Jewish Resistance During the Holocaust Read online

  The huge hut, with its raised ceiling which looked like a large machine shop in a factory, accommodated tens of workers, who were divided up according to their trades. Large windows provided proper lighting for the various workshops located in all corners of the hut. The different workshops were separated by wooden partitions, and a number of people worked in each cubicle. More workshops were spread out throughout the camp … . All materials provided by nature in the forest were put to use.2

  People who had goods to trade were served first; those with nothing had to wait, sometimes for long periods, whether it be for the tailor, the gunsmith, the carpenter, the barber, the tanner. But no matter how long one waited for a service, it was always provided. Guards were constantly posted, yet in an environment of hostility and uncertainty, the Main Street character of this village in the forest lent stability and meaning to a world of despair and death. Nevertheless, many of the fighters saw the support group as a drain on partisan operation.

  Many Russian commanders were suspicious of the Bielski group and wanted it disbanded. However, when General Platon, the Russian in charge of the partisan brigades in the Baranowicze region, toured the camp, he was impressed by the model partisan community he found and insisted that its integrity be preserved in the Soviet partisan system. According to Tec: ‘[Platon’s] insistence that the Bielski otraid’s contributions were essential to the partisan movement saved the life of Tuvia Bielski.’3 Politics mattered, but in Zvi Bielski’s words, fierceness mattered more: ‘The Russians knew the Bielskis were prepared to fight to preserve their unit, to kill Russians if they had to.’

  Women were treated on equal terms in the Bielski group, although they rarely were allowed on partisan missions. Much of that reluctance had to do with cultural and traditional attitudes; and while some women had guns and used them with partisan units, the majority in the Bielski group, as in other partisan brigades, were assigned to support services. Sonia Bielski: ‘I had a gun but Zush didn’t want me going out on missions.’ Yet, with few exceptions, women refused to allow themselves to be treated as second-class citizens even though most of the fighters resisted efforts to bring more women into the fighting units.

  Tuvia’s spontaneity, his accessibility to the detachment, his tolerance when necessary, in addition to astute decision-making and his willingness to kill to assure the group’s survival, constituted a form of leadership that was absent in the ghettos. To protect his detachment from Russian anti-Semitism, he constantly reminded Soviet officials of their government’s policy of nondiscrimination; that Jews were Soviet citizens like everyone else, in addition to being patriots who in the forest were defending the Soviet Union and the unity of its system. Zush, according to his son, in not so subtle ways reminded the Soviets that these fighters would not hesitate to kill for their survival. When Platon visited the Bielskis, he saw some elderly Jews davening [praying]. When he asked what they were doing, Tuvia said they were reciting the words of a Soviet patriotic song. Tuvia had a talent for managing strong personalities, an ability that improved relationships between different factions in the brigade and mediated differences, including those with Soviet brigades that on occasion threatened the community’s capacity to function.

  Tuvia’s insistence on rescue rather than revenge as the community’s fundamental rule was the dynamic primarily responsible for its survival. In the words of one survivor: ‘It seems to have been the right decision. Had we remained a small group we could not have made it. So the goal was to become a big group.’ While many of the early survivors, including Zush, opposed this decision, ‘Tuvia insisted that if we were bigger we would have a better chance of survival and we would be more secure.’4 Rescue, then, took precedence over killing, a fact that distinguished Tuvia’s detachment from Jewish and non-Jewish partisan brigades built only on the pursuit of vengeance and who refused admittance to anyone without a weapon and the physical stamina to withstand partisan life. This is not to say that Tuvia avoided violent missions. They were as essential to his group as to the other partisan brigades; and if he believed he had to fight, he never refused to engage in combat. Yet, Tuvia, in spite of differences with his brothers, saw the community’s ability to sustain fighting and to remain intact as a Jewish brigade to be tied up with its role as a place of rescue and refuge.

