Travel

Hana Gasic
Bosnia

My family background
My parents
Growing up in wartime
Post-war
Our religious life
My husband Miroslav

My family background

I am the daughter of Menahem and Flora Montiljo. I was born in Sarajevo on July 27, 1940. I have one brother, Rafael, who was born during the war on March 22, 1943.

My father's parents, Mose and Hana Montiljo Hahasid ("the pious") had 11 children. This family was known as Montiljo Hahasid to distinguish them from the many other Montiljos that lived in Sarajevo, and to recognize them as a particularly religious family. My grandfather was born in the 1870s, worked as a textile merchant in Sarajevo, and died in 1941 before the outbreak of war. His wife, my Nona (Ladino for grandmother) Hana, lived a much longer life. During the war she hid with her son, Jozef, in Sarajevo. After the war she decided to live the rest of her days in Israel. She imagined that this would not be a long time, but she managed to live another twenty-three years, until 1970, when she died at the age of 96. Having left, she never returned to Yugoslavia. She went to Israel with two of her three surviving children, her sons, Jozef and Leon, my uncles.

My father was the only one of the brothers to remain behind in Yugoslavia. He had heard stories about life in Israel and he did not believe that he would be able to make a living there. A tailor, he thought he would have to work in a textile factory and be unable to work on creating pieces from beginning to end. So he decided to remain in Sarajevo. He visited my Nona and his brothers in 1957. I do not recollect his journey, or his return, nor do I recall him questioning his decision to remain behind as a result of it. Both of his brothers struggled in Israel, and because of that, my father probably did not regret his decision.

My mother, Flora Montiljo (nee Kohen), was born in Sarajevo on December 31, 1913. Her parents were Klara and Rafael Kohen. She had four sisters and a brother. My Nona Klara died when my mother was just thirteen, and after that, my mother's brother took over as the central figure in the family. My grandfather had a butcher shop in Sarajevo, and when he died my mother's brother took it over. I am not sure if it was strictly kosher, but it is unlikely that they sold pork and other non-kosher meat. Whether the meat was slaughtered by a shochet (ritual slaughter) and kashered (made kosher) as is proscribed, I cannot say. At that time, Sarajevo was heavily influenced by its Muslim population, and therefore it was difficult to find pork in the town.

My mother went to a school for women and learned how to embroider quite nicely. She liked doing this but her responsibilities to the family business kept her busy and she was unable to commit much time to it. Among other things, she was responsible for delivering meat. In two of the pictures in my album, my father is pictured playing Samuel the Porter, a character from a short story of the same name by Isak Samokovljia, a Jewish writer from Sarajevo. It is the story of a man who delivers fish to the Jewish families in Sarajevo. It is ironic that in some sense my mother played the same role in real life. Like to the fictional Samuel, my mother used to tell stories about the different families she delivered to. Many of their names were Jewish, but I do not know if their clientele was exclusively Jewish. She would tell me about which families tipped, which were too cheap or too poor to give a tip, which would give her cakes and sweets to take with her, and other things about the families.

When my grandfather died, my mother's brother became the head of the household. That is why my mother and her sisters were so disturbed when he was taken away at the beginning of the war, never to be heard from again. He liked to play cards with his friends and he did this frequently. One evening he had just returned home from playing cards at his friend's, when the friend whose house he had played at came to the door. He informed my uncle that he had been instructed to turn him in, but he assured my mother and her sisters that he would come back. Despite his assurances, my mother never heard from her brother again.

Before the war, her brother had married a Slovenian woman named Kristina, and had two daughters, Makica and Evica. They were all saved by Kristina's mother, a non-Jewish Slovenian woman, and lived in Sarajevo after the war.

Two of my mother's sisters were killed during the war. My mother never found a definitive record of where and when, but she was convinced that they had been killed at Djakovo or Nova Gradiska, two concentration camps (editor's note: run the Croatian Ustashe). Her other two sisters survived because they had married non-Jews before the war. He sister Ela married a Catholic man named Zvonko Gjebic. She converted and changed her name to Jela. Despite her name change, my mother and the rest of us always called her sister Aunt Ela. They lived in Uzice, Serbia, where Zvonko worked in the Foma ammunition factory. They had two children, Anton and Zorica, who live in Kragujevac, Serbia. My mother's other sister, Rivka, married a Jew before the war, and had a daughter, Rahela. But her husband died, and she got married again before the war, this time to a Muslim man named Karahasanovic. They had two children, Zlata and Ahmed. Mr. Karahasanovic died while cleaning his rifle during the war, and Ahmed, born in 1943, never saw his father.

My parents

Both of my parents came from traditional Sarajevo families, and like many of those families they were from modest financial backgrounds. When my mother's siblings married non-Jews, it was not as devastating as it might have been had they had more money. When you are poor, you take what you can get, and many non-Jews did not look for dowries.

My parents met in the Jewish community, either in La Benevolencija or Matatija, two social clubs. They socialized and courted for five or six years before they married. When they did marry, in 1939, they had both civil and Jewish ceremonies. My father worked as a tailor in a private clothing shop owned by Gavro Perkusic. After their marriage they bought a small home on Gornja Mandjija Street on the periphery of the city in an entirely Muslim neighborhood. It was a two-story house. Our family lived upstairs in an apartment with an entranceway, a kitchen, and one room where we all slept. My mother's sister, Rivka, lived downstairs with her children. After her husbands died she had difficulty supporting herself, and my parents let her live in our house and never asked her to pay rent.

Growing up in wartime 

During the war, my father's boss, Gavro Perkusic, protected both my father and us. When he heard that a raid was planned-usually to gather up Jews and Serbs-he would hide my father in his tailor shop until it passed. Several times my mother and my brother and I were rounded up and taken to detention centers and he was able to get us released. Except for those occasions, my mother, brother and I spent the war at home. Throughout the war my mother kept a rucksack packed with all of our important belongings and necessary things. Whenever we were rounded up, this was the one thing we took with us. During the war my mother was forced to sell her wedding gown for four kilos of flour and a chunk of soap.

The location of our street and the fact that it was primarily a poor Muslim neighborhood also protected us. We lived on a steep narrow street, which must have looked daunting to the policemen that were sent to round up the Jews in the area. Many times they would holler up the block asking if there were any Jews there, and the neighbors would reply that they had all been taken away. I am sure my mother's personality and role in the community also played a role in protecting us. My mother was one of the few literate women in the neighborhood. Like most Jewish women at the time in Sarajevo, my mother had a basic education and therefore could read and write. Most of the Muslim women in the area had not had an education and could not read and write. When these women needed such skills, they always came to my mother for help. Generally, she got along well with all of our neighbors and they with her. This is another factor that kept us from being captured during the war.

Post-war

When I was about 12 years old my parents renovated our apartment and made a small room for Rafo and me. Despite the fact that we were relatively poor, my parents' apartment had an English water closet with indoor plumbing downstairs, and a laundry room, another room with running water, things that most of our neighbors did not have. Later, shortly before I married, my parents added a bathroom to our apartment upstairs. From the laundry room one could reach the small garden in the back where my father liked to spend his free time.

In addition to Serbo-Croatian, my parents both spoke Ladino, as did my brother and I. As the years went on, the amount of Ladino lessened, but it was still prevalent in our conversations. My mother was always combining Serbo-Croatian words with Ladino. For instance, she used to say noc de Purim-noc being "evening" in Serbo-Croatian, de being "of" in Ladino, and Purim, of course, being the Jewish holiday.

We were the only Jewish family on our street. In school there were usually only one or two Jews in each grade. Buka Kamhi, another Jewish girl, was in my class throughout secondary school and we became best friends and remain best friends today even though she lives in England. Her father, Haim Kamhi, was a very educated and intelligent man, a Jew par excellance. He was one of the few people I knew after the war who maintained full commitment to Judaism, sincerely observing all the holidays and Shabbat. There were many who hid that they were observing Jewish traditions, and many who observed nothing, but Mr. Kamhi practiced openly and whole- heartedly. He was also the president of the Sarajevo Jewish community for many years.

After the war, in 1949, my father began work as a tailor in the National Theater, and worked there continuously until his retirement. In addition to this full-time job, he also had private clients and made all of our clothing. My father worked hard and always put money away for our summer holidays. Most of the people in our neighborhood did not go away, but every summer my father made sure that the four of us went to the seaside. There he taught my brother and me how to swim while my mother observed from the beach-she was not a swimmer.

My father was an outgoing man. He loved to sing, especially Ladino songs, and drink and eat with his friends. My mother was more reserved, a bit less social, and cautioned my father about his excesses. She rarely talked about her experiences during the war. All of my knowledge about it was extracted from her slowly over the years and from other relatives and friends. After the war my mother avoided wearing clothing with the color yellow. And for most of my life, I also did not wear it, even though it would truly suit a person of my complexion, with very light skin and dark hair. At one point I gradually added yellow to my wardrobe, but my mother never felt comfortable seeing me in it.

After the war both of my parents were very much involved in our local community and Jewish community life. My father even received several accommodations and awards for his efforts. His involvement was on the level of social action and community building; he did not venture into politics. During the war he and his boss both worked for the opposition movement, and had contact with an illegal print shop that was located on our street. After the war he lobbied for that house to be deemed a monument. The plaque that was eventually erected included a light bulb. My father was its self- appointed caretaker: whenever the light bulb burned out, he would see to it that the city replaced it.

In the Jewish community my father was on the religious committee and one of the few people who were regularly involved in religious events after the war. He attended the weekly Friday night service, whenever the weather permitted. Since we lived on a steep small street on the outskirts of town, if the weather was bad it was impossible for him to make it to the synagogue. My father was one of the 20 or so men who attended the Pesach seder every year. Although he was always present, he never led these services or religious events.

My mother was also an active member of both the Jewish community and our local community. After the war she did neighborhood improvement work, and continued helping those women who could not read or write and encouraging them to learn. In the Jewish community she would help prepare the food for the Seder and other community events, especially the lokumikus (light cookies made from eggs and flour) and enhaminados (extensively cooked hard boiled eggs).

Our religious life

After the war my family maintained some of its religious practices, perhaps more than the average Jew in Sarajevo at the time. My parents had a mezzuzah on the entrance to our apartment but inside there were no decorative Jewish ornaments. My brother was born during the war, and immediately afterwards, my father arranged with Rabbi Menahem Romano, the last rabbi in Sarajevo, for him to have a brit milah. My brother experienced complications from this brit milah, among them a stutter from the stress. The stutter was quite severe during puberty, but with therapy and time it subsided a bit. I only remember Rabbi Menahem Romano as an elderly man whom we children respected; I have no vivid memories of him.

My mother observed the Shabbat in those things that she did not do. Saturday was a normal work day in most ways, but my mother made sure not to travel, nor to undertake any unnecessary work in the house such as laundry, cleaning, and so on. My parents liked to go on walks on Saturdays, and even for coffee at the Hotel Europa in the center of Sarajevo. And when we had new clothing, we always had to save it to wear for the first time on a Saturday.

We all went to El Kal-the word we used for synagogue-on the High Holidays and on Pesach. As a child I remember not wanting to miss the shofar (ram's horn) blowing. These services always seemed to interest me, probably because they were a novelty that occurred only a few times a year. When we went, we children sat upstairs in the balcony with the women. Before Yom Kippur, my mother would take me with her to the old Jewish cemetery with buckets and rags to clean off my grandparents' graves. My mother also made sure to settle her disputes before Yom Kippur. Relatives and friends who my mother had argued with during the year were once again welcome in our home and in our conversations. During these holidays, we would usually eat lamb with chestnuts, depending on the chestnuts' availability and when they fell. My mother and father always fasted on Yom Kippur, but they never made my brother and me fast. When my father would come home from El Kal after Yom Kippur, the first thing we would eat were lokumikus and white coffee, a coffee consisting of more milk than coffee.

In general, the holidays always meant a better quality food and a special atmosphere. On Pesach my father would attend the Seder in the community. Twenty or so men who were involved in religious life participated, but few others would attend. We children and other spectators did not participate in this activity.

The Jewish community in Sarajevo erected a big succah every year. It was built in a nook in the community that appeared as though it had been specially designed for this purpose. The community always made sure that it was decorated with fruit and that it was covered with branches according to the tradition. I do not remember that anybody had one at home.

Shavuot was the holiday that we celebrated the least. My parents celebrated those holidays that were most closely tied to children, and maybe because of that we did not celebrate it. Or maybe because it is in May, at the end of the holiday season. Hanukah, Purim, and Tu B'shvat, or, as we called it, Hamishoshi (in Ladino it was also called Frutas), all met this child- oriented criterion and were joyously celebrated in our home. On Hanukah my mother would set up the hanukiah with oil and wicks. We children would light the candles and we would be given the honors based on whether we had been good students and children. My father would sing afterwards, but I do not know exactly what he sang. Each year we would get a new spinning top, both from the community and from my parents.

Hanukah gained popularity as a holiday, both in the Jewish community and in the wider Sarajevo community, in 1958 after the Sarajevo Theatre performed a production of "The Diary of Anne Frank." I believe that there was a scene concerning Hanukah in that production which sparked interest.

Purim was also eagerly celebrated in our family. For this holiday we would have a big family meal with extended family members, though after my uncles left for Israel the family was considerably smaller. My mother would prepare special pastelikus (little meat pies) which, unlike normal pasteles (meat pies), were prepared in small individual portions, as well as borekitus (pie made from filo dough with various fillings) and roskitus (cake with walnuts). Each year my father would make special little cloth bags for my brother and me, which we would wear around our necks and the adults would fill with money. Sometimes, we would even be able to collect money from relatives a few days after Purim.

Hamishosi was a holiday through which one could see my parents' exuberance for the Jewish festivities. Despite our rather modest financial situation, my parents always made sure to buy all the different kinds of fruits available in Sarajevo, no matter how exotic or expensive. The cornucopia included the normal apples and pears, grapes, but also oranges, which were quite rare at the time, dried carob, and fistikas, peanuts in shells, which my mother roasted at home.

After the war, children of my generation did not have bar or bat mitzvahs. The youth groups organized some sort of activities or presentations for Yom Haatzmaut (Israeli Independence Day), but I cannot recall the exact nature of those celebrations. Without fail, every year my parents attended the memorial services in Djakovo and Nova Gradiska. Although Jews came from all over the former Yugoslavia, the Sarajevo Jewish community was the true organizer of these memorial services. The women in the Sarajevo community prepared hundreds of lokumikus and enhaminados and brought slivovica (plum brandy) for everyone afterwards.

My husband Miroslav

My parents took us to the seaside each year and they sent us to the Jewish summer camps as well. When we were older they sent us on excursions. It was on one such excursion that I met my future husband, Miroslav Gasic. The excursion, run by the Ferijalni Savez travel organization, was to a youth campground near Dubrovnik. The next year Miroslav and I met again at a campground near Makarska. After that we lost touch until my brother started university in Belgrade. Since he and Miroslav both studied at the same faculty, I put them in touch and instructed my brother to do what he could to help push things along in our relationship. Rafo proved a good intermediary, and we were married in Sarajevo and honeymooned in Dubrovnik, this time in a hotel, not a campground.

My mother never got over my moving to Belgrade. After time she learned not to show her displeasure as much, but she never accepted the idea. Our neighbors in Sarajevo used to say that she would cry for long periods after my visits.

Miroslav graduated from the university and worked until his retirement at the Vinca Nuclear Institute near Belgrade. I worked as a secretary in the Federation of Jewish Communities of Yugoslavia in Belgrade for some time and then took a position as a lawyer at the Ministry of Education, where I still work. We have a son, Dejan, born on January 1, 1973, and a daughter, Tamara, born on September 23, 1974.

My father Menahem (Miki) Montiljo "Hasid" died on April 25, 1981 in the hospital in Sarajevo. His funeral was conducted by Rabbi Cadik Danon, who came from Belgrade to perform it. After the funeral my mother had us buy a grave next to my father's, as she knew that she would not be able to live long without her beloved Miki. My mother covered the mirrors in our apartment after my father's death and a month afterwards, she arranged a limud (learning session) for my father in the Jewish community. My mother, Flora Montiljo, died in October, 1981, and was buried next to my father.

Some things have a way of coming full circle. My father's family, the Montiljos, were known as Montiljo Hahasid, a term of respect bestowed on those Sephardic families who were especially religious. My parents clung to remnants of this during their lives, and now my children have rekindled this tradition. My daughter, Tamara, has chosen to live in Israel, and my son, Dejan, is an observant Jew living in Belgrade. Today, Dejan bears his grandfather's name, Menahem, and continues in the tradition of the Montiljo "Hasids."  

Linka Isaeva
Sofia
Bulgaria
Interviewer: Stephan Djambazov
Date of interview: September 2002

My parents
Growing up
During the war
Post-war
Glossary

My parents

My ancestors belonged to that part of the Jewry, which came to Bulgaria from Spain - they were Sephardi Jews. The fact that my grandmothers, grandfathers and uncles spoke Ladino was proof of that. My grandparents were probably religious because there were hardly any non-religious people in their generation. I don't know about my grandfathers, but my grandmothers used to wear secular clothes. I remember my mother, Malka Natan [nee Navon], telling me about the Jewish community in Constanta, which differed a lot from the one in Bessarabia 1, where Jews used to wear caftans and payot and had a completely different way of living. My grandfathers were merchants. Both my grandparents and my parents were neither very poor nor very rich.

My father, Jack Natan, was born in Nova Zagora in 1889. He graduated from the University of Law. After World War I his family moved to Sofia, as the male family members had started some trade there. My mother was born in Constanta, Romania. She met my future father at the wedding of her older sister Sharlota, who married a Bulgarian Jew from Ruse. He liked the bride's younger sister. They married in 1923 in Sofia. They had a religious wedding. I was born three years later.

My mother had two sisters, Sharlota and Ernestina Navon, and two brothers, Menaho and Ticko Navon. She was the youngest one. Her sisters were housewives. Ernestina was also married to a Bulgarian. My parents kept in touch with their relatives in Bulgaria more than with those that lived in Israel or in other places. We didn't have enough money, opportunities or desire to visit them. [Editor's note: In totalitarian times continued relations with relatives in Israel would have had a negative impact on the family's situation in Bulgaria. On the other hand, an eventual trip to Israel was beyond their financial capacities.] All of them have already died: Menaho and Ticko in Romania, Sharlota in Israel, and Ernestina in Bulgaria.

My father had two older brothers. Bohor Natan, the eldest, was an extremely intelligent person. Although he didn't have a degree, he spoke German very well, and his French was also fluent. He was a very close friend of Georgi Kirkov 2. Bohor was among the first non-Bulgarians who had a mixed marriage with a Bulgarian woman. As there wasn't a civil marriage service in the country at that time, the couple went to Germany in order to contract their marriage. Bohor got married in the 1910s and died in 1936. His daughter Malvina died in 1967 without having any children, which actually ended that branch of the family. Our grandmother, Sol Natan, didn't even acknowledge her as a rightful granddaughter because her parents didn't have a religious wedlock. The second brother, Shemtov Natan, was a lawyer. He lived in Varna, later he moved to Israel and then to Australia, where he died in the 1970s. He had two sons. I have vague memories of Bohor, who died when I was 10 years old. I seldom met Shemtov, who lived in another town, but I remember that they were both handsome men.

My father was an extraordinary person. He had a great impact on me when I grew up. He dressed in secular clothes. He was very open to people, extremely witty and the heart of each company. He was very cultured and had various interests. He took me to my first opera, my first exhibition and my first lecture. Even when I was already a grown-up, we still continued to accompany each other on such occasions. I inherited his taste for literature and writing. He strongly hoped that I would take a philology degree and was rather disappointed when I took up medicine.

He was quite musical, had a nice voice and sang wonderfully. When he was young, he was even invited to join the Stephan Makedonski company 3. Yet my grandfather, Shabbat Natan, said that he didn't want his son to be a chalgadjia. [Editor's note: chalgadjia is a word of Turkish origin and means 'performer of popular songs'; it has an ironical connotation in Bulgaria.] Therefore my father chose another career.

He was a brave man - he got two medals for bravery when he served as a military officer in World War I. There are some very interesting letters and memories from his superiors telling about his military service. I remember a letter to my mother describing how once he led off his company to a safe place under constant enemy fire. Later, when the persecutions against Jews began, he showed great courage and didn't allow any despondency to overwhelm us. The atmosphere at home was always calm and nice. My father was extremely communicative and active in terms of social life. He used to collaborate with Jewish magazines as a lawyer. After 9th September 1944 4, he put a lot of efforts into the cooperative movement, as he worked in a bank that financed it, and moreover he was convinced of its future.

My mother always lived in her husband's shadow. When she came to Bulgaria, she didn't know a word of Bulgarian. She started learning the language, but my father used to speak both in Ladino and in Bulgarian with her. He didn't let her speak with me in Romanian, to make sure that I would learn Bulgarian well. Now I feel sorry that I don't know Romanian. As to my mother, she never learned Bulgarian well and regretted that she had no profession. Nevertheless, she was a good housewife and raised my children while I was working, for which I'm very grateful.

Growing up

We always lived in rented lodgings and never owned a house. During the crises at the end of the 1920s, the financial situation of the family wasn't so good. Later, when my father began working as a bank clerk, it improved. He had to pay his debts, accumulated as a result of his unsuccessful trade though, so we never succeeded in obtaining our own house. When he paid back all his debts in 1942, the anti-Jewish laws came into force, and we were compelled to leave Sofia and start from scratch.

We always lived in two rooms: one for my parents and the other one for me. We changed our flats six times - three times before 9th September 1944 and three times after. We were forced to do this because we didn't have our own place and constantly had to search for cheaper lodging. The flats weren't furnished, and we moved from one to the next with all our household belongings and furniture. (By the way, it isn't common to rent furnished flats in Bulgaria.)

My mother had servants for the heavy housework - they were girls from villages around Sofia. They used to sleep in our house, they were treated as part of the family, and they didn't go home very often. They only did the house cleaning and the washing. Cooking was entirely my mother's responsibility. I remember three or four girls. The girl I remember most clearly was called Giurgia. She was from Sarantsi. We kept very warm relations with those girls afterwards.

We had lots of books, secular books, not religious ones. My father used to read a lot, and so did my mother. There were books by Dostoyevsky 5, Chekhov 6, Balzac, from Bulgarian writers, such as Yovkov 7, and other classics. My father mostly used to read on his days off. He had left-wing convictions and preferred the socially-oriented works, which he also advised me to read. We regularly bought the newspapers Mir [Peace] and Zora [Dawn]. We didn't visit libraries; we preferred to buy books.

My parents weren't religious, we only celebrated the greatest Jewish holidays - Rosh Hashanah, Pesach and Purim. On Pesach, for example, we used to buy matzah, following the tradition. We rarely held a seder. We mostly visited the synagogue on weddings. I have never been to cheders or yeshivot. We didn't study with our father during Sabbath; we didn't even mention it. As a schoolgirl my favorite holiday was that of St. Kiril and Methodii 8 as well as Pesach and Rosh Hashanah. On that holiday we used to gather with our relatives and the time we spent together was full of joy. My mother was the only one who fasted on Yom Kippur when she was young.

Nonetheless, my parents have always felt and considered themselves an integral part of the Jewish community. My father made friends with many Bulgarians, but he considered himself a Jew and actively participated in a number of Jewish social organizations. He was a member of the boards of the Jewish Asylum in Sofia and the Bnei Brith. Being assimilated, he had a very strong feeling of belonging to Bulgaria.

As a banker in a Jewish bank, my father communicated primarily with businessmen and merchants. He had the self-conscience and high self-esteem of a Jew. Recently I found some of his poems dedicated to Pesach, which have been preserved up until now. He kept friendly relations with Jewish authors such as Armand Baruh and Bucha Behar [writers of short stories and novels in the communist period]. They asked him to write reviews of their works.

After 1944, and for quite a long time, he used to be a chairman of the Control Commission of the Jewish community. He also became a member of the Bulgarian Communist Party. [Editor's note: His Jewish identity and his communist ideas were in no contradiction. Most of the Jews, who remained in Bulgaria after 1944, were leftists devoted to the Communist Party and its ideology.] My mother wasn't a party member, although she sympathized with left-wing ideas. Our neighbors were both Bulgarians and Jews, and we kept close relations with all of them.

I don't know exactly how many Jews were in Sofia before World War II. They were quite a consolidated community, although there was a considerable difference between the poorest Jews, the rich ones and the lower middle class, to which our family belonged. Charity organizations have always existed among Jews and formed the basis for their consolidation. There was a Jewish residential district in Sofia, but there were also many Jews, who lived outside it. I cannot say which were the most typical Jewish professions, but I know which were untypical jobs for Jews: there were hardly any military people, police officers, state clerks and agricultural workers. Jews could be found in commerce, in the industry as industrial employees and in liberal professions such as engineers, doctors, jurists, bankers and merchants. Commerce was a very popular domain among Jews.

Besides the main synagogue of the Sephardi Jews there were also other prayer houses in Sofia. There was one for the Ashkenazi Jews, and another Sephardi one in Iuchbunar 9. There was a rabbi, a chazzan and a shochet. I remember my mother going there to have the chicken she bought at the market slaughtered. However, she didn't do it out of religious considerations, just because there was no one else who would do this. In those times only live birds were sold at the market. My mother used to do the shopping because my father was working. We used to buy things from the little shops around our home. She never bought large quantities or the most expensive goods, although she stuck to variety and good quality. We were very economical in terms of shopping. It was always a great event when we went to buy clothes or shoes.

I was born in Sofia in 1926. I don't have any siblings. My mother was looking after me before I went school. I used to play in the yard, and she took me to the cinema or to the market. I remember that I liked cowboy movies, and my mother used to put up with them because of me. I have always been taken good care of. I didn't attend the Jewish school unlike most of my coevals. My husband, for example, who lived in Sliven, spent his first four school years in the Jewish school. I have only studied in Bulgarian schools, therefore I don't know a single word of Hebrew. I haven't studied religion either because I was relieved from the obligation to attend the lessons as a person of a different faith. My favorite subjects were Bulgarian, Latin and Greek.

I remember my high school teacher of literature. She was a very exacting person and everyone was scared of her, except for me, as I knew and loved the subject. I liked my teacher of Latin in Sliven a lot, too. I graduated from high school there after starting it in Sofia. I didn't like my teacher of mathematics, who was also my class teacher, and got wind of the fact that I was related to left-wing organizations. She was chasing and tormenting me because of that. Not because of my Jewish origin - I don't remember a single teacher having offended me because of that. I took private lessons in French. My teacher was Belgian. She didn't know Bulgarian at all, and therefore I learned French well.

I remember my childhood vacations in Gorna Bania and Chamkoria [the former name of the Borovets resort in the Rila Mountain]. Those were great events. The family never parted and we also went on excursions together, usually to the Vitosha Mountain near Sofia. I remember us going skating on Ariana Lake in winter. We also used to go to the movies. Later, in Sliven, where we were interned after 1942, we used to gather in each other's houses so that people wouldn't see us in the street. We used to read books at secret meetings of the UYW 10.

Later, during my university years, we attended cinema and theatre performances and went for picnics. During holidays we organized excursions with our parents. With a few exceptions, I spent all my school vacations in Sofia. Only once did I go to a Red Cross camp, where we learned how to give first aid to victims. Later, as a university student I continued to go to camps with friends.

I remember traveling by car for the first time when my father's friend drove us to some family acquaintances in Borovets. It seemed both interesting and frightening to me because the road was dangerous with lots of curves. And at each curve the driver signalized with his klaxon. I must have been 10-12 years old at the time. I also remember some train trips to my aunt's in Ruse. It was quite an exciting experience - baskets with food were carried, special preparations were made. A trip to Ruse, which is 327 kilometers from Sofia lasted no less than 10-12 hours. We didn't go there very often - there was neither enough time nor money for that. Our family rarely went to restaurants - just from time to time to some modest restaurant, 'for kebapche', as people used to call it.

As a child I felt a mood of anti-Semitism expressed by some of my classmates in elementary school. Those were isolated cases, but they still did exist. They were mostly verbal offences - Jews were called chifuti 11 - and that was it. I remember our Jewish families anxiously gathering in the period between 1931-1934. [Editor's note: People in Bulgaria were well informed about Hitler's coming to power because of the close relations between Bulgaria and Germany at the time.] I remember my father saying in front of our relatives that it already looked like war. The aftermath of Hitler's coming to power, the anti-Jewish laws in Germany and so on - we used to hear about those things on the radio. I accepted them quite perfunctorily, as I was still a child. Moreover, those events seemed to be far away from us, and yet my parents' concerns existed, and I have a very distinct memory of them.

During the war

Although there were also fascist organizations in high school, my classmates never offended me like the ones in elementary school had. On the contrary, in 1942, when I was in the 7th grade, we were about to be interned in Sliven. My classmates presented me with a souvenir knife with an inscription saying 'To Linka from VII G class'. They saw me off very cordially. I even had some friends, members of fascist organizations, who had good feelings for me. At school I had quite a lot of friends among Bulgarians. It wasn't until we were interned in Sliven that a Jewish girl became my best friend. I got closer with my Jewish coevals after the anti- Semitic laws were passed in Bulgaria. I wasn't much looking for their company because until then my friends were mainly Bulgarian girls.

The serious manifestations of anti-Semitism began when the anti-Jewish laws were adopted [the so-called Law for the Protection of the Nation] 12 in Bulgaria. That happened in 1940-1941. The first real and tangible shock for us, as laws themselves are something abstract, was the introduction of the yellow stars. It was followed by the prohibition to live in the center of Sofia and the changing of our names. The aim was to restrict us through our specific biblical names. My father was called Jacob instead of Jack, my mother Malkuna instead of Malka, and my name became Delila instead of Linka. Then came the marking of the Jewish houses and finally our internment from Sofia. The most awful thing was that constant feeling of vulnerability - that there was always a chance that a Legionary 13 or Brannik 14 would insult you or do whatever he would want to you, without you being able to protect yourself.

My father was forced to quit his job in the Carmel Bank. Then it was announced that if we leave the city voluntarily, we would obtain the right to choose our new home freely. As my father had many friends in Sliven, where he had grown up, we settled there shortly before the big wave of internment, and were thus able to take things from our household with us. My father remained unemployed - he was forbidden to work in the banking system. He did some underground work for a couple of friends, although he was formally hired as a laborer so that they could pay him. Again, we had financial problems in Sliven. During vacations I also started working in a factory in order to make both ends meet. I worked on a knitting-frame for socks.

There was no physical repression against us but moral violence in terms of the offences we had to endure from legionnaires and branniks. At the same time I have wonderful memories from my contacts with Bulgarians. We stayed in Sliven until December 1944. We went through the hardest moments there in 1943, when my father received a notice that he should show up with some 50 kilos of luggage at the school. The letter was from 8th March 1943, and the date appointed for showing up was 3pm on 10th March. We all knew that it meant internment or even deportation. We also knew that the lists of women and children were in the municipality, and they were about to be announced. I was a member of the underground UYW. I discussed the possibility of not showing up with my fellow members but finding a connection with the partisans instead and joining them in the Balkan Mountains. But as we were very young and lacked experience - I was only 17 - they weren't very interested to accept us because we might have become a burden to them.

Anyway, nothing happened. In the last moment, at 11am on 10th March, the abrogation of the internment came [on 24th May 1943] 15 and we were informed that no one had to show up. I remember complete strangers who, seeing my yellow star, were warmly embracing and kissing me in the streets of Sliven. The hardest moments were the moments of parting. My father didn't go to labor camps, as he was already too old. But at that time I had a relationship with my future husband, and he was detained in the labor camps for about three years. We used to communicate through letters only. Those were very hard times.

When we came back to Sofia in 1944, we settled on the same estate but in a different apartment. People accepted us very well. They had even kept our stuff, though we had taken almost everything to Sliven with us. I began studying at the university, and my father started working in a Jewish bank. Then our family faced the question of settling in Israel, especially after my father's parents moved there. It was a rather complicated matter, as we had certain ideals of Bulgaria, and we felt that it would be betrayal to leave our homeland. I was a member of the Bulgarian Communist Party, yet I never allowed myself to reproach my friends who were leaving for Israel. I realized that their desire to have their own fatherland and live in a secure place was completely natural. At the same time I thought that it would be also safe in Bulgaria.

Post-war

I met my husband, Albert Behar, in Sliven during the war. We got married in 1948 in Sofia. He was born on 8th November 1923 in Sliven. His mother tongue is Bulgarian. His father was a bank clerk, and, after 9th September 1944, his family left for Israel. My husband has a degree from the Agricultural University. He worked as a soil expert in the Institute of Soils. We have two children: a son, Valeri, and a daughter, Lidya, who both have families of their own. My son is a doctor, and my daughter is an economist. I have three grandchildren: Lidya's Roumen and Yassen Nikolov, and Valeri's Svilen Isaev.

After finishing university I worked in the People's Army of Bulgaria as a doctor for five years. I was discharged from the Military Institute I used to work at in 1956 because of my Jewish origin. Although the common explanation was a general lay-off, the real reason was the fact that I was a Jew. Many other Jewish friends of mine who worked in the army were also discharged. That's how we realized what the actual reason was. For me it was indicative of the fact that anti-Semitism was still alive. This hurt us but we blamed everything on human errors that accompanied the practical realization of the party program. Moreover, in 1956 the April Plenum [of the Bulgarian Communist Party] was held, at which the cult of Stalin was deposed. Much later we realized that it wasn't only the people's fault, the totalitarian system itself was to blame.

We didn't feel any dictatorship after the 1950s. At that time we lived with the conscience that we, the communists, would make history. As long as a dictatorship existed and certain classes were oppressed, we justified its existence. [Editor's note: Linka is referring to the doctrine of 'the dictatorship of the proletariat'.] Materially, and in terms of the technical progress, the first years after 9th September 1944 were extremely difficult. We gradually improved our social position, starting from the end of the 1960s and during the 1970s, when we had already turned into a middle- class family. We never owned a flat, neither a villa, nor a car. Yet we could cover our needs for food, clothes, holidays, and so on, fairly well.

Our attitude towards the wars in Israel in 1967 [during the Six-Day-War] 16 and 1973 [during the Yom Kippur War] 17 was divided. On the one hand there was care and concern for our relatives there and the understanding that the people of this country had the right to live their own life. On the other hand, due to the aggressive propaganda and the ideological brainwash, it occurred to us at certain moments that those were actually unfair wars. That was one of the most crucial moments in our lives - we could neither entirely share the position of the Bulgarian government at that time, nor could we fully take Israel's side. Our greatest concern was that we wouldn't be able to contact our relatives in Israel.

I didn't visit Israel before the collapse of communism in 1989. I went there once afterwards. My husband didn't join me. Nobody forced us to terminate our relations with our closest relatives there, yet a certain self-restriction existed for sure. I rarely kept in touch with my relatives in the West, and they also avoided contact with us. Except for that one discharge in 1956, I never had the feeling that I was refused promotion because of my Jewish origin. My husband even had a leading position at the Institute of Soils. He became director.

My children were raised as Jews, but they are married to Bulgarians. They know everything about the war and what happened during the Holocaust. We celebrate Rosh Hashanah and Pesach. I celebrate Christmas with my son's family. We don't celebrate Easter. We keep the 'gastronomical' side of the Jewish traditions, and I have even handed them over to my daughter, who is also a master of Jewish specialties. Perhaps 70 % of my circle of friends are Jews, but I have always had friends among Bulgarians, too. I keep good relations with my cousins in Bulgaria, especially in Sofia. We meet at least once a week with some of them.

After 1989 we felt great relief. In the years after that many things concerning political rights and freedom, democracy as a whole and our way of living, became quite clear to us. It can't be simply be said that this change was only for the better. The feeling of spiritual liberation was later followed by economic difficulties.

As to our Jewishness, our life has definitely changed because there are more and more varied activities organized by the Jewish organizations in Sofia. We are pensioners and have a lot of spare time that needs to be filled. We found the resources for that within the Jewish community. We often visit the Jewish People's House in Sofia, where we meet our friends. A lot of people from abroad have also recalled that we are Jews. All our relatives in the West, who have never thought of keeping close relations with us, contacted us after 1989. Every summer they come here from all over the world, and it makes us remember that we are Jews.

My personal convictions about the so-called Jewish problem, and how we could possibly solve it, have also evolved. While in the 1950s and 1960s, and even at the beginning of the 1970s, I used to think that the solution lay in assimilation, today I share a completely different view. Until recently I wasn't much interested in my roots, but as time goes by I indulge deeper and deeper into history. I used to think that assimilation was the only way to solve the Jewish problem in Bulgaria. I believed that assimilation would save me and my children from a new persecution against Jews. Now I don't think so any more because I see that assimilation hasn't been very helpful to the Jews. Yet I don't consider the pure fanatic isolation of the Jewry to be our way either. I don't see why religiosity should be related to the idea of belonging to the Jewry. One should recognize himself as a Jew even without being religious. I understand that the Jewry has survived thanks to its religion, yet I don't understand why I shouldn't be considered a Jew if I don't obey each law of the Jewish religious tradition.

Even during the communist era I didn't break my relations with the Jewish community and identified myself as a Jew. We have lived a more intensive Jewish life in recent years though. Maybe that's because we are already pensioners and the community somehow effectively replaces our relatives that we miss. We have definitely received support from the Jewish community in the years financially hardest for us: 1992-1995. Now we don't receive support to such an extent any more because our pensions are quite good for Bulgarian standards. Yet, until recently these funds helped us to survive. We received a financial support of 1,400 USD from Switzerland.

There were many important events after World War II, but in my opinion the most important thing for the future of the Jewry is a strong Jewish state recognized by the whole world and the existence of a real democracy in all the countries where Jewish communities exist. The recognition of the minorities' rights is also necessary. And I'm referring to the attitude of the different countries towards Jews and vice versa. Sometimes Jews are also responsible for unsuccessful relations. Jews have to comply with the life and the traditions of a country, and to integrate in its society, without ever forgetting that they are Jews. Extreme nationalism is not only rooted among anti-Semites and Israel's enemies but also among Jews themselves.

Glossary

Roman Barskiy
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Orlikova

Family background
Growing up
During the war
Post-war

Family background

My mother's mother, Freida Borschevskaya, nee Rutenberg, was born in
Romny, Poltava province, in 1888. Romny was a small town. There were a
few Jewish families of doctors, pharmacists, merchants and very
skilled handicraftsmen. They were patriarchal families that observed
all Jewish traditions and celebrated holidays. Freida Borschevskaya's
family was one of these. They spoke Yiddish and knew Russian and
Ukrainian. Their children received excellent education in the
universities of the Russian empire. Theirs was a religious family. My
grandmother's father went to the synagogue in Romny on holidays. They
always celebrated Sabbath in the family. My grandmother also followed
all Jewish traditions and celebrated holidays, although she was only
moderately religious. My grandmother was the last child in a large and
rather wealthy family. The youngest children were traditionally raised
in the families of the older children. This made it easier to give the
other children good education.

My grandmother got a very good education. She finished grammar school.
She was a very beautiful woman. Even in her 50s she was still
attractive. My grandmother was raised in the family of her older
sister Bella, and she grew up with her nephew. That was why of all her
brothers and sisters she only remembered Bella and her family.

Bella's son Boris was born in 1894. Bella's marriage name was
Ponarovskaya. Hers was a wealthy family. I believe Isaak Ponarovskiy,
Bella's husband, was a tradesman, a respectable man in the town. My
grandmother always maintained good family relationships with her
cousin Boris Ponarovskiy. He was an economist in Moscow. He died in
1989. Boris's son became a musician and his granddaughter Irina
Ponarovskaya became a popular pop singer in USSR. Women had
traditionally been housewives in such families as Ponarovskiy.

In 1904, when she was 16, my grandmother married Peisah Kazakov. My
grandfather had two brothers. Gilel, born in 1875, graduated from the
medical faculty of Kiev University. He worked as a doctor in Nezhyn;
his daughter Elena taught physics at the Pedagogical Institute in
Nezhyn. She was single and died in 1991 at the age of 76. My
grandfather's brother Emmanuel was a doctor in the province of
Poltava. Emmanuel's son Mikhail (1897-1954) was a writer. He was the
author of the novel Empire's End. This book about the events before
the revolution of 1917 was popular in the USSR in 1930s. It described
the processes of ruination of patriarchal foundations of different
levels of the society and of the way of life of various parts of the
society, including Jewish. His son Mikhail Kazakov is a famous Russian
actor and producer.

My grandmother had a real Jewish wedding. The bridegroom was a man of
standing at that time and the bride was an educated girl for that time
- she had finished 5 classes at the grammar school by then. All famous
Jews of Lubny came to their wedding. The chief rabbi, Warshavskiy, led
them to the huppah, and musicians from Kiev played at the wedding.
The best Jewish cooks made kosher food. People remembered the wedding
for many years.

My grandmother became a member of the Kazakov family. They were very
religious and observed all Jewish traditions. My great-grandfather
Ruvim Kazakov owned a post office in Lubny. He must have made good
money, as he was a wealthy man. He gave all his children, except my
grandfather, a good education. My grandfather was to inherit his
father's business. It was customary for an older brother to work in
the family business and earn money for other brothers' education.

Lubny was a larger town. The post office was located in the center. My
mother and I visited my grandfather in Lubny before the war. He and
his second wife Maria lived in a big brick house, with the stables and
sheds where my grandfather kept wagons. There were horses even before
the war in 1940. I was five years old and I remember my grandfather
putting me on the horseback to have a ride in the yard. I look like my
grandfather. He was tall and gray-haired. My grandfather was a
handsome man. My grandmother said that my great-grandfather Ruvim was
even more handsomemy grandmother said. My great-grandfather Ruvim had
a beard. My grandfather didn't. My great grandfather Ruvim had a
beard. My great grandfather and my grandfather wore a little cap. Now
I know that it was a kipah. My grandfather spoke Yiddish at home. He
also knew Russian and Ukrainian. He had Ukrainian employees in the
post office and he communicated with them in Ukrainian.

There was an inn near the post office that also belonged to my
grandfather. He had a cook there to make meals. He also had a Jewish
cook at home that made meals for the family following all kashruth
rules. My grandfather was a religious man and demanded that all Jewish
traditions were observed in his family. ::::::::::::::

The Kazakovs had two daughters. The older daughter died in her
infancy. The second daughter, Bertha, born in 1909, was my mother. We
have kept excerpts from the registries of all Jews born in Lubny with
Rabbi Warshavskiy's signature.

Then a romantic story happened in the family. My grandfather's close
relative Boruh Zelman Borschevskiy came to Lubny after graduating from
the law department at the University in St. Petersburg. My grandmother
fell in love with him at first sight and he did with her. It was a
great love. As my grandmother was dying at the age of 102, her last
words were "Zelman, Zelman, I'm coming to you." She died almost 50
years after Zelman did.

My grandmother insisted on getting a divorce. Rabbi Warshavskiy
stamped his feet, yelling, "I can't, because I've never heard you
arguing." At that time it was next to impossible to get a divorce, but
my grandmother managed to convince my grandfather to divorce her.
Zelman Borchevskiy forgot about his dream to enter the medical faculty
at the Warsaw University. He took my grandmother to St. Petersburg. In
order to obtain a permit for my grandmother to live beyond the
boundaries of her residential area, he took her to Kronstadt, a
fortress on an island near St. Petersburg. (In Tsarist Russia, the
Jewish population was only allowed to live in certain areas. In Kiev,
Jews were allowed to live in Podol, the lower and poorer part of the
city.) In Kronstadt the rabbi of the Baltic Navy married them for 100
rubles. There were no friends or relatives at their wedding. The rabbi
said the prayer under the huppah and issued their certificate. And my
grandmother obtained the residential permit as a wife of a Jew with a
higher education.

Her daughter, my mother, was raised by her father Peisach Kazakov in
Lubny, because her mother was going to start a new life and her father
thought that it was better for her to stay at home and in familiar
surroundings.

There was a small number of Jews that observed Jewish traditions in
St. Petersburg, but my grandmother observed them very strictly. Even
after the war when she was living with us she knewYiddish all holidays
and traditions, always wore a shawl and lit candles at Sabbath,
although she spoke, thought and read in Russian, and was a woman of
the world. I don't remember her praying, but she observed all the
rituals. Her second husband Zelman Borschevskiy had a higher education
and added much to my grandmother's education.

After the October Revolution of 1917 when the famine began in St.
Petersburg, my grandmother and her husband Zalman moved to Kiev.
(After WWI, St. Petersburg, the former capital of the Russian Empire,
was cut off from food supplies and actually blocked. Food industries
were impacted by the general chaos and long war in the country.) They
rented an apartment in the center of the city. During the civil war of
1916-1919, the regime changed 11 times in the city: the Reds (the
Soviet Army), the Whites (fighting for the Russian monarchy), and the
Greens (a well-known ataman, a leader of robbers and bandits, was
nicknamed Zeleniy, Russian for "green")-all took it several times.

I asked my grandmother about pogroms and she said "I guess there were
some in Podol, but I didn't know for sure."

"Did they happen when Denikin units were in town?" I asked. General
Deniken led a counter-revolutionary gang of White Guards, famous for
their brigandage and their anti-Semitic actions all over Russia;
legends were told of their cruelty. Few survived their pogroms.

"I don't know," my grandmother said, "Denikin officers were polite and
saluted me in the streets."

The pogroms happened in Jewish neighborhoods. My grandmother was a
beautiful, well-dressed, noble woman. However, she always remembered
her identity and was a Jew to the marrow of her bones. When I asked
her about the Bolsheviks, she called them bandits. The Bolsheviks
threw her family out of its house in 1918. The house was siezed to
become the Revolutionary Military Council office. The Bolsheviks took
away all the people's possessions. She saw them shaking chandeliers
where people had hidden their diamonds, and the diamonds falling from
there. However, they didn't throw her out of the house. Men were
always impressed by her beauty and manners. She told me that they gave
her a ring and earrings, which she exchanged for a quart of milk and
half loaf of bread during the blockade. After the civil war they
returned to Leningrad where her husband died.

My grandfather Peisach Kazakov got married to Maria, a Jewish girl. I
don't remember her well. They had two children. My aunt Anna, born in
1922, entered Kiev Medical Institute. When she was a student she often
visited us. She read me fairy tales in German and translated them for
me. Anna went to the evacuation with the Medical Institute, graduated
from it and went to the front. She married a Russian officer from
Siberia named Yukechev. They went to Novosibirsk after the war. They
have two sons: one is a journalist and the other is a musician.

Anna died in Novosibirsk in 2001. I correspond with her sons. Her
brother Ruvim was in evacuation in Saratov with his parents. He stayed
there after the war and worked as an economist. During the war he
worked at the aviation plant.

My grandfather Kazakov had a big house and a big family in Lubny. Even
during the difficult times of revolution their family was all right.
They earned their living by providing wagons and wagon drivers for
transportation. My mother Bertha was raised in this family until she
finished school. However religious her family was, they didn't impose
their beliefs on her. She could have a meal with wagon drivers; and in
general she wasn't raised according to the Jewish rules. But still my
mother knew Yiddish well. My grandfather was kind to her, though her
stepmother didn't care much for the girl. My grandmother visited her,
and my mother went to see them in Petersburg. The families were on
friendly terms.

In 1923 my grandmother's son Boris Borschevskiy was born in
Petersburg. He finished school in 1941. He was a talented young man,
but he starved to death in 1942 during the blockade of Leningrad. My
grandmother was sorry that he hadn't gone to the front as a volunteer.
She said that he would at least have gotten some food there. Her
husband Zelman Boruh Borschevskiy also perished at that time. He was
Financial Director at the Skorokhod shoe factory.

My mother finished labor school in Lubny in 1928. She was a typist.
Later she left for Kharkov. Kharkov was the capital of Ukraine until
1934. My mother got a worked as a typist at some company. In Kharkov
she met her future husband.

My father Israil Barskiy was born in Lubny, Poltava province, in 1907.
I also have an excerpt from the birth registry. This excerpt states
that the circumcision was done on the 8th day after his birth,
according to the rules. This document was also signed by Rabbi
Warshavskiy. My father never told me about his family and I don't know
anything about my grandfather. My grandfather Perets Barskiy died in
1933, before I was born.

I remember my grandmother Tsypa Barskaya, born in 1876. She knew
Yiddish very well, it was her mother tongue. She was a very nice and
kind woman. We visited my grandparents before the war. She was a very
sweet Jewish grandmother. She was a religious woman. She observed all
Jewish traditions, celebrated holidays and prayed at home. The
synagogues were closed at that time. (In those years it was not safe
to go to the synagogue. Those were the horrific 1930s, the period of
struggle against religion. There was only one synagogue left of the
300 existing in Kiev before the revolution of 1917. Religious
buildings were removed; rabbis and Orthodox and Roman Catholic priests
disappeared behind the KGB [State Security Committee] walls.)

We usually visited my grandparents in the summer. I don't remember any
of their celebrations. I have very sweet memories of staying with
them. Their house seemed huge to me. There was a big garden near the
house.

My father's older sister Henrietta (her name in marriage was Litovt),
born in 1904, lived in Kharkov for a long time. Her first husband
perished during the war. She got married for the second time in
Leningrad. She was an economist. Her daughter Elena, born in 1939, is
my cousin. Elena, her husband, and their two children emigrated to
Israel after Henrietta died in 1990.

My father's younger brother Iosif, born in 1912, was killed at the
front in 1942. He never married.

I believe my father's family was rich. Many of them received higher
education in St. Petersburg. I only know that my father's cousin Raya
Granat was a lecturer on strength of materials in the Mozhayskiy
Academy in Leningrad. His other cousin Anna, I believe, was married to
the academician Luriye.

My father didn't like to talk about his childhood. I know that he
finished the rabfak (an educational institution for young people
without secondary education, specifically established by the Soviet
authorities). He was good at painting and he went to Moscow to study
at the Art Institute. Later, when the Art Institute was opened in
Ukraine, my father got transferred to Kharkov Art Institute. He
graduated as an architect in 1934.

Young people in Kharkov gathered in groups of people from the same
areas. They remained friends for the rest of their lives supporting
each other regardless of their nationalities or ethnicity. My parents
met in one of these groups. A Jewish wedding was out of the question
in 1934. Although they were not Komsomol members, young people of
their time believed that it was enough to register a marriage at the
registry office and get a stamp in the passport.

Growing up

My father received a room in a communal apartment. He worked a lot at
the design Institute and my mother went to Leningrad before I was born
to have my grandmother help her to look after the baby. They wanted to
call me Ruvim after my great-grandfather, but changed their mind at
the last moment and named me Roman. Roman was a more fashionable name
at the time. I was born in Leningrad (St. Petersburg) on August 2,
1935.

In 1934 the Ukrainian government moved to Kiev. Voenproject, where my
father worked, also moved to Kiev in 1935. My mother came to Kiev from
Leningrad and we settled down in a big communal apartment in 2
Pushkinskaya Street. The nobleman Rusakov, the former owner of this
apartment, also lived in one of the rooms. He was an engineer and he
socialized with my father. The rest of the tenants were a worker, two
clerks, and a single mother and her son, who was a timorous, thievish
teenager. We often visited Rusakov in his room. Later we were told
that he left with Germans in 1943.

Ethnicity didn't matter in those days. My parents were young and
progressive and didn't celebrate any Jewish holidays that were
considered to be vestiges of the past. My father and mother could
exchange a couple of words in Yiddish, just because they came up at
some point. These were the Soviet days when ethnicity was no more
important than the color of hair. My father wasn't a member of the
Communist Party, but like the majority of people he believed that
everything in our country was being done as it should have been.

My father and mother worked a lot. I was at a special kindergarten of
the "Communist" plant and the Writers' Union. It was located in a big
orchard. There were lots of toys. I remember a party in 1939 when the
Soviet army entered Western Ukraine. The boys dressed up as tank men,
pilots, and cavalry men. We were happy, and recited poems dedicated to
Stalin under a big portrait of him. We believed that Stalin heard us.

During the war

On July 22, 1940, my sister Elena was born. At the beginning of the
war she was 11 months old.

I clearly remember the first and each following day of the war. (On 22
June 1941 at 5 o'clock in the morning, Nazi Germany attacked the
Soviet Union without declaring war. This was the beginning of the so-
named Great Patriotic War.) In the previous years, the kindergarten
moved to the country house in Ostyor, about 90 kilometers from Kiev.
But in 1941 we were staying in town for some reason. The children woke
up to the roar of bombing. I was 6 years old and was a senior in my
group. I remember evacuation. My father put us on a truck heading to
Kharkov. We only had one suitcase with us and my mother was holding my
sister. Somewhere near Poltava we were attacked by a Messerschmitt, a
powerful German fighter plane. It imprinted in my memory. The plane
flew so low that I could see the face of the pilot. He looked out of
the window and saw that there were no soldiers, just women and
children, and he flew away. He turned out to be a decent man even
though he was a German. I realized that it was a war from the first
day.

Many people stayed in Kiev, remembering the Germans during WWI. I had
asked my grandmother about the civil war and revolution and what time
was best for the people. She replied that it was best when Germans
were in power. They were cultured people and there were no pogroms.
People didn't believe that the nation of Schiller, Goethe and Heine
could be so wild. I understand those Jews that stayed in Kiev and even
waited for Germans to come. They didn't believe that Germans would
shoot them just for being Jews.

There was no anti-Semitism at the beginning of the war. It is my
understanding that it started after Germans began to separate Jewish
and non-Jewish prisoners-of-war.

We didn't stay long in Kharkov. My mother went to work as a typist at
Kharkov Military Headquarters. In Kharkov we stayed at my grandmother
Tsypa's house. She looked after Elena. We didn't stay long in Kharkov.
Later my grandmother and my aunt and my cousin evacuated. My aunt's
husband went to the front and was killed there. When Germans were
approaching Kharkov we moved on to Kuibyshev. On the way I saw
bombings and destroyed cars, people who had been killed, and blood.

We reached Kuibyshev, but there was no place to stay there and we
sailed on a steamship from one town to another, I don't remember their
names, looking for a place to stay. It was a boat with paddle wheels,
of pre-revolutionary make. It was September and October, 1941. We
settled down in Stavropol-on-the-Volga (Toliatti at present). I
remember a lot of mud, and black houses. It looked prehistoric.

We received a letter from my father. He wrote that he was going on
business to Kuibyshev and that we could meet there. We caught the last
boat, as the Volga was beginning to freeze. It was cold when we
arrived in Kuibyshev and it was beginning to snow. We went up the
street to catch a tram. My mother was carrying Lena and I was holding
her by the skirt. My mother was crying and I was freezing. We came to
the railway station and found my father's note on a bulletin board. So
we went on to Tashkent, a warm, cozy town very far away.

My father went to the army in Kiev. I remember him wearing his uniform
of a private. He served in the engineering unit at the southwestern
front. He had previous military construction experience and was sent
to the southern border with Iran to a construction site. He and mother
agreed that my mother would be writing to him poste restante to Moscow
so that he could find us. He came to us to Kuibyshev on vacation in
October 1941.

We went to Kizilarvat, a station at the Krasnovodsk-Tashkent railroad
in the Karadag foothills where my father had his job assignment. There
was a Russian village for the railroad employees. We rented a room
from a Russian family. The host of the family was a locksmith at the
depot. He had three sons. The boys were very handy like their father.
There was a locksmith shop in the yard and I spent most of my time
there. The boys, the youngest of whom was in the 5th form, explained
everything to me. My father worked most of the time. They were
building something there. The government was going to send troops to
Iran. My mother worked as a typist at the hospital.

1942 was a terrible year of famine. The boys and I went to the
foothills to dig out tulip bulbs. We ate them. I also tried a turtle.
We made soup and the meat tasted like chicken. The boys also ate
hedgehogs, but I couldn't. My older friend's name was Zhora. The
younger one, Vova, went to the 10th form. He went into the army in
1943 and died. People sympathized with us. There were other families
in the evacuation. I understood the importance of water there. It was
where the Kara-Kum desert began. Everything looked heavenly when it
was watered. There I realized that I was a Jew. Someone called me a
"zhyd". I don't remember why. My parents explained to me about the
Jews and about our identity. I learned to play babki - sheep bones, an
ancient game. I was responsible for getting bread from the store. I
remember a terrible incident when I gave the day's ration of bread to
a boy and he promised to give me babki. When my mother asked me about
the bread I told her the truth. She didn't beat me, she only said "He
won't give you anything." And he didn't. I remember this first lie in
my life. I remembered for the rest of my life that not all people
could be trusted.

Then there was the first time I realized that I was a Jew. Someone
called me a "zhyd." I don't remember why. My parents explained to me
about the Jews and about our identity.

I went to the Russian secondary school, but I attended it for only
about 3 weeks. There was no food to give me and my mother sent me to
the kindergarten at the military base. I had to get up at 4 AM and
walk by myself about 4 km across a ravine and a stream. I remember
the food we received: toasted bread and porridge. There were no
comforts there. It was just a building in the middle of the steppe and
we had to go to the toilet outside. There was a military aerodrome
with one plane left. The rest of the planes had been sent to the
front.

