Jack and Rochelle

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  Jack and Rochelle

  A Holocaust Story of Love and Resistance

  Jack and Rochelle Sutin, edited by Lawrence Sutin

  For the grandchildren—David, Danny, and Sarah

  Contents

  Preface

  Principal Locations in the Narrative, 1939–1945

  I Family Roots and Coming of Age

  II Life Under Soviet Rule

  III Onset of the Nazi Horror

  IV Jack Escapes from the Mir Ghetto

  V Rochelle Escapes from the Stolpce Ghetto

  VI Courtship in the Woods

  VII From the Bunker to the Atrad

  VIII Nazi Assault on the Nalibocka Forest

  IX Under the Soviet Yoke Again

  X From Germany to America

  XI Life in America

  An Afterword on the “Second Generation”

  Image Gallery

  Notes and Acknowledgments

  Index

  About the Authors

  Preface

  The narrative you are about to read is true. It has been assembled from numerous interview sessions between myself and my parents, Jack and Rochelle Sutin. They have pored over every word of this book, determined that it be an accurate account of their lives.

  There were dilemmas posed for all Holocaust survivors who started families in the postwar years. What should they say of their experiences? When? Was there a risk of traumatizing the young? Would silence create a gulf of unease between parents and children?

  My parents chose to speak openly of their experiences to us—to my sister Cecilia and myself. I cannot remember at what age I first began to hear their Holocaust stories. But they were part of my childhood, and they did not harm me. This is not to deny that they were painful in the extreme. Nor is it to deny that the pain has left its mark upon me. But none of us escape suffering. And I always felt, as far back as I can remember, that it was a necessary pain.

  Silence—a refusal to entrust us with the truth—would have been far worse. Unbearable.

  The pain extended beyond the content of the stories themselves. Watching the faces of my parents as they spoke was the hardest part. Seeing my parents cry was a grief, a humiliation, an agony to sit through.

  Early on, my parents would say to us, “We know you won’t be able to believe these things. They don’t happen in the world you know here in America.” But we did believe them. And we were encouraged to ask all the questions that came to our minds. These story sessions became the occasions when we spoke most openly with our parents. To learn about the Holocaust is to learn about life as well as death.

  It needs to be said that there were times, while telling these stories, that none of us in the room were sad. We were laughing, fascinated by the stories of their very different childhoods in the Polish towns of Stolpce and Mir, and delighted in hearing—again and again—how our father and mother had fallen in love in the Polish woods while hiding from the Nazis and fighting for the Jewish partisans.

  Let it also be said that we were never such fools as to believe that our parents’ survival had to do with any moral or other superiority on their part. Death in the Holocaust was omnipresent; the millions of Jews who died and the small living remnant of survivors are One, but for the accidents of fate.

  There are two voices intertwined in the narrative: those of Jack and Rochelle. Now and then they interrupt each other. That is the way they have told these stories for the past fifty years: side by side, listening intently each to the other, at the ready to speak up lest a single detail be lost. These stories are their lives—the testament of their survival and their love for each other.

  LAWRENCE SUTIN

  I

  Family Roots and Coming of Age

  ROCHELLE

  My mother and father met just after the end of World War I. It was a chance event, and perhaps an unfortunate one.

  My mother Cila was born in 1900 and grew up in the Russian city of Minsk. Her maiden name was Benienson. Her family was upper-class, well-educated, cultured. Her father was in the timber business and her mother ran the household and was devoted to her children—a son and five daughters, including Cila.

  It was an unusual family for the time in that all of the daughters were encouraged to pursue a university education. Cila graduated with a dental diploma from the University of Charkow, while another one of her sisters, Rachel, trained as a lawyer and moved to Warsaw to practice. Rachel was not fated to have a long life. She married and had a son, but then died in childbirth. It was, indirectly, through her death that my parents would meet.

  Cila travelled from Minsk to Warsaw to attend her sister’s funeral. It was a somewhat complicated journey, as it involved changing trains at the border between Poland and Russia. On her way home, Stolpce was the changing point—the last town on the Polish side. Stolpce is located in the region of Belorussia (White Russia), which had been in Russian hands until the end of World War I, when Poland gained back the lands on its eastern frontier that it had not held for over a century. Stolpce had a talent, you can see, for being always in the path of conquering armies. That talent would continue on into my own lifetime.

  But when my mother stepped off the train at Stolpce that day, everything was peaceful. She was very young then, and quite beautiful. Her hair was a rich dark black, and she had large and probing blue eyes. You could see that she was a sensitive one—she registered what happened around her. And she had an air of kindness. Because of the train schedules, she was going to have to wait in Stolpce for two days for the next train to Minsk.

  On that very day when Cila arrived, my father, Lazar Schleiff, was working at the train station, supervising the loading of turpentine and tar into railroad cars. That was the Schleiff family business—smolarne (refined lumber products) as well as coal. It had been founded by my grandfather, but he had died not long before and control had passed to two of his sons, Lazar and his younger brother Oscar.

