Letters to Rose Page 3
Dad’s profession was dealing with leather. Radom was the center of the leather industry in Poland. Dad and his partner owned a tannery and went to slaughterhouses to buy animal hides. Their tasks involved carefully scraping the hair and then boiling the hides in huge kettles until the leather became soft. Father would then sell the hides to manufacturers to make gloves, boots, and other leather goods. The Nazis passed a law that Jews could no longer work in textiles or leather. Father was now out of a job. Even showing his face on the street became increasingly dangerous as he was unmistakably an Orthodox Jew.
Germans round up male Jews for forced labor
Reprint permission from the US Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of B. Ashley Grimes, II.
Forced Labor Fears
The German soldiers went from house to house in the Jewish quarters of the city, shouting, with their rifles ready to shoot, driving out any Jewish men they could get hold of and dragging them away to forced labor. My father’s custom was to leave early in the morning with his tallit (prayer shawl) to go to the synagogue for morning prayers. On one of these mornings, the German troops caught him and led him away. We waited for him with our breakfast as we never began without him. But he didn’t come home.
The unrest and worry about Dad increased by the hour and drove us out of the house. It was a golden fall morning; the sun was shining with a glaring light climbing over the roofs and walls of the old hometown, gilding the gossamer threads floating in the clear air. It was such a splendor that I had to shut my eyes. Outside were the golden sun, radiant colors, and fresh air—-and yet we, desperately worried, could not sense them. There was sun around us but not within us.
Noon came and father didn’t turn up. Shaken, we speculated about what might have happened to him. We already knew that captured people were ill-treated by the Nazis, if not killed. We abandoned ourselves to our despair. At last—-it seemed an eternity to us-—our father returned that evening.
Father came back looking like an old, broken man in spite of being only forty-two years old. The brutes had ripped out part of his beard and left a bleeding wound on his jaw. His clothes were torn into rags; his shoes were battered and full of white dust. He spoke while wracked by sobs. It seemed to me that he couldn’t keep back his tears.
He told us that he and some other Jews had been ordered to clean the windows of an ammunition factory. When my father asked for a mop to do this job, one of the soldiers said, “You have the best mop on your chin” and tore his beard away. To add even more cruelty to the mix, the soldiers, knowing that Jews only ate kosher food, brought them pork to eat, a food generally forbidden.
Promises, Promises
Dad’s misery nearly broke my heart. I wanted to console him, to help him. Instinctively, I promised him I would do anything to keep him from ever going through such horror again. I would hide him so that the Germans wouldn’t find him. I would work and provide for the whole family. The tears stood in his eyes and he said to me, “But, my dear child, you are still so young. How will you manage all this?”
He looked at my frail form. I was so small in spite of my age. Sometimes, children have more strength than adults perceive. I carried out what I had promised with the help of my siblings, Binne and Jurek.
In Poland, the cellars had no paved floor, only soil. My brother and I dug a big ditch into the soil, big enough to hold two men standing because we had to hide my grown-up brother as well as my father. On top of this hole, we placed a wash tub filled with ice and put pots and sauce pans into it as if we wanted to cool our food there, refrigerators being still unknown in our town. The setup looked quite natural, and nobody would suspect that someone was hidden under it.
When the German soldiers came, my brother and father quickly slipped into the hole, hiding there under the wash tub. The soldiers frequently came to look into the cellar. I assured them that there was no man in the house. Sometimes, they believed me and didn’t even look around; other times, they pushed me away and searched with their flashlights. My heart nearly stood still because I knew that, if they found someone hidden, they killed him without mercy. When they left, I began to breathe again and freed my father and brother. I had kept my promise. Father was never taken into forced labor again.
My second promise to provide food for the family proved a little harder to fulfill. Fearing my father would be caught when I was not at home, I went out at night to stand in line for bread, trying to be the first at the baker’s window in the morning. My family had enlarged with Grandmother coming to live with us, and bread was essential. All this standing in line was in vain on occasion. Once in a while, the shelves were empty by the time my turn came.
The Germans often didn’t know who was a Jew or a Pole, but for the reward of five pounds of sugar, the Poles denounced us to them. The Germans turned the dogs on us, and many Jews got hurt during their flight. This could have been enough to keep me from my nightly ventures, but my promise was stronger than my fear. On those bakery trips, I took my sister along because one loaf of bread alone was not enough for seven people.
Whenever I needed to venture out for food, I dressed like a Polish peasant girl. I put on a loose peasant garb, with boots and a babushka around my head. I even put a necklace with a cross around my neck to signify Christianity. I would have done anything not to look Jewish. Of course, my parents would have been very angry with me had they known. I had all kinds of clothes and materials with which I bartered with the Poles for eggs, butter, potatoes, or peas. Too dangerous for Dad and Jurek to be seen on the streets, the breadwinner became a twelve-year-old girl.
Ghetto Rumors
By the early spring of 1941, the situation for the Jews grew worse and worse. A rumor spread that the Nazis were about to transport all Jews into a ghetto. I asked my parents what we could do. We must enter the ghetto with possessions that might be traded for necessities.
