Rescued Jewish Children

Keith Morgan/Ruth Kron Sigal
From the book Ruta's Closet

Dedicated to Tamara Kron

A RIDE IN A BIG TRUCK

The Shavl Ghetto – Late afternoon, Friday, November 5, 1943

All was quiet on the street outside the little house where Dr. Peisachowitz lived and the younger Krons hid.
Tamara awakened, disoriented and feeling somewhat claustrophobic underneath the planks beneath Uncle Wulf’s low bed. Ruta’s reassuring whispers calmed the little girl but soon Tamara began to fret and her tiny ribcage shook as the tears flowed.
Ruta tried to comfort her, repeating soothing words her mother used to calm her when she was younger and fretful. But her mother’s magic eluded her and Tamara continued to cry.
In the short breaks between sobs, Ruta strained to listen for any sign of activity beyond the thin walls of the shabby shack. As far as she could tell, just as young Adute Toker had mistakenly thought earlier, all was quiet outside.
Fleetingly, she recalled the words of grandpa about staying hidden until either he or another member of the family came to rescue the two of them. However, Ruta had to make a decision, one that would be an awesome burden for a person three times her age. She may have weighed the risks but it is more likely she feared Tamara’s restlessness would attract attention and thus certain apprehension.
She decided they would get out from under the bed and look for somewhere else to hide if it were not safe to return home. Slowly she lifted the loose boards and pushed them aside. It was late afternoon and there was no longer much light in the tiny room. She listened for a few more minutes for any sign of trouble outside.
Ruta got out first and looked down at her little sister. Again, her parents’ cautions ran through her mind. Tamara calmed down as she rose unsteadily to her feet and looked into the face of her sibling protector for further instructions. Ruta told her to remain quiet and they would run back home where grandpa would be waiting for them and maybe even mama and papa. The happy sounding, rising intonation of her final hopeful words made Tamara feel better just as intended.
With her sister’s tiny fingers squeezed between her own, Ruta led her out onto the street. The fading light signalled that Shabbat neared but there would be no celebration that night. The encroaching darkness offered the two girls no protection: two guards on the roof of the adjacent red brick jail spotted the dishevelled youngsters. Ruta looked up to see the two distant figures a hundred yards away pointing at her and her sister. Her heart pounded. She stood transfixed like a deer caught in a car’s headlights.
The Kinderaktion was by no means over. Within a minute, foul smelling, red-faced soldiers grabbed both sisters and pushed them into the street where two more soldiers, each with snarling dogs, frog marched them towards the green truck waiting by the gate.
The 20 years of maturity Ruta had acquired in an instant earlier in the day fell away and she became a frightened, screaming seven-year-old girl again. The two girls struggled to free themselves from their respective captors, without any success. The bigger and stronger Ruta kicked at the man who had her in a vice like grip but she was nothing more than an irritant for the determined dog handler, whose canine companion growled and gnashed its teeth with each kick.
As they neared the truck full of bawling children, Ruta composed herself and drew once again on some of her recently acquired maturity. She decided to try another more reasoned approach. “Please let us go. We will be good girls.” She could see that too was not having any impression so in desperation, she tried to grab the hand of the man and rain kisses upon it. It elicited a response in German: “Shut up, get up and keep going.”
Tamara was screaming hysterically. Ruta was crying also but was not about to give up and continued pleading with the big, bad men, undeterred by their cackling. Any hope of her pleas finding a warm spot in the chests of the soldiers disappeared as they reached the truck at the ghetto gate.
Just in front, a little boy of maybe five or six was making similar pleas for mercy as he was dragged along the muddy street. An exasperated soldier swung a large piece of wood catching the boy’s leg on the downward swing. The youngster dropped like a stone to the ground. There was a split second’s pause as the pain took its time to overtake the shock enveloping his young mind. Two soldiers lifted the boy up roughly and tossed him onto the back of the truck, his broken leg grotesquely swinging at an unnatural angle as he flew through the air.
The scene stunned Ruta, silencing her protests for a few moments. Tamara continued to cry, too absorbed in her own grief to take in what had happened to her peer.

