The Boy in the Woods

A True Story of Survival During the Second World War

Maxwell Smart

• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN: 9781443466431
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: History

The astonishing #1 bestselling story of a boy who survived the war by hiding in the Polish forest

Maxwell Smart was eleven years old when his entire family was killed before his eyes. He might have died along with them, but his mother selflessly ordered him to save himself. Alone in the forest, he dug a hole in the ground for shelter and foraged for food in farmers’ fields. His clothes in rags and close to starvation, he repeatedly escaped death at the hands of Nazis.

After months alone, Maxwell encountered a boy wandering in the forest looking for food. Janek was also alone; like Maxwell he had just become an orphan, and the two quickly became friends. They built a bunker in the ground to survive through the winter. One day, after a massacre took place nearby, the boys discovered a baby girl, still alive, lying in the arms of her dead mother. Maxwell and Janek rescued the baby, but this act came at a great cost. 

Max’s epic tale of heroism will inspire with its proof of the enduring human spirit. From the brutality of war emerges a man who would become a celebrated artist, offering the world, in contrast to the horrors of his suffering, beautiful works of art. The Boy in the Woods is a remarkable historical document about a time that should never be forgotten.

Part One

The War

Holocaust survivors can never detach themselves from the view that they were innocent victims of the Nazis’ genocidal plan which destroyed their families and communities, leaving them bereft and in despair. In a remarkable act of courage most survivors faced the uncertainty of their future by renewing their broken lives. They married, raised children, entered trades or professions, living lives as close to normalcy as they were able. This was their answer to those who wished to annihilate them.

Another means for resisting the genocidal program was to break the silence about their ordeal, to let the world know of their suffering, to demand that their story be heard despite the deniers’ attempts to erase it from historical memory.

From Victim to Witness: A Collection of the Abstracts of Holocaust Survivor Memoirs, Mervin Butofsky and Kurt Jonassohn, 2005

A Jewish Town in Poland

My name is Oziac Fromm. I was born on June 1, 1930. I also had a Jewish name: Shaih Moishe Fromm. I seldom heard anyone calling me by my Jewish name aside from when I was called to the Torah in the Great Synagogue on the holidays. I was proud to recite the prayer wearing my father’s tallis, prayer shawl.

I remember, as a boy, racing from my hillside home to the nearby ruins of an ancient, magical castle. The timeless fortress loomed over the town—an enduring reminder of the town’s centuries of history. My family lived near the castle, on Zamkova Street. During the winter, my friends and I used to slide down the hill. It was fun going down, but when we had to climb back up, the mile-long slope was a challenge. In summers, my friends and I often played a game we called kutchka. It was similar to baseball, but instead of a baseball bat, we used a long wooden stick and a block of wood for a ball. My friends were both Jews and Christians. We all got along, and I was happy when I was spending time with my friends.

Both my parents’ families were quite large; they numbered approximately sixty-two people. My mother’s maiden name was Kissel. It was a well-known name in Buczacz because they were a prominent and charitable family. They belonged to many philanthropic organizations that helped the Jews and non-Jews of Buczacz: the unfortunate, the sick and the old.

My memories of my mother are etched in my consciousness, even after so many years. She was loving and sweet, gentle and kind, pretty and quite petite. My mother was always well dressed, and I remember her on many occasions wearing a fur coat in winter. My father would wear a fur-lined coat with a fur collar. They were an elegant and good-looking couple.

My mother was not only beautiful physically, but she was a beautiful person spiritually. She adored her husband and children—I had a little sister, Zonia—and always showered us with affection. I can remember her hugging and kissing me, although I was quite embarrassed by this in front of my friends. She was infinitely more affectionate than my father. She was also very interested in everything I did. She would sit patiently with me and help with my homework. In contrast, my father would only ask for my marks.

Aside from my mother and my grandmother, the entire Kissel family was tall. My mother came from a large family of ten children, but I had two favourites—my uncle Zigmund and my aunt Erna. Erna had no children of her own, and as a result, I was almost like a son to her, and in the troubled years to come, she would prove that devotion, becoming like a mother to me. Actually, she contributed greatly to my survival during the war.

On Friday nights before Shabbat, my mother would dress beautifully—as a matter of fact, we all did. My mother was raised in an Orthodox Jewish home, and often would get angry at my father’s less observant ways. I can remember her telling us that Shabbat, a very important day, was approaching. On Fridays, all the Jews finished work early, and most Jewish stores were closed after lunch. My grandmother would come to our home before sunset, bringing traditional, homemade loaves of challah bread and a potato bread we called bubanik. My mother would stand at the window as the first shadows of night crept across the hill, waiting to see the lighting of the first candles by the rabbi’s wife. When the first candle flared, she would turn and light her own candles. Covering her hair with a shawl, she would chant the ancient Shabbat prayers that have been repeated by Jewish women on Friday nights for centuries.

