The Horse Adjutant

The true stroy of Leon Schagrin, survivor of hte Nazi Holocaust.

3rd Edition

The Horse Adjutant How one young boy survived the Nazi Holocaust

Stephen Shooster, Author

Jim Boring, Contributing Editor Murray Rivette, Editor

Survivors: Leon & Betty Schagrin Rose & Max Blauner Morris ‘Moshe’ Katz Eli Sommer

Warning This book contains mature materials and was not written for young children. Age 12 and above is recommended.

777 South State Road 7 Margate, Florida 33068 www.shoosterpublishing.com

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission of Shooster Publishing.

First Published 2011 ISBN 978-0-9830319-1-8

Adjutant - noun ad·ju·tant | \ˈa-jə-tənt \

1: a staff officer in the army, air force, or marine corps who as - sists the commanding officer and is responsible especially for correspondence

This book is dedicated to the memory of the Schagrin family over 200 relatives and 600,000 neighbors in the region of Galicia, Poland who were brutally murdered during the Nazi Holocaust.

Ghetto Tarnow Horse Carriages Photo courtesy of Dariusz Czechowski. April 1940

Contents

A Living Legacy Carly Shooster, Youth

Forward

Frank Shooster, Civil Rights

11 14 21 23 29 35 43 69 74 82 87 95

What to Expect Stephen Shooster, Author

Reflections Introduction Chapter One Chapter Two

Jim Boring, Poet

Leon Schagrin, Survivor

The Wehrmacht Green Hills The Jarmark Everyday Life

Chapter Three

The Tzadik Blitzkrieg

Chapter Four

1940 1941 1942

102 107 110 117 123 128 137 153 161 189 219 228 249 259 272 274 276 277

Max Blauner

The Long Journey Begins

Chapter Five

Poor Tarnow Moshe Katz

Leon Continues

Chapter Six

The End of Tarnow Ghetto

Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten

My Maciek

The Cattle Car

Buna - Synthetic Rubber

Liberation

Chapter Eleven Chaos

Chapter Twelve Leaving Soviet Poland

The Land of the Free

Local Perspective Kamil Kmak

Educator

Danny Lieberman Malcom Rosenberg

Interviewer The Student

Moisey Abdurakhmanov

Leon Schagrin at Ms. Berger’s 4th grade class. Rivberside Elementray School, Coral Springs, Florida Carly (age 10) on the right holding his hand.

Leon Schagrin with Carly Shooster (age 12) 2010

A Living Legacy Carly Shooster W hen I was twelve, just before my Bat Mitzvah, I was designated by Leon Schagrin, a Holocaust survivor, to represent him at the 100th anniversary in the year 2045. On that day, he will be gone, my dad will be in his 80s, and I will be 45. This is the nature of history, by choosing a young person, I can carry his living message as far as humanly possible and pass the torch to the next generation. While spending time with Leon and his wife, I inescapably am drawn to the panther tattoo that poses in a running stance on his forearm. Hypnotized by the power of the cat, while listening to him speak in a Polish accent, thick as it is authentic, he tells stories about his life. Listening, I am stunned. He endured feats I can only begin to imagine. I would expect him to be bitter, full of hate but this is the furthest thing from his de- meanor. He does, however, say boldly, “I have a complaint with God.” I don’t blame him. Where was God when his life was turned upside down? How could God condone The Holocaust or any genocide? Leon and Betty do not have kids. So when he was faced with the mortal question of every man, How to create a legacy, he decided to adopt one, me! I hope I can measure up to his standard and tell the world his profound message so aptly recounted during the 60s - Make Love, not War! Stamp out Hatred! Like Paul Revere urgently shouting of a pending battle The Horse Adjutant echoes, find a way to make peace.

Join me in 2045,

Carly Shooster

Frank Shooster

The Possibilities Frank Shooster, Civil Rights Attorney

I have never been given a greater honor, or a graver responsibility than to have been asked by Leon Schagrin to write the forward to his first-hand sworn testimony of his Holocaust experience from the moment Germany declared war on Poland until his final liberation from Auschwitz, only to have to overcome anti-Semitism all over again upon his arrival in the United States. Leon Schagrin is a genuine hero in his own right. Understanding that nobody is born to hate, Leon has willingly subjected himself to relive his Holocaust experiences in hundreds of school auditoriums. To date, he has spoken to more than 10,000 middle- school and high school students throughout South Florida. Leon’s testimony may well be the single most chilling reading experience you will ever have. It reads like a thriller that will keep you up all night, but you may need to put it down from time to time to catch your breath, wipe a tear, or work up the cour- age to turn another page. You cannot read this book without becoming traumatized by its unforgettable im- ages of horror and cruelty. As you accompany Leon Schagrin to the depths of hell and beyond you will be stunned, shaken, and speechless. No artist of fiction, no Dante, no Kafka, no Orwell, no Marquis de Sade has ever been able to envision, let alone depict, a more horrifying inferno than the mechanized mass murder personally witnessed by Leon Schagrin. That he survives at all is amazing itself. Sometimes survival was a mat- ter of luck if it’s proper to use that word at all to a prisoner-slave in a concentration camp. Sometimes it was quick thinking and sharp judgment. Most of all, Leon sur- vived because he looked like the idealized Aryan: tall blond and blue eyes. Ironically, racism almost killed him, and racism probably saved his life.

