The Hunter: Autobiography Of The Man Who Spent Fifteen Years Searching For Adolf Eichmann

By Tuviah Friedman

THE SEARCH…THE CAPTURE…AND THE TRIAL OF HISTORY’S BLOODIEST MURDERER, ADOLF EICHMANN — BY THE MAN WHO TRACKED HIM DOWN

Tuviah Friedman-The Hunter of Adolf Eichmann

Here is the extraordinary story of the famous hunter who spent fifteen years searching for Adolf Eichmann, one of the most ruthless criminals the world has known. When the first Soviet troops entered Poland, young Tuviah Friedman, who had lost most of his family and seen many of his friends beaten to death, knew his chance to revenge himself on the Nazis was at hand. After his escape from a concentration camp, Friedman joined Polish security force charged with rounding up former commandants of slave labor and ghettos, and became a precocious and highly successful Nazi hunter. Had he not encountered anti-Semitic prejudices among the Poles, he might have remained in Poland and entered the new government that was then being formed. Instead, he proceeded to Vienna where he began his fifteen years search for Eichmann—a search
whose final chapter began to unfold in October, 1959. The rest is history. Tuviah Friedman’s story is the authentic account of the search for Adolf Eichmann. Friedman has documents, never known to exist, and has witnessed and participated in the crucial events of this story.

“An enthralling detective story and a self-portrayal of one man’s terrifying obsession.”—Life Magazine

“Eccentric? Fanatic? Dedicated Man? He is all three but his book is a fascinating one…”—The New York Times

• Language: English
• Publisher: Normanby Press
• Release date: Nov 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781786251497

Tuviah Friedman

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Text originally published in 1961 under the same title.

© Pickle Partners Publishing 2014, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

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Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE HUNTER

By

TUVIAH FRIEDMAN

Edited and translated by David C. Gross

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

ACKNOWLEDGMENT 6

PROLOGUE 7

I 10

II 15

III 20

IV 27

V 32

VI 34

VII 38

VIII 43

IX 49

X 54

XI 59

XII 65

XIII 71

XIV 87

XV 91

XVI 95

XVII 105

XVIII 111

XIX 117

XX 123

XXI 129

XXII 142

XXIII 151

XXIV 155

XXV 165

XXVI 171

XXVII 179

XXVIII 185

XXIX 192

XXX 200

XXXI 205

XXXII 215

EPILOGUE 245

APPENDIX 259

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 262

THE SEARCH . . . THE CAPTURE . . . AND THE TRIAL OF HISTORY’S BLOODIEST MURDERER, ADOLF EICHMANN ––BY THE MAN WHO TRACKED HIM DOWN

Tuviah Friedman—The Hunter of Adolf Eichmann

Here is the extraordinary story of the famous hunter who spent fifteen years searching for Adolf Eichmann, one of the most ruthless criminals the world has known. When the first Soviet troops entered Poland, young Tuviah Friedman, who had lost most of his family and seen many of his friends beaten to death, knew his chance to revenge himself on the Nazis was at hand. After his escape from a concentration camp, Friedman joined a Polish security force charged with rounding up former commandants of slave labor and ghettos, and became a precocious and highly successful Nazi hunter. Had he not encountered anti-Semitic prejudices among the Poles, he might have remained in Poland and entered the new government that was then being formed. Instead, he proceeded to Vienna where he began his fifteen years search for Eichmann—a search whose final chapter began to unfold in October, 1959. The rest is history. Tuviah Friedman’s story is the authentic account of the search for Adolf Eichmann. Friedman has documents, never known to exist, and has witnessed and participated in the crucial events of this story.

An enthralling detective story and a self-portrayal of one man’s terrifying obsession.

—Life Magazine

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I thank, from the bottom of my heart, the Prime Minister of Israel for making possible the arrest and the bringing to trial of Adolf Eichmann.

I salute all those who took part in the daring and brilliant seizure itself. And the many self-effacing, dedicated men and women who have not allowed the question of Eichmann and the other Nazi war criminals to fade from the world’s memory—I thank them all.

A special word of thanks is richly deserved by those institutions and friends who provided me with assistance in locating documents and information described in this book.

I wish to single out for special thanks Henyek Diamant, known as Manos; Dr. Joseph Kermish, the archivist of Yad Vashem in Jerusalem; Simon Wiesenthal, of Linz; Dr. Jacob Robinson, of New York; Dr. Aryeh Tartakower, of Jerusalem; Rabbi Mordecai Nurock and Dr. Shmuel Shenblum, for their encouragement over a long period of time; and Pinhas Schwartz, of the YIVO in New York.

