I Am a Survivor
Imagine a fiery plane crash, the collapse of an enormous building in a immense earthquake, or the sinking of a ship on a savage sea, each of them claiming the lives of everyone involved except one. Astonishingly, from time to time, someone faces such perils and somehow manages to survive while everyone else simply perishes. Is it a miracle? I don't know, but to believe in miracles, first you must believe. The plane, building and ship survivors certainly cannot be faulted for believing, but someone who has survived the unbridled and calculated inhumanity of the men of Nazi Germany can never do so. I am one such survivor: my name is Isaac Edelstein and this is my story.
My early childhood was carefree and happy. My mother was a kind, loving, and gentle woman who cared for my sister and me without question or compromise. My father, a pharmacist, was hard working and dedicated to both his work and his family. When we were younger, they'd take turns reading us the classics, where virtue and justice always prevailed; we had no way knowing then that virtue and justice lived only on those pages. Yes, I was a happy boy, yet so nave and so innocent. Fortunately, I possessed one other quality: I was fast. At school, there was not another boy who could keep up with me. As it turned out, little could have been more important than this.
I was just a boy of 14 when I noticed things beginning to change. The adults seemed to always be speaking with such urgency, although when my sister or I were around, they mostly whispered, trying to shield us from the reality of the Nazi monster. It was right around this time that we all started to work feverishly on building a secret cellar in my uncle's house. He was an engineer, and the cellar was so superbly crafted that it was almost impossible to tell even where the trap door in the floor boards was located. I should have known why we were building it. I certainly could have figured it out, but the last vestiges of the innocence of my carefree childhood must have stood in the way. When it was completed we all went down into the cellar to test our handiwork, but we quickly discovered we had overlooked something very important: air. My uncle's hasty fix of simply placing a tube from the cellar up to the garden above made me realize there wouldn't be much more time before we'd be using this cellar for more than just storage.
My entire family stayed at my uncle's after that, and one morning I was awoken by shouts, whistles, and screams of soldiers: round up 3000, round up 3000. In no time we were all in the cellar, safe, or so we thought. I could hear the pounding at the door, the crash of the Jewish Police breaking it in, the shuffle of their boots upon the floor boards, and the incredulous exchanges that no one was there. Our collective hearts raced until finally the last one had left the house. My uncle had done it; we had fooled them; we would not be part of the 3000, but moments later I heard a sound coming through the air tube. It was the voices of the police, and incredibly they had stumbled upon the air tube my uncle hurriedly placed in the garden. Having found the tube, they had found us. The muffled voices through the tube became clearer, they are in there, they shouted. Judging from the noise there were now dozens of men in the house, not searching, but smashing the floor boards with axes. The only thing more frightening than the sound of the axes was the terror of not knowing what they would do with us.
We were all taken to the train station: my father, my mother, my sister, my uncle, my aunt, my beautiful cousin Tasha, and her 4 year old brother whom I was so fond of. We sat waiting with thousands of others who had been rounded up like us. Tasha's boyfriend, a member of the Jewish Police, happened upon us. When he saw Tasha, for him there could be no choice; he stripped off the safety and security of his armband and sat down with Tasha. Wherever she was going, he'd go too. Then, as now, I couldn't decide if this was the most courageous or most foolish act I'd ever witnessed, but either way, it was most assuredly suicide.
On the line we saw the village carpenter with his tools walking by. He had liked me and my family, and he quickly and surreptitiously handed me a small hammer, and said to us, don't go on that train. Just then another man right in front of us made a break for the woods. A soldier, starting the chase, knocked into my head so hard I tumbled to the ground and could barely hear afterwards. The fleeing man was quickly caught and, to our horror, killed on the spot. The carpenter was right, but what could we do?
