Born December 16, 1929, Horochow, Poland
Died January 19, 2013, Alexandria, Virginia
The Haystack-1942 »
Paranka »
Don’t Ask for Soap »
Kasia »
A Lesson in Geography »
I Remember »
If Rivers Could Speak »
Naughty, Naughty »
The Promise »
It was an early autumn day – the forest was dark and I could hardly see the sun. I felt dampness all around me and I was tired, but there was nowhere to rest as this forest had sparse underbrush and it was difficult to find a hiding place.
By noon, after walking most of the night, I had reached the edge of the forest. A small group of people sat in a circle nearby. My first reaction was to run for cover. I thought I heard muffled words in Yiddish. Did I dream it? Quietly, I moved closer. The longing for human contact was so strong I disregarded all caution. I walked up to the group. A young woman moved a bit and motioned for me to join them. There were six of them; the young woman with a peasant kerchief tied around her forehead and behind her ears, cradled an infant in her arms. The baby was strapped to her chest with a heavy shawl. On her feet she wore flimsy sandals, her dress was old and faded. The baby was listless and sucked on his mother’s finger. Next to the woman sat two young men, well dressed; both were wearing almost new knee high boots; each of them had a leather briefcase bulging at the seams. I wondered what was in them – food, clothing – they didn’t offer any information. To their left sat another woman, in her early thirties, with a worried look on her face, somewhat disheveled, in summer clothing and light shoes. To complete the circle there was another man, with a short red beard. All I remember about him is his annoying, constant nervous tugging at his beard. I took out one of my two treasured carrots and handed it to the woman with the baby. She promptly stuck it in the baby’s mouth.
All their stories were similar to mine. Somehow they were able to escape during the liquidation of their ghettos. All came from towns and villages not too far from my hometown. None of them knew my family; they had not seen my mother for whom I was searching.
Lost in our thoughts and conversation, we became completely oblivious to the outside surroundings. Suddenly, a group of children appeared, as if out of nowhere----“Jews” they yelled - with glee - and ran away. Obviously, they went back to call their parents. There was a small monetary reward for reporting a Jew.
Overcome with fear, we knew we had to hide. It was harvest time and there were huge haystacks in the fields. These haystacks were as big as barns. We all ran and hid in one of them. Why we all hid in one haystack, I cannot explain. We ran and made our way as deeply as we could into the haystack. It was difficult to breathe as the hay was full of dust.
Pretty soon we heard voices. It sounded as if the entire village was there. They were singing and joking among themselves. They zeroed in on our haystack and attacked it with great enthusiasm. They screamed every epithet imaginable and urged us to come out. They used pitchforks and were stabbing the haystack again and again. I heard cries around me, but I concentrated on just trying to breathe.
I don’t know how long this lasted – it seemed forever – then all became quiet. The dust and hay were choking me, but I tried with all my might not to cough.
Slowly, I made my way out of the demolished haystack. It was dark and difficult to orient myself. When my eyes got accustomed to the outside darkness I saw, to my horror, naked bodies lined up in a row. I stood dazed, looking at the bloody, mutilated bodies of my six companions whom I met earlier that afternoon. I didn’t even know their names, except for the baby – his mother called him “Buzio.”
©2002, Charlene Schiff (Shulamit Perlmutter). 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 midwinter of 1943. I was on top of a mound of hay inside a barn, trying to stay warm, when a hand removed the hay covering my upper body. I found myself staring at a young woman with a look of surprise on her face.
Only the day before I had been in the forest. It was brutally cold. The little pit where I usually hid didn’t give me much protection from the elements. I realized then I would not survive another day in the forest.
I made my way to a nearby village. It was difficult—my outer clothing was threadbare, the top of one of my shoes was separated from the sole. I tied the shoe together with pieces of my underwear and walked toward the village. I was hampered by the shoes, which were falling apart, and so the relatively short distance took almost all night.
Several farms were close by. I picked one which looked substantial and proceeded toward the large barn. The snow made everything quite visible. I walked gingerly toward the main doors and opened them. No dogs—great, I thought. I climbed up to the top of a pile of hay. It was almost dawn. I was exhausted. The last few nights I hadn’t slept for fear I would not wake up. Shivering from the cold, and half of me wet from walking in the snow, I fell asleep.