Those whose names I have not included will, I am certain, understand, and excuse me.

But the chief expression of thanks is reserved for my wife—for her long years of patient understanding, for enabling me to go on with my work while she supported our family, for her tender and loving faith.

T.F.

PROLOGUE

The dictator Adolf Hitler, from the years 1933 through 1945, led the German people—a cultured nation of 80,000,000—using the title Führer, or Leader.

The Nazi Party in Germany was composed of 12,000,000 German adults. Martin Bormann was the Party’s Reichsleiter and spiritual leader. He also acted as Hitler’s personal representative to the Party.

Heinrich Himmler established a military force outside of the regular German Army that included 500,000 S.S., Gestapo and Cri-Po men. (The S.S. were the Sturm Staffel, or storm troops; the Gestapo were the Geheime Staats Polizei, or Secret State Police; and the Cri-Po were the Criminal Police.) These units tortured and executed millions of people in Europe.

Nazi Germany’s avowed program was clear-cut: to despoil Europe and to enslave millions of people in industrial plants and concentration camps. The Nazi Party had an additional goal as part of its over-all program—to physically destroy the entire Jewish people throughout the world. To build an amoral society, the Nazis believed it necessary to stamp out the Jews, whose teachings they regarded as inimical to theirs.

In 1939 the Jewish people were composed of 18,000,000 men, women and children, of whom approximately half lived on the European continent. The Jews, a people with a historic continuity stretching back 4,000 years, and with one of the oldest cultures and religions in the world, were marked for total annihilation by Hitler, Goebbels, Göring, Bormann, Rosenberg and Streicher, as part of the Nazi Party’s official policy.

Hermann Göring, as Marshal of Nazi Germany, on July 31, 1941, signed an order authorizing General Heydrich to execute a plan for the complete extermination of the Jewish people. This order, resulting in the murder of 6,000,000 Jews, was carried out by Himmler’s S.S. men and police units, and by Heydrich’s Gestapo and S.D. (security service) units.

Hundreds of thousands of S.S. men, wearing black uniforms with the death skull emblazoned on their caps, and the words God Is With Us affixed to their belt buckles, arrested and tortured and murdered millions of people in Europe. These Nazis carried out their missions to the tune of their favorite song—Today, Germany—Tomorrow, the World.

The closest collaborators of Heydrich were the chief of the Gestapo, General Heinrich Müller, and Adolf Eichmann, head of the Gestapo section for Jewish affairs.

Heydrich and Kaltenbrunner ordered Eichmann to carry out the Nazi plans for the mass murder of the Jews in each of the eighteen European countries then dominated by the Germans. The orders called for swift compliance.

Eichmann set about building up a staff of officers, sending them to every major city in Nazi-occupied Europe with orders to work closely with the S.S. and police officials, and to organize the arrest of Jews in every city and hamlet, prior to their deportation to the extermination camps. Eichmann himself was in a new city practically every week, spurring on the speedier and fuller dispatch of thousands of Jewish families to the death centers.

Some 100,000 German men—members of the S.S., Gestapo, Cri-Po, the regular police forces, and the frontier police—took part in the deportation of millions of Jews to the extermination centers.

Some 20,000 S.S. and Gestapo members took part in guarding and eventually murdering millions of Jews in Europe. These Nazis operated in the ghettos, the concentration camps, and the slave-labor camps.

In the death camps, where millions of people were gassed and burned to death, there were some 2,000 S.S. men, who carried out their satanic tasks. Adolf Eichmann was their chief. Each day these death camps executed up to 20,000 Jewish men, women and children.

The chief goal of a Haganah group to which I belonged, formed immediately after the end of World War II, was to find Eichmann alive and to put him on trial before Jewish judges. After fifteen years we have attained this objective.

Hitler, Himmler, Göring, Goebbels, Rosenberg, Streicher and Heydrich are dead. Eichmann has been caught and will stand trial. There is little doubt as to the verdict.

Two principal Nazis remain alive and free—Bormann, who as chief of the Nazi Party poisoned the minds and destroyed the souls of the Germans, and Gestapo chief Müller, who instigated inhuman tortures in concentration camps against millions of anti-Nazi Europeans.

