The following are excerpts from the “The Road of My Suffering”, a chapter
in the Yizkor (Memorial) book of history and remembrances about the Jewish
shtetl of Nadworna in which Shaya Schmerler details the grim story of happened
to his family and neighbors during the Holocaust.
During the loading of this Jew-transport, heartrending scenes took place. A young mother, for instance, pushed her 5-year-old little girl out of the transport to give her the opportunity to mix with the gentile onlookers. But she did not succeed because the "merciful" guards chased the child back to motherly care.
The time and place of this sad event was June 1944, at the railroad station in the small town of Setra-Ujhely in Hungary....
The sad Jew transport started to roll in the direction of Poland.
Now we began making plans how we might escape from this sealed car (in this car, there were only men; the women and children were in the second car).
We decided to cut an opening into the wooden wall of the car with a knife (it was my pocket knife which the gendarmes fortunately had not discovered on me during the search, and now the pocket knife was the only tool we could use); the opening was supposed to be close to the sliding door through which one could remove the barbed wire in order to open the trap of the sliding door; this was supposed to take place only after we had left Hungarian territory.
During the night, when the planned opening was noticed far enough so it would take only the cut of the knife to take out the inside piece of board, we heard Slovak songs being sung at the station. This way we knew that we were already on Slovak ground.
The train went on, and around midnight we cut out the last piece, removed the barbed wire, and were able to open the door.
Sliding open the door we were overwhelmed by the fresh air and the beautiful summer night. The fields and trees rushing past gave us courage to venture the jump into freedom....
A few minutes later the train stopped in a station where they discovered
that we escaped. We could watch the commotion because they signaled
with lanterns and they fired shots; but we were free....
I got close to a river across which where was a bridge, rather high up. In order to go north, as I intended to do, it was necessary to pass the bridge. That, however, I could not risk because the bridge was guarded at either end by two Slovak soldiers; they looked in every direction and could easily discover me.
There was nothing else for me to do but hide close to the bridge and wait and see how to motion across the bridge which I simply had to pass in order to get to the north side.
Thus I am lying, hidden in the brush, approximately 20 meters from the bridge, and watching.
The guards changed twice. Many people. mostly farm workers. and vehicles as well, passed in both directions across the bridge without proving their identity with any kind of papers. I only heard the passengers greet the soldiers with the words "Z Bohom". Later I learned that this is the usual Slovak greeting.
The two words "Z Bohom" -- which means "With God" -- I have committed to my memory and decided to venture across.
I sneaked out of my hiding place towards the road in order to join the people.
I had noticed that the farmers going to the fields for work carried small bundles with them which probably contained their day’s food ration; I wanted to look like them; but I had nothing left to make a bundle with. When I jumped out of the train; my bag in which I had the most necessary things tore because the man who jumped right after me held on to it, and I landed with nothing but the handle of the bag; everything else had gotten lost.
This time my underpants came to the rescue; I simply took them off and made them into a bundle, hung it on a stick over my shoulder together with my short jacket -- the only piece of clothing which I still wore ever since Nadworna (naturally without a fur collar, since the fur collar had to be delivered to the Germans on pain of death) so I shouldered the stick with the bundle of food ration.
I suppose that I looked not very different from the other farmers passing by, in my worn-out baggy trousers, my shabby jacket and wrinkled cap, my face unshaven, and my bundle and jacket over my shoulders.
I summoned all my courage, joined the others who were walking ahead, and marched in the direction of the bridge.
Already on the bridge I passed the soldier with the usual greeting. Likely he had nothing to find fault with because with a returned greeting and the movement of his hand he indicated for me to go on. With the guard at the other end of the bridge the same procedure; and thus. with "Mazel" (luck) and not a little pounding of my heart I passed the bridge.
I really was lucky for the second time in Slovakia. The first time: jumping out of the train heading for Auschwitz, and now crossing the bridge that was guarded by.
I feel strengthened, more secure -- but what now? ....
He had not seen me coming and was very much surprised when he noticed me - I must have looked pretty wild.
My impression was that the man was more scared than myself. He was startled seeing me, but he soon calmed down when I greeted him.
He stepped out of the marsh of clay, reluctantly approached me and asked who I was and what I was looking for. According to a previously prepared text, I answered him that I was a Pole from the other side of the Carpathian mountains; that, due to the battles raging there, I had been evacuated from our village together with the other farmers; that I had lost my way and was unable to find my people and the carriage and the cattle we had taken along. I had been wandering around these woods for several days and was very hungry. When I saw his house from afar I decided to come here and ask him to give me something to eat.
I did not want to tell him that I had not eaten for 32 days because that would have seemed unbelievable to him.
He told me I should wait there. He would bring something from his place.
He walked towards his house. I was sure that would come back with his son or his farm-hand to finish me off, because by himself he did not feel strong enough to start anything with a ghost like me, the way I looked.
And how surprised was I when the man came back all by himself carrying half a bread and he gave it to me.
It is not like me to cry, but I was so touched by the fact that there were still people who did not kill one that I could not hold back my tears.
The farmer expressed his sympathy by patting my on the shoulder. He told me to calm down. I would find my people and my cattle, and the Slovaks would surely be helping me.
I don’t know how this man would have acted had he known that I was a Jew, but I did not want to think anything bad about this good man.
The good-hearted farmer is talking to me - but my thoughts revolve around one question: Where to now?
Return to Schmerler genealogy page.