Dr. L. Frim

It was the year of destruction – 1939.

During the midday hours the Germans bombarded us, and after a while the Polish tanks arrived at the castle

[395]

How disappointed we were when at dawn, the Russian tanks prevented us from going any further and demanded that we return. A Russian soldier urged us – myself, my son, Margalit and his wife and a number of other men I did not know – to set off to Horodenka. The soldier confiscated the wagon in which we had been driving aimlessly. When we crossed through Horodenka the people we passed – among them young Eisner – turned their backs to us out of fear that they might know some of these "dangerous people" (who were leaving the Russian occupied territories).

The town of Horodenka was a sorrowful sight. The streets were filled with Russian soldiers leading prisoners, mostly Ukrainians. Jewish refugees walked the streets, aimlessly and with no protection. From among the residents of Przemysl, we met the daughter of Grossman (the coal dealer) and the wife of Dr. Krog. After the High Holy Days, which passed in a most foul and somber mood, I discovered that there was no chance of breaking free from this trap, so I decided to return to Przemysl, particularly in light of the rumors that the town was under Soviet rule.

On the train we learned that the Germans had gone wild in the town for several days, and that before they retreated beyond the San (according to their agreement with the Soviets), they murdered some 300 Jews, among whom were attorney Bethauer, attorney Fenster, the engineer Bleicher, Moshe Grossman (my classmate), and others. These rumors made a terrible impression on us and we therefore terminated our journey at Sambor. Here we stayed with Weiselberg, the uncle of my late sister-in-law. Among the Przemysl refugees we met were Mrs. Bucholter-Pinkas, my father’s landlady. After spending three days in Sambor we calmed down a little and returned to Przemysl. We headed towards our former apartment, which had been occupied by our maid and her sister. They claimed the Soviets had given them the apartment, as they said that I was supposedly one of the Jews who had been murdered by the Germans. My wife obtained an order to reclaim the apartment from the Soviets, but since we feared that we would be assigned an undesirable lodger due to the size of the apartment, we asked a refugee from Zasanie, Mark Tepper, and his family to share the apartment with us. Meanwhile, I had been ordered to report immediately to the office of a Soviet official, who informed me that my office, including all furnishings and equipment, was now state property.

Almost all the Jewish stores in town were open. (The Strangs—father and son—were still there, as were Pamstein, Eisner and his son, Adolf Dromelschlager and others.) The stores were bustling with Soviet soldiers and officers who were buying up everything. Our daily visitors were Dr. Schenker Sawrin, the physician, who had left his family in Pabianice, Dr. Gustaw Taubenschlag, a judge from Lodz, Dr. Rudolf Weinberg and Dr. Kreig from Bircza. We also became friendly with Dr. Jozef Mieses (the chief rabbi of the Polish army).

[396]

[397]

On July 21, 1941, we suddenly heard the thunder of cannons and hand grenades in town and for a whole week we hid in the cellars.

I would like to emphasize the serenity and composure of Rabbi Dr. Jozef Mieses, with whom we hid on more than one occasion in the cellars. As we wondered from one shelter to another, we met Strang and his family and my brother Adolf. My father and sister Jozefa hid in the cellar of their house. In the meantime, the Soviet army began to retreat eastwards and one morning we learned that the Germans were already in town. We were aware of the immediate danger for the men and therefore, in accordance with Dr. Diamant’s agreement, I was transferred to the temporary Jewish hospital as a "patient," and was visited twice daily by my wife and son. Other such "patients" were Dr. Oberhard, Dr. Mark and others. Dr. Eisner and Dr. Steinhardt acted as physicians. It soon transpired that it had become dangerous to stay in the hospital, and I therefore left and returned to my apartment.

The Judenrat was organized quickly, and lead by Ignacy Duldig. As far as I can recall, other members were the elderly Mark, Dr. Kronberg, Goldman and others. The first orders required that we wear armbands and hand over our radios and furs.

As German speakers, Jewish people were almost exclusively active in the Przemysl census, which was carried out as ordered. When I finished my job in the Podzamcze quarter, I was summoned to the county office (starostwo), where I was ordered by an unknown officer to organize the administration of confiscated houses, according to the Russian model. I tried to take along Dr. Weinberg as an essential assistant, but I was unsuccessful. Since I feared this was a trap, I declared that I was unwilling to work under the management of a Ukrainian (because I wore the yellow armband), but the German officer replied curtly that he was ordering me to perform the administration. In order to conserve manpower in the accounting division, the officer complied with my proposal that the house managers would fill out the appropriate forms, but demanded that I be responsible for the bookkeeping.

There were 853 houses. I recruited 63 house managers, 15 of whom were Jewish. I determined the rent for the houses and the necessary repairs and made sure the rent was paid in a timely manner to the county office. During the Soviet occupation my office had been in the cardinal’s palace. After the palace was returned to its rightful owners, my office moved to the county offices.