Millions of Germans today were, a decade and a half ago, Nazis. Thoughtful people are troubled by the fact that the new generation rising in Germany today does not fully know the enormity of the crimes that were committed by the Nazis. The textbooks in Germany do not spell out the hideous, unspeakable crimes that were committed by men and women who are themselves parents, grandparents, relatives of young Germans. How can we be sure that the leader-loving German people will not again follow in the footsteps of a power-mad dictator, if today’s generation of Germans does not know and fully understand the history of the Nazi period?

Only twenty per cent of the Nazi criminals who personally participated in the systematic butchery of millions of innocent people have been caught and brought to trial. The others—numbering in the thousands—are free. Most of them have gone underground. They sit and they wait: either for a new set of circumstances that will enable them to regain their lost power, or for the statutes of limitations to expire, so that they may safely return to Germany.

I want my son—and all sons and daughters—to grow up in a world that is tranquil. I want to know that the souls of millions of innocent men, women and children will be at peace. I want to help flush the still-uncaught Nazi criminals out of their lairs, and help bring them to justice. Let the German generation of today know, from testimony given before German judges in German courts, what Nazism really meant.

For these reasons, I shall continue to devote my efforts to unmasking the perpetrators of mankind’s greatest holocaust.

I wish to add a word about Israel.

Before setting down these lines I found myself wrestling with my conscience: should I cite the truth about events and persons in Israel, or should I gloss over them?

I love Israel. It is my home, my country, and I would gladly lay down my life for its defense.

But because I love Israel, and because I wish to see evils removed and wrong-doing acknowledged, I cannot gloss over the truth. I have therefore spoken freely and frankly, and express confidence that in the end, this will redound to. Israel’s benefit.

TUVIAH FRIEDMAN

Institute for the Documentation of Nazi War Crimes Haifa, Israel

I

It was Saturday, October 10, 1959, and dusk was falling.

The city of Haifa was beginning to stir, after a sleepy Sabbath day of rest. From my apartment balcony I could hear my wife bathing our baby, and knew that he would soon be in his bed, sleeping and happy. Outside, the sounds of Sabbath’s end were drifting up to where I sat: the shrill brakes of the buses as they maneuvered down Haifa’s steep streets; the burst of power in the compact engines of shiny motorcycles; the rustle of activity as people prepared to go out to visit, or see a movie, or sit at one of the innumerable outdoor cafés that dot the city.

On Saturday night in Israel, there is a gaiety that embraces everybody. The day of rest is past, and the work of the week begins on Sunday morning; it is only during these few hours that everyone can relax and pursue the lighter pleasures. I could see our neighbors across the court, and I could hear their carefree laughter.

But no amount of light-heartedness could free me from my despondent mood.

I felt betrayed, dejected, lost.

I had come to the end of the road. Ahead, a sheer unscalable mountain confronted me. I was alone. There was no other being with me; it was this mammoth road block, uninhabited, unpeopled, and me.

I was thirty-seven years old, and defeated. I felt that my life was a mockery, even a farce. I had fought and struggled and worked, and had failed; and no one except my wife and a few others cared, and believed in me.

But on this evening, sitting on the balcony of my apartment on the heights of Mount Carmel, it seemed to me that I had danced the devil’s dance; and once started, I could not disentangle myself from the embrace of these nether beings.

My thoughts raced past me. . . . Was it yesterday or last week that I had heard someone calling to me:

Eichmann! Shalom, shalom! Eichmann!

Yes, I remembered now. I had been walking from my office on Herzl Street toward the bus stop, and it had been someone from a passing bus. No matter. Whoever it was, he had expressed the scorn that I felt for myself at that moment.

I had tried so hard, so very hard.

I had gone from office to office, with my documents in a frayed envelope. The officials in the Government offices were polite; the representatives of Jewish organizations listened, but nothing happened; even the Police Ministry of Israel had had to tell me they could do nothing through the Interpol, because Eichmann’s crimes were political and therefore not subject to police jurisdiction.

Political!

The monster who had zealously carried out the murder of millions of innocents, and who had evaded arrest for nearly fifteen years. This monster who was the devil incarnate, whose crimes no one could believe because they surpassed human understanding. This monster had escaped, and people shrugged their shoulders. He had decimated us Jews, cut off one third of our numbers, and my own people shrugged, and mocked me for pressing the hunt.