In the midst of his chronicle of unparalleled cruelty, there are moments of tenderness from the kindnesses of strangers at the risk of their own lives, to the sacrifices of so many for the sake of love, duty, or honor. Unfortunately, these moments are just tiny flickering sparks of light in a dark sea, incident after inci- dent of murder, cruelty, and humiliation, naming names, dates, times, places of perpetrators, collaborators, victims, and bystanders. The events are now more than sixty-five years old, but Leon Schagrin has been blessed (or cursed) with an almost photographic memory. If this were the sad fate of only one man, it would be terrible enough. But from the dawn of so-called ‘civilization’ to the present day, countless people have experienced the kind of suffering borne by Leon Schagrin, and countless more have no doubt suffered worse, from the Inquisition’s rack to the ‘ad- vances’ of modern civilization such as gulags, death factories, and IEDs. Yet, only a minute number of people have lived to tell about it. If a novelist, or a screenwriter, needed a character who could tell the story of the Holocaust in Poland, they would be hard put to find a better character than Leon Schagrin, if only because of his Zelig or Forrest Gump-like presence at so many pivotal moments. It’s easy to say why this book had to be written. First and foremost, we live in a world where Holocaust denial is rampant. Every witness account is a brick in the bulwark of historical truth. Every witness statement helps to fill gaps in the historical record and enables historians to corroborate, verify, or rule out specific allegations. The philosopher, George Santayana, once said, “Those who fail to remember the past are doomed to repeat it.” Holocaust denial is a po- litical weapon used to demonize Jews and delegitimize the Jewish state. There are many other good reasons for writing this book that Leon has asked me to share with you on his behalf, which I outline below. But, before going there, let it be clear, commercial success is not among them. This is important because Holocaust denial exists alongside its self-contradictory twin: ‘Holocaust exploi- tation.’ This despicable doctrine admits the truth of the Holocaust but asserts that the Jewish people and the Jewish state have used it for political and finan- cial gain. Each twin is the child of anti-Semitism, and though they are both contradictory, they are both advanced by the enemies of Israel and the Jewish people to incite hatred, terror, and war. Any author would like to see their book become a best-seller, but Amazon. com lists 2,000 Holocaust memoirs and biographies, so only a fool would write

another Holocaust memoir thinking it was a ticket to fame and fortune. Be- sides, in writing this book, Leon wants nothing for himself. He and his wife Betty, herself a surviving member of Schindler’s List, are dedicated to promot- ing anti-hate education. I am sure he would be satisfied if every last copy of his book were given away with the hope it would be read and its lessons learned. While it’s easy to say why this book had to be written, it’s not so easy to say why it should be read, why one would want to be part of Leon Schagrin’s struggle to survive, why experience his nightmare, even if only vicariously? If you are a Holocaust scholar, you won’t want to miss it, if only because Leon witnessed so much with his own eyes. I have been a student of the Holocaust for fifty years now. I have been fight- ing anti-Semitism throughout my career as a civil rights lawyer in private prac- tice. I sit on the state and national leadership boards of the Anti-Defamation League (though I speak here solely in my personal capacity.) I count over three hundred books in my personal library about the history of anti-Semitism. Not one of them packs the power of Leon Schagrin’s narrative. Before exposing a child to this story, parents and teachers should exercise cau- tion. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I am convinced that for my children, and I, our exposure to the Holocaust at an early age was a life-changing event—in a positive way. I don’t know what child psychologists have to say about exposing kids to mass death and destruction, but in my case, it led directly to my deci- sion to practice civil rights law as well as my involvement in the ADL. I have my own twins: Jay and Lauren. When they were ten years old, we visited Dachau, where we saw the torture chamber that housed Pastor Martin Niemoller. He‘s responsible for the famous speech about the cowardice of Ger- man intellectuals opposing the Nazi path to totalitarianism: They came first for the Communists, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn’t speak up be- cause I wasn’t a trade unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew. Then they came for me and by that time no one was left to speak up.

Or, as this statement attributed to Edmund Burke says: All it takes for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.

