The Day My Father Cried

Among the many joyful memories of my childhood, were the Shabbos visits to my grandmother's house. Everyone in Skalat knew my grandma, Sura Elfenbein. As a child, I never identified myself by my name, Fancia Niessenbaum, instead I would say “I am Sura Elfenbein's granddaughter,” that was sufficient as an introduction.

Sura Elfenbein was a hotel owner, saloon keeper, restaurateur, and the best cook in town. Molly Picon and a cast of actors stayed at her hotel when they performed in Skalat. Once, even the President of Poland whose name I believe was Moscicki, stayed in her hotel. This was a proud event for grandmother and each time a new guest registered, grandma would leaf through pages of her guest book until she came upon the President's signature.

I had loving grandparents. Grandma was strict, a disciplinarian, and she demanded respect from us, as well as from her children. She often used the word mitzva and one day I learned its meaning. My sister, Rozia, and I were entrusted to deliver food to a poor lady with a large family. When we arrived at her house and I saw the happiness on the woman's face at the sight of the food, I understood the word mitzva. In addition, every Friday and Saturday there was always a stranger eating with the family, and my sister and I would call that person the “mitzva guest.”

Grandpa Yisrul Elfenbein, on the other hand, was the complete opposite of grandma. I do not recall grandpa working as much in the business as grandmother because he prayed a lot. He was fun to be with. He would let me snuff tobacco from his little silver box and on Shabbos he would dip some sponge cake in the wine and each grandchild would be given a taste of the sweet wine. Grandma scolded grandpa for this, because she feared that we would get tipsy.

Besides my caring grandparents and loving mother Hania Niessenbaum nee' Elfenbein, the most important person in my life, was my father Wiktor Niessenbaum. He was always there to protect me, to console me when I had bad dreams, and to buy me things. Though he threatened to spank me, he never laid a hand on me. To me he was the smartest person, who knew all the answers to my questions. Physically he was strong, with beautiful, big, blue eyes, and a shiny bald head. He was truly a pillar of strength to the entire family.

I used to look forward to Shabbos, which was the best day of the week because my father and grandpa would go to shul, and let me tag along with them. I helped grandpa carry his talis in the velvet bag. I felt very important when I carried grandpa's velvet bag because I knew that the talis in the bag meant a lot to him. Once I dropped it on the floor by accident and grandpa got upset; he picked it up and kissed it.

Life was wonderful in Skalat, especially to a little girl who was surrounded by many aunts and uncles, sister, grandparents, and parents. During my childhood, Skalat was a lively and vibrant town, where moral, ethical and Jewish values were instilled in us.

Unfortunately, all of it ended on a beautiful, sunny Saturday on July 5, 1941. That day, grandpa, papa and I were on our way to the shul, and suddenly our town was invaded by many soldiers in weird black uniforms wearing shiny black boots. Their hats were adorned with silver skull heads, and the same insignia adorned the rings on their hands. On their arms they wore the white sign of the swastika. They entered Skalat riding shiny motorcycles, trucks, and tanks.

The festive and happy mood on the street changed to bewilderment and fear. I heard the words Germans and war many times before, but I had never really known their meaning. Looking at grandpa, my father, and the people around us, I realized that something horrible was about to happen.

All three of us ran quickly to the shul and even before the men started praying, the soldiers in the black uniforms entered the shul and started shouting in German. As soon as they entered, they began to whip the Jews and gathered all the men, among them grandpa and father. There was chaos, fear, and

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confusion. I ran quickly to grandma's house to tell her what had happened. Then I sat down in the corner frightened and in a state of shock.

In the late afternoon my father came back without grandpa. He was a changed man and did not look like my strong, handsome father. His Saturday suit was gone, his clothes having been ripped off him, and his whole body was pierced; blood gushing from each hole. His back was marked with red stripes, from whip lashings that he had received. My mother was trying to stop the bleeding, but each time she touched him, he screamed. After a while, he began telling us what had happened.

The Germans had gathered the Jews and made them wash their cars and motorcycles in the marketplace. Some of the captured Jews were shot there and then. One German soldier did not like grandpa's peyes (sidelocks), so he pulled his hair out one by one and then shot him.

A soldier approached my father while he was washing cars, and kept hitting him and piercing him with his bayonet. When my father asked the soldier, in fluent German, why he was torturing him, it was then that the soldier decided to let him go. It was a miracle because most of the men who were caught that day were killed.

This was the first pogrom in Skalat, and the start of the tragedy. As my father was telling us all that had happened to him and the others, he cried like a baby. It was the first time I ever saw my father cry and I never forgot it! That day our roles were reversed. My father sat and cried like a child while I grew up there and then. Saturday outings to the shul never happened again.

Phyllis Linell nee Niessenbaum
New York, 1995

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