I felt the sheet of paper in my breast pocket.

For six weeks I had carried this paper with me. I had shown it to officials in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, in vain. I had pushed and pressed, but to no avail.

I was completely devastated. How could they not act on the information in this letter? Why did not everyone put down what they were doing and work to seize history’s most infamous killer? Eichmann was worse than Titus, worse than Haman, worse than the Pharaoh of old, and now his hiding place had been discovered. And no one moved to act.

My wife sat down beside me, her shoulders hunched. I stole a glance at her and saw how tired she looked. I felt my teeth clenching. For three years I had ceased being a breadwinner. She supported us, and took care of us and our home, and seldom complained. All this so that I could continue my work.

And now this.

It was almost funny.

The whole world had searched for Adolf Eichmann. The Jewish people had wanted to unleash their fury on him. And now I had found a clue, perhaps the first genuine shred of evidence that he did indeed still live, and nobody paid any attention!

I could see the freighters and the passenger vessels in Haifa harbor, their lights twinkling. The sounds of the city had increased and had grown sharper. I could hear the unrestrained exuberance of young people, the soft banter of growing up. A gentle wind had come up from the direction of the Lebanon.

I tried to think of tomorrow, the eve of Yom Kippur. It was our holiest day; on this day, we allow no morsel of food or drop of water to pass our lips, as we stand before God and seek to atone for our sins.

But I felt nothing. I was numb.

My wife and I sat quietly, indeed wordless, for nearly an hour.

And then, quite unexpectedly, I reached a decision. I stood up and said to my wife: Anna, I have an idea. I felt excited, and a ray of hope appeared. "I will call Meysels in Tel Aviv, right now. Tomorrow’s paper will be a big, preholiday issue. If he publishes the story, it will wake people up. People will start talking, something will happen. You’ll see.

I thought, If the people don’t care, then I’m through. I’ll give it up. I’ll take a job—I have two offers. I’ll worry about making a living for my family, and I’ll forget this madness.

But if the people wake up—then we have beaten the devil.

I dialed Moshe Meysels, one of the leading writers of the largest-circulation newspaper, Maariv.

Erudite, soft-spoken, Meysels had encouraged me in my efforts. He had used his position to keep my work before the Israel public for many years.

He answered the phone with his usually polite, Shalom. Meysels here.

Moshe, this is Tuviah. I tried to keep the tension out of my voice. I have information, from the German Government, that Eichmann is in Kuwait. I want you to make a big story tomorrow, so that every Jew in Israel will know about it when he goes to the synagogue tomorrow evening for the Kol Nidre service.

There was a short pause.

Tuviah, he said, as cool as ever. It’s ten o’clock now. We go to press at seven in the morning. I’m going to phone the managing editor for his approval. If he says all right, I’ll call you back within twenty minutes.

I didn’t say anything.

I have a feeling that you’re on the right road, at last, he added, and hung up.

I sat on the balcony, smoking. I could see the early risers coming home, for many had to be up at six to be at work on time.

The baby cried out, and my wife went to comfort him.

At precisely 10:20 p.m. the phone rang: it was Meysels.

I spoke to Disenchik. He’s leaving room for the story on top of page one. Go to sleep now, Tuviah. I’ll phone you at six and you’ll give me all the details.

A small sigh of relief mingled with hope escaped me. I didn’t say anything.

And Tuviah, he continued, try to get some sleep. It may be a tough day for you tomorrow. Besides, the fast begins at sundown and you’ll need your strength.

I told Anna the news. The pre-Yom Kippur issue would have a circulation of more than 100,000 copies. A big story on page one surely would move mountains—especially if the story said, on the eve of Yom Kippur, that Eichmann had been located in Kuwait.

At six, Meysels called and I read to him the text of the letter from Dr. Erwin Schüle, the chief of the Nazi War Criminals Investigation Center in Ludwigsburg, who had been doing such an admirable job of catching and prosecuting ex-Nazis. It was he who had provided me with the information about Kuwait. A little later, I telephoned my friend Jacob Friedler, Haifa correspondent of Kol Yisrael—Israel’s radio station—and asked him to broadcast the story as soon as possible, a request to which he acceded.

I waited impatiently until about 10:00 a.m., when I heard the first cries of the newsboys, Maariv! Maariv!

I rushed downstairs and bought a copy. There it was, in big black type on top of the page: EICHMANN REPORTED IN KUWAIT, GERMAN AGENCY INFORMS FRIEDMAN.

