We all listened carefully. There was no question; the wind carried the sound of gunfire.
"That's not only gunfire-there are explosions. Grenades! Mortars! It sounds like a battle," Solomon speculated.
Suddenly Solomon voiced it; the same conclusion I had come to seconds earlier, "Dear God, that's the direction of the family camp!"
We came to our feet and started running and stumbling through the thick underbrush. We ran several minutes, the trees and scrub tearing at our clothes, scratching our skin. We tripped, fell, got up and ran further in the direction of the camp. Finally, we were stopped by a small cliff we would have to climb and our exhaustion caught up to us.
Our breathing was labored. I could hear nothing over the pulsing of my blood. We slipped silently to the ground as we tried to get our breath back.
"This is insane," I eventually found the strength to say, between panting. "We'll never-get back this way... We-must use our heads. We're wasting-too much energy. A deliberate, forced march will get us there quicker." Breathing was painful. "We must pull ourselves together."
"I don't hear-the sound any longer. Do you think-oh my-I can't get my breath! Do you think we-just imagined it?" Solomon asked.
"Not unless 'we' were sharing the same nightmare." Father Peter said. We lay silently a minute, strength returning now. Father Peter continued his opinion, "Perhaps when we get to the top of this ridge. It'll protect us from the wind. It might carry the sound over our heads."
We climbed the steep but short incline and at the top carefully listened...
"Silence," I whispered with some relief.
"I don't hear it either," Father Peter agreed. "All right, with a steady and forced pace we ought to make it back in about two hours, maybe one and a half. Running through this terrain will only slow us down-and we risk injury. Let's be rational. And when we get near the camp, let's use caution. If there's trouble back there, we'll be unable to help anyone if we just blunder into the same situation."
77
Why Me...
It took only one hour and forty minutes to get back to the family camp. When we reached familiar territory we slowed our pace, using extreme caution. The sounds of battle had no longer been heard since the time we first heard them almost two hours ago. We felt some cautious relief.
At half a kilometer from the camp we stopped. We remained hidden from anyone who might happen by and listened.
Silence.
The wind, though mild-more a light breeze-still came from the direction of the camp.
"We should be able to hear some sounds from the camp at this distance," Sol whispered.
"I agree. I smell smoke on the breeze-and gunpowder!" I said.
"Yes, I smell it too. I'm afraid to think about what it means. God, I wish we could hear something!" Solomon said with concern in his voice.
"We should hear something!" Father Peter repeated. "Either our people or the enemy. Do you suppose they've all been captured and taken off?"
"Let's go in and see," I said. "Careful, they may have posted guards or snipers."
"Let's separate, just in case; no point in all of us getting caught." Solomon added.
"You're right, Solomon. You go left-I'll go around to the right. Dov go straight ahead-carefully!"
As I crouched and creeped the last half-kilometer toward the camp, I listened for any sound that would betray some form of life in the area. Even the forest animals were still. I constantly looked about and up into the trees, wary of ambush. When I'd worked my way to about thirty meters from where the first dugouts of the family camp were, I stopped and raised my head above the low shrubs.
"Oh, dear God, no!" I stood up, grief expelling caution. Where I had expected to see the first of the dugout huts I saw it collapsed into a crater, smoke rising from its smoldering timbers. I walked forward, not caring for my safety anymore. Not a single hut was left standing. Smoke filtered up through the trees, carried on the mild breeze into the direction from which we'd come. It lay on the ground in places like a early morning haze, giving an eerie, mystical, unreal look to the destruction. "Am I dreaming? Please, God, let it be a bad dream!"
Suddenly I saw someone walking toward me through the smoke. I was about to drop back into cover of the shrubs when I recognized Father Peter. He recognized me and called out loudly, "Come in, Solomon! Come in, there's no one here; just Dov and me."
Sol came in and to Father Peter's side. There was not a building standing, not a body in sight, not a single person to be seen. Small trees were uprooted, broken off at their trunks by what must have been explosions. The larger trees were badly scarred by shrapnel and bullets. "Whatever happened here was devastating. But there are no dead. Not ours, not theirs. What do you make of it?" I asked.
Sol was white with trepidation. "Only one thing-they found the camp. They must have surrounded the area and surprised us before we could make a move. They must have rounded everyone up-taken them prisoners-then just destroyed the camp so it could never be used again."
"That makes sense. Or maybe we had warning. Maybe there was time to get away into the woods and they destroyed an empty camp - maybe?" Father Peter hopefully speculated.
Sol replied, "I'd like to believe that. But we have to assume the other. We must try to stop them. They'll have to move slowly with so many prisoners. If they get them out of the forest, they'll execute them all, either at Babi Yar or, more likely at a public execution in Kiev. God, what can we do?"
"I don't know. Do we have time to contact Diadia? We need help!" I interjected.
"We have to think, fast," Sol said. The problem was overwhelming. "Maybe we can find a radio intact in the rubble of the main hut. It would be too lucky, but let's look."
Together we started to walk through the area, kicking over large planks and rubble that might be hiding something we could use. When we reached the spot where the radio shack had been, we came to a sudden stop.