Shabbat is what I remember vividly. I was washed, and my hair was combed to the side. I wore a dark suit with a white shirt. My black shoes were shined, and I was prepared to go to synagogue with my father. Our dining room, heated by a ceramic oven in the winter, would be prepared for Shabbat with elegant dishes and gleaming silver. The dining room table was covered with a white tablecloth and dominated by a very large sterling silver candelabrum, which I still have as the one and only memento of my childhood.

My family happily gathered for our weekly honouring of Shabbat. The adult men would bless the wine, a ritual called kiddush, loaves of golden challah lay on a silver tray, and there were tantalizing aromas coming from the kitchen. Every Friday night was special. My father would make the HaMotzi blessing over the bread, and then everyone would receive a piece that had been dipped in salt. Every Friday, my mother made chicken fricassee, chicken soup and potato kugel. My father was always praising my mother’s cooking, as she was quite an accomplished cook. We would break off a piece of bubanik and dip it into the sauce of the chicken fricassee. What a feast it was! I loved it.

As I mentioned, my mother was one of ten children. I do not remember all of her siblings, just the ones I was closest to. My mother’s brother Zigmund Kissel was an artist, and he encouraged my own interest in art. I always enjoyed being at his side when he was drawing cartoons for the local paper. He was my inspiration and he praised my drawing. I was told that Uncle Zigmund would have convinced my family to arrange for art lessons for me, but the outbreak of war crushed that dream.

My aunt Erna and her second husband, Jacob, were also very important to me. Erna was an accountant by profession, and she worked for a large sugar company until she got married. Not long after the wedding, her first husband left for America to begin a new life for them. It was quite common in the 1930s for men of a certain age who were financially comfortable to avoid going into the army by going to America. Erna’s husband literally disappeared, and no one ever heard from him again. We never knew if he had died or simply met someone else and started a new relationship. Regardless, my auntie Erna was now alone, without a husband.

When, years later, she met Jacob, a local boy, they were unable to marry because, according to Jewish law, a married woman cannot remarry unless she receives a Jewish divorce. My auntie’s first husband was the son of a rabbi, and Erna and Jacob found that no one would marry them. So they endured approximately twenty years of hoping that their situation would somehow resolve itself. This was extremely difficult in a small town where everyone knew each other, and the rabbi, the leader of the Jewish community, was unwilling to marry a woman without a divorce or her husband’s death certificate. My maternal grandfather, although he was an Orthodox Jew, tried to help. I remember that when he went to the synagogue to get the chuppah, the canopy under which Jewish weddings are conducted, the people there refused to give it to him. I heard my mother and father complaining about how the religious people in the synagogue were being difficult and unreasonable.

My maternal grandfather was quite a prominent person in our community. He was a religious man who served the poor and the troubled in Buczacz. He was also very resourceful, and one day he solved this ongoing problem of Erna and Jacob’s marriage. He came home with four broomsticks, attached them to a bedspread, made a chuppah and married Erna to Jacob in our home.

My uncle Jacob owned a large factory in the downtown area of Buczacz where candy and chocolate were manufactured, and he also had a store in the shopping area where he would sell his chocolates and candies. He was considered quite wealthy by most, and he and Erna rented an apartment in a new building that had its own bathroom and a shower, which was something luxurious. I obviously loved to visit uncle Jacob in his factory. It always smelled so delicious, and I was allowed to eat as much chocolate and candy as I desired, as there were extra pieces and drippings everywhere. He always used to give candy to me to take home as well, and occasionally he would ask me to help him manufacture the candies. My auntie and uncle were inseparable, but unfortunately, they never could have children. I can remember that my auntie Erna gave me ten groszy weekly, which was a huge amount of money in 1938. Even my father did not give me that much.

My father was from the nearby town of Czortków, and he had met my mother through a Jewish matchmaker, which was common at the time. Matchmakers used to arrange meetings between the families of the couple, and a very important part of the matchmaking process was the dowry. The matchmaker would always address the subject of money with the girl’s parents. The larger the dowry, the more important the family, and they could actually buy a more prominent husband. If a girl was wealthy, she could marry a learned man, a businessman, a doctor or a professional. But if the girl’s family was poor, the potential husband would have to be a common man, from the same economic level as the woman.

As a wedding dowry, my maternal grandfather gave my father a men’s clothing shop. My father would open his store every morning and close it to walk home for the main meal of the day, which was served at noon. After a nap, he would reopen his shop until six or seven in the evening. He loved to spend evenings at the coffee house playing cards and discussing politics with friends. Occasionally, my mother would have to send me there to remind him of the time.

My father believed in tough love. He rarely spoke to me, other than to ask how I was doing in school, and he never played with me. However, I know that he loved me. At that time, fathers were often aloof and demanding of their sons—believing that this was the proper way to toughen them up for what lay ahead. Perhaps he was correct. Perhaps that is why I was able to find the strength to survive the years during which I lived in constant danger.