Today, Leon is eighty-four years old and suffers from macular degeneration. It’s be- come quite difficult for him to read and write as he can only see out of the corner of his eyes. He can no longer drive, and it’s hard for him to get around. He has asked me to articulate his thoughts about why it was so important to give his testimony while he can. First, Leon wants to honor the memory of all the victims of the Holocaust, especially his father, mother, four sisters, and infant brother who were gassed in the Belzec death camp, September 1st to 3rd, 1942. The best way he knows how to do that is to tell the world what he knows about it. Second, Leon wants to honor each and every person who saved his life—and there are many of them whom you will come to know in the pages that follow. Third and foremost, he would like to see something good come from this book. He has already succeeded in performing a public service for posterity. Yet, if you ask Leon, he will say that the best thing that could happen from this book is if it encourages lead- ers of national and international institutions and organizations to enact laws that will make it possible to indict, apprehend, extradite and try persons who advocate or incite genocide—before the killing starts. Under current international law, war criminals can be prosecuted after the fact, but by then it is already too late. The UN Convention against Genocide is 50 years old. Since that time the world has experienced a mind-boggling number of new genocidal and ethnic cleansing campaigns, at least 34 separate events killing at least 12 million people. Only a few of the perpetrators have ever been brought to justice. These figures exclude mass deaths from war, disease, or famine. The Rome accords of 2002 have led to the new International Criminal Court with the power to prosecute crimes against humanity. Most scholars of international law have concluded that incitement to com- mit genocide is illegal under customary international law, but the ICC has not issued a formal opinion endorsing that theory and creating binding legal precedent. Whether the ICC will deter future acts of genocide has never been tested. The record of intentional institutions thus far has been dismal. We can hope that someday humans will have evolved beyond their capacity to dehumanize one another, but until that hap- pens, we can only hope Leon’s dream will become a reality. Reading Leon’s testimony, you will notice that the full panoply of human vice and virtue are on display, and not always attached to the good guys or bad guys respectively. You’ll encounter Jewish police and kapos, every bit as repugnant as their Nazi overseers. This point is crucial because it demonstrates convincingly that no race or nationality has a monopoly on virtue, which is another way of saying that any one of us could find

ourselves succumbing to the same moral weaknesses we observe throughout the book. We will never eradicate hate until we accept that any one of us could be deluded into believing our neighbor is less than human. As long as any group believes it is incapable of succumbing to barbarity, they risk becoming barbarians themselves. So, if you are Jewish as am I, join me in a little introspection. Forget about current events, because they are too emotionally charged. Let’s go further back. One of the most disturbing accounts of genocide from antiquity can be found in the Torah, where we learn that God ordered the Israelites to slaughter the Amalekites and Midianites and enslave their women. The Israelites were persuaded into believing they were acting with God’s blessing, and they followed God’s orders without question, killing tens of thousands, as part of the conquest of Canaan. We are their descendants, with many descendants to be proud of, so we were able to overcome our own history. In many ways, the modern world should be less susceptible to mass media manipula- tion because of the explosion of the internet. That may bode well for the future, but for now several generations of Palestinians have been educated from Kindergarten on portraying Jews as an evil, satanic force bent on world domination. The vast majority wasn’t even alive in 1948. I am told that this practice has diminished in the West Bank, but it will probably be generations before the kind of visceral hatred that motivates people to become suicide bombers shows any appreciable decline. So, the Horse Adjutant’s mission must go on. Leon’s mission must become our own. Every generation needs to teach its children about the price of unbridled hatred.

Frank Shooster

Stephen Shooster

Cornerstones Stephen Shooster, Author

I am humbled by the story of Leon Schagrin. He has a fantastic memory. How one man could have more painful stories then anyone I have ever met, except perhaps another survivor, makes me awestruck. I have pondered the depravity he has been through and shake my head in disbelief, the same feeling I have been warned about relating to Holocaust deniers. They will find the edges of our belief and try and peel back what happened to erase the memories of those that died. Writing this story and locking in the details with research will give you the cornerstones needed to build a foundation of knowledge. Leon is not cursed. In fact, a prayer was given to him when he was a child that he would have a long life. He is 92 now. No one predicted back then that his years would be marked by the worst crime ever committed in the name of a State. He has dedicated years to teaching about the Nazi Holocaust and the dangers of hate outliving all of the perpetrators. Survival alone is his greatest achievement. There are hundreds of Holocaust stories, but there should be over six million; that is how many died. Most of those stories were short, lives cut short by killing factories and militias given the task of shooting undefended women, children, and old people, in open graves with machine guns, first stripping them of their clothing and anything of value. Jews lived for over 700 years in the region of Galicia in Southern Poland, where Leon and his family lived. They were wiped out in only three years. Six hundred thousand Jewish neighbors and all the Jews in the neighboring towns were sent to Belzec in a single year. That is where his family lies. That is where his town of 12,000 Jews was

killed in three days. 600,000 is 1,643 a day or 160 people per hour every hour for one year. What kind of person or group of people could kill women, children, young and old, who never lifted a single weapon, some while holding babies in their arms? What kind of culture could be so poisonous as to feed that kind of behavior? The Nazi Holocaust was a crime of the highest order against humanity. It was based on racial anti-semitic hatred fomented within a Democratic nation. The only crime the Jews committed was success. They lit candles on Friday nights, they read and prayed fervently, the lived side-by-side with their neighbors, they traded and earned meager livings. And they were frequently victimized, but, because they were always a minority, they had little options available to them, fearing expulsion with nowhere to go. What resonated with me as I wrote this story and pondered the depravity Leon went through, was could I survive if I was in his shoes? That is one reason I wrote the book in the first person. I want you, the reader to put on his mask, and see how you might handle it. Resoundingly, I don’t think I could survive. I can hardly stand the cold weather when I’m fully dressed. Leon wore wooden shoes with no socks during Winter, combined with very little food in an environment ripe with disease. The only thing he had a lot of was hard labor, constant grueling hard labor, the kind that would build muscles if you had food, or tear them down if you didn’t. He was about 6 feet tall and weighed 80 pounds when he was liberated. I can’t imagine standing in front of a Nazi officer. Now, try being naked, in the freez- ing cold after standing for 3 days in a cattle car so overloaded with people there is no room to sit and hardly room to breathe, some of whom die below your feet, slipping on urine and feces, with no water and no hope. Then arriving at Auschwitz/Birkenau concentration and extermination camp in the night, getting out and going through a selection process designed to destroy most of the people who arrived. What would you do? I can’t imagine having the nerve or the bravado to survive, but Leon puffed up his chest, shook off the dizziness and looked at a group of Nazi medical officers in the eye while declaring, “I am a horse adjutant.” They laughed because a Jewish boy could not be the adjutant or assistant of a commandant, but they realized he was feisty, full of life and strength and this small act of character saved his life only to be tested again and again. Leon’s father told him to tell the world the story about what happened to them. It is not a story. It is a dire warning. It can happen again. This book hopes to make you aware of the slippery slope of Fascism and hate. Once you learn what happened, he

