by Gerald Green
But of course the Nazis returned, and in greater force—as always shoving their Ukrainian and Baltic lackeys in front of them—but now taking cover behind tanks, no longer marching in the middle of the street, no longer singing martial airs and assuming the Jews would surrender at the sight of a German soldier.
In the apartment, at dusk, Moses and his group could hear the family reading the Passover service.
“‘When Moses was grown he one day came on an Egyptian smiting a Hebrew, and he smote the Egyptian. Moses fled from the face of Pharoah and dwelt in the land of Midian …’”
When a young boy at the table asked, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” Zalman and Moses could not help smiling. Yes, it was different. Unlike any Passover in the history of the Jewish people.
“‘And it is written,’” the old man in the rear room read, in Hebrew, “‘we cried unto the Lord the God of our Fathers and the Lord heard our voice and saw our affliction and our toil and our oppression …’”
For a moment they all listened. Then Moses said, “Let’s join with him.”
And they all recited together:
“‘And the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand, and with an outstretched arm, and with great terror and with signs and wonders.’”
Soon their position became untenable. Tanks and artillery entered the ghetto. Mortars began to lob shells to the upper floors and the roofs, from which the firing originated.
Moses ordered the family to end their seder. God would understand. They had to get out. A mortar shell had exploded on the roof. The woman took the sacred books, the matzoh, the plates, the wine cups. The others followed her.
A second mortar shell exploded against the side of the building. Zalman suffered a wound in his left arm from a chunk of masonry.
“We can’t hold here,” Moses said. “They have too much power below us. Everyone grab weapons, ammunition, and down to the tunnels.”
Ten minutes later, following Aaron, who knew the tunnels the way the rats knew them, they emerged into another apartment.
This apartment overlooked Mila and Zamenhofa Streets, and the buildings around it had excellent firing positions. There was at least one machine gun, and a number of hidden soldiers, armed with Molotov cocktails, grenades, and automatic rifles.
Moses and his party had the joy of seeing the first German tank that rumbled into the intersection turned into an inferno by the Molotov cocktails. The crew was burned alive. Two other tanks pulled back. Germans took cover behind them, waiting, wondering.
“They’re pulling out again,” Moses said.
“It’s the crossfire,” Zalman said. He was still firing, using one arm, as Eva bandaged his wound.
Someone unfurled another Zionist flag and hung it from the window.
“Good,” Moses said. “Let the bastards see it. Let them know who we are.”
Another German retreat was underway.
“How does it feel, Zalman?” Moses asked.
“My arm’s fine.”
“No. Watching these sons-of-bitches run.”
“Better than anything. Weiss, we have smitten the Philistines hip and thigh.”
The fighting went on for twenty days. Von Stroop, weary of his underlings failures, took personal command. For two days, with my uncle and his friends, in the thick of it, the resistance held the position in Muranowski Square. Here, Von Stroop first brought in anti-aircraft artillery, with the aim of reducing every point of resistance, building by building.
I must note that in this battle, a party of six Polish Christians, led by a man named Iwanski, entered the ghetto and joined in the fight against the Germans. They brought a new supply of arms. Four of them died fighting side by side with the Jews. These are the kind of people for whom some special memorial is needed; some tribute.
On April 23, the Jews were still fighting from scattered bunkers around the city. Himmler, furious that the world knew about the Jews’ resistance, sent Von Stroop an angry telegram:
“The round-ups in the Warsaw ghetto must be carried out with relentless determination and in as ruthless a manner as possible. The tougher the attack, the better. Recent events show just how dangerous these Jews really are.”
I am no psychologist, but my wife has studied a great deal of it. She says Himmler was a coward deep down, afraid of the weak, fearful of humiliation, exposure. After ordering the murder of millions of unarmed, helpless innocents, he now quailed before several hundred armed Jews.
On the very day Himmler sent the message to his generals, Anelevitz addressed a statement to contacts in the “Aryan” sector, in a last hope that they would enter the battle.
“The Jews in the ghetto are defending themselves at last and their vengeance has taken a positive form. I bear witness to the superb and heroic battle being fought by the Jewish insurgents….”
Slowly, the bunkers were being reduced. Night fighting became the general rule. The Germans hesitated to enter during the day. Instead they bombed from the air, lobbed artillery shells in, started huge fires. A systematic siege of the ghetto began. The resistance knew that its days were numbered. The Germans were engaged in a military campaign.
In one of the more disgusting aspects of the entire battle, Polish civilians stood around the gate outside the ghetto and cheered and applauded as Jewish men and women, burning, roasted alive in the buildings, leaped to their death.
“Another one!” they would shriek.
“And another!”
But the courageous Iwanski, the Polish army officer, came back again to fight with the Jews. His brother was killed and his son seriously wounded. Few knew about him. If many Poles abandoned us, laughed as we died, there was at least an Iwanski to uphold some honor.
By May 8, the resistance had dwindled to a handful of bunkers, from which firing could be heard. Tunnels had been explored for secret escape routes. There were few left. The Germans had also explored the underground passages and blocked many of them.
