Opole

As we disembarked from the freight cars in Opole, we were once again met with shouting, cursing, and scolding from the gendarmes standing on the platform. Whips cracked, though less on the bodies of those getting out and more in the air, meant to hasten our exit from the station.

On the platform stood Jewish residents of Opole, who offered their help, especially assisting the elderly and those with mobility issues. They also showed us the way to the small town of Opole, about two kilometers from the station. The entire transport—consisting of approximately 1,030 men, women, and children—marched at midnight, carrying our luggage and what remained of the provisions we had received in Vienna. We were accompanied by young local Jews to a prepared overnight shelter, which was the town’s synagogue, cleared for this purpose. Though it was January, the winter in Opole was unusually mild, with temperatures just above freezing, so at least we were not cold.

Upon entering the synagogue, we found ourselves in a state of complete chaos. Everyone stood bewildered, unable to grasp the new reality. The initial intimidation of being greeted with dog whips contrasted sharply with the heartfelt welcome from the local Jews, yet the sight of our primitive lodgings was disheartening. It was a terrible dissonance—the vast prayer hall, now a desecrated sanctuary, stripped bare, with straw covering the floor. This was to serve as our living and

sleeping space for who knows how long. Scattered luggage, the suffocating crowd, frightened elderly people, crying children, a jumble of voices—an almost unfathomable confusion.

Yet, instinctively, the local Jews’ compassion was awakened. A wave of sympathy and willingness to help flooded us. Each local took in people as guests in their homes without expecting any compensation. This was no easy decision, as the Jewish community of Opole—about 3,500 people—had already been dispossessed of their homes by order of the district governor, none other than the infamous Viennese bookseller Amon Göth. They had been forced into a fenced-off ghetto, cut off from the Polish population. Despite their own suffering, they showed an incredible willingness to help complete strangers, even though we did not speak their language. This act of kindness deserves to be remembered by future generations.

A kind young couple approached my wife and invited her to come with them. Despite their warm words, we hesitated at first, especially because my wife was so exhausted from the events that she only wanted to lie down and rest. It took a firm and encouraging speech from the young man before we picked up our belongings again and followed them, feeling lost and worried—what would the future bring?

After about ten minutes of walking, we arrived at a house that looked quite plain from the outside but was spotlessly clean inside. It consisted of a kitchen, a small hallway, a living room, and two bedrooms. This was the home of the pharmacist Geszychter, who lived there with his wife, two daughters, and their husbands.

I will always remember the warm welcome we received, which will remain in my memory for the rest of my life. The heads of the household greeted us as if we were long-lost siblings visiting from afar. They welcomed us with heartfelt warmth, soothing words of sympathy, and a generous meal. They served us food we had long been deprived of—it was like a fairy tale. Soon, our initial shyness faded, and despite the late hour, we began sharing our stories with our eager hosts. We spoke about our experiences, believing them to be the worst possible hardships, but when we heard the stories from Opole, we realized the extent of suffering endured under Nazi rule. Fear crept in—what would the future hold for us? Everything was uncertain. A mountain of questions, the weight of worries, and unspoken fears cast a shadow over what would have otherwise been pleasant hours.

Eventually, exhaustion took over. My wife and I lay down on makeshift beds in a small room. At first, we fell into a deep sleep, but soon we tossed and turned, haunted by heavy dreams, until we awoke late in the morning.

I still vividly remember the figure of old Mr. Geszychter—tall, intelligent, with sharp eyes hidden behind modern glasses, always twinkling mischievously at visitors. He had an imposing presence, always ready with a joke, always wearing an ironic smile, downplaying unpleasant events and embracing life with optimism. His kind and understanding nature earned my deepest admiration. I deeply regret that fate never allowed me to meet him again after those difficult times. However, in my heart, I have built a monument to this wonderful man, which I will always look up to.

His wife, a doctor, was a perfect counterpart to him. Despite her somewhat heavyset figure, she had an innate charm. Her friendly, always playfully twinkling eyes and dimples made her an endearing sight. The way she offered food and encouraged guests to eat was so delightful that one simply could not refuse. Everything she did came from a place of genuine warmth and human kindness. She came from a wealthy family of jewelers in Tsarist Russia—the Szlezzynger family from St. Petersburg. Her entire demeanor, every gesture, spoke of her refined upbringing. Her empathy and understanding revealed her medical background. Like her husband, I hold her in the highest regard and gratitude.

Throughout my life, I have experienced much ingratitude, even from people to whom I had given much—even their lives. I endured cruelty and suffered under the selfishness of others, almost to the point of losing faith in humanity. But the memory of the wonderful Geszychter couple kept my belief in the goodness of people alive.

Their well-mannered daughters and their husbands stood out pleasantly among the Jewish residents of Opole. Always polite and helpful, they did everything they could to assist us. Communication was possible because I spoke some Yiddish, though the common language in Congress Poland was Polish and Russian.

To illustrate the depth of hospitality we received, I must mention one episode. The Geszychter family was highly secular, considering Jewish religious laws outdated and irrelevant. The commandments of Moses, in the eyes of Poland’s Jewish intelligentsia, were seen as an unnecessary burden, merely an excuse for the cruel persecution they faced.

Yet, knowing that I adhered to a more traditional faith, they made an exception. Though they had never held a Passover Seder before, they followed my instructions to prepare a fully ritual Seder for both nights, and I was asked to lead it. This might sound simple, but considering the preparations involved, it was extraordinary. For the first time, they koshered their dishes, acquired kosher meat (previously unknown in their household), and procured matzah and kosher wine. All this effort—for an unwilling guest, forcibly sent by the Nazis into an unfamiliar environment.

The atmosphere of those two evenings is difficult to describe. Everyone listened intently as I recited the Haggadah, observing the rituals with deep reverence. It was touching to see young and old alike absorbing the story of the Exodus as if it were a revelation.

It felt like a reflection of our own reality—as if the oppressed and persecuted Jews under the Nazi yoke were once again hoping for a leader to guide them from suffering and disgrace into freedom.