hopes that you will exercise vigilance and become a guardian of freedom. To do so, you must promise to bear witness and protest against xenophobic hatred, and support those people and organizations that stand for the highest values of humankind against the evils that always threaten them. I want to thank the following people for encouraging me to complete this book: Leon and Betty Schagrin, Herman and Dorothy Shooster and my entire extended family, Malcolm Rosenberg, Jim Boring, Murray Rivette, Kamil Kmak, Rose and Max Blauner and family, Moses Katz, the Rosen Family, Rose Diamond, and so many more. Let me add a special note of love and appreciation to my wife, Diane, and our kids, Jason, Jaime, Carly and Cassidy. Putting this book together was a work of sincere devo- tion that took much time away from you. This project is one of the greatest gifts I will ever be able to give all of you.

Stephen Shooster

Leon Schagrin - Photo by Courtney Colliflower

The Horse Adjutant

The Panther Jim Boring T he tattoo is faded with age, and the leaping panther is no longer a glossy black but a more muted darkness on the old man’s arm. Still, it speaks of a time long ago when a young man marked him- self with the image and the spirit of the creature. The panther covers a still earlier tattoo, a set of numbers that once seemed to mark a young boy for certain death. We sit together, side by side, on Leon Schagrin’s couch – a yellow legal pad in my lap, a small otto- man before us that drifts back and forth as one or the other of us rests our heels on it. Nearly every Friday for a year and a half we sit like this, enduring un-

Leon Schagrin with Jim Boring Kabassa, Beer and the Manuscript 2011

endurable memories. Behind us the window looks out onto a park-like setting and a tennis court – always empty. The small condominium apartment is neat and clean. The nameplate on the louvered door reads, Leon and Betty Schagrin. Here live two unlikely survivors of a great man-made horror, the attempted exter- mination of an entire people. The history of that attempt is well-documented and preserved in both collective and individual memory. The poignant eloquence of Anne Frank and the vivid remembrance of Elie Weisel among so many others have created a tapestry of cruelty, terror and also humanity that humbles us before the awful and the wonderful possibilities in human nature. This is one more of those horror stories – different only in the particulars from the plague that descended on all of Europe at a time not so very long ago in historical terms but now nearly passed the lifetimes of the survivors of the generation that lived through it. We are far enough from those times and events to know that whatever lessons they might have taught us have not been learned. The hope that social institutions would be formed to prevent and deter genocidal atrocities has not been realized. The blind- fold of Justice seems now to prevent her from finding her way to those who so des- perately need the impartial fairness that same blindfold once symbolized. And yet we work and continue to hope that one day our better angels will prevail. Indeed, hope is the belief that we have better angels. This is the story of Leon Schagrin, a boy visited by both demons and angels.

Stephen Shooster

Leon Schagrin age 84 photo by Courrtney Colliflower

The Horse Adjutant Introduction Leon Schagrin

B y telling you the story of my life, at my late age, it is my hope to leave behind a true and accurate testament for future generations. It is my hope that you let these writings serve as a warning against tyranny and hate. What I want you to take away is just how important it is to defend your freedom, at all costs.

Experience has taught me, If you lose your freedom, you are condemned.

I still feel that the shadow of evil following me and it will probably remain until the end of my life. However, I am compelled to share the lessons of The Nazi Holocaust, so it will not be repeated by future generations. Future generations must be on extreme alert surrounding the dangers of dictatorships and any type of Fascist thinking. I can’t stress this enough, by all means, protect your freedom and pursue a course that reduces and finally stamps out hate. Don’t forget, Germany was a Democracy before it slipped into a Fascist dictatorship. I vowed, to my father a long time ago, before he was forcefully taken from our home, with my family and our entire neighborhood, soon after to all be brutally murdered, that I would tell the story of my life to everyone who would listen. Not because I am important, but because if my story is lost to the ages, then what happened could be repeated. It is not easy to tell you my story. It is painful for me to recall such memories. Once you get past the pain and realize the miracle of my survival you may be ready to think about the bigger ideas, like what it means to be free, and why if you lose your freedom you lose everything. If things were different, my father and mother would have grown old together, and my brother and sisters would have had long lives. I hope things are different for you and all the future generations. Many years after the war I visited Belzec in Eastern Poland and confronted my great- est nightmare. It was incomprehensible to me that in a small field covered in volcanic rock rest my mother and father, my four sisters, and my baby brother, along with some 600,000 other souls from all of Upper Galicia (Southeast Poland). It is not just the number of people, which is appalling, but that they were all destroyed in a period of a single year. My own family was among the twelve to fifteen thousand who were killed in only three days by the deadly gas chambers. It was an extermination factory.

