Travel

Ernest Galpert
Uzhgorod
Ukraine
Date of interview: April 2003 Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya

Ernest Galpert is a tall slender man, quick in his movements. Although he will turn 80 in June one cannot call him an old man. He has a straight bearing and the figure of a young man. He has thick hair, bright and cheerful eyes and a nice smile. The name of Ernest is written in his official documents, but he is called Ari, affectionate for Archnut. His children and the rest of his family call him Ari-bacsi ['uncle' in Hungarian]. He speaks fluent Russian with a slight Hungarian accent. The Galpert couple is very hospitable and open. They have lived in this two- bedroom apartment for over 40 years. It's in a building built back in the 1920s during the rule of Czechoslovakia, in the old center of Uzhgorod. They have heavy old furniture in their apartment, and keep their apartment very clean. Ari's wife Tilda is a real keeper of the home hearth. Ari and his wife make a loving and caring couple. They are always together and Ari even joked that since his wife has joined a club in Hesed he will have to accompany her there. There's still a lot of love between them.

Family background
Growing up
During the war
Post-war
Glossary

Family background

My paternal grandfather and grandmother Galpert lived in the village of Nizhniye Vorota [60 km from Uzhgorod], Volovets district in Subcarpathia 1. I knew my grandparents very well. My grandfather, Pinchas Galpert, was born in Nizhniye Vorota in the 1860s. My grandmother Laya was born in the 1870s. I don't know the place of her birth or her maiden name. I've never met any of their relatives. My grandfather finished a yeshivah. I don't know where it was located. Their children were born in Nizhniye Vorota. My grandfather and grandmother had eight children. My father, Eshye Galpert, born in 1896, his younger brother, Idl, and his sister whose name I don't remember, stayed with their parents. My father's sister moved to her husband when she got married. I don't remember her. The rest of my grandparents' children also left their parents' home when they grew up. One of my father's older brothers, whose name I don't remember, moved to Bogota, Columbia. His other brother Moishe Galpert lived in Michalovce, in Slovakia. My father's older sister emigrated to Switzerland. My father's brothers Yankel and Berl moved to Palestine in the 1920s after training in hakhsharah camps 2 before World War I. Those were training camps for young people where they prepared Jewish children for life in Palestine.

In the early 1900s my father's family moved to Mukachevo. My father actually grew up in Mukachevo. After moving to Mukachevo my grandfather went to work at the Jewish burial society [the Chevra Kaddisha]. My father's younger brother Idl was his assistant. Idl lived with his parents before he got married. My grandfather was a Hasid 3. I remember him when he was an old man. He had a gray beard and payes. On weekdays he wore a black suit and a big black hat, and on Saturday he wore a long black caftan and a yarmulka with 13 squirrel tails that Hasidim used to wear on Saturday and Jewish holidays. [Editor's note: The hat that Hasidim usually wore on holidays is called a streimel.] My grandmother was a housewife. She wore black gowns and a black kerchief. She was very nice and caring and loved her numerous grandchildren. My grandmother died at the age of 60, in 1937. Now, at the age of 80, I understand that she wasn't that old, but at the time when I knew her, she seemed very old to me. Perhaps, my grandmother got prematurely old missing her children that lived far away from their parents' home.

My father's family was very religious. It couldn't have been otherwise in a Hasidic family. My grandfather went to the synagogue every day and so did his sons after having their bar mitzvah. They observed Sabbath and Jewish holidays at home and spoke Yiddish. My father and then his younger brother Idl finished cheder and went to study in a yeshivah in the town of Nitra in Slovakia. This part of Slovakia belonged to Austria-Hungary then. My father told me a little about the yeshivah where he studied. There were mainly young men from poorer families who came to study in the yeshivah from other towns. Students from wealthier families had meals in restaurants, but those who couldn't afford it had meals in Jewish families. My father told me funny stories about such dinners. One day he came to one family and another day somebody else invited him. Some families treated my father arrogantly, some friendly, and others with respect. By the way, when I was a child, we also invited students from the yeshivah in Mukachevo to dinner. Every Tuesday Chaim, a poor Jewish student, dined with us, and mother always tried to cook something special and make Chaim feel at home.

During World War I my father was recruited to the Austro-Hungarian army [the so-called KuK army] 4. At that time religion played an important role in the army and in life in general. The military could go to the religious establishments of their confessions when time permitted it, of course. Jews went to the synagogue on Saturday and Christians could got to their church on Sunday. Occasionally local Jewish families invited Jewish soldiers to Sabbath or other Jewish holidays. In their military units they had an opportunity to have kosher food cooked for them. My father was captured by the Russians and taken to Tver region in Russia. He told me about his captivity. He spoke of the Russians kindly. The landlords took prisoners of war to work for them. They kept the prisoners in good conditions and provided good food for them. My father was working for a landlord when in 1917 the Russian Revolution 5 took place. Then there was the Civil War 6. When the war was over in 1918 the Bolsheviks released all prisoner of war captured by the tsarist army and my father returned home to Mukachevo. Shortly after he returned he married my mother.

My mother's father, Aron Kalush, died before I was born. The Jews of Subcarpathia came from Galicia, Western Ukraine, for the most part. Many people's surnames derived from the names of the towns or villages they came from. There were many Jews who had the last name of Debelzer or Bolechover, which were the names of towns in Galicia. I think that the last name of Galpert derived from the town of Galper. There's nobody else with the last name of Galpert in Ukraine, I've only heard of the last name of Galperin. I can only guess that when their ancestors moved to Austria-Hungary, their family name was changed in German or Hungarian manner. Grandfather Aron's family must have moved from the town of Kalush, but that's only my guess. I don't know the exact place of birth of my grandfather. He was born in the 1860s. He was a glasscutter.

My grandmother, Laya Kalush, was born in Subcarpathia in the 1870s, but I don't know her exact place of birth. I don't know her maiden name either. She was a housewife. My mother and her sisters and brothers were born in Mukachevo. My mother was the oldest in the family. She was born in 1894 and named Perl. The rest of the children were born after an interval of one to two years. My mother's sister Ghinda was the second child. The third was Yankel and the youngest in the family was Nuchim. My mother's family wasn't as religious as Hasidic families, but they went to the synagogue on Sabbath and Jewish holidays, the men prayed every day at home and they, of course, observed the kashrut. All children were raised Jewish. The family spoke Yiddish at home and Hungarian to their non-Jewish neighbors.

There was an epidemic of the so-called Spanish flu in Subcarpathia during World War I. Many people died of this flu in Mukachevo. To prevent the spread of this virus people's corpses were buried in pits filled with liquid chloride in the Jewish cemetery. They also buried people that were still alive if they believed them to be hopelessly ill. My mother's younger brother, Nuchim, died that way. My grandfather died from the flu and Nuchim was still alive when they took him to the cemetery in 1914.

After Grandfather Aron died and after the mourning was over, my grandmother remarried. Her second husband was a Jewish widower from Michalovce in Slovakia where my father's brother Moishe lived. All I know about my grandmother's second husband is that he was a shochet. I don't remember his name. My grandmother visited us several times for a few days. I remember that she was an old woman wearing a black dress and a black kerchief. My grandmother and her husband perished in 1941 during World War II. Jews from Slovakia were taken to Auschwitz. In 1939 the fascists [Germany] attacked Poland and built concentration camps there. There were only rumors that Jews were taken to Auschwitz from Slovakia. My parents knew that my grandmother and her husband were taken to a concentration camp, but they didn't share this knowledge with us. However, we, kids, understood that something bad had happened. My mother kept crying repeating, 'How is Mother? How is Mother?' In 1944, when the Jews from Subcarpathia were taken to Auschwitz, we didn't have any idea what was happening there. We thought it was an ordinary labor camp, although in labor camps inmates also died from diseases or starvation. Nobody knew that it was a death camp. My mother kept writing letters addressed to grandmother, but we never heard from her and my mother was deeply concerned. Finally she received a letter from my grandmother's neighbors. They wrote that my grandmother and her husband perished in Auschwitz.

I have dim memories about my mother's brother Yankel. He perished during World War II, but it happened before the Germans began to take Jews to concentration camps. My mother's sister Ghinda got married and moved to her husband's town, to Vynohradiv [80 km from Uzhgorod]. I remember her well since I often spent my vacations with her family. Ghinda's husband was a tailor and she was a housewife after she got married. They had six children. One daughter died in infancy. Ghinda's children were about my age. The name of Ghinda's older daughter was Surah. One of her daughters, my niece Olga, died in Israel recently and her second daughter Perl lives in Canada. Ghinda's sons Aron and Yankel were in a concentration camp. After liberation from the camp they moved to Israel. They lived in a kibbutz. Aron died in the late 1980s and as for Yankel, I've lost contact with him. Ghinda's other daughter, whose name I don't remember, lived in Budapest, Hungary. She died in the 1970s. Ghinda had diabetes. She died in 1940. Yankel, Ghinda and her family were religious. My mother was the only survivor of all her brothers and sisters when the Germans began to deport people to concentration camps.

I think my parents had a prearranged marriage since it was common practice with Jewish families to address matchmakers - shadkhanim, regarding this issue. My parents had a traditional Jewish wedding in 1919 when Subcarpathia belonged to Czechoslovakia. My mother told me how many geese were slaughtered and who their guests were, but I can't remember any details. I was a boy then and took no interest in such things. They had a chuppah at home in the yard and the rabbi from the synagogue that my father attended. The rabbi conducted a traditional wedding ceremony and then the newly-weds had to drop a plate and step on it with their feet to break it. Now they break a glass, but in the past it was a plate. When the plate broke the guests shouted 'Mazel Tov!' and sang wedding songs. Then they danced. The newly-weds danced the first dance and then there were mitzvah dances where guests took turns to dance with the bride. Every guest paid for the right to dance with the bride. The rich always demonstrated how much they were putting on a plate and the poor quickly dropped money so that nobody could tell how much they put down. That's what my mother told me.

After the wedding my parents' relatives helped them to buy a house. The Jews in Mukachevo lived in the center of the town. There was a Jewish neighborhood in Yidishgas ['Jewish Street' in Yiddish] and there were also Jewish houses in other neighborhoods. My future wife, Tilda Akerman, also lived in Yidishgas and we lived in the neighboring street where Jewish houses neighbored non-Jewish houses. There was no place for growing vegetables near the house. Land was expensive in the central part of the town. Farmers lived and grew their products on the outskirts of the town. My paternal grandparents lived near us on Danko Street.

My father had a small store in the biggest room in our house with an entrance from the front door. There were three rooms and a kitchen in the house. We entered the living quarters through the store. My father sold all common goods in his store. He worked in the store alone, there were no other employees. He opened the store early in the morning. In the early afternoon he closed it to go to the synagogue and when he returned he opened his store again to work until evening. Occasionally, even when the store was closed some customers asked my father to sell them what they needed and my father didn't refuse to serve them. He had Jewish and non- Jewish customers living in our street. We, children, also helped him in the store. My father earned enough for the family to make ends meet. We were neither rich nor poor. We didn't starve and could afford to support the poor on Thursday so that they could have a decent Sabbath. To help the poor was considered to be a holy duty, a mitzvah. On Thursday contributions for the needy were collected at the synagogue and my father always gave some money to the collectors.

There were three children in the family. My sister Olga was born in 1920. Her Jewish name was Friema. I was born on 20th June 1923. I had the name of Arnucht written in my Czechoslovak birth certificate. I was named after my maternal grandfather Aron. During the Hungarian rule [1939-1945] I was called Erno and during the Soviet rule [1945-1991] I became Ernest, but my close ones always called me Ari. My younger sister, Toby, was born in 1925. She is called Yona in Israel. Yiddish Toyb for Toby means 'dove' and dove is Yona in Hebrew.

Mukachevo was a Jewish town. It was even called 'little Jerusalem' and it was a center of Hasidism. Jews constituted over half of the population of Mukachevo. There were over 15,000 Jews in the town. There were five to six children in Jewish families. The Austro-Hungarian authorities were tolerant towards Jews. Jews enjoyed equal rights with others and when in 1918 Subcarpathia joined Czechoslovakia life became even better. The president of Czechoslovakia, Masaryk 7, and then Benes 8 allowed the Jews to hold official posts. Religion was appreciated at all times. On Saturday the Jews went to the synagogue. All stores and shops were closed. Their owners and craftsmen were Jews. Non-Jews got adjusted to this way of life. They knew very well they couldn't buy anything on Sabbath and did their shopping on Thursday and Friday.

Many Jews owned craft shops and factories. Trade was mainly a Jewish business. Jews also dealt in timber sales. They managed woodcutting shops from where they sent timber to wholesale storage facilities where customers could buy all they needed beginning from planks and beams for construction and ending with wood for heating. There were wealthy Jewish families, but the majority of them were poor, of course. There were Jewish craftsmen: tailors, shoemakers, carpenters and cabinetmakers. The barbers and hairdressers were also Jews. Most of the doctors and lawyers in Mukachevo were also Jewish. Non-Jews were mostly involved in farming and held official posts.

There was a specific profession that only women did. Every married Jewish woman wore a wig. The moment she stepped out of the chuppah she had her head shaved and put on a wig. [Editor' note: Ernest doesn't remember correctly, the custom is that the bride's head is shaved before going to the chuppah.] Therefore many women made wigs in Mukachevo. They sold their wigs in Subcarpathia and had orders from Czechoslovakia and Hungary. This profession required special skills and mothers began to train their daughters at an early age.

Many Jews lived on what the Jewish community paid them. What I mean is that they were working for the community. There were about 20 synagogues and prayer houses in Mukachevo. There was a rabbi and shammash in each synagogue. There were many cheders where melamedim and behelfers, their assistants, worked. Children went to cheder at the age of three and needed additional help. There were specialists in circumcision called mohels. Some were selling religious books and accessories for prayers or holidays.

There were two shochetim in Mukachevo. They worked in a building near the synagogue. The Jews mainly ate poultry: chicken and geese. They took their poultry to a shochet to have it slaughtered. The building where he worked was called shlobrik [Editor's note: Ernest explained that the word 'shlobrik' was a dialect word used in Mukachevo area. This word may have came from the merging of the Yiddish words, 'shekht' meaning 'slaughter', and 'rekht' meaning 'right'.] There was one big room where many Jews went on the eve of a holiday. They were standing in lines to the two shochetim. There were many hooks nailed in the counter from the side where the shochet was standing. The owners brought their chickens with their legs tied together. The shochet hung chickens with their heads down on the nails. He had to strictly observe all the rules. He had his knife in his mouth. To slaughter a chicken he instantly cut the poultry's throat. The chicken was still kicking and the blood was splashing around. The shochet took the chicken off the hook and gave it back to the owner. The blood was still flowing from the chicken. It was a terrible sight. Jewish families usually sent children to the shochet. We liked going to the shlobrik before holidays since there were many other children there and we could enjoy talking. Children sometimes brought somebody else's chicken home and mothers had the idea to tie the chicken's legs with colored shreds so that a kid could easily recognize which chicken was his.

In cheder children mainly studied religion. There was also a Jewish grammar school funded by the Zionists. The teachers at this school belonged to various Zionist organizations. Kugel was the last name of the director of this school. He was a handsome tall man. The children studied Ivrit spoken in present-day Israel. There were teachers from Palestine in the grammar school. The Hasidim weren't happy with this grammar school since it didn't focus on religious subjects. This building still exists. It houses the Trade College today.

There was a yeshivah, a Jewish higher educational institution, in Mukachevo. The chief rabbi at the yeshivah was the popular Hasidic rabbi Chaim Spira [Shapira] 9. Our Hesed in Uzhgorod is named after him: Hesed Spira. Spira was a very authoritative Hasid known all over the world. I remember him very well since my father and I went to get shirayem - leftovers. A rabbi traditionally invites Hasidim to dinner on Saturday. The rabbi hands them leftovers of the dishes he had tried. Saraim was supposed to bring blessings to a person. Hasidim grabbed every piece from the rabbi's hands. Sometimes they even fought to get them. I remember when at the age of about five I crawled on all fours to the rabbi's table to get shirayem. My father didn't visit the rabbi every Saturday, but I tried to attend every Saturday. On Saturday morning my father went to the synagogue. When he came home we sat down for dinner and I rushed to the rabbi's house to get to the eshraim on time. Once I got confused and instead of sitting at the table with the rabbi I sat at the table for the poor that couldn't afford a festive dinner on Sabbath. They had cholent, beans stewed with meat. I had a meal, but then one of the Hasidim asked my father rather maliciously whether he was poor to the extent of sending his son to have dinner for the poor provided by the rabbi. My father asked me if this was true and then explained the difference between shirayem and dinner for the poor to me.

There was some competition between two rabbis in Mukachevo. Besides rabbi Spira there was the Belzer rebbe, also a popular Hasidic rabbi. He built a synagogue in Mukachevo and the community members divided into the admirers and opponents between the two rabbis. The synagogues of Spira and Belze were close to each other. I cannot tell what it was like with adults, but we, boys, whose parents attended different synagogues, even threw stones at one another. There were conflicts between the rabbis' office and the Zionists, too. One of the reasons was the Jewish grammar school. The grammar school paid little attention to religious subjects. The rabbis were concerned about such abandonment. There were also differences in convictions. Hasidim didn't think it necessary to move to Palestine. They believed that the Messiah would come to lead all Jews to their ancestors' land of Palestine and that they had to wait for Him where they were, while the Zionists were helping people to move to Palestine. Rabbi Spira often made angry speeches against the Zionists and even cursed them.

There is a well-known Jewish curse: 'to erase one's name so that nobody remembers it'. This curse is said at Purim when they mention Haman's name. Every time the name of Haman is mentioned, everyone boos, hisses, stamps their feet and twirls their graggers. Children start their rattles, adults hit the table with their fists and stamp their feet to blot out Haman's name from history. There's the expression 'blot out' the name or the memory of particular individuals. Rabbi Spira often used this expression when speaking about the Zionists. Sometimes it led to scandalous situations. Occasionally students of grammar school threw eggs at rabbi Spira during his speeches. Now I understand that it was wrong, but it wasn't considered to be so at that time: the rabbi spoke against the Zionists and they acted against the rabbi.

There were numerous Zionist parties in Mukachevo. There was the Mizrachi, an Orthodox Zionist party. At the age of 13 I attended a club in the Mizrachi for a short time. There was a dance club where boys danced with girls. My parents were aware that I went there. I was too shy and my parents wanted me to socialize with other teenagers. My mother even made me a fancy shirt for dancing. I was too shy to dance with girls and gave up dancing. There were other Zionist parties. There was a Zionist party called Betar. I would call them fascists. Those Zionists believed that they could reach their goals with weapons and force. There was the Hashomer Hatzair 10. They were chauvinist Jews, but they were communists. It still exists in Israel, and also has the same name. They are Zionists and speak for the State of Israel, but they believe that this state must be communist, or at least socialist. All Zionist parties were more or less religious and were in opposition to one another. There was an active and interesting life in Mukachevo.

Rabbi Chaim Spira died in 1937. Hasidim from Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Romania and Poland came to his funeral. My father took me to his funeral although my mother protested. She was afraid that I might be treaded down by the crowd. I can remember very clearly the funeral of Spira. The whole town was in mourning. There were black cloths on the houses and people wore dark clothes. It looked as though it got dark all of a sudden. Non-Jewish residents also came to the funeral. There were police patrols in the streets and policemen were wearing special safety hats in case of trouble. People took turns to carry the casket from the house where Rabbi Spira lived, across the town and out of town to the Jewish cemetery. Every five to ten meters the casket was handed over to another group of men. There were so many of those that were willing to carry it that the casket could have been easily handed over all the distance between Mukachevo and Uzhgorod. Men were carrying it on their shoulders to pay honor to Rabbi Spira. People were crying. However young I was I remember this overwhelming grief. So many people came to the cemetery that there wasn't an inch of space left there.

My father, Eshye Galpert, was a Hasid and dressed according to the fashion. He wore a long black caftan and a black kippah, and a black hat and a streimel on holidays. He had a big beard and payes. My mother wore a wig and dark gowns. We only spoke Yiddish at home. We, children, spoke fluent Czech and studied in a Czech school, but our parents didn't speak any Czech since they were born in Austria-Hungary. The older generation and my parents, too, spoke Hungarian to their non-Jewish acquaintances.

Our father closed his store in the late afternoon and our neighbors knocked on our window if they needed something in the evening. Sometimes somebody felt ill and his relatives wanted to get a lemon for him at night. My father gave them what they needed through the window. He had to get up at night rather often since we had many neighbors. Most of them were poor Jews and my father didn't earn much from them. They used to buy 250 grams of sugar, or even 60 grams when they wanted to serve tea to unexpected guests. Sugar was expensive and very few customers could afford to buy a whole kilo of sugar. My father had his goods packed in packages for various customers. The shops were to be closed on state holidays and the authorities watched that this rule was strictly followed. Therefore, if my father had a customer on holidays he sent us, children, outside to look out for policemen nearby to avoid a penalty. On Sabbath and Jewish holidays the shop was closed and I cannot imagine what might have made my father sell goods on such days. Our non-Jewish neighbors knew very well there was no way to buy anything on holidays and did their shopping in advance. Twice a week my father rode his bicycle to buy goods for his store from wholesalers. He took back the smaller packages and had the bigger ones delivered to the store.

Growing up

My father had a nice voice and an ear for music. He sang in a choir when he studied in the yeshivah. Father liked singing and music. Uncle Idl had a gramophone. There was a handle to wind it up to listen to a record. Uncle Idl brought his gramophone when visiting us and then my father listened to music. However, he wanted to hear more. Hasidim weren't allowed to go to the cinema or theater. There were music films with Caruso, Mario Lanza and Chaliapin shown in the cinema theater in our town. [Editor's note: Mario Lanza (1921-1959): born Alfredo Arnold Cocozza, he adopted the stage name Mario Lanza in 1942, he sang opera in the movies; Enrico Caruso (1873- 1921): famous Italian opera singer; Fyodor Ivanovich Chaliapin (1873-1938): one of the greatest Russian singers.] My father went to the cinema and stood by the backdoor where nobody could see him listening to the music. What would other Hasidim have said if they had known about my father's likes! When a known chazzan came to town he performed in the main synagogue, my father and I were sure to go to listen to him. Although we lived at quite a distance from the main synagogue on Friday evening or Saturday we went there to listen to a chazzan. My father sang and was a chazzan of the synagogue that we attended each Sabbath and on Jewish holidays.

