“Let Me, I Will Weave My Dreams of Silver”
The holy girl, Sarah Fishkin, may G-d avenge her blood
Excerpts from her diary
Sarah Fishkin, 18 years old at the time of her murder, was born in the Lithuanian town of Rubizevich. As a child, she was a member of the Bnos Agudath Israel group in her town. We will write about the history of this town, its existence, and its bitter end, in the last part of the article.
How rich is my dream…
Stars appear in the sky, twinkle, wink in the dark night, and everything sinks into a relaxing sleep, the sleep of golden dreams. How rich is my dream! And I wish it would last forever…
These lines, as hard as it may be to believe, were written by a young girl, who instead of weaving dreams in a comfortable bed, in a warm house, protected by the wings of her father and mother, brothers and sisters, experienced the horrors of the Holocaust under siege and in despair, and even in those bitter days, in the unbearably difficult nights, she continued to dream and write. The lines of Sarah Fishkin’s packed diary reflect the wishes of her good, sensitive, and compassionate heart; Sarah expresses incredible feelings in her heartbreaking diary. In her beautiful, extraordinary writing, she brings out the Jewish, human, soft, and compassionate side of such a young girl, who has difficulty coming to terms with her fate but never stops believing in G-d and talking to Him.
Sarah Fishkin, from the town of Rubizevich (Minsk region), was a thoughtful, talented and sensitive girl. She had a good heart and a strong desire for studies and education. Her writing is beautiful and deep; her world is deep and rich, and you can see in the pages of her diary that her connection with the Almighty stands out. She talks to him and unfolds to him her suffering “like a son clinging to his father.”
The Rubizevich Yizkor book
On the days when students are going back to school, with youthful joy, peace and fulfillment, we are called to remember the boys and girls who, eighty years ago or so, had their dreams cut short by the stroke of a sword, after long years of physical and mental torture and the never-ending war with its gnawing despair. These were children who were torn from the arms of their parents to the melting pot of the labour and death camps, or, alternatively, to hiding places, with gentiles, where they had to languish, be swallowed up in an attic or in a cellar for endless time periods, and endure unbelievable longing.
On the eve of the Tisha B’Av fast day, Holocaust survivor, Dov Hausdorf of Bnei Brak came to visit Ganzach Kiddush Hashem. Dozens of youth from the yeshivas of Bnei Brak came to listen to his testimony. Dov was hidden in the home of a gentile for two years. Fortunately, he was with his father, but his description was so touching that there were boys who listened to him who could not hold back their tears. A 6-year-old boy who does not see the light of day, and his father is teaching him to read the holy tongue and the laws of blessings. Didn’t you feel the need to go out? To get air? Dov was asked by a 12-year-old child who came with his father to listen, and Dov answered: Of course we felt the need, but we learned not to make noise, not to ask for things, we learned to put up with the situation… a 6-year-old boy! This child had the privilege of being saved and going to Jerusalem, studying at the Kol Torah Yeshiva with the genius Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, and raising a very beautiful family, thank G-d.
Holocaust survivor, Dov Hausdorf, in conversation at Ganzach Kiddush Hashem
The survivors of the Holocaust who were privileged to establish new worlds are walking miracles, and the heart aches for the millions who did not, and therefore, in the days of the “beginning of the year,” we should reflect on the memory of the boys and girls, flowers from our hearts, who could have enlightened the world with their talents and qualities, but were cut off by the cursed slayers and were not even buried.
Sarah Fishkin’s words touch the heart. For over two years she unloaded into her diary what was going on in her broken heart with sorrow and longing. Dense lines fill the pages of the diary in her beautiful and neat handwriting, until in the middle of one day, in the middle of one line, the diary stopped and Sarah Fishkin was taken from the Rubizevich Ghetto to Dvoretz (Dworzec in Polish). In Dvoretz, too, she continued to write and bury the pages in bottles, until in the winter of 5702 (1942) she was shot and killed in an open grave, behind the camp, along with all the Jews of the camp, may G-d avenge their blood.
Sarah buried the first part of the diary in her home, and it somehow ended up in the hands of her brother, Yaakov Fishkin. He published excerpts from the diary (translated from Yiddish) in several places, among them in the “Sefer Rubizevich” (Yizkor book), in “Yalkut Moreshet,” which was published in Tammuz 5725 (1965), almost sixty years ago, and more.
Sarah, a Lithuanian by root, writes with emotion, but her words are not devoid of the Lithuanian, logical education.