In 1943 my father was transferred to another military unit in
Semipalatinsk. We lived there in a big wooden house and the toilet was
outside.

My mother continued working. By that time my grandmother Freida from
Leningrad joined us. She was looking after my sister and me. We
stayed there until 1944. The neighbors' boys teased me more than once
for being a Jew. Once I even injured the nose of one of them. My
mother told me off then. She said I couldn't beat someone because he
didn't understand.

My grandmother was very thin after she came to live with us. She
stayed with us until she died. She introduced Jewish identity into our
family, which we didn't have. She spoke Yiddish to my father and
mother. She celebrated all Jewish holidays and cooked traditional
food. She fasted at Yom Kippur and never ate bread at Pesach. She
made her own matzo. At Hanukkah she always found small change to give
it to the children and she insisted that we observed all these
traditions. After the war she made more traditional food: gefillte
fish, etc. She was a very good cook. She told me that she had learned
cooking from my grandfather Kazakov's cook. I learned cooking from
her and I always make my own meals.

In April 1944, we returned to Kiev. During our trip back, we saw a
stunning battlefield near Voronezh with a lot of damaged equipment.
The Darnitsa station near Kiev had been destroyed by German bombings.
We went to the Jewish bazaar when we arrived in Kiev. There was
everything there! My mother bought me a pie with beans and it was such
a delicacy! There had never been enough food in the evacuation. And
there was so much of everything at the bazaar. They were selling
borscht (beet soup) with sour cream, stew, et cetera. and I went to
school to finish the first form. There were many Jewish children in my
class and we were friends.
I remember our trip back to Kiev, a stunning battlefield near Voronezh
with a lot of damaged equipment. The Darnitsa station near Kiev was
destroyed by German bombings. We went in the direction of the Jewish
bazaar when we arrived in Kiev. There was everything there! My mother
bought me a pie with beans and it was such a delicacy! There was never
enough food in the evacuation. And there was so much of everything at
the bazaar. They were selling borsch with sour cream (beetroot
vegetable soup), a stew, etc.

I heard about Babi Yar when we were in evacuation. (Babi Yar is the
site of the mass shootings of Kiev's Jewish population, which was
done in the open by the Germans on September 29-30, 1941, in Kiev.
During 3 years of occupation, 1941-1943, Germans killed thousands of
people at Babi Yar : communists, partisans, prisoners of war). My
mother received a letter from our former neighbors in 1944 after Kiev
was liberated. They described the horrific things that had happened.
My first visit was to Babi Yar, the place where they were shooting
people. I saw embers there. I was 9. The children growing up during
the war are older than their calendar age. I knew and understood
everything. I went to Babi Yar with a Jewish boy. I remember burnt
bones on the slopes. We found rusty keys from someone's apartment.

I knew well which of our acquaintances were alive and which perished.
We came to the ruins of our house and there on the entrance door that
was intact we saw notes from survivors with their contact information.
Our neighbors told us about my mother's friend. She stayed in Kiev,
but she didn't go to Babi Yar. We also knew who reported her to the
Germans. Her husband was Ukrainian. He went to the front. Her neighbor
kept blackmailing her threatening that she would give here away to the
Germans. At last she didn't have anything to give her but her
husband's leather coat. She tried to explain that she wanted to keep
it for her husband, but the neighbor didn't want to give up. She
reported on her and Germans took her to Babi Yar. A life for a leather
coat.

We received a 5th floor room on Reitarskaya Street. It was the top
floor and there was a big hole in the roof. We stayed with a friend of
my mother's for some time until we had the roof fixed. This friend, a
Ukrainian, came from Lubny. She was a very interesting woman. Her
husband was a Jew. He perished in 1937 when the KGB eliminated the
leading Party officials. She returned from evacuation. Her son was
with his grandmother in a village. He survived miraculously. His
grandmother's neighbors pointed fingers at him saying "This is a
Judah. He is a Jewish child." But his grandmother managed to save him.
She was my parents' friend for life.

My father continued to work at the Kiev project organization. In 1943
he entered the Communist Party. However strange it may sound, he
believed in the idea of communism. He was very naïve in this respect.
Later, when I sneered at him about it, he got very angry at me and
said if it were not for the Soviet regime I wouldn't even have shoes.
I reminded him that his relatives had higher education before the war
and they did have shoes.

We lived in a communal apartment with nine other families. 39 people,
one toilet and one sink. There were many children in the apartment and
we were friends. There were Jewish, Russian, Ukrainian and one Polish
family in the apartment. We didn't always get along. The five of us -
my grandmother, my parents, Elena and I - lived in a 14 square meter
room. We didn't have running water. I used to fetch water from
Bolshaya Zhytomirskaya Street, quite a long way. There was no heating,
so I cut wood to take it to the 5th floor. We made a stove with a
smokestack through the window. My grandmother cooked on this stove.
The rats were as big as kittens. There was no furniture except two old
and shabby beds tied together with a wire. I slept on the chairs. My
sister slept on a box. When my parents' friends began to return from
evacuation they stayed with us until they found a place to live. We
got gas and running water in 1947.

Post-war

I became a pioneer in the 3rd form in 1947. I didn't take it
seriously. I attended pioneer meetings, but I didn't care about them.
I enjoyed playing football with other boys and swimming in the Dnieper
in summer. I read a lot. I read books by Sholem Alechem in Russian at
home. (Sholem Alechem, whose real name was Shalom Nohumovich
Rabinovich, was a Jewish writer who lived in Ukraineand moved to the
USA in 1914.)

We had classic Russian and foreign books and historical books at home.
I read Tevye the Milkman and Motl Boy. I became a Komsomol member
because it was mandatory in order to enter a higher educational
institution in the future and make a career. (Komsomol was a Communist
youth organization created by the Communist Party to make sure that
the state would be in control of the ideological upbringing and
spiritual development of the youth almost until the age of 30.) The
authorities were suspicious of young people who were not Komsomol
members. I wasn't an enthusiastic Komsomol member, but after I
entered, no one could bother me.

I remember how the attitude towards Jews changed in 1948. When the
authorities started arresting the Jewish anti-fascist committee in
Moscow, we could hear all kinds of things in the streets like "Hitler
didn't kill enough of you," or "It's a pity he didn't kill all of
you." The Doctors' Plot worsened the situation. (The so-called
Doctors' Plot was a set of accusations deliberately forged by Stalin's
government and the KGB against Jewish doctors of the Kremlin hospital,
charging them with the murder of leading Bolsheviks. The case was
started in 1952 but was never finished because Stalin died the next
year.)

We had very decent teachers. I remember Vasiliy Dubovik, the teacher
of mathematics. He was a very orderly and reserved man. Later I
learned that he participated in the Ukrainian nationalist movement. I
remembered him from my first days at school. He wore high boots and
black trousers tucked in the boots and a Ukrainian embroidered shirt.
He was a typical Ukrainian. He was very kind and never segregated
children by their ethnicity. I learned from him to be precise, to
express my thoughts clearly, and to be logical. There was no anti-
Semitism at school, but there was outside. We all knew that it was
difficult for a Jew to enter an Institute.

My grandmother understood very well what was going on. She used to say
"I knew that these bandits would come to this." My father was very
concerned. Actually his ideals were falling down. My mother was also
disappointed. After the war she worked at the Ministry of Home Affairs
office. She was paid well and had a rank of an officer. In 1949 she
had to quit her job because she was a Jew. She was a highly skilled
typist. She went to work at Kiev Project where my father worked and
later was employed by the Soviet Telegraph Agency of Ukraine.

I finished school in 1953. I tried to enter Kiev Polytechnic
Institute, but it was impossible for a Jew to study there. The
situation at home also was difficult. I understood that I had to
leave. There was too little space for all of us and my sister was
growing up. I heard that they were opening a new Institute of Railroad
Transport Engineers in Gomel, Byelorussia, and I went there. When I
arrived, the entrance exams were over. I went to the hostel and began
to live there.

One day a captain from a military college came to the hostel and
suggested that I entered their college. I agreed. There was another
Jewish boy, Leonid Kogan from Chernobyl. He joined me. He lives in New
York now. We are still friends and write letters.

It was a radio engineering college. I didn't tell my parents that I
went to Gomel. I came back home to pick up my clothing. My grandmother
said "Good boy, independent." My parents didn't mind it either.

Stalin died in 1953. I didn't care. People around were crying, but I
didn't have any feeling for him.

There was no anti-Semitism at college. There were five Jews. I lived
in the barracks for three years. The barrack had hectares of floors to
be cleaned, bunk beds to be made. We got poor meals and studied
studied. My assignment was at the Far East air-defense headquarters.
From Headquarters, I was sent to Komsomolsk-on-the Amur (Far East) and
from there to the post in Nizhnetambovsk, a big village up the Amur.

I was the only Jew in the unit.. We all got along well. We built our
houses from bricks removed from the former camp facilities. The camps
had been closed by then. This was in 1956. I served as operations
orderly. My responsibility was to monitor planes in the sky, some of
which were not our planes. I served five years in the army. When I was
offered the chance to demobilize, I took it.

I returned to Kiev, to the two-room apartment that my parents had
received. It was 1958 and I felt a totally different attitude towards
Jews. I tried everywhere, but couldn't find a job, although I was an
ex-military man and had some privileges. My mother mentioned to her
colleagues in the radio agency that I couldn't find a job for half a
year and one of them helped me to get a job as a locksmith rigger
apprentice at the Tochelectropribor Plant. I met my best friends
there: Iosif Fredzon, a veteran; Yuri Alexandrov, a veteran; Vova
Yerzhakovskiy, a war orphan and a former sailor. They were on my
crew.

In five years this whole crew went to work at the Kievpribor Plant.
This plant was switching to the manufacture of space equipment. We
sent Vova to negotiate our employment - he was of Slavic origin. We
were highly skilled workers and they hired us. They didn't question
our ethnicity. I mentioned to the Human Resources manager that there
were two Jews in this crew. He told me to take it easy and said that
he would make all necessary arrangements. The director approved our
employment.

In 1959 I met my future wife at the first American economic exhibition
in USSR, in Moscow. I had come to Moscow to enter the Polytechnic
Institute. I tried to enter Kiev Polytechnic Institute, but failed. I
passed all exams in Moscow Communications Institute with the highest
grades. I was admitted as an extramural student.

I was having a good time attending art and industrial exhibitions when
I met Cleopatra Pochezyorskaya. She was a student of Leningrad
Engineering Construction Institute and was visiting Moscow. She had
been born in 1934. She wasn't a Jew. Her mother came from a noble
family. She worked at a bank. Cleopatra had another year to study at
the Institute. We got married in 1960 after she graduated from the
Institute. My parents, and especially my grandmother, didn't approve
of my marriage. They didn't like it that she wasn't a Jew. They
thought that she might be arrogant and didn't want to accept her. We
just visited them sometimes. We rented a room from an elderly Jewish
couple. In two years my parents received a new apartment and we moved
into their apartment.

Our daughter Valeria was born in 1963. She wasn't raised as a Jew. My
wife didn't want my grandmother to speak Yiddish in her presence. She
always emphasized that she came from a Russian family. I tried to
avoid any conflicts. I'm an agreeable man and never impose my views on
people.

I continued my studies and went to Moscow to take exams after each
academic term. I worked as an engineer at the Kievpribor Plant. The
plant began to manufacture space equipment for manned spaceships
Vostok, Mir, Soyuz and Progress. I made many parts of the equipment
with my own hands. I often went on business trips. I visited Baikonur
and Plisetskaya, two Soviet space centers. I was very fond of my work.
In 1960s and 1970s, the development of space studies was very popular
and we were proud of being involved in this great project.

My family life wasn't a success. My wife and I didn't get along and
divorced in 1974. I don't think that my ethnicity was the cause of
divorce. We were just different people. We didn't understand each
other and didn't take one another into consideration. I kept in touch
with my daughter and supported her. I received this one-room apartment
from the plant.

I tried to write in the 1970s, and was a success. I write stories and
novels. My friends like them. I have always been interested in Jewish
subjects. I learned Polish to read books about WWII and the Holocaust.
At that time no books about Jews were published in the Soviet Union.
There are always Jewish characters in my books. There is even a camel
that is a Jew in one of my stories. My father was the first reader of
my stories. He worked at the Voenproject organization until he died
from ischemia in 1978. He had the third heart attack. He fell in the
street and died instantly.

My mother took some additional typing work home after she retired. My
sister Elena graduated from the faculty of mathematics at Kiev
University. She married Yuri Bochkaryov, a non-Jewish artist-designer.
They had a son, Mikhail.

My sister is a talented woman. She worked at the computer center. In
1991 they moved to Israel and my mother went with them. She was very
ill and died in 1993. She is buried in Israel, our ancestors' land.

My grandmother lived happily 102 years. She died in 1990. Until her
last moment she was totally lucid and had a clear memory. She was
interested in everything and she drank a toast of cognac at her 100th
birthday. She was interested in politics and sports. She knew all
Kiev Dynamo football players and watched their games on TV, commenting
on them. She always remembered all Jewish traditions. She fasted at
Yom Kippur, and we bought matzo at Pesach for her. However, after the
war she didn't celebrate other holidays, didn't go to the synagogue
and didn't cover her head. Two days before she died she had a fever
and she fell into unconsciousness. In some time she came to her
senses, looked at me with her blue eyes that had once startled Denikin
officers, and said "Zalman, I'm coming". She closed her eyes. It was
evening. My sister stayed at her bedside. She called me at night and
said that our grandmother had gone.

My daughter Valeria graduated from Kiev Art Institute in 1989. She
married her tutor when she was a student, but soon divorced him. In
1988 her son Dmitriy was born. In 1992 my daughter went to visit her
acquaintances in the US and stayed there. Soon my ex-wife Cleopatra
went there with little Dmitriy. I don't hear from them. Unfortunately,
they both are the kind of people who only care about someone as long
as they are in need of him.

I have visited my sister in Israel twice. My friends Mark Shehman,
Alexandr Zaslavskiy, Boris Smolkin, and Wainshtein showed me Israel. I
admired the people who managed to build up their country. Their effort
is worth deep respect. I didn't notice any ethnic hostility or
anything like this. I understand that what is happening there is in
the interest of a bunch of bandits. It is hard to imagine what these
bandits do to the country. They are not human if they enjoy seeing
somebody of different faith dying regardless of whether it is a woman,
a man, an old man or a child. It is too late for me to move there. I
won't be able to learn the language, but if I have to fight there I
will go. If they need my help I will go there regardless of whether I
know the language or I don't.

Anti-Semitism is like a deep-seated disease. It's like a tuberculosis
bacillus. I think that it has always existed, but it gets activated at
the turning points of history and tragically impacts Jews and
Ukrainians. Anti-Semitism has always been a tragedy for the people who
have expressed it.

There is now no anti-Semitism on the state level, as there used to be
during the Soviet regime. I feel nothing but respect towards me. I
still go to work. I have worked almost 50 years for this country, but
my pension is not enough to make my living. That's why I have to go to
work. If I lose this job I can't imagine how I can make ends meet. The
so-called pension is very small.

I'm attached to this land very much. My ancestors have shed lots of
blood and worked so hard for this land. I have always identified
myself as a Jew and never concealed my ethnicity. But I've always
treated people with respect and they reciprocated my respect. There
are many opportunities to study Jewish history and read Jewish books
now. I read Yegupets and other Jewish newspapers and magazines. I
visit Chesed, the Jewish charity organization, and I recall all Jewish
holidays thanks to them. I don't celebrate them, but I remember.

I'm not a religious person but I believe in a rational
extraterrestrial energy. Jews do not say the word God. They clearly
understand that one can call this extraterrestrial energy anything but
"God." I believe in it. Standing by the Wailing Wall in 2002, I felt
that it is a special spot. I pressed my forehead to the wall, laid my
hands on it and thought about my friends and my family, asking for
health and prosperity to my friends and family, and I felt some kind
of relief.

EDITH KLEIN
Slovakia

Family background
Growing up
During the War
After the War

Family background

My paternal grandfather was Ignatz Klein. They used to call him Natzi, but,
obviously, no one used that name after the 1930s. He had been in the Austro-
Hungarian army, but I don't recall the years. He served in Komoron
(Komarno) and built a bridge there. He was born in Rad. He was a farmer and
lived in a small town, Kralovsky Chlmec. He supported his family working as
a manual laborer and transporting goods. My paternal grandmother, Roszalia
Klein, was born in Boj, Slovakia, which was in Austro-Hungary at the time.
Grandmother Roszalia was deaf. She had three children: my father,
Maximilian, Miklos and a third child, whose name I cannot remember. She
died in Auschwitz in 1944.

My mother was Gisela Boczani. She was born in 1902 in Zdana, in eastern
Slovakia. My mother's mother was Fani Berger, a housewife. My mother was
one of seven brothers and sisters. My mother and Uncle Alexandar worked
together because their father died young. He worked in the forests, hauling
wood. It was very difficult to make ends meet.

My mother died in a concentration camp in 1944. She was 42. My uncle
Alexandar was taken to a Hungarian labor brigade. They all perished in the
Holocaust.

Growing up

I was born on June 18, 1929, in Rad, where there were six Jewish families.
I had two brothers: Arnold was born in 1931, and Pavel was born in 1934.

I started to go to school in 1934 in Kosice. It was really hard at first
because I didn't know any Slovak, but I was a good student and worked hard.
In Kosice, I lived with my mother's mother, who kept a strictly kosher
home. In 1938, the Hungarians arrived, and as a Jew I was not allowed to go
to school. I was sorry I couldn't continue. I loved to study. I went back
to our village and went to school there. I completed eight years.

During the War

At first, we had to wear yellow stars. My father was militarized in 1938
and was in the labor brigades, at the time of the Munich crises. After
Munich, he was demobilized and came home. They took him into the Hungarian
army in a labor brigade. We never saw him again. We know that he was taken
by the Hungarian army to the eastern front, and that he survived this, and
then was taken to a concentration camp in Hungary. We were told he died of
typhus.

We had a horse, and my mother had a wagon. To make a living, she did a
little work by doing errands for people. It was so hard on her.

The deportation was in April 1944, and it was carried out by the Hungarian
police, not the Germans. Everyone from my town was taken to
Sátgoraljújhely, and from there we were deported. I was with my father's
mother, who was deaf, my mother and my two little brothers.

We were all standing in a line, all five of us. It was Mengele who stood
there and told me to go to one side. He sent my mother to the other side.
She waved to me and I waved to her; I asked if I could be with her, but
they said no. They took us away and I asked someone where they were taking
my mother. They pointed and said, "She's going up that chimney." Arnold was
only 13 years old and Pavel was just 10. They were also killed.

I was 15, and they put me to work. My number is A12561. I was in the B
camp, and pretty soon, I was in bad health. The girls in my barracks told
me to hide from the Germans, because if they caught me, they would have
sent me straight to the gas. So I would keep walking around in the back and
avoided any contact with them when they looked us over. My friends also
shielded me and kept me hidden.

I was transported to Leipzig, and I was there from October 1944 until April
1945. Then, just before liberation, we were marched into the yard and, with
no preparations, we were marched away. We walked for 16 days, and the only
way we got food was begging from people along the way. One of the German
soldiers saw me begging and he hit me so hard I thought it would kill me.
We finally arrived in Terezin, and they cleaned us there. They gave us a
little to eat as well. I had terrible health problems by then - dysentery.
On May 9, the camp was liberated by the Soviet soldiers. Soon after, those
of us from Slovakia were told to report to an office. We were put in
wagons, and I went to Bratislava. I was given an ID and 500 crowns. The
only document I have about myself is this Auschwitz tattoo. Nothing else.
On the train back east, Soviet soldiers approached me and I was so
frightened. But they left me alone. I went to Rad, but there was a woman
living in our house. I can't talk about it.

After the War

Adolf Klein, a cousin, came to find me, and then with my friend Erzi, we
lived together in Pavelovo. While we were there, Adolf's brother Vilhelm
came to me and said, "I have been going around and looking over the girls
and I think you're the best one." I said, "But we're related." I thought
that second cousins once removed couldn't marry or have children. But
Vilhelm laughed and said no.

I had a cousin in the United States. In 1948, I wanted to go there. I took
my passport and, with three friends, I went to Prague. I had my relative's
affidavit. But it didn't matter - the Americans wouldn't give me a visa. Of
my three friends, all went to Israel, and one did eventually get to the
U.S.

About my husband - well, I was just so happy that I survived and that I was
alive. I wanted to care for someone and I wanted someone to care for me. I
had this simple wedding dress - we had no money. But my sister-in-law did
come all the way from America. We were married on February 15, 1948, in
Kralovsky Chlmec. There was still a small community there, and I recall
that the rabbi's name was Katz.

My husband served in the military of Czechoslovak army in 1947. We went to
live in Pavelovo. We stayed there until 1971. I worked as an agricultural
technician for the state.

We earned a living from our own land: corn, wheat, vegetables, and we had
cows. Altogether we had seven hectares of land, and we spent all our spare
time working the land. We had a man who worked for us. The farm was
collectivized in 1957, but Vilhelm managed to get them to leave us a
garden, which we continued to work.

I have two boys. Arnold was born in 1950 and Pavel - or Paul as he's called
now - was born in 1953. Both of my sons had a brit milah and bar mitzvah.
They married before they left the country. Both of my boys had Jewish
weddings and married under a chuppah, but this was not done publicly. It
was done in secret. They met their future wives in the Jewish youth club.
Both emigrated to America. Arnold is a vice president in a private firm,
and has two children. His wife's name is Helen Moskowitz. Pavel married
Mira Haimovitch, and they also have two children.

Arnold calls himself Andy now. He left Czechoslovakia in 1984. He went
through Yugoslavia, and then over to Italy. I knew he was going to do it. I
didn't encourage him, but I didn't keep him, or his brother, back. Andy did
have a great job here; he was the vice chairman of a very big firm.

Vilhelm, my husband, always went to synagogue. Our family was Orthodox; all
the families were Orthodox in the small villages.

I am very sensitive and I am prone to tears when I think about my life. But
I'm very happy that Andy calls me three times every week. And I have to
tell you that my grandson will marry soon. Did you just ask me if he will
marry Jewish? Of course Jewish!

Lazar Gurfinkel
Chernovtsy
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: November 2002

Lazar Gurfinkel is a short man with thick gray hair. His wife and son moved to the USA in 1997, and he lives alone in a three-bedroom apartment in the center of Chernovtsy now. A nurse from Hesed comes to his home to help him with house chores. She cleans his rooms, does the shopping and cooks for him. Lazar feels lonely, though. He was glad to give us an interview. He told us about several generations of his family, sometimes in amazing detail. He has good manners and a soft voice. Lazar has a clear memory and a sound mind. He is very glad that people show an interest in Jewish life before the Holocaust and in the history of Jewish families. To him it means that people go back to their roots, something that had been suppressed in the USSR before.

My family background
Growing up
Our religious life
My school years
During the war
Post-war
Married life
Glossary

My family background

My father's parents lived in Khotin, which belongs to Western Ukraine now and was formerly part of Moldavia [Bessarabia] 1 which again was part of Romania between 1918 and 1940. My grandfather, Leizer Gurfinkel, was born in Khotin in the 1840s. He died after a stroke in 1913. My grandmother, Beile-Enta Gurfinkel, was also born in Khotin. She was born in the same year as my grandfather. She fell seriously ill when she was a child. Jews in town believed that her parents gave her the second name of Enta to swindle death, which was to come for Beile. However strange it may sound, my grandmother did recover from the disease that all doctors had diagnosed as incurable.

Khotin was a small district town with Russian, Ukrainian, Moldavian, Romanian and Jewish inhabitants. Jews, about 13,000 people, constituted almost half of the population. There were about seven synagogues and two Jewish elementary schools in Khotin. There were no pogroms in Khotin. People respected each other's traditions and religions. There were no pogroms in Khotin. Jews were craftsmen and merchants. There were tailors, shoemakers, carpenters, fur and leather specialists. There were several richer Jews that owned big stores. There were also lawyers, doctors and pharmacists among the Jews.

There were also poor people, mostly widows with children, who had lost their breadwinner, or sick people, who couldn't go to work. The Jewish community in Khotin supported poor families. On Fridays poor women and children went begging in the main streets of the town, where the Jewish middle class resided. They got one or two lei in each house. Giving alms on Friday was a tradition. People were willing to help poor people buy a challah, fish and other food for Sabbath. Poor Jews usually went begging on the first half of the day and managed to visit 50-60 houses. But of course, they kept having problems. They needed money to buy clothes, wood for winter and other things. There were about 7 synagogues and two Jewish primary schools in Khotin.

Jews resided in the main streets of Khotin. It was better regarding their businesses to live in the central part of town, where they had more customers. They usually lived in one-storied wooden or stone houses with shops occupying the part of the house that faced the street. The rest of the house served as a living quarter for the family. Non-Jews resided in the outskirts of town, where land wasn't so expensive, and they had bigger plots of land with gardens and orchards. There were many gardens in town.

On Mondays there was a market in Khotin. Farmers from the surrounding villages sold their dairy products, eggs, fruit and vegetables, meat and chickens. There was a yard where they sold pigs, cows and horses. Jewish store owners used to display some of their goods in front of their stores on market days. They had more customers on these days because the farmers usually sold their products before the afternoon and went to buy essential goods in the shops: matches, kerosene, salt and so on,. etc. They also bought warm winter boots and clothes. Jews were selling shirts, boots, threads and buttons at the market.

There was a shochet at the market who slaughtered chickens and ducks that Jews bought for a holiday or Sabbath. To buy kosher meat Jews went to the meat factory where cattle was slaughtered in accordance with the rules of kashrut. Jewish butchers bought cattle at the market and cut the meat. Jewish butcher stores had to meet the requirements concerning kashrut. Butchers had no right to sell pork because in that case all other meat on sale in the store became non-kosher. Therefore, they only had Jewish customers because farmers usually bought pork at the market.

My grandfather was a religious man. He didn't work. He spent his time praying and reading religious books. He went to the synagogue every day and observed all Jewish traditions. My grandfather was a very kind, nice and reserved man. He loved his wife and was very attached to her. They spoke Yiddish at home, but they also knew Russian and Moldavian. My grandmother was moderately religious. Friday evening the family celebrated the coming of Sabbath, and my grandmother said a prayer over the candles. They followed the kashrut. My grandmother wore the trousers in the family. The breadwinner who provides for the family is also the head of the family. She was very smart in business. She went to purchase golden jewelry in Turkey to sell it in town. She stored it at home and sold it to her neighbors and other clients.

They lived in a big one-storied stone house in the old central part of Khotin. My father showed me the house, but I didn't go inside because another family lived there. They were a well-to-do family. There was only a small backyard with a shed and a toilet: a wooden booth with a cesspool. Land in the central part of town was very expensive, and people didn't have orchards or flower beds. My grandmother planted flowers on the boundaries of the house.

My grandparents had four sons and four daughters. My father was the youngest in the family. The oldest was Aron, then came Isaac and Samuel. After Samuel three daughters were born: Lisa, Fania and Shesia. There was another daughter after Shesia whom I didn't know and then came my father. My father Michael - his Jewish name was Michel - was born in 1878.

My grandfather was a religious man. He went to the synagogue every day and observed all Jewish traditions. My grandmother was moderately religious. On Friday the family celebrated Shabbat and my grandmother said a prayer over the candles. They followed the kashrut. My grandmother wore the trousers in the family. Breadwinner that provides for the family is the head of the family. She was very smart in business. She went to purchase golden jewelry in Turkey to sell them in the town. She stored it at home and sold to her neighbors and other clients. My grandfather was a very kind, nice and reserved man. His wife provided for him and his main pastime was praying and reading religious books. My grandfather loved his wife and was very attached to her. They spoke Yiddish at home, but they knew Russian and Moldavian. They lived in a big one-storied stone house in the old central part of Khotin. They were a well-to-do family. There was only a small backyard with a shed and a toilet: a wooden booth with a cesspit. Land in the central part of the town was very expensive and people didn't have orchards or flower beds. My grandmother planted flowers on the perimeter of the house.

My father and his brothers studied in cheder. Their sisters studied at home with teachers from cheder. They studied Yiddish, Hebrew, the Torah and Talmud, mathematics, literature and French. After the boys finished cheder they continued their education at the Romanian lower secondary school.

Isaac was a doctor. He graduated from the Medical Faculty of Novorossiysk University in Odessa. He took a course of advanced training in surgery in Berlin. After finishing it he became the chief surgeon at the regional hospital in Kishinev. When Bessarabia joined Romania in 1918, Isaac stayed in Kishinev but lost his position as chief surgeon. Jews weren't allowed to hold high official posts. He became a private doctor. Isaac had three daughters from his first wife. After his wife died in the 1920s, he married a colleague of his, and they had a daughter. Isaac was religious and observed Jewish traditions. He died of pneumonia in 1932. My father patronized his daughters and helped the widow.

Aron and Samuel became pharmacists Two other brothers became pharmacists and lived in Russia. In 1918 the area where they lived joined the USSR, and their family lost track of them. The Soviet authorities were suspicious of families that had relatives abroad. Even questionnaires or application forms had an item line asking, 'Do you have relatives abroad?' A positive answer might have become an obstacle for getting employment, admission to a higher educational institution, etc. During the period of the Stalinist repression [the so-called Great Terror] 2 a person that admitted having relatives abroad might have been accused of espionage and arrested. I know that Samuel lived and worked in Yampol, a small city in Vinnitsa region. He perished in the ghetto there along with his family at the beginning of the Great Patriotic War 3. Aron owned a pharmacy in Oriol, a regional town near Moscow. It was nationalized after the Revolution of 1917 4. He moved to Moscow because he was afraid of other sanctions against him, and the family didn't hear from him after that.

My father's older sister, Lisa, got married before the Revolution of 1917 and moved to New York, USA, with her husband. The two other sisters, Fania and Shesia, moved to Odessa. They got married and had children. Fania graduated from the Odessa Medical Institute and became a doctor. Shesia didn't work. After the Revolution of 1917 we didn't have any information about them. After the war we got to know that my father's sisters evacuated to Pyatigorsk at the beginning of the war and perished in 1942 when the town was occupied by the Germans.

After finishing grammar school my father finished a course for pharmacist assistants in Kazan. He wanted to get higher education, but it was difficult for a Jew to enter university [because of the five percent restriction] 5. My father's older brother, Isaac, helped him to get into Moscow University. The Association of Noble Families of Kishinev issued a request to the rector's office of Moscow University to admit Michael Gurfinkel, pointing out that his brother had contributed a lot to the Russian Empire. This document was signed by the marshal of the nobility in the province and a gentleman of the monarch's chamber. My father went to Moscow with this paper and obtained a permit to take entrance exams.

He was admitted and studied at the Pharmaceutical Faculty for five years. He was very hard up and if it hadn't been for charity meals at a students' canteen sponsored by Morozov, a Russian merchant, he wouldn't have been able to complete his studies. My father couldn't find a job in Khotin after graduating. There were only two pharmacies in town and no vacancies. He found a job at a private pharmacy in Tambov, a Russian provincial town. Later he worked in Fastov, near Kiev, for several years. When the owner of one of the pharmacies in Khotin died, his widow inherited the pharmacy. She had no special education and was looking for a manager. My father's sisters wrote to my father and told him to come to Khotin. He arrived and became the manager of that pharmacy.

My mother's parents lived in Kamenets-Podolsk. Her father, Yankel Akkerman, was born in Kamenets-Podolsk in the 1840s. Her mother Pesia Akkerman [nee Lukacher], was a few years younger than my grandfather. My grandmother's parents also lived in Kamenets-Podolsk. My mother, Sarah Gurfinkel [nee Akkerman], was born in 1881. She was their only child. She was named Sarah after her father's mother but called Sopha at home. My grandmother died of typhoid in 1884 when my mother was 3. My grandfather didn't remarry.

My grandfather's sister, Feiga, lived in Khotin with her family. She raised my mother while my grandfather provided for her. Feiga was a widow and had two children of her own. She married her deceased husband's brother, and they had two more children. . Feiga owned a small fabric store. She bought fabrics at the fabric warehouse to sell them in her store. She provided well for the family. She was moderately religious. They celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays. They spoke Yiddish and Russian in the family. Feiga didn't have a housemaid. Her husband replaced her in the store when she needed to cook for the family. She was tall, thin and strong. She was an intelligent businesswoman. I met her several times and it was always interesting to talk to her. She died in the ghetto in 1942 at the age of 98.

My grandfather rented fields from a landlord and leased smaller plots to farmers. After the harvest he received his share of crops. During the harvest season he stayed in villages, and on the weekends he came to stay with Feiga. He led the same life after my mother got married. My grandfather died in 1925. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Kamenets- Podolsk, near the spot where my grandmother was buried.

There was no grammar school for girls in Khotin. My mother and Feiga's children studied at home with a teacher who came to teach them Hebrew, Yiddish and the Torah. Another teacher came to teach them the educational program of elementary school. At the age of 10 my mother went to grammar school in Kamenets-Podolsk, not far from Khotin. She lived in the hostel on weekdays and went to Khotin on weekends. My mother spoke fluent Russian and read a lot of Russian books. When she was younger she went on trips to Kiev and Odessa.

After finishing grammar school my mother returned to Khotin. She didn't continue her studies and didn't work. She was a young lady preparing to get married. My mother was a friend of my father's sister Fania. Fania introduced her to my father sometime in 1911. My mother was very beautiful. My father and mother liked one another and got married shortly afterwards in 1912. They had a civil ceremony in the town hall and a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah. They rented a big hall for ceremonies in Khotin and had the chuppah and the wedding party in that hall. After their wedding my parents spent their honeymoon in Italy.

When they returned they stayed with Feiga for some time, but then they moved in with my father's parents. The owner of the pharmacy where my father was working moved to live with her son and sold the pharmacy and her house to my father. The pharmacy and the house where in the same building, so my parents had their own dwelling. In the beginning my father managed in the pharmacy alone, but then his work-load increased. At that time prescribed medication had to be prepared within two hours, and my father hired a young assistant to help him.

Growing up

My older brother, Moisey, was born in 1913, and my sister Pesia, named after my mother's mother, followed in 1916. She was called Polia at home. I was born in 1924. I was named Leizer after my grandfather on my father's side who died in 1913. In Hebrew my name is Eliezer, which means 'God is help'.

In 1925 my grandfather Yankel, my mother's father, died. He was buried at the Jewish cemetery in Kamenets-Podolskiy, near where my grandmother was buried. In 1918 my parents moved into another house. My father bought a big house in one of the main streets - a better location for his business - and he moved his pharmacy into it, too.

Romanian was the state language in Bessarabia from 1918, but Jews mostly spoke Yiddish or Russian. We spoke Russian at home. Sometimes my parents spoke Yiddish when they didn't want us to understand what they were discussing. We had a Ukrainian nanny. She was kind to me, and I was attached to her. I learned Ukrainian from her and Russian from my parents. I actually spoke a mixture of these two languages. I learned Yiddish when I was about 5 years old from the children I was playing with. We lived in a Jewish neighborhood, and all our neighbors were Jewish. I couldn't read or write in Yiddish, but I spoke it fluently.

We lived in that house until World War II. There was a backyard, a shed and a well in the yard. The pharmacy occupied three rooms, the biggest of which served as the sales area. Powders were prepared in another room, and tinctures and decoctions were made in the third room. There were also storerooms for pharmaceutical utensils. Our family was lodging in four rooms: a living room, a dining room, my parents' bedroom and a children's room. There were also a kitchen, a verandah and a few storerooms in the house. When I was small I slept in my parents' bedroom. Later, me and Mmy brother and sister shared the children's room. There were two beds, a wardrobe, a sink, a table, two chairs and a bookcase in the room. We dined and received guests in the dining room. There was a table, six chairs, a cupboard and a sofa in the room. Our living room was beautifully furnished. There were four windows, carpets and curtains on the windows. There were pictures on the walls, ancient vases and a crystal chandelier.

My father's mother lived with her older son Isaac, but later she moved in with my father. She was old and weak and couldn't cook herself or walk outside. After Isaac's wife died he found it difficult to look after her, and he wrote to my father asking him whether he could take care of their mother. My grandmother arrived shortly afterwards. She had a housemaid whose task was to look after her. My grandmother died in 1938 when she was over 90 years old.

My nanny died when I was about 6 years old. We also had a housemaid and a cook. They were Ukrainian. The housemaid was responsible for cleaning the rooms. She had to clean seven rooms every day. In winter she had to stoke the stove and clean it. The cook did the shopping and cooking every day because there were no fridges to store food. There was a built-in boiler in the stove for heating water. My mother didn't work - she had housekeeping responsibilities.

Our religious life

My parents didn't follow the kashrut. We ate all kinds of products, including traditional Jewish food. When my brother was a student in Bucharest he had meals at a restaurant, and when he came home on vacation he always demanded pork chop, the food he was used to. The cook made pork chops for him, and we took advantage of the chance to have pork, too. We didn't observe Sabbath, but we celebrated the major Jewish holidays: Pesach, Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah, Chanukkah, Purim and Sukkot. My parents weren't deeply religious people, but they paid a tribute to religion.

Before my brother was to have his bar mitzvah my father hired a teacher to teach my brother Jewish traditions and religion. He taught him Hebrew, prayers and other things. My father hired a teacher for me when I was 10 years old. He taught me Hebrew but translated things into Yiddish for me to understand. I studied the Pentateuch Torah and the Talmud. When I turned 13 my father took me to the synagogue in a cabriolet. I had my bar mitzvah ritual. I said a prayer, and my father treated all community members with traditional vodka, wine and honey cookies. I got tefillin and came of age. My mother arranged a party for me at home. We invited many guests: our family, my parents' friends and my friends.

My father went to the synagogue on all big Jewish holidays and on the death anniversaries [Jahrzeit] of his parents to say prayers for them. He took me with him after I turned 7. While my brother was still in Khotin we went there together. My father had a seat at the synagogue. This synagogue had a special meaning to our family. My father's grandfather on his mother's side had funded its construction, and it was called after my great-grandfather, Avrum Shai Yoffe. My father also made contributions to charity and the maintenance of the synagogue. He had a seat of honor in the eastern part of the synagogue as the grandson of the man who had constructed the synagogue. The Holy Ark, where the Torah scrolls are kept, and the place where the cantor sings or says prayers are traditionally located in the eastern part of a synagogue. All believers must face the East during praying because our religious capital Jerusalem is in the East. There were benches along the eastern wall of the synagogue for the citizens who had contributed their lives to the Jewish community and the synagogue. On Saturdays, when my father wasn't at the synagogue, somebody else took his seat, but it was his on Jewish holidays when he attended the synagogue. I usually sat beside him. My mother attended a different synagogue, the one that her deceased father had attended. She went there on holidays.

My mother knew all the traditions. She kept fancy dishes and utensils for Pesach in a special box. She made traditional food on Pesach. Our cook helped her with the cooking. We didn't have any bread in the house during Pesach but ate matzah instead. All Jewish bakeries in Khotin sold matzah. Before Pesach the rabbi went to all the Jewish bakeries to issue a certificate confirming that they had cleaned the bakery of all the bread and bread crumbs. They made matzah flour for sale, too. We had gefilte fish, chicken broth and boiled chicken on Pesach. My mother also made chicken cutlets, stuffed chicken neck and pudding of matzah and eggs. There were also delicious pancakes from matzah meal that we ate with jam or honey. My father conducted the seder very ceremoniously. He had several prayer books. I also had a few of those books. I still have one that my parents gave me before the war. During seder I asked my father the traditional 'four questions' [the mah nishtanah]. Each member of the family drank a glass of wine. We opened the front door. It was a tradition that any traveler that didn't get home could enter the house and join the family for seder. There was also an extra glass of wine for Elijah the Prophet. It was believed that he visited every family at seder.

On Chanukkah our father gave us some change and a spinning top [dreidel]. I also remember Tu bi-Shevat. We had various fruit growing in Israel: dates, figs and raisins. We could buy them in stores and had them on the table.

We had guests for Purim. Poorer Jews, adults and children, gave performances in the houses of wealthier people and received money for them. These performances were short, because Purimshpilers had to make the rounds of as many families as possible to earn more money. It's obligatory to partake a festive meal on the day of Purim. It is customary to eat food with seeds, for example, hamantashen with poppy seed filling. One should drink more wine than one is accustomed to. It's correct to invite guests, especially the needy. The conversation should be focused on words from the Torah.

On Yom Kippur and before Rosh Hashanah we fasted for 24 hours including children over 5 years of age. After going to the synagogue [on the day of Yom Kippur], when the first evening star appeared in the sky, the family sat down for a festive dinner.

My school years

Neither my brother nor I went to cheder or a Jewish school. There were two Jewish schools in Khotin: a private one and a state-funded one. According to the Rumanian constitution the children of ethnic minorities could study at a national school. In the state-funded school pupils studied in Yiddish and Romanian. The other school was a Talmud-Torah, a religious school where children studied the Torah and Hebrew. It was funded by the Jewish community and Jewish organizations. According to the Romanian constitution the children of ethnic minorities could study at a national school. We studied at the Romanian elementary school. My father wanted us to continue our education and believed that we would be better off if we started our studies in Romanian. Our primary education was free of charge, but when we went to grammar school our parents paid a set amount for each year. Students wore uniforms. Poor people couldn't afford to pay for their education, but for the middle class it was affordable. My brother and sister went to a lyceum after elementary school. After that they entered the Pharmaceutical Faculty of Bucharest University. They both wanted to follow into my father's footsteps.

I went to the state elementary school when I turned 7. I faced anti- Semitism from the first days of school. There were only two Jewish pupils among the 40 of us in class. There were Romanian, Russian and Ukrainian pupils. They called me 'zhyd, zhydiura' [kike]. Sometimes I fought with them, sometimes I kept silent. Our teachers didn't encourage anti-Semitism and didn't demonstrate any. After finishing elementary school I went to the Romanian grammar school.

In 1933 Hitler came to power in Germany. Romania was a military and political ally of France and England that won in World War I. Under the Versailles Peace Treaty Romania received Bessarabia and Bukovina at that time. We believed that Romania wouldn't enter a treaty with Germany. We were hoping that France and England wouldn't allow Germany to occupy Romania, but it happened otherwise. There were fascist organizations in Romania. Two parties the Iron Guard 6 and the Cuzists 7, openly declared that they were against Jews. They were saying that Jews were robbing the Romanians and took hold of all key positions in trade and economy. But they weren't in power. The Liberal Party was in power, and it was loyal to Jews. There was no oppression of Jews. Only officers' schools and seminaries didn't admit Jews.

In 1937 my brother graduated from university and came back home. He began to work at my father's pharmacy. My father was the manager of the pharmacy, and my brother joined two other pharmacists to do everyday work.

My father died in 1939. He died within two days. He had intestinal obstruction that caused peritonitis. My father was buried according to Jewish traditions.. After the funeral my brother and I went to the synagogue every day to recite the Kaddish for a whole year. My brother went to the cemetery twice or three times a week. Somebody reported to the rabbi that my brother was a frequent visitor at the cemetery. The rabbi explained to my brother that it was against Jewish rules to come to the cemetery so often. He told him that a deceased relative needed to have his peace. My brother became the manager of the pharmacy. The pharmacy generated a good income, and my mother didn't have to worry about how to support the family.

We read about the situation in the USSR in a daily Russian newspaper issued by Russian emigrants. What we read there made us feel scared: continuous trials over 'enemies of the people', former revolutionaries and communists [during the so-called Great Terror]. The middle class had a very negative view of the situation in the USSR.

We heard on the radio that Bessarabia was to become a part of the USSR a day before the Soviet army units came to town. They entered it in the fall of 1940. Almost all Romanians had left their homes the night before. We had nowhere to go. On the first days of the Soviet power we were told about equal rights, freedom and the brotherhood of all people. Later we found out that people were arrested for no reason and put to prisons without a trial. Many wealthier people perished in prisons in the first days of the Soviet regime. Then the authorities turned to the middle class. They took away our pharmacy. We were afraid of further actions on their part, but they left us alone.

My sister was a student in Bucharest, but when she got to know that the Soviet army occupied Bessarabia she came home. My brother and sister couldn't find a job. They moved to Chernovtsy due to the unstable situation in Khotin. My brother became the manager of the regional veterinary storage facility. My sister found a job as the manager of the railroad pharmacy. My sister and brother spoke fluent Russian and had no problem with their work. I went to the 10th grade of a Soviet secondary school at the time.

My mother and I stayed in our house. All the best apartments in town were given to Soviet and party bosses. The Soviet and party authorities selected houses to their liking and forced their owners to move out. People were afraid of the tyranny and didn't resist especially because of all the previous arrests of innocent people and the pressure on wealthier citizens. Then there was another boss, the deputy chairman of the town council, who wanted our house. The Soviet authorities suggested to my mother that we kept one room for ourselves and gave the rest of the house to the family of this man. My mother refused, and the authorities just took all our belongings outside the house and sealed the apartment. The director of the pharmacy allowed us to take books and bed sheets to the storeroom but asked us to do it secretly. We stayed overnight in the house of my father's friend ( a doctor) and left for Chernovtsy in the morning.

My brother arranged a meeting with the regional prosecutor for us. The prosecutor told us that unless our house had been nationalized what had happened was a gross violation of the law. He asked us to wait at the reception. It took him a few minutes to solve our problem. When he came back he told us to go to Khotin and get our house back. We did as he had told us and got it back. The same manager of the housing department that had forced us to move out of our house brought us our keys and apologized. My mother and I arrived in an empty house. All our belongings had been taken outside the house. My brother and sister saved some money for us to hire loaders to take our belongings back into the house. The authorities left us in peace - they didn't dare to disobey orders that they received from higher authorities.

At the beginning of May 1941 my sister and her fiancé, Boris Leikin, came to visit us. Boris was Jewish. He was the secretary of the party organization of the railroad in Chernovtsy. My sister met him at work. She was beautiful and smart, and they took to liking one another and decided to get married. On 1st May 1941 my sister took him to Khotin, and after a few days they registered their marriage.

During the war

In June 1941 I passed all my exams successfully and obtained my certificate of secondary education. Three days later the war began. On the night of 22nd June my mother and I were woken up by an explosion, followed by many more. I saw a plane flying so low that I could see black crosses with a white stripe. Then a vehicle stopped near our fence. The military in it began to shoot at the plane from anti-aircraft weapons. This happened at 5 o'clock in the morning. We went outside. A military told us to stay calm and that it was just another military training. I went into the street and saw wounded soldiers on a vehicle.

By 9 o'clock the director of the pharmacy told us that the war had begun. I had a radio. I switched it to the Moscow frequency, but there were no announcements. I switched to short waves and heard an announcement in Russian, but I could hear that it wasn't the mother tongue of the speaker. He said, 'Farmers, don't burn your fields or take away your cattle. Such actions will be viewed as sabotage against the German army and punished according to the war laws'. Then another program announced that Adolf Hitler would be on air at 10 o'clock in the morning. I could understand German and listened to his speech. He explained that he decided to attack the Soviet Union and that it was a pre-emptive step, as the Soviet Union had plans to attack Germany. That was all he said.

We were hoping that the Soviet army would be strong enough to hold back the German troops, but after a few days we saw them retreating. My sister and her husband evacuated to Samarkand region in Uzbekistan. He became the secretary of the party organization of a mine near Samarkand. My sister became a lab assistant in the chemical laboratory at the sugar factory. My brother came to us from Chernovtsy.

On 6th July the Romanians occupied Khotin. The three of us failed to evacuate. After a week or two the Romanian police ordered the Jewish population to come to the central square at 8 o'clock the following morning to be deported to a different area. They threatened to shoot all Jews that stayed in their apartments after noon. We packed our winter clothes and valuables, because we understood that we wouldn't come back home for a while. The doctor, my father's friend, a Polish man, lived nearby, and my mother asked him whether we could leave some of our belongings with him. We left some valuables and family photographs, and he kept them for us.

We were taken to the ghetto in Mohilev-Podolsk [250 km from Khotin]. We were convoyed by gendarmes. The Romanian police obliged farmers from the surrounding villages to provide horse-driven carts, and older or sick Jews and children climbed onto them. My mother's sister, Feiga, was with us. She was an elderly woman. We were on the way for about two weeks. We exchanged the few clothes that we had and my mother's jewelry for food. Local farmers came to the side of the road with the products they wanted to sell.

The territory of the ghetto was fenced with barbed wire. There was one gate guarded by Ukrainian police. The ghetto was in an old Jewish neighborhood, and the newly arrived Jews were accommodated in the existing houses. There were about 12,000 Jews from Khotin alone, and there were many from other locations, too. The Romanian authorities decided where to send people. There were ghettos and camps all over Vinnitsa region. Two or three families lived in one room. People were sleeping on the floor and didn't have any sanitary facilities. Many inmates were dying from diseases and starvation. Feiga died there, too. During the first winter there was no heating, and it was a severe winter. We were only allowed to fetch water from the well at set hours. Carpenters, construction men and tailors , etc. had a right to leave the ghetto to go to work. They had a special pass.

The local Ukrainian farmers knew that the inmates of the ghetto had no food. They brought milk, apples and homemade bread to the ghetto to sell it three times more expensive than the market price. A pile of potatoes or a bottle of milk cost a golden ring or a nice jacket. We lived on my mother's golden jewelry for a year. Then we had good luck. There was a vacancy at the pharmacy of the town hospital. My brother spoke fluent Romanian and Russian and had a diploma from a Romanian university. He was employed and received a salary for his work. He was also allowed to leave the ghetto. In the evening he bought milk, vegetables, apples and butter at a low price at the market, and we didn't starve.

There was a Jewish self-government in the ghetto. The Germans called it (Judenrat 8. The Romanians authorized a Jewish attorney to select representatives for this Judenrat. The Judenrat was responsible for sending people to work on the roads and bridges. The Romanians needed roads for transportation purposes and involved many workers to have all the repairs done. I worked in the ghetto team. Other inmates were sent to other locations where they worked to exhaustion and were then shot. Basically, members of the Judenrat were trying to take care of their families and relatives.

In 1943 the Romanians got concerned about the development of the situation and became less strict with the rules. Romanian Jews began to send parcels with food and medication through the Red Cross charity organization. Once a month the Jewish community council gave us cereals and mamaliga. The Swiss Red Cross obtained permission to take orphaned children from the ghetto to Jewish communities in Romania. Later, when Israel was established, these children were moved there.

The Jews didn't celebrate any holidays in the ghetto. Religious Jews prayed in expectation of death, but it only scared the others. They got together for a minyan and prayed droningly for days in a row. It sent shivers down your spine.

We were liberated at the end of March 1944. We met the Soviet army units with joy. At least they didn't shoot us. We arrived in Khotin with another family. Half of the town had been burned down. My brother thought it would be easier for him to find a job in Chernovtsy and left. He was offered a job at the veterinary department of the town administration. The authorities promised to give him an apartment in Chernovtsy, and he came to Khotin to take us to Chernovtsy with him. We liked the town. It was clean and homely. People spoke Yiddish in the streets, and there were synagogues and a Jewish theater. We rented an apartment while waiting for my brother to receive the apartment that he had been promised.

My brother and I were registered at the military registry office. It was obligatory. My brother got the rank of an officer and obtained the status of a reservist. I went to serve at a reserve regiment in the Ural. I had a two-month training and then our units were sent to the front. I became a gun-layer of 82mm mortar in a mortar unit. Officers didn't demonstrate any anti-Semitism, but soldiers were prejudiced towards me. When I came to the unit the first time I was asked how I happened to be at the front when all Jews were 'fighting' in Tashkent [Editor's note: Tashkent is a town in Middle Asia; it was the place where many people evacuated to during World War II, including many Jewish families. Many people thought that the entire Jewish population was in evacuation rather than at the front, and anti- Semites spoke about it in mocking tone.] I replied that I got there exactly as they did.

We went across Latvia, Lithuania and then to Eastern Prussia. I knew German and became an interpreter in the counterintelligence unit in Konigsberg. I interpreted at the interrogations of German prisoners of war. After the unit left Germany I was transferred to another division. When the war was over our division was sent to the Far East and from there to the People's Republic of Mongolia. In August 1945 we were sent to the front in the war with Japan 9. I stayed there for three months. I participated in combat action in Manchuria which was occupied by Japanese troops. Manchuria is a mountainous area. It was difficult to fight with the Japanese troops hiding in the hills. The war with Japan was short. After the capitulation of Japan we were sent to Zabaikaliye where I completed my service term. In summer 1946 I demobilized and returned to my mother in Chernovtsy.

Post-war

In 1946 Jews, Romanians and Moldavians living in the USSR were allowed to move to Romania. The Soviet power allowed the population living in the areas that had joined the USSR in 1940 to move out. The border was open, and there was a minimum of formalities for departure. My brother decided to leave the country. My sister, who had divorced her husband in evacuation and came to live with us, decided to go with him.

I was in the army when they made the decision to move. My mother decided to stay and wait for me to come. I was the youngest and my mother's favorite, and she didn't want to leave me there alone. When I came to Chernovtsy I went to the visa department to obtain a permit to move to Romania. I explained that my brother and sister were there and that my mother and I wished to reunite with them, but the authorities refused. I went to their office several times until they told me that if I didn't leave them alone I would move, but to Siberia rather than Romania. So my mother and me stayed in Chernovtsy. Life was very hard: we were starving. There was a system of coupons to get food and everything was a big mess. Anti-Semitism was getting stronger.

I decided to continue my studies and entered the Medical Institute in Chernovtsy. I was admitted without exams because I had been at the front. I didn't face any anti-Semitism at the Institute. Most of my fellow students were demobilized soldiers, and they didn't assess people by their nationality. Besides, they had met Jews at the front. Many Jews served as doctors. Anti-Semitism was getting stronger and stronger in the town from 1948, during the campaign against 'cosmopolitans' 10, and Jewish workers of science and culture were accused of Zionism, espionage and disruption of the basics of the Soviet regime. The Jewish school and theater were closed. Many Jewish workers in the fields of science and art were fired. Many Jews were arrested on charges of espionage or Jewish bourgeois nationalism. Fortunately, there were no close friends or relatives of mine among them.

My friends and I were enthusiastic about the formation of Israel in 1948. We viewed it as a home for Jews. My fellow student, an invalid of the Great Patriotic War and officer of the Soviet Union, a communist, wrote a letter to the Central Committee of the Soviet Union saying that since the Soviet Union voted in the UN for the formation of Israel, veterans of war wanted to go to Israel to defend it from Arabs. They replied: 'We find it unnecessary...'. He moved to Israel in the 1970s when a number of Jews departed. I didn't think about going there at that time.

I graduated in 1951. I wasn't a Komsomol 11 or a party member, I just didn't feel any need joining any of them. There were many vacancies in Ukraine, but Jewish doctors were sent to distant areas in Russia, to the Ural and Siberia. I got an assignment to a district town near Leningrad. I finished a course of training in Leningrad and became a radiologist at a district hospital. There were many patients: invalids of war and wounded people - survivors from the blockade of Leningrad 12.

My mother was living alone. She got no pension because she hadn't worked. She received a small rental payment for the lease of our house in Khotin to a pharmacy, and I sent her part of my salary.

In 1953 the Doctors' Plot 13 began. The chief doctor of the hospital I worked in was an anti-Semite. There were four Jews among the twelve doctors in our hospital. He couldn't fire us and couldn't express his feelings, but he didn't keep his hatred to himself. However, the director of the hospital was a very decent man. We had a meeting to discuss the article 'Killers in white gowns' published in the Pravda [main communist newspaper], and he told us not to believe what was written there and go on working. He also expressed hope that this tendency wouldn't reach our distant location. He told us to put all details in patients' record books to have evidence of our professional approach to work. We didn't have any problems with our patients.

In March 1953 Stalin died. I didn't sympathize with the man, who was the leader of the Soviet power, which caused so much suffering to the people. I was only concerned about what was going to happen in the future.

My job assignment was to last three years, and then I was planning to go back home. But there was a lack of doctors, and I had to work there for another five years. I had to write a letter to the chairman of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR explaining to him that I had to go back to Chernovtsy because my old mother was ill and I had to take care of her, and that I was a veteran of the Great Patriotic War. The Supreme Soviet sent a letter to the hospital to approve my request to quit my job.

I returned to Chernovtsy in 1956. There was anti-Semitism, and it was difficult to find a job. I was offered a job as a radiologist in a district town near Chernovtsy. I worked there and went to see my mother at weekends. I got a good salary and my life was improving, but my mother was growing older and had problems living alone. I began to look for a job in Chernovtsy. I found one at the town children's hospital. The chief doctor of this hospital obtained an employment approval for me from the regional health care department. I worked at the children's hospital for over 30 years. I retired in 1987.

I stopped observing Jewish traditions when when I joined the army. On Soviet holidays I went to parades with my colleagues. It was a mandatory requirement, and there were punishments for not attending such political events. Generally speaking I was an atheist, but I didn't get involved in any political activities. My mother didn't observe all Jewish traditions after the war either. She only said a prayer over the candles every Friday night. She didn't go to the synagogue. She prayed at home. My mother had prayer books. On the death anniversaries [Jahrzeit] of our relatives she read prayers in their memory.