I rushed to my office at the Institute for Documentation of Nazi War Criminals. The phone was ringing shrilly, and my secretary handed me a page full of previous calls. Every newspaper in the country had called. The New York Times, the Associated Press, the United Press, correspondents of newspapers throughout the world—everyone was calling and asking for more details.

I told them all I knew. I talked until I was hoarse. And then I talked some more. But I was happy. I was not a mad fool, obsessed by a delusion. People were not, after all, as apathetic as I had thought. Public opinion is not just a phrase. The people’s conscience can be stirred.

By one o’clock I was home. It was only a few hours to the Kol Nidre service, and tomorrow was a fast day. I wanted to eat with my wife and baby, and to bathe, and to put on my holiday best and walk to the synagogue to join my prayers with the prayers of Jews throughout the world on this holiest of nights in this holy land of ours.

At one-thirty the news came on—the last broadcast of the Israel radio system until the following evening, after sundown, when the Yom Kippur holiday would come to an end. The broadcast repeated the story, and I imagined how the 2,000,000 Jews in Israel, nearly all of them sitting as I was at the pre-holiday meal, were hearing the story of Adolf Eichmann . . . and thinking, as I was, of the days spent in concentration camps, of loved ones who perished in the slaughter, of the prayer that would be offered in a few hours in memory of the Six Million Kedoshim, the Holy Ones.

Toward five o’clock I put on my hat and took down my prayer book and prayer shawl. With my wife and child, I proceeded to our synagogue. A school building throughout the week, it is a house of God on Sabbaths and holidays. I found my seat and kept my eyes glued to the Holy Ark, where repose the Scrolls of the Torah.

I could feel people staring at me and talking about me. That’s him, he’s the one, they were probably saying. I felt a spark in the air, and knew that these people, indeed all people, would now support my work.

The cantor ascended the platform, his white, holiday skullcap shining in the light. A hush fell over the congregation.

The mournful tones of the Kol Nidre melody reverberated through the room. We stood, all of us, remembering, as we rocked back and forth, covered by our prayer shawls . . . remembering Yom Kippur holidays spent with parents and brothers and sisters, who were no more . . . remembering beatings and clubbings, a scant fifteen, sixteen years ago . . . remembering the hell, and the dead.

The cantor chanted from the Psalms of David: When the wicked spring up like grass, and the workers of iniquity flourish: it is that they may be destroyed forever.

Around me, men and women cried unashamedly.

This was a lament for a people, a people singled out for mass slaughter.

The tears and the sobbing did not abate.

For the first time in twenty years my heart crumbled within me, and my eyes glistened with tears.

II

It was an afternoon in August 1939, in my home in Radom, Poland.

The sun had begun to slip down over the horizon, but its rays could still be seen, warming the soft Polish earth. The heady fragrance of freshly cut hay filled the air, enveloping the rolling meadows and verdant fields that stretched as far as the eye could see.

I had come to this favorite play area of Radom’s youngsters to collect my younger brother, Hershele, and sister Itka. Soon the Sabbath would arrive, and they had not even washed or dressed as befitted the traditional day of rest.

I was seventeen, not really much older than some of the other boys who were chasing a soccer ball, but I felt older. Some of the younger children were playing cowboys and Indians and cops and robbers, inspired by the popular American films. The games now were light and frivolous. Occasionally, some of the Gentile boys from town would come out and challenge the Jewish boys to a game, and then there ensued a strange and immediate metamorphosis: the contests assumed a far more serious character. The Jewish youngsters played hard to win, aware, as they were at all times, that they were the representatives of an oppressed minority. The Christian children entered the games with a zest reserved for a major competition.

As far as my own memory stretched, a wall of distrust and antagonism had grown up between the two groups which showed little sign of crumbling.

More than once I had been taunted by older boys, as I enjoyed the reputation of a rather reckless fighter. One time a group of five or six boys cornered me in a lonely spot near the edge of town. While two of them held my arms, another—who stood a head taller than I—pummeled my face. The blood was warm in my mouth as I spit it toward him. When he hesitated, I kicked his groin and tore loose from his two accomplices. Head down, my rather puny fists clenched hard, I tore into them, swinging wildly, kicking, occasionally landing a blow. Then I ran home.

