The war years meant being shunted from one hiding place to the next, never knowing if my brother and I would be discovered by the Nazis

As told to Tzivia Meth by Dr. Joseph Sungolowsky

I consider myself one of the more fortunate survivors. I never experienced ghettoes, deportations, or privation. For me, the war years meant being shunted from one hiding place to the next, never knowing if my brother and I would be discovered by the Nazis. It meant separation from my parents, and constant worry over their fate.

But throughout those years of turmoil, I was lucky to benefit from many of Hashem’s kindnesses, including a string of righteous gentiles who enabled my family to keep one step ahead of the Nazis.

I don’t like to give out my age, but if you must know, I was born in December 1931, in a little town called Charleroi, Belgium. My father, Rav Aron Gershon Sungolowsky, who hailed from Lithuania, was the town rav. I had an older sister, Fina, and a younger brother, Leon. My mother, Esther (née Berger), was originally from Vienna.

On Friday morning, May 10, 1940, Stuka bombers streaked through the sky, unleashing devastation on Charleroi. I was just eight years old — and the German invasion of Belgium had begun. Scores of people, Jews and non-Jews, crowded onto trains and every available conveyance to flee southward, away from the advancing German army. Amid the chaos, we boarded a train of refugees fleeing to France. There was barely room to stand. You want to know what I packed? I’ll tell you: very little. We couldn’t bring more than a few valises, that was it.

It turned out, though, that the French side of border was no safer than the Belgian side. Soon after we crossed into a town called Lobbes, the Germans bombed our train. Pandemonium erupted. Everyone fled the train, seeking refuge in the countryside. My father, though, stayed put.

“We are not going anywhere, we’re staying here,” he declared.

We were traveling with my 83-year-old grandfather — my mother’s father, Abraham Berger — who had lived with us since the Anschluss, and my father knew he was in no condition to run. It turned out to be the right decision, as many people who left the train were killed by the bombs. Miraculously, we remained completely unharmed.

After spending a few nights in a barn, we arrived, completely exhausted, in the town of Vichy. The Jewish community housed us in the Hotel Charmel, which had become a meeting place for refugees. Every day, they would congregate on the veranda, searching to find someone they knew.