We were ordered to dig deep into the ground. At first we thought we were preparing our own graves, but, burrowing further, we uncovered a mass grave filled with corpses. These were the Bialystoker Jews who had been murdered by the Nazis during the ghetto’s liquida- tion. Next we were ordered to lift the bodies with our hooks, place them one on top of the other on a pyre, pour kerosene on the heap and set fire to it. Our team was divided into four parts with the fol- lowing functions: digging, pulling corpses from the pit, chopping wood for the bonfire and igniting the pyre. The latter was the most revolting task that we were forced to carry out. Unhappily, I was one of those who cut the wood and ignited the corpses. Once again I endured the throes of hell when I pondered the bitter irony, which only the devil could invent, that I would find myself setting my own people on fire. As I carried out this grisly assignment, 1 was filled with pain and self-contempt, that I would have to sin against the dead, against my own flesh and blood, perpetrating the barbaric sacrilege of defiling corpses, not allowing life- less bodies to rest in peace even after they had breathed their last in martyrdom for the glory of God’s name. I cursed every minute of my slave existence under the damned Nazi yoke. I prayed that God and my people would forgive me. Instead of helping my slain brothers to be buried among their own people, I was made to incinerate their sacred remains into ash and dust, for I simply had no choice. In this way we worked for two weeks in the Augus- tow Forests. After all the martyrs had been cremated, we were ordered to sift thorugh the ashes in search of gold rings, watches, gold teeth and other valuables that might not have melted in the fire, and to turn them over to our masters. The ashes themselves were buried 1n a deep pit, over which trees were planted, in order to erase any evidence of Nazi savagery. Our Futile Plan On June 6, 1944, I accidentally found a piece of newspaper and learned that the tide was turning against the Nazis in Europe. One could already tell that the Germans were suffering battle losses and that the bloody play would soon end. This could also be seen in the increasing brutality with which the Nazis treated us. For instance, we were returned to the Bialystok prison. Security was tightened and we were completely isolated from the rest of the world. Our captors warned us not to reveal to anyone the type of work we had done tn the Augustow Forests. The Nazis threatened to shoot anyone on the spot who dared breathe a word about these activities. Two days later, we were confined to a barracks at 7 Kraszewskiego Street. Every morning we were taken to Nowosjolka, then along Zielona Street to Grabuwka, on forced labor. Thousands of Jews were shot there during the Bialystok ghetto’s liquidation. The Bialystoker Memorial Book Rummaging through the debris, I found two docu- ments, one belonging to a distant cousin, Zalmen Amiel, son of Jankl Amiel-Kulikowski, the manufac- turer, and the second to Finkelsztejn, who owned the iron works at Kupiecka Street, corner Rozanski. His father and brother lived in the United States. I also found a note from America. Apparently he had hoped to contact his relatives there and go to the U.S., but his death at the hands of the Nazis interfered. In spite of the strict security, we stole newspapers, where we learned that the Russians had broken through the front lines and were inching closer to us. It was then that I realized the Nazi beasts would not remain in Bia- lystok for long, and five of us decided to kill the two guards watching our cell and escape. Alas, our plan did not work. We had decided we would go into action immediately when awakened for roll call. For some rea- son, our guards did not stir us during the night and we slept through the appointed hour of our escape. At Our Own Grave On Thursday, July 13, 1944, we noted an extraor- dinary change. We were packed into airless trucks and taken to a field. We were ordered to cover up all the open graves containing dead bodies, and we understood that our work had come to an end. Near each one of us a soldier stood with an automatic weapon. One of them approached me and asked: ‘“‘What will you do with us when we lose the war?’ I remained silent. But he an- swered his own question sardonically: ‘““You will take away our women and children as we did to you, and you will enslave us as we enslaved you. But, do not worry, for before the Russian bandits arrive, you will all be lying in your graves.’ I realized that our end was near, only a matter of a few hours. We were told that at twelve o’clock a high Gestapo officer would come on the scene and issue orders. We waited; time moved very slowly, like an eternity. And then the fateful hour, twelve noon. The Gestapo chief had arrived.