Testimony of Chajka Kawer

On Sunday, July 6, 1941, the day of the pogrom in Skalat, our town was in a state of upheaval. Germans, but mostly Ukrainians and some Poles unleashed a barrage of beatings, torture and killings which dazed us with its suddenness and brutality. When the Germans entered we did not know what to expect, but no one in our town could have ever imagined the slaughter which took place.

Early in the morning on that day, our family, my parents, Fayga and David Sass; my three brothers, Motl, Jacob, and Szajko; my sister, Nechama; and I were at home. When rumors spread that Germans and Ukrainians were looking for Jewish men to be taken to work, panic swept through the neighborhood. My oldest brother, Motl, decided to leave the house and walk over to a Ukrainian acquaintance named Michael Datsky, who lived in a Ukrainian part of town in the direction of the Krzywy village.

Soon thereafter Germans accompanied by Ukrainians began to enter Jewish houses and to drag out all the men that they could find. The Ukrainians, some of them only young boys, pointed out Jewish houses and yelled, Jude! - Jude! Confused and not knowing what was going on, I looked outside. There, I saw a Polish teenager, one named Ryszlewski, walking down the street and pointing at Jewish houses, including ours. I knew Ryszlewski well since his sister was a classmate of mine. Soon after, soldiers entered our house, took my father and my brother Jacob, and led them to the market square.

Seeing what was happening, I ran out and tried to reach the Datsky house in order to warn my brother not to come home. As I walked through the back streets and alleys in order not to attract attention, suddenly I came face to face with three Ukrainians, each holding a huge knife. Though I don't recall their names now, they were all grown men from our town and I knew each one of them. They asked me in Ukrainian “Where are you going?” Petrified, I stammered out truthfully that I was looking for my brother. One of them asked me then what was my brother's name, and again I answered truthfully “Sass.”

“Oh, “ they said, “then he's already dead. Go behind the bathhouse and you'll find him there. “ I proceeded to walk towards the bathhouse and when I got there, I saw a sight which I always carry in my memory. Three Jewish men, Berl Sass, my cousin, Moishe Bernstein, in whose house my cousin lived; and Dr. Fried, wearing a gray suit, lay on the ground with their heads cut off. The blood was still oozing from their decapitated bodies. In a state of horror because of the scene in front of me, and realizing that the murderers mistook my cousin for my brother, I quickly turned around and headed for home.

Late in the afternoon my father, whose beard was cruelly cut off, and my brother Jacob returned home. They had managed to run away from the market square during a brief bombardment from a Russian plane which interrupted the pogrom in Skalat. Though they escaped being shot on that day, they were nevertheless, killed later on.

As told by Chajka Kawer nee' Sass to Lusia Milch
Lakewood, New Jersey 1995

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