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Masha Rolnikite: I collected evidence of our humiliation. Maria Rolnikaite: I must tell M. Rolnikaitea must tell a documentary story

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M. Rolnikaite
I MUST TELL
Documentary story

PREFACE

In France, Poland, Czechoslovakia, and other countries, many works of art were published, a dozen films were made showing the mass extermination of Jews by the Nazis. There are among them more or less successful, but the writer or artist is not given the opportunity to transform what happened: art has its own laws and it stops before the creative transformation of those phenomena that lie outside the limits of everything human.

As I wrote about in my book of memoirs, together with the late Vasily Semenovich Grossman, during the war we began to collect documents describing the Nazi extermination of the Jewish population on Soviet territory captured by the Nazis: suicide letters, stories of the few survivors, diaries - of a Riga artist, a Kharkov students, old people, girls. We called the collection "The Black Book". When the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee was closed, the typed, typed and partially printed book was destroyed. Fortunately, I still have many of the original documents. Now the Black Book is about to be published. I think that it will stir the conscience of those readers who have begun to forget about the terrible years of fascism: after all, it contains neither art nor fiction - scraps of paper on which the truth is written.

Masha Rolnikaite’s diary was published in Vilnius in Lithuanian, and at the beginning of 1965 the Leningrad magazine “Zvezda” published it in Russian: what is valuable in it is not the author’s imagination, but the truthfulness of the description of life in the ghetto and everything experienced by a fourteen-year-old girl, whom life forced to think prematurely , observe, remain silent.

Anne Frank's diary was also written by a girl and it ended early. Her diary contains neither ghetto life, nor massacres, nor death camps. The walled-up girl played at love, at life, even at literature, and behind the walls there was an ominous hunt for the hidden Jews. Anne Frank's diary was saved by a Dutch woman and was published without human memory or the editor's hand touching the text. The girl's diary shocked millions of readers with its childhood truth.

Masha’s kind and brave teacher, Jonaitis saved the first notebook of the diary - the beginning of the terrible years. Then Masha, on the advice of her mother, began to memorize what she had written, but she could not always write and did not remember everything she wrote word for word. She restored and wrote down her diary after her release: the events are described truthfully, accurately, but, of course, not always eighteen-year-old Masha could restore the feelings of a fifteen-year-old girl. However, her diary is extremely valuable for its detailed account of the lives of tens of thousands of people in the ghetto: some meekly awaited death, others hoped for a miracle, others fought like one of the heroes of the Resistance, Witenberg.

Masha was the daughter of a progressive Vilna lawyer who appeared in court more than once defending communists. A Lithuanian ending was added to his surname Rolnik, and in the Russian edition the name Masha, which seemed diminutive, turned into Maria. Masha was fond of literature even in her school years, then she graduated from the Literary Institute. But the title itself shows that Masha almost always protected her diary from the intrusion of literature: this is testimony.

In cities and towns of Ukraine and Russia, the Nazis, soon after the capture, rounded up Jews and shot them. This was the case in Kyiv, Kharkov, Dnepropetrovsk, Gomel, Smolensk and other cities. In Riga, Vilnius, Siauliai, Kaunas, Minsk, the Nazis set up ghettos, sent Jews to work and killed them gradually - mass executions were called “actions”.

Before the revolution, Vilna was a Russian provincial city, for a short time it became the capital of Lithuania, at the end of 1920 it was captured by the Poles, and in 1939 it again became part of Lithuania.

For a long time, Vilna was considered one of the largest centers of Jewish culture. Nazi Rosenberg found many ancient books and valuable manuscripts in it. There are no exact statistics of Jews killed by the Nazis. Few were saved - the city was captured by the Nazis in the very first days of the war. Vilnius was liberated in July 1944 after six days of street fighting. I then met detachments of Jewish partisans in the city; they told me that about five hundred young men and women ran away from the ghetto and joined the partisan detachments. All the remaining ghetto prisoners - about eighty thousand - were killed by the Nazis near Vilnius - in Ponary.

Talking about how she was separated from her mother, Masha writes: “I’m crying. What did I do? What did my mother and other people do? Is it possible to kill just for our nationality? Where does this wild hatred towards us come from? For what?” “That’s what a sixteen-year-old girl asked, and this is not an idle question. Twenty years have passed since the defeat of the Nazi empire, but again in West Germany and in other countries of the world swastika spiders appear on the monuments of the martyred, and old conversations are heard that the Jews are to blame for all misfortunes. Let Masha’s book, one of many documents showing years of darkening of reason and conscience, contempt for everything human, remind us that, as the Polish poet Tuwim said, “anti-Semitism is the international language of fascism” and that until the ghosts of racism and fascism disappear , not a single mother – neither Jewish nor “Aryan”, nor black or white – will be able to calmly look at her children. Masha’s little sister Raechka asked her mother in the last minutes: “Does it hurt when they shoot?”

May this never happen again.

Ilya Ehrenburg

In memory of mother, sister and brother

Sunday, June 22, 1941. Early morning. The sun is shining cheerfully. Probably out of pride that it woke up the whole city and set it in motion. I'm standing at the gate of our house. I'm on duty. Of course, not alone - together with a neighbor from apartment eight. Lately everyone has been on duty. Even us schoolchildren. When an air raid alert is announced, those on duty are required to call passers-by to the gateway so that the street is empty.

I thought that being on duty would be interesting, but in reality it was very boring. The neighbor obviously does not consider me a suitable conversation partner and is reading a magazine. I didn’t take the book: I read it during the exams.

I stare at passers-by. I wonder where they are rushing, what they are thinking about. And I keep looking at my watch - soon my duty will end, I’ll run to Niyola. We agreed to go swimming.

Suddenly a siren began to wail. The second, the third - each in their own voice, and so strange, unpleasant. I saw a neighbor go outside. I ran out too. I call everyone into the yard, but almost no one listens to me. It’s also good that at least they don’t linger, but hurry on. Finally the street was empty.

I’m standing in the yard and waiting for lights out. I look around at my “guests” and listen to their conversations. My God, they are talking about war! It turns out that anxiety is not academic at all, but real! Kaunas has already been bombed.

I rush upstairs, home. Everyone already knows...

War... How should one live during war? Will it be possible to go to school?

The anxiety lasted for a long time. We barely waited until lights out.

Soon the sirens started blaring again. Several dull thuds were heard. Dad says that the city is already being bombed, but the bombs, apparently, are falling somewhere far away. However, it is dangerous to stay at home - third floor; we need to go down to the yard.

