The Remnant - Stories of the Jewish Resistance in WWII (2 page)

These sheets-clean sheets. I'm naked! Where am I? There's barely room in here for this cot. It's some kind of a cell. A prison cell? I don't see a door. No window? My God where am I? Only this cot and that lantern hanging under that top step-there's nothing else in here. Is that an entrance? It's almost too small. What's that? Sounds like a door opening-footsteps...

As the sound advanced down the stairs, terror filled Solomon. They were heavy steps on the stairs that made the lantern swing and caused eerie shadows to move on the walls. He could follow the steps along the other side of the board wall. They're coming for me! He heard wood sliding. A man came through the small opening at the foot of the tiny cot. A big man, he hardly fit through the small opening.

Strangely Solomon's first thought was, he doesn't wear a uniform; he felt a slight relief. He wondered, why did I expect a uniform? Why did I fear a uniform? The man straightened at the foot of his cot. Huge! He was huge. Massive! Powerful! He smiled.

"Well, it's about time. You've been sleeping like the dead ever since I found you!"

I've never seen him. Found me? What's he talking about. I can't remember.

"Don't be afraid. You're safe here." The man spoke calmly.

"I-I don't understand. Where am I? How did I get here? What is this place?" The words barely escaped his throat. He felt very weak, exhausted, his mind a blank.

"My name is Ivan-Ivan Igonovich. Don't you remember anything?"

Solomon shook his head feebly.

"Let's start with your name? Who are you?"

"Solomon Shalensky. I'm sorry, I don't understand - I can't remember anything."

"I found you two days ago, in a ditch along the road. I've never seen such a mess. Mud, blood, filth-caked all over you." Ivan was animated now, gesturing with his arms and massive hands, as much as the cramped quarters would allow. "I thought you were dead; but when I touched you, you opened your eyes and mumbled something. Then you fainted again. You've been mostly unconscious ever since."

Solomon managed, "I don't understand," some of his fear melting. The lantern light was too weak for Solomon to make out Ivan's features clearly, but the deep voice was gentle.

"You are safe," the stranger reassured him. "We have you hidden. We've gotten some broth into you. You've been delirious. Don't you remember anything at all?"

Solomon tried. He couldn't seem to focus. He had no memory to focus on.

"You spoke of a pit of death. German gunners - piles of death - you kept repeating we're all dead. What does it all mean? That is why we hid you here. Are you a fugitive from the Germans?"

Solomon's eyes widened in horror as realization poured in on him; a deluge of memory struck, grotesque memory. He uttered a muffled and hideous cry, "They murdered us! The Germans-shooting us. Killing us! All of us! Murdered us-in the ravine." He wept uncontrollably.

"What are you saying? Shot who?"

Solomon answered between sobs, "All of us-the Jews-all-all of us Jews of Kiev..."

"That's impossible. There are over a hundred thousand Jews in Kiev. You're trying to tell me the Germans shot all the Jews in Kiev?"

"All of us..."

Ivan felt sure the young man was mistaken but wondered how he could have imagined such a thing. "Solomon, where did this happen? You mentioned a ravine."

"At Babi Yar - in the Babi Yar ravine. They killed us all, there in the ravine-near Kiev."

"But you are alive."

Solomon wept silently. Ivan watched, searching for words. Finally, "It is too dismal in this place. I'll get you some clothes and get you out into the daylight. I'll be back in just a few minutes." He ducked out the small opening with remarkable speed.

Solomon tried to put things into perspective. Where must I start? Mama, Papa, my sister and brothers-they must all be dead. Grandpa. "All dead." His tears came in a torrent now. "All dead but me. Oh God," he whimpered, "why me? Why not me?"

His face was damp with tears when Ivan returned with an armful of clothes. Solomon dried his tears on the sheet.

"Here. Put these on. They may be a bit large on you, but they're all I have. Belonged to our son. He was a big muscular boy. He's married now to a girl from the Eastern Ukraine. They live near her home. Thank God, they've been spared this insane war so far."

As Solomon dressed, Ivan gazed at his face. Could it be true what he told me? Is it imagination-exaggeration? Delirium perhaps. He was a horrible mess when I found him. He's sure been through something atrocious.

"I don't know how to thank you. These clothes-and for helping me. It's not usual for a Christian to help a Jew."

