Besides, I receive a German pension as victim of Holocaust and I can manage all right.
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Dora Puchalskaya
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We always observed Jewish holidays in the family, particularly when my mother lived with us. We bought matzah in underground bakeries before Pesach and observed Rosh Hashanah. I must say that my husband showed understanding to our needs.
Now I observe Sabbath, light candles and pray over them on Friday evenings. I do not attend community events since I will be in the mourning for Anatoli for a year. I used to go to the community on Jewish holidays. I enjoyed the celebrations. I cannot attend them now. There is a lot of joy and entertainment at these celebrations while I feel like thinking about my son and praying for him.
Then I would like to visit Grisha in Israel. Perhaps, I shall go there for good.
My father loved my mother dearly, but he didn’t have an opportunity to spend much time with her. I remember that he bought her a stay in a recreation center for a month. We missed her a lot.
Our father worked for a road construction company. He went to work even if he felt ill.
In 1940 our father got a new job assignment and we moved to Vladimir-Volynskiy in 370 km from Zhmerinka. Pinkhus and his family moved there shortly afterward. This town belonged to Poland [Annexation of Western Ukraine] [12] before 1 November 1939. When we moved there it was located in 8 km from a new border of Russia and Poland. There were many Jewish refugees who escaped from Hitler who occupied Poland. [Editor’s note: in September 1939 the Jewish population raised from 9 to 25 thousand people due to refugees.] Vladimir-Volynskiy was a lovely clean town. There was a big beautiful synagogue and nice stone houses with stores and shops in the town. There was a Catholic cathedral in the center.
My father received a two-room apartment in a 2-storied house behind this cathedral in early 1941. We moved there from one room that we had from the school where my mother worked. It took us few months to repair the new apartment. We moved into it in the middle of June 1941.
After our father moved our belongings to this new apartment, he went on a business trip. On 22 June 1941, when the Great Patriotic War began, our father was not at home. A day later fascists came to our yard. Our mother and we rushed to the basement. Our grandmother was confined to bed and stayed inside. Her bed was beside a window and when we got out we saw that the window was broken and she was covered with pieces of glass. Our mother hastily put away our father’s clothing and documents. He wore uniformed clothes that was in fashion with governmental and Party officials and my mother didn’t want fascists to find them. We knew from refugees that fascists were killing communists and Jews in the first turn. Of course, it was hard to believe that the situation was that bad. We didn’t believe at all that somebody would dare to attack us. It just happened and it was scaring. Pinkhus came to our house and mother began to excavate a hiding pit in the basement for him since Pinkhus was a communist.
During the War
The first days of occupation with army units in the town were relatively quiet until SS Sonderverband units came to town. They started operations against Jewish people. On 5 July they shot 500 men in the yard of the town prison. [Editor’s note: Dora mistakenly indicates the number of 500. Actually, about 150 men were shot on that day.] The rest of Jewish men were in hiding in homes and in the woods.
During the War
The first days of occupation with army units in the town were relatively quiet until SS Sonderverband units came to town. They started operations against Jewish people. On 5 July they shot 500 men in the yard of the town prison. [Editor’s note: Dora mistakenly indicates the number of 500. Actually, about 150 men were shot on that day.] The rest of Jewish men were in hiding in homes and in the woods.
When grandmother Hana died in early September 1941 there were no Jewish men in the town to take to bury her at the cemetery. My mother didn’t allow Pinkhus to leave the house and she had to carry grandmother to the cemetery with three old women who were our neighbors. It wasn’t too heavy load for them since my grandmother was as thin as a mummy when she died. Until her last day, when she was conscious, she prayed in Hebrew and asked mother to light candles near her at Sabbath. My mother was concerned that somebody might hear Jewish prayers, but she couldn’t oppose a dying person. My mother dug a pit and lowered my grandmother in there wrapped in my grandfather’s tallit. I don’t know whether there was a Kaddish recited over her grave. I don’t think my mother found it possible considering the situation.
