Shayne Vic - Remember Us: My Journey from the Shtetl Through the Holocaust

I was twenty-five years old in the beginning of spring, 1942. I stood at the wooden counter in my mothers kitchen looking for something to eat. There was a slight chill in the air. I rubbed my arms with my hands. There was no fire burning anywhere in the house. My entire family was in the living room, along with some guests, huddled together waiting. Once in a while, my father would stand up and look out the window then go back to the sofa beside my mother. It was the middle of the day. Nobody was working. My stomach growled. I was growing hungrier by the moment. What was I looking for in the cupboard? Anything. There was nothing left. I stood staring at an empty plate, my thoughts drifting far away. It was too quiet. I looked out the window. The street was deserted. I turned around and sat down on a chair and crossed my legs. This kitchen that I helped my father build was, for once, quiet. It wasnt natural. My little sisters and my mother werent baking or cooking. It was a foreign feeling. No pots and pans and baking dishes were clanging. The laughter was gone. The stoves were cold to the touch. It was deathly quiet. Then I heard a boom coming from the living room. What was that? It sounded like a log smashing into the front door. It jolted me. Everyone in the living room had jumped from the shock.

Boom, boom, boom! Fists were pounding on the door and a young, familiar voice was shouting. Demanding. Open this door! Open or Ill smash it in. I ran to the door. Everyone was wide-eyed. My father stood with his fists clenched at his sides as I opened our front door. In front of me stood my boyhood friend, Stach Lango. His seething expression, his twisted mouth, and sick gaze belonged to somebody else. What happened to him? He pointed a pistol to my face, grabbed me by the collar, and said, If you fight me, Ill shoot your mother, your father, and your two sisters right in front of you. What was I to do? It was hopeless. Stach pulled me by the shoulder and yanked me out of my house. My family watched helplessly as I was dragged into the empty street and pushed all the way to the police station and into a room with a wooden table in the center and a glowing fireplace by the wall.

A small stack of wood and some iron pokers leaned against the dirty, paint-peeling wall. Once inside, still with a pistol pointed at my head, I was forced to undress. Hurry up, goddammit, Jew! Then Stach tied me to a table in the middle of the room. I couldnt move. My wrists were tearing from the ropes. My eyes followed him as he tucked his gun inside his waistband. He picked up one of the iron pokers and angrily shoved the end of it into the embers. He knew I was watching and relished his power over me.The iron grew hotter and hotter until the tip of it pulsated in red and white. Im going to kill you, Jew, he said. His voice was monstrous. He brought the iron toward me and I could hardly bear the heat even from several inches away. Smoke was rising from the glowing tip.

Im going to kill you slowly. I want to hear you scream. My heart raced and I felt sick. The poker was pushed slowly and torturously toward my face, and all I could think was, God, take me quickly. I called out for GodGod my rescuer and confidant; the God I knew as a Yeshiva student; the God of our Torah. Where was God in all of this? I braced myself for the worst as Stach came toward my eyes with the iron. Then the door flew open and Stach turned to face his friend, who was exhaling puffs of steam and trying to catch his breath. He whispered something in Stach Langos ear. I couldnt hear what was being said, but without a word spoken to me, I was untied and set free. I dont know why. I dont know to this day why they let me go. I ran out the door and ran and ran until I came back to my house in a pool of sweat and called for my mother as I burst through the front door. I saw her face through my tears, and she opened her arms. I held her tightly and felt every fiber of her dress in my hands. I breathed in her hair and laid my head in my own perspiration and in the tears running down her neck, soaking her collar. I couldnt let go, and she held me; I was her baby and she held me. She sat down and held my head on her lap and stroked my face. I sobbed and she tried to console me.