Ivan felt a moment of hostility, "Solomon, not all of us are like that. Besides, I wasn't sure you were a Jew; but, had I known-well, I'd have done the same."

Solomon heard the anger in Ivan's voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"That's all right. You've a right to be suspicious of us, Solomon."

"Please, call me Sol. All my friends call..." a pained expression crossed Solomon's face, "...called me Sol."

"When I was younger, Sol, I saw the aftermath of a pogrom. I saw the organized slaughter of Jews in their shtetl-their village. Sixty-three Jews were killed that Easter. I don't know how many were raped-maimed-injured. Their homes were burned-their shops looted. The so called 'good Christians' claimed it was vengeance for the Crucifixion." Ivan's gaze fell to the floor as a frown of disgust wrinkled his brow. His eyes closed. "Our priest put that idea in our heads. Rape, slaughter-all in the name of revenge for the Church... Since that day I have never set foot inside of a church."

Solomon was dressed now, but he sensed that Ivan wasn't finished speaking. He sat down on the edge of the cot.

"I worked for a Jew once," Ivan continued, still looking down at the dirt floor. "I was treated fairly and decently. That is why this room is here," he added, looking back up into Sol's eyes. "This was his place. He always feared a pogrom. It was to hide his family should a pogrom happen. He'd survived one as a child and never got over it. Several years ago he decided to leave here for Palestine. One night he and his family just left. They took only what they could carry. They planned to walk all the way. He left me all of this for my loyalty during the years I worked for him." Ivan looked about the little chamber. "I've a feeling it will get more use now."

Solomon broke a short silence with, "How will I ever be able to repay you?"

"Never mind that. Come on; let's get out of here into the daylight."

Solomon followed Ivan through the small opening in the wall into a fruit cellar full of vegetables, dried fruits and sacks of grains. Ivan pushed a box in front of the small opening. It was impossible to see or even guess that there was a room behind the wall supporting the stairs out of the cellar.

Solomon couldn't believe the amount of food he saw stored here. Sol was from the poor part of Kiev, where life was a hand to mouth existence; some days the hand never reached the mouth. Bread and potato soup were often all his family had to eat for days on end. Eggs were a luxury, milk a delight saved for the young. Tea was always available. Meat was on the table perhaps once a week and only on the first Sabbath meal, in very good times. Various vegetables were to be found steaming on the table when they were in season and so plentiful that their price was forced down or if they had been grown in the little garden his mother had labored over. But often the vegetables grown in the garden could not be eaten by his family. If they would bring a good price at market, like the eggs their few chickens laid, they would have to be sold and cheaper foods would be purchased for the household.

"Come on; my wife Sosha will have food ready for us." Suddenly Solomon realized he was very hungry. When had he eaten last? He had no memory of having had a meal. Why have I no memory?

They climbed the steps and came out into the light. Sol was temporarily blinded. The last daylight he could remember was the day he and his family were taken to Babi Yar. Babi Yar and suddenly horrible images flooded his mind. He felt a weakness momentarily, thought he might fall, staggered slightly and looked up to Ivan who didn't seem to notice.

"See," Ivan said, "You should be safe here for the time being."

As Sol squinted his eyes slowly became accustomed. The storage cellar had been dug after the house was built. Its entrance was about three meters from the house, so in bad weather they didn't have far to go for supplies. It was located at the rear of the house, so if trouble came from the road, about two hundred meters distant, the family could enter the cellar without being seen; the house was between the cellar entrance and the road. Its location had been selected for security, not for convenience.

The house was small, built of native stone and wood. It wasn't a large farm he inherited from his employer. Jews weren't allowed to own much property and Ivan had not needed to add more land. In Solomon's eyes, Ivan was a man of means. He had two cows, several pigs, chickens and geese. Most of the land had been tilled and now the animals were free to wander in the field and eat what was left after the harvest. The land was surrounded on three sides by forest and on the fourth by a dirt road.

"I've never seen such a big place. Is it really all yours?"

"All that's been cleared. It represents years of hard work. We are proud of it, Sosha and me.

The Germans will confiscate all your animals and stored food I'm told. They obviously haven't gotten out here yet. We haven't even seen a German yet. Come, let's go in..."

