Letters to Rose Read online

  You also said that you forgave your captors. And I don’t know how you do that. But if you can forgive them for all the pain they inflicted on you, surely I can forgive my father for leaving my mom. Like you said, I can forgive, but I will not forget.

  I am truly, deeply sorry for all the pain and suffering you have been through. No one should ever have to endure that. And yet, against all odds, you found your faith again after reuniting with your sister. It is amazing to learn that, even in that place of evil, there can be some happiness.

  Rose, you will forever be my hero. You may not have superhuman strength, or superhuman speed, but you have the superhuman ability to forgive. Thank you for sharing that extraordinary power with me.

  With Love,

  Erica Vance

  Dear Rose,

  My name is Brayden. I was there when you told your story, and I would like to say that you encouraged me in a time of need. I lost my father two years ago, and these months are hard because this is the time when I spent most of my time with him. I know you understand the pain I feel. But you made me realize that in life we have to keep going because God would want that.

  Not only are you an inspiration to the thousands who are fortunate enough to meet you, but you have a heart of gold. Your ability to forgive is amazing. I now believe God has a plan for me, and that’s what I have to live by. So thank you, Rose. You truly inspired me. One day I promise tell your story to my own children.

  Thank you.

  Brayden Chalker

  Dear Rose,

  It was such an honor to meet you. I will never forget the pain you’ve had to endure. I will tell my children and nieces and nephews about the opportunity I had to meet you, and I will share your story with them one day.

  Thank you for your willingness to talk about such a tragic event that occurred in your life, and in history. Everyone who went through the Holocaust will be forever in my heart. It is unthinkable to me that something so terrible could ever happen. As you closed your speech, you said that we should go home and tell how families how much we love them. I promise to do that because you really never know what tomorrow can bring.

  With love,

  Grace Brabson

  Editor’s Note: Grace knows all too well of the tragedy tomorrow can bring. Seven months prior to writing this letter, Grace’s mother and sister lost their lives when the hot air balloon they were riding in plummeted to earth in a horrific crash. She truly took Rose’s homework assignment to heart.

  Radom after Liquidation

  Reprinted with permission of Yad Vashem. Archival signature 1597/260.

  Chapter Seven:

  Barrack 72

  Broken Lives

  I don’t know how my sister and I lived through the next days and weeks. It seemed to us the end of the world had come. Our will to live drained. We were like two lost souls, spiritually and emotionally, completely broken. But life went on as it always does. Our bodies were resilient despite all we had gone through. Three days we spent facing the deaths and deportation of so many Jews. After a short time at AVL, we nine girls and eight boys returned to Barrack 72. We got our regular jobs again and had no choice but to go on.

  Seven of us were younger, ranging from thirteen to eighteen years old. Two of the girls were about twenty. I was barely fifteen years old, but I looked like a very developed young woman. My sister, who was two years younger than I and very, very beautiful, had the face of a child. I was always anxious about Binne and hoped that her beauty would not be noticed by the soldiers. My younger sister’s looks frequently attracted attention.

  One night we closed ourselves up in our room where nobody else was allowed to enter. All of a sudden, a knock at the door startled us from sleep. We went cold with fright. What could that mean? We didn’t know what to do. At last, the older woman who was with us said that we ought to open the door, so we did, but not before I got Binne to hide under her bed. Our trepidation rose to the level of panic when the door opened. A drunken German officer was standing there with a gun pointed toward us. He ordered that one of us girls go with him and chose one from among us. We all started to pray, hoping that no harm would come to her.

  The inebriated officer took his victim along a side path, which led through thorny bushes. He couldn’t lead her along the main road where the sentinels stood. Being seen with a Jewish girl constituted the crime of rassenschande, meaning “racial disgrace.” He chose a lesser path. Tottering along, still with his gun in his hand, the German caught his sleeve in thorns.

  While he was trying to free himself, the girl slipped away. She crawled and then ran back. The officer fired after her. We heard the shot, and we all continued to pray for her safe return. At last (it seemed hours although not even ten minutes had passed), she came running back, howling. Sobs shook her young body. We were all so happy to see her and have her with us again.

  We nine girls, all orphaned, all abandoned, all sharing the same bitter fate, became close friends to one another. We lived like sisters. With one exception, all these girls survived the war. Among them was one who became my very special friend. Her name was Helen Frischman.

  Helen may have been closer to my sister during the war; they were in the same camp, Sucha, at one point. But after the war, she and I became very close. It was strange. I hadn’t seen her for eight whole years after the war was over. Then, fate brought us together again in Ecuador, South America.

  House of Terror

  During our stay in Barrack 72, Helen and I were commanded to report to one part of the hospital together. We were assigned the job of heating the stoves of a nearby three-story house both day and night. It was very cold. A doctor and one nurse only inhabited the house. Both of them were bad people. Alec was our chief supervisor, but a simple soldier guarded us, in particular, while we worked in the big house. They allowed us to sleep there because we had to heat the stoves continually through the night.