The soldiers began sorting us into groups, men to the left, women to the right. I had no way of knowing it at the time, but I would never see my dear mother, sister, or beautiful Tasha again; no doubt they were all killed in the gas chambers. My father, my uncle and 4 year old cousin were packed into a boxcar with so many other boys and men. High atop the boxcar was a window. I showed my father the carpenter's hammer and hope came across his face: you've given us a chance, he said. Once the train started to move, my father broke the window with the hammer. We somehow climbed up and one by one took the treacherous plunge. I managed to unwittingly time my leap with a telephone pole along the side of the track which I slammed into with the entire left side of my body, and just as I collapsed into a heap on the ground, my cousin landed right on top of me. Breaking his fall was little consolation, but we were off the train.
My father immediately took my broken body to the hospital where they bandaged me up, but with Germans in the streets, there was no place to go. The doctors of the hospital had done exactly what my uncle had done by building a secret shelter underneath the hospital. It was a desperate time, and we begged for them to let us use the shelter. We don't have room for the both of you; we can just take the boy. My mother was gone, my sister was gone, no, I was not going to leave my father. I convinced my father that we could both hide on the roof of the hospital. I figured the hospital was filled with sick people; who would think of looking up on the roof of a hospital?
For the next few days, shouting, screaming, crying and gunshots affirmed the terror that reigned on the streets of the ghetto below. Jews were forced from every home, stripped naked, and executed. My uncle and 4 year old cousin, who had gone back to the ghetto, couldn't escape a second time. Finally the killing subsided, but we saw that some Jews were kept alive, as slaves, to perform the clean up. Hunger and cold forced us to give up our rooftop safety, and we went down and quietly joined Jews doing the clean up. We were ordered to search the towering piles of clothing of the murdered Jews for valuables. I found some money and put it in my shoe. Each day, we were checked, but somehow they never found the money I had hidden.
Shortly after, they put dozens of us in a large wagon: we're taking you to another town. By now we knew better, there was no other town, it was a trip to certain death. My father, a young couple, and I slipped off the back of the wagon and fled into the woods. These old forests were dark and forbidding, but excellent for hiding. The four of us lived under a collection of rotting logs and moss. During the day, my father would go to town to buy food for us with the money I had found in the clothing. It was a miserable existence, yet somehow having my father was comfort enough.
One afternoon, my father was late in returning. Afternoon turned to night, and night to morning: something had happened. I knew it was dangerous, but I went to search for my father. If only I was not so brave, if only my search was fruitless, perhaps than I wouldn't have had to live with the hatred I have. On the edge of the village I found him. Not dead. No, dead would have been a gift. He was cut to pieces. These animals had butchered him in every way imaginable. As if a bullet had pierced my heart, I collapsed to the ground.
When I came to, I was surrounded by soldiers. Apparently, my coming to must have caught them off guard because as soon as I regained my senses, I shot to my feet, pushed two soldiers aside, and ran faster than I had ever run before. Soldiers were right on my heels, so close I could hear the sound of them grasping for air, and thought that it would be mere seconds before they had me and cut me to pieces too. Thankfully, that schoolboy speed I had was just enough to allude their initial chase, but yet they pursued me for what must have been hours before finally giving up, or at least so I had thought. By night I had made it back to our camp and told the couple what had happened. We heard activity outside that night and knew if wouldn't be long before they would find us. In the morning, the couple had made a decision to hang themselves rather than live like this or be killed at German hands. I told them not to, that together, we would find a way. I succeeded; I had talked them out of it: I felt as if I had saved their lives. You could then imagine my shock when, the very next day, they told me they were going to try to save themselves, but I couldn't come. My mother dead, my father dead, my family gone, and me, just a small boy, how could they just leave me all alone in the woods, yet, despite my pleading, they did just that: they left me, I was now completely alone. Alone in a sense no one should ever have to know, especially not a small boy: no family, no friends, no home, no shelter, no food, and being hunted like an animal.
Finding help wasn't just dangerous for me, but for anyone who would even think of helping me. The Germans had given orders that anyone who helped a Jew would be shot on the spot. I'd go to villages and certainly no one would take me in, but mercifully, some gave me water, some gave me food. I slept in doorways, alleys, and trenches; I was always on the look out and always on the move. My clothing was in tatters and winter was bearing down when I remembered my mother had been smart enough to give some of our clothing to one of our neighbors, a very kindly professor, in hopes that one day we could reclaim them. I went to him and asked for some of my clothing so that I could survive the winter. He looked very compassionate and said to come back tomorrow, and he would take care of me.