"Oh, tell me I don't see it," I said, all hope leaving me.
Solomon was silent. He couldn't move. His heart beat furiously in his chest. His throat went dry. Nausea and a cold sweat swept his body. His mouth opened as if to cry out, but no sound came forth. He put his hand over his eyes.
"We have to check. We have to look." Then Father Peter, too, was overcome. "Oh, dear God in Heaven, don't let it be..."
Gathering our courage, we walked to a large area of fresh-turned soil. It was about ten meters by about fifteen meters. There was fresh dirt scattered all around its edges and the black earth mounded gently toward the center. "How could they have dug such a large pit?" Father Peter asked. "They couldn't have had much time."
"They had our people dig it themselves. It can't be very deep."
"Solomon, we have to be sure. You know what we have to do. Solomon, we have to check!" I said.
"I know. Oh please, Rachel, don't be there."
Slowly-filled with dread-we approached the turned earth. At its edge we dropped to our knees and with our bare hands began to dig in the cool, soft, loose dirt. We'd not dug more than a few inches when Solomon felt a hand. Withdrawing his own, he beat at his chest and cried out. "They're all in there, God, aren't they? All but me!
"Why?
"Why me?
"Why not me?"
78
Insatiable Fury...
The disaster was too huge to fathom.
There was nothing to do but return to the camp of Diadia Misha.
As we made our stunned way back through the forest, Solomon's pain was almost more than he could bear.
By the time we arrived at the camp, the group already knew of the disaster. The Germans wasted no time in broadcasting their triumph over the radio. They described the action in full detail and boasted that every man, woman and child at the "Partisan Camp" had been killed. The only fact omitted from the broadcast was that the great majority of the group was Jewish.
* * *
Solomon kept his grief to himself.
Outwardly, he dis
played hate and confusion. He again insisted on going out on almost every mission. His new comrades could not decide whether he was determined to kill every German in the Ukraine or was seeking death himself. In any case, he became a fighter with an insatiable fury. No action was too dangerous. The greater the odds against him, the more eager he was to go on the mission. Any Nazi or anyone collaborating with the Nazis was marked for death in Solomon's mind. Some of his friends hesitated to volunteer for missions with him, feeling his eagerness for revenge might jeopardize the safety of others in the operation.
But Solomon always returned; never as much as received an injury. In time, the others realized he had no intention of throwing his own or anyone else's life away. In conversation one evening, he replied to a comment with, "I cannot kill the enemy if I'm dead. I have every intention of going on living until there are no more of those bastards left to kill!"
By the end of the summer, it became quite clear that the days of the German occupation of the Ukraine were numbered. The resistance started to make plans of how to reach the advancing Russians and join forces with them against the Germans on the front lines.
79
Dimitri...
Ivan learned quickly.
He became an expert in survival.
Anyone less than an expert was dead in a week. Two things were necessary to cheat death at Babi Yar-expertise and luck. On the average, twenty percent of the prisoners at Babi Yar camp died daily. Some died from exhaustion, some from disease and some from being shot for minor infractions. Others were just murdered at the whim of von Radomsky or other camp personnel. Even the Kapos-prisoners used by the Germans to keep order in the camp-held the power of life and death over their fellow prisoners. In fact, many of the Kapos were more brutal than some of the German guards. They were certainly hated more by the other prisoners than the German guards were.
Camp commander Paul von Radomsky had a favorite game, which contributed significantly to the mortality of the prisoners-and to the morale of his soldiers. He would walk among the inmates after the daily evening roll call-up and down the rows. He had his daily lucky number, as he liked to call it. Some days the number was chosen at random; other days it was determined purposely low so more prisoners would be selected to compensate for overcrowding in the camp. It was just another efficient way to reduce the number of prisoners - and entertain the guards. If the attrition rate of the inmates did not keep up with the number coming into the camp, the lucky number would be a low figure. After each day's roll call in the late afternoon, von Radomsky would drive up in his car, his interpreter in the back and his trusted dog in front. He would get the evening count from the officer in charge. He'd make a quick mental calculation, then announce for all to hear, "Today's lucky number is eight!"
Then he would casually get out of his car, dog and interpreter following. He'd walk to the first row of prisoners, to a random spot. Unholstering his Luger pistol, he would start down the line of men counting, "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven..." and the next man would be shot.
Without even breaking stride he would continue up and down the rows-counting and killing-counting and killing-every eighth man-counting and killing. He used two pistols for this game. When one was empty, he'd hand it back to the interpreter who would reload as they walked. This went on until they became bored. Then, so as not to stop anticlimactically, the next unfortunate "winner" of the lucky number was told, "Run! Run or be shot!"
Not all ran, but most did. With an inaudible command, the Alsatian would pursue the terrified victim and bring him down, clamping his genitals between powerful jaws. The downed runner would scream horribly, producing cheers and laughter from most of the camp personnel. It was the highlight of their otherwise tedious day.
If the dog didn't finish the victim off, which was rare, he would usually be taken to the ravine and left to die. Fortunately, death was far more merciful than the Germans and usually came quickly.