Stephen Shooster

It is difficult to imagine a hellish nightmare of this magnitude, such a thor- ough and methodical has never occurred in history. And yet, as large as this tragedy was, we were not alone. There are many other places like Belzec in Poland and Ger- many and elsewhere around the world. But there is a difference. Belzec is one of the only pure extermination camps ever built. We are only aware of one survivor. From him and a few of the soldiers, we learned that the people who were brought there sat waiting in a field for their turn to be subjected to killing by deadly gas then carelessly tossed into a pit. My anger knows no bounds. The only way I can channel my energy appropriately is to warn each and every one of you. I want to share my love for all of mankind, includ- ing my forgiveness for those that acted on their twisted, irrational thoughts. Let this be my extreme shout to the world - if it happened to me, a 12-year-old child living in a modern mixed community, who would presume to say that you and your family are safe? It is my secondary wish that the world, especially the March of the Living include Belzec in their many excursions to visit Auschwitz and the other camps. Today, I am 93 years old, and I live in South Florida with my wife Betty, who is also a survivor. She survived, due to the kindness of a man named Oscar Schindler, and is a member of his now famous list with her two sisters. In fact, her sister Helen was brutalized by the despicable Commandant Goth as one of his maids within his home. She bravely protected her sisters by accepting the abuse. Many years later, Helen met with the surviving daughter of Goth, in the well-documented and award-winning film, Inheritance and together they walked the grounds of Auschwitz while Helen pointed out the horrors. My wife and I have been married for 61 years. We have no children. Even though the story of my childhood is one I wish upon no other person, the fact that I survived in many ways was just luck combined with boyish bravado. I went through a storm of the greatest dimensions. It was a political storm that has come to be known today as The Holocaust, and because I was only twelve when it started, I can hardly under- stand why it began. What I do remember, was that I was a happy child. It only took a few days before my childhood world suddenly turned against me and seemed to conspire to force me into poverty, a homeless laborer without any family, a starving

The Horse Adjutant

slave prisoner, and finally a survivor, all before I turned eighteen. During most of my depravity, the one thing that kept me alive was to care for a horse. And with this horse, I met some of the most notorious characters of the war. I became the buggy driver of the top Nazi official in the ghetto Tarnow, Hauptsturm- fuhrer Hermann Blache. I also used my carriage to collect bodies that were once my entire world and on more than one occasion was forced to step on the blood of my relatives as it spilled in a senseless river of horror that went on for years. It seemed that it would never end. Yet, throughout it all, I tried to remember that I had a normal childhood and I lived in a culturally rich and enlightened time of history going to school with children of many ethnicities and cultures without incident. When I was lost in the political maelstrom of the German occupation, it was these guideposts that kept my world in focus - that reminded me of a better future. Because of a good upbringing, I knew somehow that goodness and peace were possible and must still exist in the world. My story is full of pain. Many times I was a breath away from my last, but somehow I survived. Please remember what I am telling you with a sense of urgency. We must keep such horrors from happening ever again. To those who helped me tell my story, I have the deepest gratitude.

Leon Schagrin 2011

Stephen Shooster

The Horse Adjutant

Stephen Shooster

Leon Schagrin and his horse Maciek

Stephen Shooster

Tyroelan Solider

The Horse Adjutant

God is With Us

Chapter One The Wehrmacht

Late in the year 1939, a 12-year-old boy named, Leon Schagrin, stood on the side of the road as everyone waved and handed flowers cheering the arrival of Tyrolean troops from Austria into his small town. Dressed in light blue uniforms they arrived with music blaring. He saw men with feathered caps marching in a procession of horses, mules, motorcycles, field kitchens, and foot soldiers. This was the German Wehrmacht, a grand army. Upon close inspection, their belt buckles were engraved with the words, “Gott mit uns,” God is With Us – all of this was heady stuff for a boy. Victorious, they were occupying Poland and Leon’s hometown, Grybow. Grybow, for hundreds of years, was occupied by both Jews and Poles. The Jews called the town Gribov. It is located in southern Poland below Krakow in the region of Galicia. The excitement of the day overcame any fear the town folks may have felt. The soldiers were friendly. They tossed candy to the children as they passed. When they settled down, they shared soup and stories with their hosts and allowed Leon to touch their rifles. When he went to bed that night, he dreamed of joining them. Six soldiers bivouacked at the family home. One of them was an old comrade of Hersch Schagrin, Leon’s father. They served together in the cavalry of the Austrian army during World War I. One month before the occupation of Grybow, the Nazis invaded Poland in a Blitz- krieg maneuver combining overwhelming force with speed. When the war started, Leon and his family, including his four sisters, and his mom, who was 9-months pregnant, went to their grandparent’s farm in nearby Tarnow. His dad went the other direction towards the fighting to join up with the Polish reserve. While the family was at the farm, his mom gave birth to their sixth child, a son named, Naftali.

