The End of Days (17 page)

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Authors: Helen Sendyk

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Historical, #History, #Holocaust, #test

BOOK: The End of Days
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Page 103
Night fell and the train moved again, slowly increasing its speed. Soon, renewed snoring was heard in the car. A numbing cold permeated Heshek's body. He sat crouched for warmth, his eyes closed, but he could not rest. His chattering teeth woke him from sporadic naps.
With another day came more questions and no answers. The rumors and fears grew with the length of their journey. It was clear to all that the Russians did not want these foreigners near the border; it was obvious they were being shipped deep into the interior. But where?
Again the next day the train would run for a while and then stop for hours. Rumor had it that the train lines were needed to ship soldiers, supplies, and the wounded to or from the front. The passengers became more uncomfortable and restless. Many had several layers of clothing on them, along with all their possessions. On and off went people's coats and jackets. Many sprawled on the floor, propped on their shapeless bundles. Some had meager food supplies, while others depended entirely upon the token provisions supplied by the Russians.
Heshek slept on his small bundle, alongside Vrumek's bag. He woke before dawn to find the train had stopped. Officials came aboard, ordering everyone to disembark. When all the passengers were out, the train started up, leaving them to be whipped by the wind in an empty field. Hours passed. Parents sheltered their young ones. Another train eventually arrived, a string of cattle cars with tiny barred windows. The refugees had to help each other climb into the darkened boxcars; the air inside was stagnant and they could barely discern the wooden benches against the walls. The train moved on, and the exhausted travelers settled in for another night.
A week after the journey began they reached a small railroad station, where they were allowed to disembark. They were in a village deep in Russia. As soon as the local peasants saw some money flashed by the strange refugees, they scrambled back to their farms and returned laden with milk, bread, butter, and some fruit. After the welcome break, the passengers were loaded back on the train for the night.
 
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In the tedious days and nights that followed, the only change was in the scenery, as rolling fields studded with small villages gave way to endless, thick forests. It was obvious to all now: they were deep in Siberia.
It was late afternoon when the train finally stopped. Wardens led the way on an hour-long trek down a muddy road. Before nightfall they reached a clearing. Distraught, the refugees looked at the godforsaken forest, thick and foreboding. They were led to several roofless, shaky barracks. Exhausted and bewildered, the travelers collapsed and slumbered till dawn.
Heshek found a corner, tucked his own and Vrumek's bundle under his head, and silently said his prayers before falling asleep. He was drained emotionally and physically, and now he found himself challenged spiritually. Throughout his life Heshek had been a religious man, who never questioned his faith or his God. He loved God unconditionally and joyously observed God's commandments. He was convinced that his own devotion would help speed up the redemption of the Jewish people and promote the coming of the Messiah and a better world.
Now Heshek felt that he and his people must have sinned greatly to have been punished so severely. And why had he escaped the Nazis only to battle the Russians and the elements in this brutal country? He felt utterly alone. True, he was among fellow Jews, but everybody else had someone, a family member, a friend, or neighbor to share their misery.
People began getting organized. Families settled into specific corners of the barracks. Men went into the woods and dragged back planks and branches to make dividers for privacy, and a communal effort was started to rebuild the barracks' roofs. But Heshek remained passive, crushed by the long journey and its dreadful destination.
A fragile man of medium height whose dark beard was sprinkled with gray came over to Heshek. "Young man," he began, "my name is Reb Moishe Spitz. Maybe you would be kind enough to help a little. You see, my wife here is pregnant and can't be of much help. If you would just hold these planks
 
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for me while I knock in the wooden nails, we could have a partition. You would have your own room, and I would have some space for me and my wife and the children."
Heshek's sense of decency was immediately aroused, and his listless body sprang back to life. He thought of Papa and Mama, who looked as vulnerable as Reb Moishe. He looked at Reb Moishe's pregnant wife and thought of Blimcia, who had been expecting a baby when he last saw her.
It must be the will of God, he said to himself. I am here for a purpose, and God is reminding me that I am on this earth to help my fellow man, not to sit and beg for salvation.
Extricated from his gloomy fog, he embarked with new energy on the projects at hand. Into the woods he went with a borrowed saw, sawing trees into short logs, then splitting them into planks. Reb Moishe sat on a rock chopping wood into small splinters to use as nails. Together they built the walls that formed a large room for the Spitz family and a small one for Heshek.
Heshek became more a friend than a neighbor, a resourceful helping hand for Rabbi Spitz, who was unaccustomed to physical exertion and handiwork. Reb Moishe was a deep thinker and provided stimulating company for Heshek. Jewish teaching always surfaced while they were busy working.
"When God commanded Noah to build the ark, he too lacked tools and nails. Still, the ark got built, and they survived the Flood."
"That is so," said Heshek, "but in Noah's case, God instructed him exactly how to build the ark. His intention was to save Noah and thereby rebuild the world. God, however, does not seem to be instructing us here. From the looks of this vast wilderness, this endless war, and our Russian friends, who knows if God intends for us to survive?"
"Heshek, Heshek, you are talking like a nonbeliever, which surprises me after hearing about your background. Can't you see? It is clear that God has given us all the traveling and physical labor that we tried to save by not going to Palestine after the Great War. And after this Great Flood, this world war, the goyim will be weak from destroying each other. All these
 
