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Der Holocaust. Judenverfolgung und Völkermord by Alexander Brakel

By Alexander Brakel

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Their father's words set the littlest ones all to crying hysterically. They were too young to die, and after all, we were just crummy Jews. "We've risked our lives eleven months already. We will poison them," Mr. " "But we can't," Mrs. Symchuck said. " I had heard enough. I crawled back to Mother and told her it was no longer safe for us to stay where we were. We had to leave. Father's hiding place was only a kilometer from ours. We hadn't seen him for eleven months. We had to sneak over that night, hunched and crouching on bent legs the entire way so as not to be seen.

My father had offered her room and board on the farm if she would keep up our education and also help out with some farm chores. Her name was Sarah. She came from an upper-class intellectual family. She dressed plainly, in a simple black dress. Sarah carried a Russian passport and read Marx. She had originally come to Brody from Bialystok to teach at our school. She was very strict with us. Over time we came to view her as another member of the family. The Germans very quickly took over our farm.

Symchuck that night took the body to be buried, but they had a hard time digging a hole deep enough because the ground was frozen. The month of March is still icy winter in Poland. And even though the night was pitch dark, they were afraid that someone might see them. They had to cover their tracks in the snow, and they were in a hurry to get home. It was a miracle that my mother survived the birth process in our little hideaway. There was no medication for her, and we all slept in filth, infested with lice and fleas.

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