeletal bodies, tied at the waist with a piece of frayed roped. And the wooden shoes. Somewhere I found a pair of high-laced leather shoes on raised heels to replace my wooden ones, but without shoelaces. It took some searching to find two pieces of string long enough to pull through two eyelets to hold the upper part of the shoe together, and even more strategy to place the strings in the right place to hold up the long tongues attached to the shoes, so as not to trip over them.
In this pose I was approached by two reporters who accompanied us on the boat. I do not recall what they asked me, nor what I told them, but I vividly recall feeling embarrassed. One hand nervously reached for my head trying to slick my hair down a bit, the other pulling at my dress trying to smooth out some folds. Could this have been the moment I regained the feeling of being a human again? After all, I was still a teenager.
At the shore, in Malmo, our group was greeted by some dignitaries, a Rabbi, a clergyman, either a minister or priest, and an orchestra or maybe a band playing, I could not distinguish one from the other. We were mesmerized by the sight. All those people came to greet us. Yet, somehow, I felt detached from all this, like viewing in all through a sheer curtain. There were people making speeches, I assume to welcome us, but we were incapable of listening or comprehending what was going on. There were also many onlookers, some probably came out of curiosity, others out of sympathy. The entire situation seemed so unreal.
There was also the medical staff of the Red Cross waiting, and they took us to a large hall where people wearing masks and gloves met our group. Our group huddled together being more comfortable with the girls from our own camp. The sick were taken immediately to the hospital while the rest of us went through a hot shower, with real soap (I can still feel the luxury), delousing and disinfecting. We were scrubbed, sprayed and dusted. Then received clean clothing donated by the local people. It felt good to be rid of the lice that consumed every amount of our free time trying to eradicate them, without success. The clean outfits that replaced our soiled, striped dresses felt as splendid as if they were made of pure silk.
We were put up in some school buildings. Each one of us got a mattress covered with soft paper sheets. We felt pampered. Yet, it still didn’t sink in that we were really free. At night, if you woke up, you could always see girls looking out the windows to make sure that we were no longer in camp. But the nightmares persisted.
A few days later, in the middle of the night we heard a big commotion going on. Students, in their handsome uniforms and white round caps came running up the stairs shouting: “The war is over.” “The war is over.” We all ran out to greet them, forgetting that we were only in our underwear, hugging, kissing and jumping up and down with joy. A lot of celebrating was also going on in the streets. People dancing and singing, people blowing the cars’ horns, nobody slept the rest of the night. The next day there was a lavish reception in the school’s recreation hall. Since there were among us people from different countries, the band was playing everyone’s national anthem. Never before, or since was I so touched listening to the Polish anthem, because this time the sound of it had for me a different meaning. A sign that the war has ended, and so has our suffering, but most of all, hope of finding somebody from the family.
“The war was over”, but I was left all alone ...
©2002, Manya Friedman (Moszkowicz). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
He was only nine years old when Germany invaded Poland. The youngest of three children, he was a skinny little boy on spindly legs, agile body, and a small pale face. The only outstanding features were his two large brown eyes, mischievous and alert. Since Jewish children no longer were allowed to attend school, he became restless and was constantly on the move. He often kicked around a ball in the backyard, or pebbles, or rode the bike he had to share with his older brother and sister. It was amusing to watch him navigate that bike. Too short to sit on the seat and reach the pedals, he would stand up and shift his hind end from side to side, the bike leaned in one direction and he in the other to maintain balance.
Before the war a tall building was being erected next to us, but the construction was interrupted when the war started. He used to roam around in that unfinished building looking for a place where we could hide, and often seriously discussed the possibilities with father, convinced that we could make a hiding place there. Of course, he did not take into consideration the necessities we would need to survive.
He was also outgoing and streetwise, he had the last word in any dispute, and was in complete contrast to the rest of us. His mind was always working on how to “organize” something (an expression used during the war). Somehow, he always knew where a line was forming to distribute something edible. By the time we got in line he was already a mile ahead of us with his inseparable school satchel, either by himself, or attached to someone pretending to be their child. We often came home empty-handed because they ran out of provisions, but he usually managed to bring “something” home. He took his job very seriously, which often caused our parents much anguish. Sometimes he sneaked out from the house while the curfew was still on, and our parents spent many anxious hours looking for him. But among our parents’ friends, he became a celebrity, a hero. They admired and praised him. This made his two-year-older brother somewhat jealous. There was such a contrast between the two of them, both in looks and personality. The older brother was blond, blue eyed, with a light complexion and angelic face. He looked like a well-fed, protected child. Some said he had an aristocratic look. He was quiet, serious and reserved. When into mischief, he did not need to defend himself; grandmother acted as his lawyer. He was her favorite, probably because he was named after her husband, who died very young. By then he was twelve years old, already employed by a German company. His employment card (sonder-card) had great value, not only for himself but also for the entire family. The more employed members in the family, the better chance of not being deported, at least for the time being. Those cards were called “a way to life.” But the older brother still wanted to prove that he too could contribute. Beside the miserly few things allotted on the ration-cards, Jews were not allowed to have any other staples in the house. But the allotment was so meager, hardly enough to survive on. So whoever could, at a great risk, bought things on the side (black market). Some unscrupulous Poles took advantage of the situation and cheated the Jews. One day the older brother, on his way home from work was approached by a young Pole with an offer to sell him some margarine at a price. He came home very excited and told mother about the prospect of getting some margarine. Mother gave him the money and the next day he brought home a package wrapped in a piece of cloth which he excitedly produced from under his coat. The margarine, in those days came in cubes about 3 inches in diameter. When mother unwrapped the package, there was only a thin, outside layer of margarine, the rest was a nicely sculpted turnip square. We all felt sorry for him; no one said a word because this was a common occurrence. You exchanged money for the “merchandise” in some dark alley or hallway, at a great risk, making sure that there was nobody around, and ran.
