Remembering the Unforgettable
| January 31, 2023There are no words to describe the nightmare of Toruń
Mrs. Sarah Jakobovits (née Kuntslinger), as dictated to her granddaughter, Rayle Rubenstein
January 26 marked the 78th anniversary of the liberation of the Toruń concentration camp, where I was during the war. I have never found mention of the camp anywhere. I share my story in memory of the more than 1,000 women who perished there.
I was born in 1928, the youngest of six children. I had three older brothers and two older sisters.
My father was a native of Sanz, and my mother was born in a tiny town near Krakow called Uście Ruskie. They married only a few years before World War I. When the war broke out, they fled Poland with my eldest brother, who was then very young. They first settled in Satmar, and then moved to Sighet, where my father got a job as a melamed. Word of my father’s beautiful tenor voice spread, and soon after he was invited to Hermannstadt to serve as chazzan. Ultimately, my parents settled in Bistritz, where my father served as the chazzan of its large and beautiful shul.
My father was a chazzan, shochet, and mohel. There were two other shochtim in Bistritz, and our families all lived next to each other, sharing a large courtyard in which the shechitah was performed. The line of people waiting to have their chickens shechted before Yom Kippur stretched across the entire courtyard. Policemen were posted there to maintain order.
My sister and I went to the local Jewish school, and my brothers learned in yeshivah. There was not much entertainment for children in those days, but we found some fun in the winter months sliding along patches of ice during recess.
My oldest brother, an outstanding bochur, got married when I was five. His kallah was from Klausenberg. When they got married, we traveled to Klausenberg in a horse and carriage. It was a big treat to travel like that, and all the neighbors came out to watch.
We were on good terms with our non-Jewish neighbors, who were always friendly and polite. A woman who lived across the road used to invite all of us children to come pick apples from her tree. Another neighbor had four boys, and I played with the youngest one. I used to bring them a cup filled with all the eggs that had blood spots, and their mother would give me a penny in exchange.
But in 1939, everything changed. Our gentile neighbors were no longer friendly. The four boys across the street joined the army. I remember another neighbor coming home in a Nazi uniform. The woman across the street would sit outside her home and chant when we walked by: “Eintz, zwei, drei, vier, funf, sechs, seiben. Alle Juden sollten krapiren” [a slang word for die].
Jews were beaten in the street. Many were evicted from their homes, which were owned by Germans.
In 1940, the Hungarian army marched into Bistritz.
The first thing they did was close our Jewish school. After some time, they allowed us to return to school three afternoons a week. By the time we got out it was dark, and we ran all the way home because we were afraid. My brother used to lie in waiting with a big stick to chase away anyone making trouble for us.
Soon the Hungarians began arresting prominent Yidden.
Every window of our house was covered in dark paper, and the streets were dark. One night, my mother sat at her sewing machine with a small lamp next to her. Suddenly, our four big French windows shattered as a flood of large stones flew into the house. No one was hurt, but the glass was everywhere. We were petrified. The next morning, we called a Jewish glazier to fix the windows. We had no idea who had thrown the stones, but we knew it must have been one of our neighbors.
In 1941, my father had a stroke. Not long after, those who couldn’t prove they were Hungarian citizens were deported to Kamenets-Podolsk in the Ukraine, where they were exterminated by Hungarian soldiers. My family did not join them because my father was paralyzed and unable to be transported. (My brothers had false papers, and the younger children were allowed to remain with my parents.) We got a letter from the city coroner explaining the situation, and every week we had to go to the police station to sign papers proving that we had not run away.
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