  Abraham Viner, a partisan who worked with Tuvia Bielski, remembers him as someone who ‘devoted his soul, his brains and everything else to the rescue of Jews. He saw a chance, a great opportunity, in his ability to save.’5 Another survivor/partisan, echoing sentiments expressed in my interviews with Bielski survivors, writes:

  ‘For forty years, we had discussions about what was more important, fighting the Germans or saving Jews. We came to the conclusion that our heroism was not heroism. When I was fighting with guns together with other partisans, this was not heroism. Heroism was to save a child, a woman, a human being. To keep Jews in the forest for two years and save them, this was heroism.’6

  Yet, divisions remained over the years. Elsie S.: ‘I remember at a Bielski survivor gathering several years ago … there were a number of people there… . One group sat off to the side, refusing to mingle with the others. I asked them what was wrong; why they were not talking. One of them said to me, “Oh, they’re malbush; we don’t have anything to do with them.” … This after 30 years!’ One survivor remembers how her four-year-old son always used to ask: ‘Mommy, under which tree will be our house today?’7 But the trees brought safety. Elsie S.: ‘I loved those trees; and the trees told me stories; I spent hours speaking with them.’

  Conflicts over leadership, periodic disputes, required Tuvia’s intervention. But even with sometimes serious arguments, the group survived and grew. The fighting brigade fluctuated between 20 and 30 percent for the entire detachment. Most of the brigade came from lower-class backgrounds with only a small minority from the upper or middle classes. Most had little or no formal education since few of the Jewish elite survived the initial German occupation and mass executions; and the few who did survive and managed to escape were ill equipped for forest life. Those who prior to the German invasion had been considered ‘lower class’ now became the elite. According to Tec, ‘Physical strength, an ability to adjust to the outdoors, and fearlessness were qualities that mattered. A man’s prestige depended on the extent to which he exhibited these qualities. Women were usually not included in these calculations,’8 although lower-class men sought out upper-class women as forest ‘companions’ or ‘wives.’ In Sonia Bielski’s words, ‘We were young; we didn’t know if we were going to be alive tomorrow. So, love came to us quickly in the forests; we needed some happiness.’ Working-class people adjusted better to the physical stress of the forests, and looked with contempt on educated Jews who struggled with the rigors of forest life. Aaron (Bielski) Bell: ‘Look we grew up in the woods; it was our natural place to live. City-Jews had a rough time with this.’

  A refugee first encountering the Bielski camp recalls:

  ‘I was amazed … I thought that it was all a dream. I could not get over it… . there were children, old people, and so many Jews. When the guard stopped me, I spoke Yiddish. I met people who knew me. That first time I could stay only an hour. After a few days, I went back and then again and again… . Once I saw a roll call, soldiers stood in rows, with guns. I saw two men come out, tall, handsome, leather coats… . I asked who they were and was told that these were the Bielski brothers. They were giving orders to the fighting men. They were going for an expedition, Tuvia and Asael … The two jumped on the horses like acrobats. I imagined Bar Kochva to look like that … Judas Maccabe, King David… . It gave me hope.’9

  While medicine was in short supply and a crude hospital took care of the very ill, death from illness and exposure was almost nonexistent. Infections were treated with injections of boiled milk and, if available, iodine; the sick received extra food rations, and the group’s only typhus epidemic claimed just one life. People managed to stay healthy; the majo
r physical maladies the group faced consisted of skin diseases – blisters, scabies, boils, and fungus infections. Because of its sulfur content, gunpowder was used as a disinfectant to treat infections. Always short of food, medicine, ammunition and weapons, the Bielski group developed ingenious methods of extortion, theft and smuggling, so as not to run foul of Soviet rules regarding expropriation from local populations. Yet the relationship of the Bielski brigade with both Soviets and locals was always tenuous.

  The Bielskis’ success at rescue and survival remains a powerful story in the history of Jewish resistance; and this brief synopsis is not meant to be exhaustive. The micro-history of the brigade is told as a straightforward narrative in Peter Duffy’s The Bielski Brothers. This is a terrific account of this remarkable group; but Duffy rarely moves outside the historical story itself. In my interviews with Bielski survivors troubling ethical issues arose, ones that distinguish the made-on-the-spot ethics of the resistance groups from traditional moral constraints operating in the ghettos, which, if maintained in the forests, would surely have meant death. What the Bielski survivors argue is that radical reversals of ethics were absolutely essential to sustain life; yet while never directly questioning the Bielskis’ methods, some survivors remain troubled to this day by what they experienced and witnessed. Yet, they also are quick to point out that to have held on to a morality of humanism or hope that others might rescue them in the forests would have been suicidal. It is against the backdrop of this moral drama suggested initially to me by Zvi Bielski’s account of his father, that I conducted my interviews in south Florida with a group of brigade survivors.