"It's good to see you up," a woman said as they entered the house. "I am Sosha. Ivan tells me you are called Solomon."

"Please, Sol."

"All right, Sol. Now you two sit down here and start eating. I hope your strength will return quickly."

"I feel quite well. Hungry, but well. A little stiff. I don't know how to thank you sufficiently."

"Thank later, eat now," Sosha insisted.

Sosha was an attractive woman. Her blond hair, highlighted by the whiteness creeping into it, was pulled back and rolled into a bun. She had a round, full face, skin reddened from hours of work outdoors. Her skin would have been as brown as Ivan's had her complexion not been fair. Instead of tanning, her skin had a blush to it. Tall for a woman, she had a typically big-boned Slavic build. Though her hands were rough from years of hard work, next to her huge husband her warm smile made her look almost girlish.

She ladled out two wooden bowls of potato soup from a pot that constantly simmered on the wood stove and placed them on the large, rough-hewn timber table before Sol and her husband. In the middle of the table, she placed a large plate heaped with black bread and cheese. She took a glass of tea for herself and sat down to join them.

Sosha realized that she'd never seen Solomon in full daylight. His hair was light brown. When Ivan had carried him home that first day, he took him directly to the cellar, where the dim light made his hair look nearly black. I must have washed it a half dozen times to get the filth and blood out, she thought. Now she could see the uneven patches where she'd had to cut out some of the tangles.

"I'll trim your hair later this afternoon," she said to Solomon, "Ivan is due for a trim, too. I can do you both today while it is still warm outside."

"Thank you, but that's not necessary," Solomon answered, apparently surprised by her proposal.

"Nonsense, I enjoy cutting hair." I'll have to fatten him up a bit, she thought, though he's huskier than he appears in those baggy clothes. He's a rather handsome fellow. How penetrating his brown eyes are. Thoughtful. Even now they sparkle. We'll get the stubble off him too. It makes him look gaunt. He certainly doesn't have Slavic features. His ancestors must have migrated from the south, perhaps Italy, Spain or Greece-someplace Mediterranean.

"Tell us," Sosha said, "what do you recall now?"

Glancing at Ivan, Solomon replied, "It's all come back. It was horrible. I find myself wondering if it really happened. But it must have happened. I could not dream such horrors." Solomon paused for a moment, apparently trying to organize his thoughts, fighting the tears that welled up in his eyes.

"The shelling was almost constant in our part of Kiev, as it was all over the city and the surrounding villages. We lived with it day and night," Solomon began. "The earth shook. Many families dug trenches in their yards and moved into them. The city officials even recommended it. We stayed in our home. My father insisted that God would see to our safety, if He meant for us to survive. 'If we Jews have nothing else, we have faith!' my grandmother used to say, always." There was a sadness in his moment's pause as he sat remembering.

"We could hear the explosions from here," Sosha interjected. "But it never came here."

"That's because we're almost fifty kilometers from the city. It's a wonder you got this far, Sol," Ivan added.

Solomon took a deep sighing breath and continued, "I only remember part of that - getting here, I mean." He hesitated. A tear formed in his eye. He cleared his throat. "For several days, we began to see an increasing number of Russian troops running from the front. They occasionally stopped and begged for civilian clothes. Anyway, out of the growing retreat came rumors that in a matter of days the war would end for us and the front would pass us by. The Communists and their officials left the city along with the retreating soldiers. Most of us that remained felt that living under the German occupation would be better than life under the Bolsheviks. We certainly preferred it to the constant bombings! We were-if not openly, at least secretly-looking forward to occupation. Not that we weren't afraid, but only afraid as one is when he awaits a new experience that he knows nothing about. Afraid like children on their first day of school.

"I recall my father telling us about the Germans, 'They are the most enlightened civilization in the world,' he told us. 'The Germans have given the world the greatest scientists, writers, poets, musicians, philosophers-and in Germany, Jews could become doctors, lawyers, shopkeepers-they could go to the university.' He didn't make it up. He'd heard that from others. Everyone talked about it, on the streets, in stores, everywhere. Compared to life under the Bolsheviks, it sounded like a dream come true. And for us Jews, well, there was an additional incentive-perhaps the Germans would end some of the anti-Semitism we'd known here for so many centuries.