Most of the Jewish children in our town lived in the unofficial ghetto. They were, on the whole, a less confident group than the Jews who lived in the town proper, as our family did. My parents’ house stood on the outskirts of the city, facing a small barracks of the Polish Army. We had Gentile as well as Jewish neighbors. Nearby were the reassuring sights of gentle hills and fruitful fields.

Most of my early years were spent in and near our house. We had a certain standing in the community, mostly because Father operated a printing business and Mother conducted a dress shop with an exclusive clientele. Most of the other people in the neighborhood were butchers, tanners and teamsters.

Looking back, I am sure that I was a rather ungainly youth, thin, and not too good a student. I delighted in building up my muscles and at a very early age began to study jujitsu.

There was one boy, however, who easily surpassed me in my abilities to win against overwhelming odds—my brother, Hershele, who was four years my junior. Everybody called him Hala and he was, to be frank, a veritable holy terror. He had no fears, and was never still. He always made me think of a restless cougar, constantly pacing and looking for some new world to conquer.

Indeed, I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that he spent more time on roofs and in trees than on the ground. My parents had their hands full with him, although my mother could control him. For her, he was the apple of her eye; for him, she was the only authority he respected.

I can see him now, as he stood before me: his cap tilted over one ear, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his tom trousers, defiance written all over his face. One hot day, I recall, without warning, he was off and in a twinkle had climbed to the roof of a high, two-story building, laughing at the terrified spectators crying at him from below.

One of the soldiers in the vicinity cupped his hands and yelled at him, Come down, you little runt, or I’ll shoot.

Hershele turned his back to the soldier and called back, Shoot, go ahead and shoot—right in my behind!

I loved my little brother, although we often fought bitterly. Nor was I—despite my seniority in age—always the victor. It was impossible not to admire him. He had a vivid imagination, and was always concocting new pranks and escapades.

Better than Hershele, however, I loved my little sister, Itka. Blonde and blue-eyed, with thick curls that fell below her shoulders, she was pretty and vivacious. She loved to play volley ball with the boys, and could often be seen pedaling her bicycle, one hand on the handlebars, the other holding her long curls in place. It was a delight to see her participate in a game of volley ball; if she scored a point, she would jump up, clapping her hands, radiating joy to all those who watched her.

I always felt a responsibility for my younger sister and brother, and often found myself calling to them, All right, children, time’s up. Let’s go home. I felt it was my duty to set them an example.

I was my father’s favorite. I had begun to help him in his printing shop, and he was genuinely pleased when I mastered a new skill. He would often tell my mother, over a glass of hot tea, during the cold winter evenings, I’m not worried about Tuviah. He won’t get lost. He’ll stand up.

The sun’s faint glimmer could still be seen as we approached our white, one-story house—our fortress at the end of the street. My grandfather, a skilled builder, had planned it, and my father had built it. A green lawn, interspersed with flower beds and vegetable patches, lay in front of the house. Several fruit trees, fragrant at this time of year, were blooming.

In the house, we could already sense the Sabbath atmosphere. The floors had been waxed, lace curtains covered the windows, a white linen tablecloth graced the table. An aroma of hot, pungent food warming on the oven drifted in from the kitchen.

The comfortable atmosphere was typical of a prosperous, middle-class family. And although our family printing business had of late taken a turn for the worse, we felt no changes at home, thanks to my mother’s efficient dress shop. My mother was a fine woman, completely devoted to her family and blessed with boundless energy.

She stood now, her head covered, her hands shielding her eyes, intoning the traditional blessing over the silver candlesticks, whose cheerful lights bade welcome to the arrival of our weekly guest, the Sabbath Queen.

Watching Mother bless the candles was my older sister, Bella. Dark of hair, with skin that was both pale and delicate, she sat quietly, her hands—as always—clutching a book. We had nicknamed Bella bookworm, although we grudgingly admired her brilliance as a student.

Father emerged from his room wearing his blue suit, which was reserved for the Sabbath and holidays. Under his arm he carried a velvet bag containing a large woolen prayer shawl.

Hurry, Tuviah, he chided me, or we’ll be late for services.

I washed and dressed quickly and walked with my father to the synagogue. The streets were quiet, most of the stores were closed, and behind curtained windows we could see the flicker of candle lights. The only real movement was that of Jews headed for the synagogue. I remember that there were many placards on building walls that evening, put up by the nationalist P.O.P.P. Party of Marshal Rydz-Smigly. The posters that August evening in 1939 called on the populace to be Strong, Together, Ready.