Stephen Shooster The war was over before Leon’s father found his unit. He returned and brought the family home; that is when the Tyrolean’s arrived. The festive arrival of the troops was misleading. These ordinary soldiers stayed about a month before moving east toward Russia. Their replacements were the dreaded Nazi SS and the feared Gestapo (secret police). The nature of the new regime was soon apparent. The synagogue became a horse stable, and an open ghetto was established for the Jews. The movement was restricted of the Jews to one kilometer within a designated area. They were further restricted to walk only on approved streets. White armbands bearing a blue Star of David symbol were required at all times. All of the businesses owned by Jews were confiscated. Leon could no longer attend the public school, and as his 13th birthday approached, prepa- ration for a Bar Mitzvah was forbidden. Beatings, humiliations, and shootings became an ordinary part of daily life. When it was over, his family would be destroyed, along with most of his community. The entire region of Galicia would become virtually Judenfrei (without Jews). In near- by Auschwitz, 1.1 million would be killed. In another less known camp called Belzec, another 600,000 were killed. It was at this camp where Leon’s family was murdered. When the fog of war cleared, 6 million Jews were dead. If the Nazis won the war, Jews worldwide were threatened with complete annihilation. For the first time, this young boy saw adults whom he respected, his own teachers among them, shot dead in the street. Anyone who resisted the Nazi regime in the slightest was a target. The atmosphere became thick with fear. Life and death decisions were made on the spot. Everything became a matter of luck – one lived or died at the whim of men whose motives could not be understood. The Nazis did their killing under within German State law. The murders of Jews were State- sanctioned. Why these men killed with such ferocity was so far beyond the experience of any of their victims that an effective reaction was impossible. Murderers took all the power of the State and used it with ruthless efficiency. The world had gone mad. Under this stress, the ordinary bonds of community broke down. The institutions of government, schools, temples, and the day-to-day connections of businesses, including the shops, markets, and the places people gathered for entertainment and work, shat- tered. The familiar became a threat. Neighbors became enemies. The trust implicit in all the usual activities of daily life dissolved, replaced by fear. The simple act of walking down the street required courage. Food was scarce. Laws were nailed to posts for all to read. The Polish people were forbidden to help the Jews under the penalty of death. Life before the war was by comparison idyllic. Every Monday was market day at the

The Horse Adjutant town square. Leon moved unrestricted among the townspeople and the peasants from the farms who brought their pigs, chickens, and vegetables to sell. Gypsies arrived, hawking their handmade copperware, and mountain people, known as the Yuvanim (also known as Lemkos), sold their leatherwork. All the different people, Jews, and Gentiles, mixed in one weekly event. Leon looked for work he could do on market days. How ordinary it all seemed at the time now just a memory. The town of Grybow is in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains, organized around a town square dominated by one of the most beautiful Roman Catholic churches in southern Poland. It’s mainly an agricultural town whose industrial opera- tions included a brewery and a lumber mill. It is a town of small shops, craftsmen, butchers, bakers, and tailors. Gypsies lived just outside the town on the roads in camps. The Yuvanim lived in the mountains since the 1500s. The name Yuvanim means ‘of Ivan,’ they were driven out of Russia into this remote place by Ivan the Terrible. The Yuvanium were also notorious for smuggling due to their knowledge of those remote hills. Grybow was a fine community, with a professional class of politicians, lawyers, teach- ers, doctors, businessmen, and clergy, together, referred to as the intelligentsia. They were also smart enough to resist the Nazis, making them dangerous. The first targets of the Nazis were the intelligentsia. They wanted the land without Jews or anyone that would contest it. Grybow is the gateway to the health spas and resorts of Krynica in the nearby moun- tains. Tourists from all over Europe would pass through Grybow on their way to these places. These places were so important that a railroad was built to access them. When Leon was growing up, he and his friends would earn a few coins by cleaning dust from the cars heading to the resorts. He saw women with furs and cigarette holders, and men in their big cars. It made a lasting impression on him. Within a month, that world no longer existed. The men of the intelligentsia were dragged out of their homes and summarily killed. Killing became common. Someone had to remove the bodies. A 13-year-old boy found himself doing this grisly task. It was Leon. Because he was strong and his family had horses and carts he was a natural choice. It was much more dangerous for a grown man, like his father, to be among the Nazis. Being a child made the task safer. Leon also just happened to look, German, making him more inconspicuous. One day Leon was ordered to bring his horse and cart to pick up the body of a prominent lawyer. That man laid on the street, his fine clothing seeping with blood. The incongruity of one of the leading citizens of the town, lying so well dressed in a