My colleague at the children's hospital had a relative. This colleague of mine was also a radiologist and a Jew. His relative again graduated from Chernovtsy University and was an assistant at the Geo-Chemical Faculty. My colleague introduced me to her and her family. It was my future wife, Fania Aizinger, a Jew. She was born in Chernovtsy in 1930. She was reasonable and kind. She wasn't a striking beauty, but she was good-looking.

My sister worked as a pharmacist. She didn't remarry. My brother worked at the factory that manufactured medication in Bucharest. He was the manager of a scientific research laboratory. He was married and his wife was a housewife. My brother and sister didn't have any children. My sister died in 1993, and my brother died in 1996.

Married life

I went to visit my sister and brother in Bucharest in 1958. My brother and sister advised me to get married. I returned to Chernovtsy and proposed to Fania. We had a civil ceremony in 1959 and a small dinner party at home. My mother baked a cake and made dumplings with buckwheat. I bought a bottle of wine. There were about ten guests at our party.

Our son was born in 1960. We named him Michael after my father. My wife went to work, and my mother looked after our son. After some time I realized that my wife and I were very different people, but we stayed together for the sake of our son. My mother died in 1966 at the age of 85. We buried her in the Jewish cemetery in Chernovtsy.

After the Twentieth Party Congress 14 anti-Semitism began to decline. Khrushchev 15 denounced the Doctors' Plot. But then there was a political tendency to employ Ukrainians that was called national workforce. Jews were having problems finding a job. Although all my ancestors were buried in this land, somebody would tell me that I wasn't 'local'. I wasn't afraid to argue when I heard such statements. I knew I had nothing to lose.

When Jews began to move abroad in the 1970s we couldn't leave. My wife's brother was working in the censorship office of the KGB department and he was considered to belong to the officials who had access to sensitive information. He would have had problems if his own sister had moved abroad becoming a 'traitor'. He would have lost his job. He was married and had a child and we closed this issue for ourselves. That was the only reason. I've always felt that I'm a son of my people. I sympathized with the people who were moving to their motherland. I wish I were with my people. Regretfully, I couldn't go there. I wish I could visit Israel and hope I will be able to go there.

Michael finished secondary school with a medal. My wife worked at the Chernovtsy University as an assistant at the Geo-Chemical Department. This helped when my son entered the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics. Upon graduation he began to work as an engineer at the Electronmach Plant, a military plant. I wanted him to get married and have a family, but my wife was afraid that he would become more distant from her if he married and talked him out of marriage. Five years ago my wife and son moved to the USA. I didn't want to go with them. I believed it was time for my son to start his own life without our influence. Fania died of an infarction last year. My son works as an engineer for some company. He writes letters and sends me photographs. He is still single. He is planning to visit me some time. I live alone. I retired in 1987. I had worked at the children's hospital for over 30 years.

In the recent decade Jewish life in Ukraine changed. I believe there are many aspects in this process. We've got in touch with freedom. We can speak our mind without being afraid that we could be arrested. I'm not afraid to speak openly of the past and discuss social or material issues. Jews have recovered their national identity. We can say openly that we are Jews and we don't have to change our names to 'better sounding' ones. Many people have a difficult life receiving miserable pensions though, whereas people could manage with their pensions during the Soviet power. Nonetheless there's more freedom.

I attend Jewish concerts and performances. I'm also involved in public activities. As a war veteran I often visit Jewish secondary schools. I'm invited to meetings with pupils on all significant phases of the Great Patriotic War, such as the victory in Stalingrad, Moscow, Victory Day and the liberation of Ukraine. I talk with children, tell them about the war and about the ghetto where I almost starved to death. I'm a live witness of the Holocaust. I just do what I can.

Glossary

Iosif Bursuk
Chernovtsy
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: July 2002

My family background
Growing up
During the war
Post-war
Glossary

My family background

My father's parents were born in the small town of Ataki in Bessarabia 1. Before 1918 Bessarabia belonged to Russia, then it became a part of Romania and in 1940 it was transferred to the Soviet Union. My grandfather Avrum- Rugel Bursuk was born in the 1860s, and my grandmother Rachil Bursuk in the 1870s. I don't remember her maiden name. My grandmother was a young widow when my grandfather married her. Her first husband Blaivis had died, leaving Rachil with their son Haim, born in 1890. I don't know exactly how my grandparents met. I only know that my grandmother was a beauty when she was young and my grandfather married her although his relatives had been trying to talk him out of marrying a widow. Besides my grandmother's son Haim, who was loved and raised by my grandfather as his own child, my grandparents had four children. My father Abram, born in 1898, was the oldest. Their daughter Golda was born in 1903 and Dvoira in 1906. Moishe, born in 1908, was the youngest.

My grandmother and grandfather made a typical Jewish family of such a small town as Ataki. There were many Jews in Ataki. Jews constituted approximately half of the population. Basically, the inhabitants of Ataki were craftsmen and farmers. All tailors and shoemakers in Ataki were Jews. Jews also kept small stores where they sold food, clothing and shoes, etc. They lived in peace with the Romanians and Ukrainians. There were no nationality conflicts. They got along well and the Jews were well respected. Disputes were resolved by a Jewish neighbor. They believed that a Jew would be a fair judge. There was a synagogue and a rabbi in Ataki. There also was a Christian Orthodox church and a catholic cathedral. People in Ataki respected the national traditions of one another.

My grandparents were moderately wealthy. They made their living by trade like the majority of the Jewish population of the town. They had a store where they sold construction materials. My grandmother was a shop assistant in the store. My grandfather was a religious man. He didn't do anything about the house. He prayed and studied the Talmud.. My grandfather read religious books during the day and in the evening he went to the synagogue to discuss what he had read with the rabbi.

I remember two big portraits in our apartment: one of my grandmother wearing a dark gown and a golden chain around her neck and another one of my grandfather wearing a long black jacket and a cap on his head. My grandfather had a small gray beard. They lived in a small two-storied house on the bank of the Dnestr River. The store was on the first floor and their apartment of four rooms and the kitchen was on the second floor. Their apartment wasn't richly furnished but they had everything they needed: a big dinner-table always covered with a clean tablecloth, twelve chairs, two iron beds with feather mattresses and pillows and a chest of drawers. There were beautiful curtains on the windows. There were pictures on Biblical subjects on the walls. I remember one picture of Paradise. There were bookcases in the rooms with my grandfather's religious books and some general books in Yiddish. There were few fruit trees near the house, but there was no garden or orchard. My grandmother also did all the housekeeping even though she worked in the store from morning till night. When their daughters got older they began to help their mother about the house.

My grandfather and grandmother were religious people. Their sons studied at cheder and their daughters received religious education at home. Besides, all children received general education. My father and Haim studied at the Russian school, and their younger sisters and brother started at the Russian school, but finished a Romanian school. None of them had any special education. As my father told me they strictly observed Jewish traditions at home, celebrated Sabbath and all Jewish holidays. My father didn't tell me any details. So, I don't have any memories about it, but I need to say that our family strictly observed all traditions that were observed in my father's parents' family. I believe it was done the same way as my grandparents used to do it. My father's parents spoke Yiddish at home and Russian or Romanian with their non-Jewish neighbors.

I remember my grandmother Rachil. She often visited us in Chernovtsy and all my childhood memories are associated with her. I have fewer memories of my grandfather.. He didn't visit us in Chernovtsy. My parents went to Ataki sometimes and my older brother and I went with them. I have dim memories of my grandfather. I didn't talk with him much. My grandfather preferred to read his religious books rather than speak with his grandchildren. I remember my grandfather wearing a black jacket and a long white shirt with the plated color strings with tassel hanging down from underneath. When I grew older my father explained to me that it was called tallit katan and it was to be worn underneath a shirt. My grandfather always had a little cap on his head at home and a bigger black one when he went out. My grandmother wore long dark gowns: woolen ones in winter and cotton ones in summer. In summer my grandmother wore a dark skirt and a flowered or polka dots blouse. My grandmother didn't wear a wig, but she always covered her head with a shawl, even at home.

My father was a very talented man and understood that he didn't have any perspectives in Ataki. He moved to Chernovtsy in Bukovina in 1922. It was a cultured European town. There was a university and theaters. Chernovtsy belonged to the Dual Monarchy until 1918. In November 1918 Bukovina became a part of Romania. Chernovtsy used to be a Jewish town. After the Romanians came to power some Jews left Chernovtsy. But even then the Jewish population still constituted over 60%. There were about 65,000 Jews out of the 105,000 people that lived in Chernovtsy. Jews had great opportunities. They were allowed to build big stone houses in the center of the town. Jews that invested money in the development of industries or culture were tax exempt for 20 years. Yiddish was spoken in the streets as frequently as German or Romanian.

Upon his arrival in Chernovtsy my father rented an apartment and got a job as a shop assistant at a haberdashery store. The owner of the store noticed my father's talents and my father began to get promotions. He became senior shop assistant and then merchandise expert. Within a few years he reached the position of merchandise manager at a big wholesale depot.

My father's sisters got married. Golda married Mendel Peisis, a local man in Ataki. I don't know what her husband did for a living. Dvoira married a military, named Brunshtein. His military unit was based in the town of Kerzhentsy near Ataki. Dvoira and her husband lived at their parents'. I don't know whether Golda and Dvoira had observed religious traditions in their families before I met them, but when I was old enough to know about it I saw that they led a very secular way of life. Their families only celebrated Pesach of all Jewish holidays. I don't know what my father's stepbrother Haim Blaivis did for a living. I only know that he was married and lived in Ataki, separately from his parents. He had two children, a son called Aron and a daughter called Maya. My father's youngest brother Moishe moved to Argentina in the 1920s and that's all I know about him.

My mother's family also lived in Ataki. My mother's father Zolman Derman, born in the 1860s, didn't come from Ataki. He was born in one of the small towns in Bessarabia, I don't know which one. My grandfather Zolman came to Ataki after finishing a yeshivah in Kishinev. He married Khasia, a local girl. I don't know my grandmother Khasia's maiden name. My grandmother was three or four years younger than my grandfather. My grandfather was a rabbi in Ataki and my grandmother did the housekeeping.

There were five children in the family. My mother had two brothers and two sisters. One of the brothers was called Moishe. I don't remember the name of the other brother. I think, only Moishe was younger than my mother. I don't have any information about their dates of birth. Clara and her husband moved to Brazil in the 1900s, a long time before I was born. They lived in Rio de Janeiro. I only knew her from family pictures. Before the war and for some time after the war she sent letters to my mother, but then they stopped corresponding [because it was dangerous to keep in touch with relatives abroad] 2. Both brothers lived in the US, but I don't remember where exactly. We had pictures of my mother's brothers and their children that they sent us. I remember how shocked my parents were when Moishe's daughter married a non-Jewish man, who was black [African-American] to crown it all! This event was discussed for a long time. There were practically no mixed marriages in the Jewish community before the war. Nowadays it wouldn't be a surprise but at that time it came as quite a shock to my parents. After the war the communication with my mother's brothers stopped.

I only knew my mother's older sister Seril Derman, Yurkovich in marriage. Seril was much older than my mother. Seril and her family lived in Beltsy, Bessarabia. I didn't know her husband. They had three children. In 1940, when Bessarabia became a part of the USSR, Seril, as the daughter of a rabbi, her husband and children were exiled to Novosibirsk region. Perhaps, this saved their lives later. Seril's husband died upon their arrival in Siberia, but Seril and her children settled down in Novosibirsk hiding away from the war. Seril's older daughter Fenia lived with her husband in the Bessarabian town of Faleshty at the beginning of the war. She perished in Transnistria 3 during the Holocaust. But Seril's daughter Polia and her son Gersh, who lived in Novosibirsk, survived. In 1946 Seril, Polia and Gersh came to Chernovtsy. Seril was ill and died shortly afterwards. Polia and Gersh moved to Israel after she died. Gersh died in Israel recently and Polia still lives there. My mother had two brothers and sister Clara. One of the brothers was Moishe. I don't remember the name of another brother. I think, only Moishe was younger than Mother. I don't have any information about their dates of birth. My mother was born in 1903. Clara and her husband moved to Brazil in the 1900s, a long time before I was born. They lived in Rio-de-Janeiro. I only knew her from family pictures. Before the war and for some time after the war she sent letters to my mother, but then they stopped corresponding1. Both brothers lived in the US, but I don't remember where exactly. We had pictures of my mother's brothers and their children that we had received from them. I remember how shocked my parents were when Moishe's daughter married a non-Jewish man that was black to crown it all! This event was discussed for a long time. There were practically no mixed marriages in the Jewish community before the war. Nowadays it wouldn't be a surprise but at that time it was quite a shock for my parents. After the war communication with my mother's brothers terminated. My mother's family was very religious maybe more so than other families because Zolman was a rabbi. At that time it was natural for Jewish families to observe their ancestors' traditions. All children in the family received religious education: the sons studied at cheder and the daughters had a teacher at home. All children finished secondary school as well. They spoke Yiddish in the family, but they all knew Russian and learned Romanian after 1918. My grandmother did all the housekeeping herself. They had three rooms and a kitchen in their house located in the center of town near the synagogue. There was also a small flower garden near the house. They didn't keep any poultry or cattle. I know very little about my grandfather Zolman. My mother only told me that he was a rabbi in the synagogue in Ataki. My grandfather conducted wedding ceremonies. I also know that local Jews often asked his advice or help. He was a respected man in town. People called him Rabbi Zolman. Regretfully, he didn't live a long life and did much less than he could have done. I wish there was somebody who knew my grandfather and could tell me more about him.

My mother Frima was born in 1903. Grandfather Zolman died in the early 1920s. My mother Frima My mother was the only child still staying at home at the time. All other children had left their home already.

There were no Jewish pogroms 4 in Bessarabia while the Austrians and then the Romanians were in power. There was no anti-Semitism until the middle of the 1930s.

My father and mother had known each other since their childhood. My father came to Ataki to propose to my mother when he already had a well-paid job and bought an apartment in Chernovtsy. My parents got married in Ataki on 1st June 1928. They had this date engraved on the inside of their wedding rings. Besides the date, my mother had my father's name engraved on her ring and my father had my mother's name on his. They had a traditional Jewish wedding. Their guests were Jews from Ataki and my father's friends from Chernovtsy. There was a chuppah and the rabbi married Frima Derman and Abram Bursuk. We still have my parents' contract of marriage, the ketubbah, issued by the rabbi's office in Ataki in Yiddish, and a copy of the invitation to their wedding. After the wedding the newly-weds settled down in Chernovtsy. My grandmother Khasia moved in with them. My grandmother died in 1934 when I was three years old. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery and according to the Jewish tradition.

Growing up

We lived in a three-bedroom apartment on Gonta Street in Chernovtsy before and after the war. My brother Ieguda was born in 1930, I followed in 1931 and my younger brother Munia in 1934.

My mother was a housewife. My father worked as merchandise expert at a big wholesale depot. We were a wealthy family and could afford to keep a housemaid and a nanny to look after the children. When we reached the age of five we started to learn Yiddish. We didn't go to cheder, our Yiddish teacher came to teach us at home. He was also an English teacher at school and college. I had a good command of Yiddish before the war, but since then I've forgotten a lot, although I can still read easier texts.

We spoke Yiddish at home. Chernovtsy was under the jurisdiction of the Dual Monarchy before 1918 and of Romania afterwards. People spoke German and Romanian. Romanian was the state language and German was the language of communication. There was a time before the war when there was a sign in all stores reading, 'Only Romanian is to be spoken here'. So, we spoke Yiddish at home, German in the streets and Romanian at school. I remember all these languages.

In 1940, after Bukovina was annexed to the USSR, a Russian and Ukrainian school were opened here. There was also a Romanian and a Jewish school here. My older brother went to the private Jewish elementary school when he turned eight. It was called Maizler school, after its owner and director. I also went to this school four years later. My younger brother was still in kindergarten. In 1941 I finished the 3rd grade at the Jewish school. We studied all subjects in Yiddish and had all textbooks in Yiddish. We studied the basics of religious education and Jewish traditions, although all pupils had studied the Torah and the Talmud at cheder or at home with a teacher. We had these classes in Hebrew.

My family was a traditional Jewish family. We spoke Yiddish in the family, observed all traditions and celebrated all religious holidays. I remember Sabbath at our home. On Friday evening my mother always cooked a festive dinner. We always had good food, but it was particularly special on Friday evenings. At Sabbath there was stuffed fish, stuffed chicken neck and carrot tsimes. My mother always baked challah for the Saturday meal herself. She covered the challot with a napkin with some quotations from the Torah embroidered on it. I remember my mother telling me that the paraphernalia of Sabbath were two candles, two challot and a glass of wine. I remember big silver candle sticks for Saturday candles. My mother lit two candles and I recall her enlightened face when she moved her hand three times over the burning candles. It wasn't allowed to turn on the light or heat up food on Saturday. I remember that our neighbor came to do that and we had steel boxes with kerosene lamps burning inside keeping the pots with food warm all the time. My father blessed the kids. We sang zmires during and after meals. My parents always went to the synagogue on Saturday. When my older brother and I were old enough they began to take us with them.

We used special fancy dishes at Pesach. I remember the plates painted with lions. I looked forward to Pesach every year to see those lions again. All bread was removed from the house and breadcrumbs were swept up and burnt in the stove. We didn't have a slice of bread at home during all the eight days of Pesach. We ate matzah all this time. We bought a lot of matzah. My mother cooked stuffed fish, boiled chicken and made goose stew. We always had delicious matzah and potato puddings on the table. Matzah was crushed in the mortar to make sponge cakes. My mother made strudels with jam, raisins and nuts. She also bought red wine for Pesach. The whole family got together for the seder on the first night of Pesach. I remember asking my father the traditional question: 'Why is this night different from all other nights?' in Hebrew. And my father replied with quotations from the Torah. They put an extra glass on the table and filled it with wine. My father told me that this glass was for the prophet Elijah, who came into every home at Pesach and tried the wine that had been prepared for him.

I remember Sukkot. We had a big yard with old trees. There were several Jewish families in our building and every family made a sukkah - a tent from branches. Every family put a table in the sukkah and had all meals there in the sukkah. The tent was constructed in a way to leave the view of the sky open.

Everybody including children over five years of age fasted at Yom Kippur. I remember that on the eve of the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, one had to make the rounds of the people that one might have hurt to ask their forgiveness. It was believed that one had to meet Yom Kippur purified from all sins. I remember a phrase from the Torah: 'We will all be subject to judgment at Rosh Hashanah and the sentence shall be passed at Yom Kippur, because on this day He will forgive you to purify you from your sins'. Therefore even children tried to earn forgiveness at Rosh Hashanah to be without sins on Judgement Day. Therefore, some time before Rosh Hashanah I tried to avoid fights with other boys so I wouldn't hurt them.

My brothers and I always looked forward to Chanukkah. This was a very merry holiday. There were lots of delicious things on the table. We had guests, relatives and friends, and we received Chanukkah gelt - money at Chanukkah. I also remember Purim and the overwhelming carnival that the whole town was involved in. Disguised people came to the houses and there were performances of the Jewish theater in the squares of the town that were attended by the whole population.

There was a small synagogue near our house. My father had a seat of his own there and we went to the synagogue on Friday evening and Saturday and on all holidays. Respectable people were called to read from the Torah in front of the audience. They often called my father and sometimes they called me to read from the Torah. I could already read in Hebrew and the rabbi showed me which text I should read. My father prayed at home every day. He had tallit and tefillin. He didn't wear tallit katan like my grandfather Avrum-Rugel, but he never skipped the morning prayer in the synagogue. When I turned 13 I had my bar mitzvah. I had a big celebration. Then I got my own tefwillin and prayed with my father in the morning. But this didn't last long.

My parents didn't dress us like little Orthodox Jews or have us grow long hair-locks. We wore ordinary clothes and didn't wear any cap or hat at home or outside, but we were raised as Jews. We said a prayer before meals.

There was a Jewish theater in Chernovtsy. In 1937, when I turned six, my parents took me to a concert of Sidi Tahl, a beautiful Jewish singer. She sang Yiddish folk songs. She was working at the Philharmonic in Chernovtsy. I have listened to her many times since then, but I will remembered that first concert forever. My parents took us to all performances at the Jewish theater. My father had a good collection of books. They weren't all religious, but also secular books. He had books by Anskiy, Ginelzon, Itshak- Leib Perets, etc. I remember the brown and green leather bindings of these books with the golden stamping. I read all these books in Yiddish. After the war all these books disappeared, I don't even know where to.

I remember that there was a Jewish community in Chernovtsy before the war. Every member of the community had to pay a monthly contribution fee. It was traditional among Jews to give money to charity. If a widow's daughter, for example, was getting married, members of the community would collect money for her. People gave as much as they could afford, but nobody ever refused to help.

We got along well with our neighbors. Our Jewish neighbors Sonia Beznos and Cora Berik were my mother's best friends. Although all of them had children and the house to take care of, they always found some time to see one another. My brother and I had Jewish friends, as we studied at the Jewish school and lived in a house inhabited by Jews.

I remember how Bukovina was annexed to the USSR in 1940. The power changed and so did life. My neighbor used to say, 'Tthey freed us from everything', meaning our property, money, business, freedom of speech and conscience. However, my family was still quite wealthy. My father got a job as a merchandise expert at a big textile depot, we had an apartment and everything that we needed. My brother and I went to the Jewish school that was opened during the Soviet power, and became pioneers. But even so life became more difficult.

I remember somebody from Moscow arrived at my father's workplace in 1940. That man was taken by surprise by the variety of goods in the stores and the low prices. The rate of the Soviet ruble was 40 lei to the ruble. A roll cost 1 lei. So, one could buy 50 rolls for one ruble. I remember that guy from Moscow went to buy shoes for his wife and children and my mother couldn't understand why take so much luggage. We didn't understand how stores could be empty. We understood this later, during the Soviet power. A few months before the war the authorities began with the deportation of wealthy families to distant areas. I already told you about Seril and her family. The only fault of these people was that they were wealthy. This was unjustifiable cruelty. Fortunately, they didn't touch us. Perhaps, the war rescued us from deportation.

During the war

On 22nd June 1941 [the beginning of the so-called Great Patriotic War] 5 Germany unleashed the war against the Soviet country. Our town was located near the Romanian border and within ten days the town was occupied by Romanian troops. Many people evacuated. We stayed at home: there were three small children in the family - six, nine and eleven years old - and my mother was ill. My parents decided to stay. At that time we didn't know about all those horrific things that Germans did to Jews. However, I need to say here that those were Romanians that were committing atrocities during the first days of the war. There was a Jewish pogrom on the outskirts of town in the first two or three days of the war. They killed about 2,000 Jews. There is a common grave at the cemetery. 800 people were buried there. There is another grave of 400 people on the bank of the Prut River. And in the surrounding villages the locals were killing Jews without restraint from the authorities. In one night former neighbors and friends turned into adamant enemies and murderers.

I recently read a letter in German that a local Ukrainian received from a Jewish woman living in Canada. She came from the village of Shopot in Putyvl district. They grew up together and this woman wrote him a letter to find out where her relatives' graves were. I was stunned that an adult woman couldn't force herself to come here just because she still remembered how the victims were screaming throughput the night and how her father had to run away to the woods with his children since their neighbors were killing all Jews in the village. Many Jews were killed in the villages.

In October 1941 a ghetto was established in Chernovtsy. There were about 50,000 Jews in the town. They were all allowed to live in one neighborhood of the town, fenced with barbed wire. We received a room there and moved our belongings into this room. Our Russian neighbors helped us to move there. There were no restrictions about walking in the town, but it was only allowed to live in the designated area.

Within two weeks the Romanians expanded the territory of the ghetto and our former house happened to be located within this area. We returned home. Three other families were accommodated in our apartment. Later the Romanians began to send all people to Transnistria from the ghetto. We were directed to go to the railway station and board a train. We hired a cart for our luggage and went to the railway station. But it turned out that the neighborhood in the ghetto where we lived wasn't moving yet. We didn't go back home. Instead, we stayed with our acquaintances for two months.

Romanian gendarmes came to the families to announce that they had to go to Transnistria, but they weren't insistent or violent. And people were gradually moving. We delayed our departure. My parents didn't want to go. We already knew that the situation in Transnistria was much worse than in Chernovtsy,. We knew it from letters that we received. I remember a German officer, who brought us a letter from my father's sisters Golda and Dvoira. They wrote that they had been sent to Transnistria. My grandfather and grandmother Bursuk died on the way there. Their families didn't get a chance to bury them. Their bodies were thrown off the train and we don't even know where their graves are.

The sisters and their children reached Transnistria and lived there. Golda's husband Mendel Peisis was in the Soviet army. We also learned from letters that my father's stepbrother Haim Blaivis had perished during the occupation and his children Aron and Maya had evacuated. This same officer visited us several times bringing letters. These letters were written in Yiddish so that Germans or Romanians couldn't read them.

After two months they stopped moving Jews to Transnistria. The ghetto was eliminated and about 15,000 Jews out of the original 50,000 stayed in town. 35,000 were deported. About 10,000 obtained an official permit to stay in Chernovtsy. Those were the ones that couldn't move out for some reason or specialists that couldn't be replaced. After the elimination of the ghetto in June 1942 they began to deport the 5,000 Jews that didn't have a permit to live in Chernovtsy according to the list to Transnistria. We were on the list. We were hiding in the attic of our acquaintances'. They were Romanians and the police didn't search their attic. The authorities issued certificates to the Jews that remained in the town. Such a certificate was called authorization. My father had money and connections, but it was still a problem to obtain this certificate. The individual helping my parents to obtain this authorization was under a certain risk. He would have been shot if this had become known. But everything went well and we were able to stay in Chernovtsy until 1944, when Bukovina was liberated by the Soviet army, and we had the authorization to do so.

Post-war

After Chernovtsy was liberated we returned to our apartment. My father's sisters and their children came to us from Transnistria. Their town of Ataki was almost completely destroyed and they didn't have a place to live. Golda's husband Mendel Peisis returned from the front in 1945. Some time later Golda, her husband and children and Dvoira and her children moved to Israel. Golda and Dvoira have already died; their children still live in Israel. Aron and Maya, the children of Haim Blaivis, also moved to Israel. I visited Israel in 1996 and met with Dvoira's daughter Khasia, who had left for Israel when she was seven. Khasia wrote a book about the Jews of Ataki. She wrote it in Hebrew, a language that I don't understand, so, I didn't take this book with me. There are many photos of our family in the book: of my grandfather and grandmother, my mother and father and us, children.

In 1944 I went to the 6th grade of the Jewish school. Two years later I finished the 8th grade. I have a certificate about finishing eight years at the Jewish school. The Jewish school was closed that same year. I have a certificate about finishing 8 years at the Jewish school. I do know Yiddish quite well. There are very few those that studied at the Jewish school left. Some of them died and the others left the country. Large numbers of Jews moved abroad in 1946. It was possible to go to Romania or Austria and move on anywhere else from there. We were planning to leave, but for some reason we didn't. I don't remember why. I had to continue my studies. I started to learn Russian in 1940 and because I had to go to the Russian school. After studying at the Jewish school I was having language problems. I didn't know one single term in mathematics or physics. So I couldn't go to the day school with my poor Russian. I went to an evening school for adults that wanted to complete their secondary education. The requirements weren't as strict as at evening schools. In 1949 I finished the evening secondary school. I was the best student there.

There was anti-Semitism after the war. My teachers at school thought I had to study physics and mathematics at university, but I decided to become a doctor. I submitted my documents to the Medical University in Chernovtsy. I was very doubtful about writing the composition at the exam in Russian literature. I learned all possible subjects and received a '4'. But I received a '3' in physics, although I was so sure that I would do excellent. Other applicants that were standing by the door and heard my answers at the exam said that it was an unfair mark and that I had to demand their review of my results. I went to my examiner later and asked him why they had given me a '3'. He replied that they should have given me a '2' and that I shouldn't come back and ask them questions. I wasn't admitted, as I didn't have a good enough mark to pass.

I was told that there was a decree to admit local people to higher educational institutions without competition. I went to see the rector and said to him that I was born in Chernovtsy and was thus a local. He replied that the decree meant hutsuls but not Jews. So, it didn't matter that I was born there. The following year I entered the Medical Academy in Chernovtsy. There were a few Jewish students at the academy. I was a 3rd-year student during the time of the Doctors' Plot 6. Many lecturers from the medical institute were fired. Few of them returned later. The Jewish theater was also closed at that time, and members of our family had been regular theatergoers.

Stalin's death in spring 1953 didn't touch me. There was no such hysteria in Chernovtsy about Stalin as in the rest of the country. There were grieving people, but there were also those that were happy about his death. They still remembered the horrors of the deportations [following the arrests of people during the so-called Great Terror] 7. They still remembered life before the Soviet power and after.

After the war my father and mother strictly continued to observe Jewish traditions. They celebrated holidays and Sabbath. My mother was a housewife and my father worked at his previous job until he retired. After 1948, the height of the campaign against 'cosmopolitans' 8, there remained only one operating synagogue in Chernovtsy. My father went there every Saturday. Once I asked him, 'You are not so religious now, so why this strict mode of family life?' My father replied, 'For us to know it and remember'. And I did remember it.

After the war our family began to celebrate Soviet holidays, too. But it was more an occasion to get together with the family, that's all.

Upon graduation from the institute I was sent to Baumanskaya region in Donetsk. I specialized in traumatology there. I had a [mandatory] job assignment 9 for three years and returned to Chernovtsy in 1960.

My older brother Ieguda was a foreman for chemical coloring at the textile factory. He married a Jewish girl in the 1950s and they lived in their own apartment. There were many vacant apartments in Chernovtsy in the 1950s and it wasn't a problem to find a place to live. Ieguda was the only one of the three of us who was religious. He went to the synagogue and they celebrated all religious holidays in his family. I visited him on Jewish holidays, but I didn't go to the synagogue any more. My brother died in 1991. His wife and son moved to Israel where they still live today.

My younger brother Munia finished the energy institute in Ivanovo. It was easier for a Jew to enter a higher educational institution in Russia than in Chernovtsy. Upon graduation Munia became chief of the laboratory at the scientific research institute in Slaviansk, Donetsk region. Later he moved to Kramatorsk. He had a lovely apartment in the center of town, a nice country house, and a car. People in town knew and respected him. His daughter moved to Israel four years ago and he followed her some time later. My brother lives near Tel Aviv, but I think he regrets having moved. . He went there for the sake of his daughter, but they live separately, although they do see each other often. He often calls me and I understand he misses his homeland.

I'm the only one to have married a non-Jewish woman. My wife Tamara Testlina was born in 1932. She studied at the Medical Institute in Chernovtsy and we met there. We went on our job assignments upon graduation and got married in Donetsk in 1958. Later we returned to Chernovtsy. My wife's parents were schoolteachers. Her father was a teacher of physics and mathematics and her mother was a teacher of the Russian and Ukrainian languages. I can't say that they were particularly amused that their daughter married a Jewish man, but they accepted me. Tamara and I lived separately from her parents. Tamara's relatives had a different attitude towards our marriage. I felt comfortable and at home with some of them and awkward with others. My parents accepted our marriage. Tamara became their favorite daughter-in-law.

Our older son Victor was born in Donetsk in 1958. Our younger son Evgeniy was born in Chernovtsy in 1961. Victor left home at 17 when he entered the Military Engineering College of the Underwater Fleet in Leningrad. Upon graduation he was sent to the Northern Fleet where he became commander of division. Victor is a military sailor. He is a very intelligent man and he made a good career. He is Laureate of the State Award. He served in the Navy for 21 years and was transferred to the headquarters in Moscow. He, his wife and two sons live in Moscow. His older son studies at the medical institute and his younger son at the military college.

Our younger son Evgeniy was born in Chernovtsy in 1961. My younger son Evgeniy and his family live with us in Chernovtsy. He followed into my footsteps and graduated from Chernovtsy Medical Institute. He is a doctor, a traumatologist. He is married and has two sons. Both of them study at the mathematical lyceum in Chernovtsy. When our sons obtained their passports in the 1970s we were to decide which nationality they would have written in their passports. My wife expressed her hope that I wasn't going to complicate their life by saying it should be Jewish. I gave in and we had their nationality written down as Ukrainian.

My younger son's colleagues consider him a Jew, but I don't think so. I have wonderful sons and great grandchildren, but they are not Jewish, neither in their blood nor in their mentality. They married non-Jewish girls. They've assimilated. It's a common process in the world, but I feel sorry about it. However, my grandchildren go to Jewish camps every summer. They hear about Jewish holidays and traditions and bring back badges, flags and souvenirs. But they aren't Jews. Recently a world conference was held in Chernovtsy in Yiddish. The writer Shraibman, a Jewish writer from Kishinev, visited us. He wrote stories in Yiddish about the life of contemporary Jews. He made a speech at the conference and said that Yiddish is fading away and that Jews are being exterminated now. And that this extermination isn't done with weapons but with a kiss on the lips. He meant mixed marriages and said that Jews vanish due to assimilation.

My mother died in 1968. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Chernovtsy. In the 1970s Jews began to move to Israel in great numbers. My father summoned us all together to decide what to do. I didn't go because my wife didn't want to. She knew how miserable we were feeling here and was afraid that she would feel even worse in Israel. A few years later, though, she told me that it was my fault that we didn't go because I wasn't insistent enough on our departure. Perhaps she is right, but I cannot force someone into anything. So we stayed in Ukraine. No member of our family left. My father died in 1970. His dream about going to Israel never came true. My father is buried beside my mother in the Jewish cemetery in Chernovtsy. Two of my colleagues left at that time. Recently I went to the US and Israel and met with them there. Both of them are doing very well. Israel is a very beautiful country and it made an unforgettable impression on me. But I stopped thinking about emigration. Everything has to be done at the right time. Besides, my wife is very ill. She is an invalid of the 1st category. Now we can only regret about what we didn't do in those faraway 1970s.

My younger brother was called Munia. Later he officially changed his name to Mikhail [see common name] 10. My name is Iosif Abramovich and I've never been ashamed of my Jewish first name and patronymic. I've never been ashamed of being a Jew. I worked as a doctor at the hospital. Later I became manager of a department. I have reached everything that a practicing doctor can reach: head of the department at the regional hospital and a regional specialist of the highest category. However, I've always felt that I was a Jew and a stranger here. There were conferences of the regional specialists and in the 1970s there were eight traumatologists that were Jews, but in the late 1990s I was the only Jew left. Regardless of all respect and honors paid to me I've always felt a stranger. I work as a traumatologist at Hesed only. There are 1,000 people there. I know these people and support them as much as I can.

I'm not religious now, but in the past I used to go to the synagogue at the anniversary of my father's and my brother's death to recite the Kaddish. We buy matzah, and not only on holidays. We have matzah at home and our kids know about Pesach and Chanukkah. We give them Chanukkah money and make hamantashen at Purim. I work as a traumatologist at the Chesed. There are 1000 people there. I know these people and support them as much as I can. I'm the head of the association of the former inmates of ghettos and concentration camps. We collect money and erect monuments at the places where Jews were killed. There are no Jews left in the villages. Villagers address us to tell us about the places where Jews were killed and we go out there to erect monuments. We constructed several monuments last year. On 25th August 2002 we inaugurated the monument in Mileyevo village. 118 Jews were killed there by their fellow villagers. I couldn't attend this ceremony. My wife is paralyzed and sometimes I have to stay at home. People that witnessed the events in Mileyevo spoke at the ceremony asking forgiveness for their ancestors that were killing Jews only because they were Jews.

I still read Jewish books in Yiddish. I read at least one book a year to remember the language. I can also write in Yiddish. Sometimes I speak in the 'Dos Yidish Wort' program on the radio. It is the only radio program in Yiddish in Ukraine. That's what my father wanted: that I remember that I'm a Jew. I remember what he wanted me to be like.

Glossary

Tsylia Aguf
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Elena Zaslavskaya
Date of interview: November 2002

Tsylia Aguf is a nice charming lady. She is very sociable and active. She participates in a number of programs of Hesed. She has many friends and acquaintances. Most of them are of Jewish nationality. She must have been very pretty when she was young. She has pleasant memories about many of her admirers. She loves her children and grandchildren. She has a clean home, furnished with furniture from the 1960s. She has many books.

My family background
Growing up
During the war
Post-war
Glossary

My family background

My grandparents on my father's side died long before I was born. All I know is that my grandfather, Ovsey Pekar, was born in the small town of Korostyshev [30 km from Zhytomir] in the 1870s. There were about 4,000 Jews in town. There were a few synagogues. There were also Ukrainian inhabitants. There were no nationality conflicts. Jews and Ukrainians supported each other. My grandfather owned a small food and haberdashery store. He spent a lot of time at work. He provided well for his family. They lived in a solid wooden house. My grandfather was religious. He went to the synagogue on Saturdays and celebrated all holidays.

My grandmother, Tsyvia Pekar, was born in Korostyshev in the early 1870s. She got married when she was young. She was a housewife. She was moderately religious, celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays. She didn't attend the synagogue. During rush hours she helped her husband in the store. My grandmother was killed by bandits in 1919 1. My father told me that they stunned her at the gate of her house, trying to remove her jewelry. My grandmother defended herself, and they began to hit her on the head. She died of the injuries. My grandfather couldn't bear the pain of the loss of her and died from an infarction ten days later.

My grandparents had five children: two sons and three daughters. They all left their parents' home when they were in their teens. They grew up as atheists and didn't observe any traditions.

My father's sister, Rachel Pekar, was born in Korostyshev in the early 1900s. She finished a Jewish grammar school there. After 1917 she lived in the town of Gostomel [20 km from Kiev]. There were only a few Jewish families in Gostomel. Rachel was a laborer at the Factory of Musical Instruments. She remained single. She perished in 1941 when the Germans occupied Gostomel.

My father's brother, Ilia Pekar, was born in Korostyshev in the middle of the 1900s. He finished cheder, Jewish grammar school and an accounting school in Kiev. He worked as an accountant in an office in Kiev. He was married but had no children. He died of cancer in the late 1930s and was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Kiev.

My father's second sister, Sarah Pekar, was born in Korostyshev in the late 1900s. She got married and moved to Zhytomir [150 km from Kiev]. There were many wealthy Jews in town at the time. There were a few synagogues, a Jewish hospital and Jewish stores. Jews were craftsmen and merchants. There were a few Jewish schools and a yeshivah in Zhytomir. Sarah's husband was a shoemaker. They both died in Zhytomir in the late 1930s. Sarah's daughter, Tsylia, lives in the US. I correspond with her.

My father's youngest sister, Rosa Pekar, was born in the early 1910s. She was born blind. She was short and pretty. She had wide-open blue eyes, and one couldn't tell that she was blind. She finished Russian secondary school in Korostyshev and graduated from the Pedagogical Institute in Kiev. She studied at the Postgraduate Philosophy Faculty. She read special books for blind people. Rosa lived in the hostel of Kiev University. She had a room of her own, which was unusual for the time. She kept her room very tidy. When she studied at the university, they provided a woman to read for her. After finishing her postgraduate course she became a lecturer of philosophy at the university. She had admirers, regardless of her blindness. Rosa perished in Babi Yar 2 in 1941. Our distant non-Jewish acquaintance took Rosa there by her hand. She bought her a loaf of bread and butter for the road and accompanied her without knowing that Rosa was destined to die there. She told us later how she died.

My father, Moisey Pekar, was born in Korostyshev in 1900. He finished cheder and a Jewish secondary school. He studied Hebrew and Yiddish. After the Revolution of 1917 the Soviet power expropriated my grandfather's store, and my father had to work to provide for his brother and sister. He finished an accounting school and left for Teterev, a small town near Kiev, located in a beautiful pine-wood. He got an accounting job at the logging facility owned by my mother's father. He met my mother while working in Teterev. My father was a very decent and honest man. He read many books in Russian and Yiddish. My grandfather on my mother's side, Khaim-Duvid Polischuk, was born in Radomyshl in 1879. Radomyshl was a small town in Kiev province [60 km from Kiev]. At the end of the 19th century there were about 7,000 Jews in town. There were several synagogues, Jewish shops and hospitals, Jewish schools for boys and girls and a yeshivah. Most of the Jewish families were wealthy. Jews were craftsmen and merchants. There were also Ukrainian inhabitants. The Jews and the Ukrainians got along well.

My grandfather finished cheder and a Jewish school in Radomyshl. He was a timber dealer. He was a very religious man. He prayed, observed all Jewish traditions and celebrated holidays.

Before the Revolution of 1917 my grandfather and his family moved to Teterev where he built a house. He started his own logging and timber business there. He believed that the woods near Teterev were better than in Radomyshl and that his trade would be more successful.

There was no Jewish community in Teterev and there was no synagogue. There were very few Jewish families in town, and my grandfather gathered a minyan, ten Jewish men, at his home. There were a few Jewish men from the surrounding villages besides those from Teterev. My grandfather had his tallit and tefillin on and said his prayer swaying to and fro. Other Jewish men followed him. On weekdays my grandfather wore his customary clothes. He didn't wear a hat. He only put a cap on to say a prayer.

Ukrainians liked my grandfather. They asked his advice in family disputes and educational issues like where to get a teacher for a child. Those who were illiterate often asked my grandfather to read letters for them and my grandfather always supported them. He was a very kind and wise man. In 1918- 1919, during the many pogroms 3 in the Jewish neighborhoods of Ukrainian towns, Ukrainian men guarded my grandfather's home and rescued him from bandits more than once.

My grandmother on my mother's side, Tatiana Pekar, nee Taibn, was born to a wealthy Jewish family in Stavishche, Kiev province, in 1880. The Jewish community numbered almost 4,000 Jews. There were several- synagogues and Jewish schools in town. Jews were mainly craftsmen and merchants.

My grandmother had teachers who taught her at home. She studied arithmetic, Yiddish and Hebrew. She could read and write in Yiddish and had a good conduct of Russian and Ukrainian. She was religious. She celebrated Jewish holidays, lit candles on Saturdays and celebrated Sabbath. She didn't wear a shawl or a wig. My grandmother and grandfather were very much in love with one another. He tenderly called his wife Feygl ['my little bird' in Yiddish]. He often asked conductors of passing trains to bring her olives or sweets from Kiev. On their way back they gave these things to my grandfather, and he generously tipped them. Any caprice of my grandmother was a must for my grandfather.

After the Revolution of 1917 my grandfather became the supervisor of a timber agency. He wasn't very enthusiastic about the revolutionary ideas of fraternity and equality of all people. He didn't become an atheist, either. My grandmother, on the other hand, was inspired by Lenin's idea of universal wealth that was about to come. She read Lenin's books in Russian.

My grandparents had seven daughters and a son. My mother's sister, Frania Polischuk, was born in Radomyshl in the middle of the 1890s. She finished a Russian grammar school in Kiev. She didn't work. She was very sickly and died in Kiev in the 1930s. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Kiev.

The next sister, Ida Grinberg [nee Polischuk], was born in Radomyshl in the late 1890s. She finished a Russian grammar school and a pedagogical school in Kiev. She was a teacher of natural sciences. She married Grigoriy Grinberg, a Jewish man, and they had three children: Sarah, Yasha and Milia. She divorced her husband and married a non-Jewish man, a former officer of the tsarist army. My grandfather disavowed Ida when he heard that she had married a non-Jew. Ida's marriage didn't last - her husband died. I remember Ida coming home after her non-Jewish husband passed away, approaching her father's bed, kneeling down and asking his forgiveness. My grandfather forgave her. Ida lived in Makarov, near Kiev, where she worked as a teacher at a secondary school in the last years of her life. She died in Makarov in the late 1930s.

My mother's other sisters, Rachel and Eidia Polischuk, were twins. They were born in Radomyshl in the middle of the 1900s. They finished a Russian grammar school and graduated from the Medical Institute in Kiev. During the war they were in evacuation in Kuibyshev where they got married. They stayed in Kuibyshev after the war and worked as doctors. They died in Kuibyshev in the middle of the 1970s. They were buried in the cemetery in Kuibyshev.

The next sister, Genia Verba [nee Polischuk], was born in Radomyshl in the early 1900s. She finished a Russian grammar school in Kiev. She got fond of revolutionary ideas and became the secretary of the district committee of the Communist Party in the small town of Monastyrishche [80 km from Kiev]. There were a few Jewish families in Monastyrishche, but there was no synagogue in town. Genia married Falik Verba, a devoted communist and party activist. They moved to Tbilisi [Georgia] in the middle of the 1930s. Genia died in the middle of the 1950s. She didn't have any children. I don't know where she was buried.

The youngest sister, Khinia Godik [nee Polischuk], was born in Radomyshl in the early 1900s. She finished a Russian grammar school in Kiev and graduated from the Medical Institute in Kharkov. She became a pharmacist. She married Boris Godik, a Jewish man. He perished during the Great Patriotic War 4. During the war Khinia was in evacuation in Ufa [2,500 km from Kiev], where she stayed after the war. She died there in the 1970s. She was buried in the town cemetery.

My mother's brother, Dmitriy Polischuk, went to cheder and then finished a Russian grammar school in Kiev. He graduated from the Medical Institute in Kiev. During the Great Patriotic War he was a doctor in hospitals. At the end of the war he held the rank of a colonel of medical services, and as of 1946 he was the director of the hospital in Novograd-Volynskiy. In the 1960s he got a job assignment in Ufa where he died in the 1970s. I don't know where he was buried. His son, Tsalia Polischuk, a student of the Kiev Medical University, perished near Leningrad during the Great Patriotic War.

My mother's sisters and brother and their families tried to observe Jewish traditions. They weren't deeply religious and didn't go to the synagogue, but they never forgot that they were Jewish. They had matzah on Pesach, didn't eat pork and didn't mix meat and dairy products, although they didn't follow the kashrut laws [strictly].

My mother, Esphir Pekar [nee Polischuk], was born in Radomyshl in 1900. She came from a wealthy family and she got an opportunity to finish Russian grammar school in Kiev. She told me that she was a pretty girl. When she was 10-12 years old, she collected money for a charity for children's homes with the son of the director of the grammar school. They had a poster with an appeal to contribute money for children's homes and collected contributions on trains. This boy was my mother's first love.

My mother didn't continue her education. In 1920 she met one of her father's employees. They liked each other, but they came from different social layers. He was a clerk, and she was the daughter of a business owner. That stood in the way of their marriage. They were meeting secretly. When my grandfather understood that my father had serious intentions he gave his consent to their marriage.

My parents got married in Teterev in 1920. They had a rich traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah and klezmer musicians. After the wedding the young couple moved to Kiev where my mother's older sisters lived and worked. They rented an apartment in the center of the city. My father got a job as an accountant in an office, and my mother became a housewife.

Growing up

I was born in Kiev in 1921, and my sister, Maria, was born in 1923. My parents lived in Kiev for five years. They didn't quite like living in a big city. My mother's father also wanted them to move to Teterev. We moved there in 1925. My father got a job as a forester. My grandfather built a spacious house for us with eight rooms and nice furniture. There was a children's room, a living room and a study for my father in the house. We had big rubber plants in the living room. Our house and my grandfather's house were close to each other. My first impression of Teterev were geese. There were so many of them walking across the town and hissing at people.

My grandfather was a deeply religious man, and he cared about traditions a lot. He didn't want Jews to forget their identity and follow the slogans of the Bolsheviks about the elimination of religion. Jewish men used to come to my grandfather's house for Sabbath prayer. If there were less than ten men, my grandfather asked my father to attend their prayer, although my father was a convinced atheist. My father used to sit there reading his newspaper while the others were saying their prayer.

Once I got into the room during a prayer and tied together the tassels of the tallitim. The men didn't notice anything. Only when the prayer was over and it was time for them to go home did they find out that they were tied together. My grandfather was terribly angry with me - for the first and last time in my life.

I have no memories about Sabbath. I think we didn't have a festive dinner on Sabbath. Praying was the most important for my grandfather.

I remember how we prepared to celebrate Pesach. At first we did a general clean up of the house making sure that there were no breadcrumbs left in the house. Then flour was delivered to the house, and we began to make matzah. Jews from all the neighboring settlements came to make matzah at my grandfather's house. My grandmother and other women made the dough for the matzah. To eliminate any doubt about the kashrut of the matzah a baker came from Kiev. He rolled out the dough and put it into the oven. We didn't eat bread for a whole week during Pesach.

Before Pesach we took special fancy dishes and kitchen utensils from the attic and put our casual utensils in the attic. If there weren't enough utensils everyday ones were taken to a pit with boiling water in the yard. There was a hot stone in the pit to keep the water hot. Forks and spoons were tied together with a rope before they were put into the pit. Forks and spoons and other utensils were put into the pit to be kosher for the use on Pesach. My mother's sisters, her brother and their families came to the first seder from Kiev. During the seder we were leaning against pillows according to the tradition like free people, not slaves. [Editor's note: all these ritual are written down in the Haggadah.] My grandfather, who sat at the head of the table wearing a tuxedo, conducted the seder and said prayers.

My duty was to ask the four questions about the traditions of this holiday during seder. I knew them by heart, and when the time came I recited them in Yiddish. There was a saucer with some matzah covered with a white napkin on the table. I was supposed to hide it. The one who found it had to give me ransom. I liked all these processes. I hid the saucer with matzah somewhere safe and enjoyed watching the others searching for it. Someone found it and I received a little money [Editor's note: this tradition generally goes inversely: an adult hides the matzah, called afikoman, and if a child finds it he gets some present.] After the official seder ceremony, when people at the table recalled the history of the exodus of the Jews from Egypt, and ate a bit of meat, bitter greeneries, and a piece of boiled egg, the feast began. There was Gefilte fish, sweet and sour stew and dishes made of matzah flour on the table. I was so small that that's all I remember about it.

I also have some memories of the celebration of Chanukkah in our house. I remember my grandmother and mother lighting the Chanukkah candles, saying short Chanukkah prayers and singing special songs. It was also good to receive some money on Chanukkah. I could buy something for this money. Once I bought sweaters for my sister and me. My grandmother always made pancakes with geese fat on Chanukkah.

On Yom Kippur the whole family fasted and remembered the deceased relatives. My grandmother and grandfather went to the cemetery to recite the Kaddish.

During the week we had bean soup with meat, baked potatoes and boiled beans, marinated beetroots and red borsch and sauerkraut. We mostly had chicken that we took to a shochet, who lived nearby, to have it slaughtered. We also ate rabbits. [Editor's note: rabbits are not kosher meat, but this food was customary for the family.] Chicken meat had to be soaked in water for two hours and kept in salt for another two hours to get rid of all the blood. After this the meat became kosher and could be cooked.

In winter we sometimes had a slice of pork fat - it was considered to be very good for us. Pork fat was kept separate from all the other food to follow the kashrut rules. There was also a special plate for slices of fat. Pork fat was supposed to give you much energy and helped us to keep ourselves warm in cold weather. A small slice of pork was quite sufficient to stay healthier.

There was no kindergarten in Teterev. My mother taught me to read and write before I went to school. We also learned poems by heart. My mother knew many poems by Russian and Ukrainian poets. My mother was also fond of singing and often sang a sad song about Beilis 5 in Russian. I can still remember the lyrics. In 1928 my younger sister, Asia, was born, and I became her baby sitter.

I was my grandparents' favorite. They spoiled me a lot. I always got the best presents like an expensive sweater, pants or a toy, on holidays and the most money on Chanukkah. I had many toys and many dolls. I never had to clean the house. My grandfather told me to ask my younger sister Manya to do it. I was cuddled and didn't have set chores about the house. Manya dusted rugs in the hallway. However, I was a good girl and tried to do many things myself. My grandfather tenderly called me 'goat', probably because I was rather restless. I loved to jump up and kiss him on the bald patch of his beard.

I went to primary school in Teterev in 1928. There were two classrooms in our school, one for the 1st and 3rd forms and another one for the 2nd and 4th forms. We had two teachers: Alexei Romanovich and Ludmila Mikhailovna. They were married. I didn't like them, because they punished me. Once I got hungry during the class and decided to eat an apple. They made me eat my apple in front of the class to punish me for the violation of discipline. I could never forget that. There were actually no Jews in Teterev. I was the only Jewish pupil in my class. But I didn't face any anti-Semitism.

The 1930s were very difficult. [The interviewee refers to the Ukrainian famine.] 6 We had to stand in lines near the only small store in Teterev for hours and hours hoping to get some bread. Sometimes we managed to buy grain wastes to make bread ourselves. Our main food was potato peels. In spring 1932 my mother got a job as a guard of carrot fields in the neighboring collective farm. She used to bring a few carrots home. Carrots supported us a little bit.

I was rather spoiled and refused junk food. I got swollen up from hunger. In summer 1933 my mother's sister, Genia, came to visit us. She didn't have any children. When she saw my condition she took me with her. I went to the primary school in Monastyrishche. I believe, I was the only Jew in my class, but I got along well with the other children and didn't face any anti-Semitism. My aunt bought me homemade riazhanka [yogurt] at the market every day. It was a luxury for the time, but my aunt had a good income and could afford it. Once thieves broke into our house. They stole two herrings that my aunt received in her party food package. My most horrific memory from that time was a jellied meat dish made from the flesh of a child. My aunt took me to a party meeting where some people brought this dish to. It turned out that a woman from a village had slaughtered her stepson and cooked the meat. I remember how horrified I was. Of course things like this were criminal, but people went crazy from starvation. She did it when she was not quite herself, and she was taken to a mental hospital after.

There was a road leading to the cemetery in Monastyrishche not far from our house. Every day villagers took their deceased relatives, who had starved to death, to the cemetery. I used to go for walks in Monastyrishche by myself. Once I was followed by a man with a knife. I hardly managed to hide behind my aunt's gate. I ran fast and that rescued me from that man. Very often people were losing their mind from hunger. After this incident my aunt took me back to Teterev as it became dangerous to stay in Monastyrishche.

In 1933 the Bolsheviks took away the house built by my grandfather. We moved to Zhytomir where my father's sister Sarah lived. After we moved we didn't celebrate any Jewish traditions. We studied in Jewish schools, and our mother was more concerned about providing for us than traditions. The only difference between Jewish and other schools at that time was the language of teaching. We studied the same subjects and this school was similar to any other Ukrainian or Russian school. Our father fell ill with encephalitis. He was paralyzed and our mother had to take care of the family. I became responsible for all the housekeeping. My sister Manya looked after our house. My mother worked as a cashier at a barber's in Zhytomir, and later she went to work at a lemonade factory. She washed bottles there. She got a very low salary for it. To help my mother provide for the family, I also went to work at the factory part time, filling bottles with lemonade.

My mother's sisters came to visit us in 1935. They decided that it would be better for the children to be in a children's home. But when they told my mother about their idea her face got distorted at the thought. My mother fell ill and had to go to hospital. She recovered from her shock, but her face remained distorted. The children stayed with the family.

I enjoyed studying at school. I was an easy-going and sociable girl. I became a pioneer and then a Komsomol 7 member. All children joined the Komsomol league, and I just followed the common procedure. I didn't take part in any public activities. I liked dancing and acting. I had many non- Jewish friends. We spent a lot of time together. Once they took me to the night service at a Christian church. It was a beautiful service, but I got tired of standing for such long hours. I didn't feel remorse for going to a church. It didn't even occur to me that I was doing something wrong. I was a pretty girl and played main parts in our school performances. I enjoyed acting very much.

The period of the Stalinist repression [the Great Terror] 8 didn't affect our family. We didn't discuss this subject in the family. My mother and father were very ill and there was nobody else to discuss it with. I only remember how my grandmother's lips trembled when she pronounced the name of Stalin. She hated him, but she never explained the reasons to us, and we were too young to ask.

In 1937 my father died in a hospital in Kiev where he was brought to by my mother's sisters. My father was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Kiev. It was a huge loss to me, although we knew that he was severely ill and death was only a matter of time. After my father died a Jewish man began to court my mother. I don't remember his name. If it hadn't been for me my mother would have married him. I couldn't imagine another man to take my father's place. I cried a few nights in a row, and my mother didn't dare to start living with him.

I often went to dancing parties. My mother was concerned about me and always chaperoned me there. Young men that wanted to invite me to dance had to ask her permission. It was okay with me. I felt protected, and when I didn't like a young man, I could always refer to my mother's presence. I had admirers. I remember a Korean man, Venia Kim, kissing me for the first time. A studio was shooting a film in Teterev. There were a few Korean actors there. One of them asked me whether he could escort me home. He kissed me good-bye and I felt so ashamed. At home I took different cups of tableware. I covered my eyes with them until I forgot about the incident. Venia Kim wrote me letters for a long time.

I finished school in 1937 and entered the Faculty of Philosophy at the Kiev Pedagogical Institute. I actually wanted to become an actress, but my father said once that one had to be exceptionally talented to become an actor. He didn't believe I was particularly gifted, and I couldn't do anything against his will. He had great influence on me.