Almost all the residents of our house had already gathered in the courtyard. Some even with suitcases and packages. Where will they go on such a day? Mom explains that they are not going anywhere; they simply took the most necessary things so that if the house was bombed, they would not be left without everything. Why didn't we take anything?

Here come the enemy planes.

I'm very scared: I'm afraid of bombs. When I hear the whistle of an approaching bomb, I stop breathing: it seems as if it will fall right on our roof. A deafening blow, and I immediately begin to fear the next bomb.

Finally the planes took off. We went home to have breakfast. I eat and barely hold back my tears: maybe this is already my last breakfast. Even if they don’t kill you, there will still be nothing to eat - after all, the shops are closed.

The sirens started blaring again. We went down to the yard. This time they didn't bomb.

What a long day!..

In the evening, the fascist planes became even more insolent. Not paying attention to our anti-aircraft guns, they flew over the city and bombed. Once I finally dared to stick my head outside and look at the sky. The planes flew by, dropping small bombs like a handful of nuts.

Suddenly there was such a loud crash that even the glass fell down. Our neighbor, an engineer, said that the bomb fell nearby, probably on Bolshaya Street.

It got dark. Night has fallen, but no one is going to sleep.

Occasionally, cross strips of spotlights cut through the darkness. They glide across the sky, as if searching it. Some search slowly, thoroughly, others simply flicker - from left to right, from right to left. Dad says they are looking for enemy planes. I close my eyes tightly and don’t look at the sky. Then I don’t feel like there’s a war at all. Warm. Just like an ordinary summer night. True, usually I would have been asleep for a long time at this time.

The quiet hum of airplanes. A long, shrill whistle. It gets closer and closer - suddenly everything lights up and... blow! Whistle again! Hit! Whistling! Hit! Another one! Anti-aircraft guns are crackling, bombs are whistling, glass is falling. Hell of a noise.

Finally it became quiet: the planes took off.

It's starting to get light. War is war, but the sun rises. Everyone decided that it was not safe enough here, they needed to take refuge in the house opposite: there was a basement there.

You have to cross the street one at a time. I ask with my mother, but she will run with Raechka, and dad with Ruvik. Mira and I are already big and must run alone. I cower and rush.

It's actually not that scary in the basement: you can't hear any whistling or roaring. But it's dirty, dusty and stuffy. Those sitting closer to the doors often go upstairs to see what is happening there.

Finally they reported that it was quiet. Adults go out, run home and bring food for their family. As if it’s impossible to do without breakfast at a time like this!

Mom and Dad also went home.

Soon my mother returned crying. She said that we can get out of here: apparently they won’t bomb again. Soviet troops are retreating, the city is about to be occupied by the Nazis. This is a great misfortune, because they are terrible animals and fiercely hate Jews. In addition, dad worked actively under Soviet power. He's a lawyer. Even in Smetonov’s time, he was repeatedly threatened with revenge for the fact that he defended underground communists in court, for the fact that he belonged to the MOPR.

What will the occupiers do with him?

Mom brings us home. He calms him down, says that the Nazis will not be able to do anything with him, because we will go deep into the country where they will not reach. Dad will go into the army, and when the war is over, we will all return home.

Mom collects a small bundle of laundry for everyone; Our winter coats are tied to them.

We're waiting for dad. He went to get the tickets.

Along the street, towards the Holy Gate, Soviet tanks, cars, and guns are rushing.

Several hours have already passed and dad is still not there. Obviously, it's hard to get tickets: everyone wants to go. Or maybe something happened to him? It’s strange, before the war I never thought that something could happen to a person. And now there is war and everything is different...

There are already fewer cars passing by. Shooting is heard. We can’t wait any longer, we have to make our way to the station, to see dad.

We take each package and leave. Running from one gateway to another, we eventually get to the station. But nothing good awaits us here; a lot of people hurrying somewhere, talking loudly, and the sad news that the last train left a few hours ago. Someone adds that it was bombed right outside the city. There will be no more trains.

We went around every corner of the station, but dad was nowhere to be found. Only strangers, crowds pouncing on everyone dressed in a railway worker’s uniform. They demand a train, but the railway workers claim that there are no trains.

Some still hope to wait for the train, others are going to walk: maybe some car will pick you up along the way. Mom remembers that dad also talked about the car. Let's go to.

We set off along with others. The sun is burning. I'm thirsty and it's very difficult to walk. And we have moved so far away that even the city is still visible.

Ruvik asks to stop and rest. Mom takes the package from him, but it doesn’t help - he still whines. But you can’t hold a five-year-old boy in your arms. And Raechka, at least two years older, not much smarter, also whines. And I really want to rest, but I am silent.

We sat down. Others, stronger ones, are ahead of us.

When we had a little rest, mom persuaded the kids to get up. We trudge on. But not for long: they again ask to rest.

We are sitting. This time we are no longer alone: several more families are vacationing nearby.

What to do? Some believe that we must go: it is better to die from fatigue or hunger than at the hands of a fascist. Others claim that the Germans are not so scary...

The children are asking to go home. Meera says we have to move on. I'm silent. Children are crying. Mom sees that many are returning and also turns back.

The janitor says that dad came. He said that he was looking for a car.

We're home again. The rooms seem alien. My heart is empty. We wander from corner to corner, standing at the windows. Everything is dead, as if there were only empty houses left in the city. Even the cat doesn't cross the streets. Maybe we really are alone?

There are empty buses on the sidewalks. They were placed here during the first alarm. How strange it is that only a day and a half has passed since then.

Silence. Only occasionally several single shots burst into it, and again it’s quiet... Several young men with white armbands run along the street, chasing a Red Army soldier. One continues to pursue, and the rest break out the window of a store next to the Casino cinema and drag large boxes from there. The footsteps of the robbers clatter terribly in the silence.

It got dark. Mom locks the door, but we are afraid to lie down. I don't even want to. Only Ruvika and Raechka, undressed, are put to bed on the sofa in the office by their mother. Mira and I stand at the window, looking at the dark walls of the houses.

What will happen? I think I'm the most afraid of all. Although my mother is somehow different, confused. Only Mira seems the same.

Around midnight, motorcyclists rush down the street. Hitlerites!

It's dawning. Tanks are coming! Strangers! Many have banners with a menacingly blackened spider - a fascist swastika.

The entire street was already filled with Nazi cars, their motorcycles, green uniforms and guttural speech. How strange and creepy it is to look at these aliens, walking like owners through our Vilnius...

There was no need to go back...

But dad is still not there.

The Nazis ordered restaurants and cafes to open, but always with the inscription: “Fűr Juden Eintritt verboten.” “Juden” is us, and the occupiers consider us worse than all others: “Jews are not allowed to enter.” We must come up, break out the glass and tear up this insignificant piece of paper!

