Second visit to Skalat

Fall, 1995

In September of 1995 I visited my native town for the second time in half a century. Unlike twenty five years earlier, when my husband and I first visited Skalat, now we were able to walk around unescorted and unrestricted by 'cold war' limitations.

As we approached the town, I recognized in the distance the familiar landmark of Skalat; its four cone-shaped, red-tiled roofs of the seventeenth century towers. They were the main site of the first pogrom massacre by the Germans and the Ukrainian collaborators, and brought back memories of the tragedy which took place there.

On first impression, the town seemed empty. The older generation, I was told, had passed on, the Poles had left for Poland and of those who had remained, only one third were natives. No one spoke about the conspicuous void left by the slaughtered Jews. No one missed or regretted the absence of those who had played such a pivotal role in the commerce, the cultural life, and the general development of the town. Skalat looked devastated; a town of ramshackle houses and dilapidated buildings. The deliberate destruction and fifty years of neglect had taken a heavy toll. Some quarters, especially the former Jewish areas, still lay in rubble. Dug-up streets, crumbling buildings and razed Jewish homes made it difficult for me to establish a landmark and to reconstruct the neighborhood of my childhood. Here and there a few meager looking vegetable gardens could be seen in place of the demolished homes. Otherwise, no vendors, no buyers, no tailors, no cobblers, no tinsmiths, and no glaziers. Since most of them were Jews, they had all been killed and no one had taken their place. I walked along a ruined, silent landscape which was both a reminder and a lament for the snuffed out lives, never to return again. The town was without a trace of its former vitality.

I wondered, “Did those who sowed the seeds of hate and those who committed the crimes, realize what future ruination they would bring to their native town? Was there some justice in what I was seeing?” The crimes perpetrated here were so outrageous and my pain was so great, that I could find no solace, even in thoughts of retribution.

I went back to Skalat to make a record in words and photographs of the remaining traces of Jewish life there because I knew that none of these would last another fifty years. I also came to remember, and to mourn. I tried to recall what our lives were like in this town before the war and sought tangible traces of that life. I remembered with great vividness the upheaval which destroyed our world, and I was looking for evidence of that destruction. When my family together with the entire Jewish community perished in Skalat, we did not have a chance to mourn because the killing went on unabated, and we expected our turn to come soon. At that time, even the opportunity to grieve was denied us. I, a survivor, came to this place of suffering, therefore, not only as a personal, but a communal mourner.

I started my day's pilgrimage in the Mantiawa outskirts, entering the town by the road leading from Tarnopol to Skalat. My first stop was the building where the Skalat Camp was located. Just as I had fifty years ago, I found myself in front of a fence with a locked gate. This time, I entered the enclosure by permission from the factory manager rather than having to crawl underneath the barbed wire of a side fence. The old building which stood in front of me, had the same flight of stairs leading to the door through which inmates entered the camp. To the side, I saw the open yard where daily, pre-dawn roll calls were conducted. I remembered the piles of furniture and household items that had been brought here from the ghetto after Skalat was declared Judenfrei. These furnishings were hiding a small group of desperate Jews who were still clinging to life, and I was among them. Within a few days they were all rounded up and shot at dawn. Fortunately, I had managed to escape the night before this slaughter. A narrow, little

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river still runs by the side of the former camp. Many of us had to jump across it both to enter and then to escape.

From here the road led to the area of the old fort, surrounded by the remnants of a stone wall and four tall towers. The grounds of the fort, once a place of green grass and tennis courts, the playground of the town's Polish “upper crust,” were now littered with debris where chickens and ducks roamed freely. In the center, stood a newly erected, huge statue, honoring Hetman Bogdan Chmielnicki. Stern and erect this Ukrainian national hero had been responsible for pogroms on Jews during another era. I thought it an apt place for him to be, overlooking the spot where the slaughter of the Jews of Skalat began, ushering in the Holocaust in our town and the surrounding regions.

The road outside the fort running along the wall and the remnants of a moat led to the place where the Polish Catholic Church used to be. This site, the market square, and the areas below were changed beyond recognition. On reaching the market, I saw on one side of the square a row of old, boarded-up former Jewish stores. On another side stood a two storied building with a balcony. As a child, I used to play there. Above the front door, peering through a layer of peeling paint, I could clearly make out the black letters BERN.....the beginning of the name of the former store owner, my uncle, Moses Bernstein. I walked over to the spot where our house had stood and memory released echoes of long ago.

Once, Skalat was a lively and busy little town. That liveliness had been reflected in the crowded, narrow streets, the hustle-bustle of the marketplace, the sounds emanating from cheders*, prayer houses, merchants and hawkers, and from the laughter and cries of children. This affirmation of life had transcended the poverty and even the wretchedness of a sizable portion of the Jewish population. Here people had worked hard and long, and when work was done, they had observed the day of rest and prayers scrupulously and joyfully.