I lived in a hostel in Kiev. There were four of us in a room. We got along very well. We didn't have enough food and scrubbed our pockets for a few kopecks to buy half a loaf of bread. When we got a stipend we bought khalva [oriental sweet mass]. We couldn't afford to buy tea. Sometimes in summer we bought a watermelon. We locked our room so nobody would come in and eat the watermelon. I fainted from hunger in class several times. I gave Russian lessons to earn some money. I received 80 rubles, which was hardly enough to buy bread.

I was the Komsomol leader of my group at the Institute and later I became a member of the Komsomol bureau of the Institute. One summer I was awarded a trip to Alushta [resort at the South coast of the Crimea]. I traveled by train for the first time in my life. I have the brightest memory of the beach divided into two parts: one for men and another one for women. It had nothing to do with religious rules. There were people of different nationalities. It was because holiday makers were nude on the beach and that's why there were separate beaches for men and women. My acquaintances tried to convince me to drop any prejudices and take off my clothes, but I couldn't - this was the way I was brought up. We could lie in the sun and bathe nude, but I didn't dare. I wore a black swimming suit.

I had many admirers at the Institute. I didn't have a problem of meeting young people, but I didn't quite know who I needed. I met my future husband at a party at the Institute. His name was Mark Aguf, and he was a Jew. He was a student at the Faculty of Architecture at the Kiev Art Institute. He fell in love with me.

During the war

In June 1941 I went to work as a pioneer leader at a pioneer camp in Vorzel, a small town near Kiev. I was there when the Great Patriotic War began on 22nd June 1941. I went back to Kiev. My husband-to-be insisted that I evacuated with him and his parents. I went with them without saying good-bye to my family and friends. I didn't have any luggage with me either. The train we took belonged to the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. My husband's father was a party official and got train tickets for the whole family. He joined the Territorial Army to defend Kiev. It was a comfortable train. It didn't stop or wasn't kept longer than necessary at stations, and we reached Kustanay in Northern Kazakhstan [2,500 km from Kiev] very soon. Kustanay was a small town populated with Kazakh people. There were no Jewish families in the town. Mark and I got married there. We had a civil ceremony and obtained our marriage certificate at a registry office.

My husband was born to a Jewish family in Kharkov in 1919. His father, Michael Aguf, was born in Lugansk, Eastern Ukraine, in 1888. His mother died when Michael was 3 years old. His father married another woman. He didn't get along with her. When my husband's father was young he got inspired by revolutionary ideas and joined the Communist Party. Before the Revolution of 1917, when he was 18, he was arrested on charge of undermining the tsarist regime and revolutionary activities. He was in jail for four years and then he was sent to exile in Siberia 9. After the revolution the Bolsheviks released him and he made a party career. In 1918 he began to work at the Central Committee of the Bolshevik Party located in Kharkov at that time. He married Elena Eskina, a Jewish woman, and their twin sons, Mark and Boris, were born in Kharkov in 1919.

My husband's mother was born in the small Jewish town of Stavishche, near Kiev, in the 1870s. There were about 1,500 Jewish families in this town. There were several synagogues and a Jewish school. Elena finished a Russian grammar school in Kiev and a high school for girls. She was a very intelligent woman. She didn't observe any Jewish traditions and didn't speak Yiddish.

In the middle of the 1920s Michael Aguf got a high official party position in Kiev. He was a very educated and intelligent man and soon became the secretary of the Union of Ukrainian Writers. His wife was an editor with a magazine. When they moved to Kiev they got a luxurious apartment in the building that belonged to the Union of Ukrainian Writers. There were polished parquet floors, expensive furniture and carpets in the apartment. They had a huge collection of books by Soviet and foreign writers. They didn't have any Jewish books and didn't observe any Jewish traditions. They spoke Russian.

My husband's twin brother, Boris Aguf, finished a Russian secondary school in Kiev. He studied at the Pedagogical Institute, went in for sports and wrote poems. He took part in the Finnish campaign in 1939 10. In 1941 he went to the front and perished. Any mentioning of his name caused pain to his relatives.

My husband finished a Russian secondary school in Kiev and entered the Faculty of Architecture at the Kiev Art Institute. By the time I met him he was a 4th year student.

The day after we got married he went to the military registry office to ask them to cancel his release from the service in the army that he had as a 5th year student of a higher educational institution. Within a week's time he went to the front. I was pregnant. I was very upset because I thought that it was untimely to have a baby. I carried heavy loads to terminate my pregnancy, but it didn't work. I gave birth to a strong healthy girl in Kustanay in 1942. I named her Victoria.

Our first winter in Kustanay was very cold and hard. We got a room in a wooden house where I lived with my husband's parents. Our landlords were Kazakh. They treated us very nicely and liked to play with my daughter. I didn't face any anti-Semitism during evacuation. In spring 1942 we received a cow from a local collective farm. We had to give milk to the collective farm, but we were allowed to keep some of it for our family. We also got a plot of land. There were stones on our land, but we cleaned it up and planted potatoes. Besides, we got a smaller plot of land 5 kilometers from our house where we were allowed to plant watermelons and pumpkins.

I got a job at the local newspaper, Stalin's Way. This newspaper was published six days a week and was very popular. It was published on a demy printing paper because there was no other paper in Kustanay. The newspaper published propaganda articles about the accomplishments of the Soviet people, and local news. I was a proof-reader and edited articles before they were published. I enjoyed this work. I worked with the newspaper until it was time for us to go back to Kiev in 1944. My mother-in-law looked after my daughter. We worked at night to have the newspaper published in the morning. During the day I could work on our field. On winter nights I was scared to walk in the darkness across the deserted town. I wore boots that some of our neighbors had given to me: one boot with a sharp tip and another one with a rounded one.

At the end of 1942 my father-in-law arrived. He had to leave Kiev on foot before the Germans entered the city. He walked 5 kilometers and then caught a train. He found a job in Kustanay. He became deputy manager for logistics supplies. This agency was responsible for food and good supplies to the town. My husband was at the Leningrad and, later, at the Northwestern fronts. He had the rank of First Sergeant. He was a courier at the headquarters. Once he had to deliver a report. When he left the tent of the headquarters a shell hit and destroyed it, killing everybody inside. My husband survived. He sent us letters with his poems and small paintings.

At the beginning of 1944 my father-in-law obtained a special permit required to return to Kiev. [Until the middle of 1944 Kiev was still closed for those who wanted to return from evacuation.] Postwar Kiev made a hard impression on me. I cried bitterly when I came to Kreschatik, its main thoroughfare, and saw it ruined.

A writer lived in the apartment that had belonged to my husband's parents before the war, and it seemed impossible to get him move out. We received a small room near the center of the town. There was a big stove and almost no furniture. Our neighbors gave us some old folding beds and chairs. The water piping was ruined and we had to fetch water from a well in another yard. We had no electricity and lit a kerosene lamp when it got dark. We made soup with semolina - that was our only food. We received bread by cards but had to stand in lines for many hours.

Another thing I remember from this time is the public execution of German captives in the main square of the city. Gallows were erected in the square. The condemned Germans were taken to the square on trucks. The soldiers that carried out the execution put a rope around the necks of the captives and the truck moved on. I had nightmares about this incident for a long time afterwards.

When we returned to Kiev I began to look for a job. I couldn't find any. I was openly told that I didn't have a chance to get a job with my Jewish name, Tsylia. Then, quite incidentally, I got a position as a human resource inspector in an office. This office hired workers to restore Kreschatik. I liked the job. We also received food packages. My colleagues treated me very nicely. Once they even came to help me chop wood. In the summer they once left a huge watermelon in my office for me. They also talked with our management, and I began to receive more food in my food packages: more bread, cereal and flour. Once a group of 10-12 German prisoners of war were sent to our office. I had to make a list of their names. I remembered German from school and went to the yard to write down their names. There were only Germans in the yard. They encircled me so tightly that I could feel their breathing. I got so scared that I almost fainted. Fortunately, one of our employees was coming across the yard. He took me by my hand and led me out of the circle. The Germans did all kinds of construction activities in our office, but I was never again sent to contact them.

My husband returned from the front in 1945. He was shell-shocked, and I took him to all kinds of doctors until he finally got better.

My mother, her sisters, my two sisters and my mother's parents were in evacuation in Kuibyshev during the Great Patriotic War. I have no information about their life there because I had left without even saying goodbye to them. Throughout the war we didn't hear from them and didn't know whether they were alive. Only after I returned to Kiev in 1945, did we receive a letter from my mother. It arrived at the hostel where I had lived before the war. My acquaintances, whom I met by chance, gave it to me. The letter said that they were alive, that everything was all right with them but that they weren't going to return to Kiev. My mother, my sisters and my grandparents stayed in Kuibyshev after the war.

Post-war

I went to complete my studies at the Pedagogical Institute in Kiev in 1945, and my husband was in his 5th year at the Kiev Art Institute. I graduated from the Institute in 1947 and got a job in the Russian secondary school in the center of the city. I liked my job. I got along well with my colleagues, and the children's parents were satisfied with my work. My husband graduated from the Art Institute and became an architect with Kievproject, one of the leading design institutes in Kiev.

In 1948 the state of Israel was established. All of a sudden I had the feeling of getting a home and being protected. Those were the scary years of the campaign against cosmopolitans 11 or, to be more precise, of the height of state anti-Semitism. My husband's father began to have problems at his work with the Union of Ukrainian writers. He was accused of lack of love for his motherland and patriotism, although nobody could tell what this 'patriotism' was to be like. Such accusations were only made about Jews. We watched him very closely fearing that he might commit suicide. His ideals and belief in the fair communist society were scattered. At the beginning of 1953 Stalin died, and the process against my father-in-law stopped. On the occasion of Stalin's death I took my pupils to the meeting ground beside the school building. I was crying so heavily that I had to leave the meeting. I felt like something irremediable had happened.

My grandmother died of pneumonia in Kuibyshev in the late 1950s, and my grandfather passed away in 1960. They were buried in the town cemetery - there was no Jewish cemetery in Kuibyshev. I didn't go to the funeral. My mother and sisters notified me in a letter. I don't know if my grandparents observed traditions after the war. My mother and sisters didn't write anything about it in their letters.

Our son, Boris, was born in 1956. We didn't raise our children Jewish. Firstly because we weren't religious and secondly because religion was persecuted by the Soviet authorities. Our children studied in Russian schools. However, they always identified themselves as Jews. They knew about the tragedy of Babi Yar. We learnt about it right after we returned to Kiev from evacuation.

We lived in one room in a communal apartment with my in-laws for 14 years. We had guests on Soviet holidays and at birthday parties. They were Jewish guests for the most part. We discussed the situation in Israel and the status of Jews in the Soviet Union. We never celebrated Jewish holidays.

Our family received a two-bedroom apartment in Kreschatik in 1966. The same year my husband's father died, and his mother passed away in 1976. They were buried in the Jewish cemetery in Kiev. I was grieving over them. They were like mother and father to me. They cared for me a lot.

Our daughter, Victoria, finished a secondary school in 1968 and tried to enter the Kiev Polytechnical Institute. She passed her entrance exams but wasn't admitted. We realized that her Jewish nationality was the reason for their refusal to admit her. Victoria got a job at the Arsenal plant [a big military plant in Kiev that specialized in the production of optical devices]. After working at the plant for several years, she entered the Moscow Aviation Institute, where she studied by correspondence. She graduated as an optical tools specialist. She began to work at the design office of the same plant.

In the 1970s, when large numbers of Jews were leaving the country, my husband and I firmly decided to stay. We both enjoyed work. My husband wrote books on architecture and defended his thesis. Our daughter wanted to move, though. It was her dream to travel to Cyprus and Greece, and moving to Israel seemed to bring her a step closer to have her dream come true. Well, she got married in 1974 and a year later her son Michael was born, so she dropped the idea of moving to Israel. Victoria married a Jew named Zaretskiy, but she divorced him in 1976. I retired in 1975 to help my daughter look after her son. My grandson, Michael, graduated from the Kiev Medical Institute and works as a medical expert at the Ukrainian Ministry of Internal Affairs.

Our son, Boris, followed into his father's footsteps. After finishing school in 1974 he entered the Faculty of Architecture at the Kiev Art Institute and graduated from it with success. He married a very nice, though non-Jewish, girl. They have a daughter, Elena. She is a 4th year student at the Kiev Art Academy. They don't observe any Jewish traditions.

My mother died in Kuibyshev in 1971. She was a receptionist at the local polyclinic. I went to her funeral.

My sister, Manya, finished a secondary school in Kuibyshev and graduated from the Medical Institute in Novosibirsk. She got married and had a daughter, Tatiana. She was a doctor at a hospital in Novosibirsk. Manya's husband died in a train accident in the 1970s. Manya and her daughter moved to Israel in the 1990s. We correspond with them.

My younger sister, Asia, got married when she was 16. She had a daughter, Ludmila. Asia finished the Medical School in Kuibyshev and worked as a medical nurse at the local hospital. She is retired and lives in Kuibyshev now. She is divorced. Her husband left Asia for another woman.

My husband died in 1986. He was an outstanding architect and wrote many books on architecture. He died when he was working on his doctor's thesis. I married my old acquaintance, Leon Rubashevskiy, in 1992. His wife had died and he felt very lonely. We decided to live together. My second husband died in 2001. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Kiev.

In the early 1990s the USSR disintegrated. The Communist Party was dissolved. Neither my husband nor I were members of the Communist Party. We despised party activists because we believed that no talented person could get involved with party activities. I was very enthusiastic about the changes. It brought freedom of speech. One could speak his mind without fearing to be arrested for telling an anecdote that might be out of place. Even though the standards of living sank in the 1990s and prices went up, I wouldn't like the Soviet power to return.

However, I felt sorry about the disintegration of the Soviet Union. It's annoying that we are considered to be citizens of different countries when going to Russia to visit friends. Take the crossing of the border, for instance, where customs officers check your luggage looking for pieces of sausage or pork fat because there is a ban on taking food products out of Ukraine. That's something we are not used to, and I find it humiliating. I don't travel, but my children and friends face this problem.

I was very enthusiastic about the restoration of Jewish life in the 1990s. I take part in many activities. I worked as volunteer with Hesed for a long time. I'm one of the most active members of the intellectual club in Hesed and attend the Sholem Aleichem 12 Association in Kiev. Besides, I like to attend concerts and performances. I read Jewish newspapers published in Ukraine. I'm not leaving my country for Israel or any other place. My children and grandchildren want to stay here, and I cannot and do not want to live in another country.

Glossary

Juci Scheiner
Targu Mures
Romania
Interviewer: Ildiko Molnar
Date of interview: October 2002

If in the interwar period you mentioned the name Juci Mestitz in Marosvasarhely, the majority of the people knew whom you were talking about.

She was everybody's favorite and has been ever since. You can still feel her distinguished education by the way she dresses and behaves. She looks stylish and neat.

With her kind and friendly, but never overbearing manner she quickly makes everyone love her. Everywhere she goes, she always finds friends. She always says she can't understand why people are so nice to her. 

She loves to talk about the old days and it seems her memories don't upset her any longer. She gladly chats with her guests in her spacey two-bedroom apartment.

She still spends the summer holiday with her lady- friends who moved abroad. As if they were still young, they arrange where they should meet, and they spend a few weeks together.

Despite her age, Juci speaks and understands French, Italian, English and German well. She has an excellent memory and she loves reading.

• Family background
• Growing up 
• During the war

• Post war
• Glossary

• Family background

Of my paternal grandfather, Mihaly Mestitz, I only know he was a good- looking old man. He was born in 1830 and was originally from Bohemia, from a town called Raudnitz. I don't know why he came here, but I believe he was very young at the time. His name was originally Mertitz. He changed it slightly because Czechs pronounce 'r' as 's', and it seems he wrote it with an 's' instead of an 'r' when he came here. At that time, it was the Austro- Hungarian Monarchy.

[Editor's note: The Austro-Hungarian Monarchy came into being in 1867. Before this date both the Czech lands and Transylvania belonged to the Habsburg Empire.] I don't know anything about his education, nor where he lived, apart from Marosvasarhely. I only know that in 1850 he had a furniture store on the corner of the street formerly called Szentgyorgy Street [currently Revolutiei Street, downtown]. The store was called Mestitz Mihaly es fiai [Mihaly Mestitz and Sons].

A child never asks about these things, you know, she only overhears them, so I don't know too much about these things. From 1869 he operated a floorboard factory, a steam sawmill and a steam mill.

They must have been financially well off, since he was the first furniture manufacturer in Transylvania. My grandfather had to be a very forward- thinking man, as he advertised his furniture store. They were suppliers to the royal court. 'The cheapest place to buy furniture, the biggest furniture factory in Transylvania, Mihaly Mestitz and Sons: Szecsenyi Square, Marosvasarhely, and Unio Street, Kolozsvar.

We only sell top quality products, and we provide the longest warrantee for them. Enormous supply of housewares, a wide range of Persian rugs.' This is an ad from 1860-1870. Someone found it in a book and photocopied it for me. They won the golden award, in any case the top award, at furniture exhibitions in Vienna, Budapest and in Spain, I think in Barcelona.

By the time I was born, our family only owned three houses, but some say the Mestitz family used to have 21 houses in Marosvasarhely. I believe my grandfather probably invested his money in real estate, and when he opened the furniture factory, he sold the houses. I don't know where he got all that money from, but I do know that his name is on the marble tablet by the synagogue, amongst the names of people who donated money to build it.

His mark is still visible on one of the benches. Back then all Jews observed religion, but I don't think my grandfather was all that religious. All his children were born in Marosvasarhely. My dad was the youngest child of eight, and he was still very young when his father died. He never really talked about him. My grandfather died in 1909, three weeks before my older brother was born.

My paternal grandmother, Anna Mestitz, nee Fisher, was originally from Nagyszeben. I don't know when she moved to Budapest, but probably after my grandfather died. She suffered from some kind of illness and committed suicide in Budapest in 1915. The family never talked about this though. When my grandfather died, the life of luxury came to an end, and everything became harder.

There were eight children in the family, and many moved out: one of the boys went to Budapest, as did one of the girls, another of the girls moved to Brasso, another of the boys to Kolozsvar, each of them with their respective dowry. Only three of them remained at home, but one day my uncle moved to Kolozsvar, with his share; everybody got his portion, thus the family fortune was split up, but the business went on. My dad's siblings weren't religious, none of them kept a kosher household.

My father's oldest brother, born in 1862, was called Mor Mestitz. He was a handsome and very kind man. He studied to be a doctor, but in the second year of his studies he became schizophrenic and had to drop out. Then he married Matild Schwartz. His parents broke off contact with them. I think they considered the woman too lowly.

As far as I know she was a cashier or something. They lived here in Marosvasarhely in a beautiful apartment on Szentgyorgy Street. He was always on good terms with my dad. The office was inside the furniture store and he used to come in and do whatever he wanted, but never did any actual work. As far as I can remember, he never worked.

Occasionally Uncle Mor's craziness [schizophrenia] broke out. They lived on Bolyai Street when one day he stood out naked in the window and played the violin. Uncle Mor was an outstanding violinist, and the founder of the Marosvasarhely Symphonic Orchestra. On another occasion he took a horn and began blowing it while walking up and down in the house. He used to do these kinds of crazy things. One day he just decided to move to Kolozsvar. There was nothing the family could do.

They rented an apartment in Kolozsvar, and he moved there with his wife. I know that when he went to Kolozsvar they gave him so much money that he bought two houses. Then he sent a message to my dad; 'Don't worry about your children, I will leave them the houses', but later he left everything to the Jewish community in Kolozsvar. They had been living there for several years when one day he asked my dad to come for him because he wanted to get away from there, he wanted to divorce his wife.

Well, my dad went to Kolozsvar for him, but in the end, he came back alone, because Uncle Mor decided he didn't want to divorce his wife after all. They adopted a boy, a nephew of his wife, Janos Feher, who became Janos Mestitz Feher. I had another relative, an uncle, colonel Janos Mestitz in Budapest, and the son of my uncle Ferenc Mestitz from Kolozsvar was also called Janos. He pulled lots of cons posing as one or the other Janos and my family was really disgusted by his actions, and eventually he was disowned. He died in Kolozsvar in 1938.

Ferenc Mestitz was the second oldest sibling. He was born in 1864. He was also the co-owner of the furniture factory, and was the manager of the branch in Kolozsvar. The furniture store was in Unio Street, the avenue by the main square that leads to the Romanian Opera House. When he died, one of his sons, Janos, took over the store.

I knew Uncle Ferenc's wife, Ilona Fridman, born in Zilah in 1873, - Auntie Ilonka. Ferenc died in Kolozsvar in 1923. She died later, in 1946, in Kolozsvar. They weren't religious Jews; she didn't keep a kosher household. They had three children: Gyorgy, Janos and Bozsi.

Gyorgy, who became a textile engineer, married the daughter of the senior consultant dentist of the hospital of the Protestant Church, Sarika Filep, a craftswoman. One day they moved to Vienna to run a guesthouse in one of the best locations, on the corner of Kaerntnerstrasse. Business was going very well, and I think they even added another level to it. But then came the Nazis from Germany, closing down a large number of offices, hotels and guesthouses.

They didn't know yet that Gyorgy was Jewish. His wife was Christian, and he had already converted to Christianity. When they requested his certificates of origin, Gyorgy came home saying that he needed to have those documents made, but he secretly arranged with his wife to sell the guesthouse and to meet somewhere.

They never returned to Vienna. They came home, learned three professions - cookery, confectionery, and another I don't know - and emigrated to Australia, where, together with another married couple, they opened a pig farm somewhere near Sydney. Later they sold the farm and moved to Sydney. They bought a house and opened a confectionery.

Gyorgy's brother, Janos, was the manager of the Mestitz furniture store's branch in Kolozsvar. Later the store became independent and they bought it. Janos had twins. The sisters graduated from medical school in Marosvasarhely. It was during the Hungarian era 1, and the university was Hungarian. They lived in Karoly Molter's house, where they rented a room. The house was on the same street as ours, so we often invited them over for lunch. Their mother, Ella Szathmari, still lives in Nagykanizsa and she must be at least 90 years old. Ella's parents had a guesthouse in Tusnad. Her mother visited here once and told my mother to send me there because she was certain that the air in Tusnad would do my appetite good. I went there after a while. It was a beautiful, pleasant spa. In the guesthouse, I lived with two of my Christian girlfriends; one of them later became the wife of Erno, the son of my uncle Albert Mestitz.

Bozsi, the daughter of my uncle Ferenc, got married to a gentleman of half- Jewish origin and lived in Nagyvarad. He managed the local brewery.

My uncle Janos Mestitz, born in 1865, attended the Ludovika Military School in Budapest. He was a jolly man. Later he was posted to Kassa [today Slovakia] as an officer and military commandant of the town. He was awarded the 'Dobrotiny' title of nobility later during a battle in World War I.

When he got this title, Uncle Janos wanted it to apply to the whole family. This made my dad real upset because he couldn't see why we needed a noble title when everybody already knew and respected the Mestitz family. Anyway, we didn't need it, and that's where it ended. If we had had this title in 1940, we wouldn't have been deported, but how were we supposed to know that then?

Uncle Janos' wife was called Ilona Kelen. I think she was Jewish, but I didn't know her because at that time I hadn't yet been to Budapest, where they lived. When Uncle Janos decided to retire as a colonel, he was told that if he converted to Christianity he would get the pension for the next rank up. He replied that if 53 battles and 12 high military decorations weren't enough, he wouldn't convert. And he was right.

• Growing up 

I saw him only once, when I first went to Budapest. I think I was 16 and I went to Budapest by myself. I stayed at the Grimm Guesthouse. It was right beside the Vigado. My father told me that my uncle had no telephone so I should write him a postcard. On the second or third day of my stay the receptionist called and said that a young man was looking for me and I should go into the lounge. I did that and he turned out to be Uncle Janos. He had instructed them to say that it was a young man looking for me.

He was a charming man. I had to dress up and go with him to the terrace of a coffeehouse on Erzsebet Square, where a group of retired officers used to meet. He took me there to introduce me to them, because they were his friends, and we stayed together until nightfall. I'm quite certain that none of them were Jewish.

It happened the same year [in 1939] that Uncle Janos jumped off a tram while it was slowing down before a stop, fell down, broke his leg or something, got blood poisoning and died. He had two children: Ella and Viktor.

Viktor was a handsome man, resembling my father. They lived in Budapest, hiding in a shelter during the war. When the war was over and they could come out onto the street, he left the shelter to freshen up, but he was shot near the Danube. His wife was Austrian - I don't think she was Jewish - and after her husband died, she returned to Vienna.

I knew Ella, my uncle's daughter, very well. We visited them many times because during the Hungarian era I began visiting Budapest. She had two daughters. After my paternal grandmother was left a widow, she moved in with them.

I was invited to lunch in Budapest, at the house of Jozsef Fekete's wife, my aunt Iren Mestitz. Iren was born in 1873. She moved to Budapest in 1908, but I don't know anything else about her. She died in Budapest in 1941.

Uncle Jozsef Fekete, her husband, was an engineer, teacher and principal in a vocational college, opposite Zsigmond Kemeny Street. When they said that if he converted, he could be promoted to the ministry, but if he didn't he would be demoted to an inferior position, he accepted it.

In 1908 he Magyarized his name Schwartz [black in German] to Fekete [black in Hungarian]. His 'godfather' was the under-secretary or one of the ministers. He became an under-secretary at the Ministry of Education. His merits were rewarded with the 'Naznanfalvi' title of nobility. They had three children: Sandor, Istvan and Laszlo.

Sandor, the oldest one, became a doctor. He was the director of the National Stefania Institute of Pediatrics in Budapest and committed suicide when he was 32 years old. Istvan died at the age of 16 or 17, while Laszlo disappeared somewhere in Brazil.

Once, when I went to Budapest, Aunt Iren invited me for a cup of tea. I dressed up elegantly and we went together to Gellert, just the two of us. There were at least thirty tables arranged in a 'U' shape, and in the middle, there was a band playing.

We went to the end of the row of tables, to the back, to avoid that I would be asked to dance by anybody. [That's how Juci thought about her aunt's idea of where they should sit.] Then, on the way, Aunt Iren said she wanted to have a word with me. The previous day they had had some guests, I don't know who, the wife and daughter of a dignitary, I think.

After they left, Uncle Jozsef went to the bathroom and found some mascara there and asked whose garbage this was. Auntie Iren didn't want Uncle Jozsef to tell off her lady-friends, and told him it was all Juci's. And she asked me not to tell him - if by any chance he asked me - that the mascara wasn't mine. That's why she invited me for tea. This really hurt my feelings.

Albert Mestitz, born in 1867, managed the store of the furniture factory on the main square. The family had a house there and they lived in it. He married his second cousin, Sarolta Mestitz, born in 1865 came from Raudnitz, from Bohemia.

Uncle Albert went there on business or something, met her there and fell in love with her. She was pretty and cute, and I adored her so much that I visited them every day. However, she never learned to speak proper Hungarian. Albert died in 1937 in Marosvasarhely. They had four children, two boys and two girls: Sandor, Erno, Vilma and Paula.

Sandor, the oldest son, grew up with us. Later he moved to Temesvar, but when Marosvasarhely was returned to Hungary, he came home. We were deported together. He ended up somewhere in Warsaw. During the bombing they had to leave in the morning, and they left him there with a head injury.

When they could return in the evening, everything had burned down. I still don't know whether he perished or was taken away from there. The other son, Erno, worked here at the store with his father, and married one of my Christian girlfriends.

Vilma married Dezso Grunfeld from Medgyes, a very kind man. They lived a wealthy, very rich life. One of their sons was 14 or 15 when he emigrated to Palestine. This was when children were carried on two ships and one of them sunk.

[Editor's note: Three ships set off for Israel in August 1944: the Morina, Mefkure and Bolbul. Mefkure was sunk.] Fortunately he was on another ship. At first he lived in a kibbutz, and he loved it there. Three or four years later his brother followed him to the same kibbutz.

Uncle Albert had one more daughter, Paula. She lived here in Marosvasarhely. She had a very nice beauty salon and I learned beauty treatment from her. She co-owned a salon, and when she saw that she wasn't allowed to work upstairs in the shop, she continued her beauty treatment in a small room down a few stairs. She worked as a cosmetician and also had some clients. She married a Romanian, Timu Dradeteanu, who later became a quality control director.

Paula Mestitz, born in 1868, married a wealthy man called Jozsef Matyas, a corn trader, much older than Auntie Paula. He was related to the well-known professor Matyas Matyas. Matyas Matyas had a sanatorium in Kolozsvar, but this was later expropriated, and then he moved to Marosvasarhely, and worked as a surgeon.

He looked like a misfit barber, and didn't really look like someone of his occupation, however he was a phenomenal surgeon. I didn't get to know Jozsef Matyas; he was probably originally from Brasso. They had four children: Edith, Erno, Sandor and Olga.

Olga married an American millionaire of Polish origin. She didn't want to marry him, but after two years, when the guy showed up again, they really hit it off. Olga was beautiful. They lived alternately in Berlin and America. He was an estate speculator and had estates in New York, Miami and Berlin. He owned 14 blocks in Berlin at the time Hitler expropriated them. They went over to America, and after World War II they returned to Berlin and settled there.

Then they divorced. I only met them once. Some ten months after they got married they were here and I was just visiting a girlfriend in Brasso. Auntie Paula invited me for dinner - she was already living by herself - but in the meantime they had been invited somewhere else. When there they found out who I was - somebody there knew my father - they insisted on inviting me, too. We went there, and it was a royal feast. I even got sick from eating too much.

I don't know much about Ignac Mestitz. He was born in 1870. He lived in the same yard as we did on Dozsa Gyorgy Street. There were a number of various houses, warehouses, stables and coach-houses, and the office. Ignac wasn't quite right in the head, but he was the quiet type, so we never noticed anything. One day in 1921 we found out he had died, killed himself. I was eight or nine then.

I don't know anything about Anna Mestitz, because she died in the same year she was born, 1871.

Albert Laszlo was my maternal grandfather. Originally he was called Lowinger, but he probably wanted to assimilate and Magyarized his name. Grandfather Laszlo was born in 1857 in Martonos, Hungary, and my grandmother, Hermina Spitz in Mako, also in Hungary, in 1862.

Regarding my grandmother's siblings, I know that one of her younger sisters married a lawyer from Szeged. One of her brothers, Uncle Bernat, was a doctor and lived on Andrassy Street, and she had another brother who lived in Trieste, Italy. This one was a bank manager, and his wife was the daughter of another bank manager.

I didn't know them personally. They had a son, Pali, who worked at the Dreyfus Company. He used to go to France, England, and one day he was sent to India as manager. Later he lived in London with his Hindu wife.

Grandfather Laszlo was educated and very well brought up. He was the manager of the lumber mill in Palotailva, he didn't own a factory. He had also been a timber merchant. I never asked him about what my grandmother's qualifications had been, but she was very skilful. I don't know how they met and how they got married.

They had to be living alternately in Szeged and Mako because Janos, my mom's older brother and my mother, Ilona, were born in Szeged, while Margit, her older sister and Erzsebet, her younger sister were in Mako. A few years separated each of them.

Janos Laszlo was an accountant and did bookkeeping for Uncle Simi, Samuel Deutsch, the husband of Aunt Margit. Janos was a prisoner of war for a very long time [in World War I], but one could learn other languages there. He spoke Russian, German, French and Italian.

The scene when he arrived at our house is still very vivid in my memory. He knew to whom my mom was married and where they lived, but had no idea where his parents lived. One morning he arrived, I was just coming out of the bathroom, and there they were sitting at the table in the children's room, Janos and another soldier, and they were talking to my mom. They had just arrived back from captivity.

Janos' family lived on Kossuth Lajos Street for a while, then they moved to Arad, and later to Temesvar. He got married in 1921. His wife, Csilla Weisz was a housewife. They have a daughter, Eva Laszlo, born in Marosvasarhely in 1922, who became a fashion designer.

In 1950 she married Istvan Donath, a textile engineer, who lives in Germany and Australia. She has a granddaughter, Ingrid, who was a talented violinist, and they entered her in the Bucharest Academy of Music.

In the meantime, in 1972, she married an engineer, Ervin Arden, and they emigrated to Israel, where she finished her studies. Then they divorced, and Ervin remained in Israel, while she moved to America. She always wanted to live in America. She first played in the philharmonic orchestra from Tel-Aviv, then in the one from New York. She was a very talented violinist. She divorced her first husband in 1979, and in 1996 got married again, to Siegfried Becker, a German physical instructor. Today she is a dentist in San Francisco.

Margit Laszlo lived in Marosvasarhely and Szaszregen. Her husband Samuel Deutsch was a textile engineer. He studied economics in Budapest and got married in 1909. He owned a textile store in front of the Bernadi statue, in a corner house. He also had a store in Szaszregen. [Szaszregen is about 30 km from Marosvasarhely.]

The store in Szaszregen was managed by someone, but they had to move to Szaszregen, because the fellow wasn't reliable, and pulled a dirty trick on them. They had two sons: Laszlo and Gyula. Margit and her husband died in Auschwitz in 1944.

Erzsebet Laszlo had a fairly adventurous life. She lived in Marosvasarhely, Kolozsvar, Arad, Temesvar and Bat-Yam in Israel. Her husband, Henrik Leb was a landowner and insurance agent. He came to Marosvasarhely and met Erzsebet here.

They got married in 1924. Their daughter, Vera, was born in 1926 in Marosvasarhely. They weren't very religious. They first lived in Ratosnya. Between the wars he worked in the timber business. They had two or three locomotive engines that ran to and from the forest and carried timber.

Anyhow, the business went very well. I know this because I visited them in Ratosnya once during my summer holiday. They lived there for several years, then they moved to Kolozsvar, then to Arad, and to Temesvar.

Erzsebet wanted to come to Marosvasarhely during the Hungarian era, but Vera didn't want it by any means because she was head over heels in love with her future husband. And they were lucky not to come here because they weren't deported. In 1947, when Vera was a 2nd year student, she married an ophthalmologist called Adalbert Schul. They nicknamed her father Henrik, Bubi, but Vera's husband had the same nickname: so one of them was called little Bubi, the other big Bubi.

The youngsters wanted to emigrate to Israel. Their parents went with them to Israel, because, they said, if their only child emigrated, they would, too. The husband's older sister was already living there, and they moved in with her until they got a job.

They lived in Bat-Yam, a district of Tel Aviv near the sea, a beautiful place. Henrik then built a house, also somewhere in Tel Aviv, where they lived afterwards. Vera has a daughter, Aviva Schul, who married a very decent Romanian, and they have three children. One of them wanted to stay in the army, the other one is currently a soldier, doing his military service, and the third one is 15 or 16 years old.

My maternal grandparents weren't wealthy, but they had everything. They had a four-bedroom-apartment and a servant. If Erzsebet had to go to a ball, she always wore a new dress. Grandfather Laszlo was the manager of the timber mill. Dad was then 32 and visited them.

Mom was sitting on the stairs with her younger sister and they were licking a casserole dish in which they mixed the cream for a cake. It was the first time he saw her. He didn't pay much attention to her, then one day they were both invited somewhere and my dad noticed her beautiful legs.

Then he decided to propose to her, but they didn't want to let her go, because they first wanted to marry off her older sister Margit, who was one and a half years older. They wanted him to marry Margit, but my dad refused. Mom graduated from high- school and she got married as soon as she turned 18. They were married in a normal wedding by a rabbi. They must have had a beautiful wedding

Mihaly Mestitz, my older brother, whom we all called Misi, was born in 1909 in Marosvasarhely, and he was five years older than me. He was a very naughty child until he turned 14 or 15. When he was a little boy, he was sickly and often brought to Abbazia. This was before we were born. He didn't recover, and then mom's uncle - the one who lived on Andrassy Street in Budapest and was a doctor - told them to bathe him in walnut leaves twice a day as this would strengthen him. He was right.

Klara Mestitz, my older sister, was born in 1911 and died at the age of ten and a half. I must have been eight then - I was born in 1913 - and strangely, I don't remember her at all. She fell ill with scarlet fever, and then with blood poisoning, which killed her.

Three of us were already born when World War I broke out. My father went to Galicia as a captain. He was sent there, to the outskirts of Lemberg [today Ukraine], because the enemy had destroyed fourteen sawmills, and they knew he owned one here, and he had the proper competence.

After I recovered from pneumonia, the doctor recommended a change of air. I don't know whose idea it was to go there - looking at it today, it seems absurd. Probably my dad was longing for us. He sent a sergeant for us, and he took my grandfather Laszlo, my mom, me, my older sister and Misi to my dad's place in Galicia for a change of air. I think it was total nonsense to make such a venture during the war. We went there by train, and we had to change trains many times.

I remember that they tied us together by our hands in order to keep us together. Despite all this Misi still managed to free himself and he wandered so far away that when they managed to find him, it was just one minute before the train's departure. We planned to stay only for a few months, but we remained there until 1916. Dad was stationed 80 kilometers from Lemberg, and he had a lot of people under his command. There were many officers, and they were building, as well as repairing the sawmills. Although I don't remember, I'm quite sure there were other Jewish soldiers there, as well.

We called my younger brother Istvan Mestitz, who was born in 1917 or 1918, Pityu. I remember that on a Sunday afternoon my mom had a party, and the guests were sitting around the table and were having a meal. They brought their children along, and we were playing with them in the snow in the courtyard, having lots of fun. We put the kids on the sled one after the other, and when we put Pityu on it, he fell over with his head in the snow.

He had his cap on and he said how delicious the snow tasted. No matter how we put him on the sled, he instantly lay back in the snow, and said how much he liked it when his head was dragged in the snow. When we went inside, he went to mom saying his head hurt. She pushed the chair aside and he put his head in her lap. He fell ill with meningitis and died of it within three days.

The doctor said mom would never recover from that if she didn't give birth to another child. By the grace of God, one year after Pityu died, in 1921, Andras Mestitz was born. He was the opposite of Misi, meaning that he was born a good boy. Andras was always obedient, and never found anything too hard to do. He was a calm, beautiful child. By the way, his son and grandson are just like him.

We were living on Dozsa Gyorgy Street in a very large yard. The sawmill and the mill were also in this yard. On the other side of the street there was only one house. The estate between Kemeny Zsigmond Street and Poklos creek was all our property; later some parts of it were sold off.

Uncle Ignac was living in the same yard with us. He wasn't quite right in the head and committed suicide while he was still quite young. We had a neighbor living on the same floor as us, in a smaller apartment next door, and everybody called her Keresztmama [Godmother]. I think she was Jewish.

Below us there lived another Jewish family, the grandparents of Zsuzsa Diamanstein. Zsuzsa was born in that house. She still lives in Marosvasarhely, she is a friend of mine. A Christian family lived downstairs.

We lived in a very pleasant apartment, with four rooms plus a small room, which became Misi's room when he got older. This small lumber-room was at the end of the corridor. They cleared it out and furnished it for him. I think it had a bed, a washbowl and a desk. But it had a window that gave onto the outside corridor, and His Lordship sneaked out and went away every night.

My parents didn't know anything about this. One day they came home early and noticed he wasn't home. I knew all about his escapades. I remember that my father went back to the streets and found him somewhere around Albino Square. He was hugging a tree because he was so drunk he couldn't go further. He was given a good dressing down and his golden era came to an end.

One of the four rooms was the 'men's room'. I don't know why they called it that. It was the most elegant room; guests were entertained there, and it had a bookcase and things like that. Later they would have called it a drawing-room or living-room. We had a dining-room, a very big corner room which was a bedroom; my piano was there.

We also had a children's room and a bathroom. As I said, my brother Misi was a very naughty child, and they always locked him in the bathroom. He couldn't get out, so he stood out in the window and began screaming so loud that my mother was ashamed of him and let him back in. He was sickly, so they allowed him to do whatever he wanted, and that's why he became so mischievous.

When he was around 15 or 16 he started to entrust his secrets to me, and when he saw I didn't divulge anything, I became the keeper of his secrets. Later, throughout our lives, we always wrote separate letters, and if he enclosed a letter to me with one he wrote to our parents, they never read it. My parents were very honest people in every way.

We had a female cook, a housemaid and someone who came to do our laundry and to iron, but she only came when we needed her. I remember that the two servants did some needlework every afternoon because they finished their work in the morning and had nothing to do in the afternoon. They weren't Jewish. We also had a man in the mill, and we could send the servants there if we needed something. Dad always hired Saxon girls for housemaids, because he wanted us to practice German.

Initially we also had a governess. I suspect she was a bad or wicked German governess - although I don't remember anything like this - because later, when I grew up and talked about such things, I always said that I only feared three things: Germans, Kossuth Lajos Street [in Marosvasarhely] and cancer. I'm only saying that some German person must have been mean to me because we didn't know at that time, what they would do to us. It was a premonition. I had fears that I could never explain, such as my fear of the Germans. Besides, I'm living on Kossuth Lajos Street now.

Where we lived, there was a garden where the grass couldn't grow because the children always stamped it down. The kids who were living on that street all came there to play because there was so much space there. My father installed all kinds of gym equipment; it had everything from swings to climbing poles.

However, I always played the piano, that was my favorite 'toy', and I played everything I heard. When I was seven, dad enrolled me in the music academy, which was in the building of the Palace of Culture. I can still see him how he put his hand on my neck while we walked.

He liked to walk with me this way. He brought me to the teacher, a Saxon lady called Leona. She only taught me for two years, then someone else came, because she got sick; she had lung cancer. In any case, I studied 11 years at the Music Academy.

Whenever one of the children got sick, the others were sent away from home. On these occasions we stayed either at Aunt Paula's or Margit's, or at grandmother's. Grandmother Laszlo was a very beautiful and good old lady, she always tried to make peace between us, and we kids loved her very much. We had a little cousin, Erzsebet's daughter - she called her Mamaka - and so we called her that, too.

She was neither atheist, nor religious. For example, on holidays, when the men were praying at the table, she always found something to do in the kitchen. Even though both my aunts, and us too, brought the servants with us for help, and my grandmother also had a servant at home, she still had something to do because there were so many of us and we had to be served, as she used to say. I don't remember whether my grandparents had any friends, they spent their time with their children and grandchildren.

We celebrated the seder at my grandmother Laszlo's, and we spent every holiday there until my grandfather died. My grandmother's children were also there, in a word, the Laszlo family. These occasions were merry and festive, and it was all so natural. My youngest brother, Andras, was the one who asked the questions [the mah nishtanah] at the seder supper, but I don't remember who conducted the ritual. The tables were laid beautifully, we always had challah, but I don't remember what other meals we had.

We spent most of our summer holidays at Szovata, together with our friends, a young couple, and we stayed there six weeks or two months. Our father came with us only to stay a week or two, and then he only came for the weekends. We rented a villa with four rooms: one for each couple and the other two for three children each. Both couples brought along a housemaid. They slept on the glassed-in porch and they cooked, thus it was quite comfortable.

On several occasions we stayed in the village, and facing the river, on the other side, there was the villa of Queen Mary. On mornings we used to go to Medve Lake to bathe, and on afternoons to the creek, since all our friends used to go there. We were together in the mornings and afternoons, as well.

Once a year, in fall, we had to go to Borszek. Borszek was my dad's obsession, he adored the place. [Borszek is one of the most renowned regions of mineral water springs in Romania.] Once, when my brother Andras was six weeks old, dad took us to Borszek. It was quite cold there.

Occasionally we had to put a stove inside the room. We didn't like Borszek because there was no place to bathe [there is no lake or river there], but our parents' friends had a villa there and we spent the time playing. Later, of course, everybody could choose where to spend his or her holidays. I continued to go to Szovata.

Our girlfriends' family, the Matyas family, had a one-storied villa facing Medve Lake. It was a large Hungarian villa, and I used to stay there. I insisted on paying for my stay. It was really nice. Later it was demolished and a hotel was built there.

My family was never involved in politics, neither when Transylvania was still a monarchy [that is, when it belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy], nor later [after 1920, following the Trianon Peace Treaty] 2, nor when it became part of Romania. I never heard about dad being a member of any political parties.

Apart from that he was involved in everything, there was no bank where he wasn't on the board of directors, there was no school of which he wasn't a vice-president or president of the board; he always took part in everything and helped wherever he could. He was an associate at the sawmill, the furniture factory, the floorboard factory; the Mestitz family were involved in everything.

I know that, for instance, that my mom had to pick up his weekly pay from Uncle Albert in the furniture shop. My dad and uncle both picked up a certain sum of money, probably as wages. There was always a good relationship between the siblings, but a great deal depended on my father because he was a good-tempered, extremely kind man.

He was a very good- looking man, gentle and polite, and most people liked him. He graduated from high-school, but he was never really encouraged to study further because he had to be involved in the family business. I don't think he attended cheder, but he always observed the holidays according to the traditions. On these occasions he and my mom went to the Neolog 3 synagogue. On holidays going by horse and carriage wasn't allowed, so they went on foot. Our family wasn't Orthodox, so dad worked on Saturdays, and we didn't keep a kosher household.

In the early 1920s the furniture factory in Dozsa Gyorgy Street was set on fire three times; I remember we were still children. The workers began to organize themselves: probably not officially, but by their own accord, and I don't exclude the possibility that this was triggered by some sort of provocation. In those times this was the first industrial company in Marosvasarhely, and probably the fact that it was owned by a Jew was also a factor.

We were at Grandmother Laszlo's house when we saw the two-horse carriage racing along by the corner and we were very anxious about what could have happened. We had a black and a yellow varnished horse carriage, two horses, a car and a truck. And suddenly we saw dad and mom hurrying away with the car, and then we heard the sirens screaming. That was the first time the factory burned down. The problem after it was set on fire for the second time, was that there wasn't enough time to insure the factory again. When it was set on fire for the third time, everything burned down and the insurance company paid nothing. We never found out whether it was a worker or somebody else who set it on fire.

Mom completely lost her head, because my brother Andras was still a babe-in- arms. She rushed home, took off her elegant coat and her hat, grabbed her jewel-box, took Andras in her arms and ran out of the house to take him to Auntie Margit, her older sister, or to my grandmother - I don't know exactly where. On the way almost all of her jewelry fell out, but a young lady from the office followed her and picked everything up. Mom went by car to save the children because it wasn't only the factory that had caught fire, but also other buildings from the yard. The attendants protected the house as best as they could, and the fire fighters were also there. The water level in Poklos creek was very low, and there was no water. All the young people came there to help out. Afterwards we sold the big house and everything we had there.

On Grivita Street, a restaurateur was having a house built, and he came to dad saying that he'd heard he was looking for a place to live, and if my dad was willing to move into that house, the walls would be erected just as he wanted. Dad accepted. The house was finished the following year, and we moved in. We didn't stay too long because when we took it over, although it seemed like the walls were dry enough, it turned out they weren't. We kids, got all kinds of diseases. Andras got chicken pox, and then measles, which I caught from him. My parents had already lost two children, so their concern about us was justified. We moved then to Koteles Street.

We used to read every book that fell into our hands, and we read a great deal. So did my mom and dad. First of all we had all of the German and Hungarian classics, in Gothic print, and in special binding. We read mostly in Hungarian, the works of the great Hungarian writers. We always talked about what we were reading at the time. My dad was someone with whom you could discuss everything. He was a very bright, intelligent man. They used to buy periodicals, and they probably subscribed to a daily paper, but I don't remember which one. We didn't really read purely religious books. We had prayer books because we needed them since we strictly observed the holidays.

We weren't allowed to read romantic novels, like the ones Mrs. Beniczky wrote. We called her 'Lenke B dot Beniczky' because there was a B followed by a dot in her name. The books they didn't want us to read were always put in the back row on the bookcase. In the evenings I preferred reading to going out. We only had one central light in the children's room, so I used to pick out the books we weren't supposed to read, and when my parents arrived - there was a large gateway - I could hear them, and by the time they came in I had switched off the light. I waited until it was quiet again and they fell asleep, got out of my bed, opened the door of the stove that was in my room, laid prone in front of it and read there.

Grandfather Laszlo died in 1926, and my grandma moved in with her daughter, Margit. They were living opposite the Catholic grammar school, now called Unirea Lyceum. I was approximately 15 or 16, so it must have been around 1928, when we got a radio set. An engineer came from Kolozsvar to install it. We were all stuck to the radio all the time. Grandmother Laszlo, a very intelligent woman, listened to the radio day and night. She always knew everything.

My parents had many Jewish friends, and used to organize parties for 60-70 people at one or another of their friends' apartments. The apartments were big those days. I don't remember what they were doing, nor where we were during these parties. We were surely there for supper. Mom frequented the Jewish club, where I think men were allowed, too. Each week, on a specific day, she went there to play rummy. They used to play cards and chat. Dad didn't go there because he got used to going to the Hungarian casino years before. He came from work at the end of the day and went directly to the casino. They played cards, read and chatted. For the summer, the casino was moved to the gym-garden, just a little further away from the present old maternity ward. It was a very pleasant place with a terrace, people used to go there in the afternoons or the evenings. There was a building rented by a married dancing instructor couple who came from Kolozsvar. We took dancing lessons there. I brought along the uncle of Zsuzsa Diamanstein, who lived in the same house as us, and I believe my brother also took dancing lessons there. Later they organized banquets there.

The ball season started in fall, and every Saturday they organized a ball in the main hall of the Palace of Culture. It began with a performance on the stage, then the chairs were pushed aside so that there was room to dance. I performed many times and in many places. We had a Jewish ball, a civic ball, a Kata Bethlen ball. [Kata Bethlen was an 18th century countess and writer in Transylvania.] We organized Jozsef Kiss 4 evenings, where everyone had to show up wearing the Hungarian gala-dress. Jozsef Kiss was a poet, but I haven't heard of him ever since. When I first attended the Jozsef Kiss evening I was a fairly big girl, and they let me dance a few times, then sent me home with a servant. The parents stayed there for as long as they liked. There was the Maros ball in the Maros restaurant, and it was imperative for my parents to attend it. Everyone was invited.

When I was a big girl and the college years began, there were students who made money playing music, and formed bands. For instance, there was the Young Boy Band from Kolozsvar, made up only of upper-class students. On the main square, where the cinema called Pitik would later be, during the communist era, was a Jewish cinema in the interwar period. Everyone knew it as the Jewish cinema, probably because it was owned by a Jew. They also organized evening parties and performances there: singing, poetry readings and other performances. There were all kinds of movies shown in the Jewish cinema, and we went there quite often. There were times when there was nothing going on on Sunday afternoons and we were so bored, that we went to see both shows: we watched the movie running in the Jewish cinema, then we went over to Transilvania cinema on Bolyai Street to see another one. In the interwar period there were four or five cinemas in Marosvasarhely.

Young people like us never went to cafés, but my parents - when they weren't invited anywhere and had no guests over - went to a café and to have some coffee, ice-cream or cakes. What really mattered was that they got some fresh air and listened to some music. There were two cafés, one of them was called New York. Both had an outdoor terrace, and both had music, so when it stopped at one of them, it started at the other. People either sat on the benches, or they walked around, dated each other and flirted.

We had a small cabin by the dam on the Maros. Dad always checked the weather to see if we could go there - he was crazy about the place and loved going there. We didn't cook there, we just brought ready-cooked food with us. There was an underground storage room, a hole they cut inside the cabin floor. In this hole with a trap-door we put the containers of food. The roof of the cabin was longer than the cabin by the length of a room, and the outer part was supported by pillars.

We used to have lunch under this covered portion, so we had full comfort. We had two boats, one belonged to my parents; we called it Doc-Doc, like dad used to call mom when she was pregnant. My younger brother had a skiff, a one-man coxed, long and narrow boat. We were living a life of ease then. Next door my uncle Erno had a house, a caravan he converted: not the outside, he only furnished it.

There were always so many people coming and going. When we grew older, our parents allowed us to go there on our own, with our friends. As soon as we had some time off, we used to go to the Maros dam. There were only Jews in our group. We were there all the time and had lots of fun. One could go rowing up the Maros, and there were some islands one could go to.

I only attended the Jewish school in the 1st and 2nd grade of elementary school. Only Jewish children attended it, and we learned Hebrew and had religion classes there. In the third and 4th grade I attended the Protestant school. I don't remember why I didn't continue my studies in the Jewish school.

The Protestant school was in the long building on Szentgyorgy Street where not long ago the Maros group had its headquarters. The teacher was called Laszlo Kovacs, and he was a good, kind man, and we loved him very much. I loved that school very much. Before they went to the Protestant church they probably asked us whether we wanted to go or not, but all of us went there anyway. For religious lessons we went over to the Jewish school.

Then I was entered in the Unirea grammar school for girls, a Romanian school. I attended it for four years. This school was an exceptional one; it had an excellent principal who did an outstanding job. We had an acquaintance who attended the French Institute, called L'arché, and my parents insisted on enrolling me there.

Initially I cried a lot because I didn't want to go there, since my girlfriends were studying at Unirea school, but eventually I came to love the institute as well. We had a teacher called Mademoiselle Breton. I don't recall the other teacher's name. We learned everything in French, except for the German language. I think there were three Romanian students, children of merchants, the others were mostly Hungarian and Jewish. Towards the end of the 2nd year, the French consul from Bucharest paid us a visit and awarded two medals, one to me.

In the meantime, from the age of eight, I also took piano lessons at the Music Academy. I wanted to dedicate my life to playing the piano, because I was talented, but my fingers were too short. I practiced twice as much as the others. It should have taken 14 years to complete the Music Academy , but I did it in 12 years. Between the seventh and eighth year my teacher told me, 'Juci, you'll have to spend a year stretching your fingers.'Then, around 1935-1938, I gave piano lessons, and I had two or three students. Dad wouldn't let me have more, he only wanted me to learn how hard it is to earn money.

Misi always wanted to become a doctor. He attended Bolyai high-school and had two friends with whom he shared the same desk from elementary school to high-school graduation. They all wanted to become doctors. However, my dad needed someone to take over from him someday. Besides, they all failed the Romanian test at graduation.

There were 28 of them in the class, and 27 failed. My brother was 19 when my dad sent him for a year to Budapest to graduate, because my uncle, Jozsef Fekete, who was an under-secretary, was on the graduation committee that year.

Then he spent a year in Munich and another year in Arad in a furniture store or factory, I don't recall. When he was 21, he came back here to work in the store with my uncle Erno; in the end he said he wasn't willing to do this his entire life: waiting for customers, packing the commodities. In those days they were selling not just one piece of furniture at a time, but furniture for two or three rooms.

Misi wanted to become a doctor at any cost and he was 23 when my father eventually gave in, after he saw that his son would never give up. He graduated in Hungary, and that wasn't enough to enter a Romanian university. He met a guy here who had been to Italy, and he told him a few things. Misi then went to Italy. He completed the six years schooling in five. However, he managed to play for time for about eight years pretending that he had work to do in the hospital because he fell in love with my sister-in-law, who had just graduated from high-school.

Her name is Clara Maletti, and she's a Catholic. Her father, a wealthy man, was a pharmacist in a small town near Bologna. Misi rented a car every week and went there. He told dad that he had fallen in love with a girl and wanted to marry her. Dad said that he had no problem with her not being Jewish as long as she came from a decent family and was decent, but he told him to come home and validate his degree, and then he could go back. They got married in 1938 in Bologna.

Misi and Clara moved back from Italy to Marosvasarhely in 1939. Previously, we moved into a house facing the corner of Bolyai Street called Csiki House, in the upstairs apartment. It was a larger apartment, so they could move in with us. Then my mom sent out somebody to bring a beast and something to drink for the whole bunch [the family]. There was roast pork in the main square, and everybody just called it beast. We didn't need a better meal.

The main square of Marosvasarhely was a market-square. In the 1930s the marketplace was there. Thursday was market day, but the market was open on other days, too. You could find many things there, it was colorful and nobody ever thought the market should be anywhere else. Everybody had a favorite vendor and usually bought what they needed from her. One could find anything: boots, handcrafts, food or heart-shaped gingerbread. By a given hour everything was cleaned up because Marosvasarhely was a tidy city. Where you currently find the Fashion House there was a passage-way. The market was later relocated behind the city- hall. The main square wasn't developed like today, there was only plain asphalt and benches. In the evening, people could go and promenade on the main square, and everybody knew where the others were at any given time. I also knew where there was somebody to flirt with; where I could find the boys I really liked. The whole family went out for a walk.

Misi began his studies and went to Kolozsvar for exams. He only had three exams left when the Hungarian era came, and the university was relocated, and we had no idea where he was. After eight months we found out that the whole university had been moved to Szeben. Szeben belonged to Romania. He went there and completed his exams. After that he got hired at the sanatorium in Marosvasarhely as a surgeon. Czako was the owner. There was no clinic in Marosvasarhely at that time.

My younger brother Andras got good grades, although we had never seen him study. It seems that he paid attention and understood everything right there at school. He finished high-school and attended business school. His form-master at the Romanian business school was Romulus Platon, a Romanian gentleman. All the students knew that he was courting me. He was Romeo and I was Juliet - which is what they used to call us. They were always watching what grades he awarded to Andras, that's why he was afraid to give Andras the grades he deserved. When he graduated from high-school at 18, my dad died. He had already matriculated at medical school, and to be certain of success he took the exams in Romanian. The ones who took the exam in Hungarian, all succeeded, and those who took it in Romanian failed. So he had to manage the store, because there was nobody else to do that, since my older brother was away. We didn't have the furniture factory anymore, but there was a factory in Szalonta and another one, I don't know where, which worked for us and supplied us with furniture.

