My Remembrances of Skalat During the German Occupation

These are the remembrances of Lola Margulies, nee' Elfenbein; of how I, my father Arthur my mother, Erna, and my brother, Michael survived the Holocaust; specifically during the years 1942-44 in the town of Skalat. It is above all the story of the superhuman courage, self sacrifice and resourcefulness of one man, my father, to whom this tale is dedicated.

Neither this narrative, nor any account, can do justice in describing the brutality and inhumanity of the systematic extermination of millions of Jews by Hitler and his enthusiastic followers. But my experiences In the town of Skalat may mirror the horrors associated with the liquidation of a ghetto and making a town inhabited by thousands of Jews Judenfrei.

The systematic massacre of Jews confined to the ghetto began with the 'actions.' During these surprise attacks the SS-men would storm into the ghetto in the middle of the night, round up Jews, and drive them like cattle into trucks. The victims would then be delivered to trains heading for concentration camps and extermination. The first of these ' actions' in the fall of 1942 lingers in my memory. It is the memory of a twelve year old crushed by the fear of death that would become a reoccurring nightmarish reality. Helpless, hopeless, overcrowded and undernourished we waited for the massacre. We, other members of my father's family and neighbors, survived the first 'action' and the subsequent ones in a miraculous fashion. This miracle was engineered virtually single-handedly by my self-sacrificing father. To hide us he used a large cellar which had a trap door in the floor of the courtyard. The cellar was not equipped in any way as a hiding place prior to the surprise attack of the first 'action.'

When we were awakened in the middle of the night by the shouts of truckloads of SS-men demanding “Juden” to fulfill their quota, my father rounded up everyone and rushed us into the cellar. As my mother and I searched in the dim candlelight, our hearts sank as we became aware that my father was not among us and that he undertook to save all of us at the risk of losing his own life. Within minutes of the stormy arrival of the SS-men, my father staged the scenario that succeeded in confusing and outwitting our assassins. He covered up the trap door leading to the cellar with many bulky articles that both masked the entrance and muted the sound which could have emanated from the cellar. Ingeniously, he left numerous bottles of vodka, a remnant of his parents' tavern business, on display in the most conspicuous places in the rooms above the cellar. He then hid himself under the staircase leading to the attic, becoming an obvious target for the Germans and the journey to the death camp.

As we sat almost lifeless in the cellar, we heard the footsteps and voices of the Germans above us. Suddenly, a thirst cry rang out from my three year old cousin, Kamila Nirler, which would have given us away. Worse, since the cellar was not equipped with any beverage, all our desperate attempts to quiet down the frightened and thirsty child failed. Many panicked and insisted that the mother Cover up the child's mouth. Choking the child would have been the sacrifice to save the rest. The desperate mother collected some of her own urine and gave it to the child to drink! Death was staring us in the face and we were sure that all was lost. But my father's miracle worked! In spite of the flimsy and hasty camouflage of the cellar entrance, the child's crying and my father's conspicuous hiding place, the Germans failed to find us. We heard their merry laughter upstairs as they were consuming the vodka which father so generously provided.

Our existence until the town of Skalat became Judenfrei was worse than hell on earth. The repeated assaults, the dread of the nights, lest the 'actions,' catch us unaware, drained us of hope and strength as the inevitability of death drew closer and closer. We endured nevertheless and survived the winter of 1942-43 while father made the cellar into a highly effective hiding place. The worst was still to come, however: the brutal liquidation of the Skalat ghetto and camp. Again, there was only one person

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among us who never lost hope and presence of mind, and who devoted all his mental acuity, resourcefulness and energy to the virtually impossible task of saving his family.

Father began to search for a way to save our lives outside of the ghetto. He first focused on saving the women of our family, my mother and me. Father's plan was to find a Polish peasant who would be willing to hide Jews if the reward, such as money or jewelry, was high enough. But I, aged 13, became extremely disturbed by my father's insistence that we split up the family. I pleaded with my father to disclose his secret plan. In what miraculous fashion did he hope to save himself and my 15 year old brother if they did not go into hiding with us, I wondered? If we must perish, we shall die together, I insisted. All in vain! Did I not realize that he was a survivor, he said with a smile. It was all part of his master plan, never disclosed. I knew that my father believed in miracles and above all in God. His deep religious beliefs and the recollection of numerous stories father narrated from the Bible did not make me believe in miracles. Yet they did occur during the Holocaust for a few lucky ones!