It couldn’t have been much later when I found myself facing the young woman. She put her finger to her mouth indicating for me to be quiet, and then she disappeared.
I wasn’t tired anymore. Would this woman denounce me? I wondered. Would she bring the authorities here, or would she come back and drag me to them? It was broad daylight, and I was in no shape to escape. My shoes were almost disintegrated—I couldn’t run barefoot. Was this going to be the end? I was cornered. All the fight had gone out of me.
There was a lot of activity below. I heard voices and I felt like shouting, “Hey, I’m here, and I’m a human also.” I heard dogs barking, and wondered where they had been when I arrived.
Later in the afternoon the young woman returned. Again she had her finger to her lips, and I kept quiet. She was quite young. She wore a flowered babushka, tied under her chin and pulled around the back of her neck. She had high cheekbones, a full mouth, and her eyes were a sliver of the bluest sky. Her complexion was pale, and the visible wisps of her hair light brown. She was pretty, and didn’t look threatening. She brought a pail with her and took out some warm soup and bread. She spread a small towel in front of me and motioned for me to eat. I didn’t believe my eyes. The soup was warm and delicious and the bread heavenly. She whispered her name—Paranka—and said she’d be back the next day. It took a long time to sink in. I had been treated like a human being, with kindness and generosity. I had forgotten how that felt.
Early next morning, Paranka came and brought me more food—bread, milk, and dried fruit. She also brought a set of flannel pajamas. She told me to put them on, which I did. When she saw my bare feet, she asked where my shoes were. When I showed them to her, she had tears in her blue eyes, but I didn’t say anything.
The next day when she came up, she had a pair of slightly used boots in her pail, along with more food and a shawl. The boots were a bit large, but inside them she had two pairs of heavy socks. She didn’t ask many questions but she was fully aware of what I needed. Every day at different times she would come up and bring food and more warm clothing. Once, she made a quiet remark: “The dogs sleep indoors, and you are here. Where is justice?” She said she had been working there for over two years. Apparently, she had a large responsibility on the farm—all day I heard people calling Paranka
this, Paranka that.
This went on for almost two unbelievable weeks. I was still hungry but was ashamed to admit it to Paranka. She was so generous, and so very thoughtful. She outfitted me with warm clothes and more good food than I had had in the longest time.
One day, at mid-morning, two policemen arrived on a horse-drawn sled. They asked for the farmer, who was not home at the time. The farmer’s wife came out. The policemen said they wanted to see Paranka. The farmer’s wife became agitated and asked them why. They didn’t bother to explain. Paranka came out of the main house. Everything was loud and I heard it all. They asked for her papers. She went back to the house to get them. All of the farmhands were outside watching Paranka come out with the papers. I could see it all through the slots in the roof. After a short while, I couldn’t hear what transpired but I certainly heard two shots. The farmer’s wife screamed, “My beautiful Paranka, she was not a Jew.”
“Shut up, or we’ll burn down the farm” one of the policemen warned her.
The sun came out for a while, and then hid in shame behind the dark clouds. It was snowing heavily, and the pure white snow tried in vain to cover up the evidence of that murder.
©2006, Charlene Schiff (Shulamit Perlmutter). 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 a gloomy winter morning in the ghetto. The loud speaker was sending information of interest to us. “Today we need children for light work. Congregate in the market square. A Selektion will take place in half an hour.”
Mama was always uneasy about my volunteering whenever such announcements occurred. She knew that sometimes workers reported for duty and were never seen again. The few times I was lucky to be selected I returned home safe, with extra food.
The work was usually indoors, in warm rooms, and the workers in the kitchens, who were not Germans, were quite generous in rewarding us with food to take home. Mama reluctantly gave me her permission to go to the market square.
Eight of us were selected. We were marched to the administration section of town. I was assigned to scrub office floors, peel lots of potatoes, and polish about 30 pairs of men’s boots. I was in a building that I believe had been a hospital before the war. Being indoors in a warm place and knowing there would be food to take home made the work almost pleasant.
