Together with his family and all the other passengers, everyone was led to an empty, fenced-off field on the outskirts of the camp, and ordered to wait for further instructions.
"Rosenfeld" (Rose Field) – that's what the Germans called that plot, even though it was filled with gravel. Roses or flowers didn't grow there, but the metallic barbs along the fences once looked, in the eyes of one of the camp commanders, like flowers. He said Rosenfeld, and the nickname stuck.
A kind of Nazi humor.
The Germans used their internal humor to deceive the Jews, who harbored hopes for any sign that might indicate they were indeed being relocated to a place where they would resettle.

The deportees from the Warsaw Ghetto gathered in the open field until nightfall. The vast majority of them – without suitcases or bags, without any memory or item. Everything remained in the destroyed homes that went up in flames. Those who managed to carry a bag or suitcase were required to hand them over before arrival or later. Only the outer and inner clothes they wore on the day of deportation remained on their bodies.
With these clothes, they endured the train journey, without having bathed to wash their bodies. Beyond the fence, they could see the barracks of the Majdanek camp built in straight rows side by side, the watchtowers and fences surrounding the compound, the buildings with chimneys emitting smoke even on a warm spring day under a rising sun.
What were they burning there? They didn't consider it. Rumors spreading by word of mouth indicated that there was no new life on the horizon, and the chance that they were going to die seemed higher. Even during those hours of uncertainty, no one wanted to believe that so many people could be killed at once.
Muniek laid his head on the hard ground and fell asleep beside his mother and two brothers.

One night passed for the masses of deportees sleeping in the open, without blankets.
In the morning, the loudspeakers of uniformed Germans were heard, announcing that anyone willing to work should go to a sorting point and register. Many approached. They clung to the hope that only this way would they gain some preference further along the path and remain alive. They went to the point, to undergo a quick sorting that looked like a public horse trading in a market – the sorting officers asked the candidate standing before them their age and cast examining glances at them. That was enough for them to determine if they were fit for work and would join the group of workers or return to the masses from which they came.

Grandfather Mordechai Zeidunworm, Chava’s father, also decided to go to work. He was in his sixties, appeared fit for work, and received verbal authorization to join the group of workers being sorted, which numbered several hundred. His daughter Chava remained with her three children among the thousands gathered in the field, waiting for developments. Suddenly, Chava said to Muniek, her eldest son: "Go with them to work." He hesitated for a moment. He didn't know if they would accept him or where he would be taken. But his mother didn't let him waver, she urged him with a decisive touch on his shoulder and told him in Yiddish: "GEI" (Go).
This word, "Go," spoken in Yiddish "Gei", was the last word he heard from his mother.

Muniek went. Standing before those in charge of the sorting, he puffed out his chest, raised his shoulders, and straightened his head. They saw before them a healthy 13-year-old boy who told them resolutely that he was ready to work. After a brief hesitation, they ordered him to join the work group, where he stood next to his grandfather, among young and old men who gambled on going to work. The sorting was completed, and they marched from there to a separate assembly point, far from the crowds that filled "Rosenfeld Field."

Chava Jakubowicz remained in the field with her two younger children, David and Avraham, Muniek’s brothers.

The young children in the Jakubowicz family had no chance of belonging to the workforce, and their mother, who could not abandon them, tied her fate to theirs. All three remained in "Rosenfeld Field" of Majdanek camp, and what happened to them was never known. There are well-founded hypotheses and circumstantial evidence about the fate of thousands of Jews who remained there – the sick and the elderly, women and children, and anyone who was not fit for work or did not want to go to work. They disappeared from this world by one of the murder methods commonly used as part of the plan for the extermination of European Jewry. Perhaps in Majdanek, perhaps in Treblinka, perhaps in Bełżec, or in any of the Nazi killing stations on the European continent.

Chava née Zeidunworm with her children: David and Avraham Jakubowicz, were sent to a place from which no one returns.
Their names remain etched in lists on paper or in computer files among all the pages of testimony commemorating the six million victims of the Holocaust.
Their likenesses remain etched in the consciousness of Moshe Jakubowicz, who is Muniek the boy – the last of the family members to see them alive. In the commotion that took place in "Rosenfeld Field," he did not get to say goodbye to them. His mother pushed him towards what seemed to her, by maternal instinct, as the only chance to survive, and he continued to the next level of hell.