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ONLY A BAD DREAM?

Childhood Memories of the Holocaust

iUniverse LLC

The First Martyr of Brzezine

Aaron Efroimowitz Poland—1939

Brzezine, a vibrant city in Poland, was home to a large Jewish population. Many men and women worked in the tailor shops, factories, and stores of the large textile fashion center. Others were successful shopkeepers or tended their farms in the surrounding countryside. My grandparents owned a large hardware store, a factory, and several small tailor shops.

To serve the Jewish community, several shuls (synagogues) and many shtibls (one-room studies) were available.

There was one very large, beautiful house of worship in the center of the city known as the Big Synagogue. However, the one I will tell you about was small and very much loved by my family.

Rabbi Chaim Meir and Rivkah Efroimowitz attended services there. Reb Chaim's family had lived in Brzezine for many generations or, as he would declare, "since the beginning of the Diaspora." The Efroimowitz family had five daughters and a son, the youngest child being Aaron.

Now a young man almost nineteen years old, Aaron spent his days studying the Torah in the synagogue. Handsome, tall, and slender, he was very pale from rarely spending time in the sun. His long, shiny dark-brown payos (sidelocks) curled in front of his ears. His beautiful, big brown eyes always had a hint of a smile in them.

The bright-eyed, serious student of the Torah lived with his secret hope of one day becoming a respected rabbi and having his very own congregation.

One fateful Friday afternoon, he was delayed in his study. It was becoming late, and he needed to go home and prepare himself for Shabbat (the Sabbath). As he was completing the last few lines in a chapter of the Torah, a noise from outside caught his attention. Stopping his study to investigate, he opened the front door just a bit to look out. He saw trucks and Jeeps arriving in front of the synagogue.

Aaron was confused. He had never seen vehicles quite like those before. It was certainly the first time anyone had seen red flags with the black swastika in the middle waving in the Brzezine breeze.

Aaron closed the door and quickly and quietly made his way through the shul toward the back door. He was too late. The Nazis had seen him through the windows.

One of the German officers yelled out, "Go after him; catch him! Bring him out! Let's make an example of him."

Soldiers burst through the large front doors as others came in through the back. Aaron stopped running. He was trapped. There was no way out. He could not comprehend what was happening and didn't know what to do.

Two of the soldiers grabbed him by the arms and started to drag him out. A Nazi officer came in and told other soldiers to take all the Torah scrolls from the big ark where they were stored and take them to the back yard.

Aaron, frightened and bewildered, glared at the men as they gathered up his precious sacred scrolls and carried them outdoors. Why would they do this?

Standing captive outside the synagogue, Aaron watched in horror as all the Holy Torah scrolls were thrown to the ground in front of him, and the soldiers laughed mockingly in his face.

Aaron understood some of the German words they were speaking to one another. His horror was magnified when an officer came to him with a box of matches and announced, "If you do as I say, you will have your life and go home. You must light the fire. You must burn the books!"

To make them burn faster, the officer poured a large full can of benzene (gasoline) on the scrolls.

Aaron stood shaking his head as he mumbled, "No, I cannot and will not do that!"

The first blow to his face from the officer's fist was a painful surprise. Blood poured from his nose to his mouth. Wiping his face on his sleeve, Aaron asked, "Why are you doing this? My books and I have done nothing to any of you. We are innocent."

"You will burn the books, or you will die!" the Nazi barked.

Aaron repeated the question. "Why are you doing this?"

They answered with more blows to his body, and he stumbled to the ground. Again they told him to light the matches and burn the books; once more, he refused.

They picked Aaron up roughly and dragged him to the far end of the yard. There they put ropes around his waist and bound him to a tree. They tore off his blood-soaked shirt and tzitzit—the undergarment that signified his devotion to G-d. (Many devout Jews use this English spelling to indicate their reverence and respect for the name of G-d, which in Hebrew is never spoken aloud.) Then two soldiers took turns beating him with a wide leather belt as Aaron continued to declare, "No, I will not burn my sacred scrolls."

Blood now covered Aaron's chest, the skin broken in many places where the belt buckle cut deeply. With each blow, the soldiers laughed at him. One yelled, "Stupid little Jew, save yourself. Burn the dammed books!"

Aaron, realizing he may not come out of this alive, mumbled the words of the Shema, the last words every devout Jew speaks when he knows his death is near. Then he raised his voice loud and clear, declaring, "Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Echad. Hear, O Israel, the L-rd our G-d, the L-rd is One."

