My Own Experiences in the Forest

(A. Weissbrod's Account)

An unknown criminal murdered a Jew in the Ostra-Mogila Forest on the same day that my mother and I arrived there. The dead body lay at the edge of the wood. The peasants had placed it there so that the Jews could bury him themselves. No one, not even the victim's father, gave thought to burying him because we were expecting a raid. About a score of frightened Jews crept out of their bunkers and quickly formed into groups, scattering in every direction throughout the forest.

No one wanted to bother with us, the most recent arrivals. We remained where we were, desperate and helpless. How could we flee, not knowing the forest?

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Meyer Grinfeld and Mrs. Chrein appeared. They, too, had been wandering all night in Bortnik's woods, just as we had, and had barely managed to make it here. Meeting a friend from my youth at such a difficult moment, and under those conditions, was an unexpected and wondrous event for me. We hugged each other, cried and for the moment forgot the sadness and danger hovering over us. “Come with me! I know all the paths and byways!” Grinfeld said.

Together we followed twisting trails for many kilometers and for hours on end moved along thick overgrown paths, leading us to another forest. There we pushed our way into a thicket and rested. Quietly we told each other of our recent experiences and made plans for our dubious future.

Late that evening we returned to the Ostra-Mogila Forest. We met other Jews whose fears of a raid had proved unfounded. The Ukrainian police had examined the deceased and, determining that he was a Jew, merely wrote up a report and continued on their way. We spent the night in the bunker of the Blank family and the next morning all of us took spades and axes to bury the body. The late Autumn morning was foggy and dreary. After completing the work we all stood around the new grave, heads bowed in silence. The wind whistled and trees rustled as if they were reciting the Kaddish prayer. At the edge of the woods, near a path, among tall trees with naked limbs like outstretched arms, was the grave of a young Jew whose suffering was finally over. We covered the mound with yellow leaves that fluttered in the breeze and Bucio Elfenbein, with a penknife, carved into the bark of a tree the initials of the murdered victim: G.B. “Let this be his tombstone,” he said. Then we returned to our dwellings in the forest.

We gathered dried branches. A fire burned between two stones, over which a large kettle of soup was cooking. The Jews in the forest were not pleased to see us. They were afraid because the peasants considered us to be rich. “This can bring on a catastrophe, “ they said. “Make yourselves a bunker in another part of the forest.”

In truth there actually were peasants on our trail. We decided to leave as soon as we could, feeling danger at every turn. That night Grinfeld went off to look for a hiding place with a peasant and, after having spent twelve days in the Ostra-Mogila Forest, we set out on a snowy night.

Late that night we passed the mass graves in the fields outside of Skalat. The mounds were covered with snow and nearby twelve tall poplars stood out against the white background like tombstones stretching ever higher and nearer to Heaven. Our feet on the snow were the first to engrave a bouquet of human footprints: the first steps of mourners at the graves of our fathers. My father had met his death here along with all the other martyrs. I managed to say the first few words of Kaddish but tears choked off the rest. We quickly fled from that blood-soaked place.

With luck, we arrived at the home of our peasant-benefactor. In a lonely cottage in the middle of a field we concluded a deal with our “gracious host” who was a clever peasant - a businessman, and a Ukrainian as well. A meal, some warmth and a bed restored our tired limbs. Grinfeld wanted to leave us, but we would not allow it. Although he was drawn back to the forest, he stayed. All in all, we felt very fortunate in our new hiding place.

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Weeks passed. At night, Grinfeld would sneak out into the forests to check on the condition of the Jews there, but our peasant was not happy about these excursions. He felt they could arouse suspicion and do us all in. At about this time our money ran out and Grinfeld undertook to go to our house in town, now occupied by Gentiles, where we had some money buried. He succeeded in what was surely a heroic act, since by wandering about at night he put himself in mortal danger. Grinfeld could accomplish what no others could. He had great courage. He often dared hair-raising undertakings and his luck always held.

