Rescuers of Jews
Hanfman Andrew (Andrey)
ONE COULD NOT LIVE WITH EYES CLOSED
O. Kuzmina-Dauguvietienė
Merited Artist of the Republic
It was a very difficult time. The wild, incomparable onslaught of fascist barbarians disrupted daily life, shook people out of indifference, and revealed their inclinations.
It became terrifying — at every step there was suffering, cruelty, death. Here they were driving exhausted, barely alive Soviet prisoners of war. Those who could hardly move their legs were prodded in the back with bayonets by neat, well-groomed boys (Hitlerjugend). It is simply impossible to imagine how these children were turned into beasts. Elsewhere, over a bridge, a group of Jews with yellow stars on their chests and backs were being herded. Among them were the elderly, and children.
What to do, how to resist, how to help the unfortunate? One thing was clear — it would be impossible, shameful, to live with eyes closed. At that time, I was 60 years old, worn out by life, and I did not think I could be of use to anyone, although I sincerely longed to be.
Once, while visiting one of my married daughters, a friend came running from the ghetto and begged for help. That day another “action” had been scheduled there. In the ghetto she lived with her grandmother. Her husband and parents had already perished. She was only 20 years old and wanted to live.
My daughter, with her husband and small child, lived in a shared apartment with strangers. For her friend, staying there would have been too dangerous. Since I lived in a separate apartment only with my family, I invited her to come to us. That is how Ija Taubman (Pozdniakoff) became the first little swallow to fly into our home. Later, Dr. B. Voščinas came, and after him, Dr. S. Nabriskis.
A strange feeling overcame me — my heart felt lighter, and I sensed that this was the justification of life.
Of course, materially it was very hard — we had neither enough money nor food. And we were frightened: every doorbell ring, every step on the staircase was terrifying. I worried greatly whenever we had to leave the house — neighbors could overhear noise in my apartment. It was especially difficult when children were staying with me, for I was responsible for them. And if suddenly there was a search — how would I survive it if I failed to protect them? Margita Stenderytė, daughter of the murdered concertmaster of the Kaunas Opera and Ballet Theatre, was brought to me by violinist Vladas Varčikas. His fellow musicians had decided to save his child. At first she stayed somewhere else, but when it became too dangerous there, she was brought to me. With her it was very difficult — she knew neither Russian nor Lithuanian, only Yiddish. Little by little Margita began to understand Russian, but still she was not easy to handle: spoiled and capricious, though very intelligent. Her mother was hiding somewhere in the countryside. At that time, no adults were living with me. One evening, when my daughter was not at home, Margita and I were alone. The doorbell rang. I went to open it, leaving her in the room with instructions not to come out. An acquaintance had come, and while we were talking, suddenly a child’s cry was heard.
“Oh, your granddaughter is here — show her to me,” said the acquaintance. I was forced to tell her everything. She was a very kind woman, and I was certain she would not betray us. Indeed, she told no one, though she was shocked and horrified that I could put myself and my family at such risk.
As word about me spread, more and more people came, and with a heavy heart I sometimes had to refuse, for it was impossible to shelter everyone. Yet I could never refuse children, and there were always several girls living with me. Of them I especially remember a wonderful, sensitive girl, Fruma Vitkinaitė. Her parents remained in the ghetto. She worried deeply about them and cried often, though quietly. Fruma’s parents perished, and she was taken in by a very good woman, Elena Holcmanienė, whose daughter — an active fighter against fascists — had been killed. This wonderful girl Fruma, whom we all loved, once moved me deeply. After Kaunas was liberated, she came to me and brought me a little flower. There were other girls who stayed with me, but for some reason they did not remain in memory as strongly as she did. […]
Olga Kuzmina-Dauguvietienė was born in 1884 in Kyiv. In 1909 she graduated from the St. Petersburg Imperial Theatre School and was accepted as an actress at the St. Petersburg Small Theatre. Later, O. Kuzmina worked in theatres in Petrozavodsk, Hrodna, Białystok, and others.
From 1920 O. Kuzmina lived and worked in Lithuania. Until 1940 she performed in various amateur and semi-professional troupes in Šiauliai, Biržai, and Kaunas. From 1946 O. Kuzmina was an actress at the Vilnius Russian Drama Theatre, where she performed about 200 roles. O. Kuzmina-Dauguvietienė died in 1967.
