From the blog of Moses Fishbein mosesfishbein.blogspot.com

*I Am Alive Thanks to the UPA*

*By Dr. Stella Krenzbach*

[Originally published in *V Riadakh UPA: Zbirka Spomyniv buv. Voiakiv
Ukrainskoi Povstanskoi Armii* (In the Ranks of the UPA: A Collection of
Memoirs by Form[er] Soldiers of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army), ed. by Dr.
Petro Mirchuk and V. Davydenko, Prolog Association Library No. 1052, New
York: Society of Former Soldiers of the UPA in the USA and Canada, 1957; pp.
342-49].

I attribute the fact that I am alive today and devoting all the energy of my
thirty-eight years to a free Israel exclusively to God and the Ukrainian
Insurgent Army (UPA). To God, for giving me eyes like the cornflowers of the
Ukrainian fields and golden hair like the vast wheat fields. That He did not
limn on my face the eternal brand of Israel and that I grew up without
resembling my ancient forebears, Rachels and Rebeccas. On the contrary: I
was no different from Marusia, Orysia, or Olia, the girls of the Ukrainian
land. I often wondered why Jehovah had a hankering to create me completely
unlike my mother, the red-haired and green-eyed Sarah, or my father, the
black-haired rabbi of the town of B. in Western Ukraine, with his Semitic
nose and *payes*, the side curls prescribed by the ancient laws. Today I
understand. His Great Holy Will wanted me to work for the glory of Israel,
for whose freedom I had prayed my whole life; that Promised Land of Moses to
which one-half of my heart belongs, because until my death the other half
will remain full of love for the land where I was born, where I grew up.

I was born in that town of B., which lies seventy-five kilometers from Lviv.
My father was respected not just by the Jews of that town. He was an
extraordinarily honest person, who lived his life in keeping with the Divine
Commandments; who loved his own culture but also respected others’. It was
nothing out of the ordinary for my father to be on friendly terms with the
local [Ukrainian—Transl.] Greek Catholic dean whom he often visited for
discussions about the Old Testament. Olia, the priest’s daughter, was my
best friend since first grade. After I completed public school, my father
sent me to the local Ukrainian high school, even though there was also a
Polish state gymnasium in the town. My father said that I would experience
less humiliation in a Ukrainian school. But he was very mistaken in using
the word “less.” During my eight years of study in the Ukrainian school I
did not experience any indignities whatsoever. My girlfriends considered me
their equal and they treated me like a Ukrainian girl. In high school I
mastered the literary Ukrainian language and became familiar with the
spiritual grandeur of Ukrainian literature. Thus, in time I began to hate
the enemies of Ukraine and to love its friends. At home I was raised
according to the customs dictated by the ancient laws. We did not speak
dialect [i.e., Yiddish—Trans.] but pure Hebrew. When I was still a child, my
parents began instilling in me a love for Israel, which was the same
enslaved fatherland as Ukraine. Once I began delving into the depths of my
soul, I saw that my heart was divided into two equal parts. In one part
burned a love for Israel and in the other, for Ukraine. Perhaps my statement
will strike some people as an absurdity; there can be only one mighty love,
they will say. But when I analyze myself again today, now that any weakness
is out of the question, I can say boldly that both loves were and are
equally great and equally powerful!

I matriculated in 1935 and wanted to enroll in the medical faculty in Lviv.
But my application was rejected along with the applications of thirty-eight
Ukrainians. I was the only Jew who was not accepted. Then I enrolled for
philosophy. That year my parents left for Palestine, and I was supposed to
join them after completing my studies. In June 1939 I finished my studies
and obtained my doctorate. On 28 September a ship was supposed to sail to
Palestine, for which I had a reserved ticket. But the war broke out on 1
September and I was unable to leave Lviv. At first, the new masters—the
Bolsheviks—treated the Jews in a friendly manner. I immediately found work
in a high school, obviously not revealing my social origins. But no more
than a year had passed when one morning militia men [Soviet
policemen—Transl.] appeared in my house and ordered me to pack for a
journey. What journey? I asked quietly, thinking that there must be some
mistake. I showed them my passport and all the required certificates. But
there was nothing to be done. The order had come to deport all the Jews to
Siberia, and that was that. I began to pack all my belongings, put on my
best clothing, and thought about submitting to my fate. Before leaving, I
asked to go to the toilet. I was given permission. Salvation awaited me
there. I lived on the parterre, and the window in the toilet looked out over
the courtyard. I jumped through the window and escaped through the gate to
another street. Until the Bolsheviks’ retreat I hid the whole time at the
home of my friend Olia, the daughter of the priest from our hometown. Olia
was working as a bookkeeper in the food department and was barely able to
feed the two of us. She shared the last crust of bread with me and was like
a sister to me. In risking her life, she never let me feel the fear that she
was experiencing because of me. Just like me, she had no one. She had lost
her mother when she was a child. During the war her father had been killed
by the Poles, members of the so-called Legion of Death, which consisted of
criminals who were sent out to burn down Ukrainian villages and murder
politically aware Ukrainians.

