Remember Us

by Vic Shayne

  In the early hours of the morning, a number of young men my age ran away from their families, trying to hide. They climbed up into attics, haystacks, and barns, and some ran into the forest. We all considered running and hiding. We strained our minds trying to think of some way out, to find some opening for negotiation or escape.

  After days cooped up in our house with the Bachrach family, a couple of Polish brothers we knew came to me and asked me to go with them; they would hide me. I had known them all my life. They were friends. We went to school together. They told me they were already hiding my cousins Chonyeh and his brother Moishe. But I couldn’t leave my family. They disappeared into the night and I never saw them again. To this day I don’t know what their true intentions were.

  Only in the evening did a few brave souls dare to poke their heads out of a doorway. The streets were emptied of Jews. Shabbos came and went without the familiar voice of Moishe urging the men to shul and the women to light the Shabbos candles. There was no more discussion of Talmud in our shtiebl, and the cold synagogue sat vacant, with no Jewish voices talking to God. We were all now just waiting though we didn’t know for what. All we could do was sit and worry and listen to the sounds of gangs. Then there would be a scream. A girl would be taken from her home and raped repeatedly in front of her family by boys who used to work the fields with me. A protesting father would be beaten to death and then his body would be hacked into pieces with farming tools. The rest of the family could do nothing but watch through their living room windows.

  Next the looting began. Randomly, a Jewish family would be pulled from their home while a mob forced its way inside only to reappear on the street ten minutes later carrying lamps, chairs, silverware, clothing, food, coats, and whatever else they could get their hands on. They tore up the floorboards, feeling certain that beneath them were treasures. Our Polish neighbors thought, as poor as we were, we were hiding fortunes. All Jews were rich, they believed, living over a foundation of gold and jewels, sleeping on mattresses stuffed with money.

  In the middle of the street, Polish men and boys, with women standing by, holding their babies, went into our shtiebl and synagogue for our Torahs and Talmuds. They threw them on the ground, spat on them, set them on fire. Next came the books—thousands of books representing thousands of years of learning, law, philanthropy, and civil teachings went up in a blaze while the criminals shared flasks of vodka and cheered. Their faces, lit up by the blaze, revealed twisted, drooling, savage expressions, begging for more and more violence and an outpouring of hate. They resembled actors playing the role of dybbuks; but theirs was no act.

  What happened to the unfortunate Jews who were thrown out of their houses when looting began? They were beaten to death—mother, father, grandparents, and the children—unrecognizable and left by the burning fire with no one to help them. Inside our houses we cried and trembled.

  And then came the morning.

  While looking out the window of our house, across the street at the Greek Orthodox church, I saw a mob storming in our direction. There were about twenty young men, half drunk, swearing and laughing. Their eyes were inhuman—hollow, without light. Their faces were sooty, sweaty, stale. Hair matted. Their grimy hands were balled into clenched fists and their heaving chests were thrust forward. Many were holding farming instruments—spades, hoes, picks, and axes. Others had pistols and knives tucked into their trousers. Some held shotguns. One carried a rope that dragged and jumped behind him.

  All of us in my house, and the homes of my uncles, aunts, and cousins, were glued to our front windows. As I carefully peeled back Momma’s hand-sewn draperies to peer at the unfolding scene, I saw my own unruly hand vibrating out of control. I was breathing in short gasps and my mouth was dry. I stole a glimpse of my family. We were all terrorized.

  Were they coming for us? Where could we go? Nowhere. Instinctively, I looked at our bolted front door. My little sisters cupped their hands over their ears as Momma held them tight. What would happen to us? The mob stopped in front of our house and looked our way. Instinctively, we withdrew into the shadows. Their agitated feet never stopped moving, their hands slapping their farm tools. They stared at one another. Then they turned, showing us their backs, and descended on the Greek Orthodox church directly across the street. Like a swarm of wasps, savages screaming and still drunk from the night before, they all shoved in through the front door of the church. Then there was silence. We saw nothing. We shifted and looked at one another. We exhaled and swallowed. I could hear my own breathing.