After their initial operations, fascists made several raids shooting innocent at people. Our mother didn’t allow us to leave the house. In early 1942 the remaining Jews – women, children and old people - were taken to the ghetto in the former storage facilities at the market in the center of the town. The area was bared, but the gate was kept open for some time. We slept on the floor under a bast mat that we fond there since we didn’t have a chance to take things from home.
When the ghetto was opened, Pinkhus stayed in his hiding pit and at night our mother took him to a Ukrainian family: my mother was concerned about him. Many young men were either shot or died doing hard work. Their son was in her class before the war and mother knew them well – unfortunately, I don’t know their names. Pinkhus stayed with them until the end of the war. I don’t know why we didn’t go to this family. Perhaps, our mother thought that fascists only exterminated Jewish men and wanted to rescue Pinkhus.
I have dim memories about our life in the ghetto. Our mother had a yellow star on her clothes, but I can’t remember whether we, children had to wear it as well. I remember the never-ending feeling of hunger and fear. Our mother went to work. She washed dishes in a diner for officers. She brought us leftovers that seemed a luxury to us. Sometimes our mother took us to the café when the gate was still open.
Once a man wearing a policeman uniform approached us. He knew our mother. She was much loved and respected in the town. People in Western Ukraine traditionally respected teachers. He told my mother that when they closed the gate of the ghetto, our mother and we would perish. He suggested that if she agreed he would take us, children, to a village to help us to survive. Our mother said ‘I shall be with my children to the end. Get me a Ukrainian passport and help us to get out of here, if you can’. A day later this policeman took us out on a horse-ridden cart. All I remember is that his name was Sergei. It’s hard to imagine how hard it must have been for him to get forged documents for us. He gave our mother a passport for Vera Grigorievna. This was how my mother’s pupils who found it hard to pronounce her Jewish name called her. I’ve forgotten what last name there was in this passport. Sergei took two other Jewish families from the ghetto with us. He showed the guard my mother’s forged documents and documents for other inmates of the ghetto in his wagon and he let us out. On our way we dropped by our house to pick up some warm clothes and some other belongings valuable for our mother. Sergei took us to a remote Ukrainian village and disappeared for good. He was afraid that someone might report on him. At that time someone helping Jews was subject to death penalty while he rescued few Jewish families.
Besides, during the famine of 1932-33 in Ukraine my mother’s family starved, even though they had fruit and vegetables in stocks. My mother told me how they made ‘bebka’, boiled water with a little bit of flour. My mother worked in a primary school and was forced to go to villagers’ home with a commission, which purpose was struggle against kulaks [9]. My mother couldn’t help crying desperately seeing children swollen from hunger and the commission that took away the last piece of bread or jar of corns from them. She couldn’t refuse from participation in this commission for the fear of losing her job.
After my father returned from Vinnitsa, their feelings toward one another took a new turn and they resumed seeing each other. They wanted to get married and my maternal grandmother Hana approved of this plan. She was very ill and was hoping to live to see her daughter well settled in life. Besides, during the famine of 1932-33 in Ukraine my mother’s family starved, even though they had fruit and vegetables in stocks. My mother told me how they made ‘bebka’, boiled water with a little bit of flour. My mother worked in a primary school and was forced to go to villagers’ home with a commission, which purpose was struggle against kulaks
[9]
. My mother couldn’t help crying desperately seeing children swollen from hunger and the commission that took away the last piece of bread or jar of corns from them. She couldn’t refuse from participation in this commission for the fear of losing her job. My grandmother was hoping that my mother would have a better life with her husband, particularly that my father came from a wealthy family. My father’s parents were against their marriage, and my father didn’t dare to disobey them. My father’s younger brother Pinkhus sympathized with the young couple. He took them by their hands and they went to a registry office where they got married. When they told my father’s parents about their marriage my grandmother Riva got so angry that she didn’t speak to Pinkhus for few months blaming him for what he had done. She thought that my father would never dare to disobey his parents and she didn’t want to accept my mother. She was hoping that my father would have a traditional Jewish wedding marrying a rich girl. Therefore, my parents didn’t even have a small wedding party.
