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Preface

My earliest conscious memory is of Lonka. He is four years old and so am I. Lonka is my first cousin. The year is 1935. We are playing. I adore him and he adores me as well. We are inseparable. People often mistake us for twin brothers. I call him "Lala" which in the Polish language means "doll." He calls me Lala as well. We are playing...laughing, running and playing.

Lonka's mother, Dina, was my mother's sister, and they were both the daughters of a respected Jewish elder in our shtetl (small town) by the name of Avraham Yechiel Michel Halpern. But to Lonka, and his other beloved grandchildren, he was simply Zayde. A broad man whose posture and bearing were as straight as Torah spindles, my Zayde, with his glowing eyes and flowing white beard, served as judge and sage to the Jews of this Carpathian shtetl in what was once Eastern Galicia. He was the foundation stone and patriarch of our family as well. And among all of his grandchildren, little Lonka and I were the apples of his eye.

My Zayde would proudly escort us to cheder (religious school) through the dusty morning, with each of us tugging on one of his enormous hands. And every Friday afternoon, as we prepared for the arrival of the Sabbath bride, it was Zayde who ushered us to the Mikvah for the weekly ritual bath. Then en, bedecked in his best white shirt and fur hat, Zayde would stroll with us to "shul" for Shabbat services.
The love my grandfather felt for me, and for all of his grandchildren, was palpably embodied in his mighty hands. As they enveloped and embraced me, his hands were my shields against all of the childhood dangers, both real and imagined, that I faced daily. My "Bubbie," his wife, fell ill and died in 1936, leaving Zayde a widower with time to dote over his growing brood of grandchildren.

As my story unfolds, you will discover how fortunate I was to have been evacuated by my father from our town of Bohorodczany mere days before the occupying armies arrived in July, 1941. My parents, brother and I were among the very few Jews who got away just in time. My Zayde and little Lonka, sadly, were not. It was some years later, and from three independent sources, that I learned of their fate.

As the Germans went about the business of rounding up, categorizing, isolating and eventually devouring the Jewish population of each community they conquered, they began by .first creating an efficient infrastructure from within the Jewish community to facilitate the task of destroying it. The program called for the establishment of a Council of Jewish Elders, or Judenrat, to serve as a liaison between the Jews and the new masters of their fate. The Judenrat would be charged with managing the newly established ghetto, and its members would be responsible with their lives for implementing German directives to the letter.

After a few well-placed questions, the Germans quickly learned who constituted the Jewish communal leadership in our town. They immediately ordered my Zayde to serve as the head of the new council, but he defiantly refused. He would not collaborate with the destroyers of our people.

Upon hearing news of his refusal, the German commandant ordered all the Jews to assemble in the square, under penalty of death. Zayde, of course, was there clutching the hand of his grandson Lonka, who was now ten years old. Lonka stood proudly alone beside his tall grandfather. Had I been there I would have been at Zayde's side as well. I am sure of it.

The ss commandant, in his shiny black boots, strutted through the square and announced, "I intend to send a clear message to the stiff-necked Jews of this town." He ordered my Zayde to step forward. Zayde did so, still holding onto Lonka's hand.
"This Jew was ordered to do his duty by serving on the Judenrat...but he refused! Observe what happens when a Jew disobeys a German order."

The commandant quickly removed his pistol and shot Zayde through the temple. As Zayde's body fell dead to the ground before him, Lonka screamed in horror, and the commandant fired again, publicly ending my cousin's short, sweet life.

Had I been there, had my father not had the blessed foresight to pull our family from the path of the Nazi onslaught at the last moment, I would have surely met the same fate. I would undoubtedly have fallen alongside my grandfather and cousin that day. I am sure of it.

Contemplating twists of fate such as this can send the mind reeling. If Lonka had escaped and I had stayed behind instead, would he be sitting here right now in this chair writing these words? At times, I am washed by a wave of guilt and wish that it had been I, rather than little Lonkella, who had perished so cruelly.

These are avenues down which I have not often ventured. Yet, it is thoughts of Lonka, of my Zayde, and of the world I left behind that come into sharper focus with each passing day. Sometimes the memories arrive in a trickle, but more often, in a torrent. And always bittersweet. I have carried a mental photograph of the shootings of Zayde and my beloved Lonka with me my entire life. And as I write these words today, at the age of seventy, exactly my Zayde's age at the time of his murder, I have come to understand how this image has shaped the very core of my identity. It is the compelling desire to record these memories that has prompted me to write this book.

Writing one's life story is certainly no act of humility. But neither is it out of arrogance that I seek to provide a testimony of my days. Looking back at the events of my life I am able to discern the handiwork of a greater power. I am convinced that the Almighty is more powerful than the Nazis, the Soviets, the ... and all of the enemies that have risen up against the Jewish people throughout history. And like the Jewish people, I have been brought close to destruction many times, only to be saved by the outstretched hand of G-d. It is in this context that I selected the title of this book, which is taken from the 118th Psalm:

"I shall not die! But I shall live and relate the deeds of G-d.
G-d has chastened me exceedingly, but He did not let me die.
Open for me the gates of righteousness, I will enter and thank G-d."
Psalms 118:17-19

Hence, the reader should not regard this book's title as a furtherance of my own notions of immortality. To paraphrase the Psalmist, the title expresses the fact that I did not die, but was allowed to live in order to relate what the Almighty has done. This book is not only my testimony, but also my proclamation and my expression of gratitude to my G-d who has "chastened me exceedingly," but has, to this day, permitted me to live in order to recount His deeds.