According to the latest reports on life in the forest, many Jews were ill with scabies and the cold and hunger made further survival almost impossible. We felt impelled, therefore, to think of ways to provide practical help to the forest Jews. Grinfeld went to see some Gentiles whom he knew and got them to exchange $110.00 U.S. Dollars for 9,000 zlotys. The money was distributed that same night among the forest Jews in the Hory and Ostra-Mogila woods. “The Polish Committee has sent this to you,” Grinfeld told them.

“If such miracles can happen in these times, it is a sign that we will survive the war!” said Magus Rothstein one of the recipients. Unfortunately, he did not survive. Volksdeutsche shot him. Naively, everyone believed that such a generous act was possible.

Grinfeld returned from the forest with a list of signatures attesting to the receipt of the distributed funds. His act had endowed the forest Jews with a new lease on life. They could hope for a better future: “Just think! A Polish Committee that helps Jews!” We told the same story to our peasant-benefactor, who was moved to tears. He pulled out 250 zlotys from his pocket and said: “Here is my contribution. Enroll me in the Polish Aid Committee - even though I'm Ukrainian.”

We, of course, took advantage of that opportunity to broaden our relief work for the forest Jews. A few days later we obtained medications for the sick and we also gathered some clothes that were taken into the woods late at night. Under our direction and with the help of our peasant, letters were written in the name of the Polish Aid Committee to the Polish bandits Wyszkowski and Benzer, stating that it was not fitting for Poles to commit such shameful acts against Jews. This helped to keep the bandits from re-entering the forests.

We had also prepared a significant quantity of foods - potatoes, oil and grains, which were to be carried by the peasant's horse and left at a pre-determined place in the woods. This project did not come to fruition because suddenly some Volksdeutsche were billeted in the peasant's house and their horses were quartered in the barn under guard around the clock. We clambered hastily up into the attic, where a well hidden hole led to a narrow hiding place between two brick walls. We found ourselves under one roof with the Germans, separated from them only by a wall. Thus, our contact with the forests was severed.

We were joined by another Jew, named Asher Kleiner, also from Skalat, whom the peasant had been hiding in the barn without our knowledge. He had been kept hidden and fed in exchange for his carpentry services.

We passed difficult days between those brick walls and envied the Jews living freely in the forest. For us every minute was fraught with danger because the Germans kept moving about and could come across our hiding place. Our peasant was very nervous as well -and with good reason - but continuous bribes of money helped to soften our benefactor's heart. Even if we had chosen to leave, the constant guard in the barn made it impossible to do so. Thus, there was no alternative but to stay.

The peasant told us that the very soldiers billeted in his home were the ones who were raiding the forests and that they had already captured many Jews. For these heroic deeds the police would reward them with whiskey and sugar. When they held revels, we heard them through the thin wall and those revels would also tell us that more Jewish lives had ended at their hands.

When the Soviet front drew closer, we began to hear loud artillery bombardments and we knew that liberation was near. Our benefactor told us nothing about this, begrudging us a reason for joy, since he, himself, feared the Soviets more than the Germans. One night we listened through the wall as our

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peasant's entire household prayed, and tearfully intoned: “May the Lord have mercy and keep out the Bolsheviks, lest they destroy our cattle and our fields! “ Our prayers, however, were the very opposite.

The next day there were Soviet soldiers under our roof and battle operations had been transferred to our front yard. We found ourselves in the midst of the battle and that night the peasant evicted us from our hiding place. “Go back to the woods! If you don't, we are all lost; the Soviets have retreated and the Germans will soon be back, “ he said.

Under a hail of bullets and by the light of rockets, we managed to crawl out and to reach the woods. The Soviets were there. At their suggestion, almost all of the Jews passed through the front lines to the rear - to the village of Molczanowka, where three Jews died in a German air raid. We later learned that two hours after we left, the cottage in which we had been hidden was hit by a bomb and totally destroyed. As it turned out, the eviction by the peasant saved our lives.

After twelve days of siege and battle, the forest settlement liquidated itself. Skalat was liberated. The tiny remnants returned from the forest -the remaining few from the thousands of the Jewish community of Skalat. They returned: bereaved, exhausted, broken and sick.

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