Where What When

Biala Kuritza - A Holocaust Survival Story

In the 1930s, in pre-World War II Europe, my grandparents lived a relatively comfortable life in Mosciska, a small town in southeastern Poland where approximately 3,000 Jews resided at the time. My grandfather, Saul Reches, was a partner in a flour mill, and my grandmother, Clara (Gerber) Reches, was a homemaker, though she worked on occasion in a clothing store owned by her parents. They had two sons, my uncle, Mark Reches, who was born on October 15, 1937, and my father, Henry Reches, who was born exactly two years later, on October 15, 1939, just six weeks after the German invasion of Poland.

Initially, the Jews of Mosciska were not affected by the Germans because the Russians occupied their town. But in June 1941, the Germans took control and forced the town's Jews into a ghetto. More than once, my grandfather was thrown into jail for no apparent reason, but my blond, blue-eyed grandmother, who spoke fluent German, would somehow always manage to convince the guards to release him. During this time, my grandparents and their family were still able to remain in their house, although there were periodic "round ups," when they had to flee to a bunker to hide for several days at a time until it was deemed safe to return home. On one occasion, several people in addition to my family were hiding in the bunker. The Germans approached and were just on the other side of the wall from where everyone was hidden. Miraculously, a nearby toilet had overflowed, and its contents covered the floor in front of what would have been an entrance to the secret hiding place. The meticulous Germans, not wanting to soil their polished black boots in that muck, turned back.

In the fall of 1942, the Germans decided it was time to make Mosciska Judenfrei, free of Jews. My grandmother knew that they would all surely be sent to a death camp, and while my grandfather was resigned to "go with everyone else on the trains," my grandmother would not hear of that. The time had come for her to devise a plan to save her family. One of the local Polish farm families who had patronized the clothing store were the Staszczaks. Genya Staszczak and her sister, Josefa Wrobel, would often shop at the store. My grandmother had come to know them over the years, and they had become friendly, with my grandmother often extending credit to them. One Sunday, shortly before her family would almost certainly be sent to a death camp, my grandmother approached Genya and Josefa when they came to town. My grandmother asked if they would hide her family on their farm for several weeks so as to avoid deportation to the camps. Genya and Josefa, while sympathetic to the situation, said that they could not give my grandmother an answer without first consulting with their mother, Rosallia Staszczak, the matriarch of the family. The sisters told my grandmother they would have an answer for her the following week and would come to speak with her after attending church.

However, with deportation perhaps just days away, my grandmother knew there was no time to waste; she could not wait a week for the two sisters to return. The next evening, she put on several of her coats - one on top of the other - and walked to the Staszczak farm, which was a good couple of miles away from her home. My grandmother would use these coats to "bribe" the Staszczaks into helping her. When she got to the farm, my grandmother asked the sisters if she could speak with their mother and gave one of the coats to Genya. Genya and Josefa brought my grandmother to speak with their mother. My grandmother asked Rosallia if she knew why she had come and if she would agree to hide them. "Panu Reches (in Polish panu is like Mrs. but is a title of respect), my daughters came to me with your request and I did not know what to do," Rosallia replied. "As a good Christian, I want to do the right thing. I stayed up all night and prayed to the Virgin Mary for advice," she continued, pointing to a small statue of the Virgin Mary on the table near her. "When the eyes of the statue blinked at me, I knew that the Virgin was telling me I had to hide you." The family always wondered if the eyes of the statue actually blinked or whether Rosallia just thought that they had blinked so that she would know what to do; either way, this was surely a miracle and clearly the hand of G-d playing a role here.

Rosallia was willing to hide everyone, but she did not know where on the farm would be an appropriate hiding place. But my grandmother had figured that out in advance, too. She asked Rosallia and her daughters to follow her outside to the barn. She also had them call over their neighbor and cousin, Jan Goudika. My grandmother knew that for the protection of her own family, all the Staszczaks had to be involved, or there would be nothing to stop one of them from handing them over to the Germans. My grandmother asked them to dig a hole in the floor of the barn for everyone to hide in. She also told them to put the large mound of dirt in corner of the barn and cover it with straw so it would look like a haystack, but if for some reason everyone died in the hole, they could just shovel the dirt on top of them and nobody would ever know that they were there. The cousin was skeptical, but my grandmother took off another coat and handed it to Jan for his wife. Then she told them to take shovels and start digging. Little by little, my grandparents gave the Staszczaks most of their material possessions prior to going into hiding.

