The so-called “Diary of Justina,” whose Hebrew version appeared in Israel in 1953, is an account, written down after the events, of episodes in the activities of the Zionist underground during the war days in occupied Poland. Its author was Gusta Davidson, one of the leaders of the Zionist Youth Fighters Organization in Cracow. She is “Justina,” writing of herself in the third person. The cryptonym was, of course, for conspiratorial reasons, and she gave her comrades like names; her husband, Simon Dranger, appears as “Marek.”

The memoirs were first published in Poland in 1946, in the original Polish, but with many omissions and errors. The Hebrew version is true to the original manuscript, now in the possession of the Ghetto Fighters House in Haifa. The text has been brilliantly edited by Nachman Blumenthal, who supplied footnotes and valuable background material.

“Justina” wrote down her memoirs in a Nazi prison (between January 20 and April 29, 1943), on the toilet paper distributed to the women inmates. She was then twenty-six years old, a woman of exceptional culture as well as courage. Gusta Davidson’s brilliant literary gift had been put to the service of the Zionist youth before the war, when she edited their Polish-language organ. She did not intend her “Diary” to be a personal account, centering around her own personality. Rather, it was her purpose to leave a record faithful to the reality of the Jewish underground movement. Like her comrades, she was certain that the Polish Jewish community was doomed, could only “die with honor and not be led to the slaughter like sheep.” And people had to be warned of what was impending. In describing a conversation with her husband—“Marek”—at the start of the large-scale deportations in June 1942, “Justina” makes him say: “We have to go from town to town and explain to people that this is no deportation but an execution. They must not be allowed to fool themselves into thinking that they are endangering anything by offering resistance.”

The “Diary of Justina” is thus a statement of the inner life of the Jewish underground movement. Not merely what this youth did, but how they felt, is described in subtle detail. The memoirs poignantly reflect the paradox of a Jewish youth movement forced by the requirements of conspiracy to conceal its Jewish identity.

Gusta Davidson and her husband were the last of the group to die. They had been imprisoned first in September 1939; on their release they rushed directly into the underground work, living the double life of Jews and “Aryans.” They moved from place to place, organizing the underground units, forging papers, planning for active resistance. In January 1943 they were again imprisoned, but escaped simultaneously. Finally, one day early in December 1943, Simon Dranger was again arrested by the Gestapo. A few days later, on December 11, Gestapo agents came to Gusta Davidson with a letter from her husband—that was part of the pact between them. This time there was no escape. They were both executed.

The section below is from Chap. XII of the Hebrew version, in my translation; it is printed by permission of the Ghetto Fighters House. Another selection will appear in this department next month.—Jacob Sloan.

_____________

They were four when they left: Benek, Adash, Zigmunt, and Ignatz. They came to a dense forest, and looked around for a spot where they could hide out. They found the right place. No one ever came there. They pitched their tent and went to work. For days they measured the ground, drew maps, studied the whole terrain. They carefully noted the objects they would have to keep in mind during the operation. They set up strategic bases, fixed strong points, explored the area for tens of kilometers around. They built dugouts, preparing the ground for the operation. All the time they stayed in the woods; it was their whole world. They never stopped outside of it, never went into the village.

Danger lurked in the village, which had been alerted. The entire neighborhood appeared to be deserted. The roads were empty, nobody ever passed through, day and night there was silence. Anyone caught outside the huts was immediately suspect. The fear of partisans was all around. Every stranger was suspected of being a potential fighter, if not an active agent parachuted down from an enemy plane. No papers did any good then—suspicion meant certain execution. Not even the farmers could move freely.

In any case, the boys had no longing to be where people lived. They were happy in the forest, they did not miss people, noise, sociability. The days passed in work.

But on Tuesday they ran out of food. They had to go to the village. Benek and Ignatz left at dusk. Darkness fell before they emerged from the woods. A poor hovel loomed through the gray autumn evening. They stole into it. They sat down at the table. The room was dark. A small gas lamp hanging on the wall gave a dim light. A cricket chirped outside. They sat dumbly. Suddenly there was a loud banging. A gendarme stood in the doorway, a policeman at his shoulder. A third figure was in the background, outside—Who was it? A forester with a rifle on his shoulder. Three against two. Apparently it hadn’t been dark enough for the boys to escape notice, someone had seen them on the way. They had been informed on. The three stood in line, rifles cocked. They were all prepared. The boys didn’t move. They just sat as they were, their hands in their pockets. They glanced with indifference at the arrivals. You might have thought the amazement on their faces was only feigned, as though they couldn’t perceive the connection between their sitting there and the appearance of three armed men.