In March 1943, the SS men surrounded the shop where I was working and we were all taken for deportation to Germany. My parents and both brothers were still at home. They all came to the deportation point and brought me a suitcase with my personal belongings. We could not talk much. They stayed till it was time to leave, each one of us probably with the same thought...
That was the last time I saw either of them.
Their images are forever etched into my mind.
©2002, Manya Friedman (Moszkowicz). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
As the instructor distributed a prewar photograph taken in Munich, Germany, he requested, “Tell me your impression of this picture, and how you would fit into it.” At first glance I noticed a family gathered in the garden on a sunny day, all in a cheery mood. Then I noticed the short leather pants worn by two young men, and my heart skipped a beat. Typical German. So many years have passed, yet we are still sensitive to certain signs. On second thought, this could have been an assimilated Jewish family that had adopted German traditions. Either way, I somehow did not fit in there. But gazing at the picture brought back memories about my own family and the summers before the war, when life was carefree, spent in the country...
The farmer’s family usually gave us their best room, even if their children had to sleep in the barn sometimes. All for a few extra zlotys they could make during the summer for renting to city-folks. Though life in the country on a farm was very primitive, the last days of school were spent day-dreaming of the freedom, the open spaces, fields and meadows stretching as far as the horizon, occasionally obstructed by a grove of trees. We gladly exchanged the bakery-bought sweet rolls for the farmer’s black bread thickly spread with freshly churned butter (no fear of cholesterol yet). Rolling down a steep hill, in tall grass, challenging the others, who can roll the fastest? Chasing the goat out from the vegetable garden, or sometimes being chased by the goat in turn, annoyed for being disturbed. Our help was not always very productive, but the farmer was indulgent with us, probably having fun watching city kids. Once they were trying to teach me how to milk the cow. They were holding the cow’s head, but the cow hit me in the face with its tail trying to swat off the flies from its back, and I bent backwards so far that I fell off the milking stool, with my feet in the air and the milk bucket turned over. That was my last attempt to become a milkmaid. Though we must have been clumsy doing farm chores, we were willing to learn and adapt. I recall jumping in the lake with only our underwear on, copying the farm children. And helping to collect the freshly laid eggs, still warm to the touch.
I also recall the bellyaches from eating too many green apples, and the cuts and bruises on our feet from trying to run around barefooted like the farm children. Our faithful companion was the farmer’s old, shaggy dog. He seemed rejuvenated each summer we arrived. Sometimes on the way to the farm we would wonder if he was still alive. Every time we paid some attention to him he would run ahead, then come back wagging his tail like a young pup. But when we were busy playing and ignoring him, he would just lie there pretending to be asleep, yet watching us with one open eye. The same way he was watching the farmer’s few sheep grazing in the yard. On Sundays you could hear the church bells ringing, calling the faithful to worship. Occasionally I would go with them to the little church; the farmer usually stayed back, claiming too many chores to be done. Instead of staying in church, we spent most of the time at the adjoining, very old cemetery, trying to read the hardly legible inscriptions on the headstones.
Reminiscing about all this, it’s no wonder we could not wait for school to be out. Mother would pack up the large wicker coffer brought down from the attic. The hinges in front were connected with a metal rod, and padlocked for security. It also had sturdy handles on each side because when the coffer was filled it took two people to carry it. We each gathered a few of our favorite things, and mother always insisted that we bring along some books, not to waste the summer without reading. We said goodbye to grandparents and relatives, though it was a short goodbye, many of them would come out for the weekends to visit. The horse-drawn carriage was waiting in front, the horses impatiently shifting from side to side. Father came along for the ride to get us settled but had to return to town to attend to his business. However, he came every weekend, brought lots of goodies from town and a host of relatives for a visit. He also brought for mother the week’s newspapers; the news was stale, but mother was mainly interested in the serialized section of the latest book.
The picture in front of me reminds me of such a weekend, when relatives came to visit, sitting under a shaded tree, inhaling fresh air, sipping cold drinks, and exchanging news and gossip. I see myself as that young girl, between the ages of nine and twelve, at every occasion hanging around older cousins. With a grin I now recall those years when together with one of my older female cousins and her friends, I made myself inconspicuous, pretending I was not there, yet listening to every word they uttered, giggling when they talked about boys and other feminine topics. On the other hand, when I was around my older male cousins, I craved to be noticed, though their conversation was of little interest to me. They usually talked about sports or their dreams of someday owning a car. Whatever they said, an occasional pat on my head made me happy that I was there and that they noticed me.