There were three ways to try to save ourselves - all measures of desperation, rather than realistically hopeful approaches. Find a Polish peasant, poor enough to hide Jews for money, surely not for any altruistic reasons! Alternatively, acquire forged papers, move to a big city and pass as a Pole. As a last resort, hide in the icy woods without any shelter or food. Father chose the first option for me and my mother.

One evening a Polish peasant appeared with a horse and wagon already carrying some other desperate Jews. He was going to save us all. I went into hysteria. I refused to try to save my life without my father and brother. We all go or we all die, I lament! My father is devastated as the wagon departs without us, and swears no forgiveness for my childish and irresponsible behavior until the next day's news reached us. The “angel” Pole turned the wagon full of Jews over to the German town police and they were all killed. My mother was convinced that it was a young girl's premonition.

As Hitler's promised Judenfrei approached, another episode of hysteria occurred. I again refused to leave without my father when he arranged for another Polish peasant to take us into hiding. That very evening the German police intercepted and searched the peasant's wagon. Thanks to God and to my hysteria the wagon was empty. My mother claimed I had a special uncanny gift, nothing short of clairvoyance. But why did we consider ourselves so lucky? We were not apprehended the night before, but here we were, just waiting for death or it seemed hopelessly buying time.

My father's two sisters, young and pretty (one, the mother of three year old Kamila, who was given away for adoption and survived), took a fifteen year old niece with them and left for Lvov. Alas, we never saw them again! They perished, as one of many Polish collaborators recognized my younger aunt and denounced them to the Gestapo. The natives rejoiced as they helped in the extermination of the unwanted millions who, they always felt, were “outsiders” in their country and exploited them. Hitler was a messiah sent to carry out the good deed which they always wanted to do themselves.

Another desperate attempt of a few of my cousins to save their lives occurred during the penultimate 'action' on the town ghetto which was supposed to have rendered the town of Skalat Judenfrei. Three of them ran to the woods. A few months later, on a bitter cold night, one of them, a thirteen year old girl, froze to death.

During the first Skalat camp 'action' my father was recovering from typhoid and could hardly walk. He and all the remaining Jews were taken from the camp to the graves dug outside of town which were prepared for their slaughter. With him was his brother-in-law and sister-in-law. At this time my mother and I were already in hiding. I finally did agree to be taken into a bunker by the peasant with whom I refused to leave the first time. This time my father promised that he and my brother would follow shortly. Why did I believe his story? There was no such arrangement. It turned out that there was no room in the bunker which was dug out thirteen feet underneath a peasant's chicken coop near the end of the woods. This grave for the living could only accommodate eleven people which did not include my

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father and brother. Father paid the Wassermans, a family of six, to hide five women from our family: his mother, Sarah Elfenbein, his sister and. her daughter, Anna and Phyllis Nissenbaum, as well as my mother and me. In fact, the peasant never disclosed to my father where our hiding place was. This was the absolute condition that the peasant insisted on. What if my father was caught, tortured and disclosed our whereabouts? The Polish peasant might then get the death penalty for hiding Jews.

One evening the peasant as usual descended to our bunker carrying potato soup and some pieces of bread, the daily diet that got thinner and smaller during the nine months we spent in that grave. He also brought the dreadful news! The remainder of the Jews in the camp were exterminated. They were shot and some were still alive when they were buried in the prepared graves. We shudder, wail and grieve as we realize that our loved ones must have been among the dead! My cousin, whose father was also at the camp, and I are convinced that we are orphans. But miracles do happen. A few days later, the chicken coop door opens unexpectedly and lo and behold my father and brother descend on the ladder. Were they buried alive and rose from the graves? And how did they find us? Here is the story my father narrated. It was a horror story that would be imprinted in the memory of his children, grandchildren and hopefully his great-grandchildren. Father lived to the age of ninety one to describe the miracle.

