Murder Story of Zlatopol Jews in Maslovo

On one occasion, it was on September 30, 1942, the building in which about 100 Jews were living was surrounded by a large number of Ukrainian policemen and two German ones and no one was allowed to leave. The final bell was tolling. The time had finally come when our souls would have to leave our bodies. Silent, we were all awaiting the decree of fate. It was exactly 10 p.m. At 10:30 a canvas-covered truck approached the building and the first group of people was forced with whips to enter the truck. This was the most terrible moment in our lives. Suddenly everyone began to scream hysterically in an unnatural voice. The policemen who had chased the people out were trying in every way possible to put an end to the noise but they couldn't do anything, even though they used whips and even fired shots. One of my fellow Jews came up to me with a thick piece of iron in his hand and said, "Beat the police, defend yourself." I took the iron out of his hand; he was the first to defend himself. Someone put out the light so that it was dark in the corridor. He ran up to one of the German policemen and struck him on the head, then attacked another one [policeman]. The second, a Ukrainian policeman, went flying like the first. Then he began to struggle with a third one. A German policeman who was still on his feet wanted to shoot but I sneaked up from behind and hit him on the head twice with the result that he turned around. A real brawl ensued. The policemen who were in the corridor ran out into the yard with people [Jews] following them. Fire, including from rifles, was directed at those [the Jews] who were fleeing and whips were used to strike them. The decisive moment was at hand: I had to act immediately. Confused, I too ran into the yard, not knowing what to do – in any case I did not want to die but there was nowhere to run to. Armed policemen were everywhere. Suddenly one of the policemen ran toward me with his rifle ready to fire and asked in a loud voice what I had in my hand. I was confused and didn't know how to answer. Fortunately though, I did not have to answer. A shot rang out. The reprisal was quick. I was lightly wounded in the head. Mama was next to me. She pleaded for mercy but none was shown to her. One policeman's shot wounded her in the right arm below the shoulder. Another of his shots hit her right breast. She fell. After dealing with her thus, he ran toward me and asked the policeman who was standing there, "Who is lying there." I was lying on the ground with blood flowing slowly from my wound. "That is the one who was holding the iron" the policemen shouted fiercely in reply and with all his might struck me on my back and my right shoulder. Before I had time to recover from the first blow, there followed another, just above the lower part of my back. I no longer felt the pain but my body was twisted like a pretzel. Barely able to move my lips, I begged to be thrown onto the truck right away. Next to me, uttering vulgar expressions, two policemen threw my mother, who was losing blood and already half-dead, onto the truck. Then, after hitting her several times with their rifle butts, they closed the back [of the vehicle] and the truck started moving. I realized that all was lost for us, that our parting would come soon so I proceeded to say farewell to my mother. The trucked hurtled along. With great effort I managed to get close to Mama. I kissed her three times on her face, which was growing cold, and then moved back. She struggled to say, "My dear son, jump out, jump out!" Mama extended her weak hand to me, handing me something wrapped up. "Take this money" I heard her say weakly as she was expiring. I hid the money in my pocket and then hung down [over the side] between the truck and the ground. Suddenly all my energy left me: my fingers loosened and I landed with great force on the hard earth, scraping all the skin around my left eye and seriously damaging it. To sum up what followed: after spending the night in a field of sunflowers, early in the morning I headed for Zlatopol. Everything was over. My mother was no longer alive – I was now completely an orphan. My mother was buried deep in the earth. She was lying in a well, along with all the others, on the road that leads from Zlatopol to the village of Maslovo, near some ruined barracks, where now instead of a well there rises a single grave hill that testifies to the terrible, inhuman terror [that took place there].