The summer quickly came to an end. Time again to pack up, but this time everything was carelessly thrown into the old wicker coffer. However, we had many more packages to carry back home, baskets with fresh fruits, vegetables, eggs – also a healthy tan from being outdoors all summer long. Father came to take us home, bringing gifts for all the members in the farmer’s family. The carriage was being loaded, we said goodbye over and over, reluctant to leave. Even the old dog got hugs from us. The children were running along the carriage as long as they could keep up with the horses, waving goodbye.
©2002, Manya Friedman (Moszkowicz). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
By the end of 1940, about half of the population from our city of 28,000 Jews, plus the Jews brought in from the neighboring towns, had already been deported. The Dulag (transit camp) was always full to capacity with Jews awaiting deportation either to labor or concentration camps. Jews started thinking of ways that they could be useful to the Germans so they could remain in place.
It took a lot of effort to convince the German authorities in our area that the Jews could be useful to them by producing uniforms and boots for their military. When the Germans finally did agree, the first shops were opened in March 1941. The Germans presumably hoped to get big bribes from Jews hoping to get employment and avoid deportation. This of course raised the hopes of some Jews.
The Sonderkarte, which we called a “right to life,” came into existence when the first shop was opened. The card was supposed to shield us from deportation.
I got employment in one of the shops after my parents were forced to provide a sewing machine. I did not have much sewing experience, but I was lucky to be seated between two professional seamstresses who probably felt sorry for me. As soon as they produced their quota—which for them was easy—they helped me make my quota of pieces. Later I became proficient enough to do it myself. I was even given the job of sewing in collars and stitching on pockets. During normal times I would probably have been proud of my accomplishment, but our work was done with the pain of hunger and tears.
The work was demanding. Our supervisor, a one-armed Nazi who had been a high-ranking military member but was injured in the war, inspected every piece we handed in. He counted the number of stitches to the centimeter. We were producing the uniforms for the Nazi soldiers, the mustard-colored shirts for the Hitler Youth, and white coveralls for camouflage for the Nazi soldiers fighting on the Russian front in winter.
We were also making some garments from material that was partially made from wood pulp. The splinters were still imbedded in the cloth, which often caused infections in our fingers.
The pay was minimal. One could not survive on it; often girls fainted at work from lack of nourishment. And the daily long marches to work from the ghetto and back, guided by the Jewish militia, were exhausting. Our ghetto was at a distance from the city, in a poor, undeveloped neighborhood previously occupied by blue-collar laborers.
Our only hope was the Sonderkarte that was to save us from deportation. In the beginning, if one was stopped on the street for deportation and could provide that card, they would be let go. Therefore we held on to that thread of hope despite the demands of work and the minimal pay. Maybe a miracle would happen in the meantime, we thought, and someone would stop the murderous Nazis.
We were considered by some Jewish resistance groups as traitors abetting the Nazis, though we hated every stitch we made.
For two years we had been constantly reminded by our shop manager, an elderly German “gentleman” whom we nicknamed Dziadek (Grandfather), how lucky we were to be employed at that shop and to be avoiding deportation. Unfortunately, the promise of our “protector” was not worth much when an order from a higher authority was issued to eliminate all the Jews from the area. In March 1943, as our shift was about to end and the workers in the next shift were waiting in the yard to take over, the SS surrounded the building and we were all taken for deportation. There was no sign of our Dziadek then to protect us.
We were marched to the gathering place where people for deportation were held. The building was the new Jewish high school—a place meant to prepare promising young people for a bright future had become a holding place for people of all ages whose future was either the concentration camp or the gas chamber.
When my parents found out about my detention, they and my two brothers came to the holding place. They brought me a suitcase with my personal belongings, which they dropped off at the building across the street. We could not communicate because of the crowd and noise, and because I was on the second floor. My brothers somehow managed to squeeze through the crowd. Partially in mime they managed to convey to me to look for something in the padding of my coat. There was some money sewn in.
I have etched the picture of them into my mind, standing there in front of the building. This was the first time we had been separated, even after appearing many times together at selection points for deportation. This would be the last time we would see each other.
The Sonderkarte, our right to life, now meant nothing.
©2008, Manya Friedman (Moszkowicz). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
For decades we survivors have been waiting for the release by the International Tracing Service (ITS) of the millions of records kept in Germany. The Nazis were very meticulous in keeping records of the countries they occupied and of the people whose fates they determined. They kept strict records of every person and event, of dates, and of the destinations of the people involved. We were anxious to get access to those documents to learn about the final fates of our lost dear ones.
After the Allied forces liberated the camps, the records from the camps were collected and deposited for safekeeping in a small, quiet town, Bad Arolsen, in Germany. The place was chosen as safe because it was not destroyed by the bombings during liberation. After the war, even the records of people in the displaced persons camps were added to the collection. After some years, the International Committee of Management of Bad Arolsen was taken over by the International Committee of the Red Cross and controlled by a governing board of 11 nations.
While I was in Sweden, after being liberated by the Swedish Red Cross, I started writing to the International Red Cross inquiring about my parents and two younger brothers. At first I inquired about the entire family as a unit. Then I thought it would be better if I inquired about each person individually, in case they had been separated. Both times waiting for a reply was agonizing. A typical family request took years of frustrated efforts to get a reply. The reply I finally received was: “There is no record.” I was still holding on to an illusion that maybe the International Red Cross did not search well enough.