But even with all the daytime help death had from the Germans, many inmates died during the night. They fell, exhausted and weak, sick and starving onto their lice-infested straw at night and were found there, dead, in the morning.
For morning roll call, the dead were taken out by those who had shared the huts with them and were laid on the ground, in ranks, to be counted with the living. Or were the living counted with the dead? Each morning, after roll call, the daily meal was given. It consisted of weak, muddy brown liquid cynically called coffee and dry bread made of potato peels and sawdust. A few days of this diet followed by sixteen hours of hard labor led to death for most of those not skilled in the art of survival.
Ivan made a point of associating himself with those who had lived the longest in the camp. There were some who had actually survived for months. It was from these, Ivan reasoned, he would learn what he'd need to know.
The morning after he arrived at Babi Yar, after the first meal, Ivan asked a man who looked better nourished than the others, "How have you kept from starving? No one can stay alive on this. You've been here weeks and you look as well fed as anyone here."
He looked at Ivan disdainfully. Ivan wondered if he was going to answer. Then he said coldly, "Are you willing to eat rats, cats, mice and other vermin?"
Ivan didn't even hesitate, "If that's what it takes to stay alive-but how do you get them?"
The man's expression changed, warmed. He smiled. "I don't know why I should show you-but I like you. You've got guts. Maybe someday you'll be able to help me. You're the one they call Ivan?"
Ivan nodded.
"Me, they call me Dimitri. Stay with me, it's the only way I know to get enough food to keep going."
After the brief feeding period of the day and before the work of the day was begun, the inmates were made to police the grounds.
"Stay near me, Ivan," Dimitri said in almost a whisper. We'll police the area nearest the fence. Remember that there are 22.000 volts in this fence. Don't touch it, but collect all the rats, mice, weasels, rabbits and other animals that have. In twenty four hours, a lot of creatures meet death on those wires. Carry a stick to pull them away from the bottom of the fence and put the animals in your clothes. When they try to go under the bottom wire, they ground it and poof, our meal!"
Ivan was surprised to see how many of the survivors were doing the same thing. Mostly, the fence held dead rats, mice and occasionally squirrels. The prized larger animals were rare.
"Keep what you can scavenge until lockup tonight. It is up to you how you prepare it for eating. They can be cooked on the wood stove in the huts. If you are at a job where there is fire, you might even be able to eat them during the day, but that is a little risky. Some German might think that an infraction and shoot you on the spot. Most of them get a laugh out of watching us eat vermin, though."
80
Work Details...
Ivan was assigned to a variety of jobs. Almost every day, he would be sent out on a different work crew. There seemed no pattern or logic to the way jobs were distributed. Some prisoners were sent to the same workday in and day out, while others never did the same job two days in a row. Ivan was glad he did different work each new day for two reasons. If Sosha was still alive-and he made himself believe she was-he'd have a better chance of maybe seeing her if he was moved around a lot. The more different places he was sent, the better the chance to find an opportunity to escape.
On his first day, Ivan was taken on a work detail dismantling some old Russian barracks. Each board was salvaged, each nail withdrawn, straightened and placed in containers according to size. The second day, he was assigned to cut down trees and dig out roots. Any tree in the vicinity of the camp that offered cover to a potential enemy or escapee was removed. For this, they had to go outside barbed wires and they went under heavy guard. They were told that any escape attempt, even by one individual, would get everybody in the party shot on the spot. He went back to dismantling barracks on his third day. On the fourth, he was put to work as a beast of burden. He
and several others were harnessed to a heavy wagon and all day they pulled that wagon around the camp while other prisoners loaded it with trash, sewage, garbage and other refuse.
There were other jobs, but Ivan was never assigned to those. There were jobs from which prisoners never returned. Those who were taken to work on secret projects at one end of Babi Yar never returned. Once there, they would know too much of what was going on. They were kept at the project until their usefulness was exhausted; then they were shot, only to be replaced by others who knew they would never return.
Even with this security, information had a way of filtering back. Before long everyone in camp knew that the project was construction of a factory-a factory that would make industrial soap of human corpses.
The worst part of Ivan's jobs was that they used only his body, leaving his mind to think-to worry about Sosha and his son, his daughter in law, his grandchildren. There was still so much he wanted to tell them, do for them, to enjoy them. How was the war treating them? There had been no communication since the occupation. Had they been able to stay safely out of occupied territories? How he wished he could see them, if only once more. The only hope of that would have to include escape. It was, he knew, the only way out of Babi Yar alive.
But most of the time he thought of Sosha. My God, how I wish I could be with her-even if she... He couldn't think it. She has to be alive. God, please let her be alive. Is she eating vermin to survive? Does she know how to live in the face of this horror? I'd like to kill every Nazi in this mad world. How can anyone condone this inhumanity? She's strong. She'll survive. She's smart. She's alive. I know it. She'll live. I'll find a way...
* * *
For Ivan and ninety nine other prisoners, all this ended on August 14, 1943. This group was selected for the most inhuman job any person could possibly devise-and the Germans devised it.
The Remnant - Stories of the Jewish Resistance in WWII (Boomer Book Series) Page 26
