rescuers of jews
Pietrovskis Stanislovas
Marija PIETROVSKA
Stanislavas PIETROVSKIS
Browsing through family papers, I came across a letter from America that reached my mother some time in the early 1950s. The date on the postage stamp was indiscernible, only the black smeared stamp “mezhdunarodnoye” (international) could be deciphered.
“Dear Jadzia and family, I am glad that everything is well, that dear Daddy Stanislavas is healthy...“
One would say it is an ordinary letter with spelling mistakes written in an untrained hand. It is a letter telling of very earthly things – that daughter Krysia got married and has two daughters and a son, that together with Nahem the author owns a butcher's which provides enough money to live, and that, in general, to grumble is sinful. It also states that Leiba and Leibienė used to live in the countryside and rear chickens, but later they abandoned this trade. At present they are living in New York and everything is going well for them again. The author of the letter promises a parcel, sends her best regards, and kisses “a million times.”
A grey envelope, slightly touched by time. The letter was written by Sonia Golomb – 1920 Woltuway, Bronx 53, N.Y. Most likely the street is different because its name is impossible to read.
I reassemble fragments of stories that I heard in my childhood. My grandfather Stanislavas Pietrovskis saved several Jewish families during the war. My parents died fairly young, and I do not know much about my mother's friendship with Sonia Golomb. I remember that in the evenings we would beg for terrible details about the wartime. Our grandfather lived on the outskirts of town. His lonely farmstead stood in the middle of a field. Later, the concrete residential blocks of Pašilaičiai were built on my grandfather's hectares. Nearby there are substations of electricity networks. Only a few remaining trees mark the site of the former farmstead.
Before the great storm of the century, my grandfather worked the land, had a farm, and lived off of it. He was quite well-off. During the war he helped Jews. They worked on the farm, and our family seemed to grow due to them. Dirty and with worn-out hands, the Jews did not attract attention, although it goes without saying that the risk was great. The suburban farm, just like the nearby pine grove, was constantly inspected by the police. There were moments when the family was lined against a wall which was going to be set on fire... Fortunately, the police could always be bought. My mother told us once that while her relatives and the Jews were expecting to hear the verdict about whether everyone would be driven away, possibly to Paneriai, she, the youngest hidden in the attic, wept quietly, looking at the yard through a crack... Today it is hard to explain to others what the price of life was then; nevertheless, our grandfather's negotiations always had a happy ending. In any case, everybody survived the war.
Later the Jews left. They wandered far away, beyond seas and oceans. They remained grateful to the Pietrovskiai family and for a long time they used to send parcels. I remember when my mother received an extremely “fashionable” dress, and my father – a roll of checkered fabric for a suit, a shirt, and plastic cufflinks with little elephants. At family gatherings my aunts always wanted to touch the dress which never creased, while father proudly displayed his American suit and his nylon shirt.
I remember more letters from America. However, the family got scattered, and the elder family members left this world one after the other. And possibly some have forgotten that until quite recently acquaintances abroad were not made public.
Most probably only my father's cufflinks have survived to the present day.
From Hands Bringing Life and Bread, Volume 2,
The Vilna Gaon State Jewish Museum. Vilnius, 1999
Stanislavas PIETROVSKIS
Browsing through family papers, I came across a letter from America that reached my mother some time in the early 1950s. The date on the postage stamp was indiscernible, only the black smeared stamp “mezhdunarodnoye” (international) could be deciphered.
“Dear Jadzia and family, I am glad that everything is well, that dear Daddy Stanislavas is healthy...“
One would say it is an ordinary letter with spelling mistakes written in an untrained hand. It is a letter telling of very earthly things – that daughter Krysia got married and has two daughters and a son, that together with Nahem the author owns a butcher's which provides enough money to live, and that, in general, to grumble is sinful. It also states that Leiba and Leibienė used to live in the countryside and rear chickens, but later they abandoned this trade. At present they are living in New York and everything is going well for them again. The author of the letter promises a parcel, sends her best regards, and kisses “a million times.”
A grey envelope, slightly touched by time. The letter was written by Sonia Golomb – 1920 Woltuway, Bronx 53, N.Y. Most likely the street is different because its name is impossible to read.
I reassemble fragments of stories that I heard in my childhood. My grandfather Stanislavas Pietrovskis saved several Jewish families during the war. My parents died fairly young, and I do not know much about my mother's friendship with Sonia Golomb. I remember that in the evenings we would beg for terrible details about the wartime. Our grandfather lived on the outskirts of town. His lonely farmstead stood in the middle of a field. Later, the concrete residential blocks of Pašilaičiai were built on my grandfather's hectares. Nearby there are substations of electricity networks. Only a few remaining trees mark the site of the former farmstead.
Before the great storm of the century, my grandfather worked the land, had a farm, and lived off of it. He was quite well-off. During the war he helped Jews. They worked on the farm, and our family seemed to grow due to them. Dirty and with worn-out hands, the Jews did not attract attention, although it goes without saying that the risk was great. The suburban farm, just like the nearby pine grove, was constantly inspected by the police. There were moments when the family was lined against a wall which was going to be set on fire... Fortunately, the police could always be bought. My mother told us once that while her relatives and the Jews were expecting to hear the verdict about whether everyone would be driven away, possibly to Paneriai, she, the youngest hidden in the attic, wept quietly, looking at the yard through a crack... Today it is hard to explain to others what the price of life was then; nevertheless, our grandfather's negotiations always had a happy ending. In any case, everybody survived the war.
Later the Jews left. They wandered far away, beyond seas and oceans. They remained grateful to the Pietrovskiai family and for a long time they used to send parcels. I remember when my mother received an extremely “fashionable” dress, and my father – a roll of checkered fabric for a suit, a shirt, and plastic cufflinks with little elephants. At family gatherings my aunts always wanted to touch the dress which never creased, while father proudly displayed his American suit and his nylon shirt.
I remember more letters from America. However, the family got scattered, and the elder family members left this world one after the other. And possibly some have forgotten that until quite recently acquaintances abroad were not made public.
Most probably only my father's cufflinks have survived to the present day.
From Hands Bringing Life and Bread, Volume 2,
The Vilna Gaon State Jewish Museum. Vilnius, 1999