  It was on a bitterly cold night that Helen and I were looking out of the window and saw people walk in freedom beyond the barbed wires. We felt worse than prisoners, closed up and forlorn. Finally, we resolved to go to sleep. A short time after we lay down, there came a hard knock at the door. Remembering the incident with the drunken officer, I didn’t want to open it. But the drumming against the door got louder and louder.

  We heard the soldier’s voice, shouting that he would shoot through the door if we didn’t open. So I went and opened it. When he saw me, he boxed my ear that was still hurting from the earlier assault; it became worse. Helen only got a sound scolding. He said that I was a sly Jewess, and it was my fault. To punish us, he sent us down to the cellar to fetch coals although the house was well provided with fuel.

  A short time after this incident, Barrack 72 was dissolved, and we returned the ghetto. That is to say, we returned to what was left of the ghetto, which consisted of three streets only now. The Jewish police served as the authority on these three streets. We got a garret, an attic space—my sister, my friend Helen, another girl named Fay, and I.

  When I entered the ghetto, someone rushed over to me, someone I didn’t know but who knew me somehow. This man told me that my older brother had survived several selections and was now working in an ammunition factory. Tears of joy streamed from my eyes.

  “Where are my parents and my little brother Motek? Is there any news of them?” I asked. It was a question asked in vain. I had felt they were gone; I had been told everyone was lost during the liquidation of Walowa. It was a question I already knew the answer to, but only now was the loss becoming reality.

  Dear Rose,

  Your story has changed the way I’ve looked at this unexplainable time. I never fully let myself understand what pain and confusion the people went through for no reasonable purpose. I had always looked upon the brutal event as mass murder, but it was so much more than that. That fact that you have the strength to stand in
front of thousands and tell your story shows not only how strong-willed you are, but how determined. You want to let us know the struggle they put you and your loved ones through to help us fully understand the barbaric cruelty of this time. Thanks to you, I do. You have helped me understand that this was more than the death of 11 million souls. It was pure hatred and evil.

  Don’t let anyone tell you that you are less than amazing. Your heart and mind are pure, in spite of the darkness that tried to take over. Rose, you are beautiful.

  Love,

  Ashlynn Losoya

  Dear Rose,

  You are absolutely adorable and remind me of my great-grandmother, whom I still have the opportunity to talk to. It saddened me to hear your story, but I was grateful to be there listening to you. Your visit had an impact, both enlightening and alarming, on all of us. You implored us to strive to be better people and to help our family and peers in any situation. While I was intrigued by your story and the hardships you and your family had to endure, I will never be able to truly understand all the atrocities that happened. But by listening to you, I feel like I have a better understanding. I will never forget you and the experiences you shared, and I’ll pass it on to the next generation so they can also.

  Sincerely,

  Ryan Short

  Dear Mrs. Williams,

  I just wanted to say thank for being such an incredible inspiration and an icon to many. I have always been taught about World War II and the Holocaust in school. But we never went into so much detail about what the innocent victims went through in ghettos and concentration camps as we have this year. I actually never realized just how horrible it was inside those hellish prisons. When you came to Johnson High School to speak, you gave me new insight to a topic many choose to ignore. You connected to us and helped us realize just how much mental and physical strength it took for you to survive. After your presentation, I have gained a new respect and a deeper sympathy for those who went through the Holocaust, both those who died and the survivors.

  Thank you, Mrs. Rose Williams, for giving me the opportunity of a lifetime to learn from a hero who is truly full of wisdom and sincerity.

  Sincerely,

  Zachary Damiani

  Dear Rose,

  I am sorry that you had to go through the things you described. I can understand why you couldn’t talk about it for years. But I am glad you made that promise to your son so we can learn from your experience. I, too, wish that we could learn from past mistakes, but in the world we live in, it doesn’t look like that is going to happen any time soon.

  Rose, I learned about the Holocaust many times, but something in me just couldn’t wrap my head around it: that it could be true, that someone could be that cruel to innocent people. I mistakenly thought all the survivors had passed until Mrs. Philbrick told us a Holocaust survivor would be coming to our school to tell us her story. Just finding our there were survivors still living was amazing, but at the same time I felt the sadness that comes with knowing all you had been through. I could barely wait to meet you!

  With your presentation, you made a subject I was really confused about come clear. I went to boot camp twice and that only lasted 5 days; you went to a concentration camp for years and survived! I am in awe! There is no title I can give you that would show the respect I have for you and how honored I am to have met you. I hear athletes and bodybuilders talk about how strong they are, but none of them compare with you- - the amazing teenager who survived the Holocaust.

  Sincerely,

  TF

  Chapter Eight:

  Garret Life in the Little Ghetto

  After the Germans removed 20,000 or so Jews from Walowa, the majority of the ghetto closed. About 2,000 men were sent to a nearby munitions plant in Szkolna and were required to live in barracks there. What became the “Little Ghetto” was formed in an area consisting of a few streets, surrounded by a wall and barbed wired fencing. Several thousand Jews, about a quarter of them women, remained in the Little Ghetto and worked at various German installations and factories in the Radom District. One such area was Pionki, about fourteen miles outside Radom.

