Simcha Ben Shaul — Association of Jews of Vilna and vicinity in Israel

Excerpt from the book written by Simcha Ben Shaul – Childhood During the Holocaust, 1977.

The Nazis Occupy Vilna

After spending several nights in the basement because of the bombing, there was suddenly an eerie silence. That was when the building’s watchman came down to tell us that the Germans had taken the city and that we could leave the basement.

The Jews were frightened from the very beginning of the occupation. Lithuanian thugs began mistreating any Jew who crossed their path.

The Jews lost the right to protect their property and, even more distressingly, could no longer protect themselves or their lives. We kept indoors. Occasionally, one of my parents would go out, but only for truly urgent errands or shopping. Queues were split into two – one for non-Jewish customers and the other for Jewish ones. My mother told us about rumors of Jews being kidnapped, never to return.

The Lithuanians were more than eager to join the ranks of the occupying Nazis and formed the Lithuanian Nazi Party. Together with the Germans, they began to plan the systematic elimination of the Jews of Vilna.

At the beginning of July, notices were posted on the walls stating that all Jews, regardless of gender or age, were required to wear a yellow patch. This made it easy for the Lithuanians and Germans to identify Jews and seize them off the streets for forced labor, or take them to an unknown destination. It was later learned that most of them had been taken to the Panieri forest, near Vilna, which had become the “killing valley” of the Jews of Vilna and of Lithuania as a whole.

My mother immediately began making patches for the entire family. I remember going out into the yard to show the neighbors’ children the “beautiful” yellow Star of David my mother had made.

Before the war, more than 70,000 Jews had lived in Vilna. They made up about one-third of the city’s population, but only very few survived. That summer marked the beginning of the end of the once-impressive community of Vilna – the Jerusalem of Lithuania.

The End of a Happy Childhood

One day, my father returned home from the city frightened and agitated, saying that groups of Germans and Lithuanians had raided the city, kidnapping Jews. Most were taken to the Gestapo (the Nazi Secret Police) building, and then to Panieri, where they were shot. From that day on, the kidnappings became a daily occurrence. The kidnappers were Lithuanian students in civilian clothing who had eagerly volunteered for the Lithuanian police. They searched the streets of the Jewish quarters, house by house, taking any Jew they found. They also kidnapped Jews directly from the streets, taking them to Lukishki prison, from where they were sent to Panieri to be killed.

The Judenrat was established to represent the Jews of Vilna in dealings with the occupation authorities. This was deemed necessary because the Germans needed to recruit Jewish workers with technical skills for forced labor in workshops and garages, as well as for other types of work for the German army. The Judenrat’s role was to provide a workforce and to raise funds and valuables for the German war effort.

The only way to avoid being kidnapped was to report to the Judenrat, register as an essential technician, and receive authorization from the Germans confirming that one was essential to the war effort. Every morning, dozens of men went to register as carpenters, electricians, metalworkers, and so forth, at the Judenrat offices at 6 Strashun Street.

On 26 July 1941, my father left home to report to the Judenrat Labor Council. We never saw him again. My mother began worrying when night fell and he had still not returned. She went to our Jewish neighbors to ask if they knew anything, but no one did. Apparently, one of our neighbors who had gone with my father that morning to the Judenrat had also not returned. We were terrified of what might happen to us. I curled up next to my mother, who could not sleep a wink all night.

She left early the next morning, leaving me at home with strict instructions not to open the door to anyone. I stayed alone for hours, scared and worried about my father’s fate and what might happen to my mother. When she finally returned in the late afternoon, she was devastated. Crying, she told me she had learned that my father had been kidnapped, along with several other Jews, and taken to Lukishki prison.

My mother did not stay long but went out again to look for friends and contacts who might help rescue my father from prison. All her efforts were in vain. He had apparently been taken from the prison straight to Panieri that same day, and executed.

My mother was beside herself – no husband, no news of my brother, her eldest son, and deeply worried about the rest of the family. We were now on our own, realizing that our future was bleak.

A civil German authority was set up in Vilna, with Franz Murer appointed head of Jewish Affairs. Several decrees were issued by the Germans prohibiting and restricting Jews in various ways: they were not allowed to walk on the sidewalks and were forced to march in line “like geese.” They were forbidden to enter public parks or public institutions such as cinemas, theaters, or hospitals, or to go to holiday resorts. A curfew was imposed from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. Anyone caught violating these restrictions could be sentenced to death.

Meanwhile, the kidnapping and killing of Vilna’s Jews continued. The number of victims rose daily. Each day, hundreds of Jews were sent to the “killing valley” at Panieri. By the autumn of 1941, after the summer’s murders and deportations, the number of Jews in Vilna had dwindled to about 48,000. There were rumors that the Jews from the smaller towns around Vilna had been practically wiped out during the first months of the occupation.

The next stage in the German liquidation of the Vilna Jews was the creation of the ghetto. On the morning of 31 August 1941, we woke up to shouts in German and Lithuanian coming from the street. Looking out the window, we saw our street filled with German soldiers and their Lithuanian helpers. They went from house to house, driving Jews into the street while beating them and pointing their weapons at them. We dressed quickly, and my mother began packing some clothes. One of our neighbors came running in, panic-stricken, saying that the entire quarter, including Deutsche Street and Rodnitski Street, had been surrounded by Germans who were carrying out an Aktion (a campaign of mass murder). We realized that this was the end and expected the worst – Panieri.

We heard footsteps and shouts in the stairwell, followed by a loud banging on our door. I clung to my mother in fear and stayed close as she went to open it. Several Lithuanians burst into the room, shouting in Russian and Polish that we should take only the bare necessities and go stand in the yard. They searched for valuables in the apartment, destroying anything in their way. Just as we were about to leave our home, a German officer – a major – suddenly walked in with several other soldiers. The officer was short and heavyset, and looked more Jewish than German. Looking at both of us, he went up to my mother and, with a smile, gently asked: “Why are you so agitated? You have nothing to fear.” Then he suddenly asked: “Would you like to go to Palestine?”

That question has remained engraved in my memory. Even more than fifty years later, I still remember what the German officer – our mysterious savior – looked like. My mother was taken aback by the question but quickly pulled herself together: “That was what I always wanted – that if I survived, I would go to Palestine.” The officer placed his hand on her head and said: “You will live. Don’t worry. You will go there.” He ordered the Lithuanians to leave the apartment, saluted my mother, and left. We were thunderstruck. My mother hugged me tightly: “There is a God in heaven, and He is going to help us and save us,” she said, bursting into tears.

By evening, the Aktion was over. The Germans posted huge notices on the walls of the houses claiming that Jews had fired at German soldiers who were “minding their own business” while walking through the Jewish Quarter, and that this was why “appropriate measures” had been taken by the German and Lithuanian authorities to prevent such things from happening again. Even for a 9-year-old child like myself, it was clear that the notice was a provocation without a shred of truth.

That day, about 10,000 Jews were murdered.