At the age of three I went to cheder. All boys went to cheder at the age of three. Classes started at 6.30am and my mother woke me up at 5.30 every day. It was especially hard in winter when it was still dark and cold when I had to go to cheder. The cheder where I studied was a small white-painted room in the house in the yard of the synagogue where the melamed lived. I don't know exactly how much parents paid for their children, but I don't think it was much. In winter each pupil had to bring a wooden log for the stove. The rabbi was very poor and we had to help his wife about the house: we cut and fetched wood. We studied until lunchtime then we had a one-hour break. We ran home to have a quick lunch and ran back to cheder. The rabbi allowed us to play. Most of us came from poor families that couldn't afford to buy their children toys. We played football with a ball that we made from stockings.

We studied the Hebrew alphabet in the 1st grade. In the 2nd grade, at the age of four, we knew the alef-beys and could read prayers. In the 3rd grade when we were five to six years old we studied the Torah. The language was the same as in prayers, only nekudes were added. A different rabbi was our teacher in each grade and they had special training for teaching in their grade. There was a bamboo stick used ever since we were in the 3rd grade. Every Thursday the rabbi examined our knowledge. If a pupil didn't demonstrate a good knowledge the rabbi said, 'Take down your pants'. The pupil had to go down on his knee and the rabbi hit him as many times as he believed the pupil deserved. Every Thursday morning I got up in the morning complaining to my mother about a headache asking her to let me stay at home. My father understood very well why I had a headache since he had studied at cheder in his day, too. My mother asked my father to let me stay at home since she believed I was a weak child. One time doctors suspected I had anemia and my mother felt sorry for me, but my father always insisted that I went to cheder. Well, frankly, when I returned home from cheder I never had a headache to go and play outside!

At the age of six I had to go to elementary school. Jewish children went to Czech elementary schools for boys and girls. We had to study at the elementary school and cheder at the same time. School started at 9 in the morning. I had breakfast and went to cheder at 6.30, as usual. We recited prayers and at 8.30 I went to elementary school. After classes I went home to have lunch and then went back to cheder where we had classes until evening. I returned home late in the evening and did my homework for school. However, the schoolteachers knew that we had a busy curriculum at cheder and didn't give us much to do at home.

When I was to start elementary school my father cut my payes. He didn't want me to be different from other children fearing that they might tease me. Senior boys at cheder had long payes and so did my father and grandfather and I wanted to be like them. I began to cry when he was cutting my payes, but my father said that while I was a child he was to decide on the length of my payes and when I grew up I could decide for myself. When I turned 14 or 15 I secretly cut my payes being shy to wear them. My father reminded me how I had cried when he had cut my payes. I wore a tzitzit. At school I hid it under my shirt, but I never took it off.

We were told different things at cheder and at school and I often got confused about it. Once I came home after a class in natural history with tears in my eyes. I said, 'Our rabbi told us that God made this world in six days, but our teachers at school tell us different. Who do I trust? Our rabbi or our teacher?' Though my father was a Hasid he was a kind and smart man and understood that this was a collapse of my understanding of this world and a catastrophe for me. He said the following, 'You listen to both. What the rabbi says you study for cheder and at school you say what your teacher requests. When you grow up you will find out what's right for yourself.' I had all excellent marks at school and had no problems at cheder. On Saturday I visited my grandfather and he checked what I had learnt at cheder during the week. If he was happy with what he heard he always gave me candy. My grandmother gave me candy unconditionally, though. I visited my grandparents after school sometimes.

Girls attended Beit Yakov schools where they learned to read and write in Hebrew. They had classes that lasted a couple of hours once a week. My sisters didn't attend it because they learned at home with our parents. My mother could read in Hebrew and my father could read and write. Actually, girls were not taught to write. They were supposed to be able to read prayers. They didn't know the language and didn't understand what they were reading. At cheder we were taught to read in Hebrew and translate into Yiddish while the girls didn't know it. However, some Hasidic families taught their daughters to read and translate, but there were only a few. There were prayer books in Hungarian translation.

We studied in elementary school for four years and then had to complete four years in the so-called middle school 11. After finishing this school we could go to a grammar school. My sisters and I finished a middle school.

We observed Sabbath and all Jewish holidays at home. On Friday morning my mother started cooking for Sabbath. She made food for two days since she couldn't do any work on Saturday. She bought challah for Sabbath at the Jewish bakery, and vegetables and dairies at the market. Before Sabbath my father and I went to the synagogue. When we returned my mother lit candles and prayed over them. Dinner was ready. After the common prayer my father said a broche, a blessing over the food, and we sat down to dinner. Then we sang zmires. On Saturday morning my parents went to the synagogue. My father took me with him. After the prayer we returned home and father sat down to read religious books. He often read aloud to my sisters and me. For my sisters to understand he translated from Hebrew into Yiddish. He told us about the history of the Jewish people and retold us stories from the Torah. Then we went to visit my grandparents.

During the month of Adar we prepared for Pesach. My father had many religious books: the complete Talmud, the Tannakh and many others. Once a year before Pesach we had to air the books. We took a ladder to the yard and put special plywood boards on it. Then we put all books on these boards and shuffled all pages. This was the start of the preparations for Pesach. There was a list of activities to be completed every day. My mother cleaned the kitchen and my sisters and I had to do the rooms. We had to remove all breadcrumbs and gave all bread leftovers to our non-Jewish neighbors. On the eve of Pesach we checked that everything had been done right. If we didn't believe that everything was as clean as it should be we did the ritual of bdikat chametz, a symbolic clean up. [Editor's note: This ritual was obligatorily performed before every Pesach.] On the evening before Pesach my mother put a few pieces of bread somewhere behind a wardrobe, under the table or on a shelf. My father checked the house with a candle in his hand to determine whether there was any chametz left. He also had a goose feather and a shovel in his hands. He swept the chametz that he found onto the shovel and continued his search of the house. My mother was supposed to remember the number of pieces she dropped. The chametz that my father found was wrapped into a piece of cloth and a wooden spoon was also put there for some reason. This package was placed where it could be seen to ensure there was no chametz left in the house. On the eve of Pesach all neighbors got together to burn their chametz. Everyone had chametz wrapped in a piece of cloth, a feather and a wooden spoon that they dropped into the fire. Then they prayed. It wasn't allowed to eat bread after that. It was allowed to eat potatoes, but no bread.

Then the kitchen utensils and crockery were replaced with fancy pieces. We only used kosher utensils and crockery at home. There were dishes for meat and dairy products and they were not to be mixed. We also had special utensils and crockery for Pesach. We packed our everyday crockery into a basket and took it to the attic or basement and took the special crockery down. It was stored in the attic and was thoroughly packed. First we took down our utensils. We, children, couldn't wait until our parents unwrapped the glasses. Traditionally every Jew was supposed to drink four glasses of wine during the first seder. There were bigger glasses for our parents and smaller ones for us, children. Everybody had his own glass. We grabbed and kissed this crockery so happy we were to have special crockery in the house! We had fancy glasses for Pesach. The biggest glass was for Elijah, the Prophet 12.

The table was covered with a white tablecloth on the seder. We were in a cheerful mood. There were napkins with quotations from the Torah embroidered on them. They were used to cover the matzah. There was a Jewish bakery in Mukachevo where matzah was made. Before baking matzah the bakery was to be cleaned of chametz, then a rabbi inspected it and gave his permission for baking. Each family ordered as much as it needed and when ready the matzah was delivered to homes in big wicker baskets. The bakery was open for a whole month. The Jewish community provided matzah to poor families, but there was very little of it and those people were always hungry at Pesach since they weren't allowed to eat bread that was their major food. A day before Pesach the most religious Hasidim went to the bakery to make their own matzah since they didn't trust the bakers. Shmire matzot was very expensive. [Editor's note: Matzah shemirah is matzah made from wheat, which has been under observation from the time of reaping or grinding] Everybody bought matzah at Pesach, but based on what they could afford people bought different sorts of matzah. My father wasn't fanatically religious and we bought ordinary matzah. Nowadays there are special appliances to make matzah, but in the past it was made by hand. First they made the dough, rolled it out and put it in the oven within 20 minutes. [Editor's note: In most communities today the whole process from kneading the dough to baking must not exceed 18 minutes.] If it took longer the dough was considered to be sour and was no good for matzah. There were special rollers for making holes into the dough. The dough was made from the wheat that Jews had grown. There were Jewish farmers that grew wheat for making matzah. The grain was milled at special mills owned by Jews. There was no non-Jewish hand to touch the matzah. We weren't a wealthy family and we, children, were always hungry at Pesach. We felt like chewing matzah from morning till night, but there wasn't enough of it.

My mother also made stocks of poultry fat during winter time. We bought geese bred by Jews, took them to the shochet and then flayed it with fat on the skin. Before the process the kitchen was to be cleaned thoroughly to remove any chametz. There wasn't a single breadcrumb to be left on the table, since the cooking of fat wasn't to be made when there was any chametz nearby. There was a special bowl for melting goose fat. Then the fat was stored in a container in the attic. Even the poorest families did their best to have goose fat in store for Pesach.

Ten days before Pesach my mother prepared beetroots for borsch [vegetables soup] in a big bowl. She peeled beetroots, put them in water and at Pesach the beetroots turned into beetroot kvass [a refreshing bread drink made with yeast]. In Subcarpathia they called this dish borsch. Before Pesach my mother sent me to the shochet with the chickens. She made chicken broth and noodles. I still cook noodles at Pesach. I make them myself. I add eggs, water and salt to starch and stir it. Then I fry little flat pancakes in goose fat, roll them and cut them thinly. It makes delicious noodles. My mother also made potato puddings to serve with meat. Pudding could be made from fresh or cooked potatoes. Of course, she also made matzah and egg pudding. My mother also cooked cholent: stewed meat, potatoes and beans. She cooked potatoes for the borsch, cut them into small cubes, added eggs and beetroot kvass. It could be served hot or cold to one's liking. My mother made cakes for each day of the holiday. We, kids, also liked pieces of matzah served with milk. I remember pieces of matzah in my light blue enameled bowl.

We were to drink wine at Pesach. However, my father couldn't drink wine due to his stomach acidity. My mother used to buy figs imported from Israel and made special liqueur for Pesach. She made it in a big jar a month before Pesach right after Purim and all this time nobody was allowed to touch it in order to keep it kosher.

On seder my mother lit the candles. Special prayers, different from the ones to be recited when lighting candles on Sabbath, were said. The men of the family went to pray in the synagogue at that time. When we returned home the table was already covered with a white tablecloth and there was food on it. There were candles lit and it gave a special feeling of holiday. Seder was a family holiday. The word 'seder' means 'order'. There's a strict procedure to be followed at the seder. Participants have to recline: the seats were equipped with cushions, so that the participants could lean on them while eating to imitate freemen and nobility. Only my father reclined on cushions. The master of the house wears white clothes called the kitel. It's only to be worn on the seder and to the synagogue on Yom Kippur [Editor's note: Men are also buried in it].

My father sat at the head of the table and we began the seder. The seder procedures are described in the Haggadah. At the beginning of the seder the younger son asks the four traditional questions [the mah nishtanah]: 'Why is this night different from all other nights? For on all other nights, we eat both bread and matzah, and on this night we eat only matzah? For all other holidays we drink one glass of wine and tonight we drink four glasses? For on all other nights we eat all other herbs; and on this night we eat only bitter herbs? For on all other nights, we eat sitting up or leaning, on this night we all eat leaning?' Since I was the only son I asked these questions that I learned in cheder. We translated this conversation into Yiddish for my sisters to understand it. After answering these questions our father continued, 'We were pharaoh's slaves in Egypt...' singing during the recitation. There were intervals when we were to drink wine. Then father listed all the plagues that God brought upon Egypt, the ten symbolic plagues called makkot in Hebrew. Each time my father named another plague we were to pour a drop of wine onto a saucer.

There was a very interesting part when my father broke the matzah into two pieces, wrapped a bigger piece in a napkin and put it under a cushion. This is called the afikoman that is to be eaten after dinner is over. [Editor' note: Actually it has to be eaten as the last pace, without it one cannot finish the dinner.] After my father put away the afikoman we continued the seder. One of the children was to steal the afikoman and father could only have it back for a ransom fee. Of course, my father only pretended that he didn't see the stealing of the afikoman and it was a ritual.

Once my older sister Olga stole the afikoman and I saw where she put it and stole it from her! I spoiled the holiday for the whole family since we both burst out crying. We were to receive ransom from my father, but who was to receive it? Olga was saying that she had stolen afikoman and I was showing the matzah expecting to get the ransom. My father gave ransom to both of us. I don't remember what Olga received, but I got a thick pocket prayer book. I valued it highly having received it for giving back the afikoman.

The biggest glass of wine in the center of the table was for Elijah. We opened the front door so that he could come into the house. Well, we were concerned about leaving the door open since there were non-Jewish neighbors living nearby, but it was quiet in Mukachevo: non-Jews respected Jewish customs and traditions and were used to them. We, kids, couldn't wait until Elijah came into the house and sipped his wine. We expected to see the wine stir in the glass. Sometimes one of us said, 'I can see it!' Then we sang songs. The following day we had a similar seder sitting at the table and having the ritual repeated as if it hadn't happened the day before. In Israel they observe Pesach for seven days and in the galut they added one day to make sure it was done correctly. [Editor's note: Ernest means that in Israel Pesach lasts only seven days with one seder night, whereas in the Diaspora, the holiday last eight days long and there are two seder nights one after the other.] Then came four chol hamoed days. They are weekdays, but they are still Pesach. It's allowed to work or smoke at chol hamoed. The last two days of Pesach also had strict rules. On the eighth day some families had little matzah balls, matzah kreygelakh, cooked of matzah, eggs and black pepper. This was delicious! In Hasidic families it was considered to be a violation of the rules since matzah for matzah kreygelakh was to be dipped into water and at Pesach matzah wasn't to be mixed with water. Even if a drop of water fell on the matzah it wasn't good enough to be eaten at Pesach since wet matzah got sour and became non-kosher. Nowadays we also make these matzah balls when the family gets together at Pesach.

All holidays were nice in their own way. On Rosh Hashanah, when the shofar was blown we went to the synagogue with the family. On this day my sisters went to the synagogue with mother. In some Hasidic families daughters attended the synagogue regularly, but we weren't that fanatically religious. My sisters were with our mother on the upper floor and I stayed with my father. When we returned home from the synagogue my mother put apples and honey on the table that symbolized a sweet New Year. We dipped the apples into honey and ate them.

On Yom Kippur my father and I prayed in the synagogue for the whole day. My mother also went to the synagogue. We had a big enough dinner the night before since we were supposed to fast the whole day. Before I had my bar mitzvah mother always cooked cookies or honey cake to eat before Yom Kippur. My father took it to the synagogue to treat me while he fasted according to the rules. After I had my bar mitzvah I had to fast as well. Yom Kippur was a hard day since it was to be spent in the synagogue. Each family brought one or two candles. They were big enough to burn for 24 hours. They were lit on the eve of Yom Kippur and were left burning until three stars appeared in the sky the following night. All these candles generated fumes at the synagogue and I can't imagine how people could pray in this stuffy air, but their religious spirits probably helped them. There was a festive dinner at the end of Yom Kippur. Jews usually went to the synagogue located nearest to their homes. We went to the small synagogue in Duchnovich Street. That's the ancient name of the street that has been preserved up until today. Looking at the building one knew at once that it was a synagogue. All architectural traditions were observed. It was well maintained. Each visitor had a special chair with a board for reading the Torah. These chairs were called shtenders [pulpit]. There was a very beautiful aron kodesh, in which the Torah scrolls were stored. According to the laws there was a separate section for women on the second floor. There was a mikveh in Yidishgas in Mukachevo.

There are four days between Yom Kippur and Sukkot to make and decorate the sukkah. After dinner the family went out into the yard to start making the sukkah. Children enjoyed this time much. Poorer Jews made a sukkah from what they had at hand. We had a pre-manufactured sukkah of small boards with hooks. We set it up in one evening. Wealthier families that built their own houses had a balcony with an opening roof consisting of two parts. They had a reel roofing for the sukkah and put reed on top. There were gypsies selling reeds in the town. Some people also had reed mats that they used to make the roofing of their sukkah. Sukkot is in the fall when it often rains. When it rained the sukkah leaked and it made eating inside impossible. More religious people managed to catch a moment to have a meal in their sukkah. It happened occasionally that when the rain was over there were still drops of water falling into the bowl of soup. Wealthier families just unfolded their permanent roof to hide from the rain.

Children enjoyed making decorations for the sukkah. We decorated it like a Christmas tree. We made decorations of color paper and competed in whose decorations were nicer. I was good at making decorations and taught other children to make decorations. Children's mothers and grandmothers came to look at decorations that they had never seen before. We had meals in the sukkah throughout all days of the holiday. We took a table out there, ate and prayed there as required.

Purim was a merry holiday. A day before this holiday the adults gave children rattles and whistles. Our rattles were made of wood and plywood. When the Scroll of Esther was read at the synagogue during Purim the name of Haman was often pronounced and all children in the synagogue did their best to make as much noise as they could. On Purim treats - shelakhmones - were taken to neighbors and acquaintances. Children took trays of sweets from one house to another. My sisters and I also ran around with trays. We also received treats and gifts of small coins. Most important were the Purimshpilen. Children or adults prepared a song, a poem, a dance or a short performance at Purim. When preparing we kept it a secret what we were to perform. Then we formed small groups of two to three boys or a boy and a girl to perform in wealthier families. We were given a few coins or treats for it. My sisters and I also took part in such performances. In one day we collected quite an amount of money. Adults also gave performances at Purim. One man whose name was Chaim disguised himself in women's clothes for a joke. He went out with a boy holding an umbrella for him in any weather, even when the sun was shining. The boy also carried a hat for donations. Chaim carried a violin. People shouted 'Here's Chaim coming!' rushing to the street to welcome him. There was a lot of joking during the meal on Purim.

Each holiday had its symbols. The symbol of Purim was the rattle. On Simchat Torah all children had little flags stuck in an apple. On Chanukkah children played with a spinning top [also called dreidel]. There were four letters, one on each side of the spinning top and each letter was the first letter of a word in Hebrew. The letters stood for the words: 'nes', 'gadol', 'haya, 'po', which means 'a great miracle was here''. Each letter had its price. We played for money since on Chanukkah it's the custom to give money as a gift. This was the only day of the year when Jews were allowed to gamble playing dominoes or cards, but we traditionally played with a spinning top. There's a story behind this custom. When the Romans invaded Judea they didn't allow the Jews to study the Torah and Jews had to do it in secret. Children got together to study the Torah, but when they saw a Roman they pretended to be playing with a spinning top. Since then children have played with spinning tops on Chanukkah. [Editor's note: The origins of this custom are slightly different. During the time of the Maccabees, Jews were imprisoned for studying the Torah. In prison these Jews would gather together to play dreidel. Under the guise of idling away their time, they would engage in Torah discussions.] We made spinning tops from wood. We cut the frame and letters and poured lead inside. We were taught how to make them in cheder. My mother lit one candle more in the chanukkiyah each day.

In 1935 Benes became president of Czechoslovakia. After he was elected he visited Mukachevo. There was a meeting in the yard of the military barracks. All the residents of Mukachevo came to the meeting. Our school was also there and the schoolchildren had flags to greet the president. Benes had the same policy regarding the protection of human rights of Jews that his predecessor Masaryk had.

I turned 13 in 1936. Reb Alter, our teacher of Gemara at cheder, which I attended every afternoon after grammar school, prepared me to bar mitzvah in advance. I had to hold a lecture based on a section from the Torah. I can't remember which section it was. This was called the droshe. I had my bar mitzvah on a Saturday. This was the first time I stood by the Torah in the synagogue and wore my tallit. I recited the prayer that one had to recite when called to the Torah. There was a dinner party in the evening to which our relatives, my father's friends and my friends were invited. I was to read the droshe to them. The guests sat at the table. I remember there was beer and yellow peas cooked with paprika. There were big bowls with peas on the table. The guests ate the peas with their hands and drank beer. I read the droshe and then an older Hasid began asking me questions that I could not answer. I burst into tears and left the room. From behind the door I heard other Hasidim telling him off for spoiling my party. It was very hard for me to return to the room. I cried a little more and then my parents and guests talked me into coming back into the room.

Grandfather Pinchas died in 1936. He was about 65 years old. He was buried according to Jewish traditions in the Jewish cemetery in Mukachevo. My grandmother sat shivah for him. After he died my father's younger brother, Idl, took over the Chevra Kaddisha. I don't remember my grandfather's funeral, but I remember when my grandmother died in 1937. Of course, the family was very sad when she died, but I thought it was natural for older people to die. My grandmother was on the floor in a room. Her body was covered with a black cloth. There was a candle burning by her head. There were women sitting around her with their shoes off. They were crying. My father's older brother, Berl, came to the funeral from Palestine. Berl was good at conducting ceremonies. My father told me that even when Berl was still very young he was invited to be master of ceremony at weddings, and, he could make people laugh! That time Berl came into the yard crying, 'Mama, Mama!' Then all those present started sobbing. I felt fear and probably this was the first time I realized that death was final. Grandmother Laya was buried near my grandfather in the Jewish cemetery in Mukachevo. My father recited the Kaddish over her grave and sat shivah.

A year after my grandmother died my father's brother Idl decided to get married. He consulted a shadkhan that found a girl from Khust [60 km from Uzhgorod] in Subcarpathia for him. Her father, Mr. Katz, was a wealthy Jew. Everybody called him 'Polish' for some reason. He probably did come from Poland. He had several daughters. Since Idl's father had died, my father, his older brother, had to take the responsibility of making all marriage arrangements. The negotiations took place at our home and we, kids, showed much interest in what was going on. We were ordered to stay in the kitchen, but we eavesdropped from behind the door. There were the girl's father, my father and the shadkhan. My father and Katz began to discuss the girl's dowry. My father told the girl's father about the important position his brother had at the Chevra Kaddisha and that he was a decent and God-fearing man. He sounded to be the best and most desirable fiancé ever. Mr. Katz said that his daughter was a real beauty. The shadkhan said that the girl didn't need any dowry since she was like gold herself. It was my understanding that neither my father nor Idl had seen the girl. They negotiated for a long time before they reached an agreement. They agreed that Mr. Katz would put the negotiated amount of money into a bank and give the confirmation documents to Mr. Rot, the respected owner of the stationery factory in Mukachevo. If there was a wedding Mr. Rot was to hand these documents to Idl, if not return them to Mr. Katz. Idl's wedding took place about three months after the negotiations. It was a traditional Jewish wedding. There was a chuppah at home. Our mother and all Jewish neighbors did the cooking. It was a joyful wedding.