  My mother caught Lazar’s eye on that day as she waited on the platform, checking the schedule for the train to Minsk. Lazar was twelve years older than Cila. He was a handsome man with a strong brow and dominating eyes. And he must have been quite a talker, because he managed to convince Cila to stay on in Stolpce for the next two nights in a guest bedroom in the Schleiff family home. Lazar immediately began to court Cila with every means at his disposal, promising her his devotion and the comforts of his wealth. To lessen her desire to return to Minsk, Lazar warned her that life would not fare well for educated professionals under the new Communist regime in Russia.

  As it turned out, Cila never took the train to Minsk. In fact, she never saw her family again. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure why that was the case. Cila corresponded regularly with her family for many years, and sent them money and food packages as well. I would hear her say, from time to time, that she missed them. But they didn’t come to the wedding, and there were never any visits. That may have been due to the difficulty of travel between Poland and Russia once the new Soviet regime set up its rules and regulations. Under both Lenin and Stalin—especially under Stalin—contacts with the non-Communist West—including, at that time, Poland—were viewed with extreme suspicion. In 1933, Cila’s mother wrote her to say that she would have to break off further correspondence—to continue would be to place herself and the rest of the family under threat of arrest.

  For their first three years of married life, Cila and Lazar lived with the rest of the Schleiff family. It was a large house that included not only Lazar�
��s mother, Ethel Schleiff, but also his eight sisters. Living together as an extended family was much more common in those days in Poland than it is in America today. Even so, there were fierce tensions that made Cila’s life miserable.

  You must understand that, amongst Polish Jews of that time, there was a kind of unwritten law: the brothers of a family had to wait until their sisters married before they themselves got married. It didn’t matter if there were substantial age differences between the siblings—that’s the way it was. The important thing was that the brothers should assist in providing each of the sisters with as large a dowry as possible. The larger the dowry, you see, the better the match that could be made for them. Since Lazar’s father had died, it was especially important that Lazar oversee his eight sisters’ marriages.

  Lazar could see that there would be no end to this business, and so he broke the rule. He had fallen so hard for Cila that he could not wait to marry her. And then he dared to bring her into the family home!

  All of the sisters resented Cila. The primary reason was that Lazar had married her out of turn. And now that Lazar was married, he was less motivated to provide for his sisters, since his thoughts had turned to preparing for the family he planned to have with Cila. But even beyond these factors, the sisters hated Cila because they could not help but see her as in a class above themselves. Cila was educated and articulate. They were neither. But rather than admit their jealousy, they insisted on acting as if Cila was a snob who took pleasure in treating them badly.

  My father Lazar resembled his sisters in many basic ways. Like them, he had been raised in Stolpce, an isolated and provincial town. As a boy, he had received a basic Jewish education and had spent a brief amount of time in high school during the period of Russian rule. But Lazar never wanted to attend a university. My father was all business—a very ambitious, high-strung man. Not only was there the lumber-products company, but on the family estate they raised horses, cows, chickens.… They made money from everything. My mother, by comparison, came from a big city—Minsk. She liked to read, to play the piano. She didn’t know how to milk a cow or tend to laying chickens. The sisters despised her for her ignorance. As for Lazar, he was pleased with himself for having won a cultured woman as his wife.

  I was the first child, born during the fourth year of their marriage. I have very few memories of life in the Schleiff family house, however, because we moved out when I was three years old. My father, who was growing steadily more prosperous, decided to build a bigger house for his wife and his child and the children to come. And he built it far away—on the other side of town. Perhaps he felt sorry for my mother. And perhaps he was himself tired of living under the eyes of his family. But he made up his mind to outdo the old family house, and he succeeded.

  What a house it was! By the standards of Stolpce, it was luxurious beyond compare. Everyone in town used outhouses. But we had flushing indoor toilets! And while some of the better houses in town had indoor running water, it was cold water only. If you wanted hot water, you heated it up on your stove. But in our house, we had indoor copper-pipe plumbing. When we used our stove for cooking, the copper pipes heated the water tank in the attic. So we had hot baths, hot showers, simply by turning on the faucet. Unheard of! Of course, all of the rooms and furnishings were deluxe, and the surrounding yard was vast. It was a very comfortable house, a palace.

  As you can imagine, the move to that new house did nothing to improve relations between my mother and the Schleiff family. And the hostilities spilled out onto myself and my sisters, even though all of Lazar’s sisters did eventually marry and were provided with large dowries on each occasion. I always used to feel that I and my two younger sisters, Sofka and Miriam, were treated as Tzila’s kinder (Cila’s children)—the least favorite of all the grandchildren. I was more sensitive to this than Sofka was—she was a happy-go-lucky type. Miriam was so young that their behavior did not make an impact upon her before the war came.

  My mother tried to heal the wounds over time, but no matter what she did, somehow it was counted against her. For example, Cila always liked to dress with style—to look “put-together,” you would call it. And the family, instead of saying, “How nice she looks!” would mutter, “What does she care? Lazar makes the money and she spends it!” Eventually, my mother stopped paying visits to the family house altogether, as did her children. My father would go there by himself.