It's scary to leave the house. Obviously, we are not the only ones. On the street there are only Nazis and young men wearing white armbands.

Mira assures us that we need to go to school to get her certificate and the rest of our documents - they can be destroyed there. I must go: no one will touch me, little one. But I’m afraid and don’t understand why this is necessary. But mom supports Mira. Documents are needed. And Mira is already seventeen years old: they can stop her and ask for her passport. I'll have to go. For greater safety, my mother orders me to wear a school uniform and even a uniform cap.

At the gate I look around. How many fascists! What if it occurs to one of them to stop me?.. But, fortunately, they don’t even notice me.

With a trembling heart I walk down the street. I try not to look at anyone and count my steps. It's hot in a uniform woolen dress.

Crossing Gediminas Street, I quietly look around. Lots of cars and military. Green, brown and black uniforms. One passed right in front of my nose. There is a bandage with a swastika on the sleeve.

Finally - school. It's a mess, dirty. On the stairs, ninth-grader Kaukoryus blocks my way.

- Why did you come! Get out of here!

Please let me pass. But he rips the uniform cap off my head.

- Get out! And don’t stink here in our school!

I turn back and run into teacher Jonaitis. Afraid that he might scold me too, I hurry past. But the teacher stops me, offers me his hand and asks me why I came. He goes with me to the office, helps me find the certificate and metrics. He escorts him back so that Kaukoryus doesn’t get caught again. He promises to come in the evening.

He kept his word. Mom is even surprised: an unfamiliar person, only a teacher, but talks like a close relative, even offers his help.

There was a pogrom in Shnipishki. The bandits lit a fire, brought in a rabbi and several other bearded old men, ordered them to throw the Pentateuch, which they had taken from the synagogue, into the fire with their own hands. They forced the old men to undress and, holding hands, dance around the fire and sing “Katyusha.” Then they were fired at, their beards were plucked out, they were beaten, and they were forced to dance again.

Is that really true? Is it really possible to mock a person like that?

There was also a pogrom on Naugarduko Street.

In addition, the occupiers hanged several people by their feet. Someone reported that they tried to evacuate into the interior of the Soviet Union, but could not and therefore returned.

What if the janitor reports on us? After all, he probably guesses where we left home.

An order was posted on the streets: communists and Komsomol members must register. Those who know communists, Komsomol members and members of the MOPR who are avoiding registration should immediately inform the Gestapo.

I'm a pioneer. But the order says nothing about pioneers. Mom says she wouldn’t register me anyway. But the pioneer tie still needs to go somewhere. Maybe smear it in soot? Never! They tied it to me so solemnly at school, I swore an oath, and suddenly - in soot! No! We agreed to sew it into my dad’s jacket, under the lining. While my mother was sewing, I played with the children: don’t let them see. They are still little and can blurt it out.

My mother hid my father’s Mopra badge in our attic. She ordered us to look through all of my father’s files, especially those of his communist clients. If these folders are found, we will be shot.

By the way, these cases are very different, some are even more interesting than the books. I put these ones aside, carefully hide them: then I’ll read them again.

There is another order hanging on the streets: there must be order and tranquility in the city. One hundred people were taken hostage. In case of the slightest disorder or disobedience, all hostages will be shot.

The occupiers behave as if they intend to settle for a long time. Enter your money - stamps. Soviet rubles are also graciously left in circulation temporarily, but the ruble is equated to only ten pfennigs. It turns out that ten rubles is just one stamp.

A new order was posted: everyone, except the Germans and Volksdeutsche, must hand over their radios. For trying to hide them and listen to Soviet or foreign broadcasts - death!

Mom and Mira wrapped the receiver in a tablecloth and took it away.

On the vacated table from under the radio, I put my book of poems, my diary, pencils, and put my inkwell. Now I, like an adult, will have my own desk.

For several days now, the Nazis have been going door to door and checking how this order is being carried out. Yesterday we were there too. Not finding the radio, they took my father's typewriter and telephone. The neighbors' phones, bicycles and cars were also taken.

Gaubene came today. She said that Salome Neris “ran away to the Russians.” But she could, she says, live in peace if only she wrote poetry and did not interfere in politics. How she, Gaubene, persuaded the poetess not to speak out for Lithuania’s entry into the Soviet Union, not to go with the delegation to Moscow!

I always thought that Gaubene was an extraordinary person, since she knew such a poetess as Salome Neris. And now I see that I was mistaken. Gaubene probably likes to be friends with everyone who is famous. With what pride she says that a German officer lives with her! By the way, he would like to buy natural coffee. There hasn't been such coffee in Germany for a long time. I would also like to buy a collection of Heine's poems. In Germany, Heine is banned (it turns out he is also a “Jude”). And the tenant Gaubene considers him the best poet and would like to have a collection of his poems.

Mom gave both the coffee and Heine. Gaubene promised to bring money for this.

The Nazis are again visiting Jewish apartments. Sometimes they are alone, sometimes “for the sake of legality” they also bring in janitors. Describe the furniture. When leaving, they sternly warn that everything should remain in its place and that it should not be taken out or sold. If even one chair disappears, the whole family will be shot.

But if they see particularly beautiful furniture somewhere, they take it away without even describing it. Robbers!

Not even two weeks have passed since the occupation, and how everything has changed.

Orders are again posted in the city: all “Juden”, adults and children, are required to wear signs: a ten-centimeter square of white material, on it is a yellow circle, and in it is the letter “J”. These signs must be sewn to outer clothing, on the chest and back.

The occupiers don’t even consider us human; they brand us like cattle. In no case can we agree with this! Will no one dare to resist?

Mom tells us to talk less and help sew these signs. She cuts the yellow lining of the old bedspread and we get to work. Several neighbors come in who don't have yellow material.

The work is not going well: sometimes it’s too wide, sometimes it’s crooked. Nobody is talking.

As she leaves, one neighbor declares that these signs should be worn with pride. I found something to be proud of... A brand. At least I won’t go out with them: it’s a shame to meet a teacher or even a friend.

There is another order of the Nazis: all “Juden” are obliged to hand over their money, jewelry, gold items and other valuables. You can only keep thirty marks, that is, three hundred rubles.

Leeches! Obviously, in their damned Gestapo there is some kind of devil who is specially inventing new troubles for us.

Signs and confiscation of money are even the smallest troubles. They are killing innocent people! Armed patrols detain men on the streets and drive them to Lukiskis prison.

Men are afraid to go out. But this does not help: bandits break into houses at night and take away even teenagers.

