Long Journey Home: A Young Girl's Memoir of Surviving the Holocaust

by Lucy Lipiner

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, in the middle of the teeming humanity, I spotted Tante Bronia and Uncle Beno. I felt proud of myself that I had given the right address to the soldiers because now they were here with us again.

  “Tante Bronia!” I choked on the name. “I’m so happy you are here with us. I thought I would never see you again.” My aunt held me in her arms, lovingly stroking my face.

  “We searched for you all over,” she said. “But everything will be fine now that we are all together.” I don’t recall ever feeling happier than at that moment when I spotted my aunt and uncle at the crowded station.

  The train arrived at last, only this was no ordinary train— brown, wooden boxcars as far as the eye could see. It was the length of the entire station. At the center of each car, heavy, metal sliding doors were simultaneously unbolted by guards with rifles hanging from their shoulders. The clanking sounds were disturbing. The guards began herding us into the cavernous space.

  Within moments, the car we were ushered into with our extended family was filled to capacity. Every inch of space was taken up. My immediate family settled near the door. Leaning out the door, I could see along the entire platform as people struggled to climb into the cars. It was difficult; the opening was high—too high for an average person to reach. The guards propped slanted boards up against the edge of the cars to make a bridge for the old and disabled, helping many of them up into the boxcar.

  There were two windows in the boxcar, one on each side of the door and high up near the ceiling—like high, narrow slits staring out at the world. Propped up under each window hung a wooden board. It looked like a small bunk bed without a mattress, not even a straw mat. If you managed to climb up there, you could see out. It was a bunk bed with a view—the only way to see out during the long journey ahead. Sometimes, Frydzia and I climbed up there—but only for a short stay. It was the most desirable space of all. It was dry and warm, and it was the best place to escape from the people below.

  Almost immediately, everyone tried to carve out space for themselves and their own families. My parents did the same. Some people seemed overcome with exhaustion, oblivious—or simply indifferent—to anything going on around them. Some slept curled up in a fetal position, for there was no way to stretch out.

  Women cradled their cranky and tired children in their arms. The children were allowed to lie down completely stretched out during the long journey. Maybe that was an unspoken rule. Sometimes, very young children stretched their entire bodies on top of their own parents’ legs. Maybe they derived from this an extra bit of security in those terribly insecure times. I slept on Mama’s or Papa’s legs sometimes too. Most adults slept sitting up.

  Some people behaved badly. Almost everyone grew territorial—perhaps normal in crowded places where space is important and where some locations are better than others. Maybe the terrible circumstances brought out the worst in people. Yet those same terrible circumstances also brought out the best. I saw kindness. I saw people sharing food with strangers. I saw strangers comforting other people’s children, even making funny faces to amuse them or singing songs with them.

  Before long, the doors were bolted shut. Again, the sound of steel clanking against steel throughout the whole length of the train was disturbing. I was overcome with fear of that awful sound. I heard the other children crying too. With the doors shut, we could not see out. We also couldn’t see much inside the car. We sat in semidarkness. The two narrow windows high up near the ceiling were like two eyes that shed a little light into the cavernous interior.

  I made myself very small and squeezed between Mama and Papa, all the time envying Frydzia holding Mama so tightly. I needed to hold them all, but I wasn’t big enough to embrace them fully.

  People began to talk. “Where are they taking us? What will they do with us?” No one knew, but everyone could speculate. “If the Soviets don’t like you for political, religious, or social views, I hear they ship you off to Siberia,” said one man, and this view was much discussed and argued. Most people were in agreement on one thing, however—that whatever our final destination, we were never going home again. More than anything in the whole world, I wanted to go home.

  “Please, God,” I prayed, “I will be so good, if only you take us back home.” Sometimes, I closed my eyes very tight and fantasized that the train was turning around and that soon we would be home. Almost immediately, I learned that prayers didn’t always work—maybe sometimes, but not always.

  The train sped on, the wheels rotating faster and faster. It had been many hours since we were taken out of our hut. Naturally, our need to use a toilet had become urgent. The “bathroom” was a huge and deep bucket filled with disinfectant, surrounded by a heavy canvas sheet. It was located in the center of the car, and it smelled terrible from the toxic disinfectant.

  But as uncomfortable as all this was, the uncertainties in our lives and the deprivations created a situation beyond discomfort. We had nothing to eat, and we had nothing to drink for hours, not since we were taken out of our hut. We were locked in, completely shut off from the rest of the world in a dark and claustrophobic environment. We had no way of knowing if or when the train would make a stop, if we would get food or water. We had no contact with our guards or with anyone who could tell us what was happening or what to expect. Where we were going?

  I was only a child, and having my parents there made it a little better. When I cried, they were reassuring; they promised food soon, and I believed it. I clung to them. They gave me the secure feeling I needed. What they and the other adults felt on the long journey is hard to imagine.

  15

  Long Journey East

  Only the guards knew our destination, but they did not communicate with us at all. Locked in our tightly packed containers, we felt the train’s speed. The steady, rocking motion and the sound of the wheels against the rails were strangely soothing. The windows allowed slits of daylight into the darkness of the car, and tiny rays of sunshine peeked through the cracks in the doorframe and along the sides of the car. People were glued to those openings, trying to see out.

