Transferring the dead from a garbage heap to a mass grave in the ghetto cemetery. Fleeing Captivity Our situation worsened from day to day. Life behind bars became loathsome. We decided to find a way out, to extricate ourselves from human bcndage, even at the risk of death, for we felt we had nothing more to lose. Our plan was to escape and join the Parti- san resistance fighters. Several in our group suggested they could contact the Partisans through Polish connections. On November 1, 1943, we sneaked out of our place of work in the ghetto. Under the cover of night, we crawled on our bellies through the streets until we reached our Pol- ish contacts. We numbered eight: Szymon Amiel, Berel Szacman, Mojsze Grotkowicz, who owned a locksmith business on Nowolipja Street: Trocki, Meir Bez, a weaver from Horodok; Henach Lupe, Drzakanski, and Icele, a barber from Lodz. Unfortunately we were dis- appointed, for we were told that the Partisan who was to take us to the resistance forces had been shot and nothing more could be done for us. A Polish interme- diary hid us for a couple of hours in a pigsty but soon afterward forced us to leave because he did not want to jeopardize his life. He told us the Gestapo was combing the area for us, since we, numbering eight men, had turned up missing. The cold, hunger and terror caused one of our group to develop a persecution complex; he repeated over and over that we were surrounded. We could do nothing to calm him down. On top of everything, the night was bitterly cold. Our teeth chattering, ravenously hungry, our clothes in tatters, all alone, feeling useless, pursued by Nazi beasts and at the mercy of a cold-blooded peasant, we fell to his feet and begged him to save us. Apparently he was moved by our fervent entreaties, which could have melted a stone, and he promised to lead us to the forest where the Partisans hid out. In the dead of night, with the help of the peasant’s dim electric lamp, we sneaked out of the city, in a group, each man a hundred feet behind the next, our The Bialystoker Memorial Book guide leading the way. Soon we lost one another and, after much straying, five of us were reunited while the other three were still missing. The Pole left us stranded at the edge of the forest and disappeared. We were abandoned in the frigid outdoors in the middle of the night without a clue as to where we should go next. Having no choice but to go into the forest, we entered the next stage of a living hell. In the Forest Almost secretive and suspicious, the tree branches of the ancient forest clinked under their icy cover, rocked by the cruel, cold wind. This haven of nature, which normally protects animals from hunters, was now called upon to grant asylum to five lonely, wan- dering Jews who had fled human beasts of prey. We questioned whether we would accomplish our goal of finding the Partisans and saving our skins, for the forest itself seemed like a trap. Dark doubts stirred in our tired brains. We followed the Pole’s directions. He gave us a password to utter when we met Partisans near a broken tank among the trees in the forest: ‘‘Marilke sent us.”’ (Marilke Rudicka was a Jewish girl who served as liai- son between the Partisans and the resisters in the Bia- lystok ghetto.) Hungry, frozen and exhausted, we advanced into the depths of the forest. The thorny path caused our feet to swell, blister and bleed. The skin and nails of our feet fell off. We ambled about for three days and two nights without interruption, unable to find the Partisans. We were trapped in a maze with no means of getting out. About to drop, exhausted from the long journey, the cold and the hunger, I began to hallucinate that I was surrounded by horrible monsters about to devour me. Drained of strength and anticipat- ing imminent death, an irresistible urge came over me to spend my last moments on earth eating. So, paying no mind to the dangers, I dragged myself to a nearby village, pleading for a morsel of food. Rebuffed by peas- ants everywhere, I returned to the forest even more drained than before. I resolved, however, to go back to Bialystok, hoping that one of my Christian friends would take me in, hide me and provide me with some nourish- ment. Taking leave of my friends I trekked to Bialystok on my last legs, from eight in the morning until six in the evening, arriving in town at the home of my gentile aquaintance. Hiding out with the Gentiles I went through yet another hell — drifting among attics, cellars and pigsties; from one gentile to another, like a hunted animal trying to avoid a trap. My Christian friend was horrified to see me; for a moment he believed I was an apparition from another world, because he was simply incredulous that there were any Jews still alive. Providing me with food, drink and a bath, he permitted me to spend the night. The 99