At first everyone believed that those arrested were being taken from prison to Ponary, to a work camp. But now we already know: there is no camp in Ponary. They're shooting there! There are only cemented pits where corpses are dumped.

Can't be! After all, this is terrible!!! Why, why are they being killed?!

“The Grabbers,” as they were called, never cease to rage. In each apartment there are shelters in which men hide day and night.

Maybe it’s not bad that there is no dad. Maybe he is there... He is fighting at the front and will free us. When teacher Jonaitis tells the news from Moscow Radio (he didn’t give up his radio, but hid it in a woodshed), it still seems to me that he will tell something about dad. And my mother is very afraid of this. She, of course, also wants to find out about dad, but not on the radio, because then we will be shot like the family of a Red Army soldier.

Or maybe they won’t shoot? After all, the families of Soviet officers live there. They locked them in two houses on Subachiaus Street and are holding them. True, it is unknown what will happen to them next. You can’t understand the fascists at all: they don’t kill prisoners of war all over the world, but they shot four thousand in Ponary.

They shot... This means that people were driven to the pits. They pointed the muzzle of a rifle at everyone, from which small bullets flew out, crashed into the heart, and the people fell dead. No, not everyone was immediately hit in the heart or head; many were only wounded, and they died in terrible agony. Thousands of lives were cut short, so many young, cheerful guys died, and all this was called in one word: “execution.” I had never understood the meaning of this word before. And “fascism”, “war”, “occupation” seemed just words in a history textbook.

And now, probably, people in other cities and countries, where there is no war and fascism, also do not understand, cannot imagine the real meaning of these words. Therefore, we need to write down everything that happens here in a diary. If I stay alive, I’ll tell you myself; if not, others will read it. But let them know! Necessarily!

News again: new signs are being introduced for us: not a square, but a white bandage with a six-pointed star in the center. The bandage should be worn on the left hand.

I feel hungry all the time. Mira and I talk about this only among ourselves, so as not to upset our mother, but the kids constantly complain. Mom worries and, dividing the bread into portions, often sighs. Of course, he takes the least for himself. This is because they give very little with cards, and only in a few shops specially designated for us. The queues are huge. Sometimes, after standing all day, you have to return empty-handed. We eat what mom manages to barter with the peasants. I really miss milk.

The other day, teacher Jonaitis brought a piece of bacon. Confused, he explained for a long time that he received a card, but he didn’t need it: an adult can do without fat, and we have children; A growing body needs fats. Mom was touched, but I was ashamed that they were bringing us alms. But the teacher insisted. The kids received a slice of lard for dinner, and we got delicious cracklings to go with our potatoes.

But the good mood from the delicious dinner was overshadowed by sad news: an order was posted at the school that all Komsomol members (Yu. Titlyus, A. Titlyute and others) and all Jews were expelled from school.

This means that I am no longer a student... What will I do in winter? Will I really remain a dropout?

Mira and I agreed to take turns sleeping on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. This is because our apartment, especially the bedroom, is located away from the gate, and we never hear the “night guests” knocking. We wake up when they are already in the yard. If you sleep on the balcony, you can hear it right away.

I'm starting the "overnight camp". The night is warm. There are an infinite number of stars in the sky. And everything flickers. Now I will always sleep here: it’s very good. Could I describe all this? Nijole and Birute praise my poems, but they themselves understand no more than me. And Luda praises. But as she herself writes:

Oh-ho-ho
There, near Limpopo,
There lived an old Don Juan -
Crocodile from the Nile.
But what if we describe this night?
Little stars twinkle
They look in surprise from above.
Do they see how people suffer here?
And how scary are these nights for them?

Badly. Tomorrow I’ll sit down and think carefully about making the poem real. The breath of this night should be heard in it. It would be nice without war. Is horror appropriate in poetry? It is much better to write about spring, about a cheerful stream...

They're knocking! At our gates!!!

I run to the bedroom and wake up my mother. Together with Mira we help dress the children. Ruvik tries to whine, but immediately stops, realizing that he can’t.

They're already knocking on our door! Mom goes to open it. We go out after her.

Armed Gestapo men burst into the hallway. They go to their rooms. One remains to guard us. He orders not to move, otherwise he will shoot.

They rummage through closets, rummage through drawers. They are asking where dad is. Mom says that he was taken away in the first days, immediately after the hostages. “It’s not true!” growled the most evil one, obviously the boss. “He probably ran away with the Bolsheviks! You are all Bolsheviks, and soon you will be kaput!”

And again they search, throw, scatter. Mom is trembling and quietly tells us to make sure they don’t slip weapons or proclamations. They will pretend that they found it and shoot you. How can you keep track if you are forbidden to even move?

Having found nothing, once again threatening that we will soon be “kaput”, the Gestapo men leave.

We don't go to bed anymore. Mom can’t get the Nazi’s words out of her head that dad probably ran away with the Bolsheviks. Maybe they know something? Maybe dad is really there, alive, fighting!

I won't sleep on the balcony anymore. But I won’t tell anyone about the poem and the stars...

Members of the Judenrat, that is, the “Council of Jews,” were summoned to the “Gebitskommissariat.” (This council was created quite recently from the Jewish city nobility. People who knew the former Germans assure that they will probably take such respected personalities into account). So, the Judenrat was informed that an indemnity of five million rubles was being imposed on the Jews of the city of Vilnius. This amount must be paid by nine o'clock the next day. Otherwise, at half past nine, the extermination of all Jews in the city will begin. The specified amount can be deposited not only in cash, but also in gold, silver and jewelry.

Mom collected all the money, took the rings and chain and left.

I stand in the kitchen by the window and cry: it’s scary to think that tomorrow I will have to die. Just recently I was studying, running along the corridors, answering homework, and suddenly - die! But I do not want! After all, she had lived so little!.. And she didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Even with dad. The last time I saw him was leaving the shelter, from the basement of the opposite house. I won't see you again. I won’t see or feel anything at all. I won't be there. And everything else will remain - the streets, the meadows, even the lessons... Only I won’t be there - neither at home, nor on the street, nor at school... don’t look - you won’t find it anywhere... Or maybe no one will look? They will forget. After all, this is for myself, for my loved ones, I am a “person”. In general, among thousands of people I am a grain of sand, one of many. Maybe someone will someday mention me, all my aspirations and dreams in one word - was. She was and died one summer day, when people were unable to collect the indemnity required by the occupiers. Or maybe these circumstances will also be forgotten. After all, the living do not remember the dead very often. Will I really be this deceased?..