Dad remembered some non-Jewish manufacturers and wanted me to get in touch with them to try to acquire hides before we were sent to the ghetto. It was I who smuggled the hides, carrying them hidden on my body. When the Nazis confiscated his factory, Dad hid a lot of his business materials with Polish friends in hopes that these men would return them later. Some cooperated and some didn’t, threatening to call the Germans if I returned to beg for what belonged to Father.
The rumors proved to be true. By March, the Germans established the Radom Ghetto, which actually consisted of two separate ghettos, a larger one on Walowa St. in the Old Quarter and a smaller one called Glinice in the suburbs. Between the two, around 32,000-33,000 Jews would be rounded up and incarcerated, my family among them.
Dear Rose,
I remember reading your story and hearing you speak about a year ago. You spoke of your experience during The Holocaust and your words touched me. Your reunion with your sister made me hopeful for my own reunion one day.
In the summer of 2016, I had left the United States to go back to Turkey to visit my family. I was in Ankara to see all of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and my dear grandmother who was wilting away with age. We went about our daily lives, finishing chores like cooking, cleaning and fetching water. It’s all hard work, so on that night, July 15th, 2016, we decided to relax and go to our local Luna Park. I remember so clearly that I was so worried about one thing: making sure my sandals wouldn’t fly off while on the rides. I gripped them so tight with my toes that my nails turned white. It was so nice, being worried about something like that.
My family friend Işil, my little sister and I were on a ferris wheel, and when we stopped at the top, Işil received a phone call. My sister pointed at a cloud, the only one in the sky, over the capital. It was growing, and grey, and it touched the city. It was a cloud of smoke. As Işil hung up the phone, I could see a frantic look in her eye. We peered below us to see all of the people flooding out the gates of the Luna Park. As we got off the ride, she held our hands and rushed us to the car. As
we ran, we were almost hit by several other people rushing to leave. I felt the ground shake. Tanks had rolled onto the streets.
I wasn’t scared, like you think I should have been, if you know what happened on July 15, 2016, in Turkey. I was confused. I had no idea what was going on. We were on the outskirts of the capital, so the violence didn’t reach us. I didn’t understand until we arrived home and huddled in the dark with nothing but the television on and watched as the coup d’etat unfolded. And within hours, it was over.
All that was left were statistics: 179 civilians killed amongst the rising 300 casualties; 3 news agencies, 16 TV stations, 23 radio stations, 45 newspapers, 15 magazines, and 29 publishers were ordered to shut down. Then the mass arrests began. My mother, sister and I were forced to flee the country. We fled back to the United States before we could be convicted. Nearly 11,000 people were involved in the coup attempt. President Erdoğan proceeded to arrest over 40,000 people accused of having connections to Gülen. As dual citizens of the U.S and Turkey, we could have been quickly detained as Erdoğan was furious with America for “harboring” Gülen after he was exiled here in 1999.
My heart broke at the thought of not knowing when I’d be able to see my family again, but I knew in my heart we’d be reunited someday. But who would be left? My Uncle Ekrem Pakdemirli, the former Deputy Prime Minister to the president Özal before Erdoğan, had died for reasons I do not know. Next was his daughter, my cousin Ayşe, who was found dead at her farmhouse and her husband who had disappeared. Who would be left when I returned? When could I go back? How long would it take? A year? 10?
Now in 2018 I finally have my answer. On June 10th, 2018, I will return to my family in Turkey. On your birthday! It’s quite fitting, don’t you think? I wrote to you last time with all of these questions, and I’m writing to you again with joy in my heart that I hope will touch you in the same way that you have touched me. Maybe I’ll write again telling you how my travels went! I am so excited to see my cousin get married!
I wish you and your family the best of health, and may you live happily together for the rest of your days!
Sincerely,
Melody Lacquement
Dear Rose,
I have been fortunate to hear your story three times, and, no matter how many times I hear your story, it never gets easier. I just can’t imagine the true feelings you must feel deep down inside. You have made an impact on my life making me think about, care for, and love the little things in life.
When you said, “Don’t be a bystander” and “Stand up for what’s right,” it really hit me. Your experience has given me more reason and the will to protect those I love and to help those in need. I have always been one to look out for others, so to hear you say that reinforces my choice to join the United States Marine Corps to serve and defend those in need. After that, I plan on protecting and serving my community by going into law enforcement.
So thank you, Rose, for sharing your story. I’m so proud to say that I have met a Holocaust survivor and a wonderful person like you. Tell me if I am wrong, but were you named Rose after the beautiful flower? If so, I could see it. Have a wonderful day, Rose Williams.
Sincerely,
Tyler Veracruz
Dear Rose,
Once I was pegged by an arrow and the mark stayed. Your words were like arrows, and, in the same way, your story left a mark on me. I won’t ever forget. I feel horrible about what happened to you and your loved ones…. I wish the U.S. could have done more to help. But you told us that everyone is human and we should never let something like this happen again to anyone. That is my hope, too.