I turned 15 in 1938 and had to go to work. I became an apprentice to a mechanic, the Jewish owner of an equipment repair and maintenance shop. I learned to fix bicycles, sewing machines, gramophones and prams. My training was to last for two years. I actually started work a year later, but my master didn't pay me a salary. I did repairs and he received all money. He only gave me small allowances.

In 1938 the Germans occupied Czechoslovakia and gave the former Hungarian territory including Subcarpathia back to Hungarians. [Editor's note: The Germans only occupied the Czech lands, Slovakia became an independent state but that part of it, which was mostly populated by Hungarians, was in fact ceded to Hungary in accordance with the first Vienna Decision of 1938.] There were different moods about this. The Hungarians were happy and the older Jews remembered that there had been no oppression of Jews during the Austro-Hungarian regime and were hoping for the better, while the younger Jewish population believed the Hungarians to be occupants and spoke Czech, which was their demonstration of protest against the occupants. In the course of time it became clear that this was a fascist Hungary and the authorities began to introduce anti-Jewish laws [anti-Jewish laws in Hungary] 13. The Jews were forbidden to own factories, stores or shops. They had to transfer their property to non-Jewish owners or they were to be expropriated by the state. Only very few rich Jews managed to buy out their property while the rest lost their licenses and any chance to provide for their families. My father lost his trade license. My master also lost the license for his shop. In 1940 his shop was closed. My father and I had to look for a job. We went to work at Mr. Rot's stationery factory, which was still operating at the time. I became a mechanic and my father was hired as a worker.

My older sister, Olga, was a success with her studies at school. She finished school with all excellent marks and wanted to go to a grammar school, but my father was against it. There were Jewish classes at the middle school and the school was closed on Saturday while in the grammar school children studied on Saturday. However, when my father lost his license Olga had to go to work. She needed good clothes that my father couldn't afford to buy for her. My father talked to Mr. Rot about hiring Olga to work in his office. My father explained to Mr. Rot that Olga wanted to go to grammar school, but that he didn't have the opportunity to support her. He also said that even from a religious point of view he thought it was wrong for a Jewish girl to go to school along with atheists. My father asked Mr. Rot to give her a chance to learn to work in his office so that later Mr. Rot could decide whether he needed her as an employee. Mr. Rot was religious and agreed with my father that it wasn't proper for a Jewish girl from a good family to study in grammar school. He took Olga to work in his office. His factory had business relationships with paper suppliers in Germany and Bohemia. Olga knew Czech and was responsible for Mr. Rot's correspondence. Mr. Rot also hired teachers of stenography and German that came to our home to teach her. Olga became a secretary. Mr. Rot dictated his letters in Yiddish or Hungarian and Olga translated them into German and Czech. She made good use of her knowledge later on in life.

We grew up less religious than our parents. I met with other workers that were communists and this had its impact on me. Of course, we didn't become atheists, but we were certainly not as close to religion as our parents. My mother was very upset about it while my father was more condescending and forgave me many things. When I was in my teens I didn't want to stay at the synagogue until the end of the prayers. When I was leaving the synagogue to go out with my friends my father only asked me to come home when he did to cause my mother no additional worries. Once my mother got angry with me for some reason and said, 'Well, you will get back to religion when you grow older'. We treated our parents with respect, but that time I lost my temper and replied, 'Only if I lose my mind'. I cannot forgive myself for it. I can imagine how my mother must have felt hearing this from me. I feel so sorry that I didn't ask her forgiveness.

At Mr. Rot's factory I met my future wife, Tilda Akerman. She was called Toby then. Tilda and I were the same age. She came from Mukachevo. She told me that we studied together at elementary school, but I ignored her. Tilda worked at the factory. There were other girls there, too. When something went wrong with the equipment they called me to fix the problem. That's how I met Tilda. We had Jewish friends. Tilda's friend Frieda and my friend Voita worked at the factory. Frieda and Voita were going to get married when World War II was over. Tilda and I also fell in love with one another. We met after work and went for a walk. Tilda visited me at home and I went to see her at her home, too. My parents liked her. If it hadn't been for the war we would have got married, but because of the war we didn't know what was going to happen to us.

Tilda was born to a religious Jewish family. Her father, Aizik Akerman, made and sold wine and her mother, Ghinda Akerman, nee Weiss, was a housewife. There were eight children in their family. Tilda was the seventh child. Her older sister, Margarita, finished the Commercial Academy in Mukachevo. She married her cousin Weiss. They both sympathized with the communists. Margarita's husband moved to the USSR in 1938 and she was planning to follow him, when Subcarpathia became a part of Hungary and Margarita got no chance to leave. She had a son named Alexandr. When Subcarpathia became Hungarian territory Margarita had to support her family. She worked as an attorney and translator and took on any work she could find. We don't have any information about what happened to her husband. Tilda's brother, David, was a winemaker just like his father. Philip and Serena, Tilda's other brother and sister, also finished the Commercial Academy.

Serena sympathized with the communists and took part in the publication of a communist newspaper. She married a communist called Borkanyuk, a deputy from the Communist Party of the Czech parliament. For her parents her marrying a non-Jewish man was a disgrace. Tilda's mother rejected her daughter. Serena's marriage stirred up a wave of indignation among the Jews in Mukachevo. This caused Tilda's father's death in the synagogue in 1937, when he was murdered by some lunatic that hit him with a log on his temple. It was because one of his daughters was married to a non-Jew. Tilda had to go to work and Serena and her husband moved to the USSR.

When the fascists came to power in Hungary Tilda's brother Philip moved to Poland and from there to England. During World War II Philip was in the Czech Corps on the Western front. After World War II he lived in Uzhgorod, where he died in 1987. His brother Aron worked at a glass shop. Hugo was also a worker. Tilda's younger brother, Shmil, studied at school. Except Margarita and Serena all other children in the family were religious.

During the war

In early 1941 my father was recruited to Hungarian forced labor in Velikiy Bereznyy district. The so-called Arpad line was under construction there. [The Arpad line was a military defense in the Eastern Carpathians, the construction of which was started in 1940.] This was a labor camp of a kind. Jews were not recruited to the Hungarian army, but they had to serve in work battalions constructing defense lines, barracks and doing other construction work at the front. They had no weapons and often perished during firing. My father worked in the forced labor until 1942 when he was released due to his age.

Jews were having a hard life, particularly when the war with the Soviet Union began in 1941. There were many restrictions. Jews received bread per coupons. The wealthier Jews could buy food at a market while the situation was hard for the poor Jews. In 1943 all Jews were ordered to wear round yellow pieces of cloth on their clothes that were replaced with stars, but at least the Hungarians didn't kill Jews and there were no pogroms.

In 1943 my sister married Nuchim Weingarten, a Jewish man from Mukachevo. Our parents arranged a Jewish wedding for Olga. They had a chuppah at the synagogue and the wedding ceremony was conducted by the rabbi. Olga's husband was recruited into a work battalion and from there he went to the front. We had no information about him at the time.

In April 1944 I was taken to forced labor to Hungary. Tilda and I didn't know what was ahead of us. We agreed that we would keep in touch through my father's sister, who lived in Switzerland. We learned her address by heart: Lugano, Bella Visari, 10. I worked in Budapest and then in other places. We dug trenches and constructed defense lines. We stayed in a big barrack with no heating and got little food that barely kept us alive. My friend Voita and cousin Aron, my mother's sister's son, were in the camp with me. We worked from 6am till it got dark. There was a lunch break in the afternoon. When we got to our barrack in the evening we fell asleep immediately. There were guards in the camp, but it wasn't as bad as a concentration camp in general. We could talk in Hungarian with the local residents that told us about what was happening.

In summer 1944 Jews from Hungarian towns and villages began to be taken to concentration camps. We were aware of it. We also knew that all our relatives living in Mukachevo were taken to a concentration camp, but we had no idea about gas chambers or the extermination of Jews in camps. There were cases when inmates of our camp died from hunger or a disease, but this wasn't a death camp. My cousin Aron heard from locomotive operators that drove trains to Auschwitz that this was a death camp, but we just couldn't believe that people could be taken to gas chambers. We just didn't believe it. Only after the war did we get to know what was happening in Auschwitz and that our relatives perished there and how they perished. Both my father and my mother were taken to the gas chambers right away.

When the Soviet troops came to Hungary in January 1945 we were transferred to the Germans. We were under Hungarian rule, but after the transfer to the Germans we were taken to a German concentration camp in Zachersdorf near the Austrian border. However, it was a work camp, too. We worked in groups of 100 inmates constructing defense lines and anti-tank trenches for the Germans. This was in March when the snow was melting and we worked in knee- deep slush. The soil was damp and we had to throw it onto the surface with spades. It was hard work, but fortunately, it only lasted about two months. There were only six survivors in our group of 100 people.

The Soviet troops came to Austria in late March 1945. I had typhoid and was delirious. There were two-tier plank beds in our barrack. I was on the lower tier. On my last working day we were digging a trench and the Germans were training young boys to shoot nearby. I remember an officer yelling, 'The Russians will be here soon. Just pull yourselves together!' We could hear the cannonade already. I lost track of what was going on around me or how long I was delirious. I remember when my cousin Aron sat on my plank bed and said that the camp was to be evacuated and that we had to escape since they were going to burn down the camp. I was in no condition to walk. I told him to leave me and move on when we heard someone shouting, 'The Russians are here!' These words sort of eliminated any signs of disease from me. The six of us crossed the front line. There were bullets whistling around. We were afraid of being killed by a German or Soviet bullet. Finally we bumped into Soviet communications operators that were laying a telephone cable. They were trying to show us to lie down using gestures, but we kept walking. One of us was wounded on his hand. We covered 16 kilometers. Now, recalling this time, I cannot imagine how we managed to get to Szombathely in Hungary [about 20 km from the Austrian border]. This town was liberated from the fascists.

We were taken to a Soviet camp for prisoners of war from Szombathely in late March 1945. Soviet troops sent all those that were behind the front line to camps for prisoners of war. We came from concentration camps and had no documents and we became prisoners along with the fascists that had tried to exterminate us. We didn't have any documents and they took us for Germans or Hungarian fascists. We wore dirty and torn clothes. All prisoners stayed in a field. There were fascists among us. It was raining and very cold. We didn't know Russian. There were guards with machine guns watching us. We tried to explain ourselves saying we were 'zide, which means 'Jew' in Czech, but it only got worse. The guard thought we were abusing Jews and started talking at us. The only words we understood were, 'I will shoot at you!'

The next morning we stood in lines and marched to the railway station. We arrived in Uzhgorod. Again we were ordered to stand in line and marched somewhere with a guard about every 20 meters from one another. We came to a very narrow street in the center of Uzhgorod. We decided to try to escape when we reached a gate leading to a yard. Be what may, we thought. When we were near the gate we began to run. The guards didn't follow us. We got to an abandoned house where we found some food. We stayed in this house two days. We were eager to go home. We didn't have any information about home. Aron, Voita and I managed to get to Mukachevo. We walked most of the way. Occasionally we got a ride on a horse-driven cart. Farmers gave us food on the way. When we came home there was nobody there.

We didn't know anything about the situation. We took some rest and then decided to go to the Soviet army. We wanted the fascists to pay their price for what they had done. We hoped to liberate our relatives. We went to a registry office to volunteer to the army. When officers there looked at us they said we needed to go to a hospital rather than to the army. I was as thin as a rake and my companions looked no better. The officer that talked to us refused to accept Voita, but Aron and I kept begging him to recruit us. We were sent to a training battalion in Poland. At that time the war was over. So I happened to serve in the army, but not at the front. Subcarpathia belonged to the Soviet Union and I was subject to mandatory military service. I served in Poland for about a year and then I was sent to Khmelnitskiy, Vinnitsa region, Ukraine. I demobilized in 1947.

Tilda and I were destined to meet. She returned to Mukachevo when I was at service. In 1944 Tilda and her family were sent to Auschwitz where younger Jews were sent to work and older Jews and children were exterminated. The Germans needed workforce. Tilda's family perished in Auschwitz. Her older sister Margarita and her son were also there. Margarita had the choice of not going with her son, but she decided to stay with him and they went to the gas chamber together. Tilda's parents and her younger brother, Shmil, also perished in the gas chamber. David and Hugo perished in forced labor and her brother Aron crossed the border of the USSR and perished in the Gulag 14. Tilda, her sister Serena, who was in the USSR during World War II, and her brother Philip were the only survivors in the family. Serena returned to Subcarpathia in 1945. Philip returned to Uzhgorod from England in 1946.

Tilda and her friend Frieda were sent to a work camp in the town of Reichenbach from Auschwitz. My sisters Olga and Toby were there, too. This camp was located near a military plant of radio equipment. The inmates of the camp assembled radio equipment. Tilda and my sisters were in this camp until they were liberated. My sisters told Tilda that my relatives had perished in Auschwitz. After they were liberated from the camp Tilda and her friend Frieda went to Mukachevo.

Post-war

My sisters didn't return home. Olga didn't have any information about her husband, who was recruited into the army three days after their wedding. Sometimes life offers incredible surprises: Olga met her husband on her way back to Mukachevo via Czechoslovakia. He was captured along with other guys from the work battalion near Oskol, a Ukrainian town. He was taken to a camp for prisoners of war and from there he was sent to the Gulag. At that time Subcarpathia still belonged to Czechoslovakia. When the Czechoslovak army was formed all Czech citizens kept in the Gulag were sent to the army. They were released from the Gulag to serve in the Czech army. Nuchim was recruited to the Czechoslovak army and went as far as Karlovy Vary [about 300 km from our house]. Then he demobilized. He had many awards of honor and received an apartment in gratitude for his service. He kept coming to the railway station every day to meet trains that brought people home from concentration camps hoping to meet someone that could tell him about Olga and our family. He met Olga at the railway station.

My sisters stayed in Czechoslovakia and some time later, in the 1950s, they moved to Israel. My younger sister Yona got married in Israel. Her husband's name was Stein. Olga worked as an accountant until she resigned. Her son Shuah was born in 1947. He deals in informatics and is professor of Tel Aviv University. Yona was a housewife after she got married. She has two daughters: Margalit, born in 1950, and Erit, born in 1953. Yona's daughters are married and have children. I don't remember their family names.

?ilda returned to Mukachevo. I corresponded with Voita. He told Tilda the address of my field mail. When I received a letter from Tilda I can't tell you how happy I was. I replied to her letter and we began to correspond. Tilda sent me her photograph in her next letter. She signed it on the backside, 'To my darling Ari'. I had this photograph with me and now I have it in our family album.

Tilda stayed in Uzhgorod with her sister Serena. She went to work. I demobilized in 1947 and came to Uzhgorod. Tilda worked at the town trade department. When we met I was wearing a faded soldier shirt and soldier boots. Tilda and Serena gave me their coupons to buy clothes since all goods were sold per coupons. I went to work as a mechanic in a small shop. We all lived in Serena's apartment. She shared her furniture and kitchen utensils with us. I didn't have a passport. I only had my military identity card. Tilda and I lived together without discussing the issue of marriage. Her sister was the only relative we had, so what kind of wedding could we be thinking of?

On 30th April 1948 Tilda and I decided to go for a walk. It was a lovely day. By that time I had obtained a passport. We went outside and then one of us said, 'Let's go to the registry office'. Things were simple at that time. There were no best friends or advance applications required. We went to the registry office, showed them our documents and the director of the registry office put down our names and issued us a marriage certificate. It was like any other ordinary day. I bought a bottle of champagne and chocolates and invited the director of the registry office to drink to our happiness. He gave us a few glasses and we opened the bottle of champagne. Then we were photographed in the photo shop in the same building as the registry office. We went outside and Tilda said she had to go to work since her colleagues were going to prepare for the celebrations on 1st May. My colleagues were also going to have a celebration and invited me to come. So we parted and each went to his work. This was our wedding day. Shortly afterwards my friend Voita and Tilda's friend Frieda also got married. They lived in Uzhgorod until the 1970s and we became lifetime friends.

I didn't face any anti-Semitism or prejudices towards me at work. On the contrary, my management began to promote me since I could speak Russian. I learned it in the army. Only few people could understand Russian in Subcarpathia at that time. Later children studied in Russian schools and learned Russian, but at that time I was one of the few that could speak Russian. My friend and I opened a small equipment repair shop. There were many Jewish employees in this shop. Its chairman was Mr. Tamper, a Jew. I earned good money since I was already a skilled mechanic. Once Tamper offered me to go to Kiev where I was to attend a course of training of quality assurance managers. I was the only employee who knew Russian. I talked with Tilda and we decided that it was good for me to go there. I stayed there for a month and finished this course with excellent results.

When I returned home it turned out that the chairman liquidated the shop where I was working. He had the intention of appointing me to the position of manager of the metal-ware shop. The manager's salary was much lower than what I had received previously, but I had no choice since the shop where I had worked was closed. This shop was converted into the Bolshevik Plant where I was the manager of a shop. I did my work well and began to implement modifications. I liked new developments and I also received bonuses for them that compensated my loss of salary. The management appreciated my performance and began to talk to me about going to study in a college. To enter a college I had to finish secondary school. Neither Tilda nor I had a secondary education. She and I decided to go to an extramural secondary school.

Our son Pyotr was born in 1951. His Jewish name was Pinchas after my paternal grandfather. Our second son, Yuri, was born in 1955 and has the Jewish name of Eshye after my father.

We hired a babysitter for Pyotr to be able to attend school. My wife and I studied in a Sunday school. We had classes the whole day on Sunday and had homework to do on weekdays. We finished this school and obtained secondary education certificates. Now we could continue our studies. I finished the extramural department of the Machine Building Faculty of Odessa Machine Building College and defended my diploma thesis with honors. The plant kept expanding. When I started work there were about 30 employees in my shop, but when I finished college there were already 80 employees. I became technical manager of the plant. I was content with this position. I wasn't a career-oriented man and was content with what I had.

When I was appointed as technical manager the management convinced me to join the Communist Party telling me that it would help me to make a career. Only members of the Party could have key positions in the former USSR. I obtained recommendations and was to be approved by the bureau of the town party committee. Everybody knew that I had the reputation of a skilled engineer and there were no objections to my membership in the Party.

My wife also joined the Communist Party. We had no idea about communism. We really didn't know what was happening in the USSR before the Great Patriotic War 15. Besides, this country did nothing evil to us. We were grateful for a good life and an opportunity to study and work. To join the Party we had to fill in application forms where we wrote that we had been in a concentration camp. Those that had lived in the USSR since 1917 concealed the fact of their imprisonment in concentration camps. There was a suspicious attitude toward those that were there. They might have even been asked 'If you were in a concentration camp, how come you didn't perish?' Tilda and I were also concerned about indicating this fact, but then we decided: if we are joining the Party we want to tell the truth and we shall write the truth about ourselves. Actually, nothing came out of it.

When I joined the Party the position of the chief engineer was established at the plant. I was appointed to it and worked in this position for 20 years. By the end of my employment there were already 800 employees at the plant. According to Soviet standards it wasn't a big enterprise, but for Uzhgorod the Bolshevik Plant was an enormous enterprise. We often received bonuses and lived well. I was awarded the 'Order of Honor' and a number of other 'metalware'. I was also awarded the badge 'Best performer in the socialist competition'. Besides performing my direct duties I kept developing innovative ideas. I developed a very interesting polishing machine for the furniture industry. It made the polishing process mechanic. Before it was a manual process. I received a patent and money award for this development.

I've never faced any anti-Semitism. My colleagues knew I was a Jew. Tilda and I always wrote in all forms that we were Jews and that our mother tongue was Yiddish and I was never ashamed of saying this. I have a Jewish soul. My colleagues treated me well. There were only a few Jewish employees at the plant. I spoke Yiddish to them. There were gypsies since the plant was located in an area with many gypsy residents. There were Hungarians, Slovaks and Ukrainians at the plant. I got along well with all of them. It's simple: you treat every individual with respect and he will try to justify your expectations of him.

Only once in my life did I face anti-Semitism. It was probably a minor incident. Besides, I got to know about it much later. Our director was transferred to a new plant under construction. I remained chief engineer and became acting director. I didn't intend to become the director since I was content with my position. When the new director came to the plant I helped and supported him introducing the state of things to him and he was grateful to me for that. Many years later my Jewish acquaintance told me that when the subject of appointing a new director was discussed at the bureau of the town party committee somebody said, 'Why looking for new director when we have Galpert?' and the secretary of the regional party committee, my good acquaintance, said, 'But he is a Jew'. That's the only case I know of when my Jewish identity interfered with my career. When I meet my former colleagues in the street they feel happy to see me and we kiss.

Tilda was doing well. She finished a nine-month party course. She was good at languages and picked up Russian promptly. She worked at the trade department of the town executive committee [Ispolkom] 16. She must have been doing well and was promoted to the position of assistant deputy chairman of the regional executive committee where she worked for many years. Tilda never concealed the fact that she was a Jew. Tilda also picked up Ukrainian since all documents were in Ukrainian. She became the manager of the protocol department, which is a rather high position. My name is mentioned in the Book of Subcarpathia as an individual that made a big contribution in the technical development of the town. So, we had no problems with the Soviet power, but we were concerned about what was happening around.

My wife and I didn't live under the Soviet rule for a long time - the area where we resided was annexed to the USSR in 1945 - and we didn't have a clear understanding of what was truly happening around us. We believed everything the Communist Party said. We belonged to the proletariat when we were young working for the owner of a factory. He exploited us. We truly believed that we were building a bright future and a nice international society where all people would be equal. This was a wonderful idea! We read books by Marx, Lenin and Stalin. We also read works by utopian socialists. It sounded beautiful what they wrote in those books. It was interesting and we lived believing it. When Stalin died in 1953 we were in grief. Of course, we saw that the reality was different from its description in books, but we thought it was due to the transition period and that the higher authorities weren't aware of the real status of things, but we had a feeling that something was wrong and that words were different from what they were doing. We lived through the campaign against cosmopolitans 17 in 1948. It didn't have any impact on us and we couldn't understand the situation. It seemed to be a falsification. Same with the Doctors' Plot 18 in January 1953, it was all lousy and was a preparation to strengthen anti-Semitism. We tried not go too deep into it. When Khrushchev 19 spoke about Stalin and about the Soviet system disclosing Stalin's crimes on Twentieth Party Congress 20, we understood what it was all about. We realized that we had to give up the idea of communism and socialism.