When the Germans entered Lviv, I was probably the only Jew who was happy
about their arrival. I thought that they would establish a Ukrainian state
and fight the Bolsheviks. How painfully I was disappointed! My joy quickly
turned to horror. What the Germans began doing to the Jews, and later to the
Ukrainians, was nothing more than a continuation of the Bolsheviks’
savagery.

I continued living with Olia and was working as a seamstress in Ukrainian
homes. I had documents issued under a Ukrainian name, my face was not
suspect, but my nerves were not holding up. Every day I saw huge columns of
Jews going submissively to their deaths, escorted by several policemen.
Their submissiveness made me furious. I shut my mouth to stop myself from
shouting to them: “Go ahead and kill those few policemen. There are more of
you. You’re going to die anyway, but die like heroes, not like slaves!” I
often talked about this with Olia; she told me that Jews are not capable of
heroic feats. At the time I agreed with her.

Oh, Olia! If I could only tell you how the sons of Israel know how to fight
and die heroically, but you probably know this already…

Life in Lviv was also becoming dangerous for Ukrainians. After dealing with
the Jews, the Germans began arresting Ukrainians. The prisons filled up with
young people, intellectuals, and eventually—politically aware peasants.
Frequent executions, arrests, and deportations to concentration camps in
Germany were part of the daily agenda. But the Ukrainians were not
submissive like the Jews; they avenged blood with blood and death with
death. News about the UPA in Volyn was already reaching me at this time. I
guessed that Olia had links to the UPA because one day a typewriter appeared
in our house, on which Olia typed all kinds of propagandistic materials.
Sometimes Olia would disappear, always on a Saturday evening, returning at
dawn on Monday, often muddied and tired. Boys and girls whom I did not know
began to visit us. They sat for a long time in Olia’s room or came only for
the drugs that Olia would bring home from the pharmacy, where she worked as
a laboratory assistant. The concierge of our building was a Pole. He noticed
that a lot of people were visiting us, and he began to watch them. One day
his wife blurted to me that our neighbors had their eye on us. I told Olia
about this, and the visits to our house became somewhat less frequent. But
we were already under suspicion. I felt that one day we would be arrested
(perhaps this was a psychosis), and I was overcome by a new wave of nervous
fear. I decided to sign up for work in Germany; I though that it would be
safer there. I told Olia about my plan. She discouraged me from going, but I
insisted, explaining that I had no other choice. Then she proposed that I
join the ranks of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army. Olia’s suggestion seemed
like salvation to me, and I accepted it with great joy. My entire being was
electrified with hatred of the enemy and a desire for revenge. And where
could I get revenge better than there? It was 7 November 1943. “How did you
describe me—as a Ukrainian woman or a Jewess?” I asked her while we were
walking along a path through the fields leading to a meadow near the forest.
“Rest assured, they know everything about you, and you can be yourself among
them. They do not divide people into races, only into honest people and
dishonest ones.” Relieved, I continued walking; Olia’s words had cheered me
up. That day I became a member of the heroic UPA.

Until July 1944 we hid in the forested areas near Lviv. There I completed a
six-month medic’s course that was taught by two Jewish doctors and one
Ukrainian. In our group I counted twelve Jews, eight of whom were doctors.

In July 1944, when the Bolsheviks returned to Western Ukraine, I received an
order to go to the town of R. and work in the local militia. For eight
months I worked as a secretary to the head of the militia. He was a Jew, a
communist, and a stalwart party member. In his presence I pretended to be a
communist sympathizer. Fabricating all kinds of stories about life in the
“ghetto,” I called the Bolsheviks my liberators, etc. The head sympathized
with me and even made friendly overtures to me. I pretended that I was in
love with him, and he was under the impression that our relations were
sincere and friendly. Meanwhile, I was in constant contact with the
insurgents, informing them about everything of importance that I managed to
find out at the militia.

But one day the militia head caught me by surprise at a designated meeting
place with a courier. He seriously wounded the courier, and thinking that he
had killed him, left the area and drove me to the prison. Meanwhile, the
courier regained consciousness and with his last shreds of strength crawled
away to his people and told them about my arrest. I sat in the local jail,
which had once been a military barrack. The prison was mostly filled with
peasants, and elderly ones at that. All the young people were in the UPA.
Over a period of five weeks I was interrogated fifteen times. I was tortured
and beaten. To this day my body bears the obvious marks of those tortures. I
kept silent the whole time. I did not utter a single word, and they began to
test me with some sort of horrible apparatus to see whether I had become
mute. I could not stand the pain and cried out. My only reply to all the
interrogations was yelps of pain and groans. Nevertheless, one day a trial
took place and I heard my alleged confession. Sentenced to death, I accepted
the verdict with relief. They put me into a cell with condemned prisoners.
There were twenty-four of us in a small room that could barely hold twelve
people. Among the condemned were a seventy-year-old granny and a
twelve-year-old girl. The latter had been sentenced because she had been
grazing her cow near the forest allegedly in order to provide milk to the
insurgents.