Someone is walking down the corridor... Teacher Jonaitis. I didn’t even hear him when he came in. He stood next to him, put his hand on his shoulder and remained silent. But I can't calm down.

Mom returned. She warned that she would be in the courtyard of the Judenrat to wait for the results of counting the money. There are a lot of people there.

Jonaitis emptied his wallet and asked his mother to take his money too. But my mother doesn’t take it: four hundred rubles is probably her entire salary. But Jonaitis waves his hand: he will somehow get by, and this money may save at least one human life.

Soon my mother returned. Everyone left without learning anything: the money had not yet been counted, and they could only go until eight. (By the way, we are an exception in this too, because the rest of the city residents can walk until ten.) Members of the Judenrat will count all night. It looks like there are no five million...

The last night has come... Jonaitis is staying with us for the night. Mom makes bed for him in the office, and we, as usual, lie down in the bedroom.

The kids fell asleep. It's good that they don't understand anything. The night drags on very slowly. Let it go. If time had stopped completely now, morning would not have come and there would be no need to die.

But it was dawn...

Mom runs to the Judenrat. Of course, she didn’t reach the authorities. But people said that only three and a half million had been collected, which they had just taken to the “Gebitskommissariat”.

Will the deadline be extended? Maybe they didn’t know everything yesterday and will bring it today?

Mom gave everyone a bundle of linen.

The steps of engineer Fried were heard on the stairs (he lives in the next apartment and is a member of the Judenrat). Mom knocked on their door. She returned joyful: the occupiers accepted the indemnity without even counting it.

Many people call Masha Rolnikaite (now, of course, Maria Grigorievna) the Lithuanian Anne Frank. True, their fates are still different: if Anna wrote her diary underground (which, of course, in no way detracts from the tragedy of her fate), then Masha’s diary is a chronicle of grief, suffering, physical and moral torment, seen, experienced, almost tangible. This diary was kept by a 14-year-old girl - that’s how old Masha was when she ended up in the ghetto. She would then spend a total of 45 months, almost four years, in the ghetto and two death camps.

The book “I Must Tell,” based on these diary entries, as well as Rolnikite’s second story, “It Was Then,” which describes the events after the death camp (when Masha and other prisoners, exhausted and exhausted, had to go to their native Vilnius on the roof of wagons ), perhaps, can be called an extra-literary phenomenon. This is an authentic version of events, presented frankly and artlessly, valuable for its intonation, childishness, naivety and at the same time the greatness of the human spirit.

Written against all odds - wherever the girl Masha hid her manuscript - the book “I Must Tell,” like Shalamov’s prose, represents not only an indisputable document of its time, but also a new type of post-literature. That is, literature after humanism. Perhaps that is why, in terms of its impact on the reader, it is much more powerful than Spielberg’s “Schindler’s List” or Polanski’s “The Pianist” (although Polanski himself also survived the ghetto as a child).

- Maria Grigorievna, I read your books and came to the conclusion that this is, dare I say it, superliterature.

- And, unfortunately, forever relevant. Now here they are again... they're shooting. This time in Ukraine, the events in which I closely follow, I am sad about its fate. Everything in the world repeats itself, like a bad dream.

-What struck me, among other things: even when the war was already over, you had no peace. On the way home to Vilnius you were forced to ride on the roof of the carriage! And this after everything you’ve experienced, after the ghettos and camps?..

Yes, no one forced us, we ourselves wanted to get to our native places. We could, of course, fall out of there at any moment: the roof was slightly sloping and slippery. One of us was lying down, three of us were holding her... It was very scary: then, already in times of peace, I was always horrified at the sight of freight trains: how could I ride on the roof of such a train for several days? I can't imagine.

-And then interrogations by the NKVD followed: “what were you doing in Germany?”

Yeah…

-Murer, the executioner of the Vilnius ghetto, was released from responsibility and died in his bed. This is somehow especially creepy, because it turns out that there is absolutely no balance of good and evil in the world...

A German film crew visited me not long ago: they were filming a film about me and Moorer. They have this idea - to show two destinies, mine and this Murer. Executioner and victim, literally speaking. When he was on trial in Vilnius, I wanted to go as a witness for the prosecution, but my father didn’t allow me: they say, there are older people, let them go. Although I was eager... And not at all out of revenge, but because I could tell a lot about him.

-Wasn't it scary to see him again?

No, I wanted to see him - to hear what he would say, to see how he would behave. But my dad went to trial instead of me: as a lawyer, he was allowed to be present at that meeting.

-Did your dad tell you about this process?

Certainly. Murer behaved extremely arrogantly, did not repent of anything and said that he was detained by a man who allegedly fled from the communists. One of the former prisoners recognized him in the camp for displaced persons and immediately called a policeman - that’s how Murer got caught, before he had time to leave for America.

-The court gave him 25 years.

But Khrushchev, by agreement with Austria, released him already in 1955 along with other Nazi criminals. A retrial took place in Austria in 1961. And then he was already acquitted.

-Was Murer arrested for the second time in connection with the high-profile Eichmann trial?

Yes, and there was not a single representative of the USSR at the trial: since you freed him and handed him over to Austria, where he never spent a day in prison, then what is there to testify about?

The trial was more like a parody, a staged trial: many former SS men were present in the hall, the public was on the side of the accused. The meeting took place in Austria, in the city of Graz. By chance, I read a note that an American who happened to be there at that time wanted to buy his wife flowers on the occasion of her birthday, but could not get a single flower: all the flowers were bought by Moorer’s fans, who after the trial greeted him as movie star. One person came to the trial, his victim, a former prisoner of the ghetto. He hid a knife in his pocket: apparently, he had a presentiment that Murer would not be executed, he wanted to stab him. The knife, of course, was taken away, and he himself was expelled from the courtroom. And another woman, whose sister Murer killed right in front of her, shooting at both of them - they were teenagers then, stood pressed against each other, and the sister’s blood flowed right down this woman’s legs... So, having started her speech, she stopped talking in sobs - hysterics began. She was severely reprimanded for this and told to restrain herself, otherwise they would also be taken out of the hall.

-Hannah Arendt, in her book “The Banality of Evil,” writes that Eichmann allegedly committed his crimes without any “voluptuousness,” not as an ordinary sadist, but simply “following orders.” He always spoke smoothly, in formal terms, and kept saying that he was just an honest servant.