Since I was a party member and a manager I had to propagate to engineers at the plant. I was responsible for regular political classes with them. I can say one thing frankly: I never spoke my mind. I only said, 'Here is what Khrushchev says...', or 'This is what Brezhnev said ...'. I always referred to them since after the Twentieth Party Congress Tilda and I understood that the idea of communism was false. However, we remained party members until the last day in 1991, the breakup of the Soviet Union 21. Some time in the late 1980s I stopped conducting the political training of my colleagues and at that period my party membership was a mere formality.

Our sons were healthy and nice children. They are different: Pyotr is quiet, he never hurries and likes staying home, while Yuri is cheerful and sociable. He has many friends. Our sons went to the same kindergarten and school. They both had the same elementary school teacher. They studied in a Russian secondary school. Pyotr finished the school with honors. We didn't want him to continue his education in Ukraine fearing that he would face anti-Semitism. Ukraine was a part of the USSR. Anti-Semitism in Russia wasn't as strong as in Ukraine. He went to Leningrad where he passed successfully his entrance exams to the Optical Mechanical College. He studied there for five and a half years. He had his pre-diploma practical training at the military plant in Izhevsk and they sent wonderful references for his performance back to the college.

When it was time for the issuing of his mandatory job assignment 22 we had the chief engineer of the device manufacturing plant in Uzhgorod send a letter of request to the college in Leningrad, and Pyotr received a job assignment to this plant. He worked at this plant as a designer before perestroika 23. When perestroika began this plant was shut down like many other enterprises. Our son went to work for an Internet provider. He got married at the age of 38. He was a shy man. I believe I was the same when I was young. Now I'm different. He had friends, but he didn't meet with girls. He married his colleague. She was an electronic engineer, but later she studied accounting. She worked as a chief accountant. One of their friends moved to Germany and convinced our son to go there as well. Of course, we didn't want our children to live that far away from us, but we didn't try to talk them out of it. In Germany Pyotr finished a course in electronics. The Siemens company paid for his training and employed him after he finished his studies. His wife is an accountant. They are doing very well. They live in Frankfurt am Main. Unfortunately, they don't have children.

Our younger son went to take entrance exams to the same college in Leningrad where Pyotr studied after finishing school. Regretfully, he fell ill and couldn't take the exams. He was recruited to the army. He served in a military unit that dealt with radar units. Yuri was the assistant to an officer who worked with electronics. After demobilization he returned to Uzhgorod and went to work at a plant as a mechanic. He also entered the Electric Engineering Faculty of Lvov Polytechnic University and finished it. After finishing his studies Yuri became an engineer at the plant where he had worked as a mechanic before. He worked there until the plant was shut down during perestroika. Yuri and his friend opened a café. Yuri didn't quite like it, but he had to earn his living. He worked there for three years. When Hesed was organized in Uzhgorod its director invited Yuri to work. Yuri is regional director of the Hesed and is happy with this job. Yuri got married in 1974. Yuri lives with his family not far from here. We often visit them and they come to see us. Both of our sons have non-Jewish wives. They are happy with their family life and that is what matters to us.

Our only grandson Philip, Yuri's son, was born in 1975. When he finished school the Sochnut 24 offered him to study in Israel. He left in 1994. There were some problems at the beginning, though. Here they promised him that he would have free education, but it turned out to be a different story when he came there. He went to study cooking and after classes he worked as a cook in a restaurant at the Dead Sea. Then he was recruited into the army. After his service term was over Philip entered Wingeit College in Netanya. His specialty was sport medicine. Our grandson is a 5th- year student and is very happy with his life. We support and help him to finish his studies successfully. He likes his profession and we feel happy that he got the opportunity to study and travel. Last summer Philip came on a visit here. The Sochnut organizes summer camps in Subcarpathia and he has got an invitation for this summer. We hope to see our grandson this summer. He intends to settle in Israel.

I cannot say that my wife and I kept our religiosity after World War II. We didn't pray or go to the synagogue and it wasn't possible to follow the kashrut. I gave up religion after my family perished. I cannot believe in a God who allowed the mass extermination of Jews only because they were Jews. If this happened and God didn't prevent it this means that He either doesn't exist or isn't as powerful and just as I was told in my childhood. However, our children were aware that they were Jews. I told them the history of the Jewish people. On every holiday I told them about the history and traditions of this holiday. On Pesach I told them about how the Jews got to Egypt and how Moses saved them. I told them about all customs and traditions to be observed on Pesach and why Jews ate matzah on this holiday. We usually began our story with 'Today is Pesach. Here is how we observed it at home...' Tilda cooked traditional Jewish food. On Pesach Tilda had a barrel of beetroot kvass made. She made hamantashen on Purim and put honey and apples on the table on Rosh Hashanah.

I told my sons about my childhood and cheder, how my father and I went to the synagogue and about my bar mitzvah: everything that I've told you in this interview. I told them how I began to give up religion and how I became a worker. I also told them about how I hurt my mother and that I still feel guilty about it and that I can only ask her forgiveness in my thoughts since I never saw my mother again after the camp. Our sons got all their Jewish knowledge when they were children. I believed it was our duty to acquaint them with Jewish life and they would know how to use what they've received from us. I didn't tell my sons about the concentration camps when they were children. The memories were too hard for Tilda and me.

My wife and I had many friends. Most of them were Jews, but we also had non- Jewish friends. Tilda and I were happy to have gatherings with friends. We always celebrated birthdays in the family and Soviet holidays. I cannot say that we cared that much about the meaning of these holidays, but my wife and I appreciated any opportunity to invite friends and enjoy their company. There used to come so many guests that we had to keep the door between the rooms open and there was a table set across these two rooms. However little space there was we had lots of fun and enjoyed these gatherings. Most of our friends were older than us. We had older friends since only a few Jews of our age returned from the camps. So many of our friends are gone. There's nobody left. Just the two of us. Do you understand what that means? There were so many of us. We were great friends. When we go to the cemetery there's one buried here, another one there... It's scaring. I'm glad that the children of our friends who live in Uzhgorod keep in touch with us.

I spent all my free time with my family. On weekends we went for walks and hiking in the mountains. In summer we went hiking and in winter we went skiing in the mountains. We spent vacations at the seaside in the south. In the 1970s I received a plot of land and we began to build a dacha [cottage] and grow fruit trees and flowers. The dacha was our favorite pastime. My sons were helping me to build the house. My wife enjoyed gardening. Tilda and I often went to concerts and theaters. We also liked inviting friends to our home.

When there were mass departures of Jews to Israel in the 1970s my wife and I didn't consider emigration. We sympathized with our acquaintances and helped them with packing and other arrangements. Many of our friends and acquaintances left, our close friends Frieda and Voita also left. If we decided to move to Israel we would have had to start from zero. My Ivrit would have been sufficient for routinely communication, but not for work. We got used to our apartment and to our well set daily life. We have Jewish friends, but there are also non-Jewish friends. We are used to them and we would miss talking to them. We thought things over, talked with the children, 'Well, kids, shall we move there?' and if they had said, 'Let's go!' we would probably agree to move there, but our sons weren't that eager about moving and we stayed. Of course, we are getting older and our departure becomes less and less possible. I will be 80 soon and to start life anew is not for me.

We were enthusiastic about perestroika. We already saw that the Soviet system was no good. My sisters lived in Israel and I couldn't correspond [keep in touch with relatives abroad] 25 with them since my wife and I had key positions at our jobs and were members of the Party. In those years citizens weren't allowed to correspond with someone from a capitalist country. The wife of Philip, Tilda's brother, corresponded with her brother in Israel. We gave her letters for my sisters that she sent with her letters to her brother and he sent them to my sisters. My sisters sent their letters in the same manner. This procedure was very complicated and we only wrote letters to one another occasionally, but I was still concerned about this coming into the open. I might have lost my job, have been expelled from the Party and if worst came to worst I might have been taken to court, charged with espionage or whatever else and taken to prison. So, I knew about my sisters and they got information about me. This occasional correspondence was our only chance to exchange information.

During Soviet times if people moved to another country there was no hope of seeing them again, visiting them or inviting them to come on a visit. Perestroika gave us this opportunity. My wife and I traveled to Israel for the first time in 1988 when perestroika had just begun. We got together for a party and our first toasts during this party were to Gorbachev 26. It was like coming back to life! Tilda and I met with Voita, my friend who had been in the camps with me, and Frieda, my wife's friend, who had been in the concentration camp with her. Such friendship is more than blood relationship. We met them after such long time. We hugged and kissed. Of course, Israel made a great impression on me. The ancient and modern times intertwine wonderfully there. We've been to Israel several times since then. I like this wonderful country. I admire its people that created a paradise in the stone desert. I'm very happy that my grandson has become a part of this country. The rebirth of Jewish life in our country began during perestroika.

Three years ago Tilda and I visited Auschwitz with a group formed by Hesed in Khmelnitskiy. I was the 'rabbi' in this group and was to recite the Kaddish for the deceased in Auschwitz. I told this group about our life and what had happened to our families. We were the only participants of this group who were tied to the history of Auschwitz. The rest of the group had been in various ghettos in Ukraine. This was a very hard trip for us. During my recitation of the Kaddish Tilda was very concerned about me: my knees and hands were shaking and my voice was trembling. This was a horrific experience. Of course, I was trying to pull myself together. Our tour guide heard that I talked in Hungarian to Tilda. She decided that we were Hungarians and took us to the Hungarian room. There were names written in alphabetic order on the walls from ceiling to floors. I found the names of my father and Uncle Idl on the walls. I don't know how I lived through that moment. Their names were at the bottom and I bent when reading and fell. I couldn't get up. I fear to even recall this, but we must remember and tell the living to have this never happen again.

In 1983 I quit my position as chief engineer. It was hard for me to cope with so much work. My management asked me to stay, but I refused to continue as a chief engineer and they offered me to take over the position of a consultant because I had been at the plant since its construction. I knew everything about the plant. I worked there until 1991. In the same year a campaign of firing all pensioners began. The director of the plant suggested that we opened a small company on the basis of this plant and that I became its director. I invited all pensioner employees to this company. I worked at the company two more years, but I didn't like the job and resigned in 1994. My wife resigned at the age of 55. The management asked her to work longer claiming that they couldn't do without her. Tilda kept her position for five more years and then in 1983 she insisted that she wanted to quit. It was time for her to take a rest.

I have work to do now. Throughout all the years of the Soviet rule I was a Jew. I'm a Jew in my heart, I was raised a Jew and my Jewish relatives perished in the concentration camp. After I resigned the Jewish community in Uzhgorod invited me to become chairman of the board and responsible for the compliance with all Jewish laws - the Yiddishkeit. There are other Jews that have knowledge of these laws, but they are younger, and they don't remember as much as I do. Besides, I grew up in a Hasidic family. I used to teach adults and children. I told them what it was like in my home and how it should be in a Jewish home. It's easier now since there are Jewish schools where they teach such things and they read lectures for adults in the synagogues. There is Jewish mass media and books, but back in the 1990s the situation was different. I still give lectures. I get invitations, particularly on holidays to talk about traditions, prayers and some interpretations of Yiddishkeit since I studied it and can remember what it is about. Sometimes I read some additional information to strengthen my memories, but I mainly tell people what I lived through. I taught children and it pleases me to be of use to people. I'm a Jew and I believe that a Jew must be aware of why he is a Jew. It's up to a person to observe what they got to know, but if one believes in his Jewish identity one must have general knowledge of the Jewish history.

After I resigned my wife and I observed Jewish holidays at home. We have everything we need for this. We have a chanukkiyah and students of the Jewish school gave me a cloth for covering the matzah that they embroidered. When American rabbis visited our synagogue I was the only one who could speak Hebrew to them. They liked me so much that they gave me a tray with little holes used at the seder on Pesach and special glasses for the seder. They used to be made of silver when I was a child, but nowadays they make them of some stainless metal that looks very nice. I use them at the seder. When time comes I will give them to somebody.

Tilda and I and my son's family observe Jewish holidays at Hesed. I went on stage during the last Purim. Hesed arranged for a celebration at the town theater and asked me to perform. I thought to myself, 'Am I going to tell them the story of Haman and Esther when this story is commonly known!? I will offer them a surprise!' I unbuttoned my shirt, put on rubber boots with one trouser leg in a boot and another one over another boot, put on a cap and ran onto the stage. I joked and sang songs. I had asked the master of ceremony to drag me from the stage when I began to pretend I was drunk. So he knew that I was pretending, but the others believed I was really drunk. He was trying to grab me and I continued pretending saying that if a Jew was to get drunk on Purim then why did he want to remove me from the stage?' I was praised for my artistic talent since they told me everybody truly believed I was drunk. However, this was the only time I joked that way. An old person is like a child. I let them convince me to make people laugh. I also lit the chanukkiyah at the celebration of Chanukkah in the town theater.

My wife and I shall turn 80 this year, but we are trying not to give up. We go for a walk every day whatever the weather. We don't care about rain, snow or frost, but when it's windy it's worse. We walk six kilometers every day. We have a favorite route: we walk to a park out of the town. Tilda and I go to the swimming pool three times a week. We've gone there for 15 years. We are trying to stay in good shape. I don't know for how long we'll manage. My favorite pastime now is my computer. When I got it I was thinking of communicating with my grandson in Israel since phone calls are expensive. So I bought a computer for the sake of e-mail, but later I got very fond of it. I attend computer classes at Hesed. I get so nervous when I do something wrong, but when I learn something new I'm so happy. I've found the Jewish alphabet in the computer and now I can type in Ivrit. I enjoy it so much. Computer is my only hobby that my wife doesn't share with me. We are together in everything else. Regardless of what has been I 'm grateful to life that we have met and managed to live our life together.

Glossary

Iosif Shubinsky
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Orlikova
Date of Interview: December 2001


Of all of my forefathers I only knew about my great-grandfather, but I never met him. His name was Meyer Shubinsky, and he was born at the beginning of the 19th century. He was a tailor. I think he was rich because he owned two houses and a cow. He had eight children: Tevye, Nuchem, Godl, Mosya, my grandfather Kopl, Sureh-Leah, Avram and Chaya.

The oldest son, Tevye, was born around 1830. He lived in the village of Talny near Uman. He got married there and had children. The second son was Nuchem. He was two years younger than Tevye, so he must have been born around 1832. I know that he was a cantor, and when he was praying, people from other synagogues would come to hear him. He had two children. The next son was Godl, who had two children, then came Mosya and then Kopl, my grandfather, who was born around 1850. He had a younger sister called Sureh-Leah. Her husband was called Moishe. He was a tailor and they had children. The youngest son, Avram, was a retail trader. Then there was another daughter, Chaya, but I never met her and don't know anything about her.

I would like to tell you about my grandfather Kopl's family. His eldest son was called Chaim. He was born around 1871. He had three children, who moved to America after the Revolution of 1917 1. Three years ago I got a letter saying that his eldest son is still alive. I was surprised. He is older than me - and still alive. Then my grandparents had a daughter, Golda, born in 1875, whose photo I still have. His next son was my father, Veniamin Leib, born in 1876. After him came another daughter, Chaya-Rukhl, born in 1877. She also moved to America, and her son still lives there today. She divorced her husband. Then there was another daughter, Riva, born in 1882, who was single and died when she was young. The next child was Nuchem, born in 1885, who stayed in Zvenigorodka and was killed by the Germans. In a picture I have you can see his daughter with a cigarette. She was also killed by the Germans: she looked out of the window and was shot. And finally there was Avram, the youngest son, born in 1889. That's the generation of my family that I remember.

My great-grandfather owned two houses, which stood next to each other. Between them there was a barn where horses could be kept. He left these two houses to two of his sons. My grandfather Kopl lived in one house and his older brother Mosya in the other. My grandfather was very poor. He set up a hotel in his house. In Ryzhanovka people didn't work during the week, but had fairs on Thursdays. So visitors came to the fair and stayed at my grandfather's hotel. He also cooked for them and thus earned his living. The entrance to the hotel wasn't from the street, but through the barn. There was one big room and two small rooms. There was hardly any furniture in the house. The big room was furnished with a table and long benches. My grandmother lived in one of the small rooms, so there must have been a bed or something in that room, but there was nothing else. I remember jugglers who came to the fair on Thursdays. One of them was from China. He stayed at my grandfather's hotel. An organ-grinder also stayed at his place. He had a street-organ that only played one song: 'Oh, Marusya, oh Marusya'.

All people in our family spoke Yiddish. There were many Jews in the village, but I don't remember them because we moved to Zvenigorodka when I was four. We only visited my grandfather in later years. There was a synagogue in Ryzhanovka; or maybe even two. All the Jews lived downtown, while the Russians lived on the outskirts of town. There were stores downtown and a trading square in the area where my grandfather lived. There was a tavern in the middle of the square that looked like a hall. Weddings took place there. There was a lot of dirt in the streets. After the rain it was impossible to walk in the street.

I remember my aunt Chaya-Rukhl's wedding. My grandmother was already ill. So, from our house to that tavern, where the wedding took place - it was around 200 meters - she was taken by sledge because she couldn't possibly walk through all the dirt. The dirt reached our knees! In those times young people who got married always had a chuppah - a traditional Jewish wedding ceremony under a canopy. The main participant of the ceremony was the rabbi who lead the ceremony. He gave a glass of wine to the groom, then to the bride, and then this glass was broken, which symbolized happiness. Then, when the groom put a ring on his bride's finger, he said one sentence: 'Rey akt mekadeshes li...', which means 'You will be my wife' in Yiddish. This is the official part of the ceremony. It is followed by a non- official part - the wedding feast. There was no orchestra in Ryzhanovka. There were only Jewish bands - klezmer musicians. It happened so that two weddings took place at the same time. The better klezmer musicians played at one wedding, and the worse ones at ours. There was a tradition that klezmer musicians were paid separately for each dance. For instance, if you wanted to dance a waltz, you ordered your waltz and paid them immediately. Klezmer musicians were interested in playing at richer weddings where they could earn more. However, my uncle Chaim was witty. He put three rubles on the floor, slightly covered them with his cap and went to talk to the chief klezmer musician. He said, 'Look, go play at this wedding! Don't you see - these are rich people, they throw money on the floor'. And thus he enticed them. All the guests at the wedding were Jews. They were all relatives. They married their relatives and came together again at the wedding. So, our weddings were purely Jewish.

Our neighbors were on good terms with us. A Ukrainian family lived next to my grandfather's house. They had a garden, and every time they collected fruit, they shared some with my grandfather. They were very good neighbors. I remember one landowner had a lot of cherry trees in his garden. So his wife would go around the village in a cart and throw cherries to everyone she saw, especially little children.

My father had many different professions. When he was young he visited the United States. One of his relatives, who also went by the name of Veniamin, moved to America after a pogrom 2 in Odessa, and sent an invitation for my father to come and join him there. In America, he owned a chocolate factory and a factory manufacturing wallpaper. My father worked at the latter one. He spent two and a half years in America; then he returned to Ryzhanovka. Later, after he got married, he moved to Zvenigorodka, opened a confectionary shop and manufactured wafers. He made wafers with his own hands. He made a mixture of flour, eggs and milk. Then he poured this mixture into two presses and closed them. Beneath the presses stood two big Primus stoves, which heated the presses. After enough heating, the hot wafers were taken out and processed on the table.

My mother's name was Etl Aronovna Shubinskaya, nee Upendik. She was born in Zvenigorodka in 1887. My father was eleven years older than her. He died in Kazakhstan during evacuation in 1945. They had three children: I was born on 14th January 1907 and the eldest son; one year later, in 1908, my brother Meyer was born; he was killed at the front. and in 1911 my sister Sonya, or Bidona followed. Sonya lives in America. She moved there in 1989.She recently celebrated her 90th birthday. It's amazing, I have lately paid attention to the fact that we probably have some special genes in us - we all live very long. My uncle Godl, whom I've already mentioned, lived for 100 years - he died exactly at the age of 100. My aunt Golda lived for 90 years. My mother died when she was 86, but she was ill; she had cancer. I will also turn 100 soon - in about five years.


I was four years old when we moved from Ryzhanovka to Zvenigorodka in 1911. We bought a house with grandfather Aron. I know that they didn't have enough money, so they borrowed money from their friend, a barber.

The house was nice and new. It was located on the outskirts of town, near the Russian cemetery. But there was a big square not far from it, even though it was at the end of town and only Russians lived there. The house was made of clay. It was nothing special, but nice.

The roof was made of iron. The house was divided into two. Both had two rooms and a kitchen. My father experienced both good and bad times. For some time we lived with my uncle Chaim; but then he was killed in Zvenigorodka ghetto in 1942. I remember Zvenigorodka very well. I remember that the furniture in our place wasn't very luxurious, but it included everything we needed: beds, chairs, tables, etc. My mother cooked in pots. There was a big oven, in which we baked bread for the whole week. There was a well in the yard. Every day we would fetch water from there - first the adults, and later, when I was older, I.

My father was very religious. He prayed every day. He attended the synagogue. He also fasted when it was necessary. My father kept every rule, every tradition. Every Saturday, when he went to the synagogue, he took me with him. Since he wasn't allowed to carry anything in his hands on Saturday, I carried his tallit. When I turned 13, my younger brother accompanied my father to the synagogue. We weren't allowed to carry anything in our pockets either, according to the Jewish tradition, that's why we would tie our handkerchiefs around our necks. In America, however, my father embraced some secular manners as well. He could speak English after spending more than two years there even though he wasn't really educated. But people often came to ask his advice when they were in need to know how to deal with the one or the other situation in life.

My father played the trombone. He wasn't a musician though. My mother sang; she had a wonderful voice. She mostly sang Jewish songs. By the way, she sang songs I rarely hear any more today. My brother played the mandolin. My sister couldn't sing at all.

My mother's parents lived with us. My grandmother's name was Hannah- Riva Barabash and my grandfather's Aron Mendelevich Upendik. They both died around 1928: my grandmother died first and two weeks later my grandfather passed away.

Grandfather Aron worked as a glasscutter all his life. He would go around villages and offer his services to people. He made special stretchers to carry glass to the place where it was cut. Cutting glass is hard work.

My mother was a very good cook. Her mother taught her. My grandfather's sister-in-law was a specialist when it came to cooking: she cooked for every wedding or any other celebration for which something delicious had to be cooked. She was the one who taught women to cook all kinds of different tasty things. The best dish was sweet-and-sour roast meat.

And here's how we celebrated Pesach. First of all, just like all other Jews, we burnt chametz, that is, we burned all food leftovers that had leaven in them and began to only eat matzot.