There was a decree in the Romanian era that only allowed people to open a business, if they passed a certain exam in Bucharest, regardless of where they had studied. So I had to go to Bucharest for that exam. In the spring of 1940 I opened a beauty salon in the main square, then, in fall, the Hungarians came in. The salon was on the ground floor of a three-storey house. It was a nice and very spacious location, the furniture was cream- colored, the vases, the ash-trays, and the drapes were dark green. We had custom furniture, but I don't know who made it. It was beautiful and very stylish. We had three windows, but they were not onto the street, but onto a courtyard. Someone told me she wanted to be my first customer. I saw her one day on the main square, went to her and told her that if she was still interested, the salon would open on such and such a day. On the next day, when after lunch I went to open the salon, there was a young provincial couple, unknown to me, already waiting in the walkway. They didn't know they were my first customers, I told them later. My name was displayed on the gate, they saw the notice 'Juci Mestitz Cosmetician' and waited for me. I worked from 9am to 1pm and from 4pm to 7pm, but I never managed to finish on time, I always had to stay late. I had many customers. The Jews liked to come here, of course, but I also had Romanian, Hungarian and Saxon patients, too, I made no distinction.

• During the war

Looking onto the street there was an insurance company, and we were on very good terms with Gyurka, the insurer's son. He didn't work there, but the insurance company belonged to his father. When the Hungarian soldiers were marching in, the old man asked us to come over, because they had a better view. A few of us went over. My older brother was also there. Suddenly the bell rang in the anteroom. Three guys from Hungary and a local woman stood there in Hungarian gala-dress. They wanted to have a word with the owner. Well, uncle Farkas, the insurer, went there. He was Jewish. They asked him, 'Are there any Jews in here?' He said, 'Yes, there are, why?' The woman said, 'They are not allowed to go to the window, nor to watch'. Uncle Farkas lashed out saying that this was his office and he would allow anyone to look out of the window he wanted to. He told him off well. The woman, whom we knew very well, was really embarrassed. They probably told her to go with this guy and there was nothing she could do. She was a Christian, but her late husband was Jewish, and her daughter lives in Israel now.

This was the first manifestation of anti-Semitism, and it was a terrible slap in the face. We continued to watch though, and we saw Horthy 5 and his wife, but we had lost interest in the whole thing. In the meantime dad got an official invitation from the city-hall to the grandstand, and he had to wear a dark suit, a Bocskay tie [This tie expressed Hungarian national consciousness at the time.] and his war decorations. They invited him as a guest, as one of the prominent figures of Marosvasarhely. Dad, but also we, felt this was normal, and he honored the invitation, of course. While this was happening, he was in the grandstand and had no idea that the Jews weren't allowed to watch.

Sandor [the son of Albert Mestitz] returned home from Temesvar during the Hungarian era in Marosvasarhely. In World War I he was the first lieutenant of the Szekler division, whose flag we concealed for 22 years in a dresser- drawer. But when the Hungarians came in 1940, everybody hung out the Hungarian flag. We dug out that flag - I think it even had the ensign of the army on it - and hung it out on the furniture store, but some hooligans said 'Look at the Jew, what a ragged flag he's hung out' - they snatched it off and the flag disappeared. Nobody asked what flag it was. Such things were happening, and it was painful to watch.

We were on good terms with all of our Romanian, Hungarian and German neighbors. Before the Hungarians came, I had a Romanian girlfriend, I felt sorry for her and helped her. She worked at the revenue office and she complained all the time how hard it was for her to go to work twice in the same afternoon from the railway-station, where she lived. I told her to come and have lunch with us. I gave her clothes, stockings, hand-bags and shoes; in a word I was pretty good to her.

When we knew the Hungarians were coming - I don't remember how we knew it, but it was in the air - and when I passed by the floral clock, Tulica was coming towards me. I said to her, 'Tulica, what's up with you, I haven't seen you in days?' She said, 'I'm packing up, I'm leaving here.' I asked, 'Why are you going away? You have your parents, your brothers and sisters and a job here!' She said, 'Because I don't want to be a minority.' I replied, 'Tulica, we have been a minority until now, too, and everyone who stays will still be one. Nobody was hurt for being a minority, and it will stay like that. Why do you want to leave?' Then she said, 'E altceva, cu voi jidani! [It's different for you, kikes!]' - she said it to my face, after all I'd done for her. She didn't say 'evreii' [Jews], but 'voi jidani' [you kikes], contemptuously. I said, 'Ai dreptate [you are right]' - and I turned around, and left her. I never called her again. She moved to Medgyes and I later heard that she got married, and when she was seven months pregnant, she and her child both died.

My father really liked the Hungarian casino and he always went there. Once, in the Hungarian era, when he was walking in, he bumped into an acquaintance of his, a regular, who told him there were some people from Hungary there; they were really mad that Jews were allowed to go there, and they asked how it could be permitted, and so on. My dad turned around and didn't go in that time. It seems the rumor spread because two or three days later a committee came to ask dad to go in, and asked him why he wouldn't go there, and told him not to listen to what others say. But dad didn't go. Before this incident he once went home and found my mother with eyes red from crying. He insisted so much that my mom told him that two commissioners had visited us and asked her to show them the stocks - because Jews always 'gather' things, don't they? - and she had to show them everything. My mom wasn't used to the tone they were taking and to the way they behaved. My dad got really mad. There were only these kinds of 'minor incidents' back then in 1940.

In the same year, three weeks after the Hungarians came, dad felt ill, so mom called over the doctor from next door. He said that an ECG examination was necessary. In those days there was only one ECG in the whole city, and it belonged to a private, non-Jewish doctor called Hanko. When we came back from the cinema with my sister-in-law, mom told us that dad had got sick, but by then dad was sitting down and reading. Around 10 or 11pm, when my older brother got back from the hospital, dad had a cramp, a heart attack and then died.

Dad was the president of the mill association, and when he died, the grist- millers got together and decided not to send Andras to Szeged to take the exams, but they examined him here in Marosvasarhely, and gave him the permit to operate the mill. A carriage went from house to house to gather the sacks of wheat. Everybody knew the Mestitz family would send someone, and they gave him the sacks. Each sack had a tag with the name of the owner on it. The thought of being cheated never even crossed our minds. The sacks went to the mill, the wheat was ground, and when everything was ready, they delivered the flour. I remember Andras sometimes pitched in and helped to deliver the sacks.

Before the 1940s, if you walked into any store everybody spoke Hungarian. In Marosvasarhely there was never any friction between the Germans, Romanians, Jews and Hungarians. After 1940 there were some minor incidents that should have warned us about what the future had in store for us. For example, we went into Hotel Transilvania because there was a public phone booth and my girlfriend wanted to make some calls to invite some friends to my house for the evening. A guy from Hungary came, and without any hesitation he opened the door of the booth saying, 'Enough Jewish talk, get out of here!' You could imagine what these things meant to us. After we left the phone booth, we told one of our friends, who was thought to be the most cowardly man on earth, what had happened. He just went over to the man and taught him some manners. His name was Geza Speter.

When they were taken to Auschwitz, this Geza managed to break open the wire on the windows and jump out at dawn, when he saw that nobody was watching. He jumped out and as the train pulled away, he saw that the other side of the field was filled with workers. There was an off-duty gendarme among them. The others begged him to 'leave the poor man alone', but he said that even if he was off-duty, he was still a gendarme, so he arrested him, took him in, beat the soles of his feet and called the station; the train was stopped, and he was put back on it. In the death-camp, when selected to go to the incinerator, he managed again to break open the wire and escape. He married a Christian lady, Eva Bucheld in Marosvasarhely, but later they divorced. Then he married a lady from Budapest. He got divorced again, and finally he met a journalist from Budapest who I think was also an illustrator. She was a fine woman. They emigrated together to Israel.

In 1942 Andras was summoned to Maramarossziget for forced labor. There was a family there to whom we could send packages or letters for Andras. The guys from the forced labor used to pick up from them whatever we sent. Andras, when he wanted to send us a letter, gave it to the family and they mailed it to us, so we could keep in touch. He was taken to concentration camp in Mauthausen, then to another one in Gunskirchen.

In 1943 I was in Budapest - I used to go there several times a year - and it was then when I heard for the first time that Jews were being taken off the trains. I didn't think I could also be in that position, but I decided to come home anyway. Before we reached the border, the gendarmes came in requesting our documents. There were all kinds of documents, shopping certificates, and many other kinds of certificates. One gendarme told me everything was alright, but he kept my passport. I asked him, 'Why did you take away my passport?' He replied, 'Because you have to get off now and then your passport will be returned to you.' I said, 'Why should I get off when everything is alright?' I was very angry by then. He said, 'How should I know that you are who the documents say you are?' I said, 'If you don't believe it, in the other compartment I saw a city councilor from Marosvasarhely who used to be on good terms with my dad, I will call someone to prove it.' So I went to him and I said, 'Uncle Marci, please come with me, because they're messing around with me, and they want me to get off the train.' He stalled and backed out; he didn't want to come with me. Then I said, 'Thank you very much', and I left. I saw what it was all about: he wasn't Jewish and didn't want to get involved. I went back and there was nothing I could do, so I got off. It was a very long train and there were eight Jews on it who were forced to get off. I remember that a guy sat at the head of a table and slowly examined the passports. I said to him, 'For the love of God, please hurry, the train is about to depart!' He said, 'It's already moved off' - and indeed it was pulling away. I was mad because the trip had been very exhausting. I asked him, 'When is the next train?' 'At the same time tomorrow', the guy said. Then I left and decided not to continue my trip by train, but rather to go to Nagyvarad [it was near the border], because I had a cousin living there, Bozsi, the daughter of Uncle Ferenc. I thought I would go to a hotel and then visit her, and I decided to go home only after two or three days. I thought all this would stop by then.

In Nagyvarad I went to the hotel and took a room. When I got freshened up, I went to a coffee shop, where I knew my friend, a bank clerk, would be. I thought he'd be there for sure, and I wanted to ask him some advice, and I wanted to discuss with someone what had happened. I was very upset. The coffee shop was opposite the hotel. I walked in, and while I was waiting for my order to be taken, I glanced out at the terrace. There he was, sitting right in front of me. His name was Pali Kovacs, and he was a Jewish guy. I went to his table. He was very surprised, 'What brings you here, Juci?' 'Forced landing' I said. 'What do you mean?' he said, 'With an airplane?' 'No, not with a plane, from a train...'

In the meantime another of my acquaintances came there - he was a Christian, whom I had met at a party, and he kept writing letters to me, but I didn't reply because it wasn't my style. I thought he was familiar with these issues and told him what had happened. Then he said, 'Juci, my dear, I will write you a card, and if you ever encounter any problems, just show it and everything will be alright.' That convinced me that he was important. He hung out with us for a short while, but then he left. I asked Pali to come with me to my cousin's. I went there and they welcomed me. They invited me to stay there for another two or three days.

Then I got on the train without any luggage, only with a small hand-bag. I sent my trunk home by mail, because I thought that if I had to go through an incident like this again, I wouldn't have to lug my stuff around. The station was packed with detectives, walking up and down, watching people. I remained very calm and pretended I didn't want to get on the train, like I was just reading, and paying no attention to anything. The train came in, I waited for several minutes, and only got on with just a few minutes left, and came to Marosvasarhely. There were no further inconveniences, my trunk had arrived, and nothing was missing. But it was such a bad incident, that I couldn't forget.

In 1944, when we were already wearing the star [yellow star] 6, I didn't go anywhere. I was reluctant to walk on the street, I only went to work and back home. On Szent Gyorgy Street - in one of the first houses, where the Maros folk-dance group used to have its headquarters - in the Protestant school, a six-week red-cross course was organized, conducted by a doctor. Mom wanted me to attend it, because she said you never can tell when you might need it. They taught us to be nurses. I used to walk down Saros Street towards the school, and one day I met a friend, Eva Bucher. 'Where are you going?' she asked me. 'I'm going to the Protestant school, for the course,' I answered. 'I'll come with you,' she said. 'Please, Eva, don't come with me, I'm wearing this star, and I don't want to cause any inconvenience to anybody,' I explained. She was Christian, but her father might have been half-Jewish. She said, 'I'll come anyway!' She took me by the arm and came with me. I never forgot this.

There was a doctor called Metz who once told my brother Misi, 'I can't imagine what it will be like when we will meet, because I don't know how to greet you, how to behave! They regulate everything. I'm very confused, I don't even know how to greet you.' Misi answered, 'You know what? Don't talk to me at all!' - and left. In those days, people's pride was deeply wounded. By that time the Jews weren't going anywhere, not even to see other Jews.

On the afternoon of 2nd May 1944 I was working at the beauty salon and I knew that the Germans or the Hungarians would be at the Jewish council that afternoon to inform them of the rules they would have to obey. Then they said that it was forbidden to go out after 9pm. So I went directly to the sanatorium, to my brother, and told him that. Then I went home. Mom wasn't there and I remember that on the table there were two large boxes, containing the medication my brother used to receive from the manufacturers. Several days earlier the Jewish patients had been kicked out of the hospital, so they made a hospital out of a half-built church. Then they asked the people to donate, if they could, a bed, sheets, an armoire, medication, anything a hospital might need. The patients were there but nothing else. Misi gathered his medication and left them out, so when they came for them, they could take them away. I then put those medications one by one on the table and wondered what it would be like if I took them to forget about all these things. But I didn't know the medications since I very rarely took any. Mom came home and I told her what decrees had been established, and I said I didn't want to go through with this, 'Who knows what else awaits us?' We couldn't foresee what would really happen. I said, 'I want to die, and I want us to die together.' Mom said, 'No, my dear, we can't do that because I want to get to see Andras again.' But she never did.

On 3rd May a carriage arrived at the corner opposite, and gathered the Jews. There was a family there, and they had been asked whether there were any more Jews around. They said there were some in the other house. Only the two of us, mom and I, were at home. When we came downstairs, on the ground-floor entrance, we saw Annus Csiki, Boldizsar Csiki's grandmother, crying. She threw her arms around me, and then around mom and covered us with kisses. The gendarme told her, 'If you feel so sorry for them, you can come along!' And we were taken away on the carriage. When another carriage came for us, they said we had already been taken away, and this could easily have been a lie. We could have hidden easily. Auntie Csiki would have surely helped us, if we had asked her to.

The only good part about the whole thing was that my brother was left at home. Misi wasn't arrested because anyone who married a Christian before 1940 and also had a child, wasn't deported. Once, when my sister-in-law was with her little girl, Anna, in the park or somewhere where they could play and freshen up, someone came to their house. The servant didn't want to let them in, but they forced their way in. The servant told them in vain that the family was exempt from the law and they had no right to barge in; they took some four little rugs anyway and left. We never had a chance of finding them, so we never looked into it. When dad died, mom insisted on Misi and his family moving into our house, upstairs. Later I found out that the gendarme insisted on them getting on the carriage, as well. He couldn't [or wouldn't] read all the documents my brother presented him to prove to him they didn't have to go. My brother didn't want to go, he persevered, as he wasn't a weak person, and he had a wife and a child. The gendarme gave in eventually. My brother hid for ten days or two weeks, helped by the Csikis.

They took mom and me to the brick-yard. The first night we slept in the open air. The brick-yard was packed with people. People were crying and moaning everywhere. They had all left their normal lives behind. We thought we would, at worst, be taken to a Hungarian labor camp. Even in our worst nightmares we couldn't have imagined what was to come... We didn't know anything... We didn't do anything... It was better not to think... We had some food, but I don't really remember what we ate, or whether we had any appetite. We began to consider everything as a boring journey, an unwanted situation. Then they began taking people to the gendarmerie and beating them until they said where their valuables were. They had a jeweler there who told them he knew everyone who bought anything from him. When there was somebody there already taking a beating, he told the gendarmes to keep on beating him because he had bought some jewels from him. After the war the guy was arrested, then he emigrated somewhere. After a month, on 2nd June, they took us away. We were in the second group; the first had been taken away several days earlier.

They made us walk to the railway-station in Marosvasarhely. We had to carry the luggage we were allowed, no bigger than a backpack. They only let us take this much because they told us we were allowed to take only a little of this and that. They hurried us because everything was urgent for them. My cousin Sandor, Albert Mestitz's son, managed to get a pole, and put my mom's bags on it. They carried them together because she couldn't do it by herself. They put us in a boxcar, along with 72 other people. We traveled for four days and four nights. We weren't allowed to leave the truck, and they didn't give us any water, or anything else. At some stations they opened the car's door for some reason, but they closed it quickly. The trip itself was miserable: we had to squat on the floor because we had nowhere else to sit.

There were many horrible things we found in Auschwitz. First some Polish men in zebra suits got on the trucks. They had already been working there, and if they saw a child, they immediately told their mother to leave him or her. They already knew why, of course. We didn't know it yet, and there was no mother who would have agreed to leave her child. They first told us to write our names on our rucksacks, so we could get them later. They examined our things and took us off the train. I still don't know how I got off that high railcar. They immediately put us in lines of five. When a line started to walk - the officers stood there with Mengele, the doctor - and everyone who looked weaker or older was sent to the left side by Mengele. [Editor's note: It's only a presumption that Mengele himself selected people.]

They told us that the children and the elderly would be taken by car to the showers, while we had to walk. I was happy that mom wouldn't have to carry her bag. When mom went to him, Mengele saw that she had a small tumor on her neck, which she had several times asked to have removed by old Matyas Matyas from Kolozsvar. (But the doctor said: 'I won't do it, dear Ilonka, because it's just a small beauty mark and you never can tell what the glands of a woman are up to.' And, indeed, mom never had any problems because of it; she just had a mild fever from time to time.) Suddenly I noticed that mom, my girlfriend's mother and a seven-year old boy who lived in the same tent back in the brickyard, were going away. We didn't even have time to say goodbye. I asked a soldier where they were taking them. He said they were being taken to the showers by car. Their entire system was built on lies because if they had told us 'we are taking them away and you will never see them again', they would have had hysteria to face. This made everybody happy. So they took away mom and the others, and took us to the showers. We were just waiting to see them again somewhere, but it didn't happen; not then, nor later.

I spent seven and a half months in Auschwitz. I was a fairly slim, good- looking woman, but it seems I wasn't slim enough to be taken to the incinerator, nor strong enough to work in the factory. After a while a woman from Marosvasarhely was put to work in the wash-room - where people were washing up, that is, they should have been washing up - and I was sent there, as well. I worked there for about a month and a half. There were some 450 sinks for washing up, it was a long trough with faucets above. The bricks were red and it was very clean. We wiped it every single day so it looked perfect, and we were instructed to let nobody in to wash up, because if so much as a drop of water had fallen on the floor and the Germans had noticed it, it would have been the end of the world. So we were just cleaning it, and when we had some quiet moments, and our boss wasn't around, we cleaned ourselves up a bit.

I got acquainted with many Jews from Marosvasarhely in Auschwitz. I heard them mention my father's name, and I told them he had died. 'But how did it happen?' they asked. I said, 'Once he's dead, what difference does it make?' 'You had two brothers, what's with them?' they asked then. I told them that one was a butcher, and the other one a grist-miller. My older brother, Misi, was a surgeon and Andras got his permit to inherit and manage the mill. In those times in any upper-class family there had to be a manufacturer, a doctor or a bank manager. What was I supposed to do, tell them my father was a manufacturer, one of my brothers a surgeon and the other a mill owner? [Editor's note: Juci, modest as she is, didn't want to tell the ordinary people she was deported with, that she didn't belong to the poor working class, but to the upper-class.]

Sometimes we had food, but on other occasions we didn't, and we ate as and when we could. On several occasions they brought us food, but I didn't get to eat, or even if I could get any, I didn't have anything to put the food in. I had no plate, no spoon; I had nothing.

Those who had a cup preferred to eat three or four times rather then to lend it to someone else. People weren't nice at all, they had to fight for their lives. I finally got myself a spoon, but I don't know how, and later a cup, too. When they brought us hot coffee - I don't need to say what it was like - there were so many people around the large pot that there was no way through.

One day something happened to my throat, to my vocal chords. I could hardly talk. On the next day or the one after, we heard the female doctor was examining people in the main street of the camp. I went to her and asked what I should do. She kindly told me to eat more hot food because I might lose my voice for the rest of my life. I thought about where could I get something hot because people were killing each other for coffee.

I remembered that there was a girl whom I used to teach cosmetics for free back home in Marosvasarhely. She would surely get me something because she was getting a bigger ration of food. She had some sort of privileges amongst the prisoners. I went to her and asked her for some coffee because the doctor said I needed it. 'Oh, I got so little myself today,' she said, and I started to leave, 'but wait!' she continued -, 'I'll give you some of mine.' And she poured some coffee in my cup, filling it half-full. She had a whole pot. I never went to her again, nor to others. Then I got better and never felt any after-effects.

The selections didn't frighten us at all. The rumors ran that they put sedatives in our food, but we thought it was all a fairy-tale and didn't believe a thing. But there were other things we didn't believe. We wouldn't believe anything until it was proved to be true.

Later I heard from a girlfriend from Budapest, who was working in the kitchen, that they were putting some powder in the meals, because it would have been impossible to keep so many women quiet without sedatives. The Germans had anticipated this, as they had with everything. They anticipated and prepared everything, and they knew how people were going to react.

I was sent to sweep the streets for a week. I remember that as I was sweeping, the guards were standing there and chatting, and they didn't even notice me. One preferred not to be noticed, otherwise one could end up having problems or being punished.

Then I recalled the time I was sitting with one of my suitors, a chief engineer, several years earlier, on Marguerite Island, in Budapest. There was a man sweeping and picking up the fallen leaves, and we didn't pay any attention to him, we didn't really bother about him. This was the same scene, just the other way around. This was a minor thing really, but it stuck in my mind.

Then we had to do some weaving using plastic and fabric. We had to weave them to be very strong. When we finished, two really big German blockheads came in and stretched them to see whether they were strong enough. How could I have made something they couldn't tear apart?

Fortunately, they didn't come to me, but they managed to tear apart some ropes. If so, they stripped the unfortunate responsible and put her naked out in front of the door, in the January cold, for hours.

After a while, towards the end, they put me to work with French women. There I also had to do some weaving. I listened to them as they were speaking, but didn't understand a thing. After half a day I asked for some scissors in French. One of them looked at me and said, 'Do you speak French?' I said, 'I thought I spoke French, but since listening to you I found out I don't.' I recalled that dad used to tease me after I came home from language classes, 'Speak with the Madame, use the language you are learning because you never know whether you'll find anybody who understands you.' These French women began laughing, because it turned out they were all speaking the dialects of their own regions. From then on we talked in French, and I got on very well.

From Auschwitz we were taken to Birkenau. There were many wooden barracks there. They had probably been initially built for horses, because the stable fittings were still on the walls. Along the inside wall of the barracks there was a radiator, but it was never heated, not even on the coldest days. There was no heating at all, and there was nothing we could cover ourselves with.

After 18th January they took us to Ravensbruck. This at least wasn't a death-camp. Ravensbruck always reminds me of the rudeness of a female doctor. By the time we arrived there my shoes had been stolen, but I had managed to get some wooden shoes, much larger than my feet, so I lined them with rags. I had to wear those open shoes in the winter and they hurt my feet, which were all covered with sores. When we arrived there, I was happy to hear that we must wash up and we'd be able to see a doctor.

I washed my feet really clean and went to her for something to heal the sores more rapidly. She said those were not scabs, but dirt. She took a clip, grabbed my scab by its side and ripped it off, so the flesh was visible. We didn't do anything at Ravensbruck, apart from the time spent looking for lice on our own clothes. I only spent four weeks there. I even remember that we were sleeping four in a bed - you can imagine how 'fat' we must have been, if there was room for four of us. I slept beside a Polish girl, and my clothes looked so miserable she pitied me and gave me a sweater before they sent us off again. I had never had lice until then.

Then they took us Malchow, to a small town. [Malcwow was a sub-camp of the Ravensbruck concentration camp.] Not far from the town there was a camp. They took us there. While we were walking across the town, the local Germans stood at the window smirking and laughing, and had fun watching us. The way we looked, they had something to laugh about. After we got out of the town, we went onto the road. Those who received us in the camp examined everyone for lice. It turned out I had lice.

They had been on the sweater the Polish girl had given me. Then they separated everyone with lice, but instead of sending us to get washed, they put us in barracks with others who also had lice. The atmosphere was much more humane, though. That's what I remember about Malchow. When we were taken away from there, the locals had been affected by the course of the war; there were empty houses, and those who remained there looked at us with their heads bowed, depressed. The exultation had disappeared.

They sent us off to Magdeburg, but we didn't know where we would end up. We had no food for six days. The train stopped in Magdeburg and they handed a letter to a woman who was then in charge of us. The letter probably said that they had to retreat because they were really cornered as the Americans and Russians were closing in.

I remember that the station was bombed. We were some 100 meters from the station and it was beautiful [the play of light] - if only we had been there just to watch it... It was a beautiful sight, but the truck was so packed, we couldn't move. We couldn't even raise our hands.

They left us there because I guess they thought this way they wouldn't be bombed. Shortly after the bombings stopped, the train started off, and we traveled quite a while. Then we got off and continued on foot.

While walking a dog bit my leg, so I couldn't really walk, plus I was tired. One of the more decent soldiers put me on the carriage that was carrying their things. When we arrived at a field that was surrounded by a fence, and even had a gate, they took me off the carriage and sent me to the closest group standing by.

They began asking me why I had come to their group, and told me to go away. So I joined a mother from Budapest and her daughter. When we had to walk again, they told us that anyone who felt they couldn't go further should stay put because there was a truck coming to take them away somewhere. We knew the story all too well, but I still wanted to stay there because my leg was hurting very much. I wanted to put an end to everything.

This lady with her daughter wouldn't let me, 'You are coming with us! Take my arm and you'll be able to walk just like us.' I took her by the arm and walked, but after a while I felt it was too much for me. Then the girl told me, 'Juci, don't drag mom, let's walk in one line.' When she asked me the second time, I said I would fall behind. I figured I would slowly fall behind, and when I was the last one in the group, there would be nobody there.

I managed to do that and I collapsed on purpose, but two German soldiers came to me and told me in German, 'Los, weiter machen! Come on, keep it up!' - this had always been their motto. I didn't want to get up, but after a while I had to because they made me. I walked a few steps and then I said I wouldn't go any further, and told them to shoot me - I am sure they didn't shoot me, merely because I told them to do so. And because they knew the whole fuss, the war was coming to an end. In the next village - I don't know what it was called - the soldiers handed me over to the mayor.

That day I slept in the open air at the mayor's house, on the doorstep. Next day he took me to the outskirts of the village and told me that eight miles from there was some town called Nuremberg, and I should report to the police there.

I walked and walked, I was half-asleep, and I probably had a high fever. I walked onto a field to get some potatoes, but I was so tired that I fell asleep. When I woke up, I had no idea in which direction I was going or where I had come from. I've always been a fatalist, so I decided to start walking in one direction. After a while I sat down and couldn't get up anymore. There was a German man close by, and then another five men came from the nearby village.

They thought there was a spy sitting there. They didn't know that I wasn't spying, just crawling. They told me to get up and walk. But I wasn't able to stand up, let alone walk. They tried to put me back on my feet, but when they saw I kept collapsing again, one of them brought a small hand-cart and put me on it - there was even a pillow on it - and this man took me to his home. He didn't let me into his house, of course, but took me to the barn.

They made some kind of a camp-bed there, stuffed it with straw and covered it. They put a pillow and a blanket on top, and laid me there. Each member of his family brought me something to eat, and I ate everything. Then the man disappeared for a while, but then he suddenly showed up again later.

He cooked flour soup and brought me some in a two-liter pot. I thought it really delicious because it was the first hot meal I had for quite a while. The next day I got the runs because I had eaten too much. I stayed there for three weeks or so, but in the last week they let me into the house, washed me and gave me some clothes. They were really nice people. The guy was called Alex Brux. I don't know what he was doing for a living, but I don't think the Germans trusted him because he was a communist. This all took place in a village called Nischkau. The guy took me on a small carriage to a hospital eight kilometers from there. His wife and child came along.

From there I was taken to another hospital, where patients with spotted disease were treated. I began to show similar symptoms to theirs, and when my hair began falling out in clumps, I knew I had a problem, I had caught the disease. The only good thing was that the doctor was a man from Szatmarnemeti. His half-brother, Bandi Widder the pharmacist, was one of our best friends back in Marosvasarhely. His name was Nandi Gunter, and he knew my last name because when the chairs were upside down on the table as they were cleaning up at his half-brother's, there on the underside of the chairs was the name of our furniture store: Mestitz Mihaly and Sons.

There was no medicine in the hospital, nor anything else, but he did everything he could medically. He always gave me some of his own vitamins. I shared them, of course, with a little woman I was on good terms with. She lived in Budapest, she was a seamstress, and was of half-Czech origin. We asked how long we had to stay there, why wouldn't they let us go home?. The Romanians said that although my home was now on Romanian soil [that is, Northern Transylvania was again under Romanian ruling after WWII was over], the Hungarians were the ones who had taken us away, so they should bring us back. The Hungarians said that although they had taken us away, now we would have to go to Romania, so the Romanians should bring us home.

There was a Czech captain there who decided to take his soldiers home and he managed to get a bus. They offered to get anybody else Czech home. My little friend told me she would say she's going to the Czech Republic, but she wouldn't leave me, so she told me to say I'm Czech too. It wasn't a very nice thing to do, but in those conditions I think it was quite appropriate, and we had no documents we could show to prove it. Thus I was put on the list, too. We were on the bus by 9am already, but by the time they finished packing and arranged the administrative problems it was 4pm, and only then did we start off.

When we left the German border, I spat on the floor, and the bus suddenly stopped. The fear and frights we had lived through got to me - I thought we stopped because I had spat. It turned out it had stopped because a Czech professor, who was traveling with us, wanted to make a speech. We didn't understand a word he said, but we cried. After that, one of the soldiers, who had an accordion, played the Czech national anthem. We got off in Prague.

We stayed there for approximately six days. There was a Romanian repatriation office in Prague, and I found out that my brother had been seen in Marosvasarhely with his Italian wife and their daughter.

From Prague we went to Budapest on a fully packed train. Nobody paid for the tickets, at least we didn't. We just got on the train, and nobody asked for our tickets. People were going home from the front and they had nothing they could pay the fare with. Some of them first climbed on the top of the cars and got inside the train through the windows. A Russian soldier came into our compartment through the window. He was probably a member of the NKVD 7, some kind of Russian secret police. He was very kind though; he sat with us and talked to us. Fortunately he protected us from the insults of the Russian soldiers.

In Budapest it turned out that my younger brother had gone home several weeks earlier. There was a school in Bethlen Square were everybody had to register, and we went there in large groups. There, when they wrote my name, one of them said to the other, 'Wasn't there someone with the same name who already went home?' That's how I found out that Andras had gone home, he was already on that list. We came by train to Kolozsvar and when we wanted to get on, some guys from Marosvasarhely told us not to because it would go the other way around, through Szaszregen, and we should take the bus. I knew I had a home, and someone was waiting for me there, and that was fabulous.

We came to Marosvasarhely with a lorry they called a bus; its door was so high they had to put a ladder for me to be able to get on it. In Kolozsvar someone warned me not to go to our old house, from which they had deported us, but to the one on Koteles Street. After the deportations the houses on Koteles Street emptied. While we were still away, my older brother moved to Koteles Street into another house, two houses away from where our family had lived before. He opened a consulting room on the ground floor, and he continued to work at the sanatorium. I arrived home in late July 1945. I was amongst the few who came home and found their siblings. Unfortunately my mother wasn't there.

It was quite dark when we got there and I saw that in the house they mentioned the window was open, and the light was on, and I heard the sort of whistle only my two brothers and I used to have. This was an Italian student whistle my older brother 'imported' for us and we always used it to call each other. When I heard the whistle, I stopped and listened for what was going on. [It was Andras whistling under the window.] Then I heard the voice of my sister-in-law coming from the window, asking my brother in Italian what was happening. He said he had been waiting for Juci but she hadn't come. It turned out that he had waited for me at the sanatorium that day because those who came home were taken there. Then I went to Andras - he couldn't see me, but the way I looked, he couldn't possibly have recognized me - I took him by the arm and said, 'Buona sera signore'. He looked at me and screamed so loud that I think everybody in the whole street came out. Clara almost fell out the window and hurried to open the gate. When Anna, their daughter saw me, she said, 'You're back? I already waited for you tomorrow.' She meant to say yesterday.

Clara then phoned Misi, my older brother. He was called out of an operation. Is it something important? he asked. Nothing extraordinary, just that Juci came home. He too began screaming, handed over the operation and came home. I remember I related my story and talked with them all night long, and they laughed when I told them that back in the camp I told someone Misi was a butcher and Andras a grist-miller.

In the concentration camp they mistreated Andras, just like in any other camp, but when the situation eased up a little he was appointed as leader of a small group. But we never heard of him not being nice. Andras always had excellent ideas and was very inventive.

When I met him in 1945 he was podgy, because he had been set free by the Americans. [The Americans fed up the deported ones whom they set free.] When Andras came home the furniture store was still operating. The mill also kept on working for a year and a half until the nationalization 8 in 1948. Andras signed for it and handed it over. The furniture store was nationalized in 1949.

Then he had to look for something else to do in order to make a living. He was thrown out of every job he had when they found out who his father was. Then he did some accounting and anything that came along. At the beginning he made wooden toy-horses for the children. Then, and I don't know whether it was his or the bookbinder's idea, but they sorted and bound the documents of different companies. Because the documents weren't properly sorted and bound, it turned out to be a very profitable business, and companies were lining up for their services. In 1950 he married Julia Kiss, a Calvinist.

• Post war

When I came home, I immediately continued my work as cosmetician. The furniture was still there, but everything they could move had been taken away. My older brother told me he received a call during the war that someone had broken into the salon and stolen a load of things. Then they went there, and the servant, my brother and my sister-in-law brought home what was left on a carriage. Misi said, 'Juci dear, go to the second floor, there are some of your glass things there.

Go into the basement ..., go to the loft....' And so I found all the things they'd carried home. From the first moment I arrived, I opened my beauty salon on the main square, in the same place it had been previously, because I managed to get it back. We furnished it very stylishly and strangely enough, it went very well. I don't remember if they asked me about Auschwitz, but they must have.

After the nationalization, when they took away the place, we brought the beauty treatment equipment home. Our lobby was quite large and we also put a chair there. At that time I had no assistant or apprentice and could only serve one customer at a time.

After 1960 I was hired by the Higiena co- operative society: in those days every hairdressing and beauty salon pertained to Higiena. First I worked on Bolyai Street, where there were six people both in the morning and the afternoon shift. It wasn't very profitable with that many workers, so they split the group and moved me to Kossuth Street, where we only worked three per shift. Then I was moved to the Fashion House, and retired from there in 1974.

Carlo, Misi's son, was born in 1946. In 1947 they managed to get the documents and moved away for good to Clara's parents in Bologna, Italy. They bought a beautiful house downtown. Misi's father-in-law built a consulting room behind his pharmacy, and he examined people there for a while, but Misi wasn't allowed to be a surgeon until he became an Italian citizen. He was doing very well.

Then he found out that the Italian laws didn't apply in Bologna, so he could have been a surgeon in hospital. But then he changed his mind and abandoned his career as a surgeon because he was doing so well as an internal specialist. In the mornings he used to work somewhere, while in the afternoons he worked at his practice inside the building of the city hall, upstairs. In 1994 he had a heart attack and died.

I met my first husband, Jeno Schonbrunn, at a motorcyclist ball. My younger brother was a big motorcycle fan, he really liked to ride them, and was amongst the organizers. It took place in the main hall of the Apollo restaurant. Jeno came to me and sat beside me. He had already had some rounds and was tipsy, he had just got back from Russian captivity. He'd been a prisoner for eight years somewhere in Ukraine. He was a Jew from Marosvasarhely, but I don't know much about his family.

Before the war he graduated from dental technician school and worked a while. While in captivity he discovered that if he spoke Russian, he would be treated better, so he entered a local anti-fascist school. The way the Russians are, they told him that if he was a dental technician, then he was a dentist, and if he was a dentist, then he was a doctor, so they put him in charge of a hospital.

When he came home, he would have joined the Party straightaway - since he finished the anti-fascist school - but nobody was admitted then, since the door of the Party was closed. He asked to be admitted to the hospital in Marosvasarhely. They told him they would, but that they had to obtain a permit from Bucharest.

When we met in Marosvasarhely he was crazy about me, but I didn't pay him any attention. He used to smother me in flowers all the time, the previous ones didn't even have time to fade before he brought me fresh ones. When we had something going on he always came along, but I wasn't very interested in him.

One day a girlfriend invited me to Kolozsvar, and I decided I would pay her a visit. Jeno told me he heard there was some race there, so he came along, too. Then I told him 'nicely', 'I'm not going to Kolozsvar to be with you.' When I went away I began to regret what I had said, and during those ten days I fell deeply in love with Jeno.

In 1950 we had our wedding but, only at the city hall. I had previously gone to Temesvar, and during that week he was called three times to Bucharest where they wanted to prevent him from marrying me, because I was the child of an industrialist. The last time he went there they only asked him, 'Te-ai razgandit, tovarasul Schonbrunn?' [Have you reconsidered, comrade Schonbrunn?'] He said no. They told him he couldn't continue to educate the youth if he married me. We got married in secret, we went to the registrar and agreed to go there on Friday at noon and get married quickly, so that nobody would know anything about it. 'If I had known I would marry you' - he used to joke - 'then I wouldn't have helped to put out the fire when the factory was burning.' [Jeno helped to put out the fire in the 1920s, when the Mestitz furniture factory was set on fire for the third time.]

In the meantime Jeno met the party secretary, but he was an old friend of his and Jeno didn't know he was a party secretary. After they greeted each other with kisses and much delight and all that, the guy told him - when he heard that his job wasn't secure yet - that they would make him Director of the Sports Department of the city.

He came to love it very much there because he always was a great sportsman, and he stayed there for a long time. One day he came to me saying he had to go to Bucharest to a meeting because there was nobody else they could send there, so he had to go. It was a meeting where they decided who were unwanted by the communists and fired them from their jobs on the spot, avoiding any scandal. When my husband came home he told me, 'Somebody in the family lost their job.' It wasn't him though, but Andras and his family.

They were on their summer holiday by the sea then, and when they came back they had no jobs anymore. When he was fired, Andras was working as an accountant for the army. Jeno was slowly advanced to organize the Vointa sports club, and he became a sports leader. He worked in the sports center downtown, and managed the Vointa sports center. He returned to the dental clinic only after another ten years or so.

Jeno wasn't religious at all. His family might have been religious, but not him. However, we always went to the synagogue on the high holidays. We still had our old Jewish friends, and we made some new friends, too, this wasn't a problem. I'm sure there was a Jewish community in the 1950s, but we had no knowledge of it. We only wanted to have a comfortable life and to prove especially to ourselves, but to the others, too, that we were alive.

I wasn't interested in politics at all. Even if you weren't interested in politics, you could see what kind of life it provided. Our life wasn't easy during the communist era. I totally disagreed with communism. Anybody who grew up having all the opportunities and everything I had, couldn't have liked the cage they were imprisoned in, being told what they could and couldn't have, what they could and couldn't do, and what was and wasn't allowed.

During the communist era there were no problems to be solved between the ethnic groups, because in Marosvasarhely there weren't any problems of that kind, either before, or after World War II. I didn't really consider emigrating. We had to renounce any foreign connections. I remember that in the résumé I handed in to the Party, I didn't mention speaking any other foreign languages, besides Romanian, although I spoke English, French, German and Italian. It wasn't a good thing to speak foreign languages. If someone had been to America, it was a black mark.

After Auschwitz I wasn't able to bear a child to full term; I was in the seventh month when I miscarried. Julia, Andras' wife was pregnant too, with a difference of two months between us, with Pocok. Their child, Istvan, but just called Pocok, was born in 1955. He was baptized a Calvinist, and considers himself a Calvinist. I feel as if he were my child, a little bit too.

We lived in our four-bedroom apartment on Koteles Street, each family in a separate room. I lived with Jeno in one of them, Andras and his family lived in another one, then there was Gyula Deutsch and his family - the son of mom's older sister, Margit - and in the last one, there was another couple.

Buba, as we called Gyula, built a house, and they moved in there. When they moved out, the mother of Andras' wife, Julia, moved into their room. We shared the kitchen, but everybody cooked for themselves. Each of us had their chores: one cleaned the stove, one washed the dishes and another cooked. They always made fun of me when I went into the kitchen, because I used to say, 'Everybody get away from the stove, it's my turn.' [Juci was joking that they should let her get to the stove.] For example, when someone wanted to have supper or lunch, they used to say, 'So, are you coming?' Anyone who wanted, went to eat, the rest didn't, but usually we all ate together.

Ilonka Vas, a woman from Szekelykal, used to come to our house to clean, and always brought us some eggs, or something. She convinced me to take part in the lottery. We told her we wouldn't give that much money - it cost 1700 lei - so four of us bought a ticket together: her, me and the wife and mother-in-law of my younger brother Andras .

In 1956 we won a German motorcycle. In Romania this was the first object one could win in the lottery, until then they had only given away money. In the same year I won two more times in the lottery, once 900 lei, and once 400 or 450 lei.

At the same time, Andras went to Bucharest to buy himself a small motorcycle, because he had no money for a big one. I remember he gathered all the money in the house, some 14,000 lei. He didn't find a motorcycle he liked, there were only big and used ones. In Segesvar, an acquaintance asked him, 'So, what do you say, your sister has won a motorcycle in the lottery!' He was so happy when he came home. He then bought the motorcycle from us, that is, he gave us some money for it.

We always celebrated birthdays together and used to give each other presents. However, we didn't observe the Jewish, nor the Christian holidays. Only at Christmas we put up a Christmas tree for the sake of the son of my brother, Pocok. We didn't celebrate any of the communist holidays, apart from the obligatory street processions. There were occasions when we celebrated 1st May, but we were only fooling around.

Once Jeno and I went out for supper somewhere and came home early. It was dark in the house, and we thought everybody was already asleep. When we came in, the light was suddenly turned on, and they came in hand in hand and started dancing around us, like fools. They were singing: 'Fol fol ti rabjai a foldnek...' ['Arise, ye starvelings, from your slumbers...', from the Socialist Internationale]. They only sang it to make fun of us.

When they stopped we looked around and saw our room had been decorated. We laughed our heads off. There was a couch there, a glass-case and, next to that, another couch. Mom had a price of crochet of two doves. The doves were placed above the glass-case, with a piece of red paper underneath, to highlight them. In front of the glass-case there was a table covered with a red blanket, with a jug of water and a glass on it, in case someone wanted to make a speech.

I had made the beds before we left because I didn't know when we would come home, and to spare us that effort. The quilt was tucked up on the bed, and pinned on to the sheet with a thousand stickpins, cut out of red paper: there was the phrase 'Long live 1st May' in Romanian and Hungarian. The letters and the numbers were all cut out and pinned on to the bedsheet. There was something on the pillow, too. The same thing was on Jeno's bed. This started off a party that lasted until 6 in the morning. We had a lot of fun.

In 1960 they simply took our apartment. They came, inspected the courtyard, then they wanted to come in and see the apartment. I said: 'Why are you looking at our place? Nobody is going anywhere from here.' But it was like talking to the wind - the most annoying thing was that they ignored me completely. After all I'd been through [during the war], I thought I was somebody.

Then I grabbed the guy's arm and shook him, 'Tovarasi, de aici nimeni nu pleaca' [Comrades, nobody will go away from here.]. He shook himself, like dogs do when they are wet, and said nothing. I didn't know that one of those five men wanted to move in - and the group included the party secretary and the deputy secretary.

Next day, when I came home, Jeno was sitting with a man I had already seen before. He was there for the house and said, 'I'll bring a car and take you to see what we are willing to give you in exchange for your apartment. And everybody who lives here will get a separate new home.'

They showed us six apartments, but none of them were to our liking. Then they showed us a full comfort two-bedroom apartment above Arta cinema [on the main square], which was empty and nobody lived there before, since it was newly built. That night Jeno and I gave the matter some thought.

In the spring of 1960 they threw us out of our home, and Andras' family emigrated to Bologna that spring. Jeno had a heart attack early that spring. We moved into our new home, but everything seemed very small to me, after all the big and spacious places I'd lived in before.

In the 1950s Andras requested to be allowed to emigrate to Italy. We agreed with Andras to go with them, initially to my older brother's place, and then we would have decided what to do next. As Andras' family already had four members - they already had two children - and they were going to Misi's father-in-law, we couldn't really go together. In 1960 he got permission and they emigrated to Bologna. My husband didn't want to go because, he said, he had already spent eight years in captivity and he didn't want to go; he had been away from home enough. That's how I stayed here, although all my girlfriends told me I would be the first one to go.

Misi was there in Bologna and provided everything for Andras: he prepared an apartment for them. After two months, Misi got a job at a motorcycle factory as an accountant, and found an error in the calculations they had been looking for, for two years. He was very appreciated and well-paid. In those days Italy was living through the cold war and so he said he didn't want to stay there.

He left the company after he had been there for ten months, because he registered to emigrate to America or Canada: he said he would go to whichever one gave him the answer sooner. Fortunately it was America. They moved to Minneapolis in 1961. He is still in accounting, and used to have an accounting office at home.

There were two non-Jewish female employees working for him who went from company to company and only came to him if there was something urgent. Julia always liked Jews, she preferred to go to the synagogue with Andras whenever he went, she didn't go to the Protestant church much. Later, when it was more difficult for Andras to walk, they stopped going at all.

Pocok was 18 or 20 when he came to visit me. He began asking some things about the family, and I started telling the stories. 'Just a minute', he said, then took a piece of paper, a pencil, and began making notes. He asked me question after question. 'What a good memory you have', he said.

When he went home, he showed everything to his father and Andras said they should look into it, and should draw up the family tree, because he wanted to do it for Pocok's children. Though he didn't have any yet.

Then Andras gathered the raw data about each member of the entire family for eight or nine years, and he even used newspaper ads in his search. Later, he made a big scrapbook about the Mestitz and Laszlo families.

I had never been a member of the Party and nor was Jeno. When he came home after the war he wanted to join it, but it wasn't possible yet, then he met me, and gave up the idea. In the 1960s and 70s we always had a problem with my suspect origins. They always brought up my industrialist background, though later they mostly ignored it. Jeno was an easygoing, very good man. He always had to fraternize with the inspectors, who came to our place for supper. We had a slightly better life than the rest. I retired just a few years before my first husband died. I was glad I retired, because Jeno was quite sick; he was in bed all the time and so I could take care of him. He had problems with his lungs, but he didn't suffer too much, only on his last day. He died in 1977.

I had known my second husband, Aladar Scheiner, for ages. I was Aladar's third wife. Magda Roth, Magdus, a distinguished, delicate and very sweet lady was his second wife. She was originally from Temesvar; her father worked as a railway engineer. She too was married three times.

Aladar married her after the deportations, and they lived together for 30 years. She was previously married to my cousin, Sandor Mestitz. I think she divorced her first husband for Sandor, whom she met in Temesvar. They came home to Marosvasarhely from Temesvar, so they could live as Hungarians, but then they deported all of us. Magdus returned, Sandor did not.

Magdus too 'began her career' in Auschwitz, though I don't know where they took her after that. Then she married Aladar. Magdus also died in 1977. Six weeks after Jeno's death, when I was going to have lunch, I met Aladar on the way. 'Where are you going?' I said, 'To have lunch.' Then he asked, 'Can I come with you?' I'll never forget that after lunch he said to me he knew very well, it wasn't the right time, nor very nice of him to say it, but he felt he had to tell me that if I ever thought of remarrying, to take him into consideration. I was shocked that he could come up with something like that only six weeks after my husband died and seven weeks after his wife passed away.

When World War I broke out, Aladar's family moved to Budapest. I don't know for sure if they were six or seven siblings. He was the oldest son and he arranged everything for the family, he was the only help for their parents. There were other boys in the family, but none of them were like him. I don't know how they came back from Budapest to Marosvasarhely. After the war Aladar worked as a timber merchant in Gyergyo. When the permits were withdrawn, he could keep his because the workers stood beside him saying he was demanding, but fair. He was summoned for forced labor and spent six years in captivity. After the forced labor he came back to Marosvasarhely and did accounting for 16 companies. I don't know where he learned accounting. He only graduated from high-school, and he said his father didn't even know which school he attended.

In the 1960s he was hired by the Jewish community of Marosvasarhely. He had probably had some previous ties with the community because they asked him to be the president. Aladar was already the president there when I married him in 1978.

He was president for twenty years. On high holidays he went earlier to the synagogue then I did, but this was never a problem. Aladar never bothered about me being religious or not, and this was a very good thing because I was very weak on Jewish issues. I never kept a kosher household, although he was the president of the Jewish community. But neither did Magdus, his previous wife. The only thing we did was that we went to the synagogue on holidays. Aladar, of course, had to go there more often, and he was at the community office all the time.

On Yom Kippur we fasted, though. Despite the fact that one only has to fast until the age of seventy, and after that only for half a day, my husband always observed it. I fasted, too. On Yom Kippur I fasted even while I was in the camp. And how my acquaintances and friends scolded me for it - saying, 'haven't we fasted enough? You have to fast now, too?' because then, by some chance, we actually had the opportunity to eat. I told them I would still fast.

After we came home, my brother Andras asked me on the first holiday, 'Are you fasting?' 'Yes,' I said, 'I will always fast in memory of my parents.' He said that he would fast too, then, otherwise he wouldn't have fasted at all. Furthermore, my first husband, who never really fasted, began fasting after we met.

When Aladar turned eighty, in 1984, he resigned - I insisted on him resigning. Then he persuaded Chief Rabbi Moses Rosen 9 to appoint Bernat Sauber as president because he was the only one who was competent. [Editor's note: In 2003 Bernat Sauber is still the president of the Jewish community in Marosvasarhely.]

During the communist era there were times when we didn't have any money, all of us owed each other some, and towards Christmas half of the city owed money to the other half. Still, I made good money with my cosmetic work, because I always had many customers. My husband too had a pretty good salary, then a decent pension, and we had a relatively good life, given the circumstances, when most of the people had no money at all.

During the communist era I traveled abroad quite a lot compared to the average citizen. My first husband didn't like to travel at all, so in the 1970s I traveled pretty much alone. And this way I could get a permit more easily. They never granted it when you requested it, but when you expected it the least. The first time I went to America in 1968, then to Italy in 1972 and 1975. I went to Italy nine times, which was quite amazing during the communist era. In 1983 and 1989 I went to America with Aladar, and in 1989 we spent the high holidays there at my brother's. I've been to Israel two or three times, but I don't remember exactly when.

At home, we went with Aladar to Felix spa each spring. He really loved this place. [Felix spa is in the western part of Romania, near the Hungarian border. During the communist era many local Hungarians went there to spend the summer holiday, because they could 'steal' the TV broadcast from Hungary, since there was no TV broadcast in Hungarian in Romania.] When we first went there, I couldn't imagine what I could do there, but I came to like the place so much that I couldn't wait to go there again. [Even after her husband died, Juci continues to go there, and the employees know her very well.]

Since 1989 [the Romanian Revolution of 1989] 10 my life hasn't really changed: I am retired. Of course, our community was very pleased with the events. I had Jewish friends but others, as well. The truth is that everybody was relieved. In the communist era nobody really liked to be told where to go and how many steps you are allowed to take. But one had to comply because if you didn't play along, you were instantly punished. Neither of my husbands was a party member, and we never took part in anything political.

Aladar died in 1994, at the age of 90. Then I received the reparations Hungary paid to him, because he had been imprisoned in Russia [Editor's note: after 1990 the Hungarian government compensated everyone who had been a prisoner of war in Russia.] Then I also received reparations for his forced labor years. The reparations payment for me was a far lesser amount.

I have always felt I've had a beautiful life. Most of the people were very friendly and nice to me. My parents loved me, I got along very well with my brothers and sisters and I am on good terms with everybody. All my life I've never been left alone, I had a big family and many friends. Now I'm waiting for a call from either my sister-in-law from Bologna, or my brother from America. He calls me every Saturday.

• Glossary:

Irina Khokhlova 
St. Petersburg, 
Russia 
Interviewer: Mira Sokolova 

• Family background

• Growing up

• During the war

• After the war
• Marriage life and children

Family background

I was born in Leningrad in 1939. My great-grandfather was from Rogachev. His family name was Volokh. Some people say he lived to 106, others, to 116. My great-grandfather had three wives. Our family originates from his third marriage. He spoke Yiddish and was very religious. He was very willful and, in a way, harsh and authoritative. But he did all he could to give his children some education – not higher or intellectual education, but a vocational one.

For example, my grandfather Abram was a tailor, a very skillful tailor. He was born in Rogachev and later moved to Gomel. The name “Volokh” is very rare and means “alien.” You understand why “alien” – we are all aliens.

Grandfather Abram had a big family: five sons and two daughters. Grandmother was a housewife – she took care of her family. They knew and observed Jewish holidays. They mainly spoke Yiddish, but Russian and Byelorussian, as well. Grandfather used to wear European dress; he wore a tie and a neat suit. His manner of speech and behavior were very similar to those of Gorky. He was a short, thin, nimble man with a good sense of humor. He wore a small beard and a trimmed moustache. 

Grandmother was a stout, even massive, woman, 1½ times as tall as Grandfather. She wore European clothes and smoothly combed hair. Her name was Stysha. The children had Jewish names: the elder son, my father, was Chaim, then David, Nahum, Samuel and Boris. Their daughters were Fanya and Sara. They all got their primary education in a Jewish school – in cheder. Grandmother was the head of the family. Self-sufficient and high-handed, she could manage both her husband and the whole horde of children and grandchildren. Everybody obeyed her. 

On holidays they liked to drink and make the toast, “L’chaim,” but within limits. My grandparents and my father had a good ear for music and good voices. They often sang in Yiddish. Grandfather knew Hebrew; my father wrote him letters in this language. 

They lived in an ordinary wooden two-story house, which was surrounded by a garden. There were good yields of apples. But children are always children. They liked to explore neighbors’ gardens as well, for which they were often punished. They used to play tricks at school, too. Once their teacher’s beard was glued to his table when he fell asleep. 

My parents come from Belorussia. However, my mother, Roza Leikova, was born in Dnipropetrovsk, Ukraine. I do not know exactly why my grandfather took my grandmother there for a period of time. Unfortunately, I do not know anything about my mother’s parents except that her father, Moshe Leikov, owned a small ice cream and lemonade factory. Weather conditions were extremely unfavorable one year, and he went bankrupt and died soon. The family moved to Rogachev. Ida Leikova was my grandmother on my mother’s side. I only know her name; I have no information about where she was born, how she earned a living or her relatives.

My mother completed four years in a Russian school. And Father, who was born in Rogachev, completed six years of a Jewish school there. He could speak and write Hebrew, spoke Yiddish and Russian, but with a Jewish accent. Both were Komsomol members. Back then, drama circles were very popular. Father was in a Jewish drama society. Mother had a wonderful voice. She came to the same circle. They met there, most probably in 1928. He used to sing and she danced. Both were young and handsome, with beautiful voices. Mother had fallen in love, desperately. Father being so handsome, she had lots of competitors.

In 1930 my father joined the Party. As a member, he was sent to Leningrad to study in a workers’ faculty, where he could work and study simultaneously. Mother rushed after him to Leningrad. Her name was Sheine-Reize, according to her birth certificate, but she changed it to Roza Mikhailovna for her passport. She had to change her Jewish name to enter a musical college. She was a very good performer on a mandolin, played some violin, and they advised her to go to Leningrad with an authorization from the Komsomol. But on the way, there was a tragedy – she was robbed. The worst thing was that her Komsomol card had been stolen. Then, to lose your Komsomol card could lead even to a death penalty. So, she had to live incognito in Leningrad. Nothing was said about entering any musical school. That is why she went to Father, who stayed in a hostel as a student of the workers’ faculty. For one year, they had lived as husband and wife.

Growing up

In 1932 their marriage was registered in a state office. Although my father was a communist, they did not forget Jewish traditions. Secretly they observed every Jewish holiday: Pesach, Purim and others. Mother was a good cook: she baked matzah, and cooked kneidlach, stuffed fish, goose, etc. Father concealed his knowledge of Hebrew and Yiddish. He had a good position at that time – he was chairman of an industrial association, which would be equal to the director of a footwear factory now. He was also the secretary of a Party organization. That is why we lived well before the war.