I lied! All of them on the ships were screaming that they were following orders and all that jazz. Murer also “followed orders.” True, by carrying out these orders, he became incredibly rich - he appropriated the entire indemnity for himself and did not transfer it to the benefit of the Fatherland. The Jews of Vilnius, under pain of immediate and total extermination, gave him millions: rubles, dollars, and gold. And he then took all the loot to Austria, where he settled and lived openly - he appropriated everything, absolutely everything for himself. That is, my mother’s chain and ring - our pathetic contribution to Herr Murer’s enrichment - are also there... It’s interesting, by the way, that he has two granddaughters, already quite adult women. One of them is an ardent Nazi, and the other, on the contrary, is an anti-fascist.

- Why do you think this “Aryan myth” is so enduring? After all, it is still cultivated in various interpretations.

So what to do…

Fight!

You young people are fighting... Although I was recently asked to give a lecture at school. High school students and Russian children listened. And with great interest.

-Maria Grigorievna, didn’t you think that you also survived to tell others how it was?

This is what one believing woman said to me: “You survived to tell the world what fascism is.” But why didn’t mom, Ruvik and Raechka survive?

(Maria Grigorievna shows a photo of Ruvik and Raechka- two kids in festive dresses. We are silent.)

-Do you have any relatives left?

Nobody! I live alone with photographs. The husband died. He was a wonderful man, with a crystal soul. I have never met anyone more honest than him. He never envied me, he rejoiced at my successes and (laughs) relative “fame.” Because of him, I moved to Leningrad, although all my friends, my entire entourage remained in Vilnius.

-Boris Frezinsky in his book “Mosaic of Jewish Fates. XX century" called you “Lithuanian Anne Frank.” The chapter dedicated to you is called “The Eyes of Masha Rolnikite.” And there is a photo of you, a 14-year-old girl. The eyes are truly the first thing that attracts attention - they are so expressive.

- Were! Now instead of them there are wrinkles. But Boris wasn’t the only one who called me that. When my book came out in France, everyone shouted: Soviet Anne Frank!

- Were there any difficulties in the USSR with the publication of your book, which you miraculously preserved in the ghetto?

Firstly, while Father Stalin was alive, I didn’t even mention my book. Few people knew that these notes even existed. To enter the Literary Institute, I wrote some stupid play for amateur performances (laughs). But then things moved forward: in 1961 they decided to publish the book, albeit with idiotic editorial comments that it was not written from a Marxist position.

Like this?

Well, yes, how could I, at the age of 14, know what Marxist positions are? But the most disgusting thing is that others asked me, they say, was Jonaitis my mother’s lover, was he in love with my sister, whom he saved? I don’t know how to give slaps, I never learned, but here my hands were itching, I’ll honestly admit to you.

-Jonaitis was your teacher? It is he,Lithuanian by nationality, heroically saved twelve people by hiding them in a shelter between the walls of the monastery.

Yes, he was a heroic man. Saved my sister, risking himself every second. But he is not the only righteous man of the world who, risking his life, did the incredible to save these people. All of them - priest Juozas Stakauskas, nun Maria Mikulska, teacher Vladas Zemaitis - helped those imprisoned in the shelter every day, although it was difficult to get food and checks were frequent. My sister managed to escape and, thank God, did not end up in the ghetto. After the war we met... Jonaitis then, after the war, defended his dissertation, became a candidate of physical and mathematical sciences, and I often came to visit him, for example, on his birthdays. Surprisingly, none of the guests knew what he did for us and what I experienced: we did not talk about it.

Even so?

Yes, somehow the conversation didn’t come up.

- How is this possible?

You know, not everyone was interested in this. Let’s say, a woman who sat next to Jonaitis in the same laboratory, his colleague and researcher, having read my book, once said: “Well, Masha wrote it!”

- I mean, is this all too incredible?

Apparently yes.

- Indeed, this is so terrible that it seems more like the plot of Bosch’s paintings than the realities of the twentieth century. Was your book published in Germany?

And how! There were several publications. One of the covers bore the following subtitle: “Courageous women of the Third Reich.” It turns out that I am a woman of the Third Reich!

Wow!

Then they often told me: “Why are you all talking about sad things? Write about love!”

-This is already black humor. On the other hand, your books, in a sense, are truly about love. What Jonaitis did, the way people survived in this hell - they were led by love, weren't they? In the broad, universal sense of the word. And you managed to save the manuscript thanks to...

-...love, do you think? No, exclusively childish stubbornness. The main word there is “must”: “I must tell.”

- Did you feel like you had done something heroic?

Come on! They called me Don Quixote - probably for my heightened sense of justice. It may not be their fault that people are weak. I’m not talking about fascists now, but about the fact that people don’t understand a lot, they’re afraid of a lot. And it’s hard to be a hero... People want to live comfortably, what can you do.

And then Hitler comes - and everyone goes numb...

Yes it is. Unfortunately.

M. Rolnikaite

I MUST TELL

Documentary story

PREFACE

Masha's kind and brave teacher, Jonaitis saved the first notebook of the diary - the beginning of terrible years. Then Masha, on the advice of her mother, began to memorize what she had written, but she could not always write and did not remember everything she wrote word for word. She restored and wrote down her diary after her release: the events are described truthfully, accurately, but, of course, not always eighteen-year-old Masha could restore the feelings of a fifteen-year-old girl. However, her diary is extremely valuable for its detailed account of the lives of tens of thousands of people in the ghetto: some meekly awaited death, others hoped for a miracle, others fought like one of the heroes of the Resistance, Witenberg.

Talking about how she was separated from her mother, Masha writes: “I’m crying. What did I do? What did my mother and other people do? Is it possible to kill just for our nationality? Where does this wild hatred towards us come from? For what?” - So asked a sixteen-year-old girl and this is not an idle question. Twenty years have passed since the defeat of the Nazi empire, but again in West Germany and in other countries of the world swastika spiders appear on the monuments of the martyred, and old conversations are heard that the Jews are to blame for all misfortunes. Let Masha’s book, one of many documents showing years of darkening of reason and conscience, contempt for everything human, remind us that, as the Polish poet Tuwim said, “anti-Semitism is the international language of fascism” and that until the ghosts of racism and fascism disappear , not a single mother - neither Jewish nor "Aryan", neither black nor white - will be able to calmly look at her children. Masha’s little sister Raechka asked her mother in the last minutes: “Does it hurt when they shoot?”

May this never happen again.

Ilya Ehrenburg

In memory of mother, sister and brother

I stare at passers-by. I wonder where they are rushing, what they are thinking about. And I keep looking at my watch - soon my duty will end, I’ll run to Niyola. We agreed to go swimming.

Suddenly a siren began to wail. The second, the third - each in their own voice, and so strange, unpleasant. I looked - the neighbor went out into the street. I ran out too. I call everyone into the yard, but almost no one listens to me. It’s also good that at least they don’t linger, but hurry on. Finally the street was empty.