Ona Ragauskas witnessed the same act of cruelty from the other side of the fence. They are like animals, she thought, not for the first time that day. She turned away in disgust, just as Ruta and Tamara meekly scrambled on to the back of the truck. She composed herself and remained there, even more determined to wait until she got some indication of what had happened to little Janina Zilberman.
She did not have to wait long. Out of a back lane appeared Joseph Zilberman. He sobbed as he explained the soldiers had seized his daughter earlier in the day. Explanation done, he moved on quickly, fearing that his presence there might endanger the brave woman, who had offered to save his beloved child.
It was the final straw. If only she had insisted the Zilbermans part with Janina a week earlier as originally agreed. They had shared perhaps their last Shabbat meal ever. Ona began to cry. She felt guilty. She could not begin to imagine the guilt and remorse the Zilbermans would feel when the full force of their loss had sunk in.
Ona also walked swiftly away and knocked on the door of a friend across town. She would stay the night there. Her husband Antanas would not worry because she often stayed overnight in town if darkness fell before she had finished her errands.
Maybe the report of Janina’s apprehension was a case of mistaken identity, she thought, and the morning would offer another opportunity for her to rescue Janina. There was no misidentification. She would get another opportunity to save a Jewish child but not that day.
Ruta and Tamara were among a dozen or more children discovered late in the day by the search squads. Ruta did not recognize any of her fellow captives but then she was too busy trying to figure out how she could save herself and her sister. After all, that was what her parents expected of her. They would be extremely angry if they discovered she had led her sister into the arms of the Nazis.
As the minutes passed, she was occasionally distracted from her thoughts by more ugly, violent scenes. They did not look like daddies to her. Finishing this grisly assignment was their priority: there was more vodka to sup when this was over. They clubbed and slapped around any child that showed the slightest disinclination to board the truck. Amid the mayhem, Ruta stared expressionless from the back of the truck, holding on tightly to her sister.

Dr. Peisachowitz had dedicated his life to saving lives but he was powerless to help the parade of youngsters that passed by his current vantage point in the Judenrat office by the gate. Thank goodness, he had seen no sign of his cousin Gita’s youngsters. They must have remained undetected at his place, he thought.
He looked forlornly at the truck starting up outside, just as he had countless times throughout the day. It seemed ready to go but, no, there was time to pack in two more passengers. In horror, he watched two thugs push Ruta and Tamara onto it. Maybe he could save these children.
Seconds later, ghetto policeman Wulf Levin looked up to see the respected doctor make straight for Forster. The 26-year-old man watched Wulf Peisachowitz bark something at the SS officer who stepped back, surprised by the outburst. Levin was himself surprised that the Nazi did not strike Wulf. Out of earshot, an intense exchange ensued.
Pointing to Ruta and Tamara, Wulf shouted: “Kommandant, Das ist mein Blut.”
“I must remind you, doctor, you are a bachelor so how can they be your children?” Forster responded sarcastically.
Wulf fired back: “They are my illegitimate daughters and you must save them just as I saved you . . . you promised me a favour.”
These were doctor’s orders he was not inclined to obey. Forster’s cool left him and the conversation became more animated with each man gesticulating in an exaggerated manner to emphasize his individual points. Desperate situations called for desperate measures and Wulf’s lie about his cousins being his own spawn, easily disproved after the fact, worked. Well, partially.
Forster demonstrated many times that day that he was not in a charitable mood. However, when he weighed the possibility of being personally embarrassed, exposed as having received treatment from a Jewish doctor, he reconsidered his harsh dedication to removing every child from the ghetto. After a pause, he muttered angrily: “The older one can stay because she can work but the other one must go.”
Instantly, Wulf turned and made for the back of the truck, talking quickly to some of the adults standing by. Suddenly, Ruta noticed a bunch of men gathering in front of her and then a familiar figure walked into her field of vision. Whether it was the shock or confusion, it took her a few moments to realize it was the man they called Uncle Wulf. By the time her thoughts cleared, the men were tearing her away from Tamara’s desperate grip. Now she was confused. These were not uniformed men but her neighbours.
Satisfied that the SS officer had ordered her removal, Wulf Levin had been among the first to help Ruta down from the truck. She almost fell over as she hit the uneven ground but immediately half a dozen hands pulled her upright. Before she was able to stand up properly and get her balance, Uncle Wulf grabbed her hand and dragged her away at a frantic pace. She struggled to keep up. The other men surrounded the two as they moved.
Tamara tried to join her sister but a guard restrained her so she began to shout.
“Ruta don’t go . . . please take me with you,” the little girl screeched repeatedly, her stick-like arms waving wildly.
Ruta slowed the pace as she stared briefly over her shoulder. As far as she was concerned, Tamara was the one leaving not her. She resented the fact that her sister and all of these other children were going to get a ride on a big truck. Ruta the child was back.
That did it. Ruta broke loose from the grip of her unexpected saviour and began to run back towards the truck. Friendly arms foiled her rescue attempt. Wulf took a firmer grip of her hand and, surrounded by other adults, they rushed back towards the Kron home. Long after they had turned the corner out of sight, Tamara continued yelling. Although she was no longer within Ruta's hearing, Tamara’s earlier screams echoed in Ruta’s mind.
Only the welcome sight of her grandpa at the door of their dilapidated shack temporarily halted the terrifying action replay. Wulf began to explain to the old man what had happened and why only Ruta survived. Ruta could no longer hear the explanation for Tamara’s screams inside her head drowned out the words. Screams that would render some conversations inaudible for the rest of her life as she periodically recalled the last time she ever saw Tamara.