In Ryzhanovka we baked matzot at home - we made thin dough from flour and water, put it on baking trays and into the oven. The process of matzah-baking was the better holiday for young people in our village than Pesach as such. Usually, all the young people from the village gathered at our house and made a lot of matzot - 20-30 kg of matzos, much more than people make now. Now they only buy one or two kilograms, while in those times they would buy dozens of kilograms. So, first the youth would gather in our house, then in another house, then in yet another house - they would go around the village singing songs and celebrating. We held the tradition to celebrate all holidays with the whole village. On Easter Ukrainians would treat us to their delicious cakes; on Pesach we treated everyone to matzot. It was a lot of fun. In Zvenigorodka, however, there was a special machine that made matzot, so there we began to buy matzah rather than bake it ourselves.

There were four synagogues in Zvenigorodka, but there were a lot of Jews. There are very few Jews left now. My wife's sister and her husband still live in Zvenigorodka, and they say one synagogue has been given back to them. But in Ryzhanovka no Jews are left at all. The synagogue in this village was very beautiful, with many decorations... It was small but beautiful, especially inside. The other synagogues were large.

I remember how synagogues were destroyed under the Soviet rule [see struggle against religion] 3. Komsomol 4 members would march and sing: 'Away with rabbis and priests, we will climb into the heaven and scatter all gods...'

I never walked with them; I never joined the Komsomol. I was more drawn to my Jewry. My father was religious and I was a believer, too. I also attended the synagogue and prayed. Usually, we wore the same clothes as the people around us, only when we went to the synagogue we always wore hats or caps. I remember well the ceremony when I turned 13, my bar mitzvah. The ceremony was held at my uncle's, my mother's brother.

His official name was Mendl, just like my great-grandfather, but we all called him Zeidl. His name was changed in his childhood. When he was still a boy, his nose was often bleeding. His parents took him to a rabbi. The rabbi said, 'Don't call him Mendl any more, call him Zeidl. And put a little key around his neck'. They put a key around his neck and began to call him Zeidl - and he stopped bleeding. I don't know why - whether it was due to the key, or his new name, or if it just stopped in general - but fact is his nose stopped bleeding.

After he got married, he and his wife began to invite people to pray at their house; they got together for a minyan. This was a tradition back then when it was too difficult to go to the synagogue: Jewish people would pray in somebody's house. But they could only pray if ten men gathered; if there were only nine it wasn't allowed to pray, according to the tradition. But if there were nine Jewish men, they were allowed to even take a Russian man in order to be ten.

When I turned 13 and had to undergo that special ceremony to come of age and read a section of the Torah I didn't go to the synagogue, but to that minyan. There I read my part from the Torah. And everybody liked it a lot. After most people left, the hostess laid the table and treated me to dinner. I even remember that she gave me vodka to drink - that's how impressed she was with my reading. I didn't know Hebrew at the time. I could only pray in Hebrew a little, but I couldn't really read or speak it. Most of my life I dealt with the Slavic philology.

Under the Soviet power I couldn't be involved in the study of the Hebrew language. But without reading and understanding the Torah, the Bible, one cannot understand writers, architects, or artists... For example, a certain artist has made illustrations for the whole Bible. If I look at his picture from the Bible 'Return of a Prodigal Son', I can see that it's nice, but what does it mean? What son is he talking about? Why is he prodigal? In order to learn all of this, I began to read the Bible. And I got so interested in it that I didn't just read the Bible, I even began to study the Bible after I retired. And I also learned Hebrew.

So, in Zvenigorodka I began to go to school. I entered a two-year Jewish school. We were taught in Yiddish there, but nothing Jewish was taught. I learnt the ABC; I was eight or nine years old. Then one more year was added to the school, so I finished three years there. That's all, I had no other chance to study there any more - the Revolution took place; gangs 5 were all around. However, I had a great desire to study. For some time, a very short time, I studied at vocational courses, but then a special 'Worker's Department' [rabfak] 6 was opened and I studied there for some time. I studied and worked as a barber at the same time. Then I worked as a watchmaker. And then I moved to Kiev.

I was 16-17 years old. Many people were unemployed at that time, and there were special employment agencies in towns and cities. In Zvenigorodka there was no industry. There were three mills, one factory and a meat plant, if I'm not mistaken. The rest of the people worked as shoemakers. There was no place to work. Five to six kilometers outside town there was a watermill. It stood idle, but it had to be guarded. So, the employment agency offered me that job. I agreed. For some time I worked there. Then I worked as a barber in the central barber's shop.

One of my friends gave me a gift - a guitar. I wanted to learn to play the guitar very much, but I didn't know how or with whom. So I began to learn it on my own and I managed to play some songs soon. Then I met a girl who asked me if I wanted to buy a mandolin that used to belong to her brother. He had moved away and left it in her possession. I was saving money for a pair of pants at the time. So, I was facing a choice: should I spend my money on a mandolin or on a pair of pants? I bought the mandolin. I had no spare pants, but I had a mandolin. I played my mandolin, gave my guitar to my friend Kostya and we played together. Then we joined an orchestra and played with it. We performed in a club, playing waltzes and other dances. Sometimes we even played outside, in a big square and many people gathered around to listen to us.

Kostya - his full name was Konstantin Yuryev - was my best friend. His family belonged to the sect of Old Believers who combined traditions of Christian Orthodoxy and Judaism. They believed the Orthodox Church was no longer pure Christianity, while they did their best to maintain religious purity according to their understanding, so they always tried to stick to their own and live in their own communities. The Russian authorities hated them and often made raids in their villages. My friend's family lived across the square from us, so we could see one another from afar. I also had other friends, the Chudnovskies, for instance. I was a calm person. I had a lot of friends.

I was very interested in books. I would read about something interesting and then share it with my friends - and they got interested in it, too. We didn't have a lot of books at home, only a few. We read books from the library. Our club used the central library in the city. I also knew a lot of anecdotes and funny stories. My friends loved to listen to me telling them. For instance, we would go to a concert in the city garden to watch some performance. Then I would have to go home, passing by a cemetery. Not everyone would go to the outskirts, where I lived, especially not near the cemetery. People were afraid of it. But I would tell anecdotes to my friends on my way home and they were glad to walk me home. Kostya was my best friend. He felt at home at my house, and I felt at home at his house. When I talked with Kostya, I would speak Russian. When he came over to me he would speak Yiddish. Later, he knew Yiddish very well because he spent a lot of time in our house and heard Yiddish every day.

I remember how the Soviets came to power. First we had a temporary government. We had a Russian teacher at school, Zhakov. He organized a manifestation. He went to the second floor of the post office, went out on the balcony and talked to people. The crowd listened to him attentively. I don't remember what he was saying, but I remember how he took a portrait of the tsar, tore it to pieces and threw it over the balcony.

Then terrible things began to happen. The Bolsheviks came; Denikin's 7 soldiers came; Petliura's 8 soldiers came and then some rebels came to our village, too. It was horrible. All the time we had to hide from everyone in basements because of the shooting. I remember I was recovering from typhus when Denikin's soldiers came to our village. One of them came to our house, stood over me with a hand grenade and wanted to throw it at me. My father stood between us. The soldier hit him with a rifle or something, and my father fell down. I think I will never forget this incident.

Every time the government and the power changed, we knew we'd better go into hiding. For instance, one of our Russian neighbors came to our house and sought for weapons. We certainly had none. He couldn't steal anything from us, so he decided to break our gates - it was all he could do to harm us. One time Petliura's soldiers came and knocked at our door yelling, 'Open the door!'. In the window we could see that those were soldiers, so my uncle jumped out of the window on the other side of the house, went to Petliura's officers and brought them to our house. The officers looked like decent people. They talked to their soldiers and took them away. We had a neighbor, who spoke fluent Ukrainian, and once she went and talked to the soldiers and they just left. The neighbor was Jewish but she spoke fluent Ukrainian because she lived in the village. So, all in all, there were different experiences. Another time, when Denikin's soldiers attacked our village, an old man, the father of the famous Jewish singer Khromchenko - thought he could talk to them and reach some agreement. [Khromchenko, Solomon (1907-2002): famous Ukrainian born Jewish singer. Soloist in Kiev and later in Moscow's Bolshoi Theater; taught at the State Musical Pedagogical Institute. In 1991 Khromchenko repatriated to Israel, where he continued both his singing and teaching activities.] We all hid, while he went out to talk to them, but they took him to the wall of our house and shot him. Every regime brought more victims. Representatives of the Soviet power came to every village and town, demanding gold, money, food... It was easier for us, workers, at that time. I was also working then, combining my studies and work. I got used to it.

My parents didn't care. They only wanted their life to be quiet and comfortable. They never got involved in politics, they didn't know how to deal with it. My grandfather read a lot of newspapers though and insisted that the Bolsheviks were the best because they were against the war. Well, that was his understanding, but neither he nor anyone else from our family got involved in politics.

I remember the famine 9 of the 1930s. My father was swollen up due to starvation; I was starving, too; everybody was starving. We thought it was easier to live in Kiev because it was possible to find jobs there. In Zvenigorodka, let alone in Ryzhanovka, it was too hard to find a job. So, we moved from Zvenigorodka to Kiev. The situation there was also very difficult. For instance, my father got a salary, bought a loaf of bread with this money, but on his way home this loaf of bread was stolen from him and he came home with nothing. It was a real tragedy. Certainly, we were all starving.

This was in 1932. It was hard to find work in Kiev, but we had to find an apartment. We settled in a house on Novo-Prozorovskaya Street, in the area of Vladimirsky market. It was a private house made from stables. Many apartments were made from former stables and then given out to rent. So, we lived in one of those. We occupied one room: we slept, cooked, and ate in this one room. There were several people living in this one room: my father, mother, brother, my sister with her husband, and I. Sonya's husband Grisha Varenburg served in the army and as soon as he returned from the army they got married. He worked as a barber from his early childhood.

I couldn't find any job first, but finally I found work at a tailor's shop. I was a simple worker there; helped put material in neat horizontal rows. I worked there for six months and then I entered university. Of course, I didn't enter university immediately. After the tailor's shop was closed, I was looking for another job. I went to the plant that manufactured fire extinguishers. I couldn't work there for a long time because it was very hard work. At the same time, my brother was working at a disinfection station. He worked as a paramedic. One day he offered me to come and work with him. So I went there and worked as a barber. This station was located very far, almost at the other end of the city, which is why I was given a room to live in that area. So, my brother and I lived and worked there. But I wanted to study. One day I went and got registered at the library. I began to read books. Soon, I was asked to help some workers with finding books and thus I became a librarian at that station. Soon after that I entered the Library Institute. It used to be called Kharkov Institute of Journalism, but later it was renamed Library Institute and yet later - All-Ukrainian Institute of Communist Enlightenment. Anyway, my diploma is equal to the diploma of a teacher.

When I studied at university, especially from 1934 to 1937 [during the so-called Great Terror] 10, people were arrested practically every day. Almost all of our teachers were arrested. But we believed that everything was justified. We were sure of that and therefore didn't protest. Moreover, there were many married couples at university, and many wives denied their arrested husbands. They said, 'If he is like that, I don't need him!'.

I joined the Communist Party when I was in the army. There were many people who didn't join the party. I studied at that university for some time, but I received my diploma from the Pedagogical Institute.

When I graduated, so-called 'buyers' came to select workers for their institutions. That's when I was selected to work at the department of manuscripts in the library of the Academy of Sciences of Ukraine. I had never even dreamt about it! You can't even imagine the place I worked at. It was so interesting there that every day I would go to work as if it was the cinema. Every day I would learn something new. I was working on the subject of Russian philology back then. I remember, before I studied at university, I didn't like working, I only liked reading. When I was a barber, I always hated it when clients came.

There were many Jews who came to Kiev from other cities and small towns. But everyone treated them nicely. There were a lot of mixed marriages, nobody thought of nationality at the time.

My father worked as a glass-cutter at the Physiology Institute. My mother was a housewife. My brother Meyer attended some medical vocational courses in Zvenigorodka, then worked in the hospital under the leadership of the well-known doctor Shmigelsky. By the way, Shmigelsky had a Jewish wife.

My brother worked as a nurse. Then he moved, after Doctor Sigalov took him as his assistant. When World War II broke out, my brother had a special red paper in his military ticket, which meant that at the first call-up he should come to the military enlistment and registration committee. He went there before any call-up. He was assigned to a military unit on the second day of the war [see Great Patriotic War] 11. We never saw him again. Neighbors told us he had come to say goodbye, but we weren't home. In May 1941 he got married. His wife went into evacuation; she was a teacher. After returning from evacuation she fought with us for our apartment, so we didn't communicate with her much afterwards. I think she got married again. My sister Sonya worked at a sewing factory. Then she got married and worked as a manicurist at the same place where her husband worked. Then they moved to America. She has a daughter and grandchildren. She even has a great-granddaughter.

When I was young I had some love affairs, of course. In Zvenigorodka my friend Kostya had a cousin, Marusya Kovalyova. She was a very nice girl. We would often get together, take our instruments and celebrate holidays at her house. We mainly celebrated Russian holidays. I remember we played a lot, but I don't remember anybody dancing. We also sang songs there. And we drank vodka. We never got drunk, we just drank a bit. In Kiev I had a girl-friend, whom I met accidentally in Zvenigorodka. I came to visit, and she came to visit there as well. She was a very nice and interesting girl. Once our book club had a picnic in the forest and we had a guest, a well-known critic called Adelgeim. I invited my girl-friend to this picnic, and he enticed her. He began dating her, so I dropped her.

I continued to study music on my own. I had a record-player at home. One time I was buying records and met my neighbor, Grisha Boginsky. He asked me, 'Where are you going?' I said, 'Home'. He said, 'Wait, let's go to this house, there are interesting girls there. I will introduce you to them'. I said, 'Fine, but what about my records?' He said, 'No problem, take them with you'. So, we went to that house. There were two young girls: a blond and a brunette. I was introduced to them and suddenly I said, 'Wait a second, you are Fayerstein'. I was right: she was my far relative from Zvenigorodka. Her first name was Eva. She was eleven years younger than me. I took her out. But first I asked, 'Oh, what about my records?' She said, 'You can leave them here'. So I left my records at her house and came by the next day, as if to pick them up. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I married her in 1939. There was no wedding ceremony; we simply went to the registration office and began to live together as husband and wife. In those times people often did just that.

Eva worked at a Jewish collective farm 12 in Zvenigorodka. She came to Kiev to do accountancy courses. She didn't finish those courses: she was working and studying at the same time. Anyway, we got married. By the way, here's a good example of ethnic relations. Her father had a cousin who married a Russian peasant woman. They had children, grandchildren; then they died. Many years later I went to Zvenigorodka on vacation. One time my wife's sister came over. She told us that a man had come from the village of Volyntsi and heard that her last name was Fayerstein. He asked her, 'Is your last name Fayerstein?' She replied, 'Yes'. He said, 'In our village we also have Fayersteins'. My father-in-law said when he heard this story: 'To tell you the truth, it was my cousin who married a Russian girl and who lived in Volyntsi'. Later, we had a whole family from Volyntsi coming over to meet us. We also learned that there were Fayersteins in other villages: Shpol and Morinets. They only changed the name Fayerstein to Farstein - it was easier for them to pronounce it that way. One time a young man from Shpol came, who also came from a family of Farsteins. He explained to us that his grandfather was still called Fayerstein. This young man got married and came to live in my apartment for two years - he studied at university, but stayed at my place even after his graduation.

When I got married we began to rent an apartment on Novo-Prozorovsky Street, across from my parents'. The street was so narrow that I felt both living at home and living with my wife. We had no kitchen, so we cooked on a Primus stove. We had a small corridor, where we cooked. My wife worked at a secret construction site on Zhukov Island. I worked at the Academy of Sciences. Our life was fine. On 22nd June, at 6am, we heard shooting. We went outside. A son of our neighbor, who had just come home from the army, said, 'Oh, these are training maneuvers!' Later, when I came to work, I saw a piece of a shell - this shell had exploded somewhere near the Bolshevik Plant and one of my colleagues had taken a piece from it.

We worked on Sundays. It was hard. We often worked on Saturdays and Sundays. I had a radio for some time, but according to the Soviet law I had to turn it in to the authorities. I remember I took it there, but before I gave it away, I was able to listen to Molotov 13 and Stalin, who announced the war. There was no panic; people were simply worried. Then I was called up. I came to the military enlistment committee and was sent to the ammunition warehouse. I worked there for two weeks. We loaded weapons. We left Kiev when the Germans were already very close. My wife went with me. We made two backpacks out of sacks, put them on our backs and went on foot. I remember crossing the bridge across the Dneper. We walked on foot, all the time. We stopped at Glukhov. My wife ate with me. I simply sat her down at my table, and my colleagues didn't object. So she stayed with us. Later I gave her a special paper that proved that she was the wife of a soldier and gave her the right to evacuate. I had no rank at the time. I was just a soldier. There was a group of workers of the Academy of Sciences, who were taught some things about fighting. We learned lubricating oil materials. We were taught by General Yakshin. We were joking that after the Academy of Sciences we entered the Academy of Yakshin.

We retreated and learned at the same time: during the day we retreated, at night we learned. Well, I can't say it was real studying. Anyway, we finished the course and I got my rank as junior lieutenant.

I became commander of a rifle platoon and was sent to Kursk region. The commander of a company was killed and I had no idea what to do! Anyway, since I was sent there, I had to do something. So I went to that company. The soldiers were asleep because it was nighttime. I asked, 'Is anyone here?' An assistant was there. I asked, 'Do you have a list of some sort?' He said, 'No, just these guys, the rest have been killed...'. It was total chaos, nobody knew anything. In the morning an attack started. We began to attack. And I knew nothing, absolutely nothing: who should go where and how. But I went into attack and my platoon followed. I didn't even know who exactly was in my platoon. We came to our destination at dawn. Firing began - the Germans were firing. It didn't last long, only for about 30 minutes. I was wounded very soon. First I didn't even feel it; I only felt warmth. I put my hand to the place that felt warm and saw something red. I realized it was blood and decided to retreat. I saw that other soldiers were retreating as well. The sun was shining and it was frosty.

The Germans occupied a school building and could easily see everything we did. We were crawling. Suddenly one of our soldiers said, 'Do you have matches?' I said, 'No, I don't smoke'. He searched his pockets and found some matches; then he set some hay on fire. The smoke from the fire helped us crawl further. We only heard the sound of flying bullets. I had a winter hat that was tied on top. I wanted to tie it under my chin, but my hands were frozen. By the time I had crawled to the commander of the company my hands, ears, nose and feet were frozen. When I reached him he looked at me and said, 'Are you done?' I replied, 'Yes, I am. I'm wounded', whereupon he said, 'Ok, leave'.

I went to the hospital. But I didn't spend too much time there. When I came back, officers from the personnel department asked me, 'Do you speak German?' I replied, 'Yes, but not perfectly'. They said, 'Will you be an interpreter for the platoon?' I said, 'I will'. So, I became an interpreter. One day the chief of the political unit came to our platoon by car. He told me, 'As of tomorrow you will work for me; I'm taking you to work for the division'. So, I got to the division. I was appointed senior instructor of the political unit of the division to work with the troops of the enemy. It was a high position. The same position belonged to Erich Weinert, the famous German poet. [Weinert, Erich (1890-1953): German poet, writer, painter and illustrator; fled from Germany in 1933, fought in the Spanish Civil War in 1937 and was granted asylum in the former Soviet Union. He returned to Berlin in 1946 and continued writing poetry directed against militarism, nationalism and fascism.] In general, such positions belonged to important people.

I was given a pair of horses, a driver, and a mortar. But my mortar didn't fire mines - it fired leaflets. I would take this mortar and go to the front line; it was particularly good to do that at night. I would fire it, making sure that the wind blew in the right direction. I also used a record-player with German records. I went to the Germans and talked to them, calling upon them to give up, to stop shooting at us, etc. Soon, a telegram came from the headquarters that ordered my officers to send me to the headquarters. So, I went to the headquarters of the army. There, all senior instructors from all divisions were gathered for advance training. We spent two months in training. This was in the area of Zhytomyr, Ukraine, around the end of 1943.

There were also courses for German anti-fascists. During these two months we moved to the territory of Poland. We found ourselves in the town of Dembnitsa, which was located near the San River. A count lived in that town. His mansion was given to us for training. We, Soviet soldiers, occupied one half of it, while the German anti- fascists occupied the other half. We often talked to each other and exchanged opinions. We finished our training at the same time as they did. Upon completion we were put in two lines, facing each other. We were told, 'Every instructor should choose a German to work with'. Everyone tried to choose Germans who spoke Russian, so that it would be easier to work with them. But I was looking for a German who wouldn't speak Russian: first of all because that way I would have plenty of German-language practice with him; and secondly, he wouldn't escape. Those who spoke Russian could easily escape, but a German soldier who didn't speak Russian; where would he go? So, I chose young, 18-year-old, Hans, a student. He gave up and claimed he was against the fascists. So, we went to a new unit. I began to work with this German. I dictated letters to him and he wrote them because he could write in German much better than me. We would go to the front line and talk to the Germans. By the way, I wish I had kept my coat, which was full of bullet and shell holes. We would play a record with German songs, and then the Russian song Katyusha, which the Germans liked very much; they even shouted to us to play Katyusha. And then we began to fire at them... with our letters.

Then he would say, 'Your commander, such and such, is leading you to certain death. Stop fighting. The fascists say that the Russians kill their prisoners of war. That's not true. See, I'm German, my name is Hans, and I'm alive and talking to you'. These were the words I dictated to him. One day, our scouts came with five Germans, who had given up after reading our letters. I was awarded a medal for this. One time an officer said at our party meeting, 'What are you looking at? Look at Shubinsky: he had no weapon, but captivated five German soldiers'.

For a long time I knew nothing about my parents. Later I learnt that my parents evacuated from Kiev. They left on their own, without any organization. I knew they were having a bad time at different evacuation destinations. I wrote to many places but couldn't get any certain information about them. I was looking for them for a long time. Only in 1943 I was informed that my parents were in Kazakhstan. My wife also went there. My father died there. But I don't even know where he was buried. There is no cemetery there - a stone was simply put on his grave. Here, in Kiev, I set up a special tombstone for my mother, after she died, and for my father.

There was no anti-Semitism in the army. Only Jews served in the first political department, led by Fux. The chief of the political department, Betkham, was also Jewish. In the second political department I was the only Jew, but in none of these places did I feel anti-Semitism.