  The Bielski survivors: the past in the present

  It was hot in south Florida. The temperature broke records, a muggy moist heat enveloping you and not letting go. Only the air conditioning dispelled it; but how long can you stay in chilled air after the coldest winter in the North in over a century? The heat felt good, but confusing, too much glare, too bright. I felt out of synch and had no idea how to navigate this place: tight, narrow roads, stop lights at every corner and a sky so blue it hurt the eyes. I was determined to find Sonia Bielski. I had directions to her apartment, south on 95, but Mrs. Bielski had given me the wrong exit, the old exit. I call her; she keeps saying ‘exit l,’ but exit l puts me on a road heading straight for a light industrial area.

  My interview with Sonia Bielski, Zush’s wife of 53 years, had been set for the weekend after the worst storm ever in Baltimore, two and a half feet of snow, four days shut in. So, I cancel my plane reservations, call Mrs. Bielski, and reschedule the interview for two weeks hence. Three days before leaving, I call to confirm. ‘But I thought you were coming last week; I waited the whole weekend for you.’ I call her son, frantic; she had misunderstood me. But Zvi assures me: ‘She made a mistake … Just tell her when you will be down.’ I call again, apologize and speak of the difficulty of scheduling times. ‘Don’t worry …,’ she tries to make me feel better: ‘Just have a good appetite when you get here.’ Even on the phone, it’s hard not to be drawn to Sonia Bielski, a strong, determined voice, impatient and quick. She manages to scold and comfort at the same time.

  It is with considerable anticipation that I look forward to my interview; the hotel clerk gives me directions to Interstate 95, and I’m off. Earlier, Mrs. Bielski had given me directions to her ‘house,’ so I assume she lives in a townhouse or a small single-family home. But I get lost; exit l takes me to the middle of nowhere, and after several convenience-store stops for directions, I find one of the thoroughfares near where she lives. I look up and what faces me are thirty-story condominiums, three or four of them reaching into the sky. I’m thinking ‘house’ and all I see is an endless array of huge white buildings. I feel ridiculous; here’s a woman who fought with one of the greatest heroes of the Jewish resistance, and I can’t even find where she lives.

  The street curves in a huge horseshoe, and I drive back and forth looking for 1761, the number she gave me. But the numbers on the buildings read 7611, 7633, 8215, and so on. I reach for the cell phone: ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Bielski; I think I’m lost.’ ‘Where are you!’ I try to describe the scene; ‘You’re near it,’ she says. ‘Just find 1761. It’s not rocket science!’ She hangs up; but 1761 never appears; the numbers, each etched on stone slabs in front of the buildings, leap higher, not lower. So feeling quite helpless and dumb, I again call: ‘Mrs. Bielski, I’m sorry, but I’m still lost; I just can’t find your house.’ ‘Professor Glass, I thought you were a smart man; it’s right there, on the left.’ ‘But Mrs. Bielski, all I see are larger numbers like 7632, 7611.’ She pauses for a moment; my car stalls in the middle of the road; people sound their horns; I’m flustered. ‘Oh my, I’m sorry, I transposed the numbers; my house is at 7611.’ I pull over to the side of the road. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Bielski, I’ll find it; but one more thing; you said a house; do you live in a high-rise?’ ‘Yes, yes, now you find it. Bye.’ And she hangs up, exasperated, I imagine, with this clumsy college professor who seems to have great difficulty finding his way.

  I felt I had blown the interview; but, there in front of me, finally, stands her building, 7611. I drive up the huge, expansive stone driveway impressed by the Rolls parked in front; a valet takes the car; the doorman lets me in. And before me stretches an elegant hallway, stately rooms with plush furniture, marble floor, gleaming surfaces, quite a distance from Novogrudek and the violence of resistance. The desk clerk rings Mrs. Bielski, who instructs her to send me up.