The Jews were standing in front of the graves waiting to be shot. Suddenly, the voice of the head SS-man resounds loudly: “If there are any artisans among you: tailors, barbers and shoemakers, step out of the line and go across the narrow dirt road.” My father who was none of the above, but did bake bread in the camp, says “I am the camp baker.” The SS-man who was busy with other matters, may not have even heard him and did not react. My father, taking advantage of the situation, begins to move away from the grave and tugs on the clothing of his brother-in-law, Wiktor, motioning him to join him. Wiktor is alive, but paralyzed with fear, as though he were a living corpse. He refuses to move and as father goes across the road, Wiktor is shot in front of my father's eyes. Father is then put on a truck with a handful of other Jews whom the Germans needed for a few more weeks until the camp was totally liquidated.

This time, my father did not wait to be shot. Joined by my brother who fled from the camp at the time of the 'action,' they escaped from the camp that very evening and were not apprehended as they headed for the woods. My father said without hesitation that they were going to find me and my mother. “But we have no idea where they are,” my brother exclaims. Father, as sure as he was that he could rise from the grave had only one answer. “I'll find them! Watch me outsmart the Polish peasant! Unwittingly, he gave me a hint or two as to the whereabouts of the hiding place. I know the woods pretty well from the time I used to smuggle vodka when I was about your age.” The peasant gave away two hints: the bunker was located in the beginning of the deep part of the woods and there were three farmhouses nearby.

It was late in the evening, July 1943. They entered a poor peasant's little house just skirting the woods. Moments earlier, father disclosed to my brother another piece of disturbing information, namely that the peasant who engineered the hiding place was a clever cousin of the very poor peasant who was hiding us, and that father had never seen the owner of the house which they were seeking.

As they entered the house and begged for bread, father had the strong feeling that this was the peasant who was hiding his family. He did not hesitate: “My wife and daughter are here, please let me and my son join them,” he pleads. The peasant and his wife strongly deny any knowledge of our whereabouts. But, from their reaction my father becomes convinced that they are not telling the truth. He pleads to be let into the bunker, but to no avail. At this moment by brother reacts instinctively. He falls to his knees at the feet of the peasant's wife who is cleaning the lice out of her eight year old daughter's hair. “ Imagine,” he says with tears in his eyes, “that your daughter is separated from you and that the only way her mother could be saved is by joining her. How would you feel if you could not be reunited with your daughter?” Filled with pity, the peasant woman breaks into tears and commands her husband. “Let them in!”

And so we were finally reunited. Within a few hours, however, our joy was transformed into panic as we all began to choke. There was not enough oxygen in the bunker for thirteen people! At the risk of

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being apprehended, we spent a few evenings in the barn, while father took charge of enlarging the bunker and making one more small opening to the outside to allow air to enter. Periodically we were threatened if we did not come up with more money or jewelry. Thus starved and frightened, without ever seeing daylight, the thirteen of us spent nine months in our grave. During this time we witnessed my mother's self-sacrifice. She gave away the meager portions of her food to her growing son in fear that he would become a victim of tuberculosis. The forty two year old woman became completely gray and emaciated, a mere ghost of her former self.

Finally we were liberated by the advancing Russian army in March of 1944. Earlier, father had prophesied that if we could survive for nine months we would be saved. Almost to the day, we hear shooting. The peasant insists that these are local partisans fighting with the Germans. He refuses to tell us the truth and let us out, for fear of being shot by the Germans as a Jew rescuer. Father again takes charge. Convinced that this is the advancing front of the Russian army, he declares that we are leaving the bunker immediately. We walked out practically barefooted on the white March snow, amidst the fighting front. Our bunker collapsed shortly after we left. Were it not for my father's speedy decision, we would have been buried alive. We were all emotionally drained and sapped of physical strength but my mother could not walk by herself. As we were carrying her, the liberating Russian soldiers took even more pity on us. Referring to my mother as the sick “babushka,” an old woman, they left their line of fire and hastily put us on a truck heading towards the Eastern Ukraine in the Soviet Union.

How does one survive such torture and confinement and retain one's sanity? Though we were by far the exception and survived as a family, the psyche of a Holocaust survivor bears a permanent scar. The threshold for suffering steadily declines during life's ordinary trials and tribulations. The nightmares persist and the hysteria manifested during the war lingers on.

Lola Margulies nee' Elfenbein
New York 1995

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