Yet another fist hit his nose and mouth, and the man ordered him to shut up. Even that did not stop him from invoking the prayer repeatedly.

The Nazi officer became frustrated with his lack of progress with this stubborn young Jewish man. He wanted results. Ordering his soldiers to remove the rest of Aaron's clothing, they pulled off his pants and underclothes, which by now were blood-soaked. Pointing to his genitals, the soldiers doubled over with laughter.

"Have you ever seen anything this ugly? He is mutilated!" one of them yelled in amusement.

Another mocked, "I have never seen a mutilated organ before. Look how ugly it is. Somebody, take a picture!"

The officer thrust the matches out to him. Again, he shook his head no and continued reciting the Shema. The blows to his head and body came faster and faster. At one point, they stopped for a moment, thinking he was finally dead. However, Aaron's young body did not give up his life to them; his spirit was fighting.

The Nazi officer approached again menacingly. "You will burn the books, or I will start shooting you. I will use you for target practice!"

Aaron summoned a loud "No! I will not." The officer took his revolver out of its holster, aimed it at Aaron's right leg, and fired. As the bullet hit Aaron, a look of disbelief came over his face. Then the pain came, and he screamed.

Now the officer leaned close and implored quietly, "Just burn the books. I don't want to kill a child like you."

This time Aaron did not say a word. He only shook his head.

Silence fell on the back yard. They all gaped at the brave, stubborn, young Jewish boy-man as his last moments were near.

The officer tried one more time, gun in hand, this time yelling at Aaron, "Will you do what I say?"

Aaron didn't move. He appeared to be dead. The Nazi took aim and shot him again, this time in the left leg. Aaron screamed with the new pain.

The Nazi torturer, furious at his failure to make Aaron comply, raged, "How much longer will I have to torture you? What will it take to make you burn the books?" Then he methodically took aim and put a bullet into each arm of his helpless victim.

A short time later, as Aaron and the tree stood together in a growing pool of blood, another officer approached and lit the fire himself. "We need to move on. We have lost too much time over this one miserable Jew. Get back to your vehicles," he barked as the flames consumed the scrolls. Taking out his gun, he shot young Aaron Efroimowitz pointblank in his heart.

HaShem yakum damo—for murdered martyrs. G-d will avenge his blood.

* * *

The caretaker/groundskeeper of the synagogue, who was hiding nearby, witnessed this grizzly event from beginning to end. As soon as the Nazis left, he ran to Aaron. Taking off his own coat, he spread it on the ground. Then he cut the ropes and gently laid Aaron's body on the coat.

This kind man then ran to a neighbor, told him what had happened, and asked to borrow a horse and cart so he could take Aaron back to his family. The groundskeeper put Aaron into the cart and walked slowly through the streets of Brzezine.

People stopped to look. Some asked, "What has happened? Who is this boy? Who did this?"

"This is Aaron Efroimowitz. The Nazis have come!" he answered sadly, as he kept walking.

Arriving at the lovely, big home of the Efroimowitz family, the groundskeeper knocked on the door and, without waiting for an answer, returned to the cart. He gathered Aaron and the blood-soaked coat in his arms and carried him gently to the house.

A servant, as was usual, did not answer the knock. Aaron's mother Rivkah (nee Schotland) opened the door. She first registered surprise to see the synagogue's caretaker, whom she recognized. Then her eyes took in the whole unbelievable scene of her only son—his lifeless body covered in blood.

Her screams pierced the neighborhood. In that one moment, her heart was broken, and she was never the same again. With the death of her beloved son, she totally lost her mind.

My uncle Aaron was prepared in his final moments to sacrifice his own life rather than transgress G-d's law—an ultimate act of Kiddush HaShem (for the glory of our G-d—for the sanctification of G-d's name). He was the first Holocaust victim murdered in the city of Brzezine.

Each evening after that horrific day, my grandmother Rivkah and her youngest daughter, twenty-one-year-old Bluma (Bliema'le), went from house to house all around the Jewish neighborhood with aprons full of candles. They stopped people in the streets and at every house, handing each of them a candle as Rivkah implored, "Please light this candle for my son, Aaron. He died Kiddush HaShem."

When this happened, my mother, Devorah (Rivkah's daughter), was married and living in Warsaw. Mama and Papa learned of Aaron's murder from a former neighbor who fled Brzezine right after it happened. Mama was devastated and blamed herself for not being there to protect her baby brother.

Mama and Papa were proud parents of twin boys, but the four of them were soon evacuated to the Warsaw ghetto. One terrible day, often repeated, Nazi trucks came, loaded many children and others onto trucks, and took them to Treblinka and other death camps. My brothers were among the children taken.

