escorted to the train station the day before at dusk and taken to the prison in
Sieradz. An elderly Jew, a man commonly known and esteemed in town, died
on the way to the train station. All that drove the people to understandable
despair, as it snuffed out the last flickers of hope for the men’s speedy return.
My aunt, her cousin, and many other women immediately went to
Sieradz with food parcels. Having delivered their parcels, they returned in
the evening. The situation being as it was, I went to Łódź on the Sunday of
12 November to warn [. . .] not to even dare [. . .] But when I opened the door [19]
to my aunt’s flat everybody welcomed me with frightened expressions and hungry
for news. “What’s new?” they asked. They already knew everything.
I told them about everything once more, as various people who had relatives
in Zduńska Wola were coming to ask if some of their relatives had also been
‘taken.’ When it became a little calmer, my father told me what had happened
to him the day before, that is, on the Saturday of 11 November.
Around noon, officers and soldiers appeared in the courtyard. Before my
father and uncle managed to find out about that, the soldiers were already
pounding on the door. They came in, revolvers in their hands and Wo sind die
Männer?¹²¹¹ And when they saw my father and uncle, Seid ihr noch hier?¹²¹² One
of the officers told my grandmother that “it was 11 November and some people
had been hanged on the Old Market Square.” After a moment my father,
uncle, two cousins, and other neighbours were rushed down the stairs. They
were not spared blows. The soldiers arranged them in the courtyard with
their faces to the wall and said that they would be executed in a moment.
My aunt pleaded so long that they released her younger son. The remaining
men were marched along a street to the nearby school. That was where their
work began. They had to scrub the floors. My father asked for a brush, but
they ordered him to scrub the floor with his hands. They worked the whole
day, but the worst thing was the beating, pushing, and constant shouting
and insults. After a whole day of working, soldiers with whips stood in two
parallel rows and the men had to run in between, each receiving a number
of blows. My father was relatively unhurt, as he had received only one powerful
kick. By contrast, my uncle returned with his head covered with blood.
That was how my father ‘celebrated’ 11 November. In the evening there was
1211 (German) Where are the men?
1212 (German) Are you still here?