After a half a century passed I gave up hope of ever finding any answers. Several years ago a staff member of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum—after having been urged by survivors to have those records released during their lifetime—became determined to get involved to solve this problem. It was an uphill battle. At every step he encountered opposition. Every request was refused, every proposition rejected. For seven difficult years the Museum fought to get those archives opened. Finally, after years of perseverance some of the records were released, though not all of the 11 countries have yet agreed to release the records.
In the meantime many of the survivors have already passed away, never knowing what happened to their families. Some survivors finally learned the fates of their families, and one of them is among our group. His parents sent him away on a Kindertransport to save his life, and he had no contact with them after that. Through the records he learned what happened to them. Though the outcome is sad, now he has some record of what happened to them.
Occasionally there was a heartwarming story related by another staff member working in the Museum’s Survivors Registry. After hard work and determination, he managed to unite two childhood sweethearts after 64 years of separation. Neither one knew that the other had survived. They had met in a concentration camp but were later sent to separate camps. When the war ended, one found relatives in Australia and the other in Canada. Now, through the archives in Germany and the help of the Museum, they have found each other. They are both too old to travel, but have renewed their friendship by phone.
As for me, I was not expecting a miracle. I did get my own file with the dates and concentration camps where I spent my teenage years. But this I very well remembered. I hoped at least to get a date when my entire family was murdered so I would know when to say Kaddish and light a candle in their memory. However, of the transports that went directly to the gas chambers, there are no records.
©2011, Manya Friedman (Moszkowicz). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
The news that something had happened at the packing station during my cousin’s shift made me rush to her barrack to find out if she was well. Though we were in the same camp, we seldom met each other because we worked on different shifts and were assigned to different barracks. Sometimes when I saw her returning from work, I did not recognize her because her face was a black mask. We worked in a factory that produced soot (carbon).
The Germans were in desperate need of that product, which they used to make synthetic rubber for the production of tires for the military. The production was divided into three departments. Although each department had detrimental effects, the packing station was the worst.
In the first department the oil used in the production of the soot had to be heated to a certain degree to produce fumes for the burners in the next department. The girls working there had to inhale the noxious fumes. The second department’s job was to clean the burners to produce larger flames for the production of the soot. The temperature there was unbearable. And in the third department—the packing station—the soot coming in through the pipes had to be packed into bags. The dust settled on the girls perspired bodies, and when they wiped their brows a black mask was created.
Before I managed to reach my cousin’s barrack that day, something caught my eye.
Across from our barracks was a wire fence separating us from the men’s camp. While rushing to my cousin’s barrack I noticed a man sitting on the ground wrapped in a blanket. As I was about to pass him I hesitated for a moment. His face seemed familiar. He had been our neighbor back home, from one of the families evicted from Germany shortly before the war. He and his wife and daughter arrived in our city with only their luggage. The Jewish Committee rented a place for them in a neighboring building, and some people donated furniture. My father and several other neighbors helped them settle in. Their daughter later dated our neighbors’ son—that was how we became acquainted.
I asked him how he was, but in my mind I already imagined what his future would be. The men in our camp were working on construction. It was a brand new camp and only partially finished. Their lot was even worse than ours. They had to carry heavy loads, which their emaciated bodies often rejected. And if they dropped a load they got a beating. It was an outdoor job, in the summer heat and in the winter cold, wearing only the striped garments.
Every few weeks a new group of men was brought in to work, and at the same time the sick and those unable to work were loaded on the same truck and taken away. If we were in camp when this took place, we sadly watched them leave, knowing what their future would be. As I was talking to our neighbor while thinking about his lot, someone from the back approached and slammed my face against the fence. It was our German Lager Fuhrerin (camp leader). We were not allowed to speak to the men.
I continued to my cousin’s barrack and was glad to learn that she was not hurt. She in turn became concerned about my face.
For several days I had on the left side of my face the design from the fence. It did not hurt me nearly as much as the thought of our neighbor’s fate.
©2011, Manya Friedman (Moszkowicz). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
The news of the approaching German army spread like an uncontained fire in this small town in central Poland. The defenseless population was devastated. Only one brave young man, with a rifle slung over his shoulder, a military cap askew on his head, patrolled the streets of his hometown with the illusion that he could single-handedly defend and protect it from the approaching mighty power.
A streak of stubbornness and the cocksure attitude of the young men of his generation convinced him that he could conquer the world. Even the roar of the motorized military column heard from a distance did not dim his determination. He was willing to sacrifice his life in defense of his hometown.
The first tank, preceding the armored column, with its machine guns ready to fire, entered the town and scattered the young man’s body all over the pavement near his home. After his burial, pieces of his flesh were still found in that street. Thus he became the first casualty in this small town invaded by the merciless German army—a lesson for the inhabitants—the price they would have to pay for resistance.
The young man left behind a mournful town and a bereft family: his parents, two brothers, two sisters, a brother-in-law, and his adorable baby niece. His older sister, with her husband and the baby, had only recently returned to this small town from the big city in western Poland in the hope that Hitler would be stopped before his army could reach central Poland. They were wrong.
During the deportation of the local Jews and the Jews brought in from the neighboring towns, the young man’s sister was in line clutching her baby girl to her chest when an SS man approached and tried to take the child from her mother’s arms. She resisted and would not give up the baby. The SS man shoved them both into the group of people destined for death. The child’s grandmother, thinking that she might be of support to them, stepped forward, and she, too, was pushed into that group to share the destiny of the others.