I rush upstairs, home. Everyone already knows...

War... How should one live during war? Will it be possible to go to school?

The anxiety lasted for a long time. We barely waited until lights out.

Here come the enemy planes.

The sirens started blaring again. We went down to the yard. This time they didn't bomb.

What a long day!..

Suddenly there was such a loud crash that even the glass fell down. Our neighbor, an engineer, said that the bomb fell nearby, probably on Bolshaya Street.

It got dark. Night has fallen, but no one is going to sleep.

M. Rolnikaite

I MUST TELL

Documentary story

PREFACE

01. 12. 2015

Masha Rolnikaite survived the Vilnius ghetto and two concentration camps, lost her mother and brother and sister, and kept a diary all this time. Today it comes out in Russian without cuts

Masha Rolnikite “I must tell”

Masha Rolnikaite survived the Vilnius ghetto and two concentration camps, lost her mother and brother and sister, and kept a diary all this time. Her notes compiled a book that was translated into 17 languages, and 50 years ago was first published in Russian. Only now her book “I Must Tell” has been republished in the author’s edition in Russian without cuts. Masha herself lives in St. Petersburg, continues to write and publish.

On the cover it says “Masha Rolnikite”. And before they wrote - Maria Grigorievna. Which is correct? In Jewish families they usually called Miriam, but that was the name of your older sister Mira.

Yes, and I’m just Masha, and that’s my full name. Masha Girsho Rolnikite - there is no patronymic name in the Lithuanian language; the father's name is written in the genitive case. And they made me Maria Grigorievna in the Zvezda magazine when they were going to publish a diary in Russian. I then signed simply “M. Roll." And they say to me: “You understand that you are making your debut with the letter “M” in St. Petersburg literature, which includes Anna Akhmatova, Vera Inber...” Everyone was listed. And I became Maria Grigorievna, but now I have returned my name. And in my latest book, “Alone with Memory,” I am Masha again.

You wrote a diary in Yiddish. Why not in Lithuanian, which you were taught in school?

Those who shot at us spoke Lithuanian. This is firstly, and secondly, from 1920 to 1939 Vilnius was located on the territory of Poland. At our school there was a map of Lithuania, and on it the border separating Vilnius, temporarily occupied by the Poles, and the Vilnius region was marked with a dotted line. Kaunas was then made the temporary capital of Lithuania. And in Vilnius there were many Poles, speaking Polish. But in the ghetto it was strange to speak and write in a language other than Hebrew. Besides, I was afraid that they would kill me. I thought that few people understand Lithuanian, and if they don’t understand, they will throw away my diary. And maybe they’ll want to read it in Yiddish.

Main entrance to the Vilnius ghetto, 1941

Photo: The Green House/Wikimedia Commons

And you began to conduct it as a witness, day after day.

I didn't think about being a witness. I wanted them to know how it happened. But, of course, I dabbled since childhood - I wrote poems, kept a diary, and wrote down who gave what mark at school. And when the Germans arrived and the first orders appeared - about the mandatory wearing of yellow stars, about not stepping on the sidewalk, I became ashamed to go out into the street. How will I get out? I meet a friend, she is walking along the sidewalk, and am I like a horse along the pavement? What if I meet one of the teachers? I was embarrassed, sat in my father’s empty office and wrote down these orders and everything that happened. I even remembered the map of the world that hung above the blackboard in the classroom; these hemispheres seemed to come to life. I imagined that after the war people would live everywhere, let them know the truth. And then I began, so to speak, to write more consciously. And then I got involved and, on my mother’s advice, began to learn by heart.

You talk, and I remember your book, sometimes it seems like word for word. As I understand it, you rewrote the diary many times and in the end you restored everything from memory - after all, nothing was saved?

But I wrote everything down and remembered everything. Only for the last three weeks, when we were being driven out, I didn’t write. And I wrote about this time after my liberation, but immediately, lying in bed in a German house. I remember the rest even now, wake me up at night and I’ll tell you.

Masha RolnikitePhoto: Oksana Yushko for TD

What was it recorded on?

Whatever it takes. In Strasdenhof, when we were crushing stones, empty cement bags were lying nearby. We wrapped them around our legs because the stockings had not yet been issued. It was warm, and it was possible to carry “paper” into the camp. But do you know that many people don’t want to know about it today? I'm saying this without offense, I'm just stating a fact. Once I spoke at a research institute in St. Petersburg, this was several years ago, long before the terrorist attacks in Paris, and in Israel then it was still relatively calm, and two young men, both Jews, handed me a coat and went to see me off to the trolleybus. One asks: “Don’t you think you are Don Quixote?”

You're not exactly fighting windmills.

That's what I told them. But that’s not so bad, I gave a lady here the latest edition of the diary. And she says: “Why do you all write about sad things, write about love.”

You know, I have an album at home that I call “My Yad Vashem.” Returning home after the camp, I collected documents related to the ghetto. All evidence of our humiliation is yellow stars, armbands, certificates, tin neck numbers. I found a lot of quite rare things. And I accidentally found out that a spontaneous Jewish Museum had opened in one of the buildings on the territory of the ghetto. I came and saw that “Auswais” - Facharbeiter Auswais, craftsman’s certificates, were laid out on the floor to dry. And I started looking for my mother’s ID, which saved my life for three months. But on the Ausweiss, written in ink, the text blurred, everything was in the basement, the letters were impossible to make out. And Kacherginsky, the poet, he worked there, said: “Don’t fool yourself, find the first ID you come across and take it.” That's why I have a lot of other people's documents.

Jewish women on the streets of Vilnius, 1941

Photo: Bundesarchiv, Bild 183-R99291 / CC-BY-SA 3.0

Reading your diary, I kept thinking - those of your neighbors, classmates who served the Nazis, for the most part they have not disappeared. Not everyone died, fled with the Germans or was imprisoned; you had to meet them. In the continuation of the diary there is a story about a chorus girl with whom you worked - she lived in your apartment during the war and wore your mother’s dresses. But she's not alone. What was it like?

But we didn’t communicate with them. Some have already studied at the university, some have been where, after all, four years have passed. And for another two years I did not dare to go to school. My dad really wanted me to finish at least high school, but I was so overwhelmed, I told him: “What difference does it make, how much is A plus B, and where does the Mississippi flow? The main thing is who has the rifle.” And that I clung to this Mississippi. But dad and Jonaitis convinced me, and I went to night school. I remember that the school year began, I immediately got into an algebra lesson. X's, Y's, this was a Chinese letter for me, and I decided that I wouldn't come tomorrow. But the next lesson was literature, then history, and I condescended. They didn’t give gold medals in evening schools, but I graduated with all A’s. And therefore I was able to enter the Literary Institute without exams.