  It was hot that June of our deportation. The sun beat down on us. It was stuffy—hardly any air—and people wiped sweat off their faces with crumpled, soiled handkerchiefs.

  In the sweltering heat and confinement of the cattle car, the mood kept changing.

  The sound of loud words exploded like thunder in the sky as people fought over inches of space.

  “This is my spot!”

  “No, it’s not! You don’t own the spot; you don’t own anything.”

  Then there would be a dispirited quiet, and the mood would retreat into silence.

  Most people sat on the floor, tired and resigned to the uncertainties in their lives. Some seemed asleep, rolled into a small, human ball.

  I hated being confined in that tight space. I hated the smell of sweat, hated people sitting too close to me. I felt miserable and confused. A few short months earlier, we were still home. My life was normal then, sheltered from anything resembling this ugly side of life. I wanted to be home again. I believed Mama and Papa could make this happen.

  “Papa, when can we go home? Please, I want to see my friends, I want to go home. Please!” I cried and I nagged, and they always promised—soon.

  “Soon, we will go home, and you’ll play with your friends.”

  And I believed them; their small lies made me feel better. I clung to my parents. I wanted to stay in their arms. This was my way of escaping the imprisonment of my surroundings.

  We had traveled some two or three hours when we felt the train slowing down, the wheels rotating more slowly, the car vibrating less vigorously. Since we couldn’t see out, it was these minute changes that provided a sense of what was happening. We hoped for a train stop. We needed food and water desperately. We wished for some contact with our jailers, which was better than no contact at all.

  Finally, the train came to a stop. Again, we heard the loud an
d disturbing sound of metal doors being unbolted. Then there was food. In front of the opened door stood an enormous metal kettle filled to the top with something resembling a thick soup or porridge. It was ladled out into large, tin cups along with some sticky brown bread. One by one, we were instructed to reach out for the soup near the door. No one could get a double portion, as the tin cups were accounted for—one per “passenger.” We were told to finish the soup and keep the cups for future “meals.” I don’t recall anything tasting as good as the porridge of that day. We ate our dinner to the sound of metal doors being bolted again.

  As the days passed, it became clear we were heading east. We came first into Ukraine, with its rich, fertile soil, lush meadows, and orchards. Some peasants stood near the tracks, holding their farming equipment and waving to us, bidding us, “Good-bye and good riddance.” Jews were not welcome in that part of the world.

  The beautiful countryside could only be seen while sitting up high on the wooden board under the sliver of the narrow window. People fought over that space. It was literally portioned out, with someone always keeping track if others used it too often or stayed up there too long.

  In time, we came into Russia proper, traveling along the great river Volga, the largest river in the European part of Soviet Russia. The doors were unbolted again as we approached the crossing of the river. We were amazed at the enormous expanse of water. It was impossible to see the other bank of the river. Russian people revere this great river. It brings forth powerful emotions. For them, it is mother love, and they call it Volga Matushka in Russian—Mother Volga.

  The guards never disclosed our destination. “When do we eat?” and “Where are you taking us?”—those were the two most frequently asked questions on all our minds. The guards brought us food—not much but enough to keep us from starving. Sometimes, they made jokes as they ladled the soup from the deep bucket. “You’ll eat roast chicken and fried potatoes for supper tonight!” they would say. The Soviet guards did not hate us for being Jewish as the Nazis did back home in Poland, but they made sure we followed orders. We were not allowed to step out of the train when the doors were unbolted at station stops, and they always counted the number of people before bolting the doors shut again.

  As the days became weeks, it grew obvious that we were heading toward Siberia. I have no recollection when we first discovered our true destination. The relationship between the guards and us grew more relaxed. As we reached the enormous forested land of Siberia, the guards no longer feared that we would run away. Where could we run in that vast land?

  16

  End of Journey

  The journey lasted six weeks and ended in Krasnoyarsk, one of the largest Siberian cities. We were ordered to disembark from the cattle train. As we stepped down into the expansive station, I noted the name in huge Cyrillic letters high up near the vaulted ceiling. I have no recollection of getting into a horse-drawn wagon with my family. But I do remember the stillness and the peaceful beauty of the forest, interrupted only by the rhythmic sound of horses’ hooves on the soft, dirt road.

  Days later and many miles to the north, we were dropped off in our new “home,” the Siberian camp that nobody ever escapes from. I glanced around and saw small and large tree-log barracks freshly constructed, probably in great haste to receive us—the new inmates of a vast Siberian territory. Small chunks of downed trees were scattered on the soft ground, while pine needles, sawdust, and wood chips made a cushiony path leading to the entrance of the barracks. I loved the pine trees, thick shrubs, and the flowers that seemed to grow taller than I was.

  I bent down and squeezed my hands through the soft ground cover and brought a handful to my face. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply the scent of my new surroundings. The pungent scent of freshly cut trees was palpable, and the fragrance was intoxicating. The gentle Siberian sun caressed my face. It felt good. I clung to the cart horse; his warmth warmed me too.