Soldiers rarely get a leave during the war, but I was given one. I went to Kiev. My wife was in Kiev already; she stayed at a friend's house. There was no place to live. I was given a room that belonged to one woman, who lived alone in two rooms. She was certainly against us but didn't want to have a lot of trouble, so she agreed to let us stay there. We lived in Stalinka [a district in Kiev]. Later, we changed the room for a basement because our relations with that woman were bad. Our room in the basement was nice but small. We lived on Ulyanovy Street, opposite the polyclinic. We created two rooms in the basement. In the beginning we got constantly flooded from the first floor because our ceiling was partly ruined.

I was elected chairman of the house committee. Every house had such committees to keep order in the house. Once, I had some high officials come visit me. After they climbed down to my basement with great difficulty, they told me they would give me another apartment. They made me number one on the privileged list for apartments. For ten years I remained number one on that list, even though apartments were given to other people. Ten years later, I was offered a new apartment. It wasn't new in the strict sense of the word: somebody lived there but got a better apartment, and I was given this one. But I have to say: it was a good apartment, even if just a communal apartment 14. There were six neighbors: a Russian from Novosibirsk in the first apartment, a Pole in the second, a Ukrainian in the third, a Chinese in the fourth, a Jew in the fifth, and me. Six neighbors of different nationalities, but our relationships were wonderful. Why? Because we hardly spoke to each other.

In the morning I would see one of my neighbors on my way to work and say, 'Good morning'. In the evening I would come home, see another neighbor and say, 'Good night'. That's all, no other relations. We never celebrated holidays together or visited one another. It was wonderful to live that way. But when I received my next apartment, these neighbors came to me and said, 'Now we can tell you that we are sorry you are leaving'. I asked 'Why?' And the answer was: 'Because we were never enemies, but we never were friends either'. However, for instance, when one neighbor's daughter had to write something in English for school, I helped her and she got an excellent mark. Or, take the husband of our Chinese neighbor: he was an artist, but illiterate. Sometimes he had to write inscriptions on tombstones, so I helped him to spell words correctly. I lived 22 years in that communal apartment. It was really close to my workplace, just across the street. Wonderful! But it was still a communal apartment. Afterwards I got a separate apartment in another district of Kiev - Teremki. It was a new district. I received a two-bedroom apartment. It was a wonderful, excellent, quiet place. I couldn't have dreamt of anything better. I lived there for 20 years.

I felt anti-Semitism only when I heard of the Doctors' Plot 15. I worked in the department of manuscripts of the Republican Library, and the chief of department was David Mikhailovich.

There was a Jewish newspaper in America - I think it still exists - called Forverts. Its editor once came to Kiev and visited our department. Usually, when high-ranking officials came, I was always present at the meetings. This wasn't because I was so smart or important, but because my chief worked part-time at a university, and he was mostly occupied there, so he didn't know all the details of what was going on in our department. Therefore he always asked me to be present. That time we talked to the guest, and my chief showed him a manuscript by Gogol 16. It was a large notebook written in Gogol's handwriting. This original was of great historical value. After we talked, the guest left. Soon, the director summoned the chief of my department. When he returned, he said that there was a rumor that one of us wanted to sell this manuscript to that American guest for money. It was a very unpleasant story. A similar story happened to me, when I was accused of taking an original from the library. It took a very long time to clarify things, and I realized that there was some reason behind it all.

During the first war in 1956 in Israel, I heard my new chief of department saying, 'I wish I could go and shoot a few Jews'. That's when I felt anti-Semitism. And he was an invalid - he had lost his leg in the war.

I remember the Jewish Cabinet of the Academy of Sciences. It existed until 1948. I knew its workers Spivak and Loitsker, very well. I often went there to listen to the best Jewish actors - Anna Guzik and others. Spivak was a highly educated man, a corresponding member of the Academy of Sciences. Nevertheless, he was killed in 1949. Litsker was imprisoned but then released. He couldn't find a job, so we wanted to take him to our department. But my Jewish boss was against it. He said, 'We are two Jews here - why do we need a third one?' Such things happened as well.

After the war my wife worked as a bookkeeper in a food store. She worked there until her retirement.

Our son Boris was born in 1948. My wife and I always spoke Yiddish to one another, and my mother always spoke Yiddish to her grandson. He was a good boy and a good friend of his grandmother. He is a mathematician now; he graduated from university, then finished some computer courses and now his work deals with computers. He supports Jewish traditions in his family.

My grandson Zhenya lives in Israel. He graduated from Jerusalem University. He served in the Israeli army and upon completion of his service he was offered to stay in the army. He has some rank there now. So my family is scattered around the world. My wife's sister remained in Zvenigorodka, while her grandson lives in Israel.

My wife Eva died in 1985. Since then I've been living alone. My son would come visit me and cook. But gradually I realized I couldn't take care of myself any more. Then I got ill and was taken to hospital. So, we decided to unite with my son's family.

I devoted all my life to Russian and Slavic manuscripts: Russian writers such as Gogol and Turgenev 17, Ukrainian writers, descriptions of autographs of Ukrainian writers starting from the end of the 10th century and up to the middle of the 19th century.

Was only Gogol anti-Semitic? What about Pushkin 18? What about Chekhov 19? Once Sholem Aleichem 20 wrote something and asked Chekhov to review this work, but Chekhov refused. Leo Tolstoy 21 and Korolenko 22 were real Russian intelligentsia. Every nation has good and bad people.

The manuscripts that I was accused of selling, were actually transferred to a secret storage place. They may well have been destroyed. I only know there were manuscripts by Sholem Aleichem, typed, with his remarks. It was a greeting card with an invitation to dinner. It said, 'I invite you to dinner, to eat gefilte fish'. From 1949 to 1990, nobody studied Jewish manuscripts in the Academy of Sciences, and that's 50 years. Once there was a man called Epstein, who studied them. I remember him because I helped him: he wanted to measure the length of the Torah scroll, so we put it on the floor and measured it. But after Epstein nobody ever studied them! Sometimes people turned to me with questions, but not in our department. I was once invited to the Central Archive. They found two manuscripts and didn't know what they were. I went over there and looked at them. There was one small book. I opened it and closed it almost at once. They asked, 'So, you don't know what it is?' I said, 'Yes, I know what it is'. When I opened it, I saw gallows and dead bodies on them. So I said, 'It is Megilat Esther. And this other piece I need to read some more'. I read it and it turned out to be a section from the Torah. That was the only case when somebody was interested in Jewish manuscripts.

I retired and began to study them. Before my retirement I couldn't study them. But now I'm very interested in these things: I read the Torah and learn Hebrew words. I'm very glad that Jewish life has lately revived in Kiev. Three synagogues and a kosher cafeteria are operating; there are Jewish programs on TV, where I can learn the news about Jewish life in Ukraine and in Israel. A lot of interesting Jewish newspapers are published as well. It's wonderful that I can buy matzot any time I want. Sometimes a car comes to my house and takes me to Hesed where I spend the whole day, listening to Jewish concerts, watching Jewish movies and just talking to people who are spiritually close to me.


Glossary

1 Russian Revolution of 1917: Revolution in which the tsarist regime was overthrown in the Russian Empire and, under Lenin, was replaced by the Bolshevik rule. The two phases of the Revolution were: February Revolution, which came about due to food and fuel shortages during World War I, and during which the tsar abdicated and a provisional government took over. The second phase took place in the form of a coup led by Lenin in October/November (October Revolution) and saw the seizure of power by the Bolsheviks.

2 Pogroms in Ukraine: In the 1920s there were many anti-Semitic gangs in Ukraine. They killed Jews and burnt their houses, they robbed their houses, raped women and killed children.

3 Struggle against religion: The 1930s was a time of anti-religion struggle in the USSR. In those years it was not safe to go to synagogue or to church. Places of worship, statues of saints, etc. were removed; rabbis, Orthodox and Roman Catholic priests disappeared behind KGB walls.

4 Komsomol: Communist youth political organization created in 1918. The task of the Komsomol was to spread of the ideas of communism and involve the worker and peasant youth in building the Soviet Union. The Komsomol also aimed at giving a communist upbringing by involving the worker youth in the political struggle, supplemented by theoretical education. The Komsomol was more popular than the Communist Party because with its aim of education people could accept uninitiated young proletarians, whereas party members had to have at least a minimal political qualification.

5 Gangs: During the Russian Civil War there were all kinds of gangs in the Ukraine. Their members came from all the classes of former Russia, but most of them were peasants. Their leaders used political slogans to dress their criminal acts. These gangs were anti-Soviet and anti-Semitic. They killed Jews and burnt their houses, they robbed their houses, raped women and killed children.

6 Rabfak (Rabochiy Fakultet - Workers' Faculty in Russian): Established by the Soviet power usually at colleges or universities, these were educational institutions for young people without secondary education. Many of them worked beside studying. Graduates of Rabfaks had an opportunity to enter university without exams.

7 Denikin, Anton Ivanovich (1872-1947): White Army general. During the Russian Civil War he fought against the Red Army in the South of Ukraine.

8 Petliura, Simon (1879-1926): Ukrainian politician, member of the Ukrainian Social Democratic Working Party, one of the leaders of Centralnaya Rada (Central Council), the national government of Ukraine (1917-1918). Military units under his command killed Jews during the Civil War in Ukraine. In the Soviet-Polish war he was on the side of Poland; in 1920 he emigrated. He was killed in Paris by the Jewish nationalist Schwarzbard in revenge for the pogroms against Jews in Ukraine.

9 Famine in Ukraine: In 1920 a deliberate famine was introduced in the Ukraine causing the death of millions of people. It was arranged in order to suppress those protesting peasants who did not want to join the collective farms. There was another dreadful deliberate famine in 1930-1934 in the Ukraine. The authorities took away the last food products from the peasants. People were dying in the streets, whole villages became deserted. The authorities arranged this specifically to suppress the rebellious peasants who did not want to accept Soviet power and join collective farms.

10 Great Terror (1934-1938): During the Great Terror, or Great Purges, which included the notorious show trials of Stalin's former Bolshevik opponents in 1936-1938 and reached its peak in 1937 and 1938, millions of innocent Soviet citizens were sent off to labor camps or killed in prison. The major targets of the Great Terror were communists. Over half of the people who were arrested were members of the party at the time of their arrest. The armed forces, the Communist Party, and the government in general were purged of all allegedly dissident persons; the victims were generally sentenced to death or to long terms of hard labor. Much of the purge was carried out in secret, and only a few cases were tried in public 'show trials'. By the time the terror subsided in 1939, Stalin had managed to bring both the Party and the public to a state of complete submission to his rule. Soviet society was so atomized and the people so fearful of reprisals that mass arrests were no longer necessary. Stalin ruled as absolute dictator of the Soviet Union until his death in March 1953.

11 Great Patriotic War: On 22nd 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-called Great Patriotic War. The German blitzkrieg, known as Operation Barbarossa, nearly succeeded in breaking the Soviet Union in the months that followed. Caught unprepared, the Soviet forces lost whole armies and vast quantities of equipment to the German onslaught in the first weeks of the war. By November 1941 the German army had seized the Ukrainian Republic, besieged Leningrad, the Soviet Union's second largest city, and threatened Moscow itself. The war ended for the Soviet Union on 9th May 1945.

12 Collective farm (in Russian kolkhoz): In the Soviet Union the policy of gradual and voluntary collectivization of agriculture was adopted in 1927 to encourage food production while freeing labor and capital for industrial development. In 1929, with only 4% of farms in kolkhozes, Stalin ordered the confiscation of peasants' land, tools, and animals; the kolkhoz replaced the family farm.

13 Molotov, V. P. (1890-1986): Statesman and member of the Communist Party leadership. From 1939, Minister of Foreign Affairs. On June 22, 1941 he announced the German attack on the USSR on the radio. He and Eden also worked out the percentages agreement after the war, about Soviet and western spheres of influence in the new Europe.

14 Communal apartment: The Soviet power wanted to improve housing conditions by requisitioning 'excess' living space of wealthy families after the Revolution of 1917. Apartments were shared by several families with each family occupying one room and sharing the kitchen, toilet and bathroom with other tenants. Because of the chronic shortage of dwelling space in towns communal or shared apartments continued to exist for decades. Despite state programs for the construction of more houses and the liquidation of communal apartments, which began in the 1960s, shared apartments still exist today.

15 Doctors' Plot: The Doctors' Plot was an alleged conspiracy of a group of Moscow doctors to murder leading government and party officials. In January 1953, the Soviet press reported that nine doctors, six of whom were Jewish, had been arrested and confessed their guilt. As Stalin died in March 1953, the trial never took place. The official paper of the Party, the Pravda, later announced that the charges against the doctors were false and their confessions obtained by torture. This case was one of the worst anti-Semitic incidents during Stalin's reign. In his secret speech at the Twentieth Party Congress in 1956 Khrushchev stated that Stalin wanted to use the Plot to purge the top Soviet leadership.

16 Gogol, Nikolai (1809-1852): Russian novelist, dramatist, satirist, founder of the so-called critical realism in Russian literature, best known for his novel the Dead Souls (1842).

17 Turgenev, Ivan Sergeyevich (1818-1883): Russian writer, correspondent member of the Saint Petersburg Academy of Sciences (1860). Turgenev was a great master of the Russian language and psychological analysis and he had a great influence on the development of Russian and world literature.

18 Pushkin, Alexandr (1799-1837): Russian poet and prose writer, among the foremost figures in Russian literature. Pushkin established the modern poetic language of Russia, using Russian history for the basis of many of his works. His masterpiece is Eugene Onegin, a novel in verse about mutually rejected love. The work also contains witty and perceptive descriptions of Russian society of the period. Pushkin died in a duel.

19 Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich (1860-1904): Russian short-story writer and dramatist. Chekhov's hundreds of stories concern human folly, the tragedy of triviality, and the oppression of banality. His characters are drawn with compassion and humor in a clear, simple style noted for its realistic detail. His focus on internal drama was an innovation that had enormous influence on both Russian and foreign literature. His success as a dramatist was assured when the Moscow Art Theater took his works and staged great productions of his masterpieces, such as Uncle Vanya or The Three Sisters. and also had some religious instruction.

20 Sholem Aleichem (pen name of Shalom Rabinovich (1859-1916): Yiddish author and humorist, a prolific writer of novels, stories, feuilletons, critical reviews, and poem in Yiddish, Hebrew and Russian. He also contributed regularly to Yiddish dailies and weeklies. In his writings he described the life of Jews in Russia, creating a gallery of bright characters. His creative work is an alloy of humor and lyricism, accurate psychological and details of everyday life. He founded a literary Yiddish annual called Di Yidishe Folksbibliotek (The Popular Jewish Library), with which he wanted to raise the despised Yiddish literature from its mean status and at the same time to fight authors of trash literature, who dragged Yiddish literature to the lowest popular level. The first volume was a turning point in the history of modern Yiddish literature. Sholem Aleichem died in New York in 1916. His popularity increased beyond the Yiddish-speaking public after his death. Some of his writings have been translated into most European languages and his plays and dramatic versions of his stories have been performed in many countries. The dramatic version of Tevye the Dairyman became an international hit as a musical (Fiddler on the Roof) in the 1960s.

21 Tolstoy, Lev Nikolayevich (1828-1910): Russian novelist and moral philosopher, who holds an important place in his country's cultural history as an ethical philosopher and religious reformer. Tolstoy, alongside Dostoyevsky, made the realistic novel a literary genre, ranking in importance with classical Greek tragedy and Elizabethan drama. He is best known for his novels, including War and Peace, Anna Karenina and The Death of Ivan Ilyich, but also wrote short stories and essays and plays. Tolstoy took part in the Crimean War and his stories based one the defense of Sevastopol, known as Sevastopol Sketches, made him famous and opened St. Petersburg's literary circles to him. His main interest lay in working out his religious and philosophical ideas. He condemned capitalism and private property and was a fearless critic, which finally resulted in his excommunication from the Russian Orthodox Church in 1901. His views regarding the evil of private property gradually estranged him from his wife, Yasnaya Polyana, and children, except for his daughter Alexandra, and he finally left them in 1910. He died on his way to a monastery at the railway junction of Astapovo.

22 Korolenko, Vladimir (1853-1921): Russian writer and publicist, honorary member of the Petersburg and Russian Academies. His stories and novels are full of democratic and humane ideas; he criticized the revolutionary terror that seized the country after 1917.

Esfir Dener
Kishinev
Moldova
Interviewer: Natalia Fomina
Date of interview: March 2004

Esfir Borisovna is a short lady with a girl's figure and small aristocratic hands. She has a young slightly hoarse voice. One can tell that she has great inner strength and vital optimism. Her one-bedroom apartment, a little neglected, has seen better times: there is a light-colored parquet floor, and convenient built-in closet cabinets in the hallway. There is a couch, a low table and two armchairs in her room. There is a small pastel carpet square on one wall and a portrait of American writer Ernest Hemingway and a few landscapes on the other. There is a bookcase in the corner where a few shelves contain volumes of poetry. Esfir Borisovna has poor sight. During our conversation she slightly bent forward to meet my glance. She elegantly served tea and some modest treats on the low table. In the course of our conversation Esfir asked me to turn off the tape recorder a few times. She recited poems in these moments, with deep feeling, artistically and with a well-balanced voice. When talking she threw in phrases in Yiddish, German and Romanian. 

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

My family background

My maternal grandmother Esfir Gutman, nee Moldaver, lived in the town of Yedintsy in the north of Bessarabia 1. My grandmother died before I was born and I was named after her. I knew my grandfather Haim Gutman. When I was small I sometimes spent a couple of weeks in summer with him. I'm not sure what my grandfather did for a living. Most likely, he dealt in some kind of trade. I remember that there was a vegetable garden and a garden near my grandfather's house and he kept a cow. Probably one of his children was living with my grandfather at the time. I don't remember when he died. I think it must have happened in the early 1930s. 

My grandfather and grandmother had five children. I vaguely remember my mother's sisters Ita and Dora. They didn't have any education and were housewives. From what my mother told me I know that her brother Henrich finished the Medical Faculty of Prague University and worked as a doctor, but not in Yedintsy. The second brother, Zicia, was a pharmacist. I went back to Moldova in 1965 and made inquiries about my relatives. They all perished during the war [World War II]. 

My grandmother Esfir's brother Iosif Moldaver from Falesti raised my mother and I believed him to be my grandfather. Grandfather Iosif and his wife Sarah lost their only son. He contracted scarlet fever at school during an epidemic in 1895 and died. Sarah could have no more children and thus my grandfather Iosif adopted his sister Esfir's younger daughter Pesia, my future mother, who was three years old then. Actually, he took her into their house for about three weeks hoping that the little girl would mitigate their pain from the loss of their son, and then she stayed on with them in Falesti. They adored her and cared a lot for her. They didn't even send her to school and she had classes with visiting teachers at home. When it was time for her to go to grammar school, my mother continued her studies at home and passed all exams at Odessa Russian grammar school as an external student. She sang beautifully, played the piano and was great at embroidery. My mother got married at the age of 18. 

All I know about my paternal grandmother and grandfather is that my grandfather's name was Shymon Dener and my grandmother's name was Sarah. I think they died before the Russian Revolution of 1917 2 since my sister Sarah, born in 1918, was named after my paternal grandmother. They came from Kishinev. My father's older brother Yakov Dener lived in the Deners' family mansion in Kishinev sharing it with some other relatives. There were 13 tenants in the mansion. My uncle Yakov had four children: his daughters Etia, Maria and Viktoria and his son Semyon. Uncle Yakov was much older than my father since his younger daughter Viktoria was about 20 years older than me. My father also had two sisters, who moved to Argentina in the early 20th century, and the third sister lived in Koenigsberg in Germany, presently Kaliningrad. I know nothing about their fates. 

My father was born in Kishinev in 1884. I never asked him about his education, but it's evident that he finished a grammar school. He spoke fluent Russian, Romanian and German. He also had some professional education since he worked at the affiliate of the Bessarabian Bank in Falesti. He was a manager or chief accountant there. He married my mother, when she was 18. I have no doubts that they had their wedding ceremony under a chuppah because my step-grandfather was very religious. After the wedding they settled down in Grandfather Iosif's house in Falesti. My grandfather built an annex with four rooms, a kitchen and back rooms to his house. It was actually an adjoining house. Besides, he gave his adoptive daughter a nice dowry: clothing, bed sheets, crockery, etc. I know that my father's sisters from Argentina and the one from Koenigsberg came to the wedding and brought the newly-weds nice wedding gifts: furniture and a grand piano. 

Growing up

My parents' first son, my brother Yuzef, who was called Yuzik at home, was born in 1913; five years later my sister Sarah followed. I was born in December 1925 in Falesti where I lived for almost 16 years. Falesti is a small town about 28 kilometers from Beltsy. I think there were about 2-3,000 residents at the time. There were a few streets in the town and all houses were one-storied buildings. The main street was paved with cobble-stones. There were two synagogues on the main street. The one, where my grandfather and parents went, was located across the street from our home in the very center of town, and the other one was farther from the center. There were Jewish-owned stores on the main street: Pergament owned a shoe store and Berezin owned a haberdashery store; there were two big food stores, one owned by Isaac Barak where he worked with his wife and a clerk, and the other one owned by Dorfman. The most popular dressmaker Rozhanskiy lived and owned a store on the main street. My mother and sister Sarah had Rozhanskiy make their clothes and when I grew older he also began to make clothes for me. The shops were closed on Saturdays. 

Jews mainly lived in the center. There were a few Moldovan families who had their houses in close vicinity to the church, near the school for boys, but the majority of them lived in the suburbs. The suburbs of Falesti reminded you of these picturesque Moldovan villages buried in verdure. There was a market on Thursdays and Sundays where Moldovan farmers sold their vegetables, food products and poultry. There was a tavern on the main street where they could enjoy a lunch and a drink after their products were sold. There was a railway station three kilometers from town. People usually got there by horse-drawn phaetons; there was no other transportation in Falesti at the time. When I was small we came to this station several times to take a train to Yedintsy to visit my mother's relatives. 

Our house was in the very center of town between a tavern and a pharmacy. It was a big white mansion with a tin roof. There were flower gardens on both sides of the house. We also had a wooden terrace. There were four rooms in our part of the house. There was a grand piano and two living room sets in our living room. One set was ebony wood with green plush upholstery and the other set was mahogany wood with pink rep upholstery. My father's sisters from Argentina gave them to my parents for their wedding. Each consisted of a low oval table, two armchairs and two settees. There was a record player with a big tube on a marble table and a big mirror in a bronze frame on the wall. There was also a violin on the wall. My brother was a violinist. The grand piano occupied one third of the living room and there wasn't much space left. Our dining room was big – 36 square meters. When we had guests or celebrations on Jewish holidays we unfolded the table, which could seat 24 people. Another table was brought in, if we had more guests. There was a nice bedroom set and two big wardrobes in my parents' bedroom. 