The deportations continued. Young people were sent to slave-labor camps, others directly to the death factories. The two brothers and the brother-in-law of the young man in the street were among those sent to labor camps in Germany. None of the three young men returned.
The father and his youngest daughter, who was my age, together with others, were sent to a munitions factory, Hasag, in Kielce. One day, rumors were spreading about a forthcoming deportation. Some of the workers hid in the attic at the factory. They were, however, soon discovered, and as they descended the stairs, each one of them was shot. Among them were the father and his daughter.
Historians, scholars of the Holocaust, and the world in general consider them among the six million Jews murdered in Europe. To me, they were my uncle (my father’s oldest brother), my aunt, and my cousins. Each one of them had a name, and each had a face, which I recall often among my haunting memories.
After my memory is gone, and I can say kaddish no more, do not forget them.
©2011, Manya Friedman (Moszkowicz). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
That quaint small town in central Poland, my hometown, Chmielnik, once teemed with Jewish life. There were houses of worship, including the “big synagogue,” and houses of learning. The orthodox young men studied the Torah; others, after attending public school in the morning, attended Hebrew schools. Most belonged to Zionist and socialist organizations. There were sport clubs and cultural clubs (intelligentsia), every one actively dedicated to its cause. Jewish youth dreamed of going to the land of Israel and of a better future.
Being a small town, everybody knew everybody and what took place in everyone’s household. There were no secrets, and there was plenty of gossip and jealousy. There were rich and poor families—Jewish professionals, craftsmen, and businessmen. And there were even beggars. There was romance and betrayal, squabbles and reconciliation, even among the two presiding rabbis in town. It all added to the charm and character of that small town.
In this small town I spent my happy childhood among a loving family, relatives, and friends. Here I got my first kiss, a peck on the cheek by a boy who ran away like a thief who had stolen something.
All this is no longer. Hitler’s aim to exterminate all European Jews reached even this small town. Now, only memories are left.
After viewing a recent videotape of the town, brought back by relatives who visited Poland, my heart grieves. The town is void of any Jewish existence. The worship houses are destroyed, the “big synagogue” unrecognizable, standing in disrepair, with gaping holes where windows used to be. There is horse manure in front of the entrance, and the place is used for grain storage. And a short distance away, the Jewish cemetery is gone as well.
A place once considered sacred, an eternal resting place for our dear ones, the ones that were “fortunate” to die in peace, in their own beds, and be buried in marked graves, attended by family and friends, is now a soccer field. I watched with disbelief a group of young boys kicking around a ball where the Jewish cemetery once was, completely oblivious that they were trampling over human bodies. The sight of that bare cemetery stirred memories from way back of a woman, my grandmother, who was put to rest there a long time ago.
When father brought grandmother home from the hospital in Kraków, the best hospital in the country at the time, and announced that the operation was unsuccessful, everyone in the family was devastated. Over 70 years ago a simple cataract operation was very risky, and she had become blind.
My parents worried what would become of her now after she had had such an active life in business through her adulthood. Her husband had died very young and left her with several small children and no means of support. She was too proud to be on welfare, so she had contacted some local farmers to deliver milk every morning and she sold it to neighbors. From the leftover milk she also made cheese and butter and in this way had supported her family.
The grandchildren were concerned how their friends would react, since grandmother would now be living with them and she was blind. Their fears were pointless. At first their friends started to come in out of curiosity but later were drawn by grandmother’s inexhaustible supply of stories, many taken from the Bible, each ending with a moral. And the folds of her long, wide skirt seemed to hold a variety of pockets each containing hidden treasures. Like magic she could pull out some candies or other goodies, and when the need arose to mend a scraped knee or wipe a running nose, there were also clean pieces of white linen torn off of an old bedsheet and hidden in those pockets.
What most amazed the youngsters was the fact that grandmother could tell who was approaching or who had just gotten a haircut. Sometimes they hesitated to believe that grandmother could not see. By now the children were competing for a place to sit next to her or who would lend her a hand while crossing the street.
On Saturdays we used to walk her to the synagogue. She was very devout, and the path to the synagogue was very familiar to her. All we needed to do was help her cross the streets and when we reached the syna- gogue put her hand on the railing of the stairs leading up to the women’s section. In those days, the text of the prayer books was only in Hebrew, not translated, nor did the leader tell what page to turn to, but as soon as grandmother heard the flipping of pages, she knew that some of the women had lost their places, so she would tell them what page to turn to. She knew the prayers by heart. That made us very proud of her.
This remarkable woman was my paternal grandmother. She died at a ripe old age before the war, the last in our family laid to rest in the Jewish cemetery in my hometown. While in the camps, I used to dream about her, that she brought me food. During the war whenever I thought of her, I was at ease that she died in her own bed with her family around her. She even blessed each one of us before she died. I still recall how she held my hands in hers and said how much good those little hands had done. She had a decent funeral and was buried in a marked grave.
Seeing that desecrated Jewish cemetery on tape, the uprooted headstones probably used to pave the streets and people trampling in their boots over them, is a painful reminder of Hitler and his Nazi party who not only executed millions of people but would not even let the deceased rest in peace.
