My Story in the Holocaust

On March 19, 1942, I was sent by the Judenrat (the Jewish Council) to build underground storage facilities. Our group was led to a bleak, desolate place outside the city where a tall German with a red, square face told us that if we worked hard we would get extra food rations.

After a long day of digging, breaking up large boulders and carting away the dirt in wheelbarrows, I went home with a coupon for an extra half pound of bread, and, with some pride, I gave it to my father. But I was disappointed when he said, "I've arranged a new job for you. You'll be a carpenter for the German army." I was upset. I did not know carpentry and I did not want to lose the extra bread rations.

Anxious and worried, I left for my new job the next morning. It was still dark outside and lights shone through the small windows. The ramshackle streets were covered with a blanket of white snow. The ghetto seemed quiet and peaceful.

I was assigned to help a German soldier named Hans. He turned out to be a friendly fellow who laughed heartily at my clumsy handling of the saw. "To make a straight cut you have to pull the saw gently. Don't jerk it. Don't use force," he admonished.

I was so absorbed in my work that I took no note of the sporadic shooting that erupted at midday.

At lunch time, I sat at the roadside with Willy, the other Jewish carpenter. A passing Ukrainian peasant warned, "They are killing the Jews in town. Why aren't you boys hiding?"

"Killing Jews? What are you saying?" I asked in disbelief.

"Look, there," he said, "see for yourself."

When I followed the old peasant's pointing finger, I saw, about 500 yards away, heavy German trucks disgorging groups of people who were then forced to walk uphill. The shooting persisted, intermittently, but I could not believe that killings were taking place.

I did not know what to do, but before I could decide, Willy took off, running in the direction of the railroad station. After a moment's hesitation, I bolted after him.

We found shelter in a storage room, hiding in a far corner under a mound of cement. The shootings grew louder and louder, soon turning into a continuous barrage. I leaned against Willy and felt his heart racing.

We sat there for what seemed to be forever. At 5 o'clock, the shootings stopped. Covered with cement dust, we crawled out of our hideout, and, still dazed, we walked back to the ghetto.

On the way home, I saw a horse-drawn wagon heaped with stained clothing. The driver walked alongside, whip in hand, and behind were five Jews.

I heard someone call out, "Al, come help us. We are taking the bodies for burial." It was our neighbor, Jankel.

"For burial?" It still made no sense. Nobody buries stained clothing. As I looked more closely, my heart skipped a beat. The wagon did not haul bloodstained clothing -- these were dead bodies!

I wanted to run home to see what happened to my family. But how could I refuse? I joined the other Jews behind the wagon.

Overloaded with the corpses, the buggy swayed. The horses slowed.

"Let's push," yelled the driver. Grabbing the wooden railing, I saw, to my horror, the face of a classmate. "Oh my God! It's Arnoldek." I felt a tremor passing through my body.

Arnold Rek, or Arnoldek as we used to call him, was a plump, good-natured boy. We shared the same bench at school. He loved candy and his rustling of crushed wrappers used to drive me crazy. Only yesterday I kidded around with him. Now he lay dead, his head piercing through the wagon's side spindles.

When we arrived at our destination, a hideous scene unfolded: in a tremendous pit, bodies floated in a sea of blood. The Germans were gone but the pit was guarded by the Ukrainian militia. They told us to dump the bodies into the pit and to collect those of the victims who had been shot trying to escape.

After we finished our ghastly task, Moses the Shoemaker called out, "Jews, let us say Kaddish."

We lined up at the edge of the pit and began to recite the age-old prayer. "Yisgaddal w'yiskadash Shmej Rabu ... And the name of the Lord be sanctified and extolled." But standing before this mass grave of innocent victims, praising God seemed sacrilegious, blasphemous! I couldn't do it.

I glanced at the mourners, these broken people who with rhythmic motions repeated the sacred prayer as their forefathers had for a thousand years. In them, I had a glimpse of the indestructible Jewish