At the end of a full day, all eight of the children met in a large room adjoining the huge kitchen. Cooks, their helpers, and assorted workers kept the place very busy. I asked one of the workers for some soap in order to wash my hands, which were covered in shoe polish and dirt. Several Germans had just walked in and one of them overheard my request and became enraged. “Soap, she wants soap, I’ll show her…Come with me,” he barked. He ushered me into a small room with several gurneys and ordered me to climb up on one of them and lie face down.
It was quiet for a few seconds. He pulled my dress up and then I felt as if sharp knives were cutting my backside and I was on fire. The merciless beating continued. I tried to keep from screaming and bit my lip until my mouth was full of blood. This was the end of my life, I thought.
I don’t know how long this went on. The next thing I remember, my friends were trying to get my off the gurney. My panties were in shreds and I was bloody all over. They practically carried me back to the ghetto as the excruciating pain made it hard for me to walk. I was told they counted 25 lashes. They wondered how I kept from screaming.
For weeks I couldn’t stand up or sit down. The people in the kitchen were nice enough and gave some food to my friends for me. That was a bit of compensation.
©2011, Charlene Schiff (Shulamit Perlmutter). 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.
Dawn came much too early that day. I was returning from the forest after spending all night looking for food in a neighboring village. I didn’t find much—just some cucumbers and one tomato. Now it was getting light and I still had about a mile to go to reach the darker, safer forest. I walked as fast as I could, considering my blistered feet, and the forest gave me relative cover. Darkness was my only shield and protection. Walking in an open field was dangerous.
I heard steps behind me. I kept walking—there was no way for me to run and escape. The steps got closer. After a short while a young woman overtook me and greeted me with a friendly hello. She was young, probably 18 to 20 years old. I don’t remember what she was wearing, but I do remember she was pretty and had light blond hair, which she wore in one thick braid. Her eyes were a lovely green. She seemed very compassionate and offered to help me in any way she could.
Her name was Kasia. She was home from the Gymnasium (high school) in Rowno on summer vacation. She helped on her parents’ farm, tending the cows early morning and at dusk. She had one older brother, Sĺavko, she told me.
All her suggestions to help me made sense. She could bring food and clothing to a designated area on a regular basis, or she could ask her parents to hide me on their farm. Kasia explained to me that she could put herself in my place and she understood, she said, how difficult it was to live like a hunted animal.
It sounded wonderful to me and she seemed sincere. We agreed to meet the next morning at the edge of the forest. Kasia hugged me and left to gather her cows and I proceeded to the forest and my pit where I usually spent the days. As I tried to think over the early morning meeting with Kasia, I marveled at my extraordinary good luck. By the time I reached the forest and my pit, I became quite doubtful. How could I trust a complete stranger? I wondered.
All day I was wrestling with the decision of whether or not to meet Kasia early the next morning. Everything seemed too good to be true. I felt a sense of foreboding and dread. It was tempting, but I could not take a chance. Why would a stranger offer help when I didn’t ask for it? My instinct dictated caution. I decided against meeting Kasia. That night I stayed in my pit even though I was very hungry. Usually at night I searched for food, but I was afraid of running into Kasia like I had the day before.
When dawn arrived, I climbed a bushy, very full tree and made sure the branches were covering me from view. Soon I heard voices. It was Kasia and a male companion. They were in search of the “little Jewess”—me. They were arguing. The man accused Kasia of not being friendly enough to gain my trust. Kasia described her conversation with me and couldn’t understand what had gone wrong.
The man who I took to be her brother, Sĺavko, revealed in a continuing conversation with Kasia what they had planned. The two of them had been hunting down Jews. They robbed them of all their possessions and then took them to the authorities, who gave them a monetary reward before murdering the Jews.
Fear and suspicion saved me that time. I learned a hard lesson: Do not trust anyone. To this day, when I think of Kasia, I think of her betrayal.
©2011, Charlene Schiff (Shulamit Perlmutter). 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.
