of the earlier aktions. When the police had tried to drag Esther’s mother out of their home that morning Esther stood in their way, hysterically crying and begging the officers to leave them alone. The police ordered Esther to step aside and quiet down. As she fell to her knees one of them pulled out his gun and shot Esther, right in front of her mother.
THE GERMANS HAD ASSEMBLED THE POLICE FORCE a short time after the occupation. Young men were typically recruited from neighboring farming villages with large Ukrainian nationalist populations and trained by the SS. Many of them had criminal records and had done time in Polish prisons; others were poor peasants desperate for work. Because the force was composed of ethnic Ukrainians and backed by Ukrainian leaders, they were often referred to as the “Ukrainian police.” At first they helped enforce the curfew, later on they passed out the armbands; in the end they dragged women and children from their homes.
Ukrainian police continued to go house to house, pushing people out into the street and then taking them to the big synagogue, Beis Medrush, where they were forced to line up and kneel on the cobblestones as the German officers collected their valuables. After they had captured about seventy-five people, they would march them from Beis Medrush to the lime mines on the edge of town. As the Jews approached the mines they immediately understood their fate. Einsatzgruppen shooters were standing behind bushes near the mass grave, which was filled with the victims that came before them. The Jews were forced to stand in front of the grave and undress as they heard their neighbors slowly dying in the earth below. Some would try to escape, others would yell obscenities at their murderers; most would kiss their loved ones goodbye and pray for a quick death. The murderers left the graves uncovered until their work was done, almost two weeks later.
Decades after the war, Noike met a teenage boy who had survived the graves: Rubin Grosser. Rubin thought he was dead when the bullet struck his head, but the wound was superficial. He remained motionless in the grave as they continued to shoot his family, friends, and neighbors. When the Einsatzgruppen left the site that evening he started to crawl out of the grave, pushing through the mountain of dead bodies. He was about to run off when he heard moans coming from a boy beside him, Leibel Naimark. Naked and bloody, the two of them ran to a farmer who had offered to help when word first spread of the aktion. The farmer and his wife nursed the boys back to health and sheltered them until it was safe to leave. Rubin and Leibel were among the very few to survive the graves; the earth was said to be shaking for four weeks.
EVERYONE IN GITEL’S BASEMENT REMAINED SILENT as the raids continued, except for one little girl who couldn’t stop crying. Each time she wailed, the others in the basement would look towards the mother. “Please do something,” their eyes begged. The others were sympathetic—many were mothers themselves—but they also feared for their own lives. When the girl finally settled down and fell asleep, the mother slipped out of the basement and put her in the house next door.
At some point the little girl woke up, or the Ukrainian police came into the house and woke her up; no one knows exactly how it happened. The police brought her outside and asked: “Where’s your mother?” She immediately ran to the outhouse and wept, “Momma, Momma.” The police opened the outhouse door and checked inside, but found nothing.
The police started to walk away but the little girl refused to move. Clinging to the edge of the outhouse door she continued to cry: “Momma, Momma.” The police went back to the outhouse, poked around the seat, and then finally nudged the toilet aside, revealing the entrance to the hiding place. One of them stuck his rifle inside the hole and yelled in Ukrainian: “Vilezai! Come out!”
With no place to run, the women and children started filing out of the basement. Noike and his mother were on the far side of the room, a safe distance from the police who continued to shout, “Vilezai, Vilezai!” Pesel scanned the room for Herschel but it was difficult to see in the darkness, or to shout over the weeping women and children. They had stood to follow the others when Pesel noticed a section of wall that was loosely boarded.
“Noikele, quick, get inside,” she said, pulling a board off the wall.
He crawled inside and stepped as far back as he could.
“Hold this in place and don’t move until it’s safe,” she instructed him, handing him the board with the nails pointed in his direction.
Noike grabbed the nails, held them tightly, not moving a limb.
Pesel hid under some bedding; everyone else had left by now.
Through the cracks in the wood, Noike saw three Ukrainian police wearing their signature black uniforms with the word Militzia printed on the back enter the hiding place and begin looking for valuables and any remaining Jews. As two of them hunted for valuables, a third walked around the room, thrusting his bayonet into possible hiding places. Every few minutes a match would strike, illuminating the darkest corners of the basement. In the faint light Noike saw the officer with the bayonet, a young man not more than twenty, approach the place where his mother was hiding. The man raised the bayonet over his shoulder and sank it into the pile of bedding. “No, no,” Pesel cried, pierced by the bayonet, “I’m coming out!”
Noike froze; he was afraid to breathe.
He watched the police officer grab his mother by the arm and lead her out of the hiding place. He wanted to do something—to shout, to attack, to run—but his mouth, arms, and legs obeyed his mother’s last words: Don’t move until it’s safe. Don’t move until it’s safe. Don’t move until it’s safe. Her figure grew smaller and smaller as they neared the outhouse entrance.
And then she was gone.
The two other officers continued to search the basement, kicking over empty boxes and crates, opening any packages left behind. One of the men stopped a few inches away from Noike and paused to light a cigarette. He was so close that Noike could smell the phosphorous from the match, the first puff of cigarette smoke. The man slid the matchbook back inside his pocket and walked away.
When they finally left Noike slowly let out his breath.
He remained frozen with fear behind the wall, listening for sounds of the police. Sometime later another man came down into the hiding place wearing a dark, threadbare suit. Noike stood still, unsure whether it was safe to come out. As he squinted through the cracks in the wood he recognized the man as Moishe Burshtein, the head of the Judenrat. He had been a community leader before the war, organizing fundraisers for the poor and celebrations during the Jewish holidays. The German authorities forced him into the Judenrat role, threatening him and his family with death if he did not cooperate. With the raids almost complete, they no longer had any use for him.
Noike stepped away from the wall and slowly walked over to Mr. Burshtein. “I’m looking for galoshes,” Mr. Burshtein said, his forehead damp with sweat. “I’m going to the woods tonight—it’s muddy there.” He seemed disoriented, as if he had just awoken from a deep sleep. Noike was also in a dream-like state, his mind and body following a script unknown to him. The hiding place, the police with the bayonet, his mother’s capture—none of it seemed real.
“Moishe, where are you going now?” Noike grabbed at the man’s sleeve. He had no plan, nowhere to go.
“Next door,” Mr. Burshtein said, nodding towards the other house. “They might have some galoshes in the attic.”
Noike followed him into the open-air attic, which was littered with bits and pieces of old furniture. They were moving an old trunk when they heard a noise near the foot of the ladder. Mr. Burshtein glanced down, meeting the eyes of a Ukrainian police officer who was pointing a rifle directly