In the bunker at 18 Mila Street, Anelevitz spoke to his commanders by telephone. He begged them to hold on, to wait for aid from the outside. New appeals were being made to the Poles. Surrender was out of the question.
On Max Lowy’s old printing press—Lowy had long been deported to Auschwitz with my father—a final appeal was run off.
Their guns empty of ammunition, Moses, Zalman and others rested against the damp walls of the bunker.
“How many days, Zalman?”
“We started on April 19. It’s the ninth of May. Twenty days, and they haven’t beaten us yet.”
My uncle said, “We never gave Hitler his birthday present.”
“We did. But not the one he wanted.”
Anelevitz took the fresh sheet of paper from Eva Lubin’s ink-stained hands, and began to read:
“‘Thousands of our women and children are being burned alive in the houses. People enveloped in flames leap like torches from windows. But we fight on. It is a struggle for your and our freedom. We will avenge Auschwitz, Treblinka, Belzec and Maidanek. Long live freedom. Death to the murderous and criminal occupants. Long live the life and death struggle against the German barbarian.’”
A young ghetto fighter, dressed in a captured German uniform, stepped forward. Anelevitz gave him the leaflets. “See if you can get through with these. Good luck.”
Eva looked sadly at the printing press. “The last of our paper,” she said.
But the SS had scouted the area. Every possible exit from the bunker, every sewer, cellar door, aperture was being guarded.
The young man carrying the leaflets emerged from a rubble-covered cellar door, and was shot dead by two SS men.
Inside the bunker the others waited. “I have never been a very brave man,” Uncle Moses said.
“Nor I,” Zalman added.
Eva smiled at them. “You are brave enough.”
“But I learned something,” Moses said. “We all have to die, so why not make it worthwhile?”
Above them, they could hear voices now, the rumble of a truck, orders being shouted.
Suddenly an acrid, choking odor began to seep into the bunker.
“Some kind of gas,” Moses said. “Everyone cover your faces … use wet cloth.”
Eva recalls mothers huddling with their children. There was a lot of weeping now. An old man began to pray.
Anelevitz stood up. “It’s over,” he said calmly.
Zalman came to his side. “The pills?”
“Not enough for everyone.”
“Maybe some want to leave, take their chances outside.”
Anelevitz nodded. “They are free to do so.”
People were coughing. In addition, artillery shells were pounding the heavy walls above the bunker. The long narrow room shivered. The end was close.
Uncle Moses walked to a group of people. “Whoever wishes to leave … I will take them.”
“And I will take others,” Eva Lubin said.
Aaron and some others chose to follow Moses to one escape route. Eva would look for another—an old, disused sewer that led beyond the walls.
Moses embraced Zalman and Anelevitz. “Goodbye, my friends.”
Zalman shook my uncle’s hand. “Goodbye, Weiss. We really didn’t get to know each other too well.”
“Next time, Zalman.”
“Of course.”
Someone began to sing the songs of the ghetto. Then they sang Hatikvah, the Zionist hymn.
A column formed behind Moses, another behind Eva.
“I have the right name,” my uncle said, “but I am afraid I can lead you to no promised land. Stay in line. Aaron, you bring up the rear. Let us proceed with dignity and courage.”
He walked off. Eva went the other way.
The SS were waiting for them. Perhaps you have seen that famous photograph—the haggard, unarmed Jews, rising from a hole in the rubble, as those grinning soldiers watch, rifles leveled at them.
In the bunker below, Anelevitz and many others chose to take their own lives, like the heroes of Masada.
“You will not be harmed,” a German lieutenant said. “This is only for a search and then registration. All of you face the wall, hands high.”
They turned, Moses, Aaron, all his friends of the resistance.
“Come, children,” Uncle Moses said. “Let us all hold hands and pray. Will someone start it, please? I’m a bit rusty.”
He took Aaron Feldman’s hand on one side, an old woman’s on the other. The old bearded man who had presided at the seder twenty days ago began the Shema.
“Shema Isroel Adonai Elohenu, Adonai Ehud …”
They kept praying, reaffirming their faith, until the guns opened fire. All died.
Eva Lubin’s party had better luck. For thirty hours they wandered through the sewers of Warsaw. One morning, they heard an explosion above, saw daylight, and emerged on the outskirts of the city.
Contact had been made with a group of Jewish partisans. A truck was waiting. The handful who had survived the Warsaw ghetto rebellion were driven to the forests. In the city itself the resistance had ended.
Erik Dorf’s Diary
Auschwitz
August 1943
More and more, I find myself away from Berlin.
Never have I seen our officials—especially Kaltenbrunner and Eichmann—more determined to get the job done. Why? I wonder. It is only a matter of time before the war is lost. Mussolini was arrested the other day. Sicily has been invaded. Our last offensive in Russia failed. There is even a chilling report that a Red Army guerrilla force, quite large, has penetrated the Carpathian front—five hundred miles beyond our own lines.
Today found me at Auschwitz, checking with Hoess to see if the supply of Zyklon B is sufficient, if Eichmann’s transports are on time.
The load on Auschwitz and the other annihilation camps—odd, how I have steeled myself to the use of that word—will be heavier. Himmler, now that Warsaw has been liquidated, has ordered the immediate destruction of all Polish ghettoes. That means one thing: more work for us.