On my fourth birthday, it was cold, and snow covered the ground, beautiful, pristine snow. I had a small birthday party because the Hanukkah holiday would be celebrated soon. A birthday party was called imieniny, which actually means “name day.” I received many gifts—puzzles, books, and from my parents, a wool outfit.
I could not wait to put on my new outfit and go outside. Papa agreed to take me for a walk. The outfit was pink and gorgeous—a hat with a pom-pom on top and earflaps that tied under my chin; mittens that Mama immediately attached to the sleeves of my winter coat so I would not lose them; a cardigan sweater with shiny, pink buttons; tights that fitted snugly over my legs up to my waist; and a luscious scarf with long fringes. Mama helped me put on the outfit. It was warm and toasty, and I felt oh so beautiful. I was admiring my reflection in the long mirror and Mama said with a smile, “You look so lovely in pink, my sweet child.” I wondered where I could show off my beautiful outfit.
Many of the family’s conversations had been about our immigration to America. Papa’s entire family already lived there. Mama, Papa, Tia, and I made numerous trips to the consulate where we were all asked questions and I had to be on my best behavior. We all looked forward to this journey that supposedly was going to take place in the near future. “Well,” I thought, “I will wear my lovely outfit the next time we go to visit the consulate.” I asked Mama if that would be OK, and she nodded her approval. Papa brought out my winter coat and helped me with the buttons. Mama hugged me and finally we left the house for a walk.
It had stopped snowing; it was quiet and peaceful. My father and I ended up on the path along the river, which was not yet completely frozen. I looked across and saw a gold, onion-shaped dome of a church, bathed and glistening in the weak rays of an early winter sunset—it was an exquisite sight. “Papa, is that America on the other side of the river?” I asked. He looked surprised by my question. His answer was a short “No,” and with a smile he added, “I wish it were America.”
When we arrived home after the wonderful walk in my new pink outfit, Papa took me into his study and showed me on the huge globe, which rested on a small table next to his desk, how far away America really was.
©2011, Charlene Schiff (Shulamit Perlmutter). 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.
I Remember
Blowing bubbles in the air Rainbow colors, all so fair.
Nightingales and jasmine’s scent All that love and beauty meant.
I Remember
Rainbow colors, no, no more Guards with rifles by the door.
Star of David on my coat I can’t swim, I can’t float.
I Remember
A haystack in a farmer’s field Used by seven as a shield.
Then only one of us is left, filled with sorrow and bereft.
I Remember
The bottom of a water well. Did someone see me, will they tell?
I’m slipping, clinging to the rounded wall Dear God, don’t let me fall.
I Remember
Being hungry, snow and frost Cold, alone, and very lost.
Why go on with such a life Stalked by terror’s cutting knife?
I Remember
My heart by now an empty shell From all that pain, from all that hell.
It’s such a long and awful war My wounds forever an open sore.
I Remember
Papa’s hug and Mama’s kiss.
Darling Sister I’ll always miss.
Their loving, sweet and gentle faces.
Gaze at me from empty spaces.
They’re gone forever—all is vanished.
And my soul to torment banished.
©2011, Charlene Schiff (Shulamit Perlmutter). 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.
I was in the water up to my neck. The water was cold. We were hiding in the bulrushes and I knew we could not move. It was very quiet and any sound would give us away. Mama gave me some soggy bread. It tasted awful, but she insisted I had to eat it to keep strong. I was tired and wet. The night was dark and dawn came suddenly. In the light of day we saw that many other people from the ghetto had made their way to the river. Shots, which had been sporadic during the night, became more regular now. The Ukrainian guards kept yelling “Come out Jew, I can see you,” and most of the people were doing just that.
Mama kept whispering to me to stay put and not to make any sound. Days passed in confusion. Shots kept coming, seemingly from every direction. It was hard to remain quiet while listening to screams and cries and watching fire and smoke coming from the ghetto.
“When are we going to cross the river, Mama?” I wanted to know. Mama tried to keep me calm and assured me that we could cross the river as soon as the Ukrainians and Germans left. “When will that be?” I asked rather impatiently. After all I was only 11 years old. “Soon, my sweet child, soon,” Mama replied. “At that time we will make our way to the farm of the K. family,” Mama explained.