The rhythm of life and the appearance of our town would change with the seasons. White, long winters were cold and slow; warm springs and summers were busy with planting and harvesting; and falls alternated between golden, hazy Indian summer days and gray, rainy ones leaving the streets full of mud and puddles. Around the market square had been small stores and in the center, open stalls. Each day, but especially on Tuesdays (market day), the stalls were filled with fresh vegetables, fruits, eggs, chickens and geese; which the farmers would bring into town to sell. Once a year, when the feast of St. Ann was celebrated, our provincial town teamed with people. Worshipers and celebrants, farmers and tradesmen, cattle dealers and thieves would gather here from the surrounding towns and villages. The market square would turn into a place of magic for us, the children. While our parents looked forward to a busy day of commerce and trade, the children would delight in the carousel rides, the circus, and the small zoo which was always set up here.

As I looked at the empty scene in front of me, I recalled that one would also encounter here, Skalat's share of idlers, the chronically unemployed, the beggars and the town idiots. Of the latter, two came to mind: “Rosye myt di pek.” Rose the bag lady, who always walked around with all her possessions tied around herself; and Ivan Bratrura, known in town as “Mykolcye myt di glek” (Nicholas with the bells). Nicholas, a truly mad, young fellow, bedecked in old medals, always rang pieces of tin and bells inviting the taunts of children and repelling them with a barrage of stones. Those that had been Jews, were killed No distinction was ever made between rich and poor, young and old, sane and mad.

I continued to walk around and found a cement rectangle in the middle of the market square. It was covering the former water pump, which I could see every day of my childhood from the front door of our house. Poor Jewish water carriers would eke out a living, carrying water from here to the neighborhood homes. Later, under this pump, Jews were tortured and drowned. From a hiding place in an

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attic near the market, I remembered hearing the screams of the first victims during the pogrom as well as the cries of the last victims, also gathered here during the final 'action' in Skalat.

From the market I walked to the big synagogue. When we were there twenty five years earlier the building had been used as a tractor repair station. Then, there were still some traces left of the building's former use. Now it had been converted into a factory.The main sanctuary with its high ceiling was divided into two stories. The beautiful wall frescos were gone as well as the stained glass windows and any other trace indicating that this was once the main synagogue of Skalat. Walking through the vestibule I remembered when this house of worship was regularly used for study and prayers, and on the Sabbath and holidays for solemn, religious services. Mostly, however, I retained in my memory the river of the doomed which flowed through these doors. Among them were my relatives, neighbors and townsmen. This sanctuary was their last shelter, their final gathering place, and for these victims, in the end, it proved no sanctuary. From here there was no way out, no hope, and no escape.

When we left the synagogue, we walked along the road leading to the railroad station. Along this route the victims of the “Wild Action” also walked, never to return again. On route we passed more destroyed former Jewish neighborhoods. Only a few of the better houses in town were still standing. On a side street and up a narrow alley, stood the building, barely recognizable, where before the war the Torah study house (Talmud Torah) was located. During the German occupation it was used as the seat of the Judenrat. I shivered, remembering stories of deeds which Jews were forced to commit vis-i-vis other Jews; deeds unimaginable and incomprehensible in ordinary times.

We stayed only briefly at the railroad station. The old station house, once neatly painted and adorned with planted flowers, was a shambles and closed. This had once been the point of departure, and often the beginning of adventure for the people of our town. Now there were no people, no signs of activity, and like the rest of the town it lay dormant and deserted. Only freight trains leave from this station occasionally, I was told. Across the railroad where the wetlands used to be, the land had been drained forming a small lake. Here, the largest number of victims taken from our town during the “Wild Action” were tortured and forced to spend a day and a night shivering in the cold, before being loaded into cattle cars for their fatal journey to the Belzec extermination camp.

Returning to town from the station we passed more former Jewish houses. Among them: the Friedman house, the Gelbtuch, the Rosenzweig, Dr. Kron's, Dr. Halpern's, and a few others. Down the road and close to the towers stood the Wagner house. Now dilapidated and boarded up, it had been one of the biggest and loveliest in our town and stood near the Milgrom house, where the revered Rabbi from Osiatyn used to stay during his Shavuot holiday visits to our town. We made a stop at the Gmina, where during the German occupation Meyer Grinfeld had climbed through a window in order to steal documents to be forged into “Aryan Papers.” Another house, Dr. Kron's, was the seat of the Schupo, the headquarters of the feared German Security Police in our town.

The more prosperous people used to live along the main road known as Panska (Gentry) Street. Here were located some of the best homes and stores in town; among them the book, tobacco, candy and drug stores, as well as the homes and offices of a few of the town's lawyers, physicians and dentists. On Saturday afternoons, a segment of the Jewish population, bedecked in their finery, would promenade up and down this street and towards evening stop for candies or ice cream. Young couples and youth groups would pass along the street on their way to outings in the fields and meadows outside of town.