_____________

They calculated their chances; obviously the armed men were at an advantage. Attacking them would be pure madness. Open battle was out of the question. There was no choice but to wait for their chance. The silence rang in their ears. Their eyes measured the situation; the lamp on the wall guttered.

“Get up!” the gendarme commanded hoarsely. They got up heavily.

“Papers!”

Very slowly they put their hands in their pockets. Moving deliberately, they laid their papers on the table. They didn’t hurry.

Rough hands grabbed them.

“You have any arms?”

“No!”

“Show us—right now!”

“We’ll show you,” muttered Benek.

The gendarme glared. “Get undressed!”

Benek bent over; three rifles were pointed at his head. He pretended unconcern. He moved slowly. First he would take his boots off. Which first? Perhaps the right. He had trouble pulling it off. Something was stuck there. A strong tug. Here it is! He pulled out a pistol. He straightened up. A shot. Perfect hit. The tall gendarme fell. The place was full of blood. The other two froze where they stood, motionless. They were paralyzed with surprise. Their fingers were rigid on the triggers. There was a second shot. This one was wide of the mark. The bullet struck the policeman’s right hand. He fell against the wall and fainted.

At that moment the third man came to. He pointed his weapon at Benek.

It was the decisive moment.

Ignatz stood to the side. He had no weapon. In the forest the four of them had had only two pistols. One had been left behind, they had taken one with them. Ignatz stood there, powerless. He clenched his fists, bit his lips, just looked. He saw everything, and couldn’t do a thing. It was the most terrible moment of his life.

Another fraction of a second and the rifle would shoot, straight at Benek’s back. If Ignatz only had a weapon. . . . He could knock the third man out in a second and they could escape. He could get him without any trouble. But his clenched fists were empty. His eyes were fixed on the forester. His whole anguished frustration was concentrated in his eyes. He breathed heavily. Benek’s life hung on a hair, in a fraction of a second the worst would happen. It seemed to him ages, an eternity. And it was only a brief second, the flicker of an eyelash.

There was a shot, Benek crumpled and fell. The thud of the body pulled Ignatz out of his daze. It was his turn. He straightened up, erect with pride. He was ready.

_____________

All that evening the others waited in the forest for Benek and Ignatz to return. Every now and then they left their shack. They listened. It was past midnight. A dark night. Where had they strayed off to? Zig went looking for them. He came back depressed. There was nothing they could do. They had to wait till morning. They forgot how hungry and tired they were. They could not lie down to get some sleep. A growing unrest gnawed at their hearts. The light went out, cold seeped into their bones. Dawn found them completely exhausted.

No doubt of it, something had happened in the village. But they forced themselves not to act too soon. They decided to wait till the afternoon. The hours crawled, like an eternity.

The sun was high in the sky by the time they started out. Cautiously, they approached the edge of the forest. They moved slowly, without creating the slightest rustle. Not a living soul in sight. It was as though the village was dead. Suddenly, the figure of a farmer loomed in the distance. They recognized him. They emerged from the thicket, one at a time. He noticed them, and quickly came toward them. He nodded, winking mysteriously, and put his finger on his lips in a cautionary sign.

“Stay away from the village, friends.”

“Why?”

“They’re sniffing around like dogs there today.”

“What’s happened?”

“Yesterday. In my hut,” he lowered his voice, “two young fellows were shot, brave boys.”

Adash and Zigmunt looked at one another.

“Did you know them?”

“They came to my place every once in a while.”

“What were their names?”

“I don’t know,” he gestured.

“What did they look like?”

He described them in detail. There was no doubt—Benek and Ignatz were no longer alive.

“They died bravely . . . like heroes. Our boys,” he whispered, and reflected for a brief moment. “Stay out of the village,” he repeated the warning. “It’s a shame about you, gentlemen.”

He turned on his heel, and quickly left.

They went back to the forest; there was nothing left for them to do. They couldn’t manage anything, just the two of them. Besides, they had to report to headquarters. They had to share their pain with someone.

They waited in the forest several hours longer. When evening fell, they crept off to the railroad station.

Friday morning they presented themselves in Cracow.

_____________