Farmer K. had promised to hide Mama and me. We knew his family. We used to buy dairy products from them before the war. It was very tiring to stand in the river and at times I dozed off leaning on the bulrushes. One horrible moment I woke up and Mama was nowhere in sight. I was terrified, all alone, lost. I felt betrayed and guilty for falling asleep. I felt like screaming and crying for Mama, but could do neither. By evening, all had become quiet.
I thought Mama had not been able to wake me and had made her way to the farm where she would be waiting for me. I crossed the river and walked until I reached the farmer’s place. He greeted me in the barn like a stranger who was not welcome at all. He would not even let me in the house. I noticed Papa’s gold pocket watch and chain dangling from his dirty coveralls. He told me my Mama was not there. I never saw my mother again.
©2011, Charlene Schiff (Shulamit Perlmutter). 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 annual spring cleaning was in full swing. The windows were open; the carpets were airing on lines outside. People were coming and going, each one busy with a specific chore. The mattresses were being turned over, feather beds aired and stored for next winter, closets emptied and cleaned and the contents replaced or discarded. Mama and her helpers had decided that two rooms were in need of a fresh coat of paint. All of these activities were exciting, and I would have enjoyed staying home to watch, but it was a school day and too late for me to fake a tummy ache.
It was an ordinary day at school. Nothing exceptional took place. I did not have any lunch as I had lost the money that Mama gave me, and so I was quite hungry upon returning home. Mama scolded me for being so careless and went to the kitchen to prepare something more substantial than the milk and cookies we always had upon returning from school.
I was looking around the house—most of the furnishings had been moved from their permanent places. The piano, which had taken up most of one wall in the salon, was moved so that it blocked the entrance to the next room. In front of the piano, on the floor, covered with newspapers, rested a container with paint. It was so tempting, I impulsively reached for the brush and started painting the keyboard. The paint would not stick to the ivory keys, so I smeared several layers to be sure. Mama called from the kitchen to tell me my snack was ready. I went around another door in order to reach the kitchen. Mama noticed the paint on my hands and asked suspiciously, “What were you doing with the paint?” “Oh, nothing, Mama,” I answered. I washed my hands, but the paint would not come off. Mama applied something with a cloth—it had a strong odor, and after scrubbing vigorously, the paint finally came off. Right then and there I realized what I had done was more than just a childish prank.
On the kitchen table there were cookies and milk and an open butter and jam sandwich, but I was not hungry anymore. I worried about the consequences of the impulsive “paint job.” Mama sensed my discomfort. She sat down opposite me at the table and took my hands into hers. “What’s wrong, my sweet child?” she inquired. I was close to tears as I tried to explain. She went with me to the salon, and upon seeing the piano, she uttered the words: “Oh my goodness.”
She did not yell at me. Instead, she tried to explain how difficult it would be to repair the piano. She wanted to know what motivated me to do this mean-spirited deed. I really did not know how to answer—it was an impulsive act. I accepted my culpability, but Mama wanted to know the underlying, deep reason for my action. “I did it to spite Tia,” I said. Tia was beautiful and everything she did was perfect. She was a musical child prodigy and always received accolades when performing. I could never compete with her accomplishments.
When Tia came home and saw what I had done, she was furious. She told me I always insisted how grown up I was. Well, it turned out I was still a baby. “Naughty, naughty,” she added condescendingly. Her words hurt me terribly. I adored my sister and admired her and wanted so desperately to be like her. Obviously, I could never measure up. Calling me a baby when I thought I was so grown up was like a slap in the face. What I had done was stupid and thoughtless. Certainly I deserved her rebuke, but it was difficult to admit that Tia was right.
Papa took me into his study and tried to explain that one must never destroy any kind of property. Jealousy was an ugly trait, and I was talented in different ways than Tia. I had to be punished for this, but he took under consideration the fact that I realized shortly after how serious my transgression was. I had a lot of growing up to do, and I was punished severely—the most important treat, a trip to Lvov with Papa, was taken away. It took a long time and a lot of money to repair the piano. Papa had to bring a specialist from Lvov who spent days at our house working at undoing the damage a foolish little girl had done on a whim. The paint had not stuck to the keyboard, but it had clogged up the works inside.
