“Look! Bronia, Uncle Shulim and Aunt Liza are here,” I announced to the family.
     Uncle Shulim, Mama’s oldest brother, limped as he mopped sweat from his shaven head. Overweight, and fair-skinned like all of Mama’s family, the neighbors referred to him as Shulim der Krimmer, the lame, due to his limping, the result of a childhood injury. By contrast, Bronia, my age, looked sallow and had black hair like her mother. They lived about a block from us toward Petrogradsky, a rural Christian, mainly Polish suburb.
      “That was some explosion. They must have hit the airport,” said Uncle Shulim.
      “That’s what everybody thinks,” replied Papa.
      Uncle Tolia asked, “What other military targets are in the area?”
     “Calaras cu Schimb,” answered Papa, referring to the military barracks near the large Jewish hospital in the city where Uncle Zioma, Mama’s youngest brother, had done his residency.
     The bombs at the airport created panic and pandemonium among the military in Beltz. June 22, 1941 fell on a Sunday. Most military personnel had spent their day off in the city and were caught completely by surprise. Within minutes, Red Army officers, some on foot and others using any means of transportation available – horseback, horse and buggy, and trucks – rushed in the direction of the airport. Some dressed as they ran with their gun belts gripped in their hands.
     Soon after, military trucks camouflaged with tree branches and leaves rumbled down our street, a consequence of the bombs that had destroyed the fuel tanks at the airport.
     “They must be moving the first fatalities from the airport bombings!” exclaimed Papa.
     “What else would they cover with branches?” wondered Uncle Tolia.
     “Oh, my God,” cried Mama. “Dead people already?”
     Grandma Hannah, worried and exhausted, pressed her trembling hands together. Cousin Pesia started to cry.