I must note here the fact that some Europeans do not agree with our plans. The Bulgarians, for example, a Slavic people for whom I have no regard at all, have defied us and dispersed and hidden their Jews. And the Italians continue to be difficult, refusing to cooperate, sending Jews into convents and monasteries and the Italian countryside. It disturbs me that whenever our units are defied in this manner, they more or less acquiesce, and turn to other business.
In any event, on this hot afternoon, I dined in the officers’ mess at Auschwitz. Eichmann and Hoess were present. They were, as always, cool, dedicated, full of new plans. The river is becoming clogged with ashes. They are now dumping the product of the ovens in a field some distance from the camp.
From the corner of my eye I saw my Uncle Kurt enter the dining room. He avoided my eye, took a seat by himself and sat in silence, puffing on his pipe. Since the scene at his office, where he dared to lay violent hands on me, we have exchanged no words.
I was halfway through a letter from Marta when I started.
“Something wrong?” asked Eichmann.
“Good God,” I said. “Our street was bombed.”
Eichmann commented that the English and Americans were utter barbarians, without any respect for human life, the culture of cities. Churchill was a savage, unloosing his warplanes on innocent civilians, Hoess added.
Marta, in her letter, assured me that she and the children were safe in the shelter during the raid. There was some damage to the apartment. Our beautiful piano was scarred with falling plaster.
There was another bit of news in Marta’s letter. Father Lichtenberg, the troublesome priest who refused my advice regarding his sermons about Jews, died in Dachau. The circumstances are unknown. I feel a bit sorry for him. He simply did not understand the need to run with the tide, to accept the inevitable. I mentioned Lichtenberg’s death to Eichmann and Hoess. They were not interested. And why should they be? What is one more death—priest or layman, German or Pole? The important thing is to rid Europe of Jews; we all knew it; we all understand the urgency of our mission. This campaign of extermination is central and vital to everything the Führer has taught us. It is the fulcrum, the lever, the nucleus of our movement. It is not merely a means, or an end, but both the means and the end to a racially pure Europe, ruled by Nordic aristocrats.
Eichmann threw down his knife and fork. He refused to eat his cutlet. “You know, Hoess, the stink from those chimneys is awful. Gets worse every day. How can a man enjoy his lunch in this place?”
Hoess’ appetite was not affected. He drank his Czech beer, downed his schnitzel. “Can’t be helped, Eichmann. We’re still processing twelve thousand a day, top production at any camp. I hear Theresienstadt is also marked for liquidation. Romania, Hungary, they’ll all be delivering us their Jews soon. Forty-six ovens won’t be enough.”
“We’ve all got our problems, Hoess. I’m still fighting the army for trains. The bastards insist they need the rolling stock for their armies in Russia. What comes first? I asked them—Russia or getting rid of Jews? They had no answer. They know what the chief’s orders are.”
It occurred to me that as Eichmann’s and Hoess’ voices rose, my Uncle Kurt was hearing it all. He had not been eating, merely smoking, sipping his coffee, his somber face, taking it all in.
Suddenly he got up, slapped down some marks and walked past us. As he did, he looked at me with a revulsion and hatred I did not think him capable of. Then he left.
Again, I saw in Kurt’s eyes that same reproach, that same anger I had seen in my father’s face when I was a boy. Do grownups realize the hurt they inflict on children with their disapproval?
I felt a need to t
each my uncle a lesson, to squelch that moral superiority he shows me, that self-appointed conscience he has become. So I asked Hoess what the policy on using Jews as laborers was. He replied that it was the same as always, but more “urgent.” That is, not only were they to be worked until they were fit for “special handling,” but that whenever possible they were to be replaced with Poles and Russians—even if they gave evidence of being strong enough to work.
“I’m told there are several hundred Jews still working on the roads,” I said, “and I have seen lots of Christians available to replace them.”
“Then they should be replaced. I can’t keep track of everything, Dorf.”
He reiterated. Every Jew now in Auschwitz, and every one who would come here, was marked for special handling. Skills, strength, privilege no longer counted. I made a mental note to send Hoess a written memorandum on Uncle Kurt’s Jews.
Rudi Weiss’ Story
The blow fell on my father sometime in August 1943. I have not been able to pinpoint the date.
At some day in mid-month, he and his friend Max Lowy, who had been with him in Berlin and Warsaw, and all of their detail were summarily marched from their jobs to the gas chambers.
Papa and Lowy, and a third man—one who survived and told me—-were working a grading machine. The third man had heard news from a newcomer—the Warsaw ghetto had risen. Many Germans were killed. They had used tanks and planes and artillery to subdue the Jewish fighters. They both asked him if any of their friends had been involved; but he knew very little. The resistance was wiped out, but the Germans had needed seven thousand men to do it.
As they talked, they saw an SS sergeant approach Kurt Dorf and give him a sheet of orders. An argument ensued, but Dorf, a civilian, had only limited authority. They heard the sergeant say, quite clearly, “The detail will be replaced.”
A half-dozen SS men now appeared.