As the Germans were rounding up the town's remaining Jews to send them to the death camps, getting the entire family to the Staszczak farm was no easy task. Six people - my grandparents with their two children, my great-grandmother (Rivka Gerber) and my great uncle (Mordechai Gerber) - were prepared to go hide in the hole in November, 1942. By this time, the rest of the family had either passed away or perished in the war. Somehow, an unrelated brother and sister who lived near my grandparents - Benash and Basha Mansfield - found out they were going to hide and insisted they were going along to hide with them. Everyone was clearly out to save him or herself, and my grandparents had no choice but to include the Mansfields. Benash Mansfield was a watchmaker, and his trade would soon prove to come in handy.

The party of eight divided into two groups to make the journey to the farm. Several times they were stopped by the guards, as they were out of the ghetto after the curfew, and were forced to turn back. My grandfather was ready to give up, but my grandmother insisted that he keep trying to make it to the Staszczak farm. When they were stopped on their last attempt to reach the farm, Benash rolled up his sleeve and bribed the guard with watches that he had lined his arm with for just this purpose. While the guard, who had worked for my grandfather before the war, readily accepted the watches, he could have shot everyone anyway. Instead, he told them "Go with G-d" and let them continue on. By daybreak, everyone had safely reached the farm.

And that was how a nearly-two-year ordeal in a hole began. The conditions were extremely difficult, to say the least, but survival was at stake. Eight people - including two small boys who were hardly used to being confined like that - were in a space large enough to sit or lie down but not stand up. The only source of light was a small kerosene lamp that stood in a crevice in the dirt wall. The "bathroom" was a bucket that was removed every evening except if it was unsafe for one of the members of the Staszczak family to do so. During those times, the stench was unbearable. When it rained, the group found themselves lying in water as a result of the run off from nearby hilltops, one of which housed a cemetery. Rodents and a variety of insects joined everyone in the hole.

Josefa Wrobel's teenaged sons, Janek and Jerzy, would bring food to the hole, usually every day, although due to the escalating war and hostilities surrounding the farm, there were times when they could not deliver the food. As they were farmers, they grew a lot of the food themselves. They would bring soup, bread, and water, and they brought what they could spare. The Staszczaks were not wealthy people by any means, and times were hard for them, as well. Additionally, they did not want to arouse suspicion at the market by suddenly purchasing increased quantities of food. My great-grandmother fasted every Monday and Thursday to ensure that there would be enough food for the children: my uncle, and my father. Often, fights erupted, primarily between Basha Mansfield and my grandmother, over the division of food. Basha felt my grandmother was giving her sons more food than she gave her and her brother. In spite of the fact that arguing with raised voices could lead to discovery and certain death, the petty bickering did not stop. Rationality, it seemed, had taken a backseat to hunger and thirst.

In addition to bringing the food, Janek and Jerzy would occasionally bring a newspaper to the hole. After six weeks in hiding, the Staszczaks asked my grandparents to leave, as they were concerned for their own safety. Initially, my grandmother had only asked them to hide her family for "several weeks." She knew that if she asked the Staszczaks to hide them indefinitely, they would never agree. My grandmother reasoned with the Staszczaks by saying, "We read the papers, and we know the Germans are all around here. If you throw us out now, the Germans will surely find us and torture us until we tell them where we came from, since the remaining Jews in the town were already rounded up and sent to the camps. You will all be killed for harboring Jews. You would do better to take your chances and hope the Germans do not find us." The Staszczaks had no choice but to agree.

During the nearly two years in hiding, a few members of the family ventured out of the hole on rare occasions, but only into the barn, not outside, for fear of discovery. One night, my grandfather, who was at his wit's end from being cooped up in the hole, went out into the barn. He stood in a corner near a haystack just to stretch his legs, and tried to stay out of sight. But on the other side of the barn, he saw Mr. Staszczak with a neighbor. The neighbor asked Mr. Staszczak who was that man in the corner, and Mr. Staszczak hastily replied that the man was a new worker he just hired. When my grandfather returned to the hole, he told everyone they were "finished"; he was certain the neighbor recognized him from the prewar days in the town. But nothing happened. Did the neighbor recognize my grandfather and stay silent out of loyalty to the Staszczaks? Or did he really believe that my grandfather was a "new worker"? We'll never know.

