After a few days had passed [following the roundup], I began to see some of the others who, like me, were trying to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives. Some who had money socked away used this time to make arrangements with gentile acquaintances for protection, or to prepare better hideouts. In her memoir, Fanya Gottesfeld describes how her merchant family received protection from a Ukrainian policeman with whom she had a coerced relationship.
The other big shot I crossed paths with more than once was Donald Trump. I respected his father but had less favorable contacts with the future President of the United States.
Back when I was still running the roofing business, we had contracted with Fred Trump on a big job requiring removal of layers of old gravel and asbestos. It was tedious and noxious work using an automated gravel scraper that deposited the material into a chute dropping 12 stories to a dumpster below.
We have been big supporters of Chabad-Lubavitch from the beginning of our philanthropy, both of the organization’s educational work and its social service work. We got involved with Chabad through Rabbi Shlomo Duchman, director of the Colel Chabad organization in Israel, who came to us seeking support for its work to educate poor children free of charge. Later we expanded our support of Chabad to help fund its soup kitchens in Israel.
A few blocks west of the triangle was Lincoln Terrace Park, a wonderful city park with athletic fields and playgrounds, and also a wooded section with secluded footpaths and benches. It was a favorite hangout for young Jewish singles. It was named Lincoln Terrace but we all called it Kitzel Park, using the Yiddish word for “tickle.”
I remember my first interactions with American soldiers at the crossing. A Yiddish-speaking officer interviewed us about our origin and migration, and he put us at ease that we were eligible for entry to the camps.
He told us he was himself a German-born Jew who had emigrated to America before the war and later volunteered for the U.S. Army. He was part of a unit of Yiddish-speaking GIs who were sent here to interact with incoming refugees.
We reported to the ghetto Judenrat, where a clerk administered room assignments. He explained that they were now housing up to 10 people to a room. We were in luck, he said. Since there were just the two of us, he could squeeze us into a three-room unit, Apartment 56.
“The Mazury” was a settlement of Polish farms where we sometimes scavenged food during our time in hiding. There was a family there, whom I will call the Wojciks, who had been customers of my mother for the fine men’s shirts that she made. When my father and I later had to abandon our home, he left a bundle of our family valuables with Mrs. Wojcik for safekeeping.
One day, I was in the market and a woman approached me to say she had gold but was afraid to bring it to the market herself. She didn't trust the older gold dealers not to trick her, which is why she picked me. Would I go with her to her village outside Bytom to look at her gold?
I didn't see why not, so she picked me up on her bicycle and rode out to her house with me on the handlebars. I was still a skinny little rat even though I was now a wheeler-dealer.