  The silence lasted only a couple of minutes, until the mob exploded outside and the screams and curses once again flooded into every corner of the neighborhood. Two young men pushed their way out of the crowd. They were clutching the priest, our neighbor, by the arms, their fingers digging deep into his biceps as he tried to keep his footing. He was pleading with them to come to their senses as he tried in vain to wrest himself free. He was hit in the face and told to shut up, first with a fist then with a metal object. Next came the others, shoving the priest’s wife, daughter, and son out onto the church grounds. All four of them were pushed against the wall of the Greek Orthodox church. We couldn’t turn our eyes from this terrible scene. The family was taunted with shouts of “Jew lovers!” Then several men at once produced pistols and waved them in their sweaty hands. They pointed their guns point blank at the priest and his family, then fired. Over and over again, they shot these poor people in cold blood. We were sick. Sick. The white walls of the church ran red. How could this have really happened? Did this really happen? To shoot a priest? To shoot his little children and his wife? The Bachrachs held their heads in their hands and stared at the floor in shock. Our hearts were beating in our throats. Our faces and heads were throbbing and our stomachs turned inside-out. Our eyes were lying to us. What kind of madness was this? The priest? Even one of their own?

  Now even more than ever, there was nowhere to run. Our future—our fate—was not in our hands. The entire day passed in stunned silence. The priest’s face, twisted in terror, straining to understand, trying to use reason in the face of madness, was all I could see when I closed my eyes. The blood, the red blood of these innocent people, was left splattered onto the bright white walls of the Greek Orthodox church, turning purple-black as the day wore on.

  When night fell once again in Maitchet, we could not see a thing. We could hear screams, shouts, and drunken rage. A weapon fired here; a glass shattered there. A young girl’s shrieks of terror. Silence, then a rush of noise. Shouting, boots running through gardens. A door kicked in, rocks crashing through windows, another series of faint screams.

  Hunger was eating away at us. We were to meet our fate either way, murder or starvation. We had not eaten in days. Our food had run out. The men huddled together while Momma, Peshia, Elka, and Shmulek’s mother whispered in quiet conversation in the kitchen. Hours passed in the darkness. Then at around midnight came a very quiet knock on the door. Our hearts began to race. Who could be out at this hour?

  My father strained to look out the window at the front door. We all stood up as he slowly opened the door. A young girl pushed her way in. She was nervous and spoke so softly that we couldn’t hear what she was saying. In her arms was a basket covered by a blanket. When she pushed her scarf off her head we could see the girl was Tamara Ulashik. Nervous and breathing heavily, without saying but a word or two, Tamara came in and gave us the basket. In it was a gift of food—bread, butter, some cheese, and some meat. We were in disbelief. Tamara had risked her life to feed us. Waiting until dark, she left her house and headed for the fields, then walked completely around the edge of town, through backyards and over fences to get to our house without being seen. She made nothing of her act of kindness. Her eyes scanned our house as if she was making sure we were all okay. She was worried about us. She was frightened. When her basket was emptied, she looked out the front window, saw that the street was clear, then slipped out through the door and disappeared into t
he darkness. Tamara Ulashik tried to save us—to keep us from starving. Each time we would run low on food, Tamara would steal out into the night and bring us enough to live on.

  To me, Tamara Ulashik was the Moshiach, at least in this moment. To this day, I wish that I could find her and thank her for her courage and human kindness. In Yad Vashem, the Holocaust memorial in Israel, there is a term reserved for such people as Tamara—the Righteous Among the Nations—Christians who practiced the true spirit of their teachings and became Messiahs in their own right. They were saviors who reached out to their fellow human beings because they never lost a sense of morality, dignity, or compassion. Selfless acts of humanity were in short supply, but those of us who survived will forever remember them. I remember our angel, Tamara Ulashik. After the war I had her name listed as one of the Righteous Among the Nations in Yad Vashem.

  Left to right: Aunt Frieda, Elka, Momma, myself, Papa, Peshia, and Uncle Yossel, in front of our home in Maitchet.

