Dobin Semion

Добин Семён

Our family consisted of my parents, Pinkhus and Fanya, my brothers Grisha, Yakov, and Boris, and me. I was the youngest of the four brothers. When the war began, my parents, Boris, Yakov, and I stayed in Minsk, where we stranded in the ghetto.

The blood story began on July 19, 1941, when occupancy orders from the SS created a Jewish ghetto that encompassed the northwest corner of the city. The occupants were forced into the quarter of the city that included people from Minsk and its neighboring towns as well as Jews from Germany and other Europeans countries. Inevitably we had to move into the restricted area. Just weeks later the Nazis began rounding up young men and women, which resulted in dangerous riots. Many were injured and killed, including my brother Yakov, who was fatally shot during a riot in August. Grown men were taken outside the territory for unknown amounts time, and their absence instilled fear in their families. We worried about the safety of my father because many of the men didn’t return at night.

I vividly remember the first pogrom, which occurred on November 7, 1941. People hurriedly tried the scramble into their pre-made shelters, but only a few lucky ones made it safety. At the same time, the Nazis stormed into homes, taking anyone they could find and pilling them into back trucks that would take them outside the enclave. There they lined up men, women, and even children, and mercilessly murdered them.

My father was well known throughout Minsk as a master mason and stove maker. His craft enabled him to build sufficiently reliable shelters in which we hid throughout the occupation. Our days were long and restless. Once we had to be enclosed in the cellar for two days with no food. During a pogrom in 1942, my mother wasn’t able to make it back to the malina, or shelter, and was forced to hide inside a stove. Only a single flap kept her hidden. We waited like mice, quiet and fearful, hoping to see our mother alive. Thankfully, she wasn’t found.

March 2, 1942, is remembered as one of the most tragic days of Minsk’s ghetto. On that day Nazi soldiers shot and killed five thousand Jews at the Jubilee Square. Today a memorial stand on Melnikayte Street in memory of those who perished; this place is known as Yama Memorial. Minsk’s Jews gather here annually on May 9 to shown their respect.

By October 1943 very few Jews remained in Minsk, all of whom knew that their days were numbered. My father began building our last hideout, a basement under an uninhabitable broken-down house located near Jewish cemetery. To get air into our underground lair, my father built a special hole that connected to pipes that parted to the brick oven’s chimney and ran against the walls of the house. For food, we rationed bread, crackers, and water. The shelter was built for thirteen people. The occupants included my parents, Boris, and me, my grandma, my mother’s sister and her son, Rahil and Fima, as well as other relatives. Some strangers found out about the hideaway, and my father never rejected anyone who came for help. Over time, the shelter held twenty-six people. As food ran out more quickly, it needed to be rationed even more carefully.

Soon after we moved into the shelter, the days became longer, and our hope for salvation slowly faded. The shortages of food and water were harder to withstand, and a few people perished because of it. My grandmother passed away, and laying her to rest in the underground hideout where we slept was our only choice. Two more graves appeared soon afterward. We became very weak, even lacking sufficient energy and spirit to bathe ourselves. Finally, a small miracle occurred: a water spring opened up next to one the newly dug graves.

Boris was the first person who risked going out to gather food. My father sent him to our old apartment on Starovilenskoya Street. While traveling at night, he struggled with his fear of being captured. Our old neighbors were shocked to see him because it was believed that there were no Jews left in Minsk at the time. They generously sent Boris back with some extra bread. Rahil, the least Jewish-looking person in the group, took on the responsibility of going out for produce. One time she and Musa, who sometimes also went out, met a Belorussian woman with whom Musa used to work. That night they returned with fresh bread and onions. This woman helped us with bread and crackers for the rest of the war.

Throughout the time we spent in hiding, my father supported and encouraged everyone. More importantly, he always believed that we would be liberated, and he instilled this faith in all of us. Risking his life, he would come out of the shelter, even in daylight. Once, discovering there was a horse that stood in the house above us, he introduced himself to the horse’s owner and told him about our hideaway. The man, who promised not to betray us to the Nazis, took his horse father encountered someone outside the shelter, he met a man from mailing us for money and gold, neither of wish we had. To save us, my father pulled the gold crowns and teeth from his mouth and gave them to the bastard. This was the type of person my father was. He possessed the willpower and courage to help us survive at any cost.

These are just a few memories of those gruesome days and nights that were filled with loss, fear of death, and hopelessness. Looking back, even today, I still can’t conceive how we were able to live through it all.

Sadly, thirteen people were laid to rest during our time in hiding. Today, out of the thirteen that were liberated, four are still living: Botis, Fima Gimelstein, Mark Guhman, and I. Mark, Boris and I live in the United States, while Fima resides in Israel.