We lived in a shared apartment, where one room was ours. The building was in Smolninsky district, 10 minutes’ walk from Smolny. As a Party activist with many awards, my father was expecting a separate flat in a new building behind Smolny Cathedral, on Smolninskaya Embankment. He took part in the construction of that building.

Our apartment was in a former inn, built before the Revolution. There were four rooms in the flat. Our family occupied one of them. It was 20 square meters. Mother and Father first lived by themselves, then in 1933 my sister was born, me in 1939, and my brother in 1946. So, there were five of us living in that room. The next two rooms were occupied by the family of a Jewish woman, Antseva. She did all she could to take revenge on us for taking the room vacated after the previous dweller died – she had her own pretensions. Another room was occupied by a Jewish lady, Katsnelson, who sort of adhered to neutral policies. The common kitchen was big – about 15 square meters. An oven, stuffed with firewood, took up one-third of it. In the 1950s, they disassembled it and installed a gas stove. There was a bathroom with firewood heater. But we didn’t use it, because there was another stove in the room. We didn’t have enough firewood for all of them. We used to go to the famous Mytninskiye bath house.

In 1953, they installed steam heating and began to supply hot water and we could use our own bathroom. The corridor was long and narrow. One toilet for four families. In the morning we all had to queue up. There was a telephone, but in the Antsevs’ room. Antsev was a lawyer, and his wife didn’t permit the telephone to be in the corridor and wouldn’t let the rest of us use it. 

We had some books, but not many. At that time, acquiring books was a problem. Of Jewish books, I remember that we had a pre-Revolution edition of “History of Jewish Settlement in Russia.” We had the traditional collection of that time: Gorky, Pushkin, Lermontov – but not a big one. Mother and Father were keen on reading. Between themselves they mainly spoke Russian. But when they didn’t want us to understand, they would shift to Yiddish. My elder sister somehow understood Yiddish naturally, from birth. I was too small and not that gifted. I couldn’t comprehend what they were talking about. 

There were no holidays as such before the war. You could go on holiday as a bonus for hard work. Father used those to go to Gomel to visit his parents, whom he helped a lot, and his brothers and sisters, whom he also helped. Financially, he was the most well-to-do of them all. He used to take us for trips to Peterhoff, Pushkin, Pavlovsk. We went to Strelna, on the coast of the Finnish Gulf. Back then, picnics were very popular, and whole collectives of enterprises went together. We suffered no privations, because Father, as a managing Party member, was given an extra of 300 rubles for food. We went to restaurants and ate well. 

Around 1939, 1940, we had a maid. But Mother could only stand her for half a year. Mother was a very orderly, scrupulous person and couldn’t bear any untidiness. That’s why she brought us up by herself.

Father served his term in the army with such military commanders as Tukhachevsky and Yakir. He was awarded honorary diplomas for military service. His photos were printed in the papers of that time. In 1941, he was drafted again for training in the courses of the Higher Commanding Staff. 

During the war

Mother and two of us children were caught by the war in our summerhouse in Strelna, a resort just outside Leningrad. I was born in Strelna, where my parents spent one of the summers. In June 1941, when the Germans occupied Ligovo and were very close to Strelna, my mother, me and my elder sister went rushing along Peterhoff highway to Leningrad. There were a few traitors in our column, also trying to reach the city. One of those spies attempted to join us. He offered Mother help with her sack containing our belongings. But she felt something wrong and refused his help. Later he had been caught and he turned out to be a spy. If – God forbid! – Mother would have handed him our sack, we would have been shot as the spy’s accomplices. We ran to Leningrad and reached the center, where we lived, on foot.

From September 8, 1941, the blockade had been officially declared in Leningrad. We had no food supplies, so we began starving very soon. Mother received 125 grams of bread for each of us. In winter, when she had to go out, she put a pot of live coals at our feet to keep us warm. That’s how we survived through that terrible winter of 1942. Mother spent half a day queuing for the so-called bread. In reality, it was mill cake with glue. She used to cut each 125-gram piece into 5 parts, giving us 25 grams at a time. I had an advantage before my sister – I used to lick off the tiny crumbs of bread from the small white paper after the bread was cut, then kiss Father’s picture that stood on the table and ask: “Daddy, please, give me some more crumbs!” When Mother was leaving, she would hide the bread in a wall clock that my sister couldn’t reach. She was 7. At night, she would wake up every time Mother attempted to get inside the clock and take her share of bread. My sister would follow her every move and Mother managed to cut a little out of her 125-gram piece for us. 

When we were absolutely exhausted and Mother realized that we would not survive the blockade – we started to swell from hunger, and Mother withered so that she looked like she was 60, rather than 30 – she ran into the secretary of the Smolninsky district Party Committee. He knew our father very well. Mother told him that Father was at the front, near Stalingrad. The following day Mother went to the Committee, presented all the awards Father received before the war and asked that our family be evacuated. To give the secretary his due, he helped us to draw up papers. 

Mother knew that it was not permitted to take children across Ladoga Lake, because the temperature fell to minus-40 degrees Celsius. People died and their frozen corpses arrived on the other side. She managed to exchange what she could save of her bread ration for spirit and vodka in a hospital. Spirit and vodka always have been hard currency in this country. She used them to entreat those who were in charge of evacuation. Thus, having left behind everything – except blankets and pillows in which Mother could wrap us – we climbed into a railway van and traveled to Ladoga in terrible conditions. Once there, we were plunged into an open truck. Mother had muffled us up into all those blankets, leaving but small holes for breathing. Our aunt, the wife of father’s younger brother, her small son and a 16-year-old nephew accompanied us. The elder boy was sick and couldn’t move, so they pulled him on a sled.

This is how we crossed Ladoga and then again we were plunged into cattle railway vans and taken to Borisova Griva. Because it was very cold and the vans were not heated, I caught chilblains on my hands and legs, and, forgive me, my buttocks, for everybody had upset stomachs and the children used to empty them right into the open doors. I suffer from those chilblains until now.

In Borisova Griva we stopped to eat and wash. The live skeletons washed themselves in one and the same banya. We had some soup. Many died; because they couldn’t resist the temptation of gobbling their dinners. Immediately their bowels were twisted and they died. Mother divided our dinners into parts and gave us the soup in teaspoons, saving our lives in this way. 

From Borisova Griva we planned to go to Stalingrad to join our father. But we received a coded letter from him saying that the climate there was too bad for children, which meant that the situation near Stalingrad had become critical with the Germans approaching the city. Mother grasped it all and we headed for the Altai region, Siberia, to the village of Bystry Istok.

We have moved out of Leningrad in late February 1942, and we arrived to Bystry Istok in May 1942. We were given a small room with a hall for two families there. Mother devoted herself to agriculture. She had planted potatoes on a 10-square meter spot of land. She had protected the potatoes with tomatoes, so we had tomatoes on top and potatoes underground. Our aunt was a bookkeeper at a local dairy factory. She brought buttermilk from work – the leftovers from butter-kneading. That saved us. I was so weak that all my body was swollen and had boils. The abscesses burst, exposing naked flesh. The situation was so bad that doctors said I wouldn’t live for two weeks longer. On top of that, I caught malaria. I was lucky that a nurse from Leningrad advised Mother to have her blood transfused to me. However, they couldn’t take more than one syringe of blood from my mother; the blood just didn’t drip. But when I had that little blood transfused to my body, I started to get better. I am very thankful to Mother, that nurse and everyone who saved my life – I nearly died four times. 

Before 1944 we lived with my aunt. One could return to Leningrad only upon an invitation from relatives. My aunt had a sister in Leningrad and received an invitation. We had to stay in Siberia, without any livelihood. 

After Stalingrad, my father’s regiment was sent to the Crimea, where a part of his battalion was defending the Dzhankoi bridge and the other part was sent to provide security for the participants of Yalta conference. The Dzhankoi railway bridge on Sivash Lake was exposed to airplane attacks and was strategically significant in the Crimea. It was guarded by the regiment 1177 of the antiaircraft troops, under my father’s command. Father was highly respected by the soldiers. Once, in a conversation, he mentioned that his family was near Barnaul. It turned out that one of the soldiers was born near the place; it was his home. There were many convicts among those soldiers, they used to serve at the very front line.

The soldier was in prison for 10 years before the war, so he had not seen his relatives for 10 years. He said to Father: “If you trust me, you will let me go and see my family and I will bring yours here.” Father, violating service regulations, had taken the risk – now I can tell it. He was the battalion’s commander of staff. He gave the soldier two weeks, never telling anybody anything. Only the battalion commander was informed. On New Year’s Eve the soldier left for Barnaul.

At the same time, a fortuneteller told mother that a military man would come and take her away. We believed every little thing then, and Mother was waiting for Father. December 21 is my sister’s birthday. Mother prepared spirits for that day and kept waiting. Around that date, at night, there came a knock on the door. Mother saw a military man through a door slit. She didn’t even notice that the man was about 2 meters tall, whereas Father was of medium height. She decided he was our father. She opened the door and saw a completely frozen man. It was Alexei, sent by Father.

He had walked more than 30 kilometers in minus-30 degrees. Those who had been to Siberia would know what kind of frosts there are there! He was running all the way from the station not to his own family, but to ours, to tell Mother to prepare for the journey, and that he would take us to Father. He was absolutely frost-bitten and he was lucky that Mother had the spirits. She rubbed him, she fed him, she warmed him. Having spent two days at our place and partly recovered, he ran to see his family. He handed Mother a letter in which Father warned her to be cautious with Alexei, who had been a convict in the past, and although he fought well, she had better be on alert.

Mother was afraid that Alexei would never come back. He promised to return on the second day, but he came back only on the third. He helped Mother pack and hired a horse sled. I don’t know how he managed to do it, or where he got the money. He helped us into the sled and ran aside all the way to Barnaul railway station in a blizzard.

Alexei was a cardsharper. He taught Mother to play cards and used her as a partner. Mother couldn’t say refuse; she was afraid of him. And he said: “Keep quiet! I’ll show you everything.” When Mother tried to talk back, he asked: “What? Do you have the money to feed the children? And I promised comrade Volokh to bring his family safe and sound. Besides, I want you to look decent when we come.” He beat the whole carriage. And when Mother attempted to rebel, he said that, had the other players earned their money in a fair way, they would never have played cards. “Just do what I’m telling you,” he used to order, and Mother, too, defeated the other players. 

In three weeks we arrived to Sivash. I remember that we arrived at night. A bearded man lifted me up. And Mother said he was my father. Later, Father used to say that fortune protected him, because he always had a curl of my hair with him, which he had cut from my head without my mother’s knowledge. He carried it in his chest pocket. We lived in an earth-house. The earth-house had all the inconveniences: no stove, metal beds, mice, rats, bugs, what not! It was about 500 meters from the antiaircraft regiment. We loved in this den until late March 1945.

Because of dampness I had caught pneumonia and pleurisy there. To save my life, soldiers, standing knee-deep in cold water, collected salt in Sivash Lake. They sold it, and medicines were bought for me. After a month, Father was allowed to move us into an ordinary village house. I was taken to Simpheropol for an X-ray to check my lungs. It was there that I saw my first film in a cinema. It was “Charlie’s Aunt” – I still remember clearly. I also was on a trolley there for the first time. 

When I recovered, I started to bring my father’s dinners to his detachment. I saw antiaircraft guns. By the middle of April 1945 father’s battalion was moved to Zaporozhye, the so-called “Brezhnev area.” It was there, on the bank of the Dniper, close to a metal plant being restored by captive Germans, that Father’s battalion was quartered. Again we lived in an earth-house. At high water, the dwelling often flooded. There was Khortitsa Island close by, with fruit bases on it. Barges hauled out fruit. Sometimes barges turned over and people used to pull the fruit from the river. Soldiers used to sail to Khortitsa to buy fruit.

They took Mother sometimes, passing her off as a hospital nurse. Young guys were hungry for fruit, but had no money. So, they made big pockets inside their overcoats. They would approach the island in a stolen boat – former criminals, they were used to it – loaded their rucksacks with fruit, weighed them and, meanwhile, put some in their pockets. And their pockets could hold more then their rucksacks. When they learned how much the fruit in the rucksacks cost, they started to bargain with the sellers and deliberately did not come to an agreement, dumped the stuff, and left with heaps of fruit in their pockets. That’s how they fed us – watermelons, apples, peaches, plums.

After the war

We celebrated Victory Day, May 9, 1945, in our dugout. But adventures were not over yet. On May 11, when the Germans started the offensive in the rear again, we received a coded telegram, and were very scared. It turned out that several captive German soldiers had fled from the construction site of the metal plant, not far from us. They committed a murder in a nearby village to get some clothing and documents. Guards used to stand watch around our earth-house whenever Father was on duty. Thank God, everything ended up well.

Later, Father was allowed to send us to Zaporozhye. A lieutenant Levchenko, who was born there, served in Father’s battalion, and he took us with him. In the fall of 1945 Father was dismissed from military service and we left Zaporozhye. Father was offered a position in the army, but he was a civilian by nature. We moved to Leningrad via Moscow. 

We returned to our old room in Smolninsky district. It was plundered, but unoccupied. The neighbor who wanted to get our room kept it for herself all through the blockade. She believed we were killed or died in evacuation. She took part in the robbery. We saw our dishes at her place. There was a rich collection of records and a gramophone – these we found in the yard-keeper’s room. Some things were found in the communal services office. A few things remained intact: wine glasses and mother’s embroidery patterns. The key broke when the thieves attempted to unlock the old pre-war buffet. The robbers might have been too weak to pull it out. That buffet survived along with an old wardrobe, a sofa and a few chairs. The rest was either burned or stolen. Other neighbors, the caretaker and the chief of communal services bureau, met us quite warmly. But not the lady who tried to get our room. Unfortunately, she, being a Jew, had showed the maximum possible hostility toward us.

I went to school in 1946. I’ll remember the name of my first teacher, Anna Andreievna Schmidt, all my life. She was an ordinary woman, but she was very close to my mother. I was a very weak “blockade child.” I was admitted to school on condition that if it was too hard for me, I’d be released from studies. I already was able to read and write, so I settled down and became a regular pupil. My favorite subjects were mathematics and physics. The tutors used to say I was “technically minded.” We had a very good physics teacher, Vanichev, who liked me because I was not afraid to experiment with electricity. I can’t say I was an excellent pupil. I was not, but I was a very gifted child. I just had no room for studying at home. There were three of us studying at the same table. My elder sister’s memory was weak after bombings. Mother wouldn’t let me get up from the table before I helped my brother with his mathematics. I was very pressed for time. Apart from school, I attended a geological circle in the Palace of Pioneers. I didn’t need any private tutoring, because school studies were easy for me. 

In 1950 our good acquaintance Rusetsky, a lawyer, came one night to warn us of danger. He took away all pre-war papers in which his father’s name had been mentioned. His father was a friend of our family. A year later Rusetsky was arrested and repressed. During the search, our address was found in his papers, and Father was summoned for interrogation to the Big House. Father was dismissed from his job. Only a half-year later, friends helped him to get the position of a footwear shop superintendent out of town somewhere. During the period he was jobless, the family had no means. We were regularly visited by shoemakers who had worked under my father. They helped us out financially. But it was not without their help that he took to wine. It was really a great misfortune for our family.

I had a Jewish friend, Slava Efraimovich, in school. Then I had no idea of nationalities – Russian or Jewish. I acquired the understanding after graduation. I was among the five best mathematicians in class. At the graduation ball, the mathematics teacher and then the physics teacher said I could contact them if I did not enter an institute. They could help arrange my further study. But I didn’t see why I wouldn’t enter. Everybody was always saying that I alone of the whole class certainly would be admitted to a higher institution. They didn’t say anything about my naiveté. 

Naturally, I was not admitted. I got an excellent mark at the first exam – written mathematics. But in oral mathematics I received “satisfactory,” having heard the following words behind my back: “Pluck this one. We’ve got enough of them already.” And then I understood what I was.

Because I wasn’t admitted to the Institute of Water Transport, my teacher helped me enter the Radiotechnical College in 1956, the so-called “protection department,” consisting of culture- and sports-minded students. That college sent me to the Sixth International Youth Festival in Moscow. I participated in gymnastics performances and I was the leader of our team. The costumes were very interesting; it is still considered a significant achievement. First, the girls would come out in blue tennis dresses and exercise with hoops. Suddenly, we would squat and boys would stand up. Then the boys would squat and we would rise, but in pink dresses! The stadium was stunned. We wore pink dresses were under the blue ones. When we squatted, we would unfasten snaps at our shoulders and the pink blouse and skirt would fall. The effect was extraordinary. I have an honorary diploma for that performance. We also went in for skiing, cycling, a little of everything. 

I was a member of the Komsomol, because all the roads were blocked outside of it. They were blocked anyway, but more so without the Komsomol. At that time, one was scared to death at the very thought of showing his religious interests or going to a synagogue, so I had been to one for the first time when I was a student, on Simchat Torah. That was around 1962. I instigated for the whole group to flee from the lectures, so all of us – Russians, Tartars, Ukrainians – went to the merry holiday of Simchat Torah.

After graduation from college in 1957 I was qualified as a draftsman and designer. The college directed me to work in a scientific research institute of the military industry where I received a pass with a second grade of secrecy. I found myself in a secret department. You can understand what relation one can have to Judaism having access to secrecy matters. For example, my brother had a pen pal in Czechoslovakia. That correspondence was discontinued because of me, as we learned later. I was engaged in public work. I was the leader of the sector of culture in our Komsomol organization. 

In the summer of 1958 I tried to enter two institutes at once: the North-West Polytechnical Institute, where I passed all examinations with good marks in July, and the Bonch-Bruevich Institute of Electrical Engineering. There I got excellent marks for all exams except Russian language. Some adventure was waiting for me there. I attended the preparatory course under my friend’s name. She was too lazy to study, and I wouldn’t be admitted because of my nationality. I did very well and they even wanted to admit me without examinations. But then I burst into tears and confessed that my family name was Volokh, rather than Gavrilkina. The professors said that had I confessed earlier, I would have been admitted without examinations. But I passed my exams to the evening department of radio communication and broadcasting. I studied in the Bonch-Bruevich Institute for two years. All of a sudden, during one examination session, my eyes failed due to acute astigmatism and I had to move to the external studies department. I graduated from the Institute in 1965, when I had a 9-month-old baby. Of 200 students admitted to the external studies department, only I graduated. And within the scheduled time, too. I took a half-year leave only once – to take care of my newborn baby. My daughter was born on April 6, 1965, and I had to defend my diploma in June. So, after nine months I had defended my diploma. 

Marriage life and children

I got married in 1963. I met my future husband in 1960 at a ball dedicated to the 8th of March holiday in the Palace of Culture named after Kirov. A drunken guy tried to pick me up. He was handsome, but I can’t stand drunks and just couldn’t get rid of him. When he invited me to dance, I just turned my back on him and danced with the first man I came across. I never even looked at his face and asked him to dance. The man was my future husband. He was thin, small, frail, but a Jew! Boris Yankelevich, as I learned later. About his surname he said, as a joke, that I wouldn’t ever guess what it was: Khokhlov. He courted me for three years. In the meantime, frankly, I had other admirers. But he proved to be insistent and won me with his attitude, intrinsic charm and ability to get tickets to any performance I would fancy. How on earth he managed to do it, I still don’t understand. In 1963 Jerry Scott, the singer, came to Leningrad for the first time and tickets were impossible to obtain, but still he did that, and that determined my fate. I did agree!

My husband was born in December 1937. His father, Yankel Khokhlov, born in 1905, lived in Ukraine in the village of Khokhlovka – hence their family name. I do not know anything about his mother. 

He worked in the same company, but in another department, in a laboratory. Later he had me transferred to his lab. He was a student of the Polytechnical Institute. He weighed a little over 40 kilograms then, one meter sixty three centimeters high. But the inherent charm, wits and sociability make him attractive to this day. 

Our daughter Elena knew that she was a Jew from childhood. She encountered everyday anti-Semitism in school. When she was in the eighth grade, the geography teacher, quite a respected person, delivered a lecture explaining that Jews didn’t take part in the Great Patriotic War. My daughter is a girl with principles, so she approached the teacher after the class and said that she didn’t agree; her grandfather, a Jew, fought all through the war in the front lines and had been at Stalingrad. The teacher said she hadn’t realized my daughter was Jewish. Then Lena asked: “And if you knew I was Jewish, would you have given that lecture?” The teacher said, “I would have sent you out of the classroom and given the lecture anyway – such was the order by the Party organization.”

My daughter was an excellent pupil, the best in her class. She had been threatened for this, and once she even received a classmate’s note saying that if she was going to do so well, they would beat her. I didn’t keep silent either. I read that note at a general meeting of parents and said that if a hair fell from the head of my daughter, I wouldn’t write petitions, I would just kill that child! Yes, I’ll make my own justice. They listened to me quietly. After that, my daughter didn’t have any problems in her class. 

To improve our living conditions, I used to go to the Malkov market and Sennaya Square, the meeting places for those who wanted to exchange their apartments. At last I managed to change our room for two rooms in a house, subject to general reconstruction a year later. Because we were Jewish, we, a family of four, were given a two-room apartment with adjacent rooms on the fifth floor in a house without a lift, in spite of the fact that my mother-in-law was 80.

Having finished school in 1982, my daughter entered the Leningrad Institute of Construction Engineering. She graduated in 1988 and was granted an honorary diploma. Her specialty is construction architecture. She worked in the “Promstroiproject” Institute. That was during perestroika. Many Jews were thinking of leaving the country. That’s why she, having married a Jewish boy Mark Korenblit, left with him for Israel in 1990.

As a loving mother, I was very upset. She left home for the first time in her life. Due to my “secret” job I couldn’t join them. When my bosses learned about my daughter’s departure, they lowered the secrecy grade of my whole laboratory, and I had a lot of trouble. They couldn’t simply dismiss me because I had the secret seal, which I could give back only after dismissal. I was treated badly, but I wouldn’t quit the job. I knew that if I did, I wouldn’t be able to get another. I only had only three years left to retirement. As a “blockade child,” I had the right to retire two years early, that is, when I was 53. In the end, they even had to promote me as a valuable executive. Having worked for 25 years at that enterprise, I retired in 1993. 

I was very happy when I heard of the fall of the Berlin Wall. My family and I realized that the Jewish wall also collapsed at that time – the wall separating the Soviet Union and Israel. This opened the way for us to get to know our “promised land.” Our circle of acquaintances became broader and included a lot of people who had been there. Lecturers began to disclose more truthful information about Israel. While the USSR had turned this country into a foul place in 80 years, Israel managed to transform deserts into flourishing gardens in 50. We have recovered our spirits. We attend performances dedicated to Jewish holidays. On Sukkot and Hanukah, we go to the synagogue. We enjoy Jewish music. With its sounds, my heart melts and my soul rejoices.

Magda Frkalova
Bratislava
Slovakia
Interviewer: Zuzana Slobodnikova
Date of interview: May - June 2006

Mrs. Magdalena Frkalova is a very vital lady, who has decided to give witness about her life and about what she and her immediate family had to live through during the years of the Holocaust. As one of the few that survived the horrors of Fascist activity in Slovakia, she undertook to talk to us about it. And not only it. Also about many other aspects of her family and civilian life. This interview is a description of Jewish life during the 20th century in southern and western Slovakia in the family of a liberally-oriented Jewish farmer, his wife, son and daughter Magdalena - the storyteller.

My family background
Growing up
Moving to Bolmut
During the war
Our return
Married life
Glossary

My family background

My father's father was named Leopold Wohlstein. He was from the village of Krnca, which is located near Topolcany. He was born in 1861, and lived his life around Topolcany. Later he moved along with Grandma Wohlsteinova to the village of Klizske Hradiste, where my father Viliam was born. I don't remember my grandfather much, because he died at around 70 years of age, at the beginning of the 1930s, and at that time I was only five or six years old.

Unfortunately I don't remember my grandmother's name, even now, when I can see her as if she was in front of me. She was born in 1877. She was an excellent woman. She was of shorter build, but as she used to say to us, that was due to her age. When she was young, she really had been taller. She had a slender build and had graying hair. After my grandfather died, she moved to Sladkovicovo, and lived there with her daughter Matilda until 1944. At that time both she and Matilda were deported. As I later found out, when they arrived at Auschwitz, they were both immediately sent into the gas.

I don't know anything about how my grandparents' marriage came about. I'm assuming that it was an arranged marriage. I don't even know exactly in what year and where they were married, but they ended up having four children. Three sons and a daughter. The boys were named Moric [pron. Moritz], Dezider, Armin and Viliam. Their daughter, as I've already mentioned, was named Matilda. All of my grandparents' children later got married, even though in the end only the three sons had children. Moric had a daughter, Eva, Dezider had two sons named Laco [Ladislav] and Ivan, and Viliam - that is, my father - had a daughter, Magda, so me, and a son, Imrich.

My grandparents, the Wohlsteins, took great care that their children would get an appropriate education. All the boys finished agricultural school in the Hungarian town of Miskolc, because in those days there wasn't any such school in Slovakia. Later all three of them made a living as agricultural superintendents on large farms. Aunt Matilda finished council school and later had a small general store in Sladkovicovo. I know that in my grandparents' family they bought books and had a relatively rich library.

I'd say that financially as well as socially, they belonged to the middle class. This is also why they for example didn't like it when Aunt Matilda fell in love with a Jewish butcher. They didn't allow her to marry him, because to them he seemed inferior and not good enough for their only daughter. So they put her together with a certain Goldstein. The end result was one unhappy marriage. Goldstein turned out to be a relatively frivolous person, who wasn't exactly overly keen on working. No children were born of that marriage. With Uncle Armin it was similar. He was my father's younger brother, who was born in 1895 and in 1930 married a certain Zlatica Fischerova. They lived in Sladkovicovo, and they didn't have any children either.

But I'll return to my grandparents, the Wohlsteins. As far as I know, they weren't overly religious, even though I know that while she lived in Sladkovicovo, my grandmother and her daughter observed certain holidays and regulations. I know that on Saturday evening they'd light candles. They used to say that it was for their parents. And then they, of course, observed and celebrated the High Holidays, like Jewish Easter - Passover and the Day of Atonement - Yom Kippur. I also know that they had a kosher household 1. But I also know that they weren't Orthodox 2.

If I had to provide a simple description of my grandparents, I'd say that they were ordinary people, like anyone else. They dressed like the majority of the population, and acted like them, too. They knew Slovak, Hungarian and German. In those days, being trilingual was normal for many people. Even though I think that their Slovak was the best, and was probably their native tongue.

As I've already mentioned, there were five of us grandchildren, but I think that as the oldest one, I was slightly favored by my grandma. But she loved us all very much. She used to buy us chocolate and took very good care of all of us. She was a very good woman, and I have only the most beautiful memories of her. My grandma's house, where we used to go visit her, was close to the railway station in Sladkovicovo. Her sons had the house built for her, she lived there with my aunt, and they had a little general store there. The house had three rooms. It was furnished very nicely and in a relatively modern fashion, because my grandma already had a bathroom. Otherwise I'm sure that this house didn't differ from other houses built at that time.

If I had to say something about my mother's parents, I'd say that they were very good and kind people. My grandfather was named Moric Haas and my grandmother was named Hana Haasova, née Grünfeldova. As far as dates and various events regarding these grandparents go, I know less than about the Wohlsteins. They lived together in Horna Ves. That's a little village not far from Topolcany. They had a general store.

My grandfather was this mustachioed, gray man, but he didn't wear a beard or even payes. I know that they weren't Orthodox, but how religious he and Grandma were, that I really don't know. All I can with certainty say is that like the Wohlsteins, they also had a kosher household, but to what extent they followed regulations and to what extent they observed various holidays, that I can't say. I know that when my grandmother was 60, she didn't have any gray hair at all. She wore her hair in a bun. She was of smaller build, but very adroit. Simply this spry little person.

She loved us very much. When we visited them, Grandma would always bake excellent cakes. When my brother and I were staying with them during summer holidays, we'd wake up in the morning to the smell of freshly baked cakes that Grandma would bake us for breakfast. As I've already said, she and Grandpa were both excellent people. But in 1942 they were both deported to a concentration camp, and we never met again.

My grandparents had five children. Four daughters and one son. The girls were named Maria - that was my mother and also their oldest daughter, then there was Laura, Olga, Zlatica and a son, Aladar. My grandparents the Haases were also particular about their children getting a proper education. They had a library at home - they bought books and their children attended school. My mother finished council school 3.

My mother's sister Laura got married to a certain Michal Engel. She had two children with him. A daughter, Eva, and a son, Ladislav. Another of my mother's sisters, Olga, married Moric Pal, and they lived together in Subcarpathian Ruthenia 4, in Berehov. They had one daughter, who was also named Eva. My aunt's husband perished during the Holocaust, but she and their daughter Eva managed to survive Auschwitz, where they were from 1943 until liberation. Eva was ten back then, and as if by miracle they both managed to survive that hell on earth. You see, one woman, who was from around Trnava and knew our family, used to help them there. She was there as a block leader ['Blockältester': person in charge of one barrack, or 'block'] and so could help them here and there. My mother's third sister, Zlatica, was named Wolfska after her wedding. She lived in Bratislava, and her husband Vojtech worked for the Phoenix insurance company. They also had one daughter. Her name was Zuzka.

Grandma as well as Grandpa were also trilingual. They spoke Slovak, Hungarian and German. I think that in their case, too, Slovak was their native language. More or less the same, of course, went for their five children.

Growing up

My parents were named Maria Haasova and Viliam Wohlstein. They met at some ball in Topolcany. After a relatively short acquaintance, they were married in 1924. I think that it wasn't the best choice in their lives, because their marriage wasn't a very successful one. They used to argue, and we children were then very unhappy. Indeed, there were even times when my brother and I were quite desperate, and we were even thinking about whom we'd live with, if our parents happened to get divorced. My brother was four years younger than I, and he started with it. He was crying and said: 'Who will we go with? Where will we go when they get divorced?' It really marked our childhood quite a bit. I've got to say, that we weren't very happy. But in the end our parents didn't get divorced and remained together, until the Holocaust separated them.

My mother was a housewife. I think that she was relatively satisfied with being at home, taking care of the household and raising the children. My father supported us by working as a superintendent at various farms.

His first job was at Zlatna na Ostrove. There he worked as a superintendent of one large property. Our mother lived there with him of course. That's also where I was born in 1925, and four years later also my brother, Imrich. I didn't attend nursery school, because our mother was able to take care of us at home, as she wasn't employed anywhere. I don't remember much of the years spent in Zlatna na Ostrove, because I only attended my first three grades of people's school there, and then we moved somewhere else.

I've got to say that life there was nice. We never had any conflicts with neighbors or felt any signs of anti-Semitism. As I've said, I also started attending school here. I attended Slovak people's school here. It was a one- room schoolhouse. From Grade 1 to Grade 5, and there were about two to four students in each grade. There were so few of us because Zlatna na Ostrove was a relatively strong Hungarian village, and Hungarians were in the majority. Even though I've got to say that we never had any problems with them because of it. We took it as a matter of fact.

Now that I've started on school, I can't but recall the teacher who gave me excellent foundations as far as studies go. It was our teacher Mr. Klacansky, and as a teacher he was simply excellent. While I was in school, I liked all subjects. If I'm to be honest, I was better at the humanities, like for example geography or history. In math, I was a little weaker. But never bad. I was always among the best students in school.

After my first three years at Slovak people's school in Zlatna na Ostrove, we moved with our parents to Dolne Krskany. Our father had bought his own farm there, and farmed on it. But the soil there wasn't too fertile, and so after some three years we moved away from Krskany. But before I go on, I'll mention one incident that's remained in my memory all these years. My brother didn't attend school in Parovce, like most of the local Jewish children. We attended school in Nitra. A Protestant school. And once on the way there, it happened that children started yelling at us: 'Jew! Smelly Jew!' It truly didn't sit well with us, and I can't forget it to this day.

Moving to Bolmut

As I already began saying, after about three years, we moved again. My father again began working as a farm superintendent. This time we ended up near Trnava. The farm was named Bolmut, and might've been about five kilometers away from the town. It was a large farm, 340 hectares, and my father employed a relatively large amount of people on it to run it properly. But more on that later. Now I'd still like to finish with regards to my education.

After arriving at Bolmut, my parents registered me at high school in Trnava. It was a Catholic high school, and besides other things, there were nuns teaching there too. I've got to say that they were very good women, and truly never showed anything against Jews. But I can't say that with regards to my classmates. It would happen that my classmates would drop some sort of remark, or that they'd badmouth you. But they never said it to your eyes!

That was in 1939. By that I mean the year I started attending Catholic high school, and also the year that our father had us all converted. As I've already mentioned, he was a liberal - as far as Judaism as such went. He himself said that already our grandfather, so his father, should have had him converted before 1918. He quite wanted for us to in time have Catholic families and for our children to be more inclined to Catholicism.

I'll end my school years with the year 1941. That year they expelled me as well as many other Jewish students from school 5. Because my parents wanted me to have at least some sort of an education, I then began attending this girls' school, which was devoted to preparing young ladies for family life. There we learned to sew, cook and other household work. It was this family school. Preparation for married life.

My brother, though, attended a Jewish school. He was a very good student, and was very good at school. Imagine that he had a huge liking for Latin. He had a big talent for languages and especially enjoyed Latin. He was able to communicate in it with his teacher, too, and was happy about that. I've also got to add that both my brother and I took private English lessons. For those times that was relatively uncommon, but our parents paid great attention to our education, and tried to give us everything. Our teacher was one lady from Trnava, but I don't remember her name anymore. Besides that, we also attended music school. I played the piano, and Imrich the violin. He was really very good at it. He was a very talented boy indeed.

Besides this, we also had a relatively rich library at home, where we had a number of books of various genres. And of course our family bought newspapers. I know that they were Slovak periodicals, but I don't remember their names anymore. We also played sports. We used to go skiing and later, after the war, I did sports as well.

As far as our stance as such was concerned, we were a Slovak family. As I've already said, it was the mother tongue of both my parents. They also spoke Hungarian between themselves. And that mainly when they wanted to conceal something from us, or when they didn't want us to know about it. They thought we didn't understand it, but my brother and I had somehow caught on to a bit of it from them, and learned Hungarian, and understood everything they said.

As far as religion goes, my father was a liberal. As far as politics went, he was oriented more to the right. He always swore at the Communists, and those opinions and ideas of theirs didn't appeal to him at all. My mother, she wasn't interested in that all. She didn't give a damn about it.

From a religious perspective, we were this interesting family. We didn't have a kosher household. But my brother was circumcised. But no bar mitzvah. On Saturday my mother would also light candles, and she and my father attended synagogue for the High Holidays like Yom Kippur and Passover. But if I'm to be honest, we weren't very religious. And my father didn't even put any effort into it.

Now a little more about that farm in Bolmut that my father used to manage. It measured 340 hectares, and we had eight pairs of horses and fifteen cows there. We didn't have those fifteen cows only for meat, but mainly for milk. My mother, along with one maidservant, made butter from it. He even had a centrifuge for the butter, so we were properly equipped for it. The remaining milk that wasn't used for butter would be taken to a dairy in Trnava.

My father employed one farmer who was his right-hand man, and then several helpers - these were called 'bireshes.' There were eight families of them, and they also lived on the farm. But that wasn't all. During the spring, when grain and other things were being sown, and also in the summer, during harvest time, my father employed seasonal workers. These seasonal workers were also housed on the farm, and there could even have been as many as 30 of them. On the farm we cultivate grain: wheat, rye, corn and other things. We also had a large onion field, where we grew onions. We also grew beets, which we then sold to a sugar refinery.

My brother and I of course had to help out on the farm. Mainly in the garden, which belonged to the house. We didn't like doing it, and often complained that we didn't even have a summer vacation like other kids. We couldn't go anywhere as long as there was work at home in the garden, or on the farm. And that was almost always. I, for example, helped out with the thresher. The grain would be thrown into it, and it would separate the grains from the chaff; I'd keep track of the amounts. How many sheaves had been thrown into it, and how much grain we had. Later, when I was older, I helped with the payroll for the workers. I'd record how much who worked, and based on that I'd then calculate his wages, which I'd then pay him.

If I'm to be honest, we were a relatively well-off family. We had a car, even though in 1941 the Guardists 6 confiscated it. And then that hell concerning Jews and their progressive transports to the camps 7 began.

During the war

In 1942 I received a summons to Trnava. It was the very first transport which was supposed to leave, supposedly for work. But I refused. I somehow simply didn't believe that we were supposed to go someplace just to work. You see, already at that time I'd heard various rumors that there were camps for Jews in Germany, and that similar ones were being built in Poland as well. It was said that people were dying in them, and that they were even murdering them there. And that wasn't something I wanted. So I decided that I'd run away. My mother was, of course, against it at first, because she thought that by doing so I'd blacken the entire family, and that I'd harm them with it. But my father, who loved me very much, was for my leaving.

So in the end I left for Subcarpathian Ruthenia, to live with my aunt, my mother's sister Olga. I hid at her place for almost a year, and on the cusp of the years 1942 and 1943 I had to return, because the regime had changed there, too, and they'd begun to persecute Jews. Once someone gave my godfather a tip that they'd be rounding up Jews during the night, and so they hid me at the vicarage. There I spent the night, and right the next day I had to set out for home. But my trip home wasn't easy. As I was traveling without any papers, it was very dangerous and difficult. It was already 1943, and the situation was more than complicated.

My godfather drove me to the border, where I was supposed to make contact with some nuns. But they were very reluctant to help, and showed no interest in me at all. That was in Pavlovce [in the district of Vranov nad Toplou], when I asked them how I was to get home. They told me I could simply get on the bus, or train, and that I'd be home right away. That it wasn't a problem. That didn't seem right to me, because before that my godfather had warned me that without papers I shouldn't use public transport at all. He'd warned me that there were checkpoints everywhere, and they could easily catch me. But I was young, and took the nuns' advice.

I got onto the train. That's something that I really shouldn't have done. At the Slovak-Hungarian border the police caught me. They were threatening to hand me over to the Germans. That's something I didn't want to happen at any cost, and so I tried to wriggle out of it somehow. Luckily they were changing shifts, and one of the new policemen on the Slovak side knew my father. He was from around Trnava, and was very indebted to my father, who'd helped him more than once. He told me that if I succeeded to get away from the policeman on the Hungarian side, he'd help me on the Slovak side, and would help me hide somewhere and get me home somehow.

The problem with the police there was that they weren't able to communicate with each other. The Slovak didn't speak Hungarian, and the Hungarian on the other hand didn't know even a word of Slovak. So I jumped in and somehow convinced the Hungarian policeman to hand me over to the Slovak one. By some miracle I succeeded, and for one week I found a hiding place with one pharmacist in Pavlovce. I was shut up in the bathroom, so that no one would see me. That Slovak policeman arranged that for me. In the meantime, he'd called my father to tell him about me, and they were trying to get me away from there.

At that time my father hadn't yet been deported, as he had a presidential exception 8, but on the other hand, he wasn't able to move about Slovakia freely. Each Jew had his assigned territory that he couldn't leave. So my father decided that he'd send one traveling salesman for me. He was this salesman that offered and sold goods all over Slovakia. My father gave him 20,000 crowns to pay the Slovak policeman for helping me, and also for finding me a hiding place. [Editor's note: The value of one Slovak crown during the time of the Slovak State (1939-1945) was equal to 31.21 mg of gold. The exchange rate between the German mark and the Slovak crown was artificially set at 1:11.]

The salesman took me with him and brought me home. I won't say any more about the hardships of this trip, but will just say that he was one lewd man, who made passes at me, and I didn't have a good feeling from it. Upon my return home, everything had changed. On the one hand, my parents were glad to have me home, but on the other hand my mother was afraid of what would happen if someone found out that I'd returned now. She was afraid, and so wanted me to leave as soon as possible, so that I wouldn't cause them any more problems than necessary.

So again my father took care of it. He knew this one railway worker in Bratislava, who lived on what today is Sancova Street. I moved into his home. To be less conspicuous, I had my hair bleached blond. I started working for a company named Vatra. It was a company that owned forests and sold wood to Germany. There I filled in various invoices and did office work. But before I could have a job, I had to have papers. False ones, of course. The railway man I lived with put me in touch with the forger. He told me where I'd find him and how much it cost. The forger then made me false papers in the name Polakovicova, and in them it said that I was from Snina. He left me my first name, so that I wouldn't get confused. I don't know anymore exactly how much he asked for it back then, but I know that it was quite a lot of money.

Once I was walking along the street in Bratislava, and met a former classmate of mine. And despite my bleached hair, she recognized me right away. 'You're Magda, aren't you? You're Jewish, aren't you? And you've got bleached hair?' Really, I'll tell you, some of those girls were capable of being quite mean...

After some time, however, the neighbors began asking the railway man and his family who I was and what I was. The situation began to be dangerous, for them as well as for me. One family friend of ours advised me that the wisest thing would be for me to move. So I decided that I'd find something through the classified ads. At that time Bratislava was already being bombed, and many people were leaving the city and renting out their apartments. So I answered one ad and rented a room on Grosslingova Street. So there I then lived alone. But only for a very short time. Because in the meantime, they'd caught my father.

As I've already said, my father had a presidential exception. That meant that he was at home for the time being, and not taken away to a camp somewhere, but neither was he able to freely move about wherever he wanted. Well, and one day my father set out for Trnava. He wanted to see what was new, what was going on. Someone there recognized him, and denounced him. Right away, people flocked to him and that was it! They then escorted him to Banska Bystrica to the Gestapo, and there they gave him a terrible beating. I heard this from one friend of ours afterwards, how it had all happened. When they'd suddenly caught my father, my mother and brother took fright and went to hide out in Hlohovec, at the house of one of our maids who'd worked for us for years. But they didn't stay in Hlohovec for long, because at that time they were already putting up posters everywhere that whoever was hiding Jews or partisans should report it and hand them over. And our maid was afraid. She preferred to not have them there.

So my mother decided that they'd come to Bratislava to be with me, that I'd take care of them, that I had to help them. When they arrived, my brother had bloody hands and calluses from the work the woman in Hlohovec had made him do. Because she also had beet fields, and the poor guy had to work in them. When they arrived, his hands were completely mangled. So I quickly thought about what to do. I took my brother to the state hospital and they dressed his wounds. He went to have them treated every day until they improved. But they were healing slowly, and my mother wasn't trying to be inconspicuous in any way. She was wearing a folk costume, and was drawing unnecessary attention with it. And she wouldn't take it off for anything, because she claimed that it was protecting her!

My friends had advised me that we shouldn't all live together. So I found them a sublet in one house near the castle. My mother wanted me to take care of her and my brother, it being my obligation. It was a relatively expensive place. Everywhere hung posters that whoever turns in a Jew will get 10,000 crowns, and one lady found my mother suspicious. She was constantly walking around in that outfit, wasn't working anywhere, and lived in that expensive apartment along with my brother. So she informed on them. A Guardist along with another man came to see my mother at the apartment. They interrogated my mother and everything would perhaps have turned out fine, if they wouldn't have made my brother take off his pants. They saw that he was circumcised, and immediately all was betrayed. It was immediately clear that their papers were false, and that they were Jews.

Then everything took place quickly. At the Gestapo they asked my mother where her husband and her other children were. So she told them that her husband had already been taken away, and that her daughter was in Bratislava. She didn't know where I lived, but my brother knew. I'd told him, because my mother had pressured both of us, that if we were going to keep everything from her, she'd jump under a streetcar. So my brother softened me up me and I told him my address. I shouldn't have done that. They would never have found me. But at the Gestapo they began to beat him, and he told them where I lived. It was already nighttime, and I heard some steps coming up the stairs. I heard the jackboots kicking. It was midnight, and I knew that they were looking for me. I'll never forget that date: it was 13th October 1944.

After being jailed at the Gestapo in Bratislava, my mother, my brother Imrich and I were transported to Sered 9. That was 15th October; we'd been in jail for two days. At the time my brother was only 15. He was still this half-child. We were in the Sered camp for only two days, because the transports were constantly departing from there. So they sent all three of us to Auschwitz. But there they didn't accept us. They loaded us into cattle wagons again and sent us to Berlin. In Berlin they separated us. The men and women were separated. That's the last time in my life that I saw my brother Imrich. It was horrible.

We were in the wagons like that for eight days. The conditions were horrible. Many of our fellow sufferers already went insane on the way there. Older people were already dying during the trip. Some people threw us bread as the train passed by. At the border, when the train was standing still, they stuck a piece of bread through these little windows, and that's all we had to eat. From Berlin they transported us by train to the Ravensbrück concentration camp 10. There our suffering continued. It was a concentration camp, where they also cremated. Every night the chimneys there were burning. Dead bodies were being burned in ovens, and there was a terribly sweet smell. Once, a transport from Hungary arrived. People arrived on that train in desolate shape, barefoot, and right away they sent them to their deaths.

My mother and I were together the whole time. When we arrived there, she was only 40, and so they left us together. I tried to survive in all sorts of ways. I ate everything they gave us. Soup, if you could call it that. They made it from turnips, beets or potato peels, and there was even sand in it. But if you want to survive, you don't care. I terribly wanted to live, I wanted to survive and so I also forced my mother to eat as well. But she didn't try very hard. At the end, she weighted only about 40 kilos! It was truly terrible in the camps. Terrible.

The German women that were guarding us were horrible. I tried to speak as little German as possible, so as to not draw unnecessary attention to myself. But it also happened that once as I was working a German woman looked at my hands and said to me: 'You've wearing nail polish? Where did you get it?' But I of course wasn't wearing any nail polish, my nails were simply shiny. So that's also what I told her. She beat my hands and fingers. Or it also happened, and fairly often, that they'd unwrap their food in front of us, and would parade in front of us and show us how they're eating fresh bread and other things. It was horrible, because we didn't have a bite to eat, and were very starved.

But alas, we prisoners also didn't get along very well with each other. The older women, who'd been there from 1942, were already these sort of block leaders, and for example issued food rations. So the ones that wanted to push their way to the front, or asked for more food, would be beaten, even with the ladle they were using to dole out the food. As I've already said, the food there was terrible, and in short supply. I know that for Christmas we got a piece of bread, and I also know that I found it terribly delicious there. Well, and for New Year's we got a meatball.

For New Year's 1945, the Germans made up a story that we'd been singing. But that wasn't true at all. We had no desire to even think about anything like singing. They punished us, of course. They had us stand for roll call for two days straight. It was very cold, and snowing. No one had any socks, nor good shoes, not to mention clothing. My only luck was that I had wooden shoes, which protected me a bit against the freezing cold and damp. Otherwise these roll calls took place every day. Many, many people couldn't handle it and died right there. The cold was terrible, we had no hair, because they'd shaved us bald as soon as we'd arrived, or cut our hair very short, and the clothes we had were useless. They were horrible.

One day they sent us on a death march 11. We walked for several days. We were walking to some harbor town. Those that couldn't handle it were dying on the way, or the Germans themselves were killing them when they saw that they were exhausted. They were throwing their bodies just like that into the ditch by the road. We got little rest, and when we did, they stopped somewhere by a swamp. We were so exhausted that we lay down even there.

But one night the SS soldiers disappeared, and all we found were their uniforms left at the side of the road. They took things that the prisoners had had with them, and ran away. They knew that the Allies were approaching, and didn't want to be caught. So in the end we never got anywhere. Lucky for us, too. Because later, some decades after, I once read in the paper that those that arrived in the harbor towns were burned alive.

So that's how our stay in Ravensbrück ended. So we set out for home. I weighed around 50 kilos, and my mother was emaciated, and had only around 40 kilos. But nothing worked anywhere. We didn't know what to do. So 14 of us got together and set out for home. In one German town they stopped us, that we couldn't go any further, as the Russians were approaching. As long as we were meeting American soldiers, they weren't taking any notice of us. But when the Russians arrived, they wouldn't leave us alone. On our way home, we passed many empty houses, and we spent the night in one of them. Some Russians arrived as well. So right away I told my mother that we should go sleep up in the attic, in the straw. It's a good thing we did. Because in the morning, when we woke up, the others told us that those disgusting Russian soldiers had raped them.

The Russians then told us that we couldn't continue onwards because we were spreading typhus. That was of course not true. But they needed someone to work for them. There were 14 of us women, and they had us sew uniforms for them. About four of us knew how to use a sewing machine, and while we sewed the uniforms, the rest sewed on buttons and so on. Well, it was quite bad. What else can I say.

These Russians were a motorized brigade and were soon supposed to go home. So as the leader of our group of women, I went to the captain and asked him if we couldn't go along with them. He told me that they'd only be going to the border, and so I asked him if they wouldn't at least take us that far. They took us to As. There at the border they asked us right away if we were Czechs. But we weren't. We were all only Slovak women. They said that Czechs had priority as far as getting to Prague went. But when no one else arrived, they ended up taking us to Prague. From Prague it was then relatively easy. We got to Slovakia, to Bratislava, and from there my mother and I returned home to Bolmut.

Our return

Our return home was a disillusionment. Everything had been stolen. An Aryanizer was living there with his family, and he was evidently not enthused about our return. [Aryanization: the transfer of Jewish stores, businesses, companies, etc. to the ownership of another, non-Jewish person - the Aryanizer.] We didn't even have any proper clothes, just what we had from the concentration camp. So we finally remembered that while he'd still been at home, my father had delivered some beets to the sugar refinery, and didn't have them pay him right away, but told the director to pay him after the war, so that we'd have something to live on. My father was a very foresighted and practical person. He thought of everything. So my mother and I set out to see the director. He paid us the money immediately, and we bought some decent clothing with it.

We moved to Nitra. My mother and I rented an apartment there. We were waiting for my father and brother to return. Like others, we also pasted up their pictures at the railway and bus station. Several people contacted us, who claimed that they recognized my father and told us various versions of his death. But in the end neither my father nor my brother returned.

I found out what had happened to my brother only ten years ago. After they'd separated us in Berlin, men and women separately, his path continued on to some coal mines. I don't know exactly where, but I do know that he was digging in a mine. In 1945, when the English were bombing Germany, they thought that there were Germans hiding in those mines, and bombed them. That's where Imrich died.

We had several pieces of information about my father, but they differed. There were also three versions of his death. The first said that he was working in that 'Sonderkommando' [commando responsible for carrying the dead out of the gas chambers and their cremation] in Auschwitz, where he was burning corpses, and that after three months they killed him as well. The second version was also that he'd been in Auschwitz, but that when the Russians were already approaching, the Germans drove them out on a death march, and he wasn't able to handle it and died during its course. The third version said that my father had asked some SS soldier for water, who saw that my father had gold teeth. He told him to give him the gold teeth and he'd give him water. My father didn't give them to him, and so he killed him. So that's it. I don't know which version is the truth. Maybe the truth is somewhere in between.

Back again to our return. We were on the one hand immensely happy that we'd survived, but as we were waiting for my father and brother, we started realizing that they probably hadn't survived. People's reactions to our return home weren't the best either. They were amazed at how come it was that we'd returned. They acted all awkward. It happened, for example, that I saw one girl in my own clothes that I'd had before the war, and I had to wear the ones from the concentration camp...

After some time I moved from Nitra to Bratislava. During the 1945/46 school year, I applied to a high school on Grosslingova Street. I wanted to finish my education and graduate. In 1947 I succeeded. I left two years for my studies, because I was afraid that it would have been too much for me in one year. I was quite badly off back then; I was sad for my father and brother and was still grieving for them.

After graduation in 1947, I wanted to take pharmacy. But my family and mainly my mother didn't like the idea. She wanted me to get married as soon as possible and take care of her. Because she didn't want to go to work, even though she was only a bit over 40 and was healthy. That made me so angry that I decided that I'd marry the first man who'd take care of me financially, and enable me to study. I also very much wanted to be independent.

Married life

In Piestany I met one Moravian man from Kromeriz. He was 14 years older than I. It wasn't long before I married. So in 1947 I married Frantisek Ferbert. Our wedding was an ordinary one. Just at city hall. Neither one of us insisted on a Jewish ceremony, though we were both Jews. He was a Jew, and he'd also survived a concentration camp. He was a leather salesman. But our marriage was a mistake. In the end, he was against me studying. But I arranged it despite his objections, and graduated from Pharmacy at a university in Brno. That was from 1948 to 1953. During my studies there, I met my second husband. He was also studying in Brno, law and music science. But we were just friends. There was nothing more between us. He knew that I was married, and our relationship was just a friendship.

My husband and I had two children while we were married. About a year after the wedding we had a son. That was in 1948, and I named him after my father, Viliam. Next our daughter was born in 1956, and we gave her the name Marta. My husband had this period when he wanted to leave with me and the children for Israel. He was quite pro-Israeli. But I didn't want to go. How would we have lived? After all, he had no trade.

He was this odd fish. He always left everything to me. I took care of the children, of the household, of everything. All he was interested in was soccer. He always said that after all I'd manage, and that I'd arrange everything. Well, and the final straw was when my mother moved to Kromeriz to live with us. As always, she didn't help me, but my husband. She always took his side, and that upset me greatly. She always had to be right. We cooked what she wanted, and everything had to be according to her. Many times I didn't have the strength to argue with her. At that time I was already working in a pharmacy, and it was shift work. I either worked from morning till evening, or had the night shift. When I was finally at home, I was glad to be able to be with the children. I used to take them to the park and for walks. My husband of course didn't join us, because how would it look if he walked around with a carriage and kids?

Finally my husband and I were divorced in 1957. I'd inherited a house from my grandmother in Slakdovicovo, and had some finances to be able to be independent. After divorcing my husband, I lived in Kromeriz for another three years, because I wasn't able to find a job in Slovakia. But finally I managed it, and in 1960 I began working at the Faculty of Pharmacy in Bratislava.

So I moved here with the children, into the apartment where I live to this day, and worked at that faculty. I stayed there for six and a half years. Then I worked for ten years as the manager of a pharmacy. I left there in 1976, and worked in another pharmacy for another ten years. In 1986 I retired. In the pharmacy we were all women, and it was a relatively good collective. Each one of us had children. One had to run to daycare, another to kindergarten, and a third to school. But we got along quite well. When I was already working close to home here, I got to know everyone. More than once it happened that people stopped on the street and asked me about medicine and how to take it. And it even still happens to me to this day.

As far as indications of anti-Semitism are concerned, those I met up with while I was in Czech. They used to say about me - that Slovak - that Jew. I, of course, knew about it, and here and there it saddened me. But here in Slovakia I didn't meet up with it very much anymore.

Back to my personal life again. I married my second husband in 1962. As I've already said, he was a friend of mine from my university days. We liked each other. After my divorce, he used to come visit me here in Bratislava. So after some time we got married. We had a civil wedding. My husband isn't a Jew, but a Catholic. After a year we had a son. My third child. My husband graduated from law in Brno, and also pedagogy, esthetics. During that also conservatory; he played the saxophone and clarinet. My husband had a very good head for learning. During his studies he had a stipend, because he was from poor and very modest means; that however didn't deter him, I'd say that precisely the opposite. After moving to Bratislava he got a job at the National Theater.

As far as politics and the regime back then are concerned, I also joined the Communist Party 12. That was still during my first marriage. My husband was persuading me to, and I finally agreed. Well, and then I remained a member, because the children wanted to study and getting into university without your parents being party members simply wasn't possible. Though I never went to any meetings, I was a passive party member. Like many others.

My husband traveled a lot for his work. But we never succeeded in all going somewhere together. Except for vacations by the seaside. Those we used to go on. My children, as opposed to me, enjoyed their vacations. They didn't have to work in the garden or in the fields like me. All I'll add about my children is that they managed to finish their studies, and now each has his own life. They have children and we're content grandparents. I won't say any more about them, because people are bad today, too...

In closing I'll add that after many years I returned to Judaism. I'm glad when we meet at the Community and all talk amongst ourselves. We're connected by a common fate and what we all lived through. I'm a member more for this moral and social reason. We don't observe any customs anymore. My children and grandchildren know what I lived through. They know who they are. But they weren't brought up in the spirit of Jewish tradition. Neither my children nor their children. They're aware of it, and that's enough. I just hope, and wish with all my heart that the things that took place during the Holocaust are never again repeated. For my family to not have to suffer as I and my loved ones suffered.

Glossary

Teofila Silberring
Cracow, Poland
Interviewer: Magdalena Bizon
Date of interview: November 2004

I meet Mrs. Silberring in her little apartment on Karmelicka Street in Cracow. It's downtown, and the trams rattle along outside the window and ambulance and police car sirens wail - there's a hospital and a police station nearby. This short, dark-haired lady has for the last few months been dependent on crutches. Now she goes out only once a day, and is frustrated with her leg, which despite a hip replacement is refusing to co- operate. Since her problems with her leg began she has found it hard to climb the stairs to the fourth floor and has had to curtail her activities - and she is a very energetic lady with a huge appetite for life. It's hard to believe that she's almost 80. Mrs. Silberring is a great raconteur, has a wonderful sense of humor and spins a terrific yarn. Listening to her stories I discovered my own city anew.