Further up Panska Street we passed landmarks familiar to us: the old schoolhouse, the Sokol - a sports and movie hall, the regional, administrative “Starosta” building and still further up, in opposite directions, the hospital and the former Jewish orphanage. Most of these places have associations for us, the survivors. Before the war, in one small house next to the hospital lived the Polish surgeon of our town, Dr. Strzalkowski. He often tended to the needs of the Jewish community. During the German occupation, for a fee, but nevertheless at a risk to himself, he performed forbidden surgery on Jews. This was often

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done on his kitchen table, under difficult conditions and with a minimum of medical equipment. One such victim who was treated by him was my cousin, Tynka Guss nee' Rosenzweig, for whom he removed the bullet after she was shot in the head during one of the village 'actions.'

At the Jewish cemetery the tombstones had been removed, the ground leveled and cemented, long ago. On our last trip, we had seen the sports field which was built there and, therefore, knew what to expect. Yet, when I approached the cemetery area and heard the cheerful shouts and peals of laughter coming from young athletes playing over the bones of my father and all those buried there, it was more than I could bear. I stopped for a few minutes, said a silent prayer, and left.

From here we went to Nowosiolka and the stone quarry where the Skalat Camp Jews, hungry, terrified and exhausted, had spent their waking hours cutting and breaking up stones. The quarry was now mechanized and the stones were being obtained from a new section. One could still make out, however, the old part of the hill and the road through which Jews, under guard, walked every day on their way to forced labor. I saw this scene when I was hiding in the nearby fields after Skalat was declared Judenfrei. One day, tired, hungry, and having no place to hide, I began to approach the Jews working there in hope of going back to camp with them. Suddenly my stepfather, who worked at the quarry with the other Jews, spotted me from a distance. Climbing to a higher level of the quarry, he started to sing loudly in Yiddish while continuing to break up stones. Through the words of his song he was telling me that I couldn't go back to camp, that it was dangerous there, and that all was lost. He warned me not to dare come any closer or I would be shot. He instructed me to run from this place and try to save myself. I listened for more advice, but his song stopped. Terrified and abandoned, I did as I was told. I turned around and ran as fast as I could.

From the quarry we got into a waiting taxi, hired for the day. With us, besides the driver, was a local man from Skalat. During the German occupation he had been a teenager. He told me how he and his friends had watched the Jews being driven through the streets and into the killing field. He saw them walking with bent heads, four or five abreast with locked arms and leaning against each other for support. I knew from my previous visit to Skalat that the mounds of the mass graves had long since been leveled and plowed under. As we approached the area, the local man pointed out the field and our car came to a stop along the road. Stepping out of the car I beheld a lush, green field planted with sugar beets as far as the eye could see. Familiar red poppies dotted the landscape and on the horizon a row of tall, poplar trees were towering upwards. It seemed unnatural that this pastoral scene should be hiding, deep within its soil, the remnants of such unspeakable violence and death. To camouflage their crimes, the killers picked the execution spots least visible from the road. We started to walk. silently, into the sloping fields. Then, my husband stopped, picked a red poppy, placed it into my hand, and watched me descend further into the field.

When I reached the lowest point, I stopped and sank to the ground. At that instant I sensed the mass graves underneath me, blanketed with fields of green. I imagined that day over fifty years ago when I came so close to sharing with the others my eternity underneath this field. Was the day then just as ordinary as this one? Were the tall, lovely poplars the same mute witnesses? And the sky above, was it as clear and blue? Was He there on that day and on thousands of such days watching just as silently?

I try to imagine what went through the minds of the doomed as I close my eyes. I feel myself among them, standing next to a heap of clothing, I huddle among the undressed men, women and children Suddenly, a real shiver of terror comes over me. In my ears I hear orders being barked. People in rows of five or six are forced to run towards the freshly dug pits. There is shooting and another row of Jews runs up and then another. Now it is our turn, I'm running along side of my mother and my sister. We reach the abyss...the mind goes blank.

After that I could imagine nothing!

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I am still clutching the red poppy in my hand, when I become aware of my surroundings again. I place the flower where I was sitting.

It is early evening as we leave. The taxi makes its way slowly along bumpy, old roads. Behind us we leave the dead, the unmarked graves, the pitiful remnants of what was once Jewish Skalat. I stare for the last time at the disappearing buildings. I seek words to give voice to my anguish, grope for expressions to convey the full measure of what befell us in this town. But I find none, and I leave as I came, in silence. The memories of those that I cannot take along and of what took place here, I take with me. I guard them carefully, to pass on to our children, grandchildren, and those who will come after them.

On the road outside of town I turn back deliberately to catch a final glimpse of the red tiled roofs of the old towers. Then, just as deliberately, I turn away and want to look back no more.

* cheders(s) -A Hebrew religious class for young boys.

Lusia Milch nee' Rosenzweig
New York 1995

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APPENDIX VI

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