Each of the condemned female prisoners had been indicted on an absurd
charge. When the light was turned off in the corridor, the women decided to
spend the whole night in prayer in order to meet their death in the morning
with dignity. From her neck the old granny removed a small black cross on
which glowed the Crucified Christ made of silver. One after the other they
kissed the cross and then began whispering prayers. I prayed earnestly with
everyone. Although the religion of my parents teaches that Christ is not
God, only a great prophet, that night I became convinced that Christ is the
One Almighty God. I don’t know how much time we spent in prayer when
suddenly we heard shooting and a commotion in the corridors. There was an
exchange of gunfire and we did not know what had happened, but a kind of
hope crept into our hearts. After a time the door to our cell opened and
standing there were boys that I knew from the forest. At the time the town
of R. was in the hands of the insurgents for four days.

From the day of my release from prison my life became closely linked to the
life of the insurgents. With them I moved from one place to another,
whenever I received an order. Our group consisted of seventy soldiers,
doctors, three nurses, and four other women. In the summer of 1945 we
crossed into the Carpathian Mountains, where we joined up with two other
groups. At first, the Bolsheviks did not go into the mountains and for a
time we lived unmolested. But by late autumn battles began taking place with
increasing frequency, and then our hospital filled up and there was a lot of
work.

One day—it was 7 January 1946, Ukrainian Christmas Day—the Bolsheviks
surrounded us in a triple ring of encirclement. There was no escape. The
commander gave each of us a hand grenade so that we could kill ourselves at
the last minute. The battle was fierce and unequal; it went on and on. For
three hours the chaplain of our hospital, an elderly crippled priest, prayed
in front of a wooden cross, and all that time he beseeched: “Help them,
Christ! Don’t let our souls perish in vain!” All of us prayed together with
him. And then a miracle happened. From the other side of the Carpathians a
large group of insurgents came to our assistance, and after attacking the
Bolsheviks from behind, they broke through the encirclement. The commander
of that group said that they hadn’t known anything about our situation. But
a young boy had come to him with a message asking for help. We never found
out who that young fellow was, where he had come from, or who had sent him.
He couldn’t have been from our group because we were surrounded. Then we
began talking about a miracle. I thought about this incident for a long time
and finally came to the conclusion that if God had performed miracles in the
days of the Old Testament, why couldn’t He perform them in modern times?

In the summer of 1946 our group was completely smashed. There were ten times
more Bolsheviks than us. My friend Olia died in a battle at this time. Our
hospital was very well concealed in a huge mountain crevasse and despite
thorough searches, we were never found. Eight of us survived: the hospital
doctor, the old priest, two invalids each missing an arm, two without an
eye, one with a smashed jaw, and I. For three weeks no one came to us, and
we didn’t know what was happening. We had no communications. This meant that
no one knew about us. We began running out of food, although I managed it
very frugally. One day I was horrified to see that there was only half a
sack of flour in our pantry. Another week and we would be facing death by
starvation, and we were still cut off from everyone. Then our Rev. Volodymyr
announced that he was going to contact someone. We did not stop him,
although no one believed that this seventy-seven-year-old man with a stiff
leg would reach his destination. After he left, two more weeks passed. The
potatoes were gone, and we had not eaten anything for two days. The doctor,
a native of Kyiv, poked fun at himself, saying: no one can hide from death.
His parents had starved to death, but he had fled to the city and saved
himself. Yet thirteen years later death had come for him all the way over
here. That very afternoon we were visited not by death but by a courier, who
brought us food, money, and an order to go to the West. Father Volodymyr had
reached a group and sent help to us. We left the very next morning. We had
already covered some distance when I remembered something and went back. The
doctor was angry at me, saying that our trip would be unlucky. But our
journey went miraculously well. The article that I had gone back for was the
wooden cross that had saved our hospital so many times. Who knows whether
without this cross we would have crossed three borders, which were already
very well guarded?

On 1 October 1946 we reached the British zone of Austria. There I said
goodbye to my friends. How I reached Palestine is not part of my
reminiscences. But I must mention my reunion with my elderly father, who,
after hearing my stories, asked me in a trembling voice:

“Did you, perhaps, convert to Christianity?”

From this question I clearly understood that my old-law father would have
taken the news of my death easier than my change of religion. But I still
think a lot about Christ’s religion, and I cannot banish Christ from my
heart. But neither do I have the strength to be my father’s murderer.

After ending up in a new homeland, I promised myself that I would inform the
world about the Ukrainians and their heroic UPA. However, for a long time
there was no opportunity to do this; I was an obscure individual and the
world does not listen gladly to such people. But now that I have begun
working in the ministry and my name is well known to many diplomats, I am
doing my duty. In concluding these short reminiscences, I appeal to the
freedom-loving international community with a warning not to underestimate
the Ukrainian question and not put it on the backburner, because only a free
Ukrainian State will be a guarantee and proof of a just peace in the world.

*Translated by Marta D. Olynyk.*