Chaya Altman Abramovich — Association of Jews of Vilna and vicinity in Israel

In Memory of My Dear Mother

Holocaust Remembrance Day is approaching. I am at home, alone, with thoughts about the past and present swirling through my mind. The present keeps me spiritually strong, because otherwise it would be impossible to go on living alongside the memories of the Holocaust and all that I, as a 9-year-old child, and all the people of Israel, endured as Jews during World War II. I was only 9 years old, yet I feel as if my mother had entrusted me with the entire world.

We lived in a beautiful town filled with Yiddishkeit. The youngsters were kind, and we had the HaShomer Hatzair youth movement. I feel that, even to this day, I continue to live according to that upbringing.

I remember visiting friends with my mother and going on nature walks. I recall resting under fruit trees, surrounded by greenery—the large river, the windmill, and my family sitting and talking together under the trees.

My mother never threw away her school notebooks. I remember her beautiful handwriting, and how orderly and neat her notebooks were.

She used to say that during World War I the Germans behaved better than the Tsarist Russians. But at the outbreak of World War II, I sensed how very worried she was.

I once heard her discussing the Spanish Inquisition with her friends, though we never imagined that we would soon be facing a hell even worse than that.

My mother always looked after the poor. Every Thursday, she made sure they had food for the Sabbath. Sometimes I accompanied her, and sometimes I went in her place to deliver the food.

I was extremely close to her. That was simply who my mother was—she had a wonderful disposition. I don’t remember her face, but her spirit remains with me. How would I describe her? That would be very difficult—I feel her everywhere, always with me.

I have missed her all my life, in both happy and sad moments, especially when she was no longer with me at the age of 10.

We lived in the overcrowded ghetto. It had been set up in the same area where the poor once lived, near the synagogue. Life there was very difficult. My mother would put herself in danger by leaving the ghetto to exchange valuables for potatoes. I would be anxious until she returned.

Many times I begged her not to go, and sometimes I would take her place—slipping through a gap in the fence to reach some non-Jews I knew, returning with food and a sack of potatoes on my back. But a year later the ghetto was liquidated, and we were taken to another ghetto in Oszmiana, 20 kilometers from our hometown. There, my mother, my younger brother—three years my junior—and I stayed for only two days with families in the ghetto.

One morning, my mother woke us and said all the adults had to go to the center of the ghetto, while the children could remain at home. I began crying, saying I wanted to stay with her, and so the three of us went together to the center. Some people went into hiding, realizing something was about to happen. But we were strangers and had nowhere to hide. When we arrived at the designated place, I could hardly believe my eyes.

There were Germans everywhere, along with Jewish policemen ordering us into line. I held my mother’s hand in one and my little brother’s in the other. As we walked, I suddenly felt my brother and me being torn away from my mother. We were dragged off and taken to a nearby synagogue.

I had heard that in Valozhyn, all the Jews, including the rabbis, had been forced into the synagogue, which was then set on fire with everyone inside. And now here I was with my brother, crammed inside a synagogue with many others. I pushed at the door, shouting, “I want my mother!” My brother did the same, but we were forced back inside.

We remained in the synagogue until evening, when we were released. My brother and I had no idea what to do, so we returned to the house where we had been staying. My brother lay crying on the bed, and I lay down beside him.

I remembered that my mother had taken all her jewelry with her. I hoped that perhaps she would give the gold to the Germans so that they might release her and allow her to return to us.

I spent the entire night waiting and watching, praying to God to send my mother back. I even remember the night sky from that moment.

The next day, I went to the Judenrat and begged them to help me get my mother back. I thought they would take pity on me. But they could not help.

Two days later, we were told there was no point in waiting. A survivor had returned with the terrible news: the captives had been held in a barn for two days, forced to dig a mass grave, stripped of everything, and then executed. One woman had managed to hide in the barn and later came back to the ghetto.

That is how I lost my dear mother. She was murdered along with another 800 people. From then on, I became like a mother to my younger brother.

It is difficult to describe what it meant for the two of us to be orphans. The more I try, the more impossible it seems for others to understand.

Still, I must honor my mother’s cousin, who came to help us keep clean and cared for. Sadly, two years later she contracted typhoid fever and died.

This is my story of 1941–1942.

I remained in the camps until I was finally released in 1945.

Read Chaya’s story, written by her grandson, Ohad ben Avi.