My companions — along with the bag I was counting on to keep us alive — vanished in the chaos

As told to Yael Schuster by her grandmother, Chana Reich

October 1939

Soviet-Occupied Lemberg (Lwów)

The homes on the outskirts of the city come into view. There is stunning relief — against unwinnable odds, I made I made it — and even greater fear. What will I find?

I put one calloused, blistered foot in front of the other as I make my way toward the tiny flat Shimon and I have been renting. The soles of my shoes are so worn down that every pebble is a dagger, and the fabric of my dress crunches with stiffness from river residue. My hands are empty.

Shimon must be crazy with worry about me. Two weeks ago, I traveled back to German-occupied Poland to check on his elderly mother who had been too frail to run east with us. And I was sick with worry about him, risking his life each day by bartering what little we have to buy food, a “capitalist crime” punishable by slave labor in the gulag.

I climb the stairs to our apartment and let myself in. It’s empty. I pull a chair up to the window. Of course Shimon isn’t home; it’s still early, I tell myself. Hours pass, the sky darkens, and still I wait, pushing down the panic. Suddenly there he is, my tall, loyal husband of almost two years, striding down the street, eager, no doubt, to see if I was back.

“I want to hear everything, Chana,” he says after our tearful reunion. “But first, let’s celebrate.” He opens his satchel and removes a small loaf of bread and two eggs: another day’s sustenance. I don’t ask what he gave up to obtain it. Our stash is dwindling fast, and he doesn’t yet know that the valuables I was meant to bring back met with some resistance along the way.

After we eat, I share the details of the most harrowing two weeks of my life. How I traveled the 104 miles back to Rzesow — mostly by foot, hitching rides in farmers’ wagons when I was lucky. At night, I lay on the side of the road. Once over the border, I moved with stealth to avoid German patrols.

“And then I got to Mama’s house! She’s fine, Shimon, your sister is taking good care of her, you don’t need to worry,” I tell him. This is the easy part of the story.

I describe gathering whatever valuables I can carry — zlotys, dollars, gold, and diamonds — and stuffing it all into a backpack, along with some food and as much sugar as would fit. A woman in Lemberg had taught me how to make candies from sugar, and I sold the candies to help keep us alive. A quick, tearful goodbye, and it was time to go.

Whereas seven weeks ago we were practically carried along by the swell of refugees trying to outrun the advancing Germans, this time the roads were relatively quiet. I found myself heading east alongside two young Jewish men. One, a tall, sweet fellow named Shloima, offered to take a turn carrying my heavy load. Sensing I could trust him, I handed it over, glad for the relief.

And then reliving the terror, I tell Shimon how in the shadowy dusk we walked right into a German roadblock. With no papers and the air of refugees about us, we were an easy night’s prey for a few bored soldiers. I was thrown into a military vehicle, then dragged through the dreaded doors of gestapo headquarters. My companions  — along with the bag I was counting on to keep us alive — vanished in the chaos.