Rescued Jewish Children
Polina Tkatsch-Davidson
‘We Would Even Have Given You to Gypsies’
Polina Tkatsch-Davidson
From Smuggled in Potato Sacks
Fifty Stories of the Hidden Children of the Kaunas Ghetto
Editors
Solomon Abramovich
and Yakov Zilberg
I was born in Kaunas on 27 February 1940 to Moshe Tkatsch and Dvora, née Levinsky. My name is Polina though I am registered as Pesia, in memory of my father’s brother Pesach. Before the Second World War my mother was a Hebrew language teacher. During the Soviet regime, it was prohibited to speak and, naturally, to teach Hebrew; the communists regarded it as a nationalistic language. Later, in Israel, my mother would give free private Hebrew lessons to children in the neighbourhood. My father went to work when he was very young, enabling his four brothers and sisters to receive an education.
In 1935, my uncle Pesach and my father, who was the captain of a football team, participated in the Second Maccabia games in Palestine. After the games, my father returned to Lithuania but my uncle remained in Palestine where he became a ‘Shomer’, a guard, in a military organization that guarded Jewish settlements. In 1938 he was killed by Arabs. My grandmother continued to receive letters written by others in his name. Only when I was born and named after him was she informed of his death.
I know all this from my father’s stories; Mother never spoke of these things, she never laughed, she never cried, the Germans robbed her of her laughter and tears. When my old friend from our student years, Yakov (Yashka) Zilberg, contacted me to discuss the project about the hidden children of Kaunas, I begged my mother to tell me what had happened to us during the Holocaust. I finally convinced her to share everything she remembers and in 2002, for the first time, I recorded her story. About half a year later, my mother passed away at the age of 84. I am so grateful to Yashka, that thanks to his persistence, I have my mother’s voice recorded.
Yashka and I spent six years in the same group of the Kaunas Medical School. Though we were close friends, we knew nothing about our common past as hidden children of the Kaunas Ghetto.
During the so-called ‘Intellectual’s Action’ the Germans invited the educated members of the community to volunteer for more ‘professional’ work. Your father persuaded his youngest brother Benesh not to volunteer. With this he saved his life. All 500 intellectuals were shot. By doing this, the Germans straightaway eliminated people of the highest calibre from the community and thus weakened it.
On 28 October 1941, the darkest day of the ghetto, during the ‘selection’ we were sent to the left side and survived. I can still hear the bitter weeping that sounded from homes of the ghetto.
During so-called ‘Children’s Action’ I was fortunate to conceal you in my friend’s kitchen. She put up wallpaper and camouflaged the door that led to the kitchen. She covered that wall with pots and pans and the Germans overlooked it. There were other mothers and children in this hideout. They put pressure on me to take you out from the hiding place since you were suffering from whooping cough. I would stuff a towel in your mouth whenever we heard the Germans approaching. It was a ‘Nes’, a miracle, that we were not discovered.
After this event I feared letting you out of the house. I was even afraid of the neighbours whose children had already been taken away. When they asked me where my daughter was, I’d say ‘same place as yours’. You were a bright girl and knew to crawl under the table when someone knocked at the door. I laid a long tablecloth over this table to conceal you. We knew that we had not yet seen the last of these ‘actions’ and we started considering ways of getting you out of danger. We understood that if there was at least a small chance that you would survive it was in a caring Lithuanian home. We opted therefore to give you to virtually whoever would accept. We would even have given you to gypsies.
Occasionally we managed to smuggle things out of the ghetto and exchange them for food. One day, your father managed to bring home butter. Usually, butter obtained in this way would be filled with sawdust, but on this occasion the butter was genuine. On the basis of her evident honesty, your father decided to find the woman who had supplied us this butter and ask if she might help us.