Papa and Mama never yelled at me. They treated me with dignity but meted out the punishment as expected and deserved. Tia was more verbal and angry, and rightly so. She had to go to her teacher’s to practice. She could not play at home and my parents were denied the pleasure her music provided.
I learned a hard lesson. It was a painful experience for the entire family. More than sixty years later, my heart still beats faster at the sight of a piano. Remorse and guilt have never left me. My parents and sister perished in the Holocaust. There is no one left to hear me say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
©2011, Charlene Schiff (Shulamit Perlmutter). 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.
I brought her home and had a difficult time finding the right place for her. At first, I put her on the couch in the living room. She disturbed me there—she was too prominent. Now she sits on a bunch of pillows in the corner of the living room where she seems comfortable, content, and not demanding.
Forty-nine years after the very first doll, this one greets me every morning when I walk into my living room. Bittersweet memories rush in, even though this is a different doll.
The year was 1939. It was time for the semiannual shopping trip for clothes. Mama usually outfitted my sister and me before Passover and before the High Holidays. I came home from school on a lovely spring day, had some cookies and milk, then we set out to go shopping. Mama told me to put on clean socks as we were going for new shoes as well.
We stopped in one of the shoe stores and after trying on a number of shoes, we selected a pair of lovely light brown shiny shoes. As we walked out of the store, I glanced at the adjacent window display. What an enchanting picture. In the window was a floor-model Singer sewing machine and behind it sat the most beautiful mechanized doll in the world. She sat on a chair, her big blue eyes opened and closed, her blond long hair framed her lovely face in golden ringlets. She wore a pink ruffled blouse with puffed sleeves, and her arms and hands moved back and forth—I stood mesmerized.
Mama watched in amazement. I had never been interested in dolls. I was a tomboy. She looked at me lovingly and said, “You like this doll, don’t you?” “Oh yes, Mama,” I replied. “I’ll get it for you, my sweet child,” she said. She went into the store while I admired the window display. After a few minutes, she came out and said, “This doll is not for sale—I’m so sorry.”
We continued with our shopping. My attention switched to pretty spring outfits, and by the time we returned home, I didn’t think much about the doll. A few days later, Mama told me that she spoke with the manager of the Singer Sewing Machine store and he promised to sell her the doll in a few months when the display would be dismantled. “So you see, I’ll be able to keep my promise to you after all,” Mama said. I went back a number of times to look at the doll, which I already considered mine. For me as a child, summer was relaxing and carefree.
I remember traveling to the consulate once more with Papa, Mama, and my older sister, Tia, and returning again without anything definite regarding our emigration to America. Then came September 1 and World War II. Eastern Poland, including my town, Horochow, became part of the Soviet Union. The Singer Company display disappeared overnight. We had barely adjusted to the Soviet occupation when Hitler broke his agreement with Stalin and invaded eastern Poland. My town was overrun almost immediately. With the arrival of the Germans, all our dreams and expectations for a normal life were shattered. In the first days, the Germans burned all our synagogues, Torahs, and prayer books. They took my father, along with other Jewish leaders, never to be heard from again. The rest of us were herded into a ghetto, where everyone over 14 years of age was ordered to slave labor. I still had my mother and sister, and their love compensated for all the horrible conditions.
When the ghetto was liquidated and I lost them both—that’s when my difficult task of survival started. Somehow I cheated death, which was always one step behind me. By the end of the war, there I was, all alone, a childhood lost, my entire family and friends gone. The burden of my sole survival weighed heavily on my soul. My new life in America became a great challenge. I worked hard to become Americanized. I met a wonderful man whom I married and my married life started with my becoming a military wife.
In 1988, my husband Ed, our son Stephen, and I visited Poland. After a traumatic trip to my home- town, we ended up in Warsaw, in an open market where I spotted a pretty doll. I bought it. She was not to be compared with the beautiful doll from the Singer window display. But she was lovely—a constant reminder of what might have been.
©2011, Charlene Schiff (Shulamit Perlmutter). 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.
