All aboard would be dead by the end of the day.
The remaining locked-up Jews peered out the fourth-floor windows, searching madly for a savior. The building was surrounded by Gestapo. Militiamen mulled around, anxiously considering whether they could help a family member or friend. In the end, Rossner’s specialized workforce was freed. As long as he lived, Rossner said, he would not let his workers be dragged away. But the Gestapo knew it didn’t make a difference. Sooner or later, all the Jews would be killed.
The leftover Jews were to be sent out the following morning. The Nazis needed another few hundred people to make up a whole thousand—the full contingent of a transport. “We couldn’t understand what’s so special about that round number,” Renia later wrote. “We used to joke that that’s the minimum number of people they can kill.” Even in this barbarism, gallows humor helped Jews diffuse fear, deny the importance of death, and feel some control over their lives.
A few hours later, the Gestapo tore into one of the workshops and grabbed the remaining number. And so, in two days, the Nazis took eight thousand people out of B?dzin to be murdered, not counting those who were shot or perished from grief and fear.
*
With Hershel gone, Frumka was no longer capable of running the kibbutz. She could not bear all the worry or plan for the future. Freedom began to fall apart. No one had any desire to go out. “What taste was there for work when an expulsion hung over our heads?” Renia posed. The comrades knew that it was only a matter of time—short time—until they’d all be killed. They began to think about leaving the ghetto and dispersing, each fleeing to his or her own destination.
The Judenrat leaders addressed the community with “positive speak”： work and only work will save the lives of the remaining Jews. Some sought normalcy and returned to labor. A heavy mood in each step.
Then, several days after the B?dzin expulsion: a minimiracle. A militiaman delivered a note. Renia couldn’t believe her eyes: Hershel’s handwriting. Was it for real?
Renia, Aliza Zitenfeld, and Max Fischer followed the police back to the workshop, a route speckled with Gestapo men stopping each passerby. They passed a militiaman who was bleeding heavily, his ear torn apart, his cheek smashed. His white suit was red, his face pale. A Gestapo had shot him for amusement.
Their militiaman escort brought them to the top floor, into a cluttered small hall. He moved piles of merchandise. In between, as if in a nest, Hershel.
Renia ran over to him. He was badly beaten, nearly unrecognizable. His face was scratched, his feet wounded. But he chuckled and hugged them like a father, tears trickling down his sunken cheeks. He reassured them, saying that nothing too dangerous had happened. His legs may have been smashed, but “the most important thing is that I’m still alive, and I got to see you all. Nothing was lost.” He showed them the contents of his pockets, then told them his story:
“They shoved us into the train car. . . . We were all beaten. . . . I looked for a way to escape. I had a pocketknife and a chisel with me. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to pry the window open. It was very crowded, so no one noticed, but when I was about to jump, people held down my arms and legs, screaming, ‘What are you doing? Because of you they’ll kill us like cattle!’
“The train kept moving. Yoel and Gutek took out razor blades to kill themselves. I wouldn’t let them. I told them to wait until everyone was distracted, and we would jump. Suddenly the opportunity arrived. I didn’t think and leapt. Another person jumped out behind me. . . . I preferred to die this way than to end my life in Auschwitz. Behind me I heard gunshots, coming from the Germans who were guarding the road. I threw myself into a pit. The train moved on. In the distance, I saw people lying on the road—probably jumpers shot dead. Not far from me, a Polish woman worked in the field. She pulled me into the field, away from the tracks.
My feet were bruised. I could no longer walk. She told me that Auschwitz was nearby, that I was smart to jump, that all the Jews were being taken to their deaths. She brought me food from her home, tore off my jacket, and used it to bandage my foot. Then she told me to leave, because if the village peasants saw me, they’d hand me over to the Germans. By now, it was night. I got up on all fours. I crawled in the direction she showed me. During the days, I lay in the field and ate carrots, beets, plants. After a week of crawling, I arrived here.”