My father was always impeccably dressed, and he would carefully select the suit that he wore to his shop each day. Tall, dark and slim, he was very good-looking. He had a collection of fedoras and walking sticks, which was the mark of a smartly dressed European gentleman in the 1930s. He took his time getting dressed in the morning, selecting the right headwear and walking stick. He was a very fashionable businessman.

My little sister, Zonia, was five years younger than me. I remember being allowed to rock her cradle when she was an infant, but I really do not remember her very well. I do not even know her Jewish name, and I cannot describe her. She was a quiet little girl, and I do not remember her crying, even under the worst circumstances. She was only four years old when the war started. Thankfully, she had very little idea about what was going on during the war.

My maternal grandmother died before the war. My grandfather owned both a factory that made men’s clothing and a men’s clothing store. He was a member of the merchants’ committee as well as a member of the largest synagogue in the city. This synagogue was a huge, impressive structure, and my father would take me there on Friday nights and holidays. One of my father’s brothers, whose name I don’t recall, lived near Tarnów, where he had a medical practice, and my father would frequently travel to visit him. It was a considerable distance from Buczacz, about four hundred kilometres away. I remember that he brought back high-quality, well-made suits that his brother didn’t wear any longer and, smiling, he would say, “This is not what I sell in my store.” A tailor in our city used to alter the suits for my father, and I used to inherit my father’s old suits. The tailor would alter them for me as well, for the holiday of Passover. I also remember getting a new pair of shoes every Passover.

Our family was traditional rather than religious, but my father was quite well-learned in Torah, and on many occasions he led the prayers in the Great Synagogue, and I stood proudly beside him. The Great Synagogue of Buczacz was regarded as one of the greatest treasures in eastern and western Galicia. The building was constructed in 1728, and that date was inscribed, in Hebrew letters and in Roman numerals, near the women’s entrance. The sanctuary glowed with huge bronze chandeliers. Local artists had decorated the Holy Ark, and above the doors were the Ten Commandments, surmounted by a Torah crown. The Torah ornaments were crafted of gold and silver. The imposing historic structure was built on the riverbank.

The synagogue, unfortunately, shared the fate of virtually all the Jewish religious facilities in Nazi-controlled Poland. Its interior was completely destroyed during the occupation, and the building was in such disrepair that it was demolished after the war.

My father would take me to Czortków often to visit his family. I know he had a large family, but I didn’t know them all. I knew only some of the cousins, aunts and uncles. My father’s parents passed away long before I was born. In addition to his brother near Tarnów, he had two other brothers and one sister living in Czortków. I knew very little about one of his brothers, but he appeared to be an important and educated man. The other brother lived on the outskirts of the city and owned a dairy farm. There were two long buildings housing cows, and he and his family milked them by hand. On one occasion, my father and his brother forced me to drink from a pail of freshly drawn milk. They told me it was good for me, but I didn’t like it. It was lukewarm and did not even taste like milk!

I attended an all-boys school on Kolejowa Street, a short walking distance from my home. When I was six or seven years old, I had a profound experience there. It changed my life and perhaps, indirectly, helped me to find the confidence and determination to survive the chaotic world in which I was about to be plunged. One day in class, a teacher, reviewing the work of the students, singled me out for praise. She had asked us to draw a book, and virtually all the others drew a simple rectangular box. My work—a three-dimensional drawing showing the book’s corners and the pages in the middle—impressed the teacher. “This is how you draw a book,” she told the class, holding up my drawing. “You have talent,” the teacher said. It was a proud moment in my early life, and I will never forget that comment. Those encouraging words, along with the praise I received from my uncle Zigmund, set my life on a path I still follow today, with canvases in progress, a gallery and my work in dozens of collections.

And none but you and I will know

How I escaped the thrust of fate . . .

“Wait for Me,” Konstantin Simonov, 1941¹

A Curtain of Fear

I was nine years old when World War II began with the German invasion of western Poland in September 1939. Grim news from the front and fear of German bombs sent a stream of refugees into frantic flight. The local people watched helplessly as heavily loaded trucks and horse-drawn carts rumbled through our town along with people on foot.

The powerful Nazi war machine rapidly crushed the Polish army. The Jewish population in western Poland was seized and enslaved, and most were ultimately murdered by Nazi brutes and their collaborators. However, in the early stages, no one thought that the Nazis and their thugs would be determined to destroy the entire Jewish population of Eastern Europe. The Nazi Heinrich Himmler, a leading figure in planning the Holocaust, listed the Jewish population of Poland at 3,547,896. He planned to kill every single man, woman and child.

Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union had signed a secret pact, known as the Molotov-Ribbentrop, whereby, when war broke out, the Soviets would seize the eastern half of Poland. By this treacherous ar...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Map
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• About the Glossary
• Foreword by Joe King
• Author’s Preface
• Part One: The War
• Part Two: Going Into Hiding
• Part Three: On to Canada
• Part Four: The Past Comes Alive
• Afterword by Carol Zemel
• Acknowledgements
• Glossary
• Index
• Photographs
• About the Author
• Copyright
• About the Publisher