  As the years went on, things did not go so smoothly between my father and my mother. Looking back now, I can see that it wasn’t a good marriage. But, as a child, I did not pass judgment. It was different back then, in Poland, than it is today in America, where so many children become involved in the private details of their parents’ marriages by way of family counselling or divorce proceedings. My generation did not question—or even wonder about—the relationship between their parents. But I do remember how it was between them.

  When my father first planned our new house, he had two rooms built at the very front to serve as a lobby and a treatment office for my mother, so that she could continue with her dental practice. But she did not continue for long. I was born, and then Sofka was born, and even though we had a nanny and a maid, my father did not want her to practice dentistry anymore. He wanted her to focus on the children. She loved being home with us, and in truth it was no great sorrow for her to give up her work. Her dental-practice rooms were rented out as an apartment unit. The house was so big that ultimately all the rooms on the second floor were let out as well. Only well-to-do citizens of the town could afford them.

  But the real problem for me at that time did not come from the tension between my parents. It was from the hatred felt by the majority of Poles for the Jews. From the time I started school, I was always called a “dirty Jew.” Sometimes I was beaten up by my classmates. Sometimes they threw stones at me as I was walking home. Not far from us there lived a Polish family with a girl my age. We used to play together. She would tell me the stories about Jews that her mother had told her: that if she was a bad girl, the Jews would come and kill her; that Jews kill Christian children to get the blood they need to make their Passover matzoh. All of those stories you can still hear today, not only in Eastern Europe but in America as well.

  During holidays such as Christmas or Easter, the Christian residents of Stolpce used to have processions through the streets. Jews didn’t dare appear in public then. We had to close all the windows and pull the curtains. If they saw you outside, they would throw stones. If they caught you, they would beat you. There were always threats about full-scale pogroms [attacks en masse against a Jewish community]. There was a tiny marketplace in which the Jewish businesses of the town were located. A Polish policeman named Schultz, who worked that neighborhood beat, received bribes regularly from members of the Jewish community, including my father. In exchange for those bribes, Schultz would alert us—some of the time, at least—to planned lootings and attacks.

  My father was not a devoutly religious man, and yet he involved himself with the Jewish community in important ways. As a matter of practical assistance, he served on the board of a bank founded by Jews to serve other Jewish businessmen, because it was nearly impossible for Jews to obtain loans from Polish-run banks. But my father also placed value on certain Jewish rituals for their own sake. He was the voluntary head of the local Chevre Kaddishe [Brotherhood of the Kaddish—the kaddish being the Jewish prayer of mourning], an organization that devoted itself to fulfilling the Jewish burial laws. If someone in the community died, my father would be summoned to the home of the deceased. With his fellow brethren, he would wash the body, prepare a shroud for it, and take care of the funeral details.

  My father set the religious tone for the household. He wasn’t a regular worshipper at the synagogue, but he always attended on the major Jewish holidays—Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Passover and others—and so did we. We lit the Sabbath candles every Friday night, but we didn’t keep the Sabbath in any strict sense. By American standards,
we came within the category of “conservative” Judaism. I was taught enough Hebrew to recite with understanding the basic blessings and prayers. I grew up believing in the Jewish faith and the Jewish God, as they were presented to me by my father.

  To some extent, my father’s loyalty to the Jewish community carried over into the way he ran his business. The managers of my father’s factories were always Jews. The workers were drawn from the local Polish population. As for the basic raw materials used for processing—the large root systems of old trees—they came from wooded lands leased from the Polish gentry, who also leased farmlands to the Polish peasants. It was the Polish gentry who had the real power in the region.

  In the conduct of his business, my father was generous only to himself and to his family. His younger brother Oscar was more of a field man, weighing the roots for payment and overseeing the factory workers. But Lazar was what you would call the CEO or chief decision maker. He took care of long-range planning, financing, billing. And he was not softhearted. I remember that one of his Jewish managers developed a severe case of rheumatism in his hip. It was hard for him. He had been advised by his doctor to go to a mineral bath spa in southern Poland, but he couldn’t afford it. My mother would plead with my father, “Give him a raise. Send him there, send him there.” But my father was as tough as nuts. “It’s not your affair,” he would tell her. “You take care of the family. The business is mine.”

  He was the same way with his workers. In every one of the factories, there was a little provisions store that sold the basics, such as salt, salt pork, sugar, and kerosene. The kerosene was for their lamps, as their homes had no electricity. Shopping at this factory store saved them a trip into town, but the prices were high. My father made a considerable profit from these stores. So he was making money on anything and everything. And he paid very little in official taxes. If you had connections with the right Polish officials—and bribed them heavily enough—you were basically taken care of. Lazar was not the only one who took advantage of this; bribery was a way of life in Poland, for Jews and Poles alike. But he did know how to handle it smoothly, wining and dining officials and sending them exorbitant gifts.