We lived in one room with four other families and, when they had all fallen asleep, your father told me that he had found this woman and that she was willing to take you. I was horrified at the thought of separation but he urged me to meet her. Her name was Anele Janavichiene. She looked like a simple woman; she brought bread rolls with her that she had baked especially for you. She took me into her home which was a small room in a very modest house. Anele subsisted by trading goods. I asked her how we could pay her for her assistance, others had wanted only gold. She looked at me with surprise, saying for this one does not charge. She warned me that she would not be able to keep you for long, that she would teach you to speak Lithuanian and then send you to her friend in a different village.
Your father and I had to figure out how we would manage to get you out of the ghetto. We bribed the guard. Moshe pretended that he had to deliver bread to the ghetto and to do this he required a carriage and a sack. The sack was filled with hay, you were sedated and we covered your face with muslin. You fell asleep but awoke not far from the gate and started asking us in Yiddish where you were being taken to. We had to turn back.
Polina Tkatsch-Davidson
From Smuggled in Potato Sacks
Fifty Stories of the Hidden Children of the Kaunas Ghetto
Editors
Solomon Abramovich
and Yakov Zilberg
I was born in Kaunas on 27 February 1940 to Moshe Tkatsch and Dvora, née Levinsky. My name is Polina though I am registered as Pesia, in memory of my father’s brother Pesach. Before the Second World War my mother was a Hebrew language teacher. During the Soviet regime, it was prohibited to speak and, naturally, to teach Hebrew; the communists regarded it as a nationalistic language. Later, in Israel, my mother would give free private Hebrew lessons to children in the neighbourhood. My father went to work when he was very young, enabling his four brothers and sisters to receive an education.
In 1935, my uncle Pesach and my father, who was the captain of a football team, participated in the Second Maccabia games in Palestine. After the games, my father returned to Lithuania but my uncle remained in Palestine where he became a ‘Shomer’, a guard, in a military organization that guarded Jewish settlements. In 1938 he was killed by Arabs. My grandmother continued to receive letters written by others in his name. Only when I was born and named after him was she informed of his death.
I know all this from my father’s stories; Mother never spoke of these things, she never laughed, she never cried, the Germans robbed her of her laughter and tears. When my old friend from our student years, Yakov (Yashka) Zilberg, contacted me to discuss the project about the hidden children of Kaunas, I begged my mother to tell me what had happened to us during the Holocaust. I finally convinced her to share everything she remembers and in 2002, for the first time, I recorded her story. About half a year later, my mother passed away at the age of 84. I am so grateful to Yashka, that thanks to his persistence, I have my mother’s voice recorded.
Yashka and I spent six years in the same group of the Kaunas Medical School. Though we were close friends, we knew nothing about our common past as hidden children of the Kaunas Ghetto.
During the so-called ‘Intellectual’s Action’ the Germans invited the educated members of the community to volunteer for more ‘professional’ work. Your father persuaded his youngest brother Benesh not to volunteer. With this he saved his life. All 500 intellectuals were shot. By doing this, the Germans straightaway eliminated people of the highest calibre from the community and thus weakened it.
On 28 October 1941, the darkest day of the ghetto, during the ‘selection’ we were sent to the left side and survived. I can still hear the bitter weeping that sounded from homes of the ghetto.
During so-called ‘Children’s Action’ I was fortunate to conceal you in my friend’s kitchen. She put up wallpaper and camouflaged the door that led to the kitchen. She covered that wall with pots and pans and the Germans overlooked it. There were other mothers and children in this hideout. They put pressure on me to take you out from the hiding place since you were suffering from whooping cough. I would stuff a towel in your mouth whenever we heard the Germans approaching. It was a ‘Nes’, a miracle, that we were not discovered.
After this event I feared letting you out of the house. I was even afraid of the neighbours whose children had already been taken away. When they asked me where my daughter was, I’d say ‘same place as yours’. You were a bright girl and knew to crawl under the table when someone knocked at the door. I laid a long tablecloth over this table to conceal you. We knew that we had not yet seen the last of these ‘actions’ and we started considering ways of getting you out of danger. We understood that if there was at least a small chance that you would survive it was in a caring Lithuanian home. We opted therefore to give you to virtually whoever would accept. We would even have given you to gypsies.