Services had begun. Unlike so many other members of the congregation, my father recited his prayers in a whisper. Nor did he rock and sway during the more significant prayers. Some of the townspeople—whose recitation of the prayers was accompanied by dramatic, emotional movements—considered him a freethinker. Actually, he was a deeply devout person. He objected to ostentatious gesticulation, and used to like to say that he did not wish to bore God with long prayers.

Often he told me, I do not insist that you pray a good deal. The main thing is that you be a good and decent person. God does not need prayer; by praying you do not do Him any favor. The only usefulness of prayer is for the one who engages in it, provided it comes from a real spiritual need. Otherwise, it is simply a waste of time. I did not, truthfully, understand everything that my father meant, but I felt very deeply the same way. The service had ended, but there was no general exodus to homes and families and Sabbath meals. Men put away their prayer books, and formed into small groups to talk of the latest international developments. The largest group had formed around my father, and men were asking him what amounted to one question.

Mr. Friedman, will there be war?

My father sighed deeply. His face was somber. He looked around him before answering, letting his gaze rest on me. May I be a false prophet, but I am afraid there will be. Yes, there’ll be a war.

The optimists and the wishful thinkers scoffed at him.

What are you saying, Mr. Friedman? It’s impossible. Do you think Hitler would dare pick a fight with England, France and America? That’s ridiculous.

He has already dared, my father replied. Look at Austria and Czechoslovakia.

"But Poland is different. We have England’s guarantee.

Hitler knows that if he attacks Poland, he’ll have to fight England.

Father was incensed. So what does that matter? England promised us Jews a state in Palestine. And what did we get? A big zero!

Yes, yes, but you forget that Rydz-Smigly said Poland would take care of Germany without any outside help. He knows what he’s talking about.

He’s hoping and wishing, that’s all, my father said. His face grew more serious than I had ever seen it. To tell you the truth, I see the future in very dark colors. If you want to laugh at me, go ahead. I have a feeling that the war between Gog and Magog which Daniel prophesied is coming.

Father’s mood had affected the scoffers, too. He continued without interruption. I have a bad premonition. Bad times are coming for us Jews. Only a miracle can save us.

He turned to me, taking my hand.

Come on, Tuviah, let’s go home. Supper must be on the table.

Outside the synagogue, a full moon bathed the quiet streets. The sky seemed to sparkle with millions of stars. We walked home wordlessly. As we neared our house, I asked him, Father, do you really think things are so bad?

His hand tightened on mine. Tuviah, I’m very much afraid of what’s coming for us Jews. Hitler and his Nazis mean to harm us all. I think 1 made a big mistake by staying in Poland. There is no place for us in this country. There’s too much Jewish blood in Polish soil. If it were not for the business and the house, I would have left long ago. I always thought when you children were older, we would pack up and leave for Palestine, and begin a new life there. Now it’s too late. It will be God’s will. Whatever happens to all the Jews will happen to us.

We stopped and looked at our house. The scene was peaceful, the air was soft, summery. I could hear the gay voices of Hershele and Itka.

Tuviah, Father continued, whatever happens, remember that we have a parcel of land in Palestine. I bought it back in 1927: it’s in the Jezreel Valley. God knows whether I will ever see it with my own eyes. But you, my son, you will surely see it.

I grabbed my father’s arm, and pointed excitedly to the heavens, toward the west. Father, Father, did you see it? I cried.

No, no, what was it?

A huge comet crossed the sky and then fell down, I replied. I was surprised to find that my lips trembled.

III

Bella turned in her bed, her pillow pushed against her face. Her eyes were shut tight. She was trying desperately to fall asleep, and to blot out the events of the last week, to pretend they had never happened, that it was all a horrible nightmare. The air-raid sirens, the exploding bombs, the corpses of civilians in the streets, the lightning-like arrival of the German troops in Radom—it was all a dream; it had to be. Why, only last Friday they were all seated at the table, singing and joking. And now it was hard to know which was the reality and which the dream.

She felt Mother pulling her arm, waking her, yelling at her in unfamiliar tones.

My God, Bella, what’s wrong with you? Why don’t you get up? There isn’t a piece of bread in the house. For heaven’s sake, get dressed and take your place in the line so that we will have a loaf of bread.

Why do you have to send me all the time? Send Tuviah.

Bella regretted her words the moment she uttered them.