You entered the competition by correspondence, but sent an amateur play to the competition.

There was no point in even thinking about going to college with a Jewish diary; it was better to immediately surrender to a madhouse. And no one saw the diary except Mira’s dad and sister. I restored everything, copied it into three thick notebooks, tied it with a black ribbon and hid it. And if it weren’t for my Russian friend Rida, with whom we worked at the Philharmonic, nothing would have worked out with the institute. The list of documents that had to be sent to the admissions committee included an application form. Rida said: “You are an honest fool! You can’t send a questionnaire to the Literary Institute!” I answer that I am writing an autobiography, and there is something about the ghetto and about both camps. And she: “Who will read this! If you want, you can come with me and stand in silence, I will send your documents.” And I was even embarrassed to tell my dad that I sent the documents without a form. He was an honest man.

Masha Rolnikite. From personal archive

Photo: Oksana Yushko for TD

It's good that they accepted it.

I kept waiting for them to ask for a questionnaire. But no one noticed that she was missing. And, having entered without exams, I came to Moscow only for the first session. I met everyone, for some reason they called me Magda. And then a story happened, which will be one of the short stories in my new book. It is called “My tongue is my enemy.” We took the session after the full-time students and asked those who were leaving the exam what questions they had. And in the evening they gathered, everyone read out a question, and whoever knew the answer spoke. And then someone names the question: “Speech of Comrade Stalin at the XVIII Congress.” And I told him: “Yes, here you just need to be able to chat.” There was dead silence in response, and it dawned on me what I had said. I expected that they would report me, that they would come for me. But it worked out.

What year was it?

1951 or 1952.

“Rootless cosmopolitans”, “killers in white coats”, execution of Peretz Markish.

But maybe only Markisha! If only you knew what secret they told me about Mikhoels’ death!

You talked with Mikhoels, even took him around the former ghetto.

Yes, in 1947. Mikhoels was not the only one there - the writer Chaim Grade was there, and someone else. And they asked me to take them along our last route, to show them where we sat on that last night before the liquidation of the ghetto. Mikhoels found out that I kept a diary, and, of course, wanted to read it. I took all three notebooks to him at the hotel. The next day he called and said that he had been reading until four in the morning, but could no longer, and he would take my diary to Moscow: “I will leave it at the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee, if you are in Moscow, you will come and pick it up.” But he said it was impossible to print it now. I don’t remember exactly his words - either he said that it was not time, or that it was unrealistic. And when I returned to the Jewish Museum and told them, they explained to me: “Didn’t you understand, he was the one who was protecting you!”

Underground members of the Vilnius ghetto, 1944 Photo: Wikimedia Commons

You speak and write about events that have almost no witnesses left. But you have a wonderful friend Fanya Brantsovskaya, who is older than you, and today she leads tours of the former ghetto. You said that you correspond with her. What, by email?

Yiddish?

Which one? Fanya speaks Hebrew everywhere. She knows Lithuanian, of course, and Polish even better. But her Russian is worse, she doesn’t try very hard.

Fanya is 93. We correspond and share with each other. I ask how her legs are. And she writes: “I get up in the morning and think about what blouse to wear, white or green. I put on white and go.”

You describe life in the ghetto in great detail. To my shame, I didn’t think about how everything was arranged - it’s clear that it’s scary and difficult, but how? Were there, for example, bathhouses in the ghetto?

Necessarily. In the ghetto, all sanitary standards were observed; there was even a sanitary police, local, Jewish. They came and checked whether it was clean and washed under the bed. And without a certificate that you were in the bathhouse, they didn’t give you bread cards. This bread, of course, was relative.

Masha RolnikitePhoto: Oksana Yushko for TD

You often see the dreaded word “action” in your diary.

I can't hear him. Now a promotion is when products in the store are cheaper. And our actions were mass executions, when people were taken to Ponar and killed there.

When the trial of Gebietskommissar Franz Murer, the chief executioner of the ghetto, who was caught in Austria, was held in Vilnius, your father did not allow you to attend the trial. Do you regret it?

No. Then I realized that dad was taking care of my nerves. By the way, in the continuation of my diary there is a story about the second trial of Moorer. He was sentenced to 25 years in Vilnius, and then, before Khrushchev’s visit to Austria, together with other Austrian criminals who were imprisoned with us, they were handed over to Austria, and there they were soon released. Murer was very rich and lived quietly in Graz. And so, in 1961, the trial of Eichmann takes place in Jerusalem. And one of the witnesses is Dvorzhetsky, a doctor from the ghetto, who speaks mainly about Murer. The Austrians could not help but react, and Murer was detained. Everyone wrote and talked about this, even on our radio, and I couldn’t find anything better than writing to the chief prosecutor of the USSR, Rudenko. I wrote that I was ready to go to trial and testify that this was not revenge. I waited a very long time for an answer and waited for a government postcard: “Your complaint has been transferred to the prosecutor’s office of the Lithuanian SSR, from where you will receive an answer.” Complaint! Of course, I didn't receive anything. And okay, then a book about this was published in Austria, and in the afterword the author describes this second process in detail. In the courtroom there were entirely supporters of the accused, they mimicked the witnesses, one of whom came with a knife - Murer killed his six-year-old son in front of his eyes, but, of course, the knife was taken away and the witness was taken out of the room. And one woman, an Israeli, burst into tears. The judge called her to order, and she apologized: “He shot my sister. We stood in an embrace, and my sister’s blood flowed down my legs.” And yet Moorer was acquitted.

Poland. Nazi concentration camp Stutthof, crematorium oven. 1945

Photo: Mark Markov-Grinberg/TASS

Because he was retried for the same crime?

Yes. He left the courtroom to celebrate his victory. They wrote that an American in Vienna that day tried to buy his wife flowers, but could not because Murer’s fans had bought them all. The author writes in this afterword: “I thought we were different.”

I also thought that we were different, three years ago. And today they convincingly demonstrate to us how easy it is to turn people into animals.

Those who don't want to will not be converted.

But don’t you have the feeling that everything is repeating itself - not the specific horrors of the ghetto, but this atmosphere of fear itself?

Of course have. I hate hatred more than anything in the world. And I recently spoke at a school and talked about how hatred disfigures people. But what can I do? Even if a Jewish woman I knew in St. Petersburg, when I remarked to her that I didn’t know about the renovation of the Palace Bridge - I rarely leave the house now - could say: “You’re messing around in your Holocaust, where would you know!”

DOSSIER

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