  My parents’ wedding photo. Left to right: Momma’s parents, Eliyahu and Sheyna Bielous, Momma, Papa, and Papa’s parents, Shifra and Avraham Shmulevicz.

  Momma’s family in Morozovichi by the lake where my grandfather, Eliyahu, had his flour mill.

  My father’s parents, Bubbie and Zayde.

  Momma’s parents, Sheyna and Eliyahu Bielous, at home in Morozovichi.

  This is my old synagogue, the Kalte Shul, where I became a bar mitzvah. I spent almost every Shabbos here praying alongside Zayde and Papa.

  Greek Orthodox Church. This side faced my house. Our friends, the priest and his family, were shot against the wall next to the tree on the far right.

  Jewish homes across from the marketplace in Maitchet. Far left: Drug store owned by the Dvorzesky family. To the right was the town bakery (not pictured). Photo courtesy of Myrna Siegel.

  Large gathering of family for my uncle’s (cousin Chanyeh’s and Moishe’s father’s) wedding. Everyone pictured here was murdered in the summer of 1942.

  My parents, Esther and Shlomo Chaim Shmulevicz, at home in Maitchet.

  Left to right: Peshia, Momma, Elka, and I in front of our pine forest in Maitchet.

  My parents, Esther and Shlomo Chaim Shmulevicz, with me between them.

  Aunt Frieda standing with me and my sisters in front of our house.

  Cousin Chonyeh, who I met up with at the Glatki farm in 1942.

  Momma.

  Uncle Harry Berman at home in New York with his family.

  This is my rendering of “Freedom.” We would enviously watch the birds come and go over Mauthausen concentration camp. I drew this while imagining the American soldiers cutting the fence so that I could become one of the birds.

  These photographs were taken in Mauthausen concentration camp, May 1945, by Captain Elmore Fabrick, who wrote, “Conditions that existed when we arrived . . .” If not for our American liberators, I would have been counted among my poor friends, the skeletons and decaying human beings.

  Jim Curry (right) and his close firend, David Lesher, 65th Infantry Division, U.S. Army, before shipping off to Europe, World War II.

  Me in the displaced persons camp, Cinecitta (Rome), Italy, after the war, 1947.

  Anzio, Italy. Holocaust survivors and members of the Jewish Brigade, ready to leave for Palestine, 1947.

  I’m on a Jewish Brigade army truck, Rome, shaking hands with friend, David Rosenbaum, fellow survivor.

  Memorial site at the edge of the forest in Maitchet, in Hebrew and Polish, marking the mass grave in which 3,600 people, including my family, were murdered and buried.

  My friend and liberator of Mauthausen concentration camp, police officer Jim Curry, near Central Park, New York.

  The Silberklang family in New York. Left to right: Baruch, Rywka, David, Melvin, and Aunt Frieda. David, pictured here as a boy, grew up to become a professor, worldwide lecturer, and leading expert on Holocaust historical studies at Yad Vashem in Jerusalem.

  Wedding photo: Doris and I, 1951, New York.

  My children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren in Colorado, September 2007. Left to right, seated: Bill, Vance, Samantha, Julien, Miriam, Ezra, myself, and Doris. Standing: Jenniffer, John, Jacob, Jaden, and Jennifer. Not pictured is our great grandson, Grayson Andrew.

  Visiting my great friend, WWII veteran Jim Curry, at Jim and Jeanette Curry’s home in Long Island.

  I am standing at the Old Wall in Jerusalem fulfilling the dream of my people, “Next year in Jerusalem!”

  Me, Martin Small, age ninety-one, sitting at home in Colorado in my basement office, surrounded by my Holocaust research, photo albums, books, awards, and memories.

  And Then We Were Slaves

  Lost in the madness of Maitchet, we had no idea that all of Poland, right up to the Soviet border, was going through the same terrifying experience. Every shtetl was in chaos and suffering from mob rule. Somewhere in this dark hour is when the first of millions were buried. Possessions were being buried all over Eastern Europe. Into the ground and under floorboards went photographs, jewelry, a small bag of coins, a Torah, and candlesticks. Shabbos tablecloths handed down from mother to daughter to granddaughter were folded tightly, stuffed into a box, and buried in the yard with wedding rings, deeds, books, and papers. So many things were buried; most lost forever, with their owners buried elsewhere without nearly as much devotion, contemplation, or sacredness. The first into the ground were our things, returned to earth, given back to God for safekeeping with the hope of recovery in brighter days to come, days that never came, days that the world seems to want to forget. Days full of events that now, without ever having been there to witness these events, many are saying never happened.