Stephen Shooster pool of his own blood, was disorienting. Leon focused on the man’s polished shoes and tried not to absorb the full reality of what was happening. The numbing effect of such horror had only begun. He would be tested hundreds of times before it was over. As the occupation grounded on, the Nazis called for a collection of fur coats. One woman, an American citizen, married to a local Polish man, protested – waving her passport and demanding her rights as an American citizen. The Nazis dragged her and her husband into their front yard and shot them. In another instance, the Nazis called for 100 ‘volunteers’ and directed the newly formed Jewish Committee to gather up these people from the community. There were no volunteers. In retaliation, the Nazis gathered the Jewish Committee and the Jewish police and shot them all. Leon gathered the bodies of adults he knew well from the site of the execution. These bloody bodies with their stricken, familiar faces, prepared Leon for more horrors yet to come. He was becoming inured to the sight of slaughter. His family consisted of simple, ordinary people. The only thing that made them dif- ferent was their religion, and they weren’t very religious. In nearly every other way they were just like everyone else in town. What justified the particular hostility shown toward Jews? Why had it arisen so suddenly out of nowhere? What crime had Jews committed that could justify the cruelty of the Nazis? Leon could fashion no answer to these questions. All he could do was try and survive. This is the story of how he survived.

The Horse Adjutant

Old Grybow from Church Tower Orthodox Synagogue Bottom Right

Stephen Shooster

Boys school room. Grybow, Poland prior to 1939.

Front row, third from the left is commissioner Leszek’s son. The professor, Jachowicz, in the back of the room. He was also in charge of the gym and had two kids in the school. Note many of the Jewish childred had payis.

The Horse Adjutant Chapter Two Green Hills

When I was a boy, I was just a boy. I did not enjoy school. The only subjects that interested me in the slightest were history and geography. Both were more impor- tant than I realized at the time. However, even with those budding interests, I was neglectful. I would frequently go to school without doing my assignments, leave my books at home or just stare out the window, dreaming. Thinking back, I was far more afraid of my teachers than policemen or anyone else. My behavior led to stern warnings from my teachers to my father and me. One time, my teacher said to my father, “How can your son learn without books or doing his assignments?” My father simply shook his head and chastised me, “If you keep this up, you will be lucky to grow up to be a dogcatcher.” I tried not to let it bother me, especially when I was on my own, which seemed to be most of the time. How was I to resist the temptations that lay all about me? There were so many things I liked to do. I would explore the hills and forests of the moun- tains towering above me, wade in streams and rivers filled with frogs, play around the old, high railroad bridge that arched like a Roman aqueduct across the river near my home, raid the neighbors’ apple or pear trees or play stickball with my friends. Up to the age of 12, there was no question I had many better things to do with my life than sit around a boring classroom. Just about the only good thing I can remem- ber while sitting in class, was that I could imagine a breeze blowing down from the mountains calling me away from duty and schoolwork. This idyllic vision was often interrupted with a whack on the head. My school was strict. All the children regardless of racial or ethnic background went to the same school. Girls and boys went to separate classes. The rules might have been designed with good intention, but the teachers had the authority and the inclination to beat students. Too many times, I was on the teaching side of that stick. I may not remember the lessons they taught me, but I have an uncanny memory for names, dates, and faces. I went through elementary school over 70 years ago, but I never forgot my teachers’ names or their painful lessons. Foremost, was a husband and wife team, the Salachas. He taught the Polish lan- guage. She taught Math. They would both beat me for the slightest infraction. Then there was Professor Głąb. He would not beat me, instead preferring to pull my ears, which was just as bad. It’s a wonder I still have ears. For these teachers, punish- ment was a normal part of teaching, and they used it liberally to instill order in the

Stephen Shooster

classroom. As much as I developed a disdain for the way I was treated in school, it was nothing compared to the storm that was brewing outside of my country, in Nazi Germany. I also had little interest in helping my father take care of our horses. It’s not that I was a lazy child, because I did what I was told, but I just found working with ani- mals sickening. My father, conversely, seemed to like what he was doing, earning a reputation as a natural healer. I think he learned these skills from his father, who also worked with horses. My father was a hard worker, scratching out a meager living, barely supporting our family, but at least he earned enough to own a home within the city limits of our town. Not an easy task, since the Jews were required to pay taxes greater than their counterparts. The only language we spoke in school was Polish. At home, we spoke Yiddish, a unique combination of Hebrew and German. So, I learned both. In fact, one of the most interesting things about the Jews throughout Europe is that they spoke the native language of whatever country they happen to be in, plus Hebrew and Yid- dish. In many ways, their connection to Hebrew through the Torah and the com- mon language of Yiddish, combined with their strict adherence to tradition, made them a nation-within-a-nation, wherever they lived. This is especially true, since they found themselves frequently in hostile circumstances within their host nations, both in the form of abuse from violent pogroms, and being forced to leave their homes and communities, sometimes after generations of living in the same place. Yet, no matter where they lived, they found ways to thrive, raising children that would abide by the Sabbath, lighting candles, and praising God and family. I was too young to understand any of this, yet Polish and European history is replete with atrocities and hardships forced upon the Jews. My hometown is located in the southeastern tip of Poland near the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains; it is nestled along the River Biala, otherwise known as the White River. The river earned its name from its fast-moving water. It was far more suitable for white-water rafting, or a trout-filled mountain stream than boat traffic. During some months it was deceptively placid, when the snow melted it would become a raging, white, destructive torrent. In 1934, when I was about 8 years old, I remember being on top of the old Roman arch bridge with my friends looking down at the raging white-capped river. We were amazed at how violent it became. I saw horses and cows caught in the torrent and even parts of a house crashing through the rocks. I remember the firemen were

The Horse Adjutant trying to do whatever they could to help rescue the animals.

