Tisha B’Av 1942
In this column, we dive into the rich history of Jewish Life, the precursor to Jewish Action. Published by the OU from the 1940s through the 1970s, Jewish Life offers a unique window into the vibrant evolution of American Jewish life during the 20th century.
The true story below appeared in the August 1953 issue of Jewish Life.
It began just like any other Erev Tisha B’Av. After finishing our meal and putting on our slippers, we sat down to eat the traditional hard-boiled egg with some ash on it Zeycher L’Churban. But it was suddenly transformed into a “real” Tisha B’Av. We were about to go through another of those terrible nights which helped to make up the total of the six million Jewish victims of Nazidom.
The year was 1942; the place was my hometown, Bratislava. In that terrible year deportations began almost in all the countries of Eastern Europe and from some Western European countries. I remember seeing long trains laden with Jews from Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, etc., all heading in the same direction: Hitler’s concentration camps. In Bratislava some hundreds of Jewish families escaped deportation by working on the railways. The job was mostly tracklaying, a very hard job indeed, particularly for those who were not used to manual labor. But who cared, as long as one was able to obtain that very precious little scrap of paper to the effect that “the holder of this document is by order of the Ministry of Interior working for the welfare of the State and is consequently, together with his wife and children, exempted from deportation.” Nothing else mattered. The very low wage, the hard work and the terrible working conditions . . . all this was not important.
I remember my mother saying every evening when going to bed: “Thank G-d for another night in my own bed.” It sounds rather ridiculous today—but it meant a lot then.
We knew that one day the police might round up those working for the railway at their work and call for their families afterwards. But in those days we did not try to solve the situation for months or even weeks ahead; we were grateful for every day that we were allowed to remain in our homes. Everyone, whether more or less religious, had complete faith in G-d. Bitochon was the order of the day.
No sooner had we finished the Seudath Mafseketh when the rumor spread that the police were going to “collect” all those registered with the railway. It was said that the Germans had insisted on sending one transport of a thousand Jews to Auschwitz that week, and as the police had no lists ready, the Ministry had agreed to cancel all railway “exemptions” immediately.
It was too late to flee. Jews were not allowed to leave their homes between 7 in the evening and 5 in the morning and it was now well after 7. Many friends of mine (there were about fifty flats occupied by Jews in the building in which I lived) dismissed these rumors as just “another scare”; others were too exhausted after a long day’s work in the burning sun to leave their homes and try to find a place to hide. I myself climbed out to the slanting roof of our house and lay down flat. This was my “emergency bunker.” I had often trained myself in climbing out through the small roof window in order to make sure that in case of need I should not slip and fall down about a hundred feet. Then darkness fell.
I began to hear the fateful tread of heavy boots, which is so often described in books but which has to be experienced if the terror of it is to be understood in all its intensity. The knock on the door was followed by complete silence. A few minutes later, I heard sounds of movement in the house and knew that people were being taken away. There were the piercing cries of small children disturbed from their sleep and the shrill wailing laments of the women. Many of the voices I could easily recognize. I reflected mechanically, should I escape their lot, we should have to look for a new baal-koreh and melamed; ours were both among the thirty-odd Jews that were taken away from our house.
I spent a few more hours on the roof, with only the dark sky above and fear of death below. Then, cautiously, began to come down, my heart beating furiously from fear as to whether I should find my parents in the flat or whether I should find the door locked and sealed with a police notice to the effect that the property inside belonged to the State and would at a later date be put up for sale by auction. I came in and found my father sitting on the floor saying the Eycha with the traditional mournful melody. No word was spoken. I just sat down next to him with the small book of Kinoth in my hand and joined in.
It was an understatement to say that every single word fitted the occasion. I could have sworn that the whole booklet had been written on that very evening. We soon finished the few chapters of Megillath Eycha, which in normal times seem all too long, but on that evening were far too short. One wanted to say so much more—there was so much to lament for. But there was nothing more to do but remain seated on the floor and remember the Churbon of the Temple and also the Churbon of our own day, which can never be forgotten.
S. B. Unsdorfer survived the Auschwitz and Buchenwald death camps and went on to write copiously in Jewish journals world wide. He served as general secretary of Agudath Israel in Britain and was founder of its community newspaper, The Jewish Tribune.