next morning, however, at 5 A.M., he rudely awakened me, insisting that I leave his home, for he was afraid of reprisals from the Nazis. Having no choice, I left. Sub- sequently I approached other non-Jewish friends, but they too sent me away. A young gentile woman did give me shelter in her cellar for a few hours, but toward evening she sent me on my way for fear of her husband, who usually came home drunk. She directed me to a nearby pigsty where I could hide. But the bitter cold outside was overwhelming. I felt I would freeze to death — and powerless, depressed and tormented, I went out into the night, throwing myself on the mercy of fate. I could no longer stand the life of a fugitive in hiding. Back Behind Bars It did not take long for the police to arrest me, and, in short order, I found myself back at the Bialy- stok prison from which I had earlier fled. The Nazis brutally beat me and said I would be hung the next day. They took away my belt, shoelaces and anything else with which I might take my own life, so they could have the sole pleasure of executing me. Unbeknownst to them, I carried a small razor in my pocket and the thought did cross my mind: perhaps I should slash my wrists and put an end to my wretched life. But at that very moment of despair, a spark of hope flashed through me. Maybe, maybe there was still a chance. No one can know for sure what may happen at the last minute. One moment of reflection can sometimes spell the difference between life and death. Furthermore, 1 considered the possiblity of someone surviving from my family who would condemn me for my cowardly act, the deed of a weakling who could not hold out until the last and who took his own life. The stigma of a relative having committed suicide would be unbearable for any family. With these thoughts I spent the next seventy- two hours in my cell. Looking back, I am amazed that I did not lose my mind; but I suppose human beings are made of iron. Later on, I was placed in a separate cell bearing the sign “‘solitary confinement.” In that extremely narrow place, it was impossible to sit or lie down. I had to stand the entire time, remaining on my feet throughout the long night. The next day I was taken out half naked into the prison yard in the biting wind and bitter cold. I thought I had reached the end of my rope. But I did not notice some forty other Jews, who had been seized by the Nazis from their cellars, attics and bunkers. Appar- ently we were still considered fit for labor and we were once again thrown back into our cells. In addition, there were twenty children who were detained for sev- eral days and then shot. Among them were: a six-year- old boy, Awrom Najman’s son; Nochum Karpl’s ten-year-old; one or two children belonging to the Lipiec brothers from Grodno. We, the forty slave laborers, remained alive. The following were their names: 100 Zalmen Edelman from _ Bialystok; Awremel Karasik, Monjek Rajzner, Somojl, a carpenter; Judel Lew, Kulkin from Grodno; Bereszczanski, Ruwke Perlszteyn, Welwel Szyf from Jaszynowka; Judel Goldn- fentk, a glazier; Owsejewic from Wilno; Lewitansi, a locksmith; Prusak from Grodno; Furmanski, a painter from Warsaw; Josef Lew, Kaplan, a carpenter from Polna Street; Aronczyk Zubowski, Szymon Amiel (wri- ter of this article); Szlojme Rozenblum from Sanok; Nysel from Charuwjeszow; Abramowicz from Slonim; Dowid Rak from Grodno; Lipiec (three brothers from Grodno) Jeshaje Lipiec from Grodno; Lojkes from Grodno; Grodnicki from Grodno; Chaim-Berel from Grodno; Szlojme Gelbard, a painter; Slobodwic from Lapy; Zbinowic from Horodok; Mejszel Gerszuni, Tewele Wrubel, Jojne Lis, Chackel Fendzak, Szyjele Ofersztejn, Awremel Boczkowsi and brother. On the first night of Passover, 1944, ten additional Jews, who had hid from August 1943 to April 1944, were imprisoned with us. Their names were: Rackowski (2 brothers from Sokola), Jankel Dawinski, a weaver; Mezbowski, father and son, Elson, Anatol Rabinowicz from Lodz; Borer from Grodno, and Slucki from Kiev. Our total reached fifty men. I recall a particularly tragic occurrence involving one of the last remaining Bialystoker Jews — Judzik, son of the meat entrepreneur from Polna Street, corner Bialystocaner, his wife, daughter of Szlumiel from Rabinska Street, and her brother — who managed to avoid arrest until the beginning of May 1944, staying out of sight in a hellhole underneath a bakery on Gum- jener Street. We could hardly recognize him, for he was covered with unruly hair, staring at us with wildly pro- truding and frightened eyes. Seeing us, this one-time he-man with the strong build began sobbing uncontrol- lably like a small child, sharing with us his incredible experiences in the bunker. Our situation in prison was desperate. The Nazis provided us with inadequate food and beat us merci- lessly. Our Ukrainian slave masters forced us to clean up human feces with our tongues. Our torment and humiliation were unbearable. We yearned for the release and redemption of death. Grim Bonfires in the Augustow Forests