Sincerely,
Alex Poore
Dear Mrs. Williams,
I was so moved by your words. I even cried a little. It is just unbelievable to me, all of what happened and all that people – innocent people- - went through. I am deeply sorry for what you experienced, but I’m also so proud of how you now tell your story. You somehow find it in your heart to relive those horrors to connect with an audience to share your message.
You and the courage you summon are truly inspiring. You have overcome so much pain. Your strength is admirable. And as you tell of the horrors, you can still smile your beautiful smile. It kind of makes the world stop for a second.
I honestly can’t put into words how you have changed my perspective and my life. Because of you, now feel I can accomplish anything I set my mind to do. It was such an honor being in your presence. I promise to never forget your message and to always act with love and kindness.
With love,
Carmen Silva
Dear Rose,
Your testimony is truly inspiring. I would also like to express my condolences to those close to you, to those you have lost, and to those that you honor by sharing their story. Your story gives us, the younger generation, a reason to fight and stand up against the evils in the world. You have taught us to be bold and courageous and to always have hope even in the mist of fear and darkness. Your brave example of forgiveness gives us hope that our world will learn from past evils to prevail and transform into a world of love, kindness, joy and peace.
God bless you, Mrs. Rose Williams. May He open the ears and hearts of all who hear your message.
A grateful listener,
Michael Patulea
Entrance to the Walowa Ghetto in Radom circa 1942
Photo Credit: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of Muzeum Okregowe w Radomiu (Public Domain)
Chapter Three:
The Ghetto, 1941
With over two million Polish Jews now under their control, the Nazis implemented a new policy. Jews were to be gathered together from towns and villages and confined to ghettos in the poorest parts of the cities. Local officials determined the details; some ghettos were closed, some open. Deteriorating living conditions did not concern the Germans as the ghettos were always intended to be a temporary measure until the Nazis could develop a “solution” to the Jewish problem.
On March 29, 1941, the Governor of Radom sent out a decree establishing two separate ghettos, the larger one on Walowa St. in the Old Quarter and a smaller ghetto in the suburb of Glinice.7 Officials notified Jews that they had ten days to move from their homes into the ghetto. Having no assigned places, along with the rising refugee population, made finding room and food difficult. Beggars were ubiquitous and starvation part of the planned German policy to eradicate the Jews.
The Judenrat, a council of twenty-four Jewish men, was selected to oversee all facets of ghetto life: housing, health, permits, registration, food distribution, etc. Its raison d’etre, in actuality, was to carry out the Nazis’ orders. The councilmen had an impossible and thankless job. To be certain, some used their positions of authority to greedily benefit themselves; others, however, did make an effort to serve the Radom community. As the executors of Nazi policy, they were feared and mistrusted by citizens while fearful themselves of their SS overlords. Failure to fulfill a labor quota or any other assigned task risked replacement and public torment, often death. When deportations began, the Judenrat, often knowingly, had the unenviable job of delivering their friends, relatives, and fellow citizens into the hands of their murderers.8
The ghettos were an early phase of Jewish annihilation, whether by starvation, lack of water, disease, or deportation. Jews had to pay for a bucket of clean water; water pipes broke in the winter.9 Water became contaminated and, along with overcrowding and malnutrition, circumstances were ripe for diseases—typhus, typhoid fever, dysentery, pleurisy, tuberculosis. Harsh Polish winters caused expensive and scarce fuel for warmth, to the point that coal became known as “black pearls.”10
On April 7, the gates to the ghettos were closed. Walowa needed four times the space available for its 27,000 occupants. Glinice, with about 5,000 population, was overcrowded as well. Close quarters, dire rations, and lack of hygiene quick
ly began to take its toll. Sadistic Schutzstaffel (SS), Gestapo, auxiliary Ukrainian guards, and the Judenrat’s own Jewish police replaced the regular Wehrmacht soldiers, exacerbating already devastating conditions. The combined elements meant that fear of death was part of an ordinary day in the ghetto.11
• • •
Leaving Home
As rumors circulated about compulsory transfer to ghettos, my parents were wracked with torment about what would be best for their children. While there were certainly antisemitic Poles all around us, our Christian neighbors, the Saworskis, proved to be genuine friends. They told my parents that they were willing to take in all four of us children until we could be reunited after the war. How generous and how self-sacrificing was their offer! Dad called us all together to discuss the potential difficulty of life in the ghetto and the generosity of our neighbors’ overture.
“What do you think, children? Would you like to stay with our neighbors? You would be protected and not have to go to the ghetto.”
We simultaneously all burst out crying. “No! We don’t want to be separated from you and Mother. We want to stay together. Whatever happens will happen to us all!”
The unanimous decision must have somewhat relieved our agonized parents. They didn’t want to lose us any more than we wanted to lose them.
Unfortunately, our street didn’t belong to the Walowa district to which the Sherman family was assigned. In hindsight, my parents undoubtedly received an official letter demanding that we leave our home within ten days. However, maybe in hopes of delaying the inevitable or, more likely, in effort not to scare us, they did not tell us children. One day, we simply received word that we had two hours to get out of our home. The news bore down on us like a thunderbolt.