Polina Toker missed the dramatic rescue of Ruta because a squad of soldiers was holding her and a dozen others away from the scene. They released Polina just as the last truck left with Tamara aboard.
She ran straight to the dispensary to look for Adute. Before she got to the door, a woman stopped her and told her of her daughter’s capture. She did not believe the bearer of bad news but once home she found her child’s discarded coat. Alongside there was an upturned chamber pot, a puddle of urine spreading from beneath it onto the hard floor.
How would she explain this to her husband, a medical doctor? As far as she knew, he was fighting with the Red Army against these devils on some distant front but he would return one day. Until then she must do all she could to get Adute back.
Polina would not accept her daughter was lost. After all, somebody told her a little girl, resembling Adute, had been removed from the last truck. She convinced herself it must have been Adute. Even the German soldiers used to laugh and point to Adute shouting “Ein Goldkopf” – golden head. Adute did not understand what they were saying and would run up to her mother pleading “Mama, hide me, hide me!”
Perhaps their admiration for her Aryan-like locks had persuaded them to let her go. After repeated telling, stories do change and sometimes offer false hope to those that hear only what they want to. Ruta’s hair was, of course, the darkest brown.
When the workers returned to the ghetto, Forster was still at the gate, following up on the tip offered by Siegel at Frenkel’s. His men discovered a few more children with the returning workers and dispatched them to the same mystery location where the other children seized earlier waited. Babey Trepmann successfully re-entered the ghetto with her sister secreted beneath her coat.
Gita and Meyer Kron rushed home. There they found Grandpa Shifman and Ruta but no Tamara. Ruta was still hiding under the couch cushions with which Wulf and their escorts covered her. She had to be coaxed out, fearing she was about to be punished for her terrible mistake in a way she had never suffered before.
“Mama, is it my fault?”
She need not have worried but her seven brief years had not prepared her for this experience. She bore the weight of the world on her tiny shoulders that day. Instead of punishment, she received the warmest and longest of hugs. Unfortunately, Ruta’s intense feelings of guilt overwhelmed her ability to accept the words of comfort and reassurance her parents offered.
All night long, the Krons could hear wailing from every house. They just sat there for hours, still in their dirty clothes and their shoes, caked with the mud collected on their way back through the streets to the ghetto. They were numb with shock. Gradually they began to think about what they should do with Ruta.
They plotted how they could get her out the next day because they could not risk exposing her to a second sweep of the ghetto. They had no inkling as to who might provide her with a hiding place beyond the fence. Maybe Jonas Jocius would come through in their hour of need – again.
A short distance away, Polina Toker was praying that Ruta was Adute. The screams of her neighbours penetrated the thin walls, one being the widow of Rabbi Aaron Baksht, summarily executed within days of the Nazi occupation. She screamed like a banshee for now she had also lost her granddaughter Janina. She wailed: “There is no God!”
Polina staggered into the street to ask a guard to shoot her but he just turned away. She ran to the dispensary and gobbled down all the pills she could find. She passed out but clinic staff found her and figured out what she had done. They saved her life.
Some anguished parents succeeded where Polina failed and took their own lives as they pondered an existence without their children. Strange scenes of extreme anguish played out throughout the whole ghetto as the enormity of what had happened became apparent to all. Few if any lit Shabbat candles that night in the Shavl ghetto. There was darkness everywhere: in the streets, in the homes and in parental hearts.