  A short, energetic woman of 80 with a strong Yiddish accent greets me at the door. She motions me in and the first thing she says is: ‘I want you to meet the family.’ She takes me to the bedroom and I half-expect a roomful of people. But she points to the dresser full of photographs; her husband Zush as a young man in the forests, and several of him later, in Brooklyn; her sons and their families. She tells me how proud she is of all their accomplishments and the talents of her grandchildren; it is a handsome family with this loving mother and grandmother smack in the middle of many of the pictures. Her eyes shine as she looks at this dresser full of history; and in the effusiveness of her words describing each scene, she brings the snapshots and portraits to life. Her words, in rapid-fire cadence, possess physical properties, heavy, tangible. She composes rich images which envelop you like a holograph; if you raise your hand, you might catch a cluster of words. I’m transfixed by this language, drawn into it; her words surround, confuse and transport me to places in these snapshots, especially those from the forests. It’s like a spell. Then I hear, ‘But you must be hungry.’

  Zvi, her son, had warned me about this: ‘She’ll feed you and then feed you till you drop.’ She takes me to a small kitchen and asks again, ‘Are you hungry?’ but the question translated means, ‘You must be hungry.’ I say, ‘No thank you, Mrs. Bielski, I just ate breakfast.’ My words fly by her, lost somewhere in the wall. ‘Of course you’re hungry; what do you want, a good “Florida” bagel? Coffee maybe?’ She takes out a bagel and I say, ‘Coffee is fine, Mrs. Bielski.’ ‘No, you eat this bagel, and I have some good low-fat cheese, a peach here, nice fruit, strawberries. Eat!’ like a general giving a command. I’m seven years old again; in my grandmother’s kitchen; anyone, no matter how old, would be reduced to seven years old in Mrs. Bielski’s kitchen. There’s no way to avoid the food. It was a river I had to cross before she would talk. I knew, then and there, that if I refused to eat, she would kick me out.

  So here we are: after all this time arranging the interview, I sit at a tiny table, facing a woman who endured hell and survived, who defined her life in terms of decision and action, unable to reach my pen and notebook, blocked by phalanges of cheese, lox, bagels, cream cheese, fruit, and very curious as to what this wonderful person was all about.

  Sonia Bielski thrives on action and movement; I cannot, even in those first few moments, imagine her quiet, still. Even when she sits, her persona is like a whirlwind; her eyes, cheeks, brows, forehead, the surface of her
skin, move in exquisite, unexpected directions. After ten minutes of conversation, her energy erases her age; and the more we talk, the younger she becomes. Ever impatient with her own lapses in memory and sequence, she seems at times to be scolding herself: ‘Memory, wake up, don’t make mistakes, get it right!’ It would be difficult if not impossible to persuade Sonia Bielski of a point of view she found wrong. And while she never clamped down on a question or perspective, she had no hesitation in correcting or in instructing in the right point of view, although always with politeness or in Yiddish. And since I told her my grandmother and mother never taught me Yiddish, the phrases flew around the table with increasing frequency, especially when her two friends joined the interview, women who had been with the Bielski Brigade.

  Being Zush’s wife meant that Sonia Bielski had a privileged position in the brigade, for Zush led the fighters. Sonia too carried a gun, but she never accompanied the fighters on missions that involved killing or executions. About the fighters’ ‘wives’: ‘Everybody wanted to be queen,’ but competition and friction never endangered the unit. When under attack the brigade reflected a unity of purpose and suffered equally. ‘There were times when I didn’t live like a queen; when we had to run to escape German sweeps. Once we lived in a ravine for days; I lived on raw horse-meat; but we hoped we would stay alive.’ I ask her what she meant ‘living like a queen’: ‘I don’t really mean that I lived in the lap of luxury; we lived in the forests and tried to survive; but Zush would take care of me. I had a terrible skin infection, and he took me to a peasant’s house to recover. If it weren’t for Zush and the brigade’s reputation, that peasant might have turned me over to the Germans. But he didn’t; I stayed there for several days and when I recovered, Zush came and took me back to the Unit.’