[9]
. My mother couldn’t help crying desperately seeing children swollen from hunger and the commission that took away the last piece of bread or jar of corns from them. She couldn’t refuse from participation in this commission for the fear of losing her job. My grandmother was hoping that my mother would have a better life with her husband, particularly that my father came from a wealthy family. My father’s parents were against their marriage, and my father didn’t dare to disobey them. My father’s younger brother Pinkhus sympathized with the young couple. He took them by their hands and they went to a registry office where they got married. When they told my father’s parents about their marriage my grandmother Riva got so angry that she didn’t speak to Pinkhus for few months blaming him for what he had done. She thought that my father would never dare to disobey his parents and she didn’t want to accept my mother. She was hoping that my father would have a traditional Jewish wedding marrying a rich girl. Therefore, my parents didn’t even have a small wedding party.
After they got married they began to live at my mother’s home. Two or three months later my father got a job assignment in Zhmerinka, near Litin, in Vinnitsa region. My father got a room in a communal apartment [10] in a small one-storied building where I was born on 31 August 1933.
I have dim memories about our life in Zhmerinka. It was a small town with a railway station. About half of its population was Jewish. There was a synagogue, like in all Jewish towns.
Since my father joined the Communist Party in 1930, my parents stopped observing any Jewish holidays.
We visited grandmother Hana and grandfather Ghedali at Pesach and Rosh Hashanah in Litin.
In 1937 my mother gave birth to a boy. He was named Moro. My father didn’t dare to complete a brit milah for him since Soviet authorities struggled against religion [11] and this information came up my father might lose his job and be expelled from the Party. Therefore, my brother was not circumcised. During the war this saved his life.
My maternal and paternal ancestors came from Litin, an old district town in Vinnitsa province. I’ve never been in Litin, but my mother told me that the beginning of the 20th century its population was about ten thousand people. Almost half of them were Jews. There was Ukrainian, Russian and Polish population involved in farming for the most part. Jews dealt in crafts and trade like everywhere else within the Pale of settlement [1] of the Russian Empire. They were tailors, shoemakers, cabinetmakers, glasscutters. There was a synagogue in the center of the town, where most Jewish families traditionally resided.
My father’s parents Yakov (Yankel in the Jewish manner) and Riva Gitman lived in the center. They were born in Litin in the 1880s. They got married some time in 1905. Their wedding was prearranged by a matchmaker, which was customary for Jewish families.
Tobijas Jafetas
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The public Jewish life has progressed in independent Lithuania. In 1994 I was offered to be the Head of the Lithuanian Jewish Union of ghetto and concentration camp prisoners, and that’s where I’ve worked since that time. We started from scratch looking for the former prisoners, because they had kept this fact a secret during the Soviet regime. Now we have a big society. We often get together and talk about our childhood and youth behind bars in the ghetto. The memories still hurt. We’ve established international relations. We correspond with Jewish communities and unions of former ghetto prisoners from the USA, Israel and other countries. I celebrate Jewish holidays with others in the community. I’m trying to get closer to the Jewish tradition. I haven’t become religious, but I respect those who believe in God and pray. I also address the Lord and destiny, whatever there is above us, but I speak to them in my own words, which come deep from my heart.
My family had very positive feelings about the changes after perestroika [25], when Lithuania gained independence [see Reestablishment of the Lithuanian Republic] [26]. Well, this office where I was working happened not to be needed, like many others, and I lost my job in 1992, but my brother supported me all right, and besides, I had my pension. In independent Lithuania I didn’t have to explain anything, when I wanted to travel abroad. We became free citizens of a free country. Besides, I’ve become a rich man. According to the restitution law my parents’ house in Kaunas was given back into my ownership. Now I have real estate, and my family and I go there at weekends. My grandchildren will inherit my house, which was built by my father.