According to SS records and other contemporaneous accounts, discovered many years later, the trucks made 21 return trips to the railway station that day. The Nazis took more than 800 people during that dreadful day, of whom 725 were children, the others mainly seniors and the sick.
At the station, 100 or more of the captives were loaded into each of the 30-foot long, seven-foot wide wagons before the heavy doors shut. There was no air, little food and water and the daylight barely penetrated the narrow slats high above the hard floor.
What happened to them? After the war, there were gruesome unverified stories, published in the Russian controlled press. Newspapers reported the Germans drained the children’s blood in order that casualties returning from the battlefront might receive transfusions. The Russians had their own nefarious reasons for spreading such tales of inhumanity.
Answers that are more realistic are in accounts offered by witnesses to the train’s departure and a lone observer at the destination. At nightfall on that terrible day, railway workers returning to the ghetto reported seeing a powerful 52-series German locomotive build up a head of steam before pulling cattle cars full of human cargo out of the station for a destination that remained unannounced on the crackly public address system. However, Jewish workers in the maintenance yard recalled seeing the name Auschwitz daubed on some of the cars but the destination did not mean anything to them at the time.
Shortly after the train steamed away, the snow that threatened earlier began to fall, covering all traces of the evil that had blackened the rundown streets of the ghetto.
The train likely picked up more passengers on the way before reaching its final destination in Poland, more than 700 miles distant, two or three days later.
The train’s last stop was just outside the rural Polish community of Oswiecim, where barking dogs greeted its arrival. Hundreds of similar transport trains had made this trip and the pattern was always the same. On arrival, the dogs padded along the frozen platform, their handlers bringing them to heel with clipped commands.
The doors opened and those within were ordered to jump the three-foot drop to the ground. The weary travellers’ first sight of Auschwitz-Birkenau was the savage dogs and their equally savage SS masters. Any child searching for a fatherly smile among the uniformed men would be disappointed.
Some older children among the hundreds lined up along the trackside might have sensed doom. The younger ones, such as Tamara, would be too frightened and bewildered to have any sense of foreboding. It was beyond their comprehension.
New adult arrivals underwent a selection process in which the able bodied arbitrarily picked by SS peeled off to the left while those deemed disposable would pass to the right.
There was no selection for a transport of children and seniors. The man in the uniform at the head of the line simply told them all to get undressed in the room ahead. They then proceeded quickly to the place he described as a shower room. The dogs growled and snapped at the heels of the youngsters.
Inside, a Sonderkommando – a Jewish prisoner forced to work in the camp’s extermination centre – later wrote about his brief conversations with the children from Shavl.
An older girl, perhaps only months away from the age of 13 that would have saved her, knew what was happening, thanks to the warnings shouted by adult prisoners lined up behind the fence. She cursed the hunched man in the striped pyjamas.
“Go away, you murderer! Don’t touch my little brother with your hands soaked in the blood of your own kind.”
Her words showed a maturity one might not expect from one so young. It is impossible to confirm if the diary entry was verbatim, but it clearly conveyed the substance of the angry remarks that would haunt the writer to his grave.
The thoughts he frequently shunned returned: he lived on because he was willing to do the Nazis bidding. Was his life so precious that he was willing to do this to draw breath for another week, a month or maybe a little more? That was not his thought but a question posed by a young boy from among the Shavl children.
The youngster’s words hung in the air as he and the other children walked into the gas chamber to draw their last breath on a bitterly cold November day in 1943.
Tamara and the others perished inhaling the poisonous gas created by the crushing of Zyklon B crystals. The German industrial giant, IG Farben, for whom her own father Meyer Kron worked in the happier times of 1929, owned a significant share of the company that manufactured Zyklon B.
The practice was for the SS to bill Jewish community funds for the cost of transporting their loved ones to the death camps. The railway company – the Reichsbahn – charged 0.04 Reichsmark (RM) for one adult per kilometre, half price for children and those less than four years old travelled free. However, at this time business was so brisk that the SS got a 50 percent discount rate when a train carried at least 400 people.
The parents in Shavl were spared official confirmation of their children’s deaths. The normally efficient SS bureaucracy overlooked the billing.