Jump to:

My family
At school
Second World War
After the War
Teofila meets Adam Silberring

My family

We were all from Cracow, all of us: my grandparents and theirs before them. We had family houses, passed down from father to son. I know that Father's parents lived at 8 Dlugosza Street in Podgorze [a district of Cracow on the right bank of the Vistula, until 1915 a separate town], and Mother's parents at 32 Kalwaryjska Street, also in Podgorze. All my family was assimilated; everyone spoke Polish. I don't think anyone in the family spoke Yiddish, anyway, certainly not to the children and not in front of them. We were spoken to in beautiful Polish. I don't even know whether Father knew Yiddish. Nobody in the family wore traditional Jewish dress. We dressed like everyone else on the street, and all the children went to Polish schools. But we kept up the traditions and celebrated the holidays.

We lived in Kazimierz 1, at 21 Miodowa Street, with Grandmother, Father's mother. It was her house: a huge, three-story house on the corner of the street. Later, when Grandmother died, she left the house to Father. She was called the same as me - Tauba Nussbaum. I am Teofila after Grandmother, Tauba in Yiddish. When I was born, in 1925, Grandfather Hirsh had already died. And Grandmother died when I was six. I don't know what her maiden name was. I don't know what was wrong with her, but in any case she was already bedridden. She spoke pure Polish, beautifully. She was interested in what went on at school, and corrected my homework.

My father, Juda Nussbaum, had a sister and a brother. The brother was called Chaim; he lived at 8 Paulinska Street. He had a daughter - Helenka was her name. My uncle had a grocery store. My aunt lived on Dietla Street. I don't remember what her first name was or what her married surname was. She had children, but somehow we didn't keep in touch with her. My aunt was more traditional than my father, but my uncle opened his shop on Saturdays. During the war [WWII] they all died.

My Mom's maiden name was Barber. Her parents had a grocery store. And I know that Mom helped there when she was single. I don't remember my grandfather, because when I was born he was already dead. Grandma - I don't even know what her name was - ran the shop herself. Grandma was a great housewife. We would always get juices made by her. The house was very nicely kept up, because Grandma had taken Mom's youngest sister in to help her. She had a maid, too, who cooked. It was a single-family house, and at the bottom was the shop. In the back there was a garden. On the second floor were the living quarters, with a large, wooden balcony: nicely decorated rooms, four or five. There were pictures hanging everywhere. There was this black dining room suite, where there were chocolates in the drawers. I would always take them; I remember that I used to open the drawers. I was the kind of child that didn't eat well, to spite Mom, and I took them when nobody was looking.

The shop was quite big. There was flour there, in these big sacks, and there was candy and Enrillo chicory coffee. The candy stood in glass jars with lids. I could take it. Hard candy, I think, because that was what I liked, colored. And as well as that, I also remember what we called 'lodes,' these bars, like chocolate, but smaller. Different colors, there were: red, blue, green, and so lovely. It was unearthly awful stuff; I don't know what it was made from. The cheapest rubbish, for poor children. But I liked it a lot, and when I went to Grandma's those 'lodes' were all I wanted. Until the war Grandma ran that shop in her house. Whether she died of old age or whether she was taken into the ghetto, I don't remember.

Mom had three sisters and a brother. The older ones were called Helena and Sala, the youngest was Hania, and her brother was called Szlomo. Aunt Helena's husband was called Srul Weintraub. They were very well off. He was a co-proprietor of the Cracow Husking Plants and Mills on Mogilska Street [a husking plant was a factory that processed seeds, mostly rice and peas]. My uncle died in 1937. During the war, when my Mom died, Aunt Helena took us in, because she was the closest to my Mom. They lived on Jasna Street. My aunt died during the war, of a tumor. She lies buried in Miechow, except there isn't a headstone. We don't know where exactly her grave is. She died in I think 1942. They had three children. One of her daughters lives in Wroclaw: my cousin, Bronislawa Goldkorn. She is 93 and doing very well. What a mind she has, and how beautifully she writes! It's incredible, really. They were in the Soviet Union, and only she survived; the other two died there of typhus.

Aunt Sala lived in Podgorze. I know that she had five children. I didn't even know all of them, because with that aunt we weren't in such close contact. They had it very hard. My parents helped her out, because my uncle wasn't very capable; he didn't work. I think they kept to tradition more than us, because my uncle was very religious. The youngest was Hania; she lived with Grandma and helped her out. Uncle Szlomo was older; when the war broke out he could have been 40-something. He had a grocery store on Agnieszki Street. And somehow, I don't know, Mom didn't keep in touch with him. He'd become degenerate. He hadn't wanted to go to school; he would kick a ball around. That wasn't to the family's taste, as they say. He kept up tradition. Apparently there's a cousin living in Israel, the daughter of one of my mother's sisters. But I'm not in touch with her. All the others died.

My parents, Gustawa and Juda Nussbaum, were born in 1900. They were both 20 when they married. They fell in love and had a Jewish wedding under the canopy [chuppah]; there were photographs of the wedding at home. Whether or not there was a matchmaker involved somewhere along the way, that I don't know. But in any case, they said it was love. True love. And it was a very good marriage, from what I remember.

Father didn't have a degree. He only had his secondary school certificate, but he knew an awful lot of languages. He had simply taught himself. He was one of the first Esperanto speakers in Cracow. Together with his friend, the well-known Polonist Dreher, he wrote pamphlets for learning Esperanto. He also worked on dictionaries, Polish-Hebrew and Polish-French, with that same friend. He was a journalist, a critic with Nowy Dziennik [New Daily, a Zionist daily published in Cracow], which had editorial offices on Orzeszkowa Street. Basically, he worked for the upkeep, I mean to pay for the upkeep of the house. In our house there were the rents and revenues. I remember that there were a lot of shops downstairs. As well as that, Father had a small - 7 percent - stake in the Cracow Husking Plants and Mills, so he lived off that. Because as for writing, I don't know how much he got for a dictionary. Whether he got anything for those Esperanto pamphlets, or whether that was just symbolic. As for views, Father was basically a socialist. Mom didn't participate in political life at all, but Father was a socialist, which the family held against him. That's all I remember. My neighbor had this pre-war book, a review of people well known in Cracow, and Father was in it. She offered to sell it to me, but she wanted an awful lot, and I didn't have that much money. She sold it in an antique bookshop somewhere and I really regret it.

Mom had her secondary school certificate. She kept house. She was very modest, the home-bird type. She had a lot of interests. She used to go to the theater, to cafes. Mom worried because I didn't want to eat, and she was afraid, the poor thing, that I would be hungry. So at night she would put some cake on the night table that I had by my bed. I used to devour them, because I was hungry, because I didn't want to eat, out of spite. And in the morning Mom would get up and say, 'Who ate the poor child's cake?' And I would sit mum, 'I don't know, perhaps someone came and ate it. I didn't eat anything, absolutely.' 'Poor child, somebody ate it all up.' I didn't want to eat anything, because I knew that they would worry. Evidently I wanted to be important. Because otherwise I would have eaten, but something wouldn't let me, out of spite. Later, in the camp, when I remembered, if I had just a crumb of that cake ... I sinned terribly, not wanting to eat.

My brother, Henryk, was four years older. When we were children, we would be first in love, then argue. My brother was a very able student, which always made me furious. He was an excellent physicist and mathematician. I remember that in school they even used to call him 'Fosgen' [phosgene, carbon oxychloride - a highly toxic chemical substance used in World War I as a combat gas]. And I was a little in my brother's shadow, because I was gifted, but not as much. He was always more talked about than me, and that annoyed me a lot. Even though I had good results at school and a great capacity for languages.

At home there was also a girl to look after the children, who spoke English. She spoke German too. Brandwein, Miss Brandwein. A Jewess from an intellectual but impoverished house. She had to earn a living. She was a chemist and taught in a gymnasium somewhere, and in the afternoon she was with us. She picked me up from school, because my brother was older and went on his own. She did our homework with us and taught us the language. She disappeared somewhere too, when the war broke out. She wasn't from Cracow, you see, and went to her own people, to her family. I don't know what happened. We had a maid too, and a cook. One of them lived in the servant's room and the other in the kitchen, and they stuffed themselves like I don't know what. I wrote the younger one love letters to her boyfriend, because she couldn't write; she was from the country. They were there until the war, literally. The cook was even still there when the war had already broken out.

We had a very nice apartment, eight rooms on the second floor. My brother had his own room, I had mine. The children's maid had her own room. We were well-off, though not potentates. Father loved everything modern. I didn't know that he borrowed money; it was only after the war that it transpired how many debts the house was burdened with. Father was such that whatever had just come out, he liked to buy: the first radio with a magic eye, a wind-up gramophone, with a tube, and beautiful records. There was a bathroom, a telephone, a refrigerator; there was everything there could have been. In my room I had cream and blue furniture built into the wall. Before the war! And I had this bed with a pull-out drawer. Father even had a washbasin with hot and cold water put in my room so that I wouldn't have to go to the bathroom in the morning. So I had this little washbasin with all my toiletries.

The hall was very big. I remember that Father brought me a scooter with chromium-plated mudguards, and we used to ride it up and down the hall. And when my friends came round I used to let them ride on it: for a picture, a candy wrapper, always in return for something. I had a head for business. We had these - not scrapbooks - but notebooks. And we used to make these triangles out of pieces of paper, like envelopes. We would buy pictures of angels or devils, we used to flatten out chocolates wrappers, and put them in those pieces of paper. And then we would swap them at school. I remember that you used to buy Erdal shoe polish. In the packaging there was always this tin badge. So I kept watch on the maid to make sure she only bought Erdal, because there were those decorative tin badges in them. I collected that too.

A family lived next to us, on the same story; I don't remember what they were called. They had three sons, who played the mandolin. I was always sitting round at their apartment, because they played so beautifully. Sang and played. And on the third floor were the Klugers, two little girls, so we played with dolls, doctors. Upstairs there were these small balconies, and we used to play there too. We played ball, I remember skipping ropes, counting games, hide-and-seek, tag, games like that: but never on the street, we weren't allowed to go out onto the street at all, everything happened in the house and the courtyard.

Before the war, Miodowa Street was largely a street of intellectuals, better secular Jews. And on the side streets lived Jews in cloaks. Not that the ones with sidelocks, in white socks [Hasidim], didn't walk along Miodowa Street. They walked along it because it was a main street, but they didn't live there. Opposite our house was Tempel Synagogue [the most recent of the synagogues in Kazimierz (1860), a reform synagogue. The rabbi there was Ozjasz Thon (1870-1936), an eminent Zionist and deputy to the Polish Sejm]. Before the war it was a reform synagogue, for wealthier people, who would come in cars and carriages. An orthodox Jew wouldn't have gone in there. My parents went to Tempel at every holiday, definitely. And sometimes, when Father went with Mother on a Saturday, they would take me. Tempel was beautiful. The men were downstairs and the women upstairs, and I used to go up to Mom up these stairs. There was a barrier there, and you looked down, what the men were doing, how they prayed. That all delighted me. I liked going, I remember that too.

On Sabbath Mom always lit candles and made those movements, I remember, over the candles. There was definitely fish on Friday evenings. And there were these special challot too. There was always almost the same food to eat, and most importantly, they made what the children liked. On Saturday there was definitely chicken soup with noodles, gefilte fish and aspic jelly. Delicious! Father always had a glass of plum brandy. I didn't get any, of course. But there was beer, which Father really liked. Beer I did sip, because I liked it too, even though it was bitter. As well as that, on Friday evening we would go and take what we called chulent to the bakery on Nowy Square, and give it to the baker. Our maid carried it. This big pot, it was a stoneware one, I think. On Saturday morning she would bring it back warm. I liked it a lot. It was peas, round ones, which the Jews called 'arbese' [der arbes (Yid.) - peas], groats, some kind of fat ... And that, baked like that, was very nice. There was always cake, but especially on Saturdays there was an awful lot of cake. On Monday mornings this lady would come round and we would give her cake all packed up. She was Jewish too, very elegant, who had evidently fallen on hard times somehow. And our maid always gave her a whole package of that cake.

Downstairs in our house there was a bar [restaurant]. It was run by this Orthodox Jew, with a beard. He was very nice. He made the aspic that I liked so much, and to go with it he baked this special, round, sugar- coated... I don't know what it was, not cake, not bread. He had crowds on Saturdays. People used to go in for fish and for aspic. I remember that. On Saturdays the maid did everything; Jews weren't even allowed to turn the light on, apparently. She could, because she wasn't Jewish. I knew that on Saturday driving wasn't allowed, that we weren't allowed to do certain things, but the children did everything, because the children were more assimilated. And anyway, Father sometimes even went to work on Saturdays. So Father wasn't traditionally religious. But he kept up the holidays; all the holidays were celebrated.

My favorite was Kuczki [literally shelter, in this case it refers to Sukkot], the Feast of Shelters. Because then there were these shelters in our courtyard, and we children, not just me, but from the whole house, made colored paper chains and competed to see whose would be the prettiest. Father ate there on the first day or the second. And after that it was a so- called 'free' holiday, so he didn't eat in there. But the shelter stayed up until the end of the festival, so eight days or seven, I don't remember that. [Editor's note: Sukkot lasts eight days]. In any case I liked that holiday a lot, because I prepared things, did things, was very important. When my chain came out better than my friends' from next door I was very proud. And Father was proud of me too, and showed everyone what I'd done. That was my most favorite holiday.

I liked Purim too, because you got presents. You got money. We used to dress up, I remember. So Purim was a fun holiday too. Then I remember the holiday of Pesach. We packed up what was called 'chummes' [chametz], that means crumbs of bread. Because at Pesach you're not allowed to eat bread, only matzah. And in Kazimierz there was this bakery. We used to go, there was this big wooden paddle, and you threw the 'chummes' on it to burn it. I used to go with it, because I liked going there. What tradition that was, what it was based on, that I don't know. And there was Seder, this dinner, I remember; there were definitely matzot. That was celebrated in traditional fashion, and afterwards Father went to a coffeehouse. There was this coffeehouse where painters and erudites just like Father used to meet. Mr. Koziol, a Cracow journalist, told me that that coffeehouse was on Dietla Street and was called 'Pod szmatka' [Under the Rag].

My brother, when he was 13, had his bar mitzvah. There was a huge celebration, as there is among Jews, even assimilated ones. That was a duty. He got what was called tefillin. You wound it around your arm, only I don't know how many times - I don't know that tradition - and tied it to your forehead. These squares, little boxes; I don't know what they meant. There were a lot of guests and a great celebration. And I was furious, because my brother got a load of presents and they didn't give me anything. And I started crying that I hadn't got anything. So Father went out the next day and bought me a scooter, because I was howling and stamping my feet all the time that my brother had got so much. A whole roomful of presents and nothing for me, and he didn't want to give me anything. I even got mad at him and didn't give him my best wishes, because I was so mad. For three days there was a huge celebration, we ate and drank. And I was furious the whole time and was pleased when it was all over.

Children's birthdays were always family affairs. Aunts and uncles, uncles' children and aunts' children would come, from Father's family and from Mother's family. And Grandma would come too. And when she couldn't come any more, we used to go to see her. The children's, Father's and Mother's birthdays were celebrated with great gusto. Very much so. In fact at that time we already had - we were some of the first - a gramophone and beautiful records. There were records by Ordonka by then. [Hanna Ordonowna (1902-1950): born Maria Anna Pietruszywska, known as 'Ordonka'; singer, dancer and actress. At 16 she started performing in the Warsaw cabaret 'Sfinks.'] Father would put the records on and I would turn the handle.

Father had some personal charisma and an awful lot of friends. There were always heaps of guests at our house, those friends of Father's, who weren't married and didn't have children. Jews, but very assimilated. Well, and I had the luck to be treated as their plaything. They would always bring me something. One was always painting me: Weber, who was a well known Jewish painter. [Weber, Henryk (Hersz) (1904-1942): painter and art critic, wrote reviews for Nowy Dziennik] Unfortunately not a single painting has survived. No-one gave them back.
 

At school

I went to a state elementary school; that school is still there - on Starowislna Street, on the corner of Miodowa Street, this big, red school. Not to the end; somewhere around the 5th grade Father transferred me. Because at that school we had to go to religious studies classes and Father was afraid that I would have complexes. [The religious studies classes in Polish schools were Catholic, and Jewish children used to go out of the classroom while these lessons were in progress.] There were maybe four Jewish girls in my class. There were no barriers between us and the rest of the children. I must admit that I didn't feel any. I had friends. I suspect it depends on the home and on the parents. If the parents at home, in front of the children, don't say, 'He's a Jew' or 'Don't play with her because she's a Jew,' then there isn't any difference. That was how it was with me and Esia - that was her name - Teresia, or something. She had a little dog and I was very friendly there. Her parents liked me a lot and there was absolutely no talk of my being a Jew and her not. And for instance our maid, she went to church on Bozego Ciala Street - there's a beautiful church there - and she always took me. 'Toska [an affectionate diminutive of Teofila], come on, we're going to church.' So I would go. And whenever the priest was sprinkling the congregation with holy water, she would say 'Get down under the pew, or he'll sprinkle you!' I would get down. But I used to tell my parents, and somehow Mom never minded, because my parents had the healthy view that whatever I learned wouldn't harm me.

After that I became a pupil at the Dr. Hilfstein Hebrew Gymnasium; Dr. Hilfstein was its founder. That was a beautiful school, on Podbrzezie Street, apparently a very high standard, with state entitlements. All the subjects were in Polish, and there was also Hebrew. There were only Jewish children, but well-off ones, because the fees were about 50 zloty; that was an awful lot [by way of comparison, prices of newspapers at the time were for a daily 10 groszy, a weekly 20 groszy, and a monthly 30 groszy, 1 zloty equals 100 groszy]. There were very good relations, very good conditions at the school. The school had a huge courtyard and a wonderful gymnastics hall.

There was this local scout troop at school, a rather childish one. It was called Hacofer [Hatzofeh, literally 'the one that watches' - a Zionist scouting group set up at the Hebrew Gymnasium by a pupil, Michal Feldblum]. I don't know what that means. There was a very nice leader; I was a member of that scout group of course. We had meetings once a week, in our courtyard. There were trips, and talks. And there was also a music room in the school, a very beautiful one, in fact, where we had music sessions once a week. The teacher in charge of that was Mr. Feldhorn. [Feldhorn, Juliusz (1901-1943): eminent pedagogue, poet, essayist and translator. He used the pseudonym Jan Las. Shot to death in Wieliczka in 1943.] A very well known Polonist, he wrote some book. He was a friend of Father's. He was killed unfortunately. Best of all I remember Mr. Hamer, who had the little shop at the bottom. Because I didn't eat at home, out of spite, I was hungry. I took breakfast but didn't eat it. But I used to buy myself a roll and herring for 10 groszy and it tasted very good. He was very important, that Mr. Hamer, he was always saying, 'The headmaster and I have decided that it will be like this...' And that has stuck in my mind: The headmaster and I.

We lived very comfortably and at our school there weren't any poor children. Anyway, as I've already said, the Hebrew gymnasium was more for the well-off. It was like an automobile show outside our school. There was this one boy, Rath; apparently they're in Vienna, they survived. They had a company, 'Iskra', pencils and crayons. A very rich company. He used to come in a beautiful Chevrolet, I think it was, with a servant in 'glace' [patent, literally ice in French], white gloves, who used to carry his briefcase. He would carry it into his young master's classroom, put it under his desk, take his coat off, and after lessons come for him. The Libans, two sisters, used to come in a carriage with a maidservant in a veil. There were nannies like that, in navy blue veils; you addressed nannies like that using the term 'Schwester' [German for sister]. The Libans had quarries in Plaszow; it used to be known as 'Liban's Hill' - that was where the camp was later [Kamieniolomy i Wapienniki Krakowskie Liban S.A. The labor camp in Plaszow had a lot of satellite camps scattered throughout the area. One of them was 'Liban,' the penal camp for the Baudienst, the construction service.]. And there was this one other boy, called Fangielbaum, his parents had a shop, 'Muza Harmonia' [the muse harmony] on Grodzka Street on the 2nd floor; there were the latest records and radios. They were very wealthy too. Lusia, a friend, who came to Cracow recently, told me when she came that he's alive and is in Israel. She brought me here some photographs of friends from before the war. Lusia [Lea Shinar], came to promote her sixth book, 'Losy krzyzuja sie w Warszawie' ['Paths cross in Warsaw']. Apparently, it's about the ghetto; I haven't had time to read it. Here, in this book, are our school friends, now living in Israel. Poldek Wasserman and Fredek Thieberger, we used to call him Frycek. During the occupation they took part in the attack on the cafe 'Cyganeria' [Campaign] 2.

On vacation we used to go to Zakopane, and later to Rabka [a spa town at the foot of the Gorce hills, some 80 km south of Cracow]. I remember that Father wrote, perhaps in 1937, in Esperanto about Kaden. He was the owner of Rabka [a spa in Rabka]. Father was friendly with that guy Kaden from the time that he wrote 'Rabka jako uzdrowisko' [Rabka as a spa]. Mr. Kaden invited Father to stay, and from that time on we had a beautiful apartment in Rabka for the vacations for free. Pogon Villa, the place was called. Kaden used to let us have a whole floor, and we went with the cook, the maid, the children's maid and all our belongings. And there, every year, we had a beautiful place. I think there were five rooms up there. This verandah; there was space to run around.

Kaden always used to invite Father in February, and we took advantage of it. Aunt Hela's children and their cook used to go with us, because there were an awful lot of rooms there. I used to go for inhalation and brine treatments, because apparently I used to talk through my nose. Maybe I still speak like that, only Father isn't around any more and there's no-one to despair of me... I had a scooter, I had a bicycle, first a three- wheeler, then a two-wheeler, and lots of friends. Father used to come for Saturdays and Sundays and play tennis with Kaden, because Kaden had his own beautiful villa in the park, a swimming pool and a tennis court. And he always used to invite us for ice-cream. I remember there was this hut where they used to sell this sour milk drink, laktol, it was called. I used to get 10 groszy to drink a glass of that laktol. I liked it very much, but I had to make a face out of spite. That's the little devil I was, you see!

Many of my school-friends live in Israel. Stenia Hollender, now she has a different name; I don't remember what. Her parents had a notebook factory in Podgorze and they supplied the whole school. A few years ago we went to Ravensbruck 3, invited by the mayor. They received us with great pomp there, in a beautiful hotel. There were these tents, and in the tents tables, marvelous food, and cooks served us. There was a group from Israel. And this lady had a lecture in Hebrew, translated into Polish. She introduced herself, and my husband said: 'Ask, perhaps she knows that friend of yours, that Stenia Hollender, because she's got the same surname.' When she finished, I go up to her and say, 'Excuse me, I used to have a friend by the same name; are you a relative perhaps?' And she looks at me like this, because we all had these name badges. She looked at me, 'Toska, dammit, you don't recognize me?!' How we started kissing! Unfortunately, they were already leaving, the Israeli group. There were little pennants on each table. There were red and white ones on ours, and Israeli ones on theirs. And so she gave me this pennant when we parted. But she comes to Cracow with groups of young people, because she is a pedagogue by profession. She comes almost every year, and then we see each other.

Lusia Helzel - that's her maiden name, of course - is in Israel too. Her father was a friend of my father's. They had a large shop with radios on the Main Square, near St. Mary's Church. I remember that just before the war he brought Father a radio with a magic eye. That was still a novelty. He always brought us the gramophones and records. Lusia was in the camps. Which ones, I don't know. But straight after the war I met her. We lived together for two years or so, and she left.

I had a very good friend from gymnasium, Hela Erlich. Our parents were friendly and we often used to go to Wolski Wood [a favorite leisure spot on the outskirts of Cracow] with our parents by carriage. Unfortunately she died in Kazimierza Wielka. I met her once more during the war. They left. Because the Jews had to leave Cracow [on 18th May 1940 the Jews were ordered to leave Cracow by 15th August. Only employees of economically important businesses and their families were allowed to stay.]. You were allowed to move to somewhere no closer than 20 kilometers from the city. They went to Kazimierza Wielka and perished there, in 1940. The 'Judenfrei' 4 the purge of Jews, came quickly there. The Germans entered and they shot all the Jews there. The whole family was killed.

I was a good student; I wrote poetry too. Once I won some Cmielow porcelain, a little plate and a cup. I don't remember the poem any more, but I know that there was great rejoicing at home. I wrote something about Cmielow and I won. I liked writing in general. At school, in Polish class, everybody had to write a little book. I wrote 'Sister Maria.' About this nurse, I don't know where I got it from, because I'd never seen a nurse and didn't know anything about hospitals. I wrote about how she devoted herself to sick children. Everybody liked the book a lot and Father had it bound. It was at home until the war, but unfortunately it didn't survive.

Father was crazy about learning languages. I learned them with great ease, whereas my brother was a math specialist; he had a brain for the exact sciences. We all spoke excellent Esperanto. Except that I don't remember Esperanto any more. We didn't speak Yiddish at all. I don't even know whether Father knew Yiddish. We had a house full of books. The library was vast, but those books didn't really interest me at the time. I didn't look at them much. There were encyclopedias in various languages. The only thing that absorbed me was an atlas, where there were all the capitals of countries; I often used to look at that.

Miss Brandwein had her own room and she had a boyfriend. He taught at a school as well. I don't know whether they cuddled or kissed, but half the class used to come round to my house and we would look through the key hole at what they were doing in there. It was an eye-opener for us.

My first love was a boy in my class. It wasn't only me, but the whole class was in love with him. A gorgeous boy; he was Viennese, and came to us fairly late on, because he'd moved to Cracow.

When the war broke out they left; his father had an Austrian passport. And I didn't know what had happened to him until ten years ago there was a reunion for our school in Israel. He went there from the States. And my friends told him that I was alive, and he wrote to me. He wrote that he was going to be in Cracow and asked if I wanted to meet him. So of course; we met two years ago. We reminisced about old times, and I remembered better where he used to live: on Sarego Street, in this beautiful house that was called Dom Wola.

Even before the war there were entry-phones and an elevator. I used to go round there a lot, because I liked riding in that elevator, and anyway his parents liked me very much. And he asked me to take him to where he'd lived before the war. We went over to the house, and it turned out that this man was still alive who remembered him. We parted warmly, but not as warmly as before the war. I had a carefree, wonderful childhood. It lasted 14 years. If I'd been at home that childhood would have lasted a little longer. I remember everything most marvelously. I had everything that a child could possibly dream of.

Second World War

My brother Henryk passed his secondary school exam in 1939, at the Hebrew Gymnasium on Podbrzezie Street. He was supposed to go to England to study shipbuilding, I remember that. He was very gifted and Father managed to get him a place there. But because there was talk of war, my parents didn't let him go, because we had to stay together.and in September the war broke out. Mom was shot in 1939, at home, by Germans who were taking away the furniture. She tried to stop them and they shot her. I don't know where she's buried. We weren't allowed to have funerals. They took her to somewhere in Podgorze and there, I don't know, whether in a mass grave... I don't know anything. I was at school then, because the schools hadn't been closed. And all I remember is that I came back, our janitor was standing in the gateway and said, 'Toska, you don't have a mommy any more!' That's all I know; there was nobody there when it happened. And they took the furniture anyway. And on top of that Father said, 'Take your armband off and go and see where they're taking that furniture, maybe I'll get it back.' I, stupidly, flew off. They were taking it all to Wawel [the castle hill, then the seat of the governor general]. I ran after the cart. I had my armband in my pocket. When anyone was coming, Germans, I would put it on, because that was punishable by death. [Editor's note: On 1st December 1939 an order came into force binding the Jewish population to wear armbands. At first there was only a fine for not wearing an armband. On 11th December Jewish schools were closed down.

On 5th and 6th December Kazimierz was surrounded by a police cordon, and apartments were searched and money and jewelry requisitioned (and in practice other valuables also). The people killed during that campaign were buried in a common grave in the Jewish cemetery in Podgorze. The cemetery was flattened during the construction of the concentration camp in Plaszow. It was probably then that Mrs. Gustawa Nussbaum, was killed.]

I remember how Father, with that friend of his, that Dreher, who he had written the dictionary and published various papers with, chopped up the built-in furniture, so that the Germans wouldn't take it. They chopped up those cupboards of mine, everything, I remember, they chopped it up with an ax. Furs were burned, so as not to hand them over to the Germans: my Mom's furs.

I was the main supplier during the war. Father was afraid, because he had to wear the armband, he was afraid to send my brother out, because he was a boy, so I was sent. Father was friendly with the owner of a shop on Florianska Street, Baczynski's - vodkas. It was a well-known firm. And Father would send me there for 'alasz' [a caraway liqueur flavored with bitter almonds, aniseed and orange peel]. I would hide the bottle under my dress and take it home, because Father liked to drink a glass with his supper. That man would always give it to us, even though Jews weren't allowed to go to the shops; they weren't allowed to sell anything to Jews. In Kazimierz there were two or three shops and one cafe for Jews. But other than that it was 'No admittance for Jews' everywhere. But I somehow always managed to bring something home under my dress. Somehow I managed it, even though I'd never done the shopping before. Nobody had taught me at home, of course, what I should buy. Before the war it was unthinkable to send a child out to town to buy something. But somehow I managed.

When my Mom died, Aunt Hela took us in. She'd been closest to my Mom, you see, they'd loved each other the most, and her husband had died in 1937. It was dangerous to walk around near Tempel [Synagogue], because you got stopped. While we were still living on Miodowa Street I saw how they would cut Jews' sidelocks off, torture them... Right opposite us, near Tempel, they would kill people up against the wall... They killed children - I saw that. And after that it really was very dangerous, but my aunt lived on Jasna Street; that wasn't Kazimierz proper. It was dangerous there too, but not as dangerous as on Miodowa Street, because that was typical Kazimierz and only Jews, but on Jasna Street it varied. In the house next door there weren't any Jews. My aunt had a very beautiful large apartment. We were there right until we went to the ghetto.

We still had our things when we went into the [Podgorze] ghetto 5, and there they allocated one room to three to four families, divided by wardrobes. I slept behind one wardrobe, along with Father and my brother, another family slept behind another wardrobe, and well, that's how we lived. In the ghetto Father worked in the hospital. I don't know what he did there - he had had nothing to do with medicine, of course, but they took him, because he was wise. He went to work in the mornings. I stayed at home; my brother worked too. He used to go somewhere with Father; I don't even remember where.

Later on Father managed to have some papers done that made me two years older. He bought these high-heeled clogs to make me taller, and I worked. It was a carbide factory, a Jewish factory, in fact, that had been taken over by the Germans, opposite the ghetto, on 2 Lwowska Street; we used to go past the wire and it was out on the Aryan side. And there I worked with the father of Polanski Romek, that's how I know him. [Polanski, Roman (1933): Polish-born American film director. He escaped from the Cracow ghetto on the day it was liquidated, 13th March 1943, and survived, in hiding with a peasant family.] We worked on three shifts. So sometimes I would come home and Father wasn't there; we would miss each other. And when I had a night-shift I would sleep during the day.

There, in the ghetto, I was hungry all the time. Then I would have eaten anything, but there was nothing. They didn't pay us, of course. We worked for nothing, you see [but nevertheless everyone wanted to be employed, because that was protection from being deported from the ghetto]. Father used to procure the food from somewhere. I don't know whether he still had money or sold things; he didn't let me in on the secret. In any case he would bring soup from the hospital. Well, sometimes he would bring it, and sometimes evidently they wouldn't give him any. We all had jaundice there. I think it was mechanical, without a fever, and apparently you had to eat something sweet. Father procured some beet jam, I don't know where from. But at the time you couldn't bear the sight of sweet things. Although I was hungry I felt sick. Even in the ghetto Father was still learning Spanish. I remember the lady who came to Father and taught him was called Gusta Borghen. I listened in a little, but nothing came of it.

Later, when the ghetto was liquidated [13th March 1943], they ordered us to gather on the square, where the pharmacy was, now a museum [Apteka pod Orlem, the Museum of National Remembrance, at 18 Bohaterow Getta Square, formerly Zgody Square. This pharmacy, the only one in the ghetto, was run by a Pole, Tadeusz Pankiewicz, honored with distinctions including the 'Righteous among the Nations' medal]. You were allowed to take with you as much as you could carry. So poor Father, he dressed me up like an onion, literally [in layers], because how much could I carry?! And I had a rucksack with books, this satchel, and the rest in a little case. Father had a case as well. There were trucks standing on Zgody Square and the Germans very politely told us to write our names on our suitcases and load them onto the trucks. They said that we would get everything in Plaszow 6. That was perfidious; it was meant so that we wouldn't shout, so that we would be good. Rubbish, they never brought any of it. Later it turned out that we were naked and barefoot there in Plaszow. We went on foot from Zgody Square; they took us along Wielicka Street to the camp, to Plaszow. Children went separately, men separately, women separately. They put me with the children...

In Plaszow I was in a barrack, and Father and my brother were in a different one, and I lost touch with them and didn't know where they were. You weren't allowed to walk between the huts. I didn't know anything: when they had taken them, where they had taken them. Nothing, nothing at all. I wasn't in Plaszow for long, because I was taken to Schindler's 7, to the Emailwarenfabrik in Zablocie [the Oskar Schindler Enamelware Factory (Deutsche Emailwarenfabrik) in the Cracow district of Zablocie, at 4 Lipowa Street, a branch of the Plaszow camp]. I stayed there until the end, until they liquidated Plaszow [October 1944], and I went to Auschwitz from Schindler's factory.

I had it very good at Schindler's, because he made the effort that we should have food. Apart from that, we were working with Poles, and if you knew anybody, they would pass on letters. And they brought us bread rolls. If anybody had anything to sell they would sell it and bring something else for the money. They helped a lot. There's a Polish woman still alive, Zofia Godlewska, she lives on Smolensk Street, who worked at Schindler's with her mother. And they were really poor, but they helped us the most. Zofia brought us letters - that was risking your life. She was my age. After the war I even met her, on Szewska Street. I say, 'So you're alive, so you're alive!' And she says, 'Yes. And the Lord God has rewarded me, because I've married a Jew and have a wonderful husband.' He was a doctor, Goldstein, he was a neurologist, but unfortunately he died. And she was a nurse at the Narutowicz hospital. When her husband died she didn't want to meet up, so I didn't want to force myself on her, and we just lost touch.

Well, and from Plaszow they took us, as per that list of Schindler's, to Auschwitz. [Editor's note: In August 1944 the Zablocie satellite camp was liquidated and Schindler's Jews were moved to Plaszow. Schindler organized the relocation of the factory to Brunnlitz (today Czech Republic). On 15th October 1944, 2,000 men, 700 of them from Schindler, were sent in a transport to concentration camp Gross Rosen and, after two days' uncertainty, to Brunnlitz. On 21st October 1944, 2,000 women, 300 of them from Schindler, were sent to Auschwitz. They were put in separate huts and three weeks later moved to Brunnlitz.] At Auschwitz we stood on the railway ramp because Schindler wouldn't let us be put in... to those blocks, because he wanted to have all of us. He was waiting for a transport that was supposed to be coming from Austria. At the time I wasn't aware whether he'd paid for it or hadn't paid for it, whether he'd pulled any strings. And indeed, our group squatted by the railway tracks and waited for wagons. And so finally, I don't know after how many days - whether it was three days or five days I can't say because I can't remember - these wagons came in, these goods wagons. And it started. 'Everybody from Schindler get up,' and there were about 2,000 people. All that camp of his. He said: 'Don't worry, you're all going with me.'

Well, and there were these OD-men. That was the so-called Jewish police. An OD-man, that was the Ordnungsdienst, the law and order. They were Jews, prisoners too. Schindler picked three of those OD-men and they were to take us into the wagons, according to the list. And it so happened that one of the OD-men, whom I in fact met after the war, had evidently taken some money for me, because he didn't read me out, but took someone else instead of me. Ten of us he didn't read out. We were standing here, and Schindler was by the wagons. I run to him, look, and the wagons are starting to move off, they're locking the wagons. And I tell him that he didn't read me out. And he says, 'What do you mean?!' - because he even knew me personally, I mean he knew that I'd worked for him, because he'd known me from the camp. He calls the OD-man, and he says 'Hang on, hang on, hang on.' How he [the OD-man] pushed me, how he flayed me with that whip! The wagons moved off, and the ten of us stayed behind; that was in Birkenau [Auschwitz was a concentration camp; Auschwitz II - Birkenau was a death camp]. I met him after the war. 'You're alive?!' - Because we were destined for death. You see, we knew that because we'd come with that transport they would send us to the gas. But they put us in Birkenau into the blocks. There were selections, but somehow I was lucky; I was sent to the gas, and then sent back. And from there I moved to Auschwitz, because they were taking people there.

Amazingly, I still looked great. Very good. I was never a musulman [in the concentration camp slang a prisoner who had lost the will to live]; they took them straight off to the gas. And at that time they were selecting for Auschwitz. And there, beyond that 'Arbeit macht frei' [Above the main gate into Auschwitz was the infamous inscription 'Arbeit macht frei', meaning 'Work Makes You Free" in German.], there were six show blocks, which were the so-called Musterlager [Musterlager means model camp in German]. That was where the Red Cross came to see how wonderful we looked, what conditions we had. And because I looked so good, this German Obserwierka [Polonization of the German 'Aufseherin', meaning female guard, warder] selected us, and they took me there. There the blocks were brick, there was water; we pinched ourselves, wondering if we were in the next world or this. We couldn't believe it was true. The food there wasn't better: once a day that slice of bread. But there was water and toilets; there weren't the latrines. In Birkenau they let us out to the latrines three times a day, and if you couldn't wait you did it where you stood. And then they shot those who did it where they stood.

And then from there, only when the liquidation came [the liquidation of the Musterlager], they took me to the experimental block, also because I looked good. And I was very happy, because in that block they gave you not one slice of bread but two. And all my friends were so jealous that I had got into that block... Unaware of what could be there. And all because they gave me that slice of bread more. And there they injected us with typhus bacteria and made an antidote. They were using us to make vaccines for the Germans for the front. [Editor's note: In 1941, following the German invasion of the USSR, typhus began to spread through the German army. In Buchenwald research was carried out into the efficacy of vaccines and various chemical substances designed to provide protection against infection with typhus. 75% of the prisoners were given vaccines or drugs and 25% were given nothing, and after three weeks they were all injected with the typhus bacteria. The death rate among these prisoners was 90%. Studies have not documented what research into typhus was conducted in Auschwitz; they only report that Dr Mengele also experimented with infectious diseases, including typhus, in an investigation into how infectious diseases affect people of 'different races.'] Because those bacteria of mine were useful, I didn't go to the gas, but stayed there all the time. They sent it to the front, you see, to treat soldiers. I don't know exactly what they were doing, because I had a fever of 40 degrees. They were injecting typhus, and I don't know whether I was suffering from it or not... And I was there until the liquidation of Auschwitz.

When the liquidation began, everyone who could possibly get up went. But there were some who couldn't get up, the so-called musulmans, these skeletons. They couldn't move, so the Germans shot them, but they didn't have time to shoot them all, and some were liberated. It turned out that the Russians were already in Cracow [18th January 1945]. None of us knew that. The older prisoners heard some rumors, and they stayed behind, pretending to be musulmans. But I didn't know anything, even what time of day it was. And when they ordered us to go, I went, because they threatened that if we didn't go it would be the gas for us. But they weren't sending people to the gas any more, because they were fleeing themselves.

And that was the worst, that journey; it was called the death march 8, because we walked... I walked to Leipzig. Walked! In snow like this. It was winter at the time, it was in January, 23rd January, as far as I remember [the Auschwitz death marches set off on 17th-21st January 1945; in all 56,000 prisoners]. Snow up to here [shoulders], 20 degrees below zero, and me in one shoe. A Dutch shoe, it was called. These clogs that were typical in Auschwitz. As we walked, that sound that nobody could bear, of those clogs. It was so characteristic... And the snow, red, literally. Because if you stopped, stood for a moment...

I'd never have thought that you could sleep while you walk. We learned to, took it in turns with our friends. We walked four in a row, took it in turns, and the people on the outside supported the one who was asleep. I could sleep as I walked. Whoever stopped for a moment... The road was littered with corpses, these red bloodstains on the white snow. Awful. They shot if you just... it was enough to stand for a moment. And we helped each other to survive - in fact, all four of us survived. I had one friend, Helenka Groner. We were very close. She died two years ago. She was a lot older than me; she was already married then. She had a son my age; he died in Plaszow. Her husband had died in Plaszow too, Groner. She was with me from Auschwitz. We lived somewhere near each other, then in that death march we walked together, and we stayed together until the end.

That journey was terrible. Terrible. And so we reached the camp in Leipzig. There they gave us some parsnip, and although we were dying of hunger, we couldn't eat it, it was so awful. And so we were there, that was a transit camp, and then they put us in Buchenwald. In Buchenwald it wasn't so terribly bad, perhaps a little better. But good, there was no question of that. And then there was an ammunition factory there. We worked, making these - I don't know, lids. There weren't only Jews there. There were also Hungarians, gypsies. And then after that we went to Ravensbruck.

In Ravensbruck we all prayed that they would send us back to Auschwitz, because that was just indescribable. I think it was the worst camp there was. Above all, we weren't in blocks, there were just these tents. These sloping things, like tents, they were called 'zelta' [from the German 'Zelt' - tent]. And they packed us in there, I don't know how many into one tent. It was like putting 200 people in a tent for four or five. All you could do was sit, one on top of another. You went [relieved yourself] where you sat; they didn't let us out at all. At each other, on each other, it was pouring over my head; I don't even know who it was doing it on me... And so there we sat like that. That was the worst camp, Ravensbruck. The worst.

One day this supposedly Red Cross came along. It was the Bernadotte 9 campaign, that doctor Bernadotte. They were taking people from Ravensbruck to Sweden. But to us, when we saw the truck with the tarpaulin, it was obvious that it would be to our deaths. And we all fled. No-one was giving in... They had difficulty catching maybe 100 people out of those thousands. After the war I found out that they were in Sweden. And how many fell dead, because we wouldn't let ourselves be caught. You just fled, so they shot. Later it turned out it was some agreement between Germany and Sweden. If I'd known, I would have got in. But who could have known?

Well, and after that typhus raged. Terrible. That was truly the worst camp of all the ones I was in. There was typhus, and the Germans were a little afraid of an epidemic, and we, the healthy, were sent to Malchov. That's a small place outside Ravensbruck, that camp belonged to Ravensbruck. And there first the Allies liberated me, and then the Russians came in [the Russians liberated Ravensbruck on 29th/30th April 1945].

The Allies were astonished at how we looked, but they didn't take any closer interest. We were black, terribly. Full of dirt too, because towards the end we didn't live in huts but outside, under some trees. 'Good Lord, how black you are! What have you been doing?' And we asked for food; they had some tinned food, so they gave it to us, but no-one could eat it. An awful lot of my friends died when they ate it: because we threw ourselves on it, but we weren't in any fit state. I thought I could eat half the world, but one bite and you couldn't eat any more.

The Russians there in Malchov behaved terribly. They killed two of my friends. Raped and killed them. And I was stupid enough to go and look for my friends. I didn't realize. I was an idiot. And I went, I asked these Russkies [pejorative term for Russians] where they'd gone to. And they just waved their hands. They could have raped and shot me just the same.

We didn't even know that the war had ended. We just stood there, there was no camp any more, nothing, but we were afraid to go out. The Germans had ordered us to stand, so we stood. The Allies came through, the Russians came through, and still we didn't believe. Well, there wasn't any radio, there wasn't anything. It was only when some Greeks came along, these ragamuffins: 'Hitler kaput! Hitler kaput!' they said. They gestured something to us, that the war had ended, that we could go home.

I still looked good. As soon as they told us that we were free, I went into action at once. I flew to the local chief councilor, saying that we wanted to go back to Poland. He came to see us and said that he asked us most earnestly not to get friendly with anyone there, not to approach any houses. He asked in earnest. That he would give us bread, take us, to the road. That we should go away, because he couldn't guarantee what might happen there. After all, it was Germany. He asked us in earnest to leave, as fast as possible. And that's what happened. He did give us bread and took us to the tracks, so that we could get on when something came. We waited there somewhere, there in Malchov, on the ground, on the tracks, until a train came along. We got on, not knowing where we were going. Anywhere, just forward. Later they put us off, put us on, put us off...

In one train there were already looters from Poland, and it was only then that we knew for certain that the war had ended, that Cracow was free. Poles were already going to Germany to loot. But they wouldn't give us a thing. I was excellent at stealing. I was so good at stealing sugar! Sugar was lying there in cubes. I hid it in my knickers, tied it up in the leg. And I remember - now I laugh - that all the girls asked just to let them lick it... I shared it, I didn't just take it for myself. I took it out of my knickers and everyone licked that sugar. It was so good! And then we would go out into the fields when the train stopped in the middle of nowhere. We ate nettles; they're apparently very healthy, lots of vitamins. And I had some little bag, I don't remember where I got it from. I would put those things in it. I stole some grain. I stole whatever I could. Not from among our people, only if one of the looters put their rucksack down for a minute. I could see that there in that rucksack he had rolls; when he fell asleep I would think: 'Why does he need them when he's got so many and we're hungry?'

It didn't even occur to you that somebody might help. The Allies had passed through and hadn't even asked if we were hungry. Only said that we were black. The Russians came in, raped and murdered and left. We just carried on fleeing. Two of my friends died after that, while we were still on the way. What I stole I stole... I couldn't count on anyone, anything.
 

Return to Krakow after the War

I got back in July. I flew to Cracow like a madwoman. We had arranged to meet at our house, at the janitor's, whoever came back first. Father, my brother and I, that whoever came back, it was to there, and all news to the janitor. So I flew; I thought Father would be waiting for me, the apartment waiting, and I could go back to school, I wouldn't have to worry about anything any more. When I arrived, the confrontation with reality, that was the worst shock, worse than in the camp. What I felt when I found out that there was nobody there, that no-one from the family had survived, only me! I had nowhere to go; I stood on the street and cried. And I wanted to go back to the camp. Because at least there, there had been that bunk and I had been someone's business...

When I rang the bell, the one person who let me in was our janitor, 'Toska, are you hungry?' She was still there from before the war, so she knew me. 'Come on, come home!' - and she rang the bell, 'The owner has come back, the owner!' But this man said, 'Well let her go to the devil, there are no owners, get out!' I say, 'Sir, but from the street I can see that our lamps are hanging there. Please give me back those lamps, because I haven't got anything to live on. I'll sell them, please buy them.' Those lamps were nice, these chandeliers. He didn't even open up to me; he snapped through the door. I stood there; the poor janitor cooked me two potatoes. She didn't have a lot herself, but at least she cooked me those potatoes. I ate because I was hungry all the time. No-one here, what was I to do? No money, no-one wanted to let me into my apartment, no-one wanted to give me back my things. What was I to do? Without an education. It was well that I could read and write. At least there was that. No-one would even have taken me on to work, because I couldn't do anything.

At 38 Dluga Street the Jewish Committee had set up; I was directed there. And there you posted slips of paper saying who'd come back. And there were thousands of those slips on the walls. There was a large courtyard, and there they put straw down and you could sleep. At midday you got soup. And if you were absolutely in rags, like me, in my one shoe and without any dessous [French for underwear], without panties, you could get some there. Not to fit, but something.

I came back to Cracow with Helenka Groner. Except that she had a sister and somewhere to go. That sister of hers married a Mr. Lubelski and her parents sat shivah because Lubelski wasn't a Jew. She fell in love and married him. He had saved her, that Lubelski, but nobody knew - that's what she thought - that she was a Jew. She was mad when Helenka came back; she didn't want to take her in, so that it wouldn't come out. She was terribly afraid of that. Helenka's parents, before the war, had had the Polonia hotel in Cracow, and her husband a large store selling lace on Szpitalna Street. She even showed me where. Later Helenka met some Czech guy, a Jew too, and married him. She did really well for herself, she lived in Ostrava, had a restaurant there. I don't remember what her married name after that second husband was. In any case for me she was Groner. She died two years ago.

I put up a slip of paper that I was there, that I was alive, and if any of the family had survived, they should sign. After a month the Korczaks, these friends of my parents, found my note. They wrote that they lived on Karmelicka [Street], and that I should go to them. I went there, and they took me in. They had a very big apartment, they were doing very well, because he was a dentist. They enrolled me in school, because I had to have a sponsor. And I was there right until they left. They went to Israel in 1948. Mrs. Korczak, Gina Korczak, died not long ago. Her husband has been dead a long time, but she died only about a month ago; I just got news from Israel.

Where my father and brother perished there's no knowing. In the camps. But I was told, I mean from what I found out through the Red Cross and people who had come back, that they both died almost at the end of the war, in 1945. Whether that's true, is hard to say, because there are no witnesses. In any case they didn't come back.

Father had told me where he was leaving what - I even had it written down on a piece of paper - but no-one would give me anything back. They said they didn't have it, that the Germans had taken it off them, or that they'd grown attached to it. The photographs survived because Father had given them to a lady called Wladzia. I don't know how Father knew her, but she used to come to our house, and I looked her up after the war. And she alone gave me everything back. I mean the photographs, Mom's silver powder box, which I have to this day, and a ring. Nothing particularly valuable, but nostalgic. So she alone, the poorest of all of them, gave me everything back.

Once I started doing a little better, I wanted to repay people's kindness, to help. That Wladzia, for instance, she was so poor. And my aunt Hela's maid, who used to bring me blueberry pierogis to the ghetto, because I liked them. [Editor's note: pierogis are dumplings made of flour with water and some egg yolk, rolled flat very thinly. You cut circles with a glass, put the filling in the center and stick the edges together. The shape is a crescent. You boil them in water. Pierogis can be filled with cheese, meat, cabbage, mushrooms or fruits. The ones with fruits are served with cream and sugar, the other ones with melted butter.] She used to cry so much outside the ghetto, 'Toska, you're hungry!' And she was poor. What she could, she used to bring me. So after the war, I and my cousin from Wroclaw sent her money every month. Not a lot, because I didn't have it myself, but that maid was always grateful to us. And when Wladzia was ill I procured medicines for her, because she really deserved it. There was this foreman at Schindler's; I looked for him after the war, because he'd really helped me. I advertised in the newspapers, because I remembered his full name; now it's gone from my memory. Like I say, Poles helped. There were decent people and they helped me a lot. Even just with pierogis or a piece of cake.

But they gave me the house back at once, through the courts, because there was no-one, I was the only heiress. They just ordered me to pay the charges for six years. A German had taken the money and run, not given it up to the local authority or wherever the service charges went during the war. And I got bills for the whole occupation. I had a hearing and I thought I would go through the roof. I didn't have enough for an attorney, and apparently I defended myself marvelously in that courtroom. I said, 'What for? Isn't it enough that I lost everything, I'm barefoot, naked, and now I have to pay for my stay in the camps?!' It was dismissed, but I had to pay something in installments.

I was given six houses back; I sold five. My uncle's house on Paulinska Street. In Podgorze, Grandma's. On Nowy Square, too, my uncle's. There was the one of ours, on Miodowa Street. After the war my husband took care of that house, and he just wrote off the debts that Father had run up. In crowns, in zloty. There were heaps of those debts, because Father had lived beyond his means. Evidently before the war that was what people did, take out mortgages for things. Luckily we managed to pay it all off at the prices that Father had taken it in, because they didn't revalue it. If they'd revalued it I wouldn't have recovered from that debt.

I ate lunch in the Ermitaz [restaurant] with my girlfriends for Grandma's house. And I thought what my father would have said to my selling it just like that. But if he'd come and we hadn't had anything to eat, he'd have sold it too. In any case, after the camps nothing was important apart from life. I did well to sell it; I haven't got anything to regret today. I lost everything, so at least I ate a dinner. Year after year I'd dreamed, as you did dream in the camps, of a loaf of bread. A whole one! When I get out of the camp, that's how much I'll buy myself! A whole one! I'll eat a whole one at once! But that wasn't true, because you couldn't after the camp, unfortunately, because your stomach had shrunk. It was impossible. But I thank God anyway, because I came out healthy. My friends had problems with their lungs, and other complaints. There was nothing wrong with me. And I was in six camps, and never once even had a cold. That was the luck I had. I wasn't ill; well, I was in that experimental block, but that was the only thing.

After the war I was a witness at the trial of one OD-man [the interviewee does not want to reveal his last name for personal reasons.]. There was this roll-call in Plaszow and they ordered people to give up their children. But when the roll-call ended, they didn't care which child had been hidden by its mother... A woman had hidden a child, a baby - I don't know how old it was - in this fire bucket. And at the last moment she had covered the child in sand. The roll-call had ended, so he didn't care any more, that Amon Goeth 10. Those children... he didn't even shoot, but smashed them against the wall, because he didn't want to waste the ammunition. The mother would have to watch it. Afterwards he would shoot her anyway, but first she'd had to see that. And the roll-call was already over, they'd ordered us to disperse, and he came over, that Adam, took the child out of the bucket and gave it to Goeth. He took the child and smashed it against the wall. And the mother, we were standing near each other, says, 'I have to survive! I have to. To kill that bastard, if I survive.' She survived and turned him over. They called me as a witness; I told them everything I knew. They put him inside, but his parents had a lot of cash. He and his parents survived, because his father was an OD-man too. The whole family survived. She went away, the mother of that child. And he was expelled from the Jewish community. But later on he had a shop on Bracka Street and he did well for himself.

Once a day, a cart and horses went to Plaszow taking bread to the camp. At 5am it was still dark and the cart had sides with bars on, and as it went bread crumbs would fall off. We would collect the crumbs. I was walking along with my friend, and I said, 'Oh that's good, it's him on guard, he knows me; he'll look the other way.' Because the OD-men used to pretend they hadn't seen. How he flayed me with that whip! 'How can you - Adam, you - you know me, we know each other!' How he laid into me - I had lumps on my head as if I was growing horns. The bandit.

We threw him down the stairs at Feniks [a popular tea dance venue on Cracow's Main Square, still in existence]; my girlfriends and I used to go there for tea dances. And he came. We were in the company of some men friends; I was in university by then. And I say, 'Listen up, it's the murderer!' How they took him and threw him down the stairs at that Feniks... He brushed himself off and left, didn't even say a word. Then again in the Planty [a ring of parkland surrounding the Old Town, established along the route of the former city walls]. I was sitting with my husband on a bench and he was walking along. My husband's friends from university were with us. And I say, 'Listen up, give him a squeeze!' How they leapt on him, how they beat him up... I say, 'Well, you don't have to pick up crumbs!' In Plaszow I practically used to lick those crumbs up off the ground with my tongue. He didn't say a word. Apparently he wanted to commit suicide, but he didn't. After that they forgot him. Perhaps five years ago, I don't know, I got a telephone call that he'd died. He was still young - a year younger than me. My father, as we were walking through the ghetto and an OD-man came past, told me to spit. 'Spit on him. And don't you ever talk to him.'

Right after the war they arrested all those OD-men. I don't know whether at the request of the Jewish Community organization or whether as a result of information from people who were in the camp... Some people say that there were decent OD-men too. I say: 'Decent?! Yes, decent like Ubeks! 11 A Jew who was an OD-man is a foul Jew. He had to sign saying that he would beat people, inform, and that he would be at the service of the Germans. That's decent?! How decent? It's suspect enough that the whole family survived. I went through six camps and I know what it means for a whole family to have survived. It was out of the question. Well, they took me separately, my brother separately, my father separately, they shot Mom... There was no way we could have been together. But they survived, and quite nicely too. They did great for themselves in Plaszow. They had a hut to themselves, food up to here... I agree that OD-men's children aren't the guilty ones, that their parents did it so that they would survive, but they should keep quiet. Not write idiocies about how they were starving or how they didn't see anything. Rubbish. They saw all too well that Daddy walked around with a whip.

There are all sorts of people in every nation. I say: 'Just don't tell me that there was a decent OD-man; I would sentence them all at once.' In Plaszow there was this Chilowicz, who was Amon Goeth's footstool. They used to kiss each other; Goeth adored him. And one fine day, we were ordered to go to the 'Appellplatz' [the roll call square], and there Chilowicz, his wife and his child were lying. Goeth had shot all of them. [Goeth rid himself of Chilowicz because he had been a witness to his financial misdealings.] I say, and well he did; it didn't fall to us, because he sorted them out. Chilowicz's son, eight years old, this little upstart, dressed in high boots and running around with that whip.

Hardly had I got back than I wanted to enroll in school, so much had Father instilled in me that 'you must learn.' I enrolled in school on Oleandry Street, but because I was too old to start from the beginning, I did two years in one year. You see when I got back I was 20, and it was a bit too late to start from the first grade of gymnasium. I caught up somehow. After that I sold another house and then another, got myself a few clothes. I already had some friends at school. When I finished school I started studying chemistry at the Jagiellonian University 12. We used to go out having fun, as young people do, to Feniks for tea dances. In Bratniak [a student self-help organization] at the Jagiellonian University there was this Mr. Chlebowski. He was some chairman, some party guy out of this world. He helped me a lot, because he got me an apartment on Czapskich Street. A little attic room, but I was over the moon. He got me into the university student canteen. And his colleagues taught me and tried to make sure I passed everything, because in chemistry I had problems with math. My studying chemistry was stupid; I was more of a humanities person. What made me decide to do chemistry, I don't remember. But I think it was a girlfriend who went to do it. So we went together. I was hopeless at math, because I've never had a head for the exact sciences. But I made it through somehow, only I didn't write my dissertation. My son was born and I didn't manage it. I didn't have any help, because we had nothing. We were poor. My husband was a student, then he worked at Polfa [a pharmaceutical company]; he earned 700 zloty and we never had enough; my father-in-law helped us out a bit.