Here are excerpts from her diary:
Sivan 22, 5201 (June 17, 1941)
The week passed quickly and with it the usual daily work, each day with its special content, each hour with its hope, time passes quickly and no one knows what tomorrow holds. A day passed and evening came, the sun slowly set, although the desire is very strong for it to rise and warm us for another little while, it makes its way as it does every day, sending us its last rays as if wishing us all the best for the black night that is descending upon us. Stars appear in the sky, twinkle, wink in the dark night, and everything sinks into a relaxing sleep, the sleep of golden dreams. How rich is my dream! And I wish it would last forever…
23.06.41
Day follows day. News is changing every morning, but no one knows the real truth. People are broken and torn, they don’t know what to do. There are no workers today, we exchange silent glances, but this is the same silence speaking and saying much more than words… Aren’t these our last days, when all of us who work here are together? (…) tears form in the eyes. Each looks with great sorrow at his friend. How hard it will be for us to part.
For more than 13 months we worked here together, we became such friends, we became so close to each other, what a harmony reigns here between us. Each one takes stock of himself. What was his attitude towards others? Maybe he once hurt someone with a word, and he will hold a grudge in his heart. There is a desire to approach and ask for forgiveness so that they can part as good friends, and the tears choke in the throat. Ah! What gloom surrounds us in these last hours. The sun has already set. It is 1 past midnight, and we are preparing for a long and unknown journey. Everyone wants to save themselves. The will to live is so strong, aren’t we so young!
And I remember home, who knows if I will meet my parents, brothers and sisters again. It is very difficult to stay here alone and isolated, and to return home, there is no possibility. I decide to go with everyone to the road leading to the city of Minsk. It’s 4 am and the sadness is so great, it’s hard to describe it in words.
We are 15 kilometres from Minsk, the roads are full of refugees, and suddenly Otto appears in front of us and his men order us to go back to Volozhin. The dawn is coming, the city is quiet, too quiet. We wait in fear for the approaching day.
25.6.41
Today the Germans entered our city… (after they conquered it from the Russians)
The morning is fresh and warm, but very emotional. Tired from the journey, we jumped home and immediately headed to the system (for labour). Suddenly a German plane passed by and started bombing the city. There were volleys of gunfire. We were afraid to sit at home, went out into the garden and quietly waited for the approaching death. Terrible is thק moment when the bullet passes over your head and you think soon your young life will end, but according to the command of the heart, peace takes over us and we look directly into the eyes of death and wonder what the next few hours will bring.
Suddenly, we see a large force of Germans approaching us. All our thoughts and hopes of staying alive were dashed. The heart fits tightly and a single thought takes over us: here is the end. One wish only nestles in my heart at this moment: if only my parents knew where my grave is, the grave of their eighteen-year-old daughter.
But how much the heart lamented when the soldiers gave us our lives as a gift and only ordered us to leave the place. In the distance I see the city in terrible flames. Thick smoke hides the sunlight, as if she wants to neither see nor know anything. Human labour goes up in flames and how many hopes, who knows? Innocents, whose lives were ended by the bullet fired by barbarians, fall in the street. Everyone is expected to end like this. The Bolsheviks abandoned their positions and fled for their lives. (…)
Today Pesach Mazeh was shot; I knew him and we helped each other often. He was 18 years old.
And yet I want to live. We are in the field and the planes pass over our heads. We are shocked and scared. “Mother!” I want to shout “Mother, come help me! I am alone here in a foreign city and in great danger,” but what can parents do to help in such a situation, and what are their actions, are they still alive?
The day ended and evening has arrived. The fire is growing, above us the sky is visible. You hear the birds chirping. It seems as if in their song they participate in the sorrow of the people. In the distance, babies cry out that their mother was killed along with her thirteen-year-old daughter by a shell explosion.
The sun has already set, we hear a growing commotion of people who, like us, have apparently fled the city and are hiding somewhere here. The night is dark, starless, probably they don’t want to share in our suffering either. The cold penetrates and shakes every part of the body, there is nothing to cover and the mosquitoes bite. Only two days ago we were still so happy. We had a clean bed where we could relax after work, but all of that is gone suddenly and there is no desire to remember it.
Tired and worn out, we fall asleep, dreaming of a better and more beautiful tomorrow.
After a difficult description of the events that take place “these three weeks” in Volozhin, Ivenitz (Iwieniec in Polish), and in Rubizevich, after “we traveled 47 kilometres in one day,” Sarah writes a poem In Memory of the Day I Crossed the Forest, On the Way Home.
In the Thick of the Forest
In his lap are carried the secrets of the forest
Baruch and Edna will caress my face
The legends of the gray distance will be told
And the pink morning glory blossom is the color of a tree
The pink stream…
You call me to walk, to immerse, to wonder
About the pink stream
To be mistaken, I would like it to be a forest of ancients
Among its ancient oaks…
In its narrow alleys,
Drowning in flowers
Immersed in morning dew
And winking diamonds,
In the tender roses, without knowing where.
Every path will lead to me
With its marvelous power
Get lost in it endlessly…
Oh give me
Let me weave my dream, a silver dream
Let me drown my dreams in it
The truth prevented me from happiness
Therefore I will find oblivion in him.
Give me dreams of silver
I never found a place in my life
Give me, and I will live in a dream until my wedding.
Which will soon come, G-d willing
