One day in July 1942 my mother left me to watch my grandmother, Leah Barban (she lived with us in the ghetto). My grandmother was sick with typhus. She was holding my hand. I kept looking at her; she opened her eyes, looked at me and stopped breathing. She expired. We had a problem burying her. Some people came to pray and to wash her. But nobody was willing to help us bury her. So, my brothers, two of my cousins and I, carried her to the cemetery. The cemetery was far from the ghetto. It was a hot day. We had difficulties carrying her. Then we had to dig the grave; the soil was hard. We took turns as we had only one shovel.
As I previously indicated, I loved my grandmother very much. She was very respected, even by the gentiles. She was a midwife; she delivered about 90% of the babies in town.
We were grieving for her, but on the other hand we were grateful to God that she died a natural death (although from a sickness).
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