My son, who as a Jew was not permitted to study in school, would visit his grandfather’s workshop daily and learn the painting trade. Rumors were spreading that a Jewish ghetto would soon be established. My sister, Mrs. Strudler, took offensive action and rented an apartment in the Garbarze area, to which my whole family moved. My father continued to maintain his workshop on Mickiewicza St., however he was badly affected by the move to the new apartment.

In January, 1942, my niece ran into my office, shouting "Uncle, grandfather has died!" He was 76 years old, and died in his sleep. His coffin was carried on a farmer’s cart, followed by the members of the family, six in all (only five Jews were permitted to accompany the dead), others sneaked into the cemetery secretly. That day marked the end of one period in the Frim family’s life, and the beginning of another: the ghetto, and the dismissal of myself and the 15 other Jews from our positions.

I managed to find work in a building on Dworskiego St., and my son was occupied as a sign painter in the army offices. Along with me, in the factory, the engineers Gottlieb and Windling and my son-in-law Krener worked.

One day in July, 1942, the Judenrat office informed me that there would be an aktion the next day, and that official stamps had been obtained for my wife and myself from the welfare office manager in the ghetto, and for my son by the artisans’ guild, which was managed by my brother-in-law, Strudler. It is interesting to note that he neglected to provide a stamp for himself, his wife and his daughter, who were therefore forced to live in hiding from then onwards.

[398]

My brother Adolf, who did not know that he also had a stamp, hid in town with his son. My younger sister (who was married to Prof. Rimer in the ghetto) was saved from the deportation because she worked in the ghetto kitchen.

On the deportation day the unfortunate ones were gathered in the square outside the linen factory and were informed of their journey to Biala Podlaska, where they would work under the supervision of the German police.

After three weeks, when I had only just regained consciousness, Dr. Eisner took me out of the hospital, because there was to be a test in the laundry the following day, to determine whether its employees were qualified. I barely managed to get to the laundry the next morning, leaning on Strudler. But the Lord granted me strength during the moments of crisis. When my name was called I ran briskly past the testers and withstood the test. I must mention that my son, when I was ill,

[399]

risked his life several times during the nights, as he stole into the ghetto from the barracks and brought me sugar, fruit and so forth, which he had been given, I later found out, by Mrs. Schattner.

Again we heard terrifying rumors of future deportations. In the meantime the camp at Przekopana had been dismantled and my son returned to live with me in the kitchen. I had to hide him, so that he would not be transferred to the non-workers’ ghetto. He ate breakfast with me in the ghetto kitchen (which was managed by Zak), and I brought him lunch after coming home from work.

One morning, on our way to the kitchen, we heard a shot. The Gestapo had shot and killed Mrs. Eisler, who lived with us, while she tried to sell something by the fence. Her husband had been killed a few days before, and their eleven-year old son remained with us. One bright day, when I returned home, my son was gone. I learned from a Jewish policeman that he had been taken together with the Przekopana group and lead to the non-worker section of the ghetto. I immediately ran there and saw my desperate son in the group. I explained to the head of the group, an S.S. soldier, that there had been a mistake, because my son had been accepted to work at the locksmith’s. I was relying on Dr. Kronberg, who immediately came out of the workshop and confirmed my words, managing to take him out of the group.

After a few weeks a new transport of Jews from Przemysl arrived in Szebnie, including Ignatz Tuchman, his son and Dr. Kries. The latter told us that he and my nephew, who had returned to Przemysl and hid there, and my brother, who had not returned to town, had jumped off the train during the last transport. Dr. Kries himself had also returned to Przemysl, but he was then deported to Szebnie. The tailor, Salzburg, who was brought in this transport, was shot to death a short while after arriving, when he was discovered to have some money in his pockets. The guard who brought this transport took Matityahu Mieses out of Szebnie in order to return him to Przemysl. According to the story told by Dr. Kries, the Gestapo gathered all the people who had been hiding out in bunkers during the September 2 deportation in one house and lit it on fire – they were all killed, including Famstein and his family.

[400]

One day at dawn some 3,100 of us were taken out of the factories to the field, and made to stand in rows. A Gestapo member walked through the rows looking at each person, asked a number of questions and decided: these will remain and these will leave. Some 450 people were taken away, put on trucks, transferred to the nearby woods and shot. Among those were Dr. Oberhard, the painter Meister and Dr. Mark’s wife.