O. Kuzmina-Dauguvietienė
Merited Artist of the Republic
It was a very difficult time. The wild, incomparable onslaught of fascist barbarians disrupted daily life, shook people out of indifference, and revealed their inclinations.
It became terrifying — at every step there was suffering, cruelty, death. Here they were driving exhausted, barely alive Soviet prisoners of war. Those who could hardly move their legs were prodded in the back with bayonets by neat, well-groomed boys (Hitlerjugend). It is simply impossible to imagine how these children were turned into beasts. Elsewhere, over a bridge, a group of Jews with yellow stars on their chests and backs were being herded. Among them were the elderly, and children.
What to do, how to resist, how to help the unfortunate? One thing was clear — it would be impossible, shameful, to live with eyes closed. At that time, I was 60 years old, worn out by life, and I did not think I could be of use to anyone, although I sincerely longed to be.
Once, while visiting one of my married daughters, a friend came running from the ghetto and begged for help. That day another “action” had been scheduled there. In the ghetto she lived with her grandmother. Her husband and parents had already perished. She was only 20 years old and wanted to live.
My daughter, with her husband and small child, lived in a shared apartment with strangers. For her friend, staying there would have been too dangerous. Since I lived in a separate apartment only with my family, I invited her to come to us. That is how Ija Taubman (Pozdniakoff) became the first little swallow to fly into our home. Later, Dr. B. Voščinas came, and after him, Dr. S. Nabriskis.
A strange feeling overcame me — my heart felt lighter, and I sensed that this was the justification of life.
Of course, materially it was very hard — we had neither enough money nor food. And we were frightened: every doorbell ring, every step on the staircase was terrifying. I worried greatly whenever we had to leave the house — neighbors could overhear noise in my apartment. It was especially difficult when children were staying with me, for I was responsible for them. And if suddenly there was a search — how would I survive it if I failed to protect them? Margita Stenderytė, daughter of the murdered concertmaster of the Kaunas Opera and Ballet Theatre, was brought to me by violinist Vladas Varčikas. His fellow musicians had decided to save his child. At first she stayed somewhere else, but when it became too dangerous there, she was brought to me. With her it was very difficult — she knew neither Russian nor Lithuanian, only Yiddish. Little by little Margita began to understand Russian, but still she was not easy to handle: spoiled and capricious, though very intelligent. Her mother was hiding somewhere in the countryside. At that time, no adults were living with me. One evening, when my daughter was not at home, Margita and I were alone. The doorbell rang. I went to open it, leaving her in the room with instructions not to come out. An acquaintance had come, and while we were talking, suddenly a child’s cry was heard.
“Oh, your granddaughter is here — show her to me,” said the acquaintance. I was forced to tell her everything. She was a very kind woman, and I was certain she would not betray us. Indeed, she told no one, though she was shocked and horrified that I could put myself and my family at such risk.
As word about me spread, more and more people came, and with a heavy heart I sometimes had to refuse, for it was impossible to shelter everyone. Yet I could never refuse children, and there were always several girls living with me. Of them I especially remember a wonderful, sensitive girl, Fruma Vitkinaitė. Her parents remained in the ghetto. She worried deeply about them and cried often, though quietly. Fruma’s parents perished, and she was taken in by a very good woman, Elena Holcmanienė, whose daughter — an active fighter against fascists — had been killed. This wonderful girl Fruma, whom we all loved, once moved me deeply. After Kaunas was liberated, she came to me and brought me a little flower. There were other girls who stayed with me, but for some reason they did not remain in memory as strongly as she did. […]
From "Ir be ginklo kariai" [Unarmed fighters]. Ed. S. Binkienė. Vilnius, 1967
Olga Kuzmina-Dauguvietienė was born in 1884 in Kyiv. In 1909 she graduated from the St. Petersburg Imperial Theatre School and was accepted as an actress at the St. Petersburg Small Theatre. Later, O. Kuzmina worked in theatres in Petrozavodsk, Hrodna, Białystok, and others.
From 1920 O. Kuzmina lived and worked in Lithuania. Until 1940 she performed in various amateur and semi-professional troupes in Šiauliai, Biržai, and Kaunas. From 1946 O. Kuzmina was an actress at the Vilnius Russian Drama Theatre, where she performed about 200 roles. O. Kuzmina-Dauguvietienė died in 1967.