I still hoped that Mother would show up in one of the forests that abounded in that area of Poland. It was autumn of 1942. At that time I believed that this nightmare was temporary, and that any day I would find Mama. Had I thought differently, I would have given up.
I attempted to learn directions—deep green moss meant it was north, and so I took it from there. Sunshine never penetrated the thick forests, so it was hard to know directions.
Broken pieces of glass and metal parts of a shovel which I found outside a village helped me dig the little “graves” in the forests where I hid in between “excursions” in search of food. I usually covered my hiding place with branches and leaves, and I felt pretty secure there.
It was getting chilly. Dampness in the forests had been quite pervasive, and I always felt wet. My search for food usually was done under the cover of darkness—the only protection I had. Often I had to run from the villages as the dogs’ loud barking kept announcing my unwelcome presence. I still had my good high-top shoes and the lined jacket that Mama told me never to leave behind.
After Papa had been taken away so abruptly when the Germans entered our town, Mama had gathered all her jewelry and divided it into three little piles. She sewed one into my sister Tia’s heavy sweater, another into my lined jacket, and the third into Papa’s jacket, which she had been wearing almost all the time. Nothing was ever mentioned about this again. Mama left out a few pieces of jewelry, which were hidden in a small drawer in a bureau in the main bedroom. We used these later to survive in the ghetto.
One night I returned to my little “grave” without any food. I was very tired and discouraged. It was almost daylight. I should have covered the top of my “grave” more carefully, but I was too tired and weak from hunger. I thought later would be time enough. Again, I dozed off. An unexpected sound woke me. I looked up through the branches of my cover and saw a pair of shiny black boots.
“Wylaz,” a man’s voice said, meaning “crawl out” in Ukrainian. I clumsily got out of my deep hiding hole, pulled the branches to one side, and found myself in front of a man of medium height, dressed in a short brown sheepskin coat, britches, and almost new knee-high black boots. On his head he wore a fur hat with earflaps tied on top. A rifle was slung over his right shoulder. I heard a horse whinny nearby.
The man started asking questions. To the first—“How old are you?”—I answered, “Ten years,” although I was actually 12. Then he wanted to know where I came from. I told him, “From Horochow.” He looked at me with some disbelief—he said I was quite far from Horochow, but he would not tell me the actual location.
I had to do something quick. I told him I needed to use a “bathroom.” He smiled and said not to try to run—it wouldn’t work. I assured him that this was not my intent. He gave me permission to leave for a short time.
What I needed to do was to take out one of the gold coins that Mama had sewn into my jacket before we were herded into the ghetto. When I returned from the “bathroom,” I had the coin in my hand.
The man, a forest ranger (gajowy), tried to tell me that I would never survive the harsh winter ahead. He would take me to the authorities and they would decide what to do with me. That made a lot of sense to him. I said, “Of course, they will kill me.” His answer was, “Not necessarily.”
I realized it was pointless to argue, and so I offered him the gold coin to let me go. He looked at me intently without saying a word. Stupidly, I commented that the coin was worth much more than the reward that the authorities would give him for taking me to them. With a sly smile he replied, “I could have both.” A shiver still runs down my spine thinking of his words. There was an awkward silence, and then he offered his outstretched hand. I put the coin into his hand and looked searchingly into his eyes. A friendlier smile lit up his face. He repeated that I would not survive the winter but said he’d let me go. He really was not a bad person. He turned around to get on his horse, and left with a stern warning—“I don’t ever want to see you in these forests again.”
It had only been a little more than a year before when Mama had sewn the jewelry into my jacket, and I hadn’t comprehended what she had meant when she said, “This is for a rainy day.”
©2005, Charlene Schiff. The text, images, and audio and video clips on this website are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.