©2011, Manya Friedman (Moszkowicz). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
It was about the end of April 1945. Days in camp turned into long months, months into years, one day resembling the other. This day in this small camp, a subcamp of Ravensbrück, began like any other day. Wake-up call at dawn, with all my strength I gathered my weary, aching bones to face another day of misery and abuse. If by chance I managed to rinse out my underwear the night before, it was often still damp in the morning, but I had to put it on anyway, even in the wintertime, there was no choice. Then I lowered myself from the upper bunk, with a bent back not to hit my head on the ceiling, my wooden shoes in one hand, being careful not to step on someone below, and I rushed to the latrine to get in line. I often tripped in the dark over bodies that had expired during the night. On the way I caught a fistful of water from the dripping, rusty faucet, to apply to my face in a hope to wake up. Again I rushed with the tin cup to get some of that foul-tasting, brownish, lukewarm brew called “coffee.” Sometimes it had a faint taste of the soup from the previous night, because the kettles were not washed well. But who cared? It tasted just the same.
The shrill sound of the Kapo’s whistle, like a whip cutting through the air and through our shivering bodies, reminded that it was time for the appell (roll call). I rushed to get in line—lines of grotesque-looking figures. In the winter we shivered from the cold underneath the striped, thin dresses; in the summer we sweltered under the oppressive heat, waiting to be counted, while standing at attention. The countless reading of the numbers, no names, the faint reply “here,” counting by one of the Kapos then another; often someone in line fainted from exhaustion and weakness, and had to be supported by others. Even in this small camp it seemed like an eternity, being counted and recounted, again and again.
But that day was different. While we were standing in line to be counted, a Kapo accompanied by a military person walked up to our group, pointed a finger at about a dozen or so girls, and ordered them
to step forward. You could sense the uneasiness and anticipation in the lines; the lines shifted like an ocean wave. What now? In those few seconds all kinds of thoughts flashed through my mind. Why me? Where to? Sneaking a quick glance at the others around me, I tried to figure out how I differed from the rest. Again the thought, why me? And why now, when there is a spark of hope that this hell may finally end, judging by the frequency of the air raids, and the roar of Allied planes above our heads. There was no use trying to find a reason; there was no reasoning in camp. To the many questions circling in my head, there were no answers. Though one thing was certain, a selection had never meant a better lot.
After the selection, our small group of girls, with stooped shoulders under the weight of uncertainty, resigned to feeling helpless, and dragging our feet in the wooden shoes, was marched toward the gate of the camp, leaving the others behind, and not knowing what the future would bring. Would there be a future?
Outside the gate, a white, covered truck was waiting, a few Kapos and soldiers were mingling about, flirting and laughing, a familiar sight. The Kapos motioned to us to climb up into the truck, but it brought few results. Though the truck’s tailgate was down and we tried hard, we were too weak to conquer this hurdle, despite the fear that at any moment the Kapo’s whip would come down on our emaciated bodies. Instead, to everyone’s disbelief and amazement the Kapos actually helped us climb up into the truck. Somehow, from nowhere a crate appeared that we used for a step to climb up. I thought I was hallucinating or this must be a dream. I did not trust my senses any longer. But momentarily I recalled how the Germans often used all kinds of tricks to get the people to come to an assembly point, using the pretense either to register, or to check and stamp the passports, but instead were put in trains or trucks and deported.
After being settled in the truck, each one of us received a “C.A.R.E.” package. Again disbelief, but no time to rationalize how or why, even if this would represent our last meal. Within seconds the packages were
ripped open and the contents devoured. It was food. There was powdered milk, cocoa, sardines, crackers— everything was eaten at once, we were not even aware what it was. Some of the girls got sick, our stomachs not used to digesting such food.
The truck kept rolling on with its exhausted, helpless, resigned cargo, and we had no clue where to. No one spoke, each one of us preoccupied with our own thoughts. Then, lo and behold, the truck reached Denmark. FREEDOM? Incomprehensible! We were all dazed, unable to comprehend what was going on around us. (It was the end of April 1945, and Denmark was still under German occupation.)
Apparently the white truck that our group was being transported in was from the Swedish Red Cross, hence the helpful gesture from the Kapos to show the Red Cross personnel that we were treated humanely. The white truck had markings on the sides and on the roof, but we were not aware of it. Later we learned that negotiations were going on between Swedish Count Folke Bernadotte, head of the Swedish Red Cross, and Himmler, head of the Gestapo, about the release of Norwegian POWs. But since it was the end of April, and Himmler was realizing that Germany had lost the war, he agreed to Bernadotte’s request to release from the camps some women of “Polish” origin and hand them over to the Swedish Red Cross. I later learned that the word “Jewish” was never mentioned. Thus began the brave rescue operation.
The courageous Danish people were waiting for us with food and a place to rest up. A small boat carried the few of us from Denmark to the shore of Malmö, Sweden. What a sad-looking group we presented. Now, out of camp, among normal-looking people, the sight of us was deplorable. Our short-cropped hair growing untamed in all directions, the sunken wide eyes, the shapeless striped dresses covering our skeletal bodies, tied at the waist with a piece of frayed rope. And the wooden shoes. Somewhere I found a pair of high-laced leather shoes on raised heels to replace my wooden ones, but without shoelaces. It took some searching to find two pieces of string long enough to pull through two eyelets to hold the upper part of the shoe together, and even more strategy to place the strings in the right place to hold up the long tongues attached to the shoes, so as not to trip over them.