Occasionally we managed to smuggle things out of the ghetto and exchange them for food. One day, your father managed to bring home butter. Usually, butter obtained in this way would be filled with sawdust, but on this occasion the butter was genuine. On the basis of her evident honesty, your father decided to find the woman who had supplied us this butter and ask if she might help us.
We lived in one room with four other families and, when they had all fallen asleep, your father told me that he had found this woman and that she was willing to take you. I was horrified at the thought of separation but he urged me to meet her. Her name was Anele Janavichiene. She looked like a simple woman; she brought bread rolls with her that she had baked especially for you. She took me into her home which was a small room in a very modest house. Anele subsisted by trading goods. I asked her how we could pay her for her assistance, others had wanted only gold. She looked at me with surprise, saying for this one does not charge. She warned me that she would not be able to keep you for long, that she would teach you to speak Lithuanian and then send you to her friend in a different village.
Your father and I had to figure out how we would manage to get you out of the ghetto. We bribed the guard. Moshe pretended that he had to deliver bread to the ghetto and to do this he required a carriage and a sack. The sack was filled with hay, you were sedated and we covered your face with muslin. You fell asleep but awoke not far from the gate and started asking us in Yiddish where you were being taken to. We had to turn back.
The following day, I dressed in my best outfit, removed the yellow star and begged you to stay quiet as we left the ghetto. We crossed the river in a boat and arrived at Anele’s home. As soon as we entered, my heart stopped: a Gestapo’s army uniform hung on her wall. Upon seeing my expression, Anele tried to assure me that the uniform belonged to her lover, that there was no cause for concern and that I must calm down. I stayed with you the first night and the next day returned to the ghetto alone. Though a bond was struck instantly between you and Anele and I could see that you loved her, the sight of the Gestapo uniform continued to disturb me.
Anele’s neighbours very quickly began to suspect that you were a Jewish child and Annle, having changed your name to Marite Jonavichute, transferred you to the friend who lived in a different village. I corresponded with him through Anele, I asked him not to beat my daughter. His wife was expecting a child. He himself was a Communist and the Germans soon had him killed.
The ghetto was liquidated. I was taken to Stutthof, your father was sent to Dachau. I found out only after the war that he did not even make it to Dachau. He had jumped off the train.
There was nothing to eat in the house and I was sent out to beg. I went outside; it was a day when Germans were snatching Lithuanian women at random. They were abducted from the streets and sent to Germany to work. I was standing with my hand outstretched when the abductions began. A young Lithuanian woman saw me, took me in her arms and feigned to be my mother so she would be left alone. She later fed me and let me go. I know I lived in several other places, I think I remember only the last. There was a young childless couple and an old lady. I was loved there and they hoped I would remain with them.
My father found me. There was only one house still standing in the village and I was in this house. The old lady understood immediately that it was my father. She did not want to let me go when she learnt from my father’s accounts that my mother’s whereabouts were unknown and that it was not clear if she was dead or alive. I was wary of acknowledging that this was my father. Only when he revealed a blue bonnet, which I recognized to be my mother’s, I could identify him as my real father.
When my mother was released from the camp, she decided to write to Professor Mazhylis, a famous gynaecologist in Kaunas. The envelope did not have an address. Mother did not know him personally but trusted that it would reach him. In the letter she requested that he pass this note to the first Jew he encountered. This letter eventually found its way to my father and thus he came to know that my mother was alive. By then I had been living with my father and my cousin Aviva, whom my father had also located.
I remember the day I was reunited with my mother. Father was suffering from a headache and with a wet towel on his head he opened the door. A woman was standing there, crying and crying. It took a long time for me to register that this was my mother.
In lectures at the Kaunas Medical School, I would look into the eyes of Professor Mazhylis, always intending to thank him for having delivered my mother’s letter to the right hands. When finally I resolved to do this, I saw the announcements that Professor Mazhylis had passed away. Nothing important in life should be delayed.
