|
Summer 1944.
For over a year I am in Stalingrad on the banks of the Volga.
It is becoming clearer and clearer that the day is approaching when
the Nazi monster will be defeated.
Stalingrad, the
city which has become a symbol of heroism in the war against the
Germans, is rising slowly from destruction. I am among the re-builders
of the tractor factory and recently we celebrated the first tractor
that came off the assembly line.
From the time of
the defeat in Stalingrad at the beginning of 1943, the Red Army pushed
the German Army far west. Daily there are new victories. Cities and
areas have been liberated from Nazi occupation. The Red Army marches
forward!
The news
broadcasts also describe the atrocious deeds and the destruction that
the Germans left behind them in the liberated areas. In the
newspapers, there are hints of the Holocaust perpetrated by the Nazis
and their collaborators. I witnessed this personally two years ago.
There are no Jews left in the liberated cities and villages.
The Belarus front was breached. I hold my breath and listen to every
announcement. The Red Army advances with bloody battles. Every name of
every liberated village awakens memories and hope. The day is
approaching when my birthplace Kobylnik will be liberated.
Two long years I
waited with wounded heart, with just a flicker of hope sustaining me.
Perhaps a dear one has survived. And now the day is approaching when I
will have to face the bitter reality and my spark of hope will be
extinguished. How will I continue to live! More than any time during
the past two years, I feel the loneliness and sorrow within me. Will
what I dare not say aloud be verified? Will I remain alone in the
world? One by one there stand before me the visions of my most dear
from my so beloved home. Parents, brothers and sisters, relatives and
friends—I see all of them alive, happy and thrilled with the
approaching great victory over our bloodthirsty enemies. The dreams do
not long continue. I find no basis for them. My own eyes saw too much
of how the murderers worked. There is no place for illusions.
Nevertheless, they exist. The heart hopes. I do not want to expel
them. Without them there remains only emptiness and darkness.
My thoughts return
me to that August day in 1942 when I departed from Kobylnik. From that
time I have heard nothing from my family and from the 250 Jewish
people that were then still alive.
At that time Kobylnik Jewry received the order to send six Jews to
Myadel (21 kilometers eastwards from Kobylnik) as an addition to those
Kobylnik Jews who were earlier sent there to work. Although it was
known that in Myadel there was work, there was no doubt that after its
completion, no one would return from there. The maximum that Kobylnik
could send was four people. Among them was my father David Swirski,
the father of six small children. The village head was convinced to
send only four people. How this would be accepted by the Germans in
Myadel, no one knew. All four are packed for the journey. The horse
drawn wagon is ready. At home—grief. Mother has to remain alone with
her six small children. Not only is there the fear of death but also
certain hunger awaits us. I ask the Jewish Committee to send me in
place of my father. They agree. I look older than my almost 15 years.
I have worked hard for over a year and will not lag behind the adults.
I am happy that father will remain at home.
There is not
enough time for farewells. Hertzel, my brother, is not at home. Mother
gives me the tefillin and bible and parts from me with tears and a
broken heart. Father blesses me: May G-d watch over you and take care
of you! His main advice: at the first opportunity, run, my child, to
the forest. Hitler will be defeated; it is only a matter of time. We
with small children have no chance to survive. Let at least one of us
remain. May there be someone to say Kaddish.
On Myadel Street,
on the way out of the village, my brother Hertzel, who is two years
younger than me, runs over to us. He jumps into the wagon. We say good
bye, looking at each other without stop. We, the two loving brothers
and friends—we promise—we will escape! We know that in the forests are
partisans. On the outskirts of the village Hertzel jumps from the
wagon. The tears choke us. His figure becomes more distant from me,
and with him, also my family, my home, my village.
During those days
on the eve of the liberation of Kobylnik again and again living images
appear before my eyes. This give me hope and pushes away depression.
Perhaps the Kobylnik Jews, at least some of them, succeeded in
escaping to the forest as did the Jews of Myadel. Perhaps there also
was a commander in the model of Michael Patashnik (from the village
Hodutzishki) that organized the escape of a part of the Myadel Jews,
including women and children, to the forest. Perhaps some Kobylnik
Jews made the difficult passage through the forests of White Russia
and reached the Russian-German front and crossed into Russia, as I
did.
... I am in the middle of repairing an electrical steel oven. Work and
dream: suddenly I hear the news broadcasted over a loud speaker. The
Myadel area has been liberated. This means that Kobylnik has certainly
been liberated. I share my excitement with those around me. The first
thought is to write a letter home.
I want to but do not dare. My hand trembles and I wander about like a
wounded animal. People encourage me. It is not difficult to understand
me. After a few hours I sit down and write. I write to Father and
Mother, brothers and sisters, relatives and friends. To all I write
one letter. And as I write I have no doubt that they all will read my
letter.
Four months have passed. The front is already in Poland. All areas of
the Soviet Union have been liberated. Everywhere spirits are high. And
I still wait for an answer.
I have no idea how long it takes for a letter to arrive. I never
received letters in Stalingrad. There was no one who could write.
Every day I look at the bulletin board with the list of names of those
who received letters. In futility, I search for my name.