  It was July 1940. A few days earlier was my birthday. I had turned seven, but I felt old—as if my soul was old. The ugly barracks—stark, odd, and out of place—would be my home for the rest of my life. How could this be? Only the beauty of the forest surrounding the camp lent some charm to the ugliness of the brand-new construction.

  We were not fenced in. There were no barbed wires, no bars on windows. Yet we were imprisoned as surely as any criminals could ever be. With the exception of a tiny settlement outpost many miles away, there was nothing but wooded wilderness in every direction. There was no point in running; there was nowhere to run, nothing to run to.

  “Previcnete ele podokhnete,” our guards told us—right from the beginning. This rhyming phrase had a simple meaning, although its language was somewhat unpleasant: “You’ll get used to it, or you’ll die.” As they would also explain, “You don’t need guards; nature is your guard.”

  17

  Siberian Summer

  If one were to get used to life in Siberia, summer was probably the best time of the year. But summers were short, lasting only from June through the end of August. During the summer months, the woods were full of edible vegetation—grass that tasted sour and wild onions and wild seeds that grew in abundance. Frequently, we dug out all sorts of roots that grew in the clearing. It was hard labor. All of us searched for edible stuff, even we the little children.

  Best were the mushrooms and berries that grew deep in the forest. We ate the berries raw. But the soup that my mother made from mushrooms and wild onions and seeds remains in the deepest recesses of my consciousness as the most delicious food I have ever eaten. Of course, I have eaten better-tasting food since those long-gone days, but never have I eaten food that satisfied so well.

  There was a downside to picking berries. The forest and the clearing were also home to the largest and most vicious mosquitoes in the world. Only smoke and fire kept them away. They were especially cruel to the children. For me, berry picking represented a personal fight with the mosquitoes. I believed that they were greedy animals unwilling to share the abundance of the forest. My perseverance, however, usually resulted in mosquito stings that swelled my face almost beyond recognition.

  The banks of the river Yenisey were our playground. In the early summer, I enjoyed watching the rushing waters, swollen from melted snows, flooding the grassy shores. It was not unusual to walk on solidly packed snow early in the morning and then find a water hole filled with freezing snowmelt on the route home from school in the afternoon. Frydzia and I learned early on how to navigate these brand-new bodies of water. You walked around them very, very carefully.

  There was a huge boulder that I loved to sit on, from which I could observe the life on the river. I loved to watch tree logs floating down the river and men standing on top of them, holding long wooden poles and gently “steering” the logs away from the shore. Often, I fantasized that I could hold on to a log and float gently away to some distant and mysterious land.

  But most amusing of all were the vibrant birds flying low in search of little ripples in the water that were a sign of fish just below the surface. They all seemed to be traveling in the same direction, all in perfect harmony, a splendid concert in nature that never ceased to amaze me.

  One day, while sitting on top of my favorite rock, dangling my legs and feeling rather happy, one of my sandals fell into the water. With horror and fascination, I watched the river take away my sandal. How could I go home without my sandal? What would Mama say? This was my only pair of sandals and my only pair of summer shoes. Young as I was, I understood that anything lost in Siberia could not be replaced. Instinctively, I reached for the clasp in my hair. What if I lost it? How would my hair stay in place? I used to think about it constantly, almost obsessively. Then I remembered the lost sandal. How would I explain to Mama what had happened? Crying, I ran home, my left foot inside the sandal, my right foot in the wet soil and prickly shrubs. Mama didn’t say much as she stared down at my feet. She just stood there in bewildered silence. I remember to this day
that nothing she had ever said to me sounded as loud as the silence over the lost sandal.

  If summers had their charm, the Siberian winters were harsh beyond anything we had ever experienced before. Quilted outerwear, fur, and animal skins were best for enduring the long and harsh winters. Ordinary boots did not protect feet from frostbite. The best boots, called valenky, were made of heavy, pressed felt, molded and shaped like boots and kept the feet warm. They were housing for the feet.

  But we did not own valenky or animal skins. Only the guards and some native Siberians did. We had to improvise. When I outgrew my only pair of winter shoes, Papa cut open the front parts, separating them from the soles, so I could wrap my open toes in rags and paper. Still, both my feet got frostbitten that first winter. I recall Mama rubbing snow on my bare feet in a desperate effort to restore blood circulation to my toes. I screamed from intense pain as my feet began to defrost.

  Winter lasted nine to ten months of the year. The snow began to fall in September, sometimes for weeks on end. The howling winds blew from the Arctic north, piling snow under our little window, sometimes blocking the heavy wooden door from the outside. It was hard to find food. Nothing grew anymore. Everything was covered in a blanket of snow.

  We depended on the daily bowl of cooked barley or porridge with a heavy layer of fish oil on top. The hot cereal was portioned out in the camp communal kitchen. Frydzia and I loved the cereal but hated the fish oil. Mama was strict about it.

  “You will eat it as served. It’s good for you. It will keep you full and keep hunger away,” she was quick to point out.

  On rare occasions, we were given frozen milk shaped like a brick of ice. Papa would smash it with a large rock, and we chewed the pieces of splintered, frozen milk; it was quite wonderful, a real treat.