At one point during the hiding, the Nazis told the Staszczaks they wanted to use their barn as a local headquarters. The Staszczaks had no choice but to comply with these barbarians, as many lives were at stake. If they refused to host the Nazis in their barn, they would certainly arouse suspicion. My grandmother told me that she heard the Nazis walking on top of their heads as they set up shop in the barn. There was no way the Staszczaks could bring the food to the hole or empty the bathroom bucket with the Nazis milling about. One way or another, the presence of the Nazis on the farm would mean certain death, at least for those who were hidden, if not for the Staszczaks, as well. However, after availing themselves of the Staszczaks' "hospitality" for a day, the Nazis abruptly packed up and left. They told the Staszczaks they didn't like it there and were moving on to find another, better facility to use as their headquarters. Once again, everyone in the hole - along with the Staszczaks - was spared.

There were frightening incidents, but there were some humorous times, too. One evening, my grandmother decided to let my father venture out into the barn to take a brief walk. Before he left the hole, she warned him not to let anyone see him. When my father came back to the hole, he looked like he had seen a ghost. My grandmother asked him what happened. He responded, "Someone saw me." Of course my grandmother and the others immediately became concerned that they had been discovered. Benash asked my father who saw him. "A chicken saw me," he innocently told the watchmaker. Benash decided to play along and asked my father what color this chicken was. "Biala kuritza - a white chicken," was my father's reply. "The white chickens are our friends. You don't need to worry about them. It's only the black chickens we need to worry about," Benash advised.

In July, 1944, the Russians marched into Mosciska and liberated the town from Nazi control. All eight people who had been hiding in the hole had survived, and they emerged from the hole, while the Russians pointed their rifles at them. When people in the town asked my grandmother where they came from, she told them, "We came from the other world." Wasn't that the truth!

The Russian soldiers took a liking to my father and my uncle and gave them treats, namely candy bars, and let them ride on their tanks. As my grandmother had kept her hand over my father's mouth most of the time they were in hiding in order to keep him quiet, he had lost his voice and was unable to speak for a number of weeks after their rescue.

In January, 1945, my family moved slightly west, to Prezmysl, Poland, the nearest large city to Mosciska and remained there for a year, until January, 1946. The Staszczaks ultimately moved there, as well, and the two families maintained friendly relations. However, despite the fact that the war had ended, anti-Semitism was still rampant in Poland, and my family headed to the Displaced Persons (DP) camps in Austria. From 1946 until 1952, they were in various camps, each one becoming slightly "nicer" with regard to the accommodations. Young women had come from Palestine to teach Hebrew and Jewish culture to the children in the camps, and summer camp programs were established. My father and uncle made several friends in the DP camps and even had a dog named Flicca.

In 1952, my grandparents decided the time had come to move on and make a new life for their family. My great-grandmother and great uncle moved to Israel, which by then had become a Jewish state. While my grandmother was hesitant to separate from the only family she had left, she and my grandfather decided that it would ultimately be better for their family in America, the land of opportunity. With the assistance of HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society), they made the long and difficult journey on a ship across the Atlantic Ocean to New York. After a brief stay in New York, my grandparents and their two children were sent by HIAS to Baltimore, Maryland, shortly before my father's bar mitzva. They had no ties to Baltimore but were placed there because it was felt that there would be jobs available here. The Reches' have been in Baltimore ever since. Benash Mansfield remained in Europe, while his sister Basha ultimately found her way to upstate New York. Basha remained in contact with my grandmother until the time of her passing.

The family remained in touch with the Staszczaks and the Wrobels, as well. My grandmother spoke and wrote Polish fluently, so she corresponded with them and frequently sent them packages of clothing. My grandmother would update them on her family's progress here in America. Once my uncle and my father married and had families of their own, they began sending money to the two families in Poland, namely for Christmas and Easter. While it will never be possible to repay the Staszczaks and Wrobels for their incredible sacrifice, even small amounts of American money have significant value in Poland. In February, 1990, my grandmother received a letter from Genya Staszczak. The last line read, "Clara, I'll meet you at the gate of heaven." Three days later, one day after her 86th birthday, my grandmother suddenly passed away. Clearly, she and Genya had some kind of bond and connection for nearly 50 years.