We had a small children's room with two beds for Sarah and me, and a couch for Yuzef. There was also a wardrobe and a chest of drawers in our room. When my brother turned 18, he moved into the dining room. My brother was 12 years older than me. He left home to study at a grammar school in Beltsy and then he studied in the conservatory in Bucharest. Then Sarah went to the Jewish grammar school in Beltsy and they only spent their vacations or holidays at home, so I had the children's room at my disposal.

My mother took care of the house and had a housemaid to help her around. Our housemaids were girls or women from nearby villages. My mother did the minor laundry herself and had a woman coming in to wash the bed sheets every three months. My mother did the cooking herself since she strictly followed the kashrut. She bought dairy products and poultry at the market and also shopped at stores. Of course, she bought live chickens and had them slaughtered by a shochet. We never mixed dairy and meat products and had special crockery for dairy and meat products. My mother made menus for each day, so that we had dairy products – for example, soup with milk or pancakes with cottage cheese - one day and meat dishes on the next: meat with prunes and chicken soup with farfelakh. My mother went to the synagogue on all Jewish holidays. 

My father was of average height, very dignified, with an upturned moustache, and a pince-nez with a golden rim. He worked at the affiliate of the Bessarabian Bank on the main street not far from our house. He also managed two big grain storage facilities at the railway station. This grain was purchased in the surrounding villages and shipped in freight railcars from the station. My father probably inherited those storage facilities from my grandfather Iosif, who no longer did any business at the time. I remember that other people called my father ‘the banker' for his management of the Jewish community mutual aid fund. My father was a well-respected man in town. 

My father was a member of the Jewish Arbitrary Court [bet din] where Jews brought forward their problems and disputes. They addressed my father and each party sent its representative. I already knew that when my father ushered new people to the living room and looked at me strictly, it meant that I had to go to my room. In the 1990s I read in an article by a Jewish historian from Kishinev that my father had been engaged in politics in the early 1930s. He was one of the founders and later the leaders of the Romanian Jewish Party. In 1933 this Party had its own list for participation in the parliamentary elections. My father was the third on this list and lacked only a few votes to become a deputy of the Romanian Parliament. My father was a man of the world, but he went to the synagogue on Jewish holidays.

My grandfather Iosif Moldaver was the dearest person to me. He was very smart. In my long life I've never met another person of such wisdom, that's right – wisdom. Since I was the youngest in the family, and seemed to be slightly ignored – at least many things were forbidden for me whereas my older brother and sister were allowed everything – I brought my ‘world-weariness' to my grandfather Iosif. He put me on his knees and had long discussions with me in Yiddish as if I was an adult. My grandfather was tall and broad-shouldered and had a big white beard. He always wore a long black kitel, a white shirt, a narrow black tie and a yarmulka. He prayed every day with his tallit and tefillin on. He went to the synagogue every day. As for my grandmother Sarah, I can hardly remember her: she was very nice and quiet and always wore dark clothes. 

I remember one incident. There were two Romanian elementary schools in Falesti: one for boys and one for girls. There I began to study Romanian. In our family my parents spoke Yiddish and Russian, but I only knew Yiddish in my childhood. When I was in the 1st grade, we had a small morning party dedicated to the start of the academic year where school children danced, sang and recited poems wearing Moldovan folk costumes. I was to recite a fable by Anton Pann [Romanian poet and ethnographer, singer and author of music textbooks] in Romanian. 

My mother made me a gorgeous costume; it was the best one at school. The moment I entered the school building my teacher grabbed me and Annushka, a local rich man's daughter, and literally dragged us into an empty classroom where she ordered us, ‘Get undressed!', ripping off my belt, blouse, skirt and my decorative vest. She gave it to Annushka to put on and took her on-stage where she was to sing. I was standing there in my undershirt and didn't understand what was going on. When Annushka came back, my teacher haphazardly helped me to put my clothes back on since it was time for me to go on-stage. The moment I stepped on-stage my ribbons went loose and I knew I was looking ridiculous. I was so confused that I forgot my words, burst into tears and ran off stage. When I came home my mother already knew what had happened. Somebody must have told her. She was furious, but in our family there was a rule to say no bad things about other people, so when I complained to her all she said was, ‘It's all right, it'll be better next time'. I felt even more hurt and went to my grandfather to get some sympathy. 

My grandfather put me on his knees and said, ‘Don't be angry with the teacher. She wanted Annushka to look good and your costume looked better than hers. Let me teach you a thing about life, but you must give me your word that your mother, father, grandmother or your best friend will never know what we are talking about now'. I firmly gave him my word and my grandfather said, ‘From now on you'll be aware of everything happening at school, you will know everything your teacher tells you to learn. Do you know the ‘Tatal Nostru'? [Our Father in Romanian, he is referring to the Lord's Prayer]. I said, ‘Who doesn't? Our classes at school start with ‘Our Father' every morning'. He asked, ‘What if I woke you up in the middle of the night and said Fira [affectionate for Esfir], recite Our Father – would you?' ‘Of course', I replied. And he said, ‘Then, if you had known this fable as well as Our Father, you would have recited it so brilliantly regardless of problems with your ribbons that nobody would have ever noticed your ribbons. You must know everything for ‘10'. We had a 10-point system at school. And he concluded, ‘At the end of this academic year I will come to your school and we shall see who will have the laurel wreath on his head'. The first school girls were awarded laurel wreaths. 

Of course, at the end of the year I had a laurel wreath on my head. At that time the ‘Dimineata copiilor' [Children's Morning in Romanian] magazine was published. Between 1st June and 1st September there were supplements of four sheets in this magazine containing photographs of the children of all elementary schools in Romania who had received awards, with their first and last names, the name of the school and the town indicated in captions. Of course, my name was in this magazine each year. When I received my award for the first time, my grandfather talked to me seriously again, ‘You've received your award. Now listen to me. Do you remember the fire across the street from where we live? The people lost their home. Someone had his purse stolen and somebody was robbed in the street. Everything can happen in life, but what you insert here – and he pointed at my head – will stay with you for the rest of your life. Nobody will ever take it away from you, under no circumstances'. However, love makes people a little funny. When I finished the 2nd grade, they wrote ‘Ielena Dener' under my photograph instead of Esfir and my grandfather was so upset, just like a child. ‘How could they?' he hissed, and demanded that my father wrote an angry letter to the editor's office requesting refutation, but my father just said, ‘It's all right. When Fira receives her award next year, I will write to them in advance so that they don't make this mistake again'. 

My grandfather educated me unobtrusively and gradually. I remember, when my mother and father gave me Chanukkah money [Chanukkah gelt] at Chanukkah, my favorite holiday, I went to share this joy with my grandfather. My grandfather judged by my looks that I had some capital, put me on his knees and asked me what I was going to buy for the money that my parents had given me. I told him that I was going to buy candy and sweets in the confectionery store across the street from our house. My grandfather asked me, ‘Do you know that there are children who have no grandmother or grandfather or even mother or father? I said I did and he continued, ‘Who are these children? Orphans. Your grandmother and I will also give you some money. What are you going to buy for it?' And I stared at him again, not getting his point, and said, ‘Chocolate this and that… And he said, ‘Tell me, will you enjoy eating it knowing that there are children who have nothing at all?' At that I replied, ‘No, grandfather, don't give me money, give it to these children. But he replied, ‘No, you are my granddaughter and I must give it to you, but here is a box and you can put some money into it for these orphans so that they can buy some sweets. Then you will eat your candy, chocolates and cakes with a clear conscience'. And after that I remembered for the rest of Chanukah, when my parents were lighting another candle, that orphans also had their sweets. I still have an old chanukkiyah that somebody gave me recently. It reminds me of my happy childhood and my beloved grandfather. I light the candles every Chanukah now. 

We celebrated all Jewish holidays and Sabbath at home. Every Friday my mother lit two candles in silver candle stands. When I was in the first grade, somebody told me that Sabbath candles don't burn your fingers, if you move one of them over a candle to and fro. Well, what do you think – could I help experimenting? So I came home, waited till my mother lit the candles and went to the kitchen to move my finger over the candle. My grandfather caught me at this standing in the doorway watching me perplexed. I ran to him and said, ‘Grandfather, it's my fault, punish me! I know I mustn't do it, I didn't know you were looking! Punish me'. You know, I'm an old woman now, but I do remember what my grandfather said: ‘Don't be afraid if I see, fear that He sees.' 

On Sabbath my grandfather and grandmother usually visited us. They also celebrated all Jewish holidays with us. Before Pesach my mother and our housemaids did a general clean up of the house. They cleaned the carpets, changed the bed sheets and polished the furniture. My grandfather watched that all rules were being followed. I remember that he took us, kids, to the bank of the river where we turned our pockets inside out to shake off all crumbs. My grandfather explained to us that we were shaking off all sins. My mother took special holiday crockery from the cupboard and put away our everyday crockery. I remember this fancy crockery – dishes with pink edgings. In the evening we sat down at the festively set table. I remember candles burning and silver ware shining. We were dressed up and ceremonious. I cannot remember all the details, but I still remember the feeling I had at seder on Pesach. This was my family, my house and we were all Jews. My father conducted the seder. Yuzef asked him the four questions – fir kashes [in Yiddish]. I remember how we put away a piece of matzah [afikoman] and the one who found it received a gift. We stayed at the table till late and since I was used to going to bed at nine o'clock sharp I remember the last hours of seder as if in sleep. We ate matzah for a whole week. My mother made matzah, matzah puddings and matzah latkes. I liked chicken soup with matzah. 

I remember Simchat Torah: I was small, wore a red velvet dress with a white collar and went to the synagogue with my mother. I had a little flag on a stick with an apple on it. The apple was hollow inside and there was a little candle inside. I walked proudly with my nose up. In the synagogue we kissed the Torah. Then there was Sukkot and we made a sukkah in the yard. There were prefabricated planks for the sukkah that were kept in the house afterward. We had meals in the tent for a whole week. 

Purim was the merriest holiday. When my brother and sister, who also studied at the conservatory, arrived there were more festivities. Young people got together at our home, my sister played the piano and my brother played the violin. We sang and had lots of fun. They liked it when I sang to them. Now I know that I looked funny – a little girl singing love and tango songs in Romanian. However, I didn't study music like my older brother and sister did. My father supported them while they were studying but wasn't really happy about my sister and brother being in the conservatory. He wanted them to get legal education. Music was for the heart at that time; a musician couldn't support a family and my father used to tell Yuzef, ‘Are you Paganini or Mozart, what's this all about?' My father didn't allow me to sit at the piano. He said, ‘If I see you there, I will cut the piano into pieces. As soon as you put a doctor's or an attorney's diploma on the table, our own musicians will teach you music'. 

We had three bookcases in the dining room – we were all fond of reading. My sister never went to sleep before reading 20-30 pages. Then she said, ‘Goodnight', turned off the light and went to sleep. If it was a historical or adventure novel, she left it on the sideboard, but when she put a book under her pillow, I knew that it was a love story. A forbidden fruit is always sweet and I secretly looked up the author and the title of the book, and when my sister left for Bucharest, I looked for these books in Romanian. If we didn't have them at home, I went to the private library and asked for the book pretending it was for my mother. So, when I was 12-13, I read ‘The Pit' by Kuprin 3 and ‘Resurrection' by Tolstoy 4 in the Romanian translation. There was a wonderful book titled ‘Cocaine' by an Italian author that saved my life, I would say. Perhaps, it was a dime novel, but the author depicted the sufferings of cocaine addicts –addicts who had no money to buy drugs – so vividly, that it instilled fear and disgust of drugs in me for the rest of my life. I read all books in Romanian. In 1937 the Russian language was forbidden in Romania due to the termination of diplomatic relations between Russia [Soviet Union] and Romania. I grew fond of poetry and one of my favorite Romanian authors was Mihai Eminescu 5.

After Hitler came to power fascist movements expanded in Europe. There were Cuzists 6 in Romania. There were noted court proceedings against the Anti-Fascist Committee in 1936 in Kishinev. The head of this committee was Petru Constantinescu-Ias. He was a Romanian communist and the others were Jewish men – there were about seven of them. This was a resonant case and there were attorneys from France and England. My uncle Yakov's daughter, Etia Dener, was on trial. She was sentenced by the Romanian Military Tribunal. She was kept in the main political prison, Doftan, in Bucharest for several years. She had no family. Her fiancé turned her down with the words, ‘I need a wife and a mother for my children rather than a political activist. I want a family'. Etia's brother Semyon was also a member of this committee, but he managed to escape to France with his fiancée Sonia. Semyon was a chemical engineer. He worked at a military plant. When the Germans occupied France, they arrested him and he perished. His wife Sonia and their little son survived. After the war the French Communist Party funded his son's education. Uncle Yakov's daughter Maria got married and moved to Palestine in 1935. I don't know anything about her life. Uncle Yakov stayed with his daughter Viktoria. She finished the Medical Faculty of Prague University and married Israel Grinberg. Viktoria worked as a cardiologist. 

In 1937 I was in the 2nd grade of grammar school. There was only a four-year grammar school for boys and girls in Falesti. I had a friend whose name was Colman Akerman. He studied in the 3rd grade. Colman lived with his mother and sister Lusia. Their father had already died. Colman wanted to study with me and tried hard to fail at two exams and then he missed the following three exams. He had to stay in the 3rd grade for another year. When I asked him why he wanted to stay in the same grade for another year, he replied, ‘How else could I visit you at home? But now we are classmates'. He came to see me every day and always tried to surprise me. Once he brought a camera that his uncle from Iasi had given to him. He photographed me in the street and then he showed me where to look through and which button to press and I took a picture of him. When he brought the pictures, I put one picture in my notebook, carried it in my school uniform pocket and showed it to the other girls, saying, ‘I took this one myself!' 

My father was very strict and demanded that I behaved impeccably. I remember once our zoology teacher said that after having lunch at home we would go out of town to catch insects for the school insectariums. I was very thin and ate very little and my mother decided to take advantage of my being in a hurry to stuff me up. My classmates were waiting for me near the house. Colman whistled putting two fingers into his mouth. I ran to the window and shouted, ‘I'm coming!' That instant my father appeared in the dining room and asked, ‘Is this for you?' I replied, ‘Yes, I'm leaving'. He slapped me, the only time in my life, on my face and said, ‘Remember, a girl shall not be called from Boris Dener's house by whistles!' My mother snorted at him, ‘What's happened to you? It's not her fault.' But he remained strict: ‘I don't know whose fault it is. You must remember that she will get married and people remember bad things rather than good ones'. I remember my mother saying, ‘She isn't even 13 yet and you are talking about marriage.' ‘Time flies', he answered. However, assault wasn't really a common thing in our family, and later my father felt guilty for a long time and I took advantage of this as best I could. 

Colman was 14 and I was 13, when his 18-year-old cousin came to see him from Iasi. They came to visit me. He was sitting on the sofa in the dining room looking at us haughtily, regarding us as provincial small fry. Then he suggested that we played ‘American bets'. We had no idea what it was about and he explained, ‘If I ask you a question and you know the answer, you can ask me for anything I have and you can have it. But if you don't know the answer, you will do anything I tell you'. Then he turned to me: ‘Of course, the girl will go first'. I took it easy: what could he ask of me, if I didn't know the answer – to recite a poem or sing a song, maybe. He asked me a question about a boxer, whom I had not the slightest idea about. Then he said, ‘Well, here is what we will get', and he bent over and kissed me on the cheek. I was taken aback and jumped up. The worst thing was that Colman, my cavalier, burst into tears. That way I learned what a man's guile was about. Colman said, ‘I will tell your mother'. His cousin laughed and said with disdain, ‘What a kindergarten!' and left. I told Colman to leave: ‘Go away and never come back to me'. I was probably crying all day long. 

When Sarah came home, she invited her friends and they discussed their admirers and movies about love. It was popular to collect pictures of actors and actresses: Greta Garbo, Morris Chevalier, Marlene Dietrich… I listened to them chatting, dreaming about my first kiss. It was to happen in the evening, in a garden, with nightingales, and the moon. He would tell me of his eternal love and beg me for a kiss. And then I would allow him to kiss me on my cheek – and this would be my first kiss. But then, all of a sudden, a boy whom I didn't know happened to kiss me. Besides everything else, I lost it all: the bench, the moon, the nightingales and the cavalier speaking of his love to me. But above all, I was to blame for it, you know. 

About nine years later I met Colman's mother in Chernovtsy. She told me that Colman had perished near Smolensk in 1942. She said, ‘They say you have a picture of Colman?' I showed her the picture and she wanted a copy. I gave her the photograph and said that her son's breathing and fingertips were on it and that he had taken this photograph himself. She started crying, ‘I'm so sorry that you didn't become my daughter-in-law'. 

In 1939 my beloved Grandfather Iosif died. According to the Jewish tradition they wrapped his body in a takhrikhim burying his face in it and put it on the floor in his house. Then his body was taken to the synagogue and from there to the Jewish cemetery where my grandmother Sarah, who had passed away a short time before, was buried. I don't remember whether the relatives had their clothes ripped on the edges, but I remember clearly that we sat shivah for seven days. 

During the War

A year later, on 28th June 1940, the Soviet rule began in Bessarabia. My brother Yuzef and my sister Sarah happened to have stayed abroad in Romania and we didn't know anything about them. In August the new authorities took away our house and we lost our home. They considered the house too large for a family of three. We rented a room and a kitchen from two Moldovan sisters in their house in the suburbs of Falesti. I went to the 8th grade of a Russian school. I didn't know any Russian and had to study a lot, so my parents let me the room that was brighter and stayed in the kitchen. When my classmates began to join the Komsomol 7, I also applied to join, but there I got to know that I was a ‘socially hostile element' and that my father was a ‘bourgeois'. When I told my mother about it, she wanted to go to school to talk about it, but my father stopped her. He understood everything about the Soviet power already.

In 1941, on the night of 13th to 14th June, two officers wearing NKVD 8 uniforms and two witnesses came to our home. They woke us up, searched our lodging and told us, ‘You have 20 minutes to get ready and leave the place!' We were taken to the railway station. There was a train there and most of the wealthier families of Falesti, most of them Jews, but there were also Moldovans. It happened so that the train was at the dead-end spur for 24 hours. Pyotr, a Moldovan boy, who became orphaned and whom my father had helped to learn accountancy, came to see us. In the morning, when it became known that we were to be deported, Pyotr's grandmother cooked a chicken and sent her grandson to take it to us. My father gave Pyotr the key and sent him to pack some belongings. Pyotr took a tablecloth and packed whatever fell into his hands. When we arrived at our point of destination, the women joked, ‘We won't die of the heat in Siberia: Madam Dener has got two fans'. Pyotr had packed two ostrich feather fans and my mother's ball gown embroidered with beads. My mother sold them to the Pushkin Theater from Leningrad, which was in evacuation in Tomsk. 

Before we arrived in Tiraspol, they made lists of all men, heads of families, and on the night of 15th June they read out the list and the men were getting off the train. We never saw my father again. As we got to know later, all men were taken to a camp in Ivdel district, Sverdlovsk region. Our train went on and on our way we heard that Germany had attacked the USSR on 22nd June and that the war [Great Patriotic War] 9 had begun. We arrived in the town of Mogochin, Molchanov district, Tomsk region in Siberia. There they declared that we were sentenced to 25 years in exile. Mogochin was in the Siberian taiga, on the bank of the Ob River, which was over one kilometer wide in that location. The only way to Novosibirsk or Tomsk was along this river. We were accommodated in the houses of other exiled people from Ukraine and Russia deported in the 1930s during the time of the collectivization 10. They had big families and we could only share a room with the owners of the dwellings. My mother and I moved from one house to the next, till we got lucky. Here is what happened: According to comrade Stalin's order, if a member of an exiled person's family perished at the front, his family was released from exile. Our landlady Katia came to exile in her teens. Her young husband perished at the front and Katia and her baby son were released. Though she had lost her husband, she was happy to be released and left her apartment to us: there was a little room with a Russian stove 11 and a shed in the yard. My mother gave her a golden ring for it.

At first we worked in the kolkhoz 12 in Mogochin, but later we were sent to work at the saw-mill. Women carried loads of bricks for the construction of a shop and girls worked as loaders loading planks onto a barge. We were lined up by our height: one girl had to put a cushion on the left shoulder, another girl on the right shoulder, and they piled four-meter planks to the height of a stretched up hand onto us and we carried them up the ladder onto the barge. Every two hours our supervisor announced, ‘Smoke break!' and we could sit down for ten minutes and then we got back to work. We worked 12 hours a day. It was such hard, but probably equally necessary work, that we received 800 grams bread per day, which was the ration of an adult worker. Bread was the only food we got. We exchanged clothes for potatoes. Bread and potatoes was our main food. We were usually allowed to go home for lunch. Once, going back to work from lunch, I heard the Evening Serenade by Schubert on the radio at the check-in point, and I stood still there. I loved classical music, and my sister Sarah had often sung the Evening Serenade. The lunch break was almost over. The janitor, a tall fat woman, ran outside and dragged me to the work site. ‘Listen here', she warned me. 21 minutes late for work at that time meant one year in prison. 

I was 16 and was supposed to study in the 9th grade, but we weren't allowed to go to school: we didn't come there to go to school is what they thought. Our boys and girls there, Fenia Zilberman, Raya Berezina and Misha Bugaev, appointed me their delegate to the commandant because although I spoke poor Russian, I was the smartest. We came to the commandant and I decided to use his weapon: ‘What have we done wrong that they don't allow us to follow the covenant of Illich [Lenin]: Study, study and study? They don't allow us to go to school.' He didn't know what to say and took us to the director of the saw-mill. He left us in the reception room from where we could hear their discussion. The director was yelling, ‘These bourgeois children aren't here to study. There is a war and they are here to forge victory'. The commandant replied: ‘Does your daughter go to school? Does your chief engineer's son go to school? And those bourgeois children must forge victory for them, Komsomol members? They will go to school today!' He came out of the director's office saying, ‘Go to school now, but you must only have excellent marks – I will follow up!' His surname was Mukhamadiarov – he was a Tatar man. Of course, somebody reported on him and soon he left for somewhere else, we didn't know where.