Teofila Nussbaum meets Adam Silberring

My husband, Adam Silberring, is a chemical engineer. He was born in Bochnia in 1921, the last year to graduate from high school before the war. His was a very assimilated family. His father, Samuel, owned a large printing press and a house. He even used to drive around on business on Saturdays, he said, and the orthodox Jews used to throw stones at him. He didn't give his sons a Hebrew education. He was a believer, because even after the war he used to go to the synagogue at New Year, but he didn't celebrate all the holidays. He died in 1973. His [Adam's] mother's name was Rozalia; she perished during the war. My husband has a brother, Ludwik, born in 1925. Both he and his brother studied at the Silesia Polytechnic in Wroclaw. Ludwik lives in Switzerland, he's a professor and has two children. We're not in touch with him.

During the war, first the Germans threw them out of their house, because it's a very beautiful house. They took their car, a Steyr. So they, with some cases, as my father-in-law told me, set off towards Lwow [today Ukraine]. In the meantime the Germans forced them into some labor on the way somewhere, but later they made it to Lwow. His mother and the younger brother went back to Bochnia for some winter clothes. They didn't have any warm things, because there had been a heat wave in September. She was crossing the river San in a boat and the boat capsized and she drowned, but Ludwik was rescued and went back to Lwow. After that the Russians deported them out to the Ural Mountains. I can't remember what the place was called.

His father was some protégé of the Polish diplomatic service. And my husband reported as a driver. He had a driving license, from back before the war; I can't remember which year. His father said that Adam drove and he paid his fines. [Editor's note: The interviewee is referring to the fact that when the war started, Adam was just 18. Because his father wanted him to become a good driver, he kept paying Adam's tickets for driving.] I even have this photograph where his father's putting a cushion under him, because he couldn't reach the steering wheel. He did very well, because he used to drive some commander, and he was given food. There was a round stamp in the driving license, and my husband said that round stamps were sacred to them [the Russians]. And what amused me the most was when he told me how, when he got milk, he would take it home in his pocket. First he would throw it somewhere so it froze - it was about 40 degrees below zero there. Then he would put it in his pocket and take it home, and thaw it out at home. And I remember that once they were allocated some coffee. It was white, it hadn't been roasted. They sold it to some Russian woman. Then that Russian woman came back sounding off. She wanted to beat them up for deceiving her. So they asked why. She says: 'Bloody hell, I've been boiling it for three days and it won't go soft!' She'd bought it thinking it was grits or something, I don't know.

When they returned from the Soviet Union they went to Bochnia, a small town where their house, with a dozen or so rooms, was. But after the war it had been nationalized, because there had been the printing press downstairs.

First the Germans had taken it, and then our own people, the Poles, took it. And my father-in-law tried to get at least one room, because they didn't have anywhere to live. But they didn't want to let him in; they threw him out. Before the war my father-in-law had been very rich and had donated a lot to Bochnia, even for the building of the church. So they were known in Bochnia, and the mayor remembered them. His father had worked in my father- in-law's printing press.

And the mayor pulled some strings and got them one room, 15 square meters, without the use of the kitchen, bathroom or toilet. So my father-in-law asked, as he told me, 'So where are we supposed to go?' 'In the garden.'

They lived there for some time, and then moved to Cracow. My father-in-law was very capable, and opened a small printing press here, with a former employee. He started earning and they rented themselves an apartment here.

We didn't know each other, because my husband studied at the Polytechnic and I was at the university.

We met because of a book. Because I, I don't know where from, but I had textbooks that were hard to come by. And a girlfriend knew that I had them, and sent Adam to me for them, while I was still on Karmelicka Street, where I lived with the Korczaks.

And so my future husband came for a book, and that's how it started. That must have been in 1946. We got married in 1947, and we spent our honeymoon in the Polish resort town of Zakopane.

On 2nd October 2004, we had our 57th anniversary.

My son, Jerzy, was born on 30th May 1949 in Cracow. Well, I really had nothing, but he had everything. My father had instilled in me that I would never be someone without an education.

Even as I was going to the ghetto Father gave me a rucksack full of books 'because you are going to study,' he said. Even at Schindler's I had books, because Father said that I had to study. So that was something I learnt at home and carried on with my son and granddaughter. At the Sobieski high school, mothers at parents' evening protested that they didn't want Russian taught. I said, 'Son, whatever you learn will be yours.' He speaks beautiful Russian and it's come in very useful to him. But those mothers: 'You should be ashamed to have your child learn Russian!' How can you tell a child not to learn?! I'm not red, and I've never been a communist in my life, but I have absolutely nothing against the Russian language. [Editor's note: Russian was a compulsory foreign language. The antipathy towards it was due to the fact that it was the language of the occupant.] It's a very beautiful language. The language is guilty of nothing. And they have such beautiful music. When my husband was working in Russia, and he was in Moscow, I used to go and we used to go to the theater or the opera. Swan Lake is truly an experience out of this world - it's the best ballet in the world.

When the baby was small my husband was against my going to work because he wouldn't entrust anyone with the child, wouldn't have anyone take it. When my son was bigger I put my foot down and got a terribly bad job, because it was a part-time post, so I could still manage the house. Once my son was at school, I used to get up at 5am to clean, send him off to school at 8, and then I went out to work for those four hours. I picked him up from school on my way back. I had to cook, wash, do everything, so that job suited me. It was in an office. And the relations there were good. A lot of perks came with it then, because there was nothing in the shops, and we had a buffet downstairs and there was ham. Not every day. Everyone got an allocated ration, but I had ham and there was something to give the child. And I had a buffet ticket later on, when my husband went away on a long business trip and my son was at college. So it was very convenient. I used to go to concerts, to the movies. Apart from that I had an awful lot of friends. We would play bridge all night, straight from bridge to work - I was hardly ever at home. I was never sad. Never. I didn't allow it, because I'd had enough sad years. So I made the most of it wherever I could.

The greatest woe was when I told Jerzy that he wasn't going to school. And he cried. I hid his uniform - at Sobieski they had to wear a uniform. The poor thing borrowed one from a friend. But I knew that that was the only way I could threaten him. He so badly wanted to go to school. At high school he had extra-curricular Latin, English at the cultural center, and he also went to music school and played the violin - very nicely too. Even when he was small, he used to say: I want to have two jobs. One I don't know what, and one in music, because it could come in useful.' He always said that. But I put that out of his head, because I considered that music is no profession for a boy.

Jerzy was very friendly with Zosia Zeleska. He was still at elementary school and she was in high school. They were madly in love for many years. Her father was a professor at the Polytechnic in Wroclaw. And he always used to say, 'I don't know whether it's Zosia who's so stupid or Jerzy so clever.' He couldn't understand that they had so much in common. She graduated in architecture. She lives in New York and is in artistic photography, she's an assistant to Horowitz [Ryszard Horowitz, born in 1939 in Cracow, well-known New York photographer]. When Jerzy was dating my daughter-in-law, I said, 'Jerzy, don't you bring home anyone who hasn't got a degree. Ever. There's no question of my daughter-in-law not having higher education.' Well, and at last he came to me and said, 'Mom, she's a graduate.' My daughter-in-law graduated in history from the Jagiellonian University and is now headmistress of High School No. 6.

Jerzy studied chemistry and also physics at the Jagiellonian University.

He did his Ph.D. very quickly and went away to Sweden; ten years he lectured at the university in Uppsala.

He did his assistant professorship there. When he came back he had to have it accepted. This photo shows my son Jerzy getting his professor's title from Aleksander Kwasniewski, the President of Poland. The photo was taken in 2000 in Belweder, Warsaw [seat of Polish Presidents].In fact, he still lectures there now, goes to Uppsala once a month. He's lectured in Japan too.

He speaks five languages. In 2000 he became a professor at the Jagiellonian University. I let him go, gave him everything I could have given. It all cost. But becoming a professor is his own achievement, because I didn't demand that of him.
 

One fine day, when he was in second grade, he came running home and says: 'Mom! Is it true that you're a 'Zydka'?! [Jewess, the word used in Polish is derogatory] I say: 'Not a Zydka, but a Zydowka' [the neutral word for describing a Jewess] 'Because my friends told me.' Some friend's mother, who knew us - anyway, I never hid it. Except that after the war there were none of the traditions, unfortunately. So he knows he's Jewish, but nothing else. He didn't change his name, either, and as he's always saying, being Jewish has never harmed him.

My husband was working at Polfa as head of production when in 1968 [see Gomulka campaign] 13 they forced him to leave when all that with the Jews started. He went to Chemadex, that was a design office. And well he did, because at least he was abroad all the time. They built sulfuric acid factories. In Russia, then in Czechoslovakia.

He carried on working into his retirement, about eight years ago, I think, because he was a great expert; he spoke languages and they built their factories. But Chemadex fell apart, my husband came back to Poland, and because he was already of retirement age, they let him go. And I was terribly afraid, because I couldn't imagine my husband at home. I knew it would be a huge tragedy for him; he was so active, such a workaholic. Even now someone's always calling. Adam, tell me how you do this, how you do that; I'll come round with the wood, you draw it all out for me.

Last year he worked, had a few lectures at AGH [AGH University of Science and Technology in Cracow]. At the moment, thank God, he's got work building an extra story for our granddaughter in our house on Miodowa Street. He reads, he's interested in everything. You can talk to him on any subject. Having said that, I don't agree with him in many cases, but I've lowered my tone now. It's a waste of time arguing.

For years I refused interviews. Whoever called me, I refused. But then they started persuading me that it's for history, so that the memory doesn't die. Because when we're no longer here there won't be anyone to tell it, because there won't be anyone from our generation left. Only the second and third, who have heard about it. That's not the same. But I catch myself at what I'm saying is no longer a faithful account of what happened. So I wonder if it's true. What I'm saying, if it's really true. If it is true, it seems impossible to have survived it. Hard to believe that you could have survived something like that. Some of my friends, they died at once... I, who was straight from a home where there really was everything ... Perhaps that's why I survived, that I was resilient, somehow. I only became hardened afterwards. Later I was, because I had to be hard. When I came back and found out that none of the family had survived.

I talked about Schindler somewhere, and it was recorded. I didn't even know, I only found out afterwards. I spoke very positively about him, because I consider him worth it, although he has a lot of opponents, who think that I shouldn't talk like that, as a Jewess. But I think he did so much good. Really, he loved us, so to speak, and did everything to sweeten those times. Most importantly he didn't shoot anybody, didn't beat anybody, didn't kick anybody, and didn't call anybody 'Verfluchte Jude.' And I got a message from a Mrs. Erb, chair of the Maximilian-Kolbe-Werk, saying that she would like to make an interview, because she was very interested in Schindler. She came here with a Mr. Sowa, who was her right-hand man for Poland. They're both dead now. I told Mrs. Erb that Schindler used to stroke my head, send us bread rolls, let us out, if you had money, to the food shop next door. And there was nobody on guard; we weren't under guard at all. No-one escaped.

A newspaper came out, the daily 'Kurze Zeitung', in Germany, in Freiburg, with that interview and my photographs. And from that time on a friendship developed. When Mrs. Erb was in Cracow, she always dropped in to see me. She invited me to see her. There was another man from that Kolbe-Werk, called Konradi, who came to Cracow once fine day and called me. He said he had read the interview with me and asked if he could meet me. He asked if I could even meet a German, if I didn't have a mental scar. We arranged to meet in Jama Michalika [a cafe]. I asked how I would recognize him. And he says, 'I have a photograph of you and I'll find you. Please sit in the front room.' He came, a very handsome, elegant man, in fact, and brought heaps of roses, a huge bouquet, about 20 or 30 roses. He came up to me. At once, without hesitating, evidently he recognized me from the photograph. He knelt down, literally with tears in his eyes gave me the roses. And asked if I could give him my hand. If he could greet me. So I say, 'Well, I've never done it before; I'm a Jew and you're a German, but this once...' and I greeted him. I had tears in my eyes too.

That was seven or eight years ago. And after that he always came, every year, like the best of friends. Later he invited me to Germany. He paid for a holiday in Fulda for me and asked if I could bear the German language, if I would be able to listen to the language. But somehow that barrier of hate has broken down in me, as far as he goes. I considered him my friend. He came, every year to Cracow, with his job. Kolbe-Werk is a foundation that helps the sick and the old. All those who were in the camps. He checked up on how the money is used. Whenever he came, he would bring me something, and if he didn't come he would send something. I told him I didn't need it. But he said that he wasn't in a position to make amends for even a thousandth of what I'd been through. He was a little younger than me, but he remembered the war. His father hadn't been in the army either.

Later I wrote to the Kolbe-Werk, that he was the first German with whom I'd been able to break down that barrier and give my hand. I wrote that he was a wonderful man, and that had there been people like that during the war, there wouldn't have been a war. His wife had it translated, and my letter is hung up in the Kolbe-Werk. His sons are proud of their father and it's hung up where they work, and at her home too. She wrote that she thanked me for what I'd written about her husband. He died two or three years ago, of cancer. His wife wrote and told me when the funeral was to be, that I should go. I paid in some money here to the hospice and sent that instead of flowers. I really took his death hard. Those meetings were wonderful. He was a man of silk.

I've always felt strong. There's never been anything wrong with me. I never thought that anything could be wrong with me. And then some time ago my leg started to hurt. We have this surgery for prisoners at 64 Dietla Street, maintained by the Kolbe-Werk, by the Germans.

I went to Dr Slizacka, a lovely, good lady doctor. She treated it very seriously at once, sent me for tests, for physiotherapy, even had some apparatus sent from Germany. And she persuaded me to walk with a stick. It didn't help. She started talking about an operation. I didn't want to hear of my being operated on. One day she called me to say that the surgery had had a letter saying that Germany had set up a doctors' foundation and that they operated on former prisoners free of charge. There was an address, I filled it in and sent it off. They sent me a date for the operation, but in Blakenburg.

I wrote to Germany asking them very nicely to operate on me in Berlin, because I could get there. And they agreed, but it took nearly six months. They put me in this accommodation, a beautiful apartment, and the operation was literally three days later. The care! Here I would still have a long wait for conditions like those. From the start they gave me a physiotherapist, a Pole, in fact, and three days later, when I got up, he was there with me, teaching me to walk. And there, seven months ago, I was walking better. Now unfortunately I walk with a crutch.

When my granddaughter, Magda, was three, I was off with her to Basztowa Street, because there was a kindergarten with music there. Then I would dash off to English with her, and then skiing, because she had these tiny skis. Now Magda plays Jerzy's violin. I wanted her to study pharmacy, medicine or law, but she was adamant. 'Grandma, it's your fault, because you sent me to that school. You made a rod for your own back.' She's in her fifth year at the Music Academy, specializing in Conducting and Composition, and in her third year of sociology at the Jagiellonian University. She has a certificate for best student in Malopolska region and a grant from the minister. She has a superb command of English and German, because she went to High School No. 6 [a school for languages in Cracow], to a class where the language of instruction was English. Since her marriage [2003] she is called Strzelecka-Silberring. Her husband is a composer, an academic employee at the Academy of Music.

I always wanted Magda to move into the apartment on Miodowa Street. At first, when I got the house back, they didn't want to. My daughter-in-law didn't want to. But now that our Kazimierz is becoming fashionable and the most expensive apartments are in Kazimierz... Now we're building a floor for our granddaughter. Magda says that she wants to have lots of room, in case my husband and I should need care...

I must admit that I don't go to Miodowa Street. If I have to go that way, I'll go round. I can't. I still have Mom before my eyes, trying to protect the furniture... I didn't see it, but it's stayed in my head, and I constantly imagine it. And those stairs; I remember sliding down the banisters. Father made these knobs on the banisters - they're there to this day - I used to slide down them...
 

GLOSSARY

1 Kazimierz: Now a district of Cracow lying south of the Main Market Square, it was initially a town in its own right, which received its charter in 1335. Kazimierz was named in honor of its founder, King Casimir the Great. In 1495 King Jan Olbracht issued the decision to transfer the Jews of Cracow to Kazimierz. From that time on a major part of Kazimierz became a center of Jewish life. Before 1939 more than 64,000 Jews lived in Cracow, which was some 25% of the city's total population. Only the culturally assimilated Jewish intelligentsia lived outside Kazimierz. Until the outbreak of World War II this quarter remained primarily a Jewish district, and was the base for the majority of the Jewish institutions, organizations and parties. The religious life of Cracow's Jews was also concentrated here; they prayed in large synagogues and a multitude of small private prayer houses. In 1941 the Jews of Cracow were removed from Kazimierz to the ghetto, created in the district of Podgorze, where some died and the remainder were transferred to the camps in Plaszow and Auschwitz. The majority of the pre-war monuments, synagogues and Jewish cemeteries in Kazimierz have been preserved to the present day, and a few Jewish institutions continue to operate.

Louiza Vecsler
Brasov
Romania
Interviewer: Andreea Laptes
Date of interview: February 2003

Louiza Vecsler is a 94-year-old woman, who lives with her daughter, Nadia, in a two-bedroom apartment. She is a tiny woman, with thin hair. She has problems with her legs now: she cannot stand for long. She usually lies down on a couch, with a magnifying glass at hand, which she uses to take a closer look at photos, documents and newspapers. Although the apartment is small, it shows that the family was well-situated: the furniture is rather antique and expensive. On the door one can still read her husband's name, Solomon Vecsler. There is a tiny light bulb lit on the wall: it's the 13th anniversary of her husband's death.

My family history
Growing up
During the War
After the War
Glossary

My family history

My paternal grandfather, Cassian Blumenfeld, lived in Botosani at the time I knew him, along with my paternal grandmother, Brucha Blumenfeld. I don't remember her maiden name. I don't know whether they were born there or not, or whether they had lived somewhere else before. They both spoke Yiddish, but they knew Romanian as well. My grandparents didn't dress traditionally: my grandfather didn't wear a kaftan, and my grandmother didn't wear a wig. They wore ordinary clothes, like everybody else. They were open-minded people and very kind. They were both religious: I think my grandfather went to the synagogue every day, because there was one close to them, but my grandmother didn't. They followed the kashrut, observed Sabbath and all the high holidays.

They lived in a house with two or three rooms, and a kitchen. They didn't have a garden, but they had electricity. Their house had no running water, and they heated it with wood. They were rather well-off. They had nice furniture and they could afford a woman to come and clean and broom the house, although my grandmother was a housewife. I don't know what my grandfather used to do for a living when he was young. I don't remember him ever going to work, and I never heard my mother or my father talk about his job. They got along well with their neighbors, both Jewish and Christian. I remember the Bibescus, who lived across the street. They had children. I don't know if my grandparents had close friends; if they did, I never met them.

My father had one younger brother, Adolf Blumenfeld, who lived in Botosani as well. He worked as a bailiff on an estate. He was married and had two children, Teodor and Rasela Blumenfeld. My father also had two younger sisters: Clara and Rasela, but I don't know when they were born. Both of them lived in Botosani and were housewives. Clara Blumenfeld married Itic Blumenfeld. Itic wasn't a relative, the same family name was just a coincidence. I don't know what Itic did for a living.

My maternal grandfather, Iancu Iosif Rosenblum, was born in 1862, but I don't know where. When I knew him, he lived in Botosani with my grandmother, Enta Rosenblum. I don't know her maiden name. My grandfather worked as a clerk in a mill, which burnt down one day. My grandmother was a housewife. They lived in a rented house with five rooms, had a small garden, and bred poultry. The owner, Mrs. Mimia, lived in the same house with them. She was Romanian, and a very kind person. I remember she had a sister, Cherez, who lived somewhere else. Sometimes, when I visited my grandparents, I accompanied Mrs. Mimia when she went to visit her sister: we picked hyacinths from her [Cherez's] garden. She was a good friend of my grandparents. They shared the courtyard with an Italian, who also owned the orchard. I don't remember his name, but I remember he had a daughter, Clara, and a boy, Luigi. Luigi was about my age, and we played together in the garden; we used to pick fruit in the orchard. There was another Jewish family that lived in the courtyard; the father was a coach driver, but I don't remember his name. When Mrs. Mimia died, someone else bought the house and my grandparents moved to the mill's courtyard, which had burnt down, into a house with three rooms and a kitchen. They moved from there as well because their daughter, Eva - my mother's younger sister - bought a house and brought them all to live with her. Fani, her other sister, also lived in the same house.

My grandparents were kind. My grandmother was extremely gentle; I used to be around her a lot. A woman came every morning and brought her sour milk, and my grandmother immediately made corn mush and we ate it with sour milk. She had a housekeeper, but she also did her chores around the house, and after that she called me to lunch. Whenever I slept over, I slept in the same bed as her, and she used to teach me prayers in Hebrew.

They didn't go to the synagogue every day and they didn't dress traditionally, but they were both religious people. They observed all the high holidays and Sabbath, and they followed the kashrut: all the food was cooked a day before, on Friday, and Luigi came to light the fire on Saturdays if it was too cold. Neither my maternal grandparents nor my paternal grandparents were politically involved.

My mother had one brother, Herman, and four sisters, all younger than her: Adela, Fani, Eva and Amalia. Herman lived in Bacau and then in Israel. He married Beti Grad when he was still in Bacau and had three children: Raul, Coca and Edit. Raul lives in Israel and has two children with Miriam: Hermi and Levi. Coca married Nicki Muck. I don't know the name of Edit's husband, but they have children.

Adela married Isidor Cohn and died in Suceava. She had a daughter, Magda Cohn, who married a man named Blumenfeld; now she lives in Israel and has three children: Misa and Felicia Blumenfeld, who live in Israel, and Bruno Blumenfeld, who lives in the US. Fani married Morit Herscovici and left for Israel, where she died in 1953. Eva married a lawyer, Carol Saler, who died in 1959. Eva worked as a secretary for a factory, and she was in charge of the relations with the bank and other administrative matters. She died in Botosani in 1963. Amalia was born in 1899 and married Rubin Sigler; they lived in Bacau and then in Botosani, where he died in 1965 and she in 1968.

My father, Moses Blumenfeld, was born in Botosani in 1878. He spoke Yiddish and Romanian. He worked as a bookkeeper for a mill - but not the one where my grandfather had worked. We had a good financial situation back then. After the anti-Jewish laws in Romania 1 had been passed, he worked as a salesman and then as a high school secretary. My father was a kind man, who tried to spend as much time at home as he could. I don't remember him ever slapping me, and, as a matter of fact, he rarely intervened in the fights we, the kids, had.

He married my mother, Pesa Rosenblum, in 1903. She was born in Botosani as well, in 1884. My mother knew Yiddish and Romanian. I'm not sure what kind of education she had, but she could read. I don't know if it was a shadkhan who brought them together, but I know that my parents had been neighbors before they got married. They married in the synagogue. My mother was a housewife, and she was pretty busy running the house, doing the shopping and taking care of my younger siblings. Although she had help in the house, there was still a lot to do. She was rather strict; she had to be because we, kids, often had squabbles. She intervened and sometimes took us by the ear and gave us a good talking-to.

Growing up

I had one elder sister, Ernestina, born in 1904, and two elder brothers: David, born in 1905, and Jenica, born in 1906. I was born in 1909, and after me followed: Sandu in 1911, Tobias in 1912, Sidonia in 1913, and Henrieta in 1918. The elder siblings usually looked after the younger ones, although I had a Christian nanny from Botosani when I was little, and at one point, one of my younger siblings, I don't remember who, had one as well. My mother and my maternal grandparents were around us a lot and watched over us, so we never went to kindergarten.

We lived in a house with four rooms, a kitchen in the basement and a hall that stretched throughout the house; the house also had a long wooden porch. We had nice furniture in the house. My parents slept in one room, and we, the children, in the other three. I remember I first shared a room with Reta [Henrieta], then with Tina [Ernestina]. We could afford a cook and a cleaning woman, who also slept in the house: the kitchen in the basement was big, and two beds fit there nicely. They weren't Jewish, but we all got along well.

There was also a summer-kitchen, a somewhat narrower room, with two beds and a table, where one could sleep in the summers, when it was warm outside. That's where we ate on rainy summer days; otherwise we ate outside. I remember there was some renovation at some point, and a new room was added and turned into a kind of drawing room: there was no bed, just hall furniture.

We had electricity because we lived across the street from the power station, but no running water. There was no sewerage, and every time the power station needed more water, it would close down the water in the whole street. We had a water tap in the garden, but we depended on the power station. We only raised poultry: my father had built a two-storied chicken- coop with a small ladder in the courtyard. We, the children, occasionally played with the hens, fed them grain, but the woman who helped around the house took care of them.

We had a garden and grew a lot of vegetables there, but in springtime my mother usually also went to the market to buy vegetables, when it was too early for the ones in our garden. Sometimes I accompanied her to the market. We had a few apple trees in the courtyard, and the apples were regularly stolen. I remember, one summer I only found a single green apple, which had remained there just because it was hidden under some leaves. My mother always bought apples from the market because she could never count on the ones in the garden. One time they stole an entire onion bed. When we wanted to pick the onions, it was too late: there wasn't a single onion left in the morning.

My mother also planted cucumbers for pickles. And one season, after a strong rain, there were so many cucumbers, that we filled two huge baskets. My mother didn't know what to do, she didn't have jars for all of them. There was a Jewish merchant living next door, Mr. Iossl, and my mother went to him and asked him, 'Do you want to buy cucumbers? I have fresh cucumbers'. 'Yes, bring them', he said. This merchant also lived across the street from the power station and close to the railway station, and all the workers came to him and bought merchandise on credit, and they paid for it when they got their salaries. Mr. Iossl had a big, five kilo empty khalva box, and everyone who bought something on credit wrote his name down on a piece of paper, what he bought and how much he would pay for it, and put the paper in that box. Mr. Iossl knew how to make his business work. And so, all our cucumbers were gone in an hour. I remember he had a lot of cereals, too.

Our family bought things from him as well, because his house was exactly next to ours. If we needed a liter of oil or a kilo of sugar, we would go to Mr. Iossl. We, the kids, loved to eat salad in summer, and it sometimes happened that the oil bottle was empty; then we would go to Mr. Iossl and ask him for some oil: he measured the oil, put down a note, and my mother paid for it when she got home. I used to knit and also did some chores around the house. One time I started starching everything that could be starched, including my father's handkerchiefs. I starched them, ironed them, and when my father came home, he said, 'What is this?!' They were stiff. I didn't know where my mother kept the starch in the house, so I had taken the one from Mr. Iossl.

We had a sour cherry tree in the garden and David, the eldest brother, climbed on a ladder onto the roof, and picked sour cherries. The rest of us, the small ones, couldn't go up, and we always asked him, 'David, give us some sour cherries!' And he did.

We also had a Christian gardener, Colibaba, who took care of the garden and planted flowers. He used to say, 'These flowers will last until the first snow!' We had mauve and white flowers - I don't know what they were - and also a bed of tulips. My father had put a table and two benches in the garden, so that we could eat outside if the weather was nice.

We had a bookcase in the house with all sorts of books; religious books and novels alike. My parents also read newspapers. We, kids, didn't go to the library because we had books at home, but our parents, who read novels themselves, never advised us what to read.

My elder brother, David, was a good mathematician, and he was also very fond of books. He used to read a lot of novels from the collection Biblioteca Pentru Toti - it was the first edition. [Editor's note: Biblioteca Pentru Toti - Everybody's Library was a Romanian publishing house, which published mainly classics.] He bought books and he was very careful about their condition. If he lent a book to you, God forbid you should return it torn or dog-eared! And because that happened, he worked out something. Each one of us had some money, so when he gave us a book, he said, 'See how much it costs? 1 lei. Give me 1 lei'. 'What for?', I used to ask. 'If you return the book to me as it is now, you will have the money back, if not, I will keep it.' He had so many books, my mother had to give him both wardrobe drawers to store his books because there was no more room for them. Then, when I and my brother Tobi were older, there was a magazine, Lectura, which was out once or twice a month. [Lectura - Passage was a literary magazine, which published literary works by different authors.] We bought it both, until my mother or father - I don't remember who exactly - caught us reading the same issue of the same magazine, and they got upset: 'Why are you reading the same magazine?' I knew Tobi bought the same magazine, and he also knew I did; but we wanted to be able to read from it whenever we wanted; we didn't want to share it. My parents threatened they would cut off our allowance.

My father was open to us, kids, I don't remember him ever slapping me. Once I had a fight with David, my father slapped him, and David ran out of the house crying. My younger sister, Sidonia, asked me, 'Why are you crying?', and I said, 'David hit me, and I fell on the piano and hurt myself!' Then Sidonia started crying because David was crying and because she thought he would get cataract in his eyes, like old Costache. He was a neighbor who had cataract. So, there was a whole row because of a slap David gave me and my father gave him back. My mother was kind, but sometimes she had to be harsh: she had eight kids to raise.

My parents observed all the high holidays, they followed the kashrut, but they didn't dress traditionally and they didn't go to the synagogue every day. On Friday evenings the cook baked challah, my mother lit the candles and my father said the blessings. I learnt from my parents to observe all high holidays and Sabbath. But I didn't often go to the synagogue, only on the high holidays. On Purim we always went for dinner to my maternal grandparents, and when Aunt Eva bought a house and brought the grandparents there, we went to hers.

My mother - who spent a lot of time in the kitchen - always heard us coming home because the kitchen was in the basement and one could hear every footstep from there. She had put a white carpet in the house, so she called out to us, that we leave our muddy shoes at the entrance where there was a mat. And on Purim - I especially liked Purim when masked people came over - we always had a lot of people coming over. Then, my mother used to put rugs and papers all over the white carpet, so that it wouldn't get dirty. The cook baked hamantashen, and sweets, shelakhmones, were handed out. Sandu was the one who usually dressed up: he took a coat and wore it inside out. He did the same on New Year's Eve: my father had a fur-lined coat made for him, white lamb fur it was, and he used to wear it inside out, cover his face with something and go awassailing.

On Sukkot everybody from my mother's and my father's family came over to us. We cooked a lot, and I still remember we had honey cake. We had a sukkah, but I don't remember if it was in our garden or in my maternal grandparents'. Somebody, I don't know who, came and built it, and we, kids, played in it. On the last day of Sukkot [on Simchat Torah] there was some sort of party with nuts, wine, syrup and apples in the synagogue; people took out the Torah, sang and danced, and had little pennons. We, kids, didn't go to the same synagogue where our father went to: my father went to the synagogue my mother's parents went to, and we, kids, went to the one closer to our home - it was the one my father's parents went to. But I did go with my father to the synagogue a few times, to the one he usually went to.

My family fasted on Yom Kippur. I remember Ernestina, my elder sister: when she fasted, we were still very young and she took care that we ate: there was food specially left for us, the small ones. I started fasting when I was 13-14 years old, too.

On Pesach all cutlery was taken out and cleaned, and the matzah wasn't brought into the house until all the cleaning had been done. If Pesach was on a Friday, matzah was brought in on Friday morning. We spent the seder night at home, and my father led it. Usually it was Ernestina who hid the afikoman, because she sat right next to my mother, and my father had to find it. If he didn't, he had to pay a reward. One of the younger boys asked the mah nishtanah.

On Chanukkah we went to the synagogue, and we lit the chanukkiyah at home. Every year, on Chanukkah, my father went to the bank and withdrew some money, which was the 'Chanukkah gelt' for us, the children. He always gave us new banknotes, not dirty or torn ones. I remember I was in high school, and a friend of mine, Ostfeld, had forgotten her rubbers somewhere and she couldn't find them anymore. She wanted to buy a new pair, but she didn't want her parents or her elder sister, who was a harsh person, to know about it: 'Ieti [the elder sister] will scold me and I'll never see money from my parents again!' And she asked me to lend her some money to buy a new pair of rubbers. And I said, 'No, I can't! I only have Chanukkah gelt and it is all new notes!' But I gave her the money in the end, she bought a new pair of rubbers and she gave me the money back some time after that.

In our parents' house, on Christmas, we, the children, used to gather in the summer kitchen: there was a stove, and we took a small fir-tree or just a branch, and trimmed it with colored paper and tinfoil. One night we played until the tree caught fire from the stove, and we put it out and ran into the house. On Easter, the neighbors came and brought us red Easter eggs, but my mother and grandmother also made eggs, boiled in onion leaves.

Our family got along well with the neighbors; they were both Romanians and Jews. There was a sergeant, Cojocaru, who rented a house and had two children, Jean and Tita, who were always out at play with us. Then there was a Christian barber, who also had a daughter, but she was rather spoiled and her mother didn't let her come out and play with the rest of the kids. Up the street lived the Ionescus. My mother was close to Mrs. Ionescu; they were good friends. They had a house and a garden, but a tiny kitchen, so on Easter and Christmas Mrs. Ionescu came to us and baked the sponge cakes in our kitchen. They had two children, Alexandru and Corina, who always played with us, either hide-and-seek, or with the ball.

The town I grew up in, Botosani, was a modern, cultural town, with paved roads and beautiful buildings. I still remember the Eminescu theater, which was later bombed. The town's population was about 30,000, and there was a big Jewish community: about 15,000 Jews. It was a well-organized community, with a lot of synagogues. I remember two of them: one was near our house, one near my grandparents' house. We had cheders, mikves, shochetim and all functionaries. I remember Rabbi Bernstein: one of his children was run over by a German truck. The driver came to him and apologized, saying it had just been an accident.

In the town there was no separate Jewish neighborhood or ghetto; Jews lived everywhere. In our street there were Jews and Christians and we got along very well; all the kids were playing together. I remember one Jew, who was a watchmaker, but a lot of them were merchants: many of the shops in the town center were Jewish. There was electricity and running water in Botosani, only on the outskirts there might have been some problems with that.

I went to a state elementary school, but then the war broke out and the school building was requisitioned. So the teacher, Vasiliu, who was a priest, held the classes in his house, and I went there. He had three daughters, who were also teachers. There were two Jewish schools in town, but I didn't go there, I don't know why. I got along well with everybody in elementary school, but I don't remember any classmates; it was a long time ago.

My elder sister Ernestina played the piano; I took some piano lessons as well, but I gave it up soon; I wasn't patient enough to sit in front of the piano and practice.

In high school I liked languages a lot. I had a very good French teacher, who didn't allow us to answer in Romanian, we had to speak French. When she entered the classroom, we had to stand up and say, 'Bonjour, madame!' When she called us to the blackboard, we had to answer, 'Je viens!'[I'm coming]. When she told us to write, we had to say: 'J'écris' [I write]. My mother sometimes helped me with my French homework. I never studied Hebrew and never had religious classes with a rabbi in school. Also, in high school, I had a physics teacher who mostly slept during classes, so one time I thought of cribbing when we had a term paper. I went to the back of the classroom, and randomly opened a textbook. But the teacher woke up, and when she saw that I had changed my place, came to me, found the textbook - which was opened at a totally different page than the one the paper was about - and took it. But when she corrected the papers she realized I hadn't cheated. So I got the mark I deserved; but she never gave marks higher than 6 or 7.

Personally, I never had problems in school because of being Jewish, and I got along well with all my teachers. I had Jewish and Christian colleagues alike, but I got along with everybody. However, I was first confronted indirectly with anti-Semitism in high school. There was a problem with a landowner's daughter, Ciolak was her name. She called somebody, not me, 'jidauca'. [Editor's note: jidauca in Romanian means 'Jewish woman' but it has a derogatory meaning.] I remember the headmistress, Mrs. Adam, reproved the girl, and when her father came to school, he reproved her as well.

I had a good Jewish friend, Ostfeld, whom I mentioned before. We went to the same school, and we took long walks, or we just sat in the garden if the weather was nice. We also went to the cinema or to the theater. We were a large group of friends in high school, boys and girls, and we knew the man who sold tickets to the cinema, and he always gave us the first row on the balcony. I didn't go to Jewish theaters because I couldn't understand the language.

When my brother David was in high school in Botosani, he only came home during Easter and summer holidays. When he was in the last year in high school, the school-leaving examination was introduced for the first time, and he had to go take it in Iasi. All boys from the high school went to Iasi, and everybody was worried. One day, when we, kids, were out in the street playing at the tree - there was a tree in front of the house - we saw Doctor Tauber, whose son was David's colleague, coming in a coach. We called out, 'Doctor Tauber is coming!'. He stopped in front of our house. He had a telegram saying: 'All boys from Botosani entered the oral examination.' So David had also passed. He had to go to university, but fights had already broken out in universities - the Cuzists 2 attacked Jewish students - and it was too dangerous in Iasi or in Bucharest. So he went to study in France with a larger group of boys.

Jenica was three years older than me, but I had outrun him in school. He had to repeat the 3rd grade and I caught up with him, I think. On one Saturday evening, we, children, were playing in the street. On the sidewalk there were lime trees in bloom, and Jenica climbed into a lime tree to pick lime flowers. And one kid said, 'Look, there is a really nice branch, but it's out of reach!', and Jenica said, 'I can reach it!'. But he fell on the sidewalk. By that time, our parents were getting ready to leave for the engagement of an aunt of Stefan Cazimir, when they heard screams. The children ran into the house shouting, 'Jenica fell down and hit his head!' Of course, my parents didn't go anywhere that evening.

The next day they took Jenica to the hospital: he didn't die immediately. My elder sister, Ernestina, watched over him in the hospital, and he was calling for me: 'I want the flapper who outran me in school!' He called me that because I had long hair, and I wore it in two plaits, and when we played horses, he used to pull my hair. Soon after the incident, one day, when I was at home, on my knees while Ernestina was combing my hair, my [maternal] grandfather came in, said nothing, but his eyes were red and tears ran down his cheeks. We understood: Jenica had died.

My other brothers and sisters each had their own interests, but I was closer to David, Tobias and Jenica, probably because of the age.

We lived across the street from the power station, and not far from us, there was a regiment. Whenever there was a military parade, on Heroes' Day, 10th May 3 or Epiphany, the regiment marched in front of our house. In school the teachers always took us to see the parade on 10th May. I remember one of those parades in particular: I fainted because of the heat and I woke up in a garden with my mother's sister, Amalia, by my side. She was in high school by then, she was ten years older than me; I was in elementary school. I remember, I asked her what had happened because I didn't remember a thing. She told me I had fainted.

My parents used to go on holiday on their own. When I was little, my father suffered from asthma, however he took care of himself: every year he went with my mother to a spa in Czechoslovakia, Karlsbad 4, I think. They always went during the summer, but I don't know if they went alone or not. We, the children, stayed at home and looked after each other, even if we had our little quarrels. Our grandparents also stopped by when our parents were away, so we weren't alone. But I never had a vacation with my parents.

I remember the flight of the Poles, who passed through Botosani as well. I don't remember being afraid back then. This happened around 1938, after I had finished my first year at the University of Medicine and Pharmaceutics in Iasi, and I had to have a period of practical training in a chemist's shop in Botosani. When I came home for the summer holidays, whomever I asked, they didn't have any openings; they said they would hire me if the people they already had left, but they couldn't promise anything. There was a Jewish pharmacist, Lerner, at the Military Hospital. My father knew him and the hospital's director, Colonel Apostoleanu. One day my father was walking down the street and he met this pharmacist. He told him that he had a daughter who had to have a period of practical training somewhere. The pharmacist told him, 'Send her to us, talk to Apostoleanu!'. So I talked with the colonel and he agreed, and I started working in the hospital. I learnt from him the first basic notions about pharmaceutics, notions I still remember today and I have always put to practice.

During the War

I was directly confronted with anti-Semitism when I finished university, I think I was in my last year, during the last period of practical training in 1941. We had a neighbor, a Jewish widow, who sold her house to a Romanian sergeant. This sergeant, who lived near us, was some kind of surgeon's assistant, and he sometimes came to the hospital to pick up some drugs. He used to say to me, 'Good morning, Miss! How are you? I saw your mother this morning and I told her I'm on my way to the hospital.' This lasted until just before the beginning of World War II. One day, I was on my way home - at that time I was already wearing the yellow star 5 - and a soldier stopped me in the street. A couple was also coming down the street, and they stopped to show their IDs as well. The man who had stopped me told them, 'Go ahead!', and they said, 'Ah, you're only checking the ones with the yellow star?' And he said, 'Yes, only them'. I was in my early twenties and wearing the star was compulsory. After he checked my ID, he let me go. It had rained heavily, there was mud everywhere. Then, when I was almost home and wanted to step on a dry rock, I heard a voice behind me: 'Step aside, you Jew [in Romanian: 'jidauca'], I will not step in mud with my new shoes because of you!' It was the sergeant who was our neighbor and who a month or two ago had said to me, 'Good morning, Miss!' After that I was forbidden to work.

Before World War II, I had worked as a pharmacist. The owners of the shop where I worked were Jews, and they lived upstairs. Their name was Rosenberg, and I got along very well with them. In 1942 all the merchandise in the shop was handed over to a Christian pharmacist, Mrs. Constantinescu. She wanted to keep me because she was from the countryside and she didn't know anybody in Botosani, except for her sister, who lived there. And it was something else, when the customers saw somebody familiar at the counter. People in Botosani knew me, and whoever came into the shop said: 'Thank God you are still here, you know what to give us'. There was a peasant from Cotusca [a small village near Botosani], whose wife was sick, and he always bought a 100 gram bottle of valerian tincture. He used to say, 'I wouldn't buy it from somewhere else, even if they gave me a kilo for free! This one is clean, carefully prepared and it cures!'

On one winter day, when it was already dark and there was a blizzard outside, the ex-owners upstairs asked me to sleep over because I lived far from the chemist's shop. I accepted, I had also joined them for dinner on several occasions. And in the morning, when I came down, a man from Social Insurance came into the shop, saw me and said, 'What is a Jew doing in a Romanian drug shop? You just got your shop, Mrs. Constantinescu; if you keep her, we will revoke your license!' I went upstairs, took my coat and left. [This happened around 1942.]

Then I worked for another Romanian pharmacist, Miss Popovici, for ten days. She had an anti-Semitic sister, who lived in Botosani, and who always told her, 'All you do is listen to Radio Free Europe 6, Radio London and fear that the Russians will get to Botosani! Don't worry, they won't get here!' [Editor's note: actually Radio Free Europe only began broadcasting in 1949.] And this sister always called me a Jew, but Miss Popovici didn't listen to her. After ten days, she received an official letter from the Pharmacists' Council stating that she had to let me go or they would revoke her license. And Miss Popovici went to them and told them, 'How come Gheorghiu can keep Jews, and I can't?' But she had to let me go.

There was another Romanian man, Gheorghiu, who was an accursed legionary 7 pharmacist. However, he also kept a Jew in his shop, but in the back, where no one could see him. His daughter was also a pharmacist, but she had just finished her studies and she didn't know a lot about running a chemist's shop. And he talked to Miss Popovici, although by that time I had already left her shop because he wanted me to go work in his daughter's shop. I didn't want to go, and I said so. Miss Popovici had paid me 1,000 lei per day, in ten days I made 10,000 lei and that was a lot. When I had worked for the Jewish pharmacist, I got 3,000 lei per month. Miss Popovici paid a lot because there was nobody to help her. So I told Gheorghiu that if he wanted me to work for his daughter, he should pay me 1,000 lei per day, like Miss Popovici. Of course he didn't want to; that was a lot of money. But he knew my father, and he came over to talk to him. My father told him, 'Mr. Gheorghiu, she is a grown-up woman, she does what she wants. If she won't do it, I cannot force her to!' And I didn't work for him. I preferred to knit a jacket - whoever needed something like that came to us - and get paid for that. I would have rather got 1,500 lei for a waistcoat, which took a long time to make, than work for Mr. Gheorghiu.

During the war a German officer stayed in our house. He lived in our living room; he wasn't very talkative, but he was polite. Over at Aunt Clara's, my father's sister, there was another German, and my father used to go over there because my aunt didn't know German very well. And my father told him that the Germans are getting on well, and he said, 'Yes, yes, the Germans are getting on well, but remember Russia is large and deep!'

After the first anti-Jewish laws were passed, my father couldn't work as a bookkeeper any more. He worked as a salesman. He had representations from different factories and he sold their products to wholesale dealers. This happened shortly after the war began; meanwhile Jews were also forbidden to travel by train and he had to give up his job and work in a high school. He was a secretary; that was where he retired from. All this time, my mother continued being a housewife. We lived on whatever work I could do at home.

David, my brother, also helped us. He was a technical manager at the textile plant in Prejmer and was living there. [Prejmer is a place in Brasov county which had a well-known textile factory.] There were only two managers: him and an administrative manager, so they needed him there. Once on New Year's Eve I went to Prejmer, it was soon after the rise of the Goga- Cuza government 8. The train was late, and it was dark when I arrived at the station in Prejmer. I knew that someone had to wait for me there. When I got off, I called out, 'Is there anyone here from the plant?' And a man answered, 'Yes, Miss, the engineer is waiting for you!' And then I heard another voice: 'No, you will take us to the village!' The voice belonged to a legionary who was at the train station with many others. They were some people from a village, but not workers. And the driver said, 'No, I'm just taking this young lady to the plant!' And they took revenge for that. They came to the plant and asked for light bulbs, and later I heard that they had a fight. My brother was also beaten by these legionaries.

Sandu was in Bessarabia 9, in the Romanian army, near Nistru, somewhere around Edineti, and he lived in somebody's house. That man had a little kid, who slept on the oven. Whenever the kid saw Sandu eating, he cried out, 'Give me! Give me! Give me!' And Sandu used to give him food. When Sandu came home, he always took more food, and said, 'I have to feed give- me-give-me-give-me!' After they let him go [from the army], he came to Botosani, where he had to work for the public service: change plates with street names and so on. After that he worked in the city hall, but they fired him from there as well by saying, 'What is a Jew doing in the city hall?' I don't remember what kind of work he did after that.

Before 1945, when the Russians came, Miss Popovici asked me to work for her again and I accepted. Then, the wife of a Jewish doctor - who had been deported to Transnistria 10 - came and asked for some drugs, and I gave her what she needed. And Miss Popovici's sister asked me who that was, and I told her. She said, 'I've never heard of her, I wouldn't have given her anything, accursed Jew!' And after that everything was packed because they were leaving for Bucharest the very next day. She showed off as a Jew- baiter, even though the merchandise she sold was a profit for them. Next day somebody was supposed to come and take all the merchandise to Bucharest, but the Russians came to Botosani, and everything was left behind. Soon after Miss Popovici moved to Bucharest. She came back some time later; she had a farm near Botosani where she retired because she was ill. After that, I worked for the pharmacist Mrs. Constantinescu, whom I had worked for before the war, with an officer: whatever I gained, I had to give him half. He was a relative of Mrs. Constantinescu's, who had taken refuge, and I was selling her merchandise, so I had to give him money.

After the War

I met my husband, Solomon Vecsler, after I had finished my studies. He worked as a pharmacist as well. He worked for an expropriated chemist's shop, but nobody said anything to its owners [at the time of the anti- Jewish-laws]. We met by chance: one of his colleagues set up a deposit with pharmaceutical supplies, and we met there. We married in 1945. I think it mattered to me that my husband was a Jew; I don't think I would have married a Romanian.

My husband's mother, Enta Vecsler, was a housewife. His father, Raphael Vecsler, worked in a bank, I think, but I never met him; he had died long before. My husband was a gentle man, and very obliging. He helped everybody in the chemist's shop. I remember there was a young pharmacist from Cluj [Napoca], who had been assigned to Botosani. My husband looked after her a lot, taught her how to prepare different things. Back then drugs were prepared in the chemist's shop, they weren't ready-made as they are now. And she had to take an exam in Bucharest I think, and her subject was on something she had worked on together with my husband. And she sent us a postcard to thank us: 'I was lucky to be in your shop, I passed the exam!'

After World War II, our house was nationalized [see Nationalization in Romania] 11, but we weren't forced to leave it. But we moved out because we were too close to the railway station, to the power station, to the military units; the neighborhood was too noisy and crowded, and we wanted to be closer to the rest of the family. The house where we formerly lived was inhabited by several people until my sister, Henrieta, who worked at the People's Council, managed to take the house out from the nationalization list; I don't know how she managed to do so. We registered the house in Sidonia's name, my other sister, because the rest of us had better jobs, compared to her: she worked half a shift as a secretary and half a shift as a librarian. We all thought it was fair to do so.

Sidonia, who lived in the same house we had rented, with the rest of us, rented out the house, but the rent was very small and the tenants always came to her to ask for money for restorations, and they cost a lot. Two rooms at the back of the house were rented to an elementary school: one was the library where Sidonia worked and the other was the pioneers' room. And when she saw how much the restorations cost, she said to the school principal: 'Keep the whole house and leave me alone, these restorations are confusing me!' She donated the house to the school and that was it. My elder sister, Tina, worked as a clerk in a men's underwear factory, whose owners were from Vienna. When everything was nationalized, she lost her job.

I had my first child, Raphael, in 1946. In the same year I started working in the same chemist's shop with my husband. A year before, the pharmacist I had worked for before World War II, Rosenberg, moved to Bucharest and we rented his shop. We lived upstairs, and had the shop downstairs. My husband woke up earlier and went into the shop, and I would look after Raphael a bit and then join him. We had our own chemist's shop until 1949, when all chemist's shops were nationalized. But there were too many pharmacists in Botosani and I had a husband who was a pharmacist, just like me, and a small child at home. They only hired one spouse. That was my husband, and I couldn't find a job anywhere. I only got a job in 1953 when someone came to me and told me, that there was an opening in Botosani, at Sanepid, in the chemistry department. [The Sanepid institution was established in 1950 and its main objective was the prophylaxis of infectious diseases, then extending to other fields of prophylactic interests, especially concerning the hygiene of public institutions or locations.] So I applied for it at the county, because back then Botosani belonged to Suceava county, and after a few months I was accepted and started working at Sanepid as a food chemist.

My daughter Nadia was born in 1949. We raised our children in the Jewish tradition: we observed Sabbath, said blessings on Friday evenings, observed Purim and Chanukkah and all the other high holidays. Of course, on Sabbath we, that is me and my husband, had to work, but we celebrated it at home. We followed the kashrut as much as we could, with separate pots for dairy and meat products. We only went to the synagogue on high holidays. There was no rabbi in Brasov when we moved here. The service was led by some of the elderly Jews, who had no functions in the community. We could go to the synagogue during communism, we had no problem, but if there was some kind of special event, like a high holiday, or an anniversary, when other important non-Jewish people were invited as well, like the mayor, we had to thank comrade Nicolae Ceausescu 12 for allowing us to have that gathering. [Editor's note: it is very unlikely that an important non-Jewish person would have gone to the synagogue during the communist era, especially because generally they were party members and religious practice was not well received. Also, Ceausescu was not mentioned by name, but there is a prayer after reading the Torah each Sabbath about the country and its rulers.]

I've never been a party member, and I've never been involved in politics, in any way. But it was compulsory to take part in social activities, like marches on 23rd August 13 or 1st May.

I never had problems at work because of being Jewish; I got along well with my colleagues. I remember the lab's director, the first of them, Mardare. He lived in a rented apartment, his neighbors were Jewish and they got along very well. That's how he met my son, who was playing with his neighbors' kid. And Mardare used to say openly: 'On [Jewish] holidays I don't want to see you in the lab!' The doctor who followed him, Naciu, was the same: I had time off on high holidays. But I had to work on Saturdays, of course, like everybody else. I worked at Sanepid until I retired. But I went on working after that as well, I got a full salary and half a pension. I needed the money because by then both my children where studying at university in Bucharest and it was hard to get by.

My father died in Botosani in 1954. My mother continued living in the same rented house until 1960, when she also died. They were both buried in the Jewish cemetery and the Kaddish was recited, of course, but I don't remember who did so; probably somebody from the community in Botosani.

When Nadia was about two years old, in 1951, we started proceedings to leave for Israel, me, my husband, my mother-in-law and our children. But only my mother-in-law got the permission to leave for Israel. She didn't leave, she was too old to take care of herself alone, with no family. That was the policy: many families were separated, parents left without their children or the other way around. I remember about one family, I don't know the name anymore: the parents left with one daughter, and the other had to stay here because she was over 18 when they filed for aliyah and she didn't get the approval. She had to stay here for many years, I don't know exactly how many.

And because we had filed for aliyah, and the proceedings lasted for many years, Nadia didn't win any prizes in elementary school, although her grades were very good. I remember I told her she wouldn't get a prize because of our situation on the way to the festivity because I knew that if I had told her at home she wouldn't have wanted to go anymore. And she didn't get any prizes until we gave up on emigration and withdrew the file when she was in the 8th grade and had to take the capacity examination.

We gave up because my husband received a note from Centrofarm, which was in Suceava by then, which said that if he didn't give up on emigration, he would be transferred to work in a village. [Centrofarm was a state pharmaceutical company, which operated all over the country.] They had probably been asked to do so. So we gave it up, and Nadia entered the high school examination on her first try. Our boy, Raphael, didn't make it on the first try just because our file was still valid. [He was older, so he took the exam earlier than Nadia.] After we gave it up, they both won prizes in high school.

I was glad to hear about the birth of Israel, but I was upset because of the wars since I had acquaintances who had already left. They weren't close friends, but a lot of pharmacists from Botosani left for Israel. Ieti, the sister of my friend Ostfeld, was married, had a son, and they both left for Israel. Ostfeld died young because of typhoid fever. She was almost cured when she had another fit and died.

My sister Ernestina emigrated to Australia in 1964; she married a Jew call Rufenstein who left from Botosani as well. I think he was an accountant and she was a translator, we kept in touch, wrote letters to each other, but I don't know many details about their lives there. Sandu left for Israel, Jerusalem, in 1984. His son, Sergiu, had already emigrated to the US, but he came home for a while. Sandu's wife, Fiameta, was ill, she had to have dyalisis, and Sergiu convinced them that dyalisis was easier done in Israel. So they left, and she died during a dyalisis in Jerusalem in 1985. Sandu had been an accountant at a spinning mill here, in Bucharest, but I don't think he had a permanent job in Israel. Now and then maybe, but he was already retired. I was sad when he left, he was the only one of us siblings whom I had left. But we kept in touch through letters, and I never had problems with that, or suspected that someone opened our letters. But there was only family talk in them, nothing interesting for someone else. Sandu died in Canada, after he went to the US for Sergiu's marriage. After the marriage, they went on a trip, and Sandu died in Toronto.

My children always knew what they wanted to do, I couldn't influence them. When Raphael finished the 5th or 6th grade, he had to choose between mathematics and humanities, and he chose the latter. Then, he studied journalism in Bucharest. Nadia was just as determined, and went to study mathematics in Bucharest. They had no problems at university because of being Jewish, as far as I know. In 1975 my husband and I moved to Brasov because of the children. In 1974 Raphael married Felicia Reinisch, who is also Jewish, in the synagogue in Bucharest, in the presence of Rabbi Moses. They moved to Brasov. They have two daughters: Manuela and Karina. Raphael works as a journalist at several newspapers in Brasov. Tradition is still very important to them. Manuela also married a Jew, Andrei Czizler, in 2002. They had a religious ceremony in the synagogue here, in Brasov. Nadia didn't want to be separated from her brother Raphael, so she came to Brasov as well. We lived with Nadia here, in an apartment with two rooms and a kitchen. Nadia didn't marry and she still lives with me. She works as a programmer.

My husband died in 1990 and was buried in a Jewish cemetery. There was a rabbi and a chazzan at the funeral, and someone from the community, not from the family, recited the Kaddish. None of my siblings are alive now; the only family I have are my children, my nieces and Magda Blumenfeld - the daughter of my mother's sister Adela - who sometimes calls or writes.

Things became better after the collapse of communism in 1989 [see Romanian Revolution of 1989] 14. I remember I was in the kitchen, and I heard something on the radio but I didn't understand. And then Nadia phoned, and said, 'Turn on the TV!' There were people who came into the headquarters of the national television station, announcing that the communist era was over, and broadcasting scenes showing fights in Timisoara. After that we had better heat, the electricity wasn't stopped from time to time [as it used to be during the communist era due to reasons of economy], I was no longer afraid to go out into the street, I didn't have to stand in queues for food. Beforehand, people got angry and sometimes started to talk against the regime, and you never knew who was listening. You could be arrested with them, taken as a witness, or accused for not intervening.

Things have changed in the community as well; I feel there are more activities. But I no longer go to the synagogue because I have problems with my legs. When I could, I did go, not every Saturday, but on the high holidays, like Purim and Chanukkah. Now I observe them at home with my daughter, who still goes to the synagogue on the high holidays. We lit the candles every Friday evening and say the blessings, but we don't follow the kashrut anymore, it's too difficult, and we don't do anything special on Sabbath. But we still cook hamantashen and send out shelakhmones. The community helps me with medication.

Glossary