In this pose I was approached by two reporters who accompanied us on the boat. I do not recall what they asked me, nor what I told them, but I vividly recall feeling embarrassed. One hand nervously reached for my head trying to slick my hair down a bit, the other pulling at my dress trying to smooth out some folds. Could this have been the moment when I regained the feeling of being human again? After all, I was still a teenager.
At the shore in Malmö, our group was greeted by some dignitaries—a rabbi and a clergyman, either a minister or priest—and an orchestra or maybe a band was playing, I could not distinguish one from the other. We were mesmerized by the sight. All those people came to greet us. Yet, somehow, I felt detached from all this, like viewing it all through a sheer curtain. There were people making speeches, I assume to welcome us, but we were incapable of listening or comprehending what was going on. There were also many onlookers, some probably came out of curiosity, others out of sympathy. The entire situation seemed so unreal.
There was also the medical staff of the Red Cross waiting, and they took us to a large hall where people wearing masks and gloves met our group. Our group huddled together, more comfortable with the girls from our own camp. The sick were taken immediately to the hospital while the rest of us went through a hot shower, with real soap (I can still feel the luxury), delousing, and disinfecting. We were scrubbed, sprayed, and dusted, then received clean clothing donated by the local people. It felt good to be rid of the lice that consumed every moment of our free time trying to eradicate them, without success. The clean outfits that replaced our soiled, striped dresses felt as splendid as if they were made of pure silk.
We were put up in some school buildings. Each one of us got a mattress covered with soft paper sheets. We felt pampered. Yet, it still didn’t sink in that we were really free. At night, if you woke up, you could always see girls looking out the windows to make sure that we were no longer in camp. But the nightmares persisted.
A few days later, in the middle of the night we heard a big commotion going on. Students, in their handsome uniforms and white round caps, came running up the stairs shouting: “The war is over. The war is over.” We all ran out to greet them, forgetting that we were only in our underwear, hugging, kissing, and jumping up and down with joy. A lot of celebrating was also going on in the streets. People dancing and singing, people blowing the car horns, nobody slept the rest of the night. The next day there was a lavish reception in the school’s recreation hall. Since there were among us people from different countries, the band was playing everyone’s national anthem. Never before, or since, was I so touched listening to the Polish anthem, because this time the sound of it had for me a different meaning. A sign that the war had ended, and so had our suffering, but most of all, hope of finding somebody from the family.
“The war was over,” but I was left all alone....
©2011, Manya Friedman (Moszkowicz). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
In 1970, on one of my visits to Israel, I attended, with my Israeli cousins, a meeting of members from my hometown. As on previous occasions, I was warmly greeted, both as an old acquaintance and as a visitor from America expected to make a donation.
It was a pleasant get-together, though as at every gathering of Holocaust survivors, the camps and the names of the perished came up in conversation. I met some who had known my parents and some schoolmates, though no close friends. We were reminiscing about the “good old times” and I even received “a left-handed compliment”: “That is you, that beautiful girl, what happened to you?” One of the men recalled that the boys were too bashful to approach me because I was walking around with my nose in the air. “Gee,” I thought, “was I really so inapproachable?”
While we were joking around and talking about our childhood in that small town where everybody knew everybody, which seemed like centuries ago, an elderly man approached. I recognized him at once; he had been a very good friend of my parents. Seeing him, the image of his beautiful wife and young adorable son flashed through my mind. They had not survived. He had remarried. We clung to each other for a long time while scenes from the past flew in front of my eyes. I recalled the many Saturday evenings when he and his family and many others of my parents’ friends had gathered in our home. The men played cards or chess, talked about business or politics. The women chit-chatted while sipping mother’s homemade cherry wine, accompanied by mother’s famous sponge cake.
After my parents’ friend and I finally separated from our embrace, he started telling his present wife about many “antics” from my childhood. Most of them silly, some embarrassing. He told her that they used to call me the Kopf (old head), because I always listened in on every conversation, pretending not to be there, but then I would say something that gave me away. He also remembered when I had a big argument with my parents because they agreed for the young man who was employed by my father to take me ice-skating. I told them that I would die if my friends would see me with that old guy. He was maybe 17 or 18 years old, but I was only 12. There were many more similar stories which to the reader may seem silly, but I became very emotional. Here was someone who knew that I once was a part of a family, to which I had once belonged.
Then he took me aside and asked me if I would like to meet someone who was with my family on the same transport when the Germans liquidated the ghetto in our city. I think I did not respond at once. I was either shocked with disbelief, or maybe afraid to hear the truth for fear that it might be worse than my own imagination. What could have been worse?
We agreed to meet the next day and travel to see the person he spoke of. We met early in the morning and boarded a bus to Beersheba, the town where this man resided. He and his wife greeted us kindly. I could not recall if I had ever met him before. We spent some time just exchanging frivolities while I was anxious to hear about my family. He was telling us about life in the ghetto the last few months that he was there. He told how the people built bunkers under each house. He told how one day, while most parents were at work outside the ghetto, the Gestapo raided the ghetto and took all the children and whoever was around for deportation. He told of the despair of the parents when they returned home. And finally he told about the transport he and my family were on. He had worked with my father, therefore he knew the family.
When they arrived at Auschwitz, the segregation began. Father and my older brother were sent to one line, while mother and my younger brother were sent to the other line. Apparently father did not want to be separated from mother, so he and my brother crossed over to the line where mother was. It was easy to cross over to that line. That line was destined for the gas chamber.