One autumn day we were taken out of the huts into the field at dawn. It was raining and we were slipping in the mud. Around us were Gestapo men and Ukrainians in black uniforms. They aimed their mortars towards us. Our first thought was that our time had come. Many nerve wrecking hours passed. Suddenly a rumor spread among the 3,000 gathered people: 120 artisans would be chosen who were still considered essential. Meanwhile, a table was brought. Behind it sat the S.S. gang holding a pile of papers. Our hearts were pounding, as if with a hammer. Suddenly I heard my name, I left the rows and stood along with the others whose names were called out. When I then heard another strange name, I meant to return to my son, who was holding out his arms. Then his name was called too. We hugged. We were among the survivors. My son asked me to try and save the young Oberhard girls and their mother. I wrote their names on a note and gave it to one of the Jewish ordnungsdienst and asked him to deliver it to the people sitting behind the desk. The next day, the policeman told me that this errand almost cost him his life.

After we were taken off the coaches, it transpired that many people had frozen and remained on the platforms. We were kept at the gates of the camp for a whole night. Even afterwards, we were forced to spend five whole days and nights out in the open, as we had to be disinfected. Finally we were put in a shack occupied by skeletal people who had somehow managed to stay alive. We barely found any room on the "third floor" of the "beds" of planks, and we had to fight our neighbors for space. At night my son told me that our acquaintance, young Tuchman, was advising us to leave this camp, as we faced certain death there. We were to try and join the groups being sent to work.

[402]

But unfortunately, my son and I were declared unfit for labor. From then on, we lay in the shack with the others. Once in a while we were taken into the yard, despite the freezing cold. Every day at three, we had to line up in the snow, frozen and exhausted, until six, when an S.S. man would sort us and distribute ration coupons for the next day’s lunch. Apart from that, we lay motionless on the planks of wood. My son began to complain of pains in his chest, and at my request he was given a physician’s exemption from the lineups. Once, when I returned to the shack, he assured me that he was only complaining to get out of the lineups. Unfortunately for us, this was not the truth.

On April 11, 1945, redemption came. We heard shots coming from the outside. Some young men from the disinfection service carried an American tank driver on their shoulders and lead him into the shack. There was shouting, noise and confusion everywhere. Some patients looked vacantly around them, as they leaned on sticks. But the bodies collapsing on the floor proved that this was "redemption" from eternal torture. Twenty-four hours later, the radio broadcast the news of President Roosevelt’s death. I felt that I would pass out. Leaning on the boards, I looked around and contemplated what was happening. Whoever was capable of walking, left the shack. At one point, the Americans brought a procession of Germans, mostly women and youths, and told them to look at what their fathers, brothers and husbands had done to us. Afraid, they turned their heads and swore, in their hypocrisy, that they did not know anything about what was going on. After a week I was declared fit for transportation, and I was transferred to the hospital building, a few yards away.

In the hall, there were 20 beds. Patients of all nationalities lay in them. The physician in attendance, the same S.S. man from before, suddenly announced that he was a Jew named Orlowski. After a while, an epidemic of typhus broke out in the hospital. I approached the doctor and told him that I was no longer receiving treatment, that I felt able to leave the hospital and that there was no point in my remaining there. I left the building on my own accord. The fresh air stunned me. It was the month of May. From passersby, I learned that aid committees had been organized in the camp, according to nationality, and that everyone had been housed in shacks according to their national origin. I managed to be appointed registrar of the block in which I resided, and I recorded all the newcomers. Everyone told me that their goal was to reach Israel, and even promised to take me with them.

[403]

The Polish committee issued documents to all those from Poland, and I too was given an identity card signed by an American captain, the camp commander. (The Jewish committee handled the registration of the Jewish survivors from all countries).

After an examination, I was hospitalized again. I wanted to go out into the world, but I was bed-ridden again. I was overcome with sadness when I saw everyone dispersing to all corners of the land. At the end of June, 1945, someone announced that the Russians were about to enter Buchenwald, and that the last ambulance would be leaving the camp shortly. I sat up and in my striped clothes I ran to the ambulance. Dr. Orbach, who was in charge of the camp, ordered that space be made for me in the ambulance. I arrived at Wiesbaden, where I was admitted to the hospital. The diagnosis was furunculosis. I was given my own bed. This was the first time I lay on a bed as a free man.

[photo of a monument in memory of the ghetto victims]

There is no cultural life. There is a branch of the Jewish cultural committee in Poland, lead by Mr. Jakub Wilner, however its only activities are to hold parties in honor of a national holiday or on the anniversary of the Przemysl ghetto. There is also a religious committee, with no leadership and no signs of activity.

The cemetery is completely neglected, there are only a few gravestones taken care of by relatives who are still alive.

The remaining population of Przemysl is waning. Those who remain have no wish to emigrate, either to Israel or to any other country. They have made up their minds to live out their lives in Przemysl.

Those who pass by the place where the ghetto used to be, will see a strange scene. Almost all the houses, which were all owned by Jews, have seemingly sunk into the ground and crumbled away, unobserved. Perhaps one of the reasons for this is that fact that every night, the goyim came and looked for hidden treasures. But the survivors all see it as a sign of the curse that lay on the entire area.

FOOTNOTES