When I arrived the next day, I should have sensed something was wrong when he spoke to me in German, not Polish. I should have turned and run, but it was too late. German soldiers were upon me. I was set up by the professor. Dirty Jew he said as they took me to a jail and threw me in a cell with many other men, just men, no boys. Each day several men were taken, seemingly at random, dragged outside and shot. If this torture were not enough, incredibly, from the window of my cell I could see my former schoolmates playing and laughing outside. I couldn't understand: why I asked myself, why are they out there and why am I in here?
Two of the men in my cell must have paid off, or possibly knew, one of the guards, because they never ate the meager rations with us. I couldn't understand how these men could survive without eating, but they were eating: the guard was secretly feeding them the officer's food. One night, I overhead them talking: Each Christmas the German soldiers get drunk, so on Christmas Eve, I'll leave the window open so you can escape.
I had been gone so long, I had no idea what day it was, nor when Christmas would come. I forced myself to stay awake each night so as not to miss Christmas and my chance to escape. A few nights later, just as the guard had said, the soldiers were drunk and the window was open. The two men climbed out, and I followed right behind, but the men went their own way. Fortunately, I had grown up in this town and knew where to hide. The next day the two men were caught and shot; the guard too was shot.
After a few more weeks of hiding, the town started to be cleared out by the Germans, and seizing the opportunity, I found a blue mail carriers suit in one of the houses. Miraculously, inside the coat pocket were identification papers. I put the suit on and not long after, I was stopped by German soldiers. The papers fooled them, and they put me to work sorting and delivering supplies.
The end of the war was coming and all the higher ranking German soldiers were leaving. I remember the commandant telling a common soldier that, to his surprise, he was now in charge. A few days later I awoke and all the soldiers were gone, the Russians had entered the town. Russian liberation however was not what one would think. For two days these animals were given carte blanche to literally rape, pillage and plunder the town. They took me to a belligerent Russian captain who accused me of being a spy: you, a Jew, working for the Germans, you must be a spy. I was certain I would be the next victim of Russian justice, but somehow I managed to get a higher ranking Russian soldier to hear my story. As it turned out, he was a KGB agent who was keeping close tabs on the belligerent captain. He was so taken with my story, that a boy of 14 could survive alone for over a year while eluding the Germans, that he sent me to a family in Vienna. There I traded whatever I could, mostly cigarettes and vodka, to make money. I became very close with the family and found the woman I would fall in love with and later marry.
An uncle of mine who had the good sense to leave to America before it was too late, wanted to find his remaining family. So thorough were the Nazis, that he found only me; there was no one else. He brought me to America with so much fanfare that the NY Times published a picture of us, Holocaust Survivor Comes to America. No doubt it is better to forgive and forget, and I'm sure some did, but I wasn't capable of it. Despite finally being safe, despite being back with some remaining family, I returned to my home town a few years later. I found that kindly professor who so deceitfully and enthusiastically turned me in to the Nazis. When I told the authorities what he had done, they had him arrested. I also found the couple who had left me in the woods: there were no words, I spit on them.
Here in America, my life, with a loving family, has been full and rich, and my gratefulness and appreciation is of a depth that only one who has looked into the face of unconscionable malevolence and somehow survived can understand. Yet, despite this, and even now so many years later, each day I have to fight these demons, the image of my father's butchered body, the look of fear and hopelessness on poor Tasha's face at the train station, the heart-pounding terror of being chased through the woods by German soldiers, the sound of axes chopping through the wood floor, and worst of all, the hatred I harbor for the animals who committed these atrocity.
I am Isaac Edelstein, please remember my story.
Author's note:
Although I have changed the names, this is an absolutely true story that Isaac, who affectionately calls me his adopted son, as I call him my adopted father, recounted directly to me during a rare moment when he was courageous enough to endure the pain of reliving these memories.