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trains and ocean liners and airplanes that the Almighty allowed this century to invent will hurl us back to our promised land. Surely we are in the period of great destruction that was prophesied millennia ago.
"And Heshek, don't despair over the many tragedies that befell our families and hometowns. Each victim of the cruel enemy is a holy martyr, a merit for us in heaven, another stone in the Third Temple, may it be built speedily and in our days. There is no answerin this worldto the question of why so many have perished. But why, Heshek, are you and I alive? We all just went through three weeks of unbelievable tribulations, yet we are here building our ark. Surely it will carry us on the stormy waters to our redemption."
Reb Moishe's optimistic vision was invigorating. Although burdened with his pregnant wife Gittel and two daughters, Sheindle and Shprintza, none of whom could really work, he constantly saw the positive side of things. His infectious spirit gave Heshek and others the faith and will to persevere.
"When the Germans came to our village and began their ruthless expulsions, I was the first to leave," Reb Moishe stated. "My estate was not rich, my house was not large, so I quickly gathered my precious possessions, my wife and children, and fled. They burned the town to the ground, I was told. People lost fortunes, homes, stores. I was merely a poor
melamed
[teacher]. My wealth is my ability to teach Torah, which I always carry with me and which cannot be stolen or burnt."
Heshek's childhood belief in God was replenished by Reb Moishe. In these bleak circumstances, he felt it was God's grace that placed him next to this outwardly fragile but inwardly invincible man.
Heshek stayed close to Reb Moishe as they were assigned their labor contingents. They were to work in the woods cutting trees for lumber, hard manual labor to which neither of the men was suited. The meager portions of food were allocated by priority. Able-bodied workers received one hundred grams of bread daily, while nonworking inmates got only half as much. Some potatoes, cabbage, or beans were also dis-
 
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tributed according to priority. Food was withheld for disobedience or for not filling quotas. Workers who produced above quota were awarded an extra slice of bread.
Heshek worked feverishly to provide Reb Moishe's household with adequate food. "You know I have no one to cook for me. I am better off taking my meals with your family," Heshek said to his neighbors.
Heshek pretended to be helplessly in need of their hospitality, when in reality, the Spitz family would have starved without his major contribution. Gittel would heat some water on the open hearth that the men built for her, crumbling some black crusts of bread into the pot to make them a hot broth for supper. Reb Moishe and Heshek would come from the forest exhausted, carrying firewood on their backs. The girls found employment cleaning the barracks of the Russian wardens and would sometimes be rewarded with little bundles of tea, barley, or grain. Gittel would trek into the woods to find berries, mushrooms, or wild beets.
While Reb Moishe prayed the evening service with Heshek, Gittel would busy herself at the "stove." After meals, Heshek liked to linger for a discussion of the holy books. Not that they had any books with them, but Reb Moishe spent his life with Scripture, the commentaries, and the codes of the Law and could even quote much from memory. These shared spiritual and intellectual moments rescued Heshek from his life of brutal labor and gnawing loneliness.
It was only several days after his arrival that Heshek went to the commandant to inquire about sending a letter to his family. "Is there any possibility of getting some writing paper and ink?" he inquired politely of the Russian.
"Sure there is," the Russian boisterously replied. "Here in Russia there is no such thing as 'We do not have.' If we do not have it here, we issue a request for it from elsewhere."
Well aware of how long it took them to get there from Lvov, Heshek understood why receiving the paper and getting his letters back to civilization was a matter of months.
One letter he addressed to his brother Vrumek in Lvov, and another he mailed to his parents' home in Chrzanow. He
 
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wanted his family to know that he was alive, resolving to tell them that all was well. He spared them concern over his dismal situation. Using his imagination, he told them of the beauty of the land he now lived in. He described the enormity and richness of the vast woods. He wrote of the white night, when the moon shone so brightly that one could read by it. He told them of his conversations with his Russian warden, who assured him that in Russia there was no lack of anything. When he told the man that in his hometown they had a store with citrus fruits like grapefruit and oranges, the warden answered, "Oh, yes, of course, oranges. We have huge factories of oranges in Russia."
Since his arrival in the Siberian work camp, Heshek had been studying Russian and was now able to write his address in Russian. He brought his correspondence over to the commandant, who made him read the letters out loud and translate word for word. Impressed with Heshek's colorful and glowing descriptions of Siberia, he promised to mail the letters out with the next week's delivery wagon. From then on the commandant engaged Heshek as a translator every time anyone wanted to mail a letter. Heshek learned fast, picking up the Russian language and script in a short while.
The only news of the outside world arrived with the food wagon. People were anxious to hear what course the war was taking. The news that filtered through the Russian guards was always the same: Mother Russia was winning the war.
"If so, why can't we go home to Poland?" the Jews would ask.
"Because there is no more Poland," the Russians would answer. "It is all Russia, like it is supposed to be. You are home. This is your land. You are to love it and serve it. You are to be dedicated Communists. You are to love our Papa Stalin, who is so good to you. This is the land you are to live for and die for."
It was March of 1942. "The sky is all snowed out," Gittel said one evening. There cannot be anymore snowstorms. I could

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