It is over a week that I have stopped looking at the list. More
than ever do I have feelings of doubt and hopelessness. Suddenly, a
co-worker runs over to me and tells me that my name is on the list on
the board.
Filled with excitement, I arrive at the board but find my father’s
name Swirsky, David, and not Meyer. This means that my letter has been
returned to me. Two days later I gather strength and go to take my
letter from the office. Immediately I recognize my father’s
handwriting. Before I even touch the letter, I faint. In the first aid
room, the nurse reads me the letter that my father wrote in Russian.
That letter I remember word by word.
|
Our dearest
Meyerke,
At this moment there is no end to our joy. Today we came out of
the forest and immediately upon arrival in the village we
received your letter which proved that you are alive. Is there
anything today dearer than a child that has remained alive,
another living Jew?!
I am healthy. Thirty-six Jews from the village survived with us.
The others were lost, and among them our dear son, your beloved
brother Herzele. Most of the village was burned. Our house was
also burned. Those who remained alive are: Uncle Yehoshua Gordon
and his sons Yisroel Leib, Herztke and Itzele, Afroike
Kravtzinski, Ida Burgin and children, Leib Freedman and family,
Josef Blinder and family, Tzivke Charmatz, her sister Sara and
her husband Notel Zar. Meyer-Shmerel Chodosh, Itzke Tzernatzki,
Asher Krukov, Ben-Zion Steingart, Chone and Hirshel Dimentstein,
Abrasha Chodosh, Chaya Liba Tzernotzki, and her brother Feival.
There is hope that others survived. Fate wanted us to remain
alive. The Almighty watched over us in times that were too
difficult to bear. Thanks to your mother, who was needed as a
seamstress by the Germans, we were released from the last
massacre the day after Yom Kippur 1942 and were transferred with
a few other families of handicraftsmen to the ghetto in Myadel.
We were released from Myadel by the partisans and remained in
the forest until the area was liberated in July 1944.
Others from our village unfortunately found their death in the
forest. Now is not the time to describe what experiences we
lived through in the forest. Thank G-d that we remained alive.
Chanele, Minele, Yehoshua and Zundele, who grew up during our
time in the forest, hug and kiss you, and your mother, my dear
Chava, does not have strength today to write. She holds you
close to her heart.
On this day, so joyous to all of us, my child, do not forget our
dear and beloved ones who gave their lives for Kiddush Hashem,
for the glorification of G-d’s name. Those who always were part
of us shall always live on in your heart, in the hearts of all
of us. We will never forget them.
Do not forget the murderers who have been defeated today: the
Nazi enemy and his collaborators. May their names and memory be
blotted out.
Today we are celebrating your rebirth together with our freedom.
We are proud of the Jewish partisans from our village and among
them are Hertzel Gordon, Meyer Chodosh and Chaim Asher Gilman
together with many others who fought against the Germans as they
revenged the spilled Jewish blood. Their deeds bring great honor
to our nation and are a bright page in the dark historical time
through which we lived.
With heartfelt kisses-your father
Josef David Leib Swirski |
Stalingrad November 1945
After many months of impatient waiting, I suddenly received
permission to travel and visit my parents and family. I am filled with
joy! After over 3 years I will again see my mother and father, my
brothers and sisters.
The trains are filled with released soldiers returning to their
homes. There are no remaining tickets for the trains. Also, there is
no power that can stop me.
A few days, later I am in Moscow. Also here I somehow manage to
board a train going to Vilna.
The hours are so long. The passing towns do not interest me. My
thoughts do not turn to them, even though I passed through some of
them in 1942 on my difficult way to the front. November, three years
previously I successfully crossed the front and became a free person.
Now my eyes and my thoughts are focused on one house in the village of
Postavy where my family now resides. I want to arrive there as soon as
possible.
The 7th of November, Midnight
My feet touch the train station at Postavy. I run the two
kilometers from the train station to Postavy and here I am, in front
of the house at number 8 Lenin Street.
I first meet a neighbor, Mrs. Fanny Zepelovitz. She takes me
through the yard to my family’s apartment. She calls out: Chava, you
have a guest.
During my years in Russia I forgot how to speak Yiddish. I said
Hello in Russian and was incapable of uttering another syllable. My
feet froze and I could not take another step.
The house has a festive air. The table is set with food and drink.
Immediately I recognize my father and mother and several of the people
from our village. Through the bedroom door, I see sleeping children.
As is the custom in the Soviet Union, the date of the revolution is
commemorated also in my parents’ home.
I am wearing quilted pants and coat and a winter cap is pulled down to
my eyes.
No one recognizes me. My father asks my mother—What does the guest
want? Give him a chair and a glass. Ask him who he is and what brings
him to us at such a late hour. Meanwhile I see through the door a
small blond head rising from the pillow. I imagine that this is my
four year-old brother, Zundele. The noise has awoken him. He looks at
me from his bed and suddenly screams—Meyer has arrived!
The only one who had not remembered me recognized me instinctively.
Mother removed my hat and recognized the scar on my forehead (caused
by a kick from a horse). And with shouts of Meyerke, she embraces me
and faints.
A half an hour later, I am bathed and dressed in a presentable
fashion and seated at the table together with my dear ones. United, we
celebrate our great joy together.
|