Some weeks later, Rivkah Schotland Efroimowitz and her beautiful daughter Bluma were sent to Auschwitz along with most of the city's Jewish population. In 1947, while in a displaced persons' camp in Germany, my mama—Devorah (nee Efroimowitz) Markus—met two witnesses who told her of the death of her mother and sister. Mama never accepted that they were also murdered. She kept searching for them until her death in 1962.

I was born in the ghetto not too long after Aaron's death. They named me Anna, a derivative of Aaron, in memory of Mama's beloved brother. Knowing this heritage, I have worked hard all my life to be worthy of this honor.

So why the name Sahbra?

Miriam and Ze'ev Turi, a young Jewish couple, left home and family in Poland and walked to faraway Palestine. They were among the Zionists drawn to return to the land of their ancestors, the Promised Land, in the 1930s. Once there, they continued the work of early halutzim (pioneers), rebuilding the once desolate land described in the writings of Mark Twain. Miriam Turi was my father's older sister.

Papa received a letter from his sister, enthusiastically describing their life in the Holy Land—a land of great challenges but with much potential. Though there were ongoing problems with the British and the Arabs, they foresaw a great future there for themselves and their family and for many Jews who were making aliyah (immigrating to Israel, then known as Palestine).

Miriam described the beautiful city of Haifa on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea and the flowery slopes of the Carmel Mountains. She also told of massive cactus hedges that served as fences between properties. These native cacti, called sabras, produced a delicious fruit—the prickly pear. The name sabra has come to signify a native-born Israeli, a Jew born in Palestine. The comparison is quite appropriate—Israelis may seem to be tough and prickly outwardly, but when you get to know them, they are often soft and sweet on the inside.

Aunt Miriam thought Papa should consider giving this name to one of his children should he someday have them. Of course, she hoped her brother Ze'ev and other family members would one day follow them to live in this very special place. When I was born, Papa wanted to name me Sabra, but Mama insisted my name be Anna in memory of her brother, Aaron. Anna I was! Only years later did Papa mention to me his sister's letter and her name suggestion.

In the mid-1960s, I began to perform professionally, having trained in various genres of dance in Haifa, Tel Aviv, and later New York City. On the eve of the reopening of the beautiful Taft hotel in mid-Manhattan, the show's producer asked for my stage name. I didn't know I would need a special name for my belly dancing performance. My new friend, Morocco, another dancer on the bill, asked, "Are you not from Israel? What is that name for all Israeli natives? Is it not Sabra?"

I laughed, recalling Aunt Miriam's suggestion. "Of course! That is the name I will use!" Thank you, Aunt Miriam.

In the 1960s, people often had problems with the pronunciation of my name, so I changed the spelling and had my name legally changed to Sahbra Anna Markus.

Escaping from Poland into Russia

Because I was very young when we escaped the Warsaw ghetto, it is impossible to recount those earliest days with any degree of certainty. I have no memory or explanation of how we got out. Papa never talked about it. It's most likely that my parents sought shelter and protection from tenant farm families who had worked for our Jewish ancestors for many generations. We probably moved from place to place, hiding out with Polish Catholic Gentiles who sympathized with our situation. Eventually, a plan was formulated to help us escape to the relative safety of Russia.

In the story I am about to tell you, I have combined my mother's, father's, and some of my own memories of that journey. Through the years, Mama recounted these events and asked me many times to repeat the story so I would never forget my first encounter with a bad Jew, an anti-Semite Communist.

* * *

Mama's voice calling "It's time to go" awakened me from a deep sleep. She said, "Everyone has arrived—wake up, my little Anna'le."

I looked around; it was no longer daytime. The sun had gone away. I did not like it when the sun left; it made me feel sad and cold.

It was now the beginning of the evening. It would soon be very dark in the woods where we were all hiding. The trees around us moved only a little from side to side. I could hear them whispering to each other. The breeze was still warm, but Mama said we must put on most of the clothing we owned so nobody could steal it from us.

I looked at the faces of the people who came into the woods with us. They all looked just like Mama and Papa—very thin, tired, and hungry. No one was talking; nobody spoke a word. The first thing they did was go off to the side and, in a whisper, talk to the two big men in charge of us. After talking a little while, they took out paper money and gold things. Mama said it was to pay for our trip.

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Excerpted from ONLY A BAD DREAM? by Sahbra Anna Markus. Copyright © 2014 Sahbra Anna Markus. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse LLC.
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