At the moment I heard this I was very sad and very angry at my father and brother. My emotions were confused. Why? When they would have had a chance to survive? I was furious. Though it did not take long for me to come up with an answer.
My parents had married for love after several years of courtship, and I had always loved to hear the stories they used to tell about their endearment. As a young girl I thought it was so romantic, especially that they had come from different backgrounds, and the many obstacles they had had to overcome. I no longer had to ask “Why?”
They had married for love, and they had chosen never to be separated.
©2011, Manya Friedman (Moszkowicz). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
The snow had fallen, uninterrupted, since morning. Big, fluffy flakes fell on top of each other, covering the everyday grime with a pure white blanket. Our side street was devoid of any traffic, only here and there footprints made by men or animals were visible, breaking up the smooth surface. It was fun looking out the window and enjoying the weekend off from school. By afternoon we ventured out, so bundled up one could hardly see our faces, trying to throw some snowballs. The snow was too dry and fluffy to form a ball, and the sleds were useless; the runners sank into the snow and would not move. Only the young children had fun, stretched out in the snow trying to make angels.
By evening the snow had stopped, after accumulating about a foot of white powder, and the temperature dropped sharply, creating an excruciating chill. The frost-covered windowpanes let the imagination form all kinds of patterns. We huddled around the tall tile stove, fed by chunks of coal from the bin outside. The waves of warmth emitted from the stove reminded me of sitting around a campfire on a chilly evening; though my front was warm, I could feel the chill on my back.
Mother served hot soup; we did some homework, read, played games, or asked grandmother to tell us a story, until it was time to go to bed. There were a few moments of shivering between getting undressed and jumping into bed, but once under the heavy down-feather blanket we were quite comfortable. The grown-ups stayed up longer, sipping hot tea, till it was their time to retire for the night.
Late that night there was a tap on the door, at first lightly, then more intense. Nothing to be concerned about, I thought. Most likely a neighbor needed some help, maybe to borrow some aspirin for a sick child. Father opened the door. It was Father’s business partner; I recognized his voice, though he only whispered. Probably a machine broke down, I thought, and turned over trying to go back to sleep.
When I woke up early next morning, curious to find out about the world outside, I noticed Father’s warm coat hanging over the kitchen chair. He must have gotten dressed and gone out during the night.
Though it was still very early, the sun was shining bright and some of the frost from the windowpanes had started to melt. Assisted by my warm breath, I rubbed a spot in the window pane to look out. (I had learned from experience not to use the warm palm of my hand to melt the ice; it could freeze to the pane. We had had many long and cold winters to experiment.) The view outside was almost blinding from the glitter of the snow reflecting the sun’s rays. The snow on the roofs had started to melt. The house across the street looked like it had been decorated for Christmas with all the icicles hanging from the eaves of the roof. There must have been a strong wind during the night; a drift of snow was almost up to the windowsill. I went back to bed under the warm covers.
Except for Father, who got up to tend to the stoves while there were still live embers, we all slept late that morning. Later in the day two policemen knocked at the door. Mother let them in, offered them seats, and tea, but they refused. They asked Mother some questions, and asked where Father was. My two younger brothers were very excited with the officers’ visit, this being a time when every young boy hoped to grow up and become a policeman, but somehow we sensed that this was not exactly a social visit. However, it never entered our minds that our parents could have done anything unlawful. Mother told them where they could locate Father, and after they left, she seemed so preoccupied with their visit that she did not even hear or respond to our questions. We were curious for a while, but being so young we did not linger very long for an answer; we went back to whatever we were doing before the officers’ visit. When Father came home the boys greeted him excitedly: “Daddy, daddy, do you know two policemen were here, and they were asking for you? Did you see them, did you?” Father glanced at Mother’s face, and from her expression knew that he would have a lot to explain.
Several days later we learned that some young people were arrested in town, accused of belonging to a Communist organization. My father’s partner’s daughter was on that list, but somehow she had disappeared, hence the visit from the police to find out if Father could provide any information. Quite some time later I found out that on that snowy night in the mid-1930s the urgent knock on the door late at night had had nothing to do with a broken-down machine—it was indeed Father’s business partner who came during the night, only to ask Father for help assisting his daughter to leave town. It was a risky decision, especially on such a bright, snow-covered night, where every silhouette was visible, but Father was not one to refuse a friend a favor, even when he had to take a risk.
Our house was quite a distance from the railroad station, and on that night every footstep left a distinguishing mark in the snow. Behind our house was a large fenced-in yard, adjoining a large fenced-in field where we played volleyball and the boys played soccer. After that was a farmer’s field. Father decided that in the backyard and in the adjoining field, he and the young woman should trample around in the snow leaving the impression that the kids had been playing there, but when it came to crossing the fence that separated the soccer field from the farmer’s field he crossed over by himself and carried the young woman on his back until they reached a grove of trees. This way there was only one set of footprints in the snow. Father put her on the next train that left the station and returned home by a different route.
After the war ended I found out that Father’s business partner had survived the Holocaust and had gone to Brazil to live with his rescued daughter. Unfortunately, my father, though much younger, did not survive; there had been no one around to rescue him.
©2011, Manya Friedman (Moszkowicz). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