My father and uncle had always talked about going back to Poland to see the Staszczaks and Wrobles. However, as long as Poland was dominated by the Soviet Union, a trip like this did not seem feasible. My uncle had been in contact with Yad Va'shem in Israel and wanted to have the Staszczak and Wrobel families honored as among the Righteous Among the Nations. Shortly after my uncle's untimely passing, in November, 1989, we received word from Yad Va'shem that the Staszczaks and Wrobels would indeed be recognized. Representatives from Yad Va'shem traveled to Poland to make a special presentation to the family, and their names were later inscribed on a wall in the Garden of the Righteous Among the Nations at Yad Va'Shem. When I visited Israel in December, 2005, I was quite moved to see that they received this well-deserved honor.

In 1993, Janek and Jerzy informed us that they finally had a phone, which would make contact with them easier. My father found someone who spoke Polish and had this person call the Wrobels to arrange a visit, which was set for July, 1993. Armed with a Polish dictionary, several cans of tuna, and suitcases full of gifts for his rescuers, my father set off for Warsaw. The translator asked the Wrobels to hold up a sign with their name at the airport; after all, it had been 50 years since my father last saw them, and he felt he would never recognize them. When my father arrived at the airport, he didn't see anyone holding up a sign. Instead, he saw a young man in his thirties accompanied by a boy of about 10 years old, who kept walking back and forth after the terminal emptied out. My father nodded and smiled at the man each time he passed. Finally, the man stopped in front of my father. Then he turned his hand around and my father saw that the man was holding a family picture from my brother's bar mitzva, which we had sent the Wrobels. "Is this you?" he asked. When my father nodded yes, the man sent the young boy to get his grandfather, Jerzy Wrobel, who had been elsewhere in the airport. Needless to say, it was an emotional reunion. Jerzy told my father he expected him to be smaller; after all, his last memory of my father was that of a little boy! My father spent a week in Poland with Janek and Jerzy and their families. Their mother, Josefa, had already passed away, but Genya was still alive and living in the house that had belonged to my grandfather's family prior to the war, which my grandfather had signed over to them. My father told Genya that this was a very happy day for him, because he was able to come back and thank her. Genya told my father it was the happiest day for her that he came back to see her. Genya passed away the year after my father visited, so my father was grateful that he had been able to return to Poland while she was still alive. Janek and Jerzy also took my father to nearby Auschwitz, where he and his family surely would have perished if not for the heroic gestures of Jankek and Jerzy's mother, aunt, and grandmother.

With the advent of modern technology, we have now been able to send money to the Wrobels via wire transfer and communicate with them via email. Their grandchildren write the emails in adequate English. In the spring of 2007, my cousin Yisroel Reches, the oldest great-grandchild of Saul and Clara Reches, was learning at a yeshiva in Eretz Yisrael. After Pesach, the yeshiva went on a school trip to Poland. Several fathers joined their sons on this trip; Yisroel was accompanied by his father, Rabbi Michael Reches, Saul and Clara's oldest grandchild. My father communicated with Janek via email and relayed Michael's trip itinerary. Arrangements were made for Michael and Yisroel to meet with Janek and Jerzy when the group from the yeshiva would be traveling within a couple of hours of Prezemysl, where the Wrobles still live.

How exciting it was for Michael and Yisroel to meet Janek and Jerzy! Who would have ever thought, in 1942, that eight people would survive in a hole in the ground for two years and that the next two generations would return to Poland 60 years later to meet those responsible for their survival. Michael and Yisroel introduced the brothers to the entire group from the yeshiva, who warmly welcomed them with cheers and applause for their sacrifice and bravery. Their story captivated all of Yisroel's friends and teachers who had journeyed to Poland. Janek and Jerzy told Michael they felt like heroes. Indeed they are!

This article is written based on the accounts of my grandmother, Clara Reches, z"l, along with the recollections of my father, Henry Reches.

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Article List - November 2009