Today, you might find it odd that an 8-year old was on top of a bridge with raging water flowing beneath, but back then it seemed normal enough for me to be almost anywhere in our small town with my friends. Plus, the bridge was so substantial, designed for rail traffic, I did not expect it to be affected by the torrent below. My community thrived. We lived in a winter wonderland. Snowfall averaged 1 meter per year, and temperatures reached and stayed below freezing for extended periods. The snow was ‘perfect’ for winter sports, rarely turning to slush. The ex- tremely cold temperature was also dangerous. So, it was critical to prepare ahead of time. During the warmer months, firewood was cut, coal was gathered, food was prepared and winter clothing mended. It was the type of climate that makes for strong, hearty people, which is exactly how I would describe our towns’ folks. During the winter, it was common to see people wearing full-length fur coats, not for show as much as for warmth, but they looked good too. It was also common to see fur hats and gloves, scarves, and more. We knew how to live in the cold weather.

The White River during fall.

Stephen Shooster

The White River Swollen with Spring Floods Notice the Crest of the Waves

People came from all over to enjoy the region’s splendor. Tourism was enabled with good roads, fast trains, and world-class resorts. The closest resorts were located nearby in the famous town of Krynica. Back then Krynica had a ski lift, making it easy to enjoy skiing. Our region became a favorite destination for sports clubs from the big cities. This was good for business. We supplied them with all kinds of things, including basics like eggs, butter, milk, and chicken. Many a horse and carriage would travel up the hill and into the valley with deliveries. In its role of supporting Krynica, Grybow was a gateway town, the last stop before the resorts. One of the more exciting things tourists could do was glide all the way down one of the trails away from Krynica to Grybow, a full 6 miles! It was quite a spectacle to see. I remember seeing some of those tourists on their skis. They were easy to spot, unmistakably dressed in fancy winter clothing. Since you could glide all the way down the hill that also meant merchants going to Krynica had to take their horses and wagons uphill all the way the other direction, and on the way home, these poor merchants had to go downhill, which was not nearly as elegant as the skiers, bor- dering on comedy.

The Horse Adjutant Even though I am describing my life in the 1930s, I lived in a nascent modern world, the kind that could let your imagination soar. Radios and telephones were beginning to be deployed, and engines of all kinds powered planes, cars, and giant machines. One of the highlights of this industrial society was a high-speed train system that ran through Grybow where it slowed to climb up to its destination in Krynica. It was called The Lux Torpeda, a national treasure. That train could ap- proach speeds of 115 miles per hour! Painted white over red, with our State colors, it was something that made all of Poland proud. Standing on the side of the tracks while the train went by, the color I saw was a blur because it moved so fast. This was the state-of-the-art in rail services with an inte- rior that was something out of a fancy magazine. The result was easy access for the elite to visit the countryside while being served in luxury. I always wished I would have had a chance to ride in one of those trains, or at least clean its windshield. The local people loved tourists. Grybow wasn’t just a winter wonderland. It was also a beautiful place in the warm months. During the springtime, wildflowers grew abundantly. I remember stumbling across large fields of wild purple violets with their unmistakable fragrance. Breathing deeply, I enjoyed those fields immensely. Sometimes, I would take the time to lie down in the bed of purple and ponder the sky. Surrounding this quilt, the bedposts were forests filled with trees of all kinds. They had distinctive smells too. Among them, in abundance, were chestnuts and lilacs. It’s no wonder I had little interest in school. The summer tourists were attracted to the health spas; the center attraction was the springs, rich in different kinds of minerals. They were said to be good for a variety of ailments. Others found their own reasons to visit, like hiking and fishing. For

those travelers that arrived by car, it seemed that every one of them would stop at our only automotive station to fill up with benzene. It was the smart thing to do because we were the last stop before the ride up the mountain. This is where you could find me. As the cars lined up, my friends and I, the local urchins, would beg to clean wind- shields. We gladly did this with the hope their owners would reward us

Krynica Ski lift 1930s

Stephen Shooster

Lux Torpeda Train - exterior circa 1930’s

Lux Torpeda Train - interior Drawing by Shoosty

The Horse Adjutant with some loose change, but the real reward was simply seeing all of those exotic people – the women with their cigarette holders and furs, the men confident and rich. This is how I also became familiar with different types of cars, including, Fords from the USA, and Tatras from Czechoslovakia, each one seemed to come from another world. As modern as my hometown appeared, not everything was tame. A vast wilder- ness surrounded us. Many wild animals made their homes in those places. I could hear wolves howling in the winter or easily wander upon a snake while hiking in the summer. Sometimes, a black bear would come close to the town and create a commotion among the people, and while all of this was happening on the ground, hawks controlled the skies. With their sharp talons, these perfectly proportioned birds-of-prey successfully hunted from overhead. As a child, I could appreciate their grace and beauty. However, the locals hated them, considering them pests and a threat to livestock. We were taught to hunt them with not one thought crossing any of our minds that in a few years controlling the sky would mean something vastly different.

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