I graduated from Kaunas Medical School in 1965. I married a fellow student. Our first son Erik was born in 1964 and the second son Simon in 1970. We all emigrated to Israel in 1972. We always remained in contact with Anele, she had no family. We wanted to take her to Israel with us but she was not prepared to leave Lithuania. A photograph of her hangs in my bedroom, I am eternally grateful to her. She had been a special lady. There had not been many of them. Anele was awarded the title of ‘Righteous Among the Nations’ after her death.
I worked as a paediatrician in Netanya. For the last twelve years before retirement I was in charge of a large clinic in the Israeli Health Maintenance Organization. Whenever I walk along the streets of Netanya, the children who were my former patients (most of them are parents today), or their parents greet me warmly. It is touching to know they still remember me.
Netanya, Israel, 2008
First published in 2011 by Vallentine Mitchell
London, Portland, OR
Anele’s neighbours very quickly began to suspect that you were a Jewish child and Annle, having changed your name to Marite Jonavichute, transferred you to the friend who lived in a different village. I corresponded with him through Anele, I asked him not to beat my daughter. His wife was expecting a child. He himself was a Communist and the Germans soon had him killed.
The ghetto was liquidated. I was taken to Stutthof, your father was sent to Dachau. I found out only after the war that he did not even make it to Dachau. He had jumped off the train.
There was nothing to eat in the house and I was sent out to beg. I went outside; it was a day when Germans were snatching Lithuanian women at random. They were abducted from the streets and sent to Germany to work. I was standing with my hand outstretched when the abductions began. A young Lithuanian woman saw me, took me in her arms and feigned to be my mother so she would be left alone. She later fed me and let me go. I know I lived in several other places, I think I remember only the last. There was a young childless couple and an old lady. I was loved there and they hoped I would remain with them.
My father found me. There was only one house still standing in the village and I was in this house. The old lady understood immediately that it was my father. She did not want to let me go when she learnt from my father’s accounts that my mother’s whereabouts were unknown and that it was not clear if she was dead or alive. I was wary of acknowledging that this was my father. Only when he revealed a blue bonnet, which I recognized to be my mother’s, I could identify him as my real father.
When my mother was released from the camp, she decided to write to Professor Mazhylis, a famous gynaecologist in Kaunas. The envelope did not have an address. Mother did not know him personally but trusted that it would reach him. In the letter she requested that he pass this note to the first Jew he encountered. This letter eventually found its way to my father and thus he came to know that my mother was alive. By then I had been living with my father and my cousin Aviva, whom my father had also located.
I remember the day I was reunited with my mother. Father was suffering from a headache and with a wet towel on his head he opened the door. A woman was standing there, crying and crying. It took a long time for me to register that this was my mother.
In lectures at the Kaunas Medical School, I would look into the eyes of Professor Mazhylis, always intending to thank him for having delivered my mother’s letter to the right hands. When finally I resolved to do this, I saw the announcements that Professor Mazhylis had passed away. Nothing important in life should be delayed.
I graduated from Kaunas Medical School in 1965. I married a fellow student. Our first son Erik was born in 1964 and the second son Simon in 1970. We all emigrated to Israel in 1972. We always remained in contact with Anele, she had no family. We wanted to take her to Israel with us but she was not prepared to leave Lithuania. A photograph of her hangs in my bedroom, I am eternally grateful to her. She had been a special lady. There had not been many of them. Anele was awarded the title of ‘Righteous Among the Nations’ after her death.
I worked as a paediatrician in Netanya. For the last twelve years before retirement I was in charge of a large clinic in the Israeli Health Maintenance Organization. Whenever I walk along the streets of Netanya, the children who were my former patients (most of them are parents today), or their parents greet me warmly. It is touching to know they still remember me.
Netanya, Israel, 2008
First published in 2011 by Vallentine Mitchell
London, Portland, OR