Beinash Benyamin Jankelowitz and Etta Swartz

The story I am about to share is one of tragedy and resilience, a deeply personal chapter of my family’s history. It takes place during the Holocaust, on Yom Kippur of 1941, a day meant for solemn reflection and atonement, which instead became one of unspeakable horror.

In the town of Kruk, Beinash Benyamin Jankelowitz and Etta Swartz, my great-great-grandparents, were attending synagogue. The prayers of the congregation were interrupted by the arrival of armed men. My great-great-grandparents, along with many others, were forcibly taken from the synagogue. Their faith, their community and their lives were torn apart in a moment of cruelty.

They marched to the nearby town of Zagare. There, in a forest that now holds the weight of history, they were lined up and shot into open graves. The sanctity of Yom Kippur was desecrated, and their lives were brutally ended.

Thankfully, my great-grandmother had already moved to South Africa by this time, a decision that spared her from this fate. The pain of loss and the weight of survival remained with her, shaping the lives of future generations.

Years later, Ivan, my great-uncle, visited the grave in the forest at Zagare. The forest now stands as a silent witness to the atrocities committed there, a place where the memories of those who were lost are preserved and honored. Ivan’s visit was an act of remembrance, a way to ensure that the story of our family’s suffering and resilience is never forgotten.