My daughter grew up in an international family. She considers herself a Lithuanian, but she has a Jewish heart. Though our family never celebrated Jewish holidays during the Soviet regime, Judita always arranges celebrations for me on Pesach, Purim and other holidays. My wife doesn’t mind it, but she never initiates any celebrations. Judita finished school successfully and graduated from the Faculty of Applied Mathematic of Vilnius University. She actually followed into my footsteps. Now Judita works with one scientific newspaper publishing office. Judita’s marital life was not that successful. She divorced her Lithuanian husband, but she kept his surname of Shpokauskene. I have two grandchildren: David, born in 1981 and named after my grandfather, who graduated from the Law Faculty, and my granddaughter Raya. She is two years younger than her brother and studies to be a designer.
In 1946 many Lithuanian residents had a chance to move to Poland. [In 1946 Soviet authorities permitted to leave the territory of the USSR to all people, who were born on the territories annexed to the USSR in the period from 1939-1940s.] I also considered this possibility to move further to Israel or England where I was hoping to find my father and brother. However, my wife was against any relocation. I loved her and didn’t want to destroy our marriage. The subject of emigration has never again been raised in our family. I have always been very enthusiastic about Israel. I thought it was the very fortress capable of protecting Jews all over the world and would never allow a repetition of the extermination of Jews. Through all years of the Soviet regime I had to keep the fact of my imprisonment in the ghetto a secret. Soviet authorities never went into any details about who or why someone had been in the occupation. One’s presence in occupied areas was almost a crime. Back in Taurage, where Yelena was secretary of the Komsomol unit, she helped me to restore my membership in the Komsomol. It ended when I turned 28, and I never wanted to join the Party. Firstly, I didn’t care about public activities, and secondly, the ghetto taught me to be quiet and system-obedient, as they said, never to ‘stick out.’ I enjoyed my work and the family. In the early 1960s my father gave me a car, and the three of us often went on vacations to the Crimea or Caucasus; we also traveled across Ukraine, the Carpathians and Zakarpatiye.
I visited my brother Azriel in London, and he visited Vilnius several times. Azriel got married in 1949 His wife, whose name I can’t remember, was a Jew from Czechoslovakia. They met at Manchester University where they studied. Azriel lives in London now. He has two grown-up daughters: Nadine and Michel. Michel lives in London with her husband, and Nadine lives in Spain.
Almost immediately after Lithuania was liberated, Aunt Masha started searching for relatives. She contacted Uncle Solomon in America. He wrote to her that my father was alive and lived in London. He happened to be a well-to-do businessman. My brother Azriel had graduated from university and became an architect. My father had remarried, but he had never given up hope to find me. He established the Union of Baltic Jews in London. My aunt Mania was a member. They were sending parcels to Jewish communities in Lithuania and Latvia. When my father got to know that I lived in Lithuania, he started supporting me. I also received parcels from the Union of Baltic Jews in London. I saw my father in 1955, when he flew to the Soviet Union and we went to meet him in Leningrad. It’s hard to describe this reunion without tears. We had lost hope to find each other. Afterward I was allowed to visit my father every three to four years. I visited him six times. We talked and recalled Mama, our home and our wonderful life together, whenever we met. My relocation to London was out of the questions considering that Soviet authorities would have called me a traitor and I would have never seen my family again. This was not possible for me. My father’s second wife was a nice lady, but she passed away too early, and he was alone again. Regretfully, my father didn’t have a long life. He died in 1970.
,
1955
See text in interview
In 1957 our daughter Edita was born. By that time we had already received a room in a shared apartment. Ten years later the state gave us a nice three-room apartment where we live now. We were quite well-off. My wife and I had decent salaries and had everything we needed. Well, actually, my father supported us well.