  Pionki became the site of a labor camp where Jews worked in various capacities at an enormous ammunition plant. The ammunition factory was founded in 1923 as State Manufacturer of Gunpowder, its location intentional, among forests and swamps in the Kozienice Wilderness and near a chemical plant in Zagozdzon. Because the Germans intended to utilize the factory, Radom was spared heavy bombing.

  Jobs at Pionki ranged from office work to loading heavy crates of gunpowder to cement work. The most dreaded was assignment to ammunition manufacturing in hellishly hot rooms full of molten lead. The camp functioned until June 1944 at which time the Germans dissolved it and transported its prisoners.21

  Other types of work out of the Little Ghetto included women working at the Korona factory. Open from August ’42 to July ’43, this factory served as the depository for all confiscated Jewish possessions. As Jews boarded trains for “resettlement,” guards instructed them to leave all belongings behind. Meanwhile, other collaborators ransacked and looted Jewish quarters. They even stripped those shot on the street of clothing, money, anything of the slightest worth. Trains from Treblinka returned to Radom, not with people, but with their clothes, hair, etc. The Germans wasted nothing, except human life itself.22

  Perhaps one of the worst jobs to be assigned was as a turf cutter in the marshlands around Radom. Backbreaking, work crews had to cut, stack and haul the blocks of peat. Both men and women performed this labor. Through the harsh winter and into spring of ’43, the Nazis employed about 800 men and women in this way. Germans used the blocks of peat for fuel to heat barracks and workshops. The work was arduous. Many suffered from colds and fevers. In the spring of ’43, doctors ordered several of the turf brigade, seriously ill, to be hospitalized. Upon inspection of the hospital, SS officials shot the turf cutters for being work dodgers.23

  • • •

  Carpe Diem

  The Little Ghetto, the remnants of Walowa, reduced to three streets, can be described as pure pandemonium, an attitude of carpe diem, “seize the day,” prevailing. People who felt the threat of death hovering all around began to live for the day, for every minute they had. Every man chose some woman to live with. It didn’t matter that she had been married to some other man before, a man taken during the evacuation. They lived together, calling each other “cousins.” The man protected the freely chosen woman; they exchanged no marriage vows.

  A crazy, wild enjoyment of life began. People drank just to forget all the menacing peril around them. There was no longer hunger. The population was so diminished, we had abundant food. Polish people ran an underground market. The Poles bought things from us, giving us money and food in return. The atmosphere was one of bizarre revelry.

  Korona

  Binne, our two garret roommates, and I worked at the Korona factory, where women sorted all belongings taken from the Jews during the liquidation. Clothes and valuables stripped from the dead also arrived at Korona for sorting and cleaning before being shipped to Germany.

  Some of the regular German Wehrmacht guards expressed sympathy for our plight. Be assured, however, when any of us were caught stealing, those same guards, under the watchful eyes of their SS overseers, beat us unmercifully. Sometimes, guards gave us permission to take one or two items. Other times, we hid things in the outhouse and retrieved them later. I brought home what I could from Korona: vessels, curtains, table centers. We fixed our dismal little attic garret so that it looked like a small paradise in the midst of Hell.

  Ghetto neighbors observed that we four girls didn’t have a “cousin”; we were all alone and were laughed at for keeping our distance. We intended to preserve our innocence. The Jewish police demoralized us as the others tried to get hold of us. They sent us out to do the worst, dirtiest work, hoping to break our spirits and
get us to yield to their evil desires. But we remained firm. Some young boys came up to our garret with the excuse that they wanted to borrow some books. Our room was filled with books that apparently had been stored away there.

  The boys said they wanted books; in reality, they wanted us. Among them, however, was one exception who really was only interested in books. His name was Richard Tenewicki, the son of a known composer and music teacher at the local music academy. Tenewicki was a well-known name in Radom. Richard and I often talked about books, and he was surprised at my knowledge of them in spite of my age. It was an innocent, child-like friendship. Sadly, he did not survive the war.

  Forced Labors

  While we were still in the Little Ghetto, my sister and my friend Helen transferred to Kolejowa, a center for delivering food to the SS. There, they were the only two workers. The other girl Fay and I went to Kromolowski, a leather factory where we made strap butts for machines and saddles for horses. We sewed them by hand with big double needles. There were many other women, too, one being the Tenewicki boy’s mother. How ironic life can be!

  I often spoke with Mrs. Tenewicki about Richard, about her fears and anguish and how fine and tender he was. I always tried to help her with her work when the supervisor wasn’t looking. As I was already pretty fast with the leather work, I finished the work allotted to me very quickly, and so I was able to take over some of her work.

  The police assigned to watch us knew that I was doing some of Mrs. Tenewicki’s work and looked away most of the time. But one policeman decided that others might notice and he himself might be in danger. His concern was soon validated, and I was punished for my charitable efforts.