  The Germans had diligently converted our bigger towns into holding centers and ghettos. Warsaw, Minsk, Bialystok, Radom, Lublin, Kielce, Lodz, Krakow, and other towns were now homes to hundreds of thousands of homeless, helpless, exhausted, confused, beaten, and starving Jews. The Nazis turned beautiful, culturally-rich, and teeming towns into filthy, disease-ridden ghettos. With small armies of forced labor, they walled off sections of cities to create internment camps where people starved to death without food or water; no way out and no way back in. The Germans had plenty of Polish helpers to enforce their new law, as well as to rout out Jews in hiding. We were a bleak, occupied country with most of those occupied doing the bidding of the aggressors.

  All the while, every day and night, we heard shelling and bombing and planes flying overhead, with the German army pressing on. A war was going on but we had no details, no information. Radios and telephones were forbidden to us. We sat alone with our fears. We only knew that the Germans had driven the Soviets out and to the east and that the Nazis were ruthless and murderous.

  Baranowicze was converted by the Nazis to a processing center, thousands of Jews were brought from neighboring areas and forced into a new Jewish district that was walled off and gated. Behind this wall of wire, thousands of Jews were imprisoned while the Nazis carried out well-planned programs that decided their fate.

  I stood at the wooden counter in my mother’s kitchen looking for something to eat. There was a slight chill in the air. I rubbed my arms with my hands. There was no fire burning anywhere in the house. My entire family was in the living room, along with some guests, huddled together waiting. Once in a while, my father would stand up and look out the window then go back to the sofa beside my mother. It was the middle of the day. Nobody was working. My stomach growled. I was growing hungrier by the moment. What was I looking for in the cupboard? Anything. I stood staring at an empty plate, my thoughts drifting far away. It was too quiet. I looked out the window. The street was deserted. I turned around and sat down on a chair and crossed my legs. This kitchen that I helped my father build was, for once, quiet. It was a foreign feeling. No pots and pans and baking dishes were clanging. The laughter was gone. The stoves were cold to the touch. It was deathly quiet. Then I heard a boom coming from the living room. What was that? It sounded like
a log smashing into the front door. It jolted me. Everyone in the living room had jumped in shock.

  Boom, boom, boom! Fists were pounding on the door and a young, familiar voice was shouting. Demanding. Open this door! Open or I’ll smash it in. I ran to the door. Everyone was wide-eyed. My father stood with his fists clenched at his sides as I opened our door. In front of me stood my boyhood friend, Stach Lango. His seething expression, his twisted mouth, and sick gaze belonged to somebody else. What happened to him? He pointed a pistol to my face, grabbed me by the collar, and said, “If you fight me, I’ll shoot your mother, your father, and your two sisters right in front of you.” Stach pulled me by the shoulder and yanked me out of my house. My family watched on helplessly as I was dragged into the empty street and pushed all the way to the police station and into a room with a wooden table in the center and a glowing fireplace by the wall.

  A small stack of wood and some iron pokers leaned against the dirty, paint-peeling wall. Once inside, still with a pistol pointed at my head, I was forced to undress. Hurry up, goddammit, Jew! Then Stach tied me to a table in the middle of the room. I couldn’t move. My wrists were tearing from the ropes. My eyes followed him as he tucked his gun inside his waistband. He picked up one of the iron pokers and angrily shoved the end of it into the embers. He knew I was watching and relished his power over me. The iron grew hotter and hotter until the tip of it pulsated in red and white. “I’m going to kill you, Jew,” he said. His voice was monstrous. He brought the iron toward me and I could hardly bear the heat even from several inches away. Smoke was rising from the glowing tip.