We didn't have passports, but a piece of paper with name, first name and patronymic, year of birth and nationality on it. Every ten days our mothers went to the commandant's office to sign for us that we were there, since we were under age. In November 1941 my mother and I were called to the office. They told us that my father had died on 1st November 1941. I was standing by my mother and said in Yiddish, ‘a dank dem got' [Yiddish for Thank God]. The officer pricked up his ears: ‘What did she say?' My mother turned to stone; she just shook her head. ‘No, what did she say? What did she say?', the officer insisted. He thought it might have been something about ‘the father of the people' [Stalin]. ‘Nothing, it was Thank God that she said', my mother replied. But isn't she his own daughter?' the officer was wondering. My mother said, ‘Yes, she is'. He turned to me saying, ‘Why did you say this? And I replied, ‘Because he is no longer suffering'. He gave me a mean look and said, ‘You viper!' 

After finishing school I made a copy of my certificate and sent it to the Medical Colleges in Tomsk and Novosibirsk – my father wanted me to become a doctor. I got invitation letters from both colleges. I went to the commandant, he tore those letters into tiny pieces, threw them into a garbage bin and said, ‘No studies! In three days you will go to the timber cutting site!' I ran away on one of these three days. That September happened to be warm in Siberia, which was a rare thing. I had to sail down the Ob to Novosibirsk. It was impossible to take a boat sailing to the south – they were thoroughly inspected. I took a boat sailing north and at the next stop I changed onto a boat sailing to the south. My mother blessed me and gave me a golden pendant for the road. There was a Swiss clock inside. My mother wanted me to sell it to buy warm clothes in Novosibirsk. However, it was my poor luck. There was a search on the boat and a young NKVD officer took custody of me. He saw that I had no luggage and that my only document was my school certificate. He knew who I was. ‘Two hours from now I will take you to the commandant', he said. I looked at the clock: how many hours of life did I have left. I decided to jump into the river – the commandant would leave me to rot. The officer saw the clock and liked it. I took it off and put the chain and the pendant into his hand. He let me go. I got off in Novosibirsk wearing a light dress, summer shoes, having no money, but most importantly, having no passport. 

At the railway station I read an announcement about a course for medical nurses for the front. I went there. I said that I was in evacuation. A woman, a major of medical service, offered me to stay overnight in her apartment. It was her daughter's birthday. There were boiled potatoes, cabbage and pork fat, and spirits on the table. I was starved and ate the food, when all of a sudden I felt sick. The mistress of the house didn't understand what was wrong and I explained that we, Jews, didn't eat pork fat. She said, ‘But you, Jews, are so fanatic'. I stayed a few days with them and they were good to me. At that time the Novosibirsk Industrial College announced additional admission and they admitted me without even asking for my passport. They accommodated me in the hostel. 

A few days later I bumped into a man and a woman talking in Yiddish in a shop. I ran to them and asked, ‘Are you Jews?' The man was the producer of the Minsk Jewish Theater, which was evacuated to Novosibirsk. I told them about myself. This man, his name was Boris, helped me. His daughter Elvira was three years younger than me. He made a copy of her birth certificate and an artist of the theater, also a Jew, forged this certificate putting in my name and information. Then they made a copy of this copy at a notary office. At that time people often lost their documents in evacuation and notary offices made copies for them. I submitted this false copy of a copy to the militia office to obtain a passport. They told me to come back two hours later and I went to a nearby movie theater. There was a popular Soviet movie showing: ‘V shest chasov vechera posle voyni' [At six o'clock in the evening after the war]. I was sitting there with my eyes closed crying: in two hours they would either take me to prison or give me a passport. When I came back to the militia office, they gave me a passport. Do you understand what this man put at risk: he could have been sentenced to ten or more years, and he had a wife and two children! Through Boris I set up correspondence with my mother. In 1946 I received her last letter. Later Boris got to know that she had died. 

. Post-war

In college I made friends with Dina Varshavskaya, also a Jewish girl. She evacuated from Belarus with her mother and twin brothers. Germans bombed their train on the way. Dina's mother and brothers perished. We lived in the hostel, had no clothes or shoes. Local girls lived at home and had at least some clothes. Then I heard that this hostel had vacancies for a cleaning girl and a linen keeper. Dina and I went to talk to the director of the hostel and were employed. We received a small wage and food cards. We sold some of the food that we got at the market to buy some clothes. Students could have meals at the canteen and we also did some work there cleaning the tables and had a bowl of soup or boiled cereals for doing so. During the war the best jobs were where there was food. We were young and Dina said every now and then, ‘Look, we never go out' and I comforted her, ‘Dina, we are young. Our cavaliers will wait for us'. I didn't know how short youth was. 

I was a last-year student, when I was called into the corridor. ‘Dener, your brother has come', they announced. I left the classroom and understood everything immediately - a military was waiting for me. He just said, ‘Let's go'. We went to an apartment. There was a man sitting at the desk. They began to threaten me with arrest, but then tempered justice with mercy and offered me to work for them secretly. Every Friday I was to submit reports on the talks and moods in my college. Under the threat of arrest I signed what they gave me to sign and went to Boris from there. ‘What do I do now?' Boris knew about the Soviet regime and NKVD rules. He calmed me down. He said I had to pretend that I industriously fulfilled the task of the organs. He asked, ‘There must be boys and girls in your college, who don't only kiss, but also have intimate relations?' I remembered that Lena and Lyosha were under 18 years of age, but were living together – it wasn't allowed to get married before turning 18. ‘This will work, it's ‘immoral' for the Soviet authorities and you will write about it.' Boris knew that this would do those folks no harm. ‘You will take this report to them on Friday and request a two-month leave to write a diploma. As soon as you receive your diploma, you must leave Novosibirsk before the morning of the following day'. They gave me a leave and after obtaining my diploma I disappeared. 

At the beginning I found shelter at Raya Berezina's place. She was my friend from Falesti and was exiled with her parents. She studied at Novosibirsk Medical College. How did she manage to do that? Her uncle Motl Berezin got to know that his brother and his family had been sent into exile. Motl had money. He went to the Ural and paid ransom for his brother. His guards pretended that he had escaped. Somehow, probably also for money, Motl managed to rescue Raya, her mother and brother. He bought Raya a passport for 3,000 rubles in Novosibirsk and Raya could go to study at Medical College. I stayed with Raya for two weeks while she was passing her summer exams. Then we went to Chernovtsy where her parents had already rented an apartment. I lived with them for some time and they were kind to me. 

Raya's father and her brother Aizik were working, Raya continued her studies at Chernovtsy Medical College and I was looking for a job. Raya introduced me to her friend Shura Liberman from Kharkov. He went to the front after finishing the 10th grade and after the war he entered Medical College. Three weeks later Shura wrote me a letter saying that he loved me and wanted to marry me, but I decided for myself that I wasn't going to ruin his life. He was a very nice person, he had been at the front and suffered so much. And I was an exile escapee and could be arrested any moment. I had a meeting in Chernovtsy once that I hate to recall, but since it had an impact on my future life, I need to tell you about it. One of my father's Jewish acquaintances from Falesti, who had often come to our house, bumped into me in Chernovtsy and offered me an apartment and provisions to visit me every now and then. I was hurt deep down in my heart. He also explained to me that I was a burden for the Berezins family and that they might have problems because of me. 

I left the Berezins and went to work as a rate setter at the reconstruction of the knitwear factory, ruined by German bombing. My boss Rostislav Ippolitovich Menchinskiy, a Polish man, was a wonderful person. He helped me to get a little room with a wood stoked stove in the hostel. There were 90 Hungarian and 200 German prisoners-of-war working at the reconstruction of the factory. They worked on one job site, but in different crews. They didn't communicate with each other. In the morning the foreman issued a task and I put down personal scopes of work. By the end of the day the foreman and I checked the laborers' day's work and calculated how much they had earned. For this amount we gave them bread. I hated the Germans, but my good manners didn't allow me not to greet them in the morning; my father would have turned in his grave. So, I came onto the site saying, ‘Good day today', just stating that it was a good day. I spoke Russian to the superintendent, but he replied in German knowing that I knew German. Once he asked me, ‘Fraulein Fira, do you think there is a God?' and I replied, ‘When I got to know what you were doing to the Jews in Europe, I said there is no God. But when you, fascists, receive bread from my Jewish hands, as much as I write you should have, I say: there is a God!' 

I had different, warmer relations with the Hungarians. Their superintendent was a very intelligent man, a former editor of one of the main newspapers in Bucharest. My superintendent used to tell my boss Menchinskiy that ‘Fira flirts with all the Hungarians'. One of them, a young boy of about 18 years of age, whose name was Gyula, was my interpreter. He spoke a little Russian. They called me Esztike, affectionate for Esther. I learned to say good morning in Hungarian: jo reggelt, and good day: jo napot. In the morning I greeted them in Hungarian and there was always a smile or a kind word for each of them. There were women selling milk at the entrance gate. Often Hungarians asked me to buy them milk and gave me money and pots. I enjoyed doing it and did it demonstratively so that the Germans could see it, of course! In 1947 the prisoners were released and about eight Hungarians wearing their uniforms without shoulder straps came to my office to bid me farewell. I was pleased. 

However, there was always fear throughout this time. I woke up at night in horror, afraid they would come for me! Once I met with Sarah Fooks, someone whom I knew from Falesti. She said, ‘They arrested Fenia Zilberman last night and Misha Bugaev the night before. You must change your surname'. I married Lyonia Korol, a Jew, who liked me. I married in order to change my name. He was a janitor at the factory. I obtained a passport with a different surname. Lyonia was a simple, uneducated guy, but I decided that if he happened to be a good man, I would try to help him with his studies. However, I didn't love him and asked him to give me two weeks to get used to him. He didn't listen to me and damaged our relations. I got pregnant. On 2nd April 1948 I gave birth to a seven-month premature boy and a stillborn girl – they were twins. I named the boy Boris after my father. He only lived for three months. 

Then I went to work at the shipyard in Nikolaev where I was an apprentice to an electric welder. I had no idea that this shipyard was a military site and that there was an NKVD department there. They finally dug out who I was and that I was on the all-Union search list. Nine months later they came to the hostel with a search crew. They took away my mother's last letter. I snatched it from the NKVD officer's hands and said, ‘This is my mother's last letter. She has died, and nobody but me is allowed to have this letter', but they took it away from me, anyway.

I was arrested and kept in the cell with criminals in Nikolaev prison. The investigation officer insisted that I wrote that I acknowledged myself guilty in my own handwriting. I said, ‘No'. He didn't let me sleep for three days. The warden was watching that I didn't close my eyes in my cell. The senior prisoner in my cell wasn't exactly my friend, but the investigation officer, whom they called ‘musor' [Russian for trash] was their enemy. And the enemy of my enemy simply had to be my friend. This senior prisoner sat on my plank bed and told three other women to sit before us, with their faces to the door where there was a big eyelet. She said, ‘Quiet! Put your head on my shoulder. Close your eyes, go to sleep'. She let me fall asleep that way a few times a day. I was 25 years old. I was young. When the officer realized that this ‘no sleep' idea didn't work, he sent me to a punishment cell for 15 days. I was staying in the damp cell for 15 days in winter. When they dragged me out of there I could only whisper. The officer thought I was cheating on him and took me to the prison hospital. 

The otolaryngologist examined me and said, ‘She won't talk for a long time. She has laryngitis, pharyngitis and tonsillitis'. I didn't know yet that I also sustained heart deficiency in this cell. I was waiting for the trial to tell this scoundrel of an officer everything I thought about him, but there was no trial. A warden took me to a room where there were four military men, one had a white robe on. Later I was told that they were prosecutor, chief of prison, military doctor and somebody else. They read my sentence that they had received from Moscow: ‘For the unauthorized escape from her settlement location Dener Esfir Borisovna is sentenced to three years of imprisonment in work camps and further return to the location of settlement for an indefinite term'. This happened in February 1951. 

They took me to another cell where prisoners whose sentence had been passed were kept. Then I was taken to five prisons on the way to my point of destination: Kharkov, Gorky, Kirov and Solikamsk and Nyrob. The most terrible prison was in Gorky. We arrived at a huge gate with steeples on them. The doors were sliding to the sides like curtains in the theater. I remembered the Dante's Inferno: ‘Abandon every hope, you who enter'. I think it was there that I met Martha, a young woman from Germany, who sang arias from ‘Silva' [operetta by Imre Kalman, a prominent Hungarian composer] in the cell in German. She told me her bloodcurdling story: In 1945, after the war, she, a German girl, married a young Soviet officer. A week after their wedding Stalin issued a ban on marriages with foreigners. Her husband's friends advised her husband to disappear for some time and Martha's relatives gave him shelter. When the NKVD came for him, he wasn't at home and they arrested his wife. So she happened to come to the Soviet prison. She didn't know what happened to her husband. I never got to know how her story ended. From Solikamsk prison in Perm region I was taken to the transition prison in Nyrob settlement. There was a barrack for women with about 30 inmates and about 20-30 vacant plank beds. There was a big camp for men behind the fence. 

I was taken to the camp on bathroom day. Each of us was given a tin wash pan and a bar of soap. There was a woman sitting beside me on the bench. I washed myself and stood up to rinse myself with water, when I saw two big hungry eyes looking at me from the wall. I covered myself with the pan. My companion who had been there six years said calmly, ‘Why are you scared? ‘There is someone there…' I stuttered. ‘So, what', she said, ‘some men are gazing…' ‘How awful!' I exclaimed. ‘It doesn't hurt', she said and continued, ‘Two years ago we bathed together. There was nothing about it. We, girls, were starving! And we had to go to work. Women managed somehow, but men were skin and bones. They were dying every day. Now they give us more bread and some cooked food. So look at them, male dogs! And let them look. You won't get any worse from it'. I understood then that men die faster from hunger than women do. 

But this wasn't the end of the day yet. In the evening, when it got dark, a warden came in and asked, ‘Who is Dener?' I already knew that when they were calling your name you were to give them your full name, article of sentence, term, its beginning and end. The warden took me out of the barrack, through a gate to a room with four men in camp robes. I wondered what this was all about. They had familiar faces – they were Jews! They had been there for years and were now working by their professions. One of them was a foreman at the brick factory, another one was an accountant and one was a rate setter. This rate setter had spotted the Jewish name ‘Dener' in the list. They didn't understand what this Article 78 and sentence of three years meant. This was too short a sentence for political prisoners who were usually sentenced under Article 58. Three years was a sentence for pickpockets and minor thieves. They wanted to meet with me to see whether they could help me. They listened to my story, including that after my sentence was over I was supposed to settle down in Siberia for an indefinite term, they exchanged glances and decided to help me. There were two women's camps: one was for pregnant women or women who had small children. The children were kept in the children's home until they reached the age of two. Their mothers worked in the laundry, in the bathroom, in the shop and cleaned the barracks. Other female prisoners worked at the wood throw. They wanted me to stay in this camp where there was additional milk supply for pregnant women and the children's home, and pioneers working at the wood throw also received a glass of milk and a bowl of milk soup each twice a week. 

So they agreed that they would help me to stay at Shunia camp, when the warden ran in and urged them, ‘Hide her, I cannot take her back now – the senior officer and senior warden are inspecting the barracks!' There was a big box with some papers and files in the room. They took out the papers, turned this box with the lock to the wall and told me to get in there. I was thin, so I fit in there, pressing my knees to my chin. They closed the lid, put a chip between the lid and the box for me to be able to breathe. One of these four men sat on the edge of the box smoking. Those two officers came in saying, ‘Why are you smoking, it's impossible to breathe in here! Chief, let's go outside.' And they left. The warden came back and said that he could only escort me back to the barrack in the morning. I sat in this box for a whole night. Those people were putting their position in the camp at risk – later I called it ‘Hesed in the camp'. 

I don't know how they managed it, but I really stayed in Shunia camp. I was kept in the barrack for criminals. This was terrible! They smoked makhorka tobacco and cursed terribly; they were just swearing all the time. They made lesbian love behind a sheet curtain and smoked hashish delivered from Central Asia. What was I to do?! Fortunately, there was a cultural/political unit where I could borrow books to read. There were shelves with books on them. I turned to the other side and, thought, ‘My God!' – Guess what I found there: Mihai Eminescu, among books by other writers. This was a sign of God – and it meant that I wasn't going to stay there in the camp and in exile forever! I took this book into my shaking hands, put it on my plank bed, closed my eyes, saw the graves of my mother and father and swore an oath that I would never drink, smoke drugs, make lesbian love, and that I would never lose my humanity. Never! Because I had no father, no mother, and if I fell there would be no one to give me a hand. 

I read in the evenings: there was a table with a lamp on it in the center of the barrack. Once a woman from the barrack with political prisoners came into our barrack. She saw me reading, called me outside and asked me who I was and what my sentence was. I told her my story. She was Tamara Logvinenko, a writer from Ukraine. She advised me, ‘Make an appointment with the chief of the camp, tell him that your fellow prisoners smoke a lot and that you cannot work properly and that you have problems with your lungs. Ask him to move you into our barrack'. I did as she told me. When I came to the chief's office he had my file on his desk. The chief of the camp – his surname was Ofitserov – listened to me and said, ‘What can we do for you? You know, those political prisoners have long sentence – 10 to 25 years'. After some serious thought, he said, ‘There, you have my permission to visit this political barrack before the retreat. At ten sharp you must be on your plank bed'. There were decent people among the camp personnel. 

So I met those political prisoners. Some had worked for Germans, but most of them were decent women. I was lucky to meet Nathalia Ilinichna Sats. [Soviet producer, playwright, pedagog, a Jewess. She made a significant contribution to the development of Soviet theater for children. She was arrested in 1937, in prison and in exile for 16 years and rehabilitated in 1953. In 1964 she organized the Children's Music/Opera Theater in Moscow. She also staged opera performances abroad.] We spent a few months together. She asked me whether I could sing. Hearing my answer was ‘no' she asked me to recite something: ‘You have a talent. I will work with you'. She taught me about stresses and pauses and about the vocal organ. After those classes she told me that I could perform on any stage. ‘Why would I need to do this?' Her answer was: ‘To make them loyal you will recite poems or tell them stories in the evening. Of course, you won't recite from Anna Karenina or War and Peace'. My fellow inmates called me ‘friersha' – small fish – plus, I was a Jew. There was no anti-Semitism, but staying together in confined space provokes to entertain oneselve or tease somebody. My nationality was as vulnerable as somebody's big weight, for example. So I recited poems or told them stories in the evening. The senior inmate, Zoya, ordered, ‘Silence! Keep so quiet that we can even hear a fly buzzing by!' They teased me a little, but they listened to me. 

Once my fellow inmate Masha, a Moldovan woman, sentenced for murder under Article 156, asked me to write her request for parole. Her story was terrifying and it would take a long time to tell it. Anyway, she and I began to talk. Her five-month-old son Vovka [Vladimir] was born in the camp. ‘Masha, show me your Vovka', I begged her. She took me to the children's home. I took this Vovka with his huge gypsy eyes into my arms and remembered my deceased baby son. I pressed him to my bosom and he wet me all over. Masha took my robe to wash and I was sitting under the blanket. Zoya, the senior inmate said, ‘Everybody has his follies. You need a baby. Look, you read to us… Let us do something good for you. There are young wardens here – you chose somebody and I will make the necessary arrangements'. It took me a while to explain to her that I could do it this way, of course, but that a baby wasn't a toy and that a child needed a father. The only thing it proved to her was that I wasn't of this world.

I was in the camp for a year or a year and a half, when something happened that made me know that those criminals didn't think badly of me. Saturday was our bathroom day. Afterwards we were lying on our plank beds. I was on the upper tier bed by the window. Sunday was a day off and we could sleep until 8am while on the other days we got up at 6am. After the bathroom day, in the evening, we were served tea. The inmate on duty was carrying hot tea in a bucket pouring it into the inmates' mugs from her mug. When she came to me, the door opened and somebody called her. ‘Just wait there, I'll pour some tea for this zhydovka [abusive word for a Jewess] and come there afterwards.' I acted on impulse, you know, evil communications corrupt good manners. I lost control and splashed hot tea into her face. She cursed at me. Then one inmate jumped off her plank bed, then another, the third, the fourth… I thought, ‘What are they up to?' They turned to her: ‘Why do you violate the constitution? She is a Jew and you call her zhydovka, Galka is Ukrainian and you call her hohlushka [abusive word for Ukrainians], Kira is a Chuvash and you call her chuchmechka [abusive word for Chuvash people]. You'll get it from us…' She was glad that they didn't kill her and ran away. They turned to me: ‘How long will you continue to be a ‘friersha'? If you had burned her with this tea you would have been taken to a punishment cell…. Couldn't you just curse her?” I gave them a half hour speech explaining to them why I couldn't curse. 

Two days later the chief of the camp ordered me to come see him in his office. ‘They told me you read in your barrack. I replied: ‘Is it not allowed to do so?' ‘It's all right, particularly since you read the classics. They say you dislike cursing. This means, you help with the education of other inmates. I think you should recite poems on Soviet holidays. You will make a list of what you are going to recite and show it to the censor, he needs to check it'. So I began to recite poems at performances. 

We worked at the wood cutting site. We got up at 6 o'clock in the morning. We had some cereal for breakfast and then left the camp. We had black wadded pants, quilted jackets and pea-jackets. We formed a line and every morning the convoy chief informed us, ‘A step to the right, a step to the left is a try to escape. I will shoot without a warning'. There were wardens with machine guns and dogs on leashes. So we marched at gun-point to work in the woods. We worked hard from morning till night. We sawed wood with manual saws with wooden handles. At first we made a notch on the wood with a heavy ax and then we put a saw into this notch. We sawed into about a quarter of a trunk and then pushed the tree with picaroons into the direction where it had to fall. And this was us, women, doing this! Then we chopped off branches and boughs and then tractors hauled these trunks away. We had soup and kasha [pulp] delivered from the camp at lunch. We ate from aluminum bowls. Also, we didn't have spoons and ate from the bowls with our hands. 

I never started sawing another trunk before the end of a working day. The convoy never waited for us and we never knew whether we would come to the same job site on the following day. And a tree with an undercut could fall at any moment. I never took this risk. I remember standing by a big fire at the end of a working day, we called this fire ‘Tashkent' in the camp. I was drying my gauntlet gloves, when I heard the typical grinding sound of a falling tree. Where do I run? Right, left or back?.. I managed to slightly get on my feet, gain a grip with my fists and stretch as much as I could. The tree fell on my back and its crown covered me. There was much ado, the convoy rushed to me pushing away the tree. I was bleeding and there were scratches on my face, but I was lucky that it was the crown of the tree falling on me and that I was wearing thick winter clothes. The warden wiped the blood off my face with snow and said, ‘Wench, you were born under a lucky star'. There was a twig sticking out under my left eye. You can still see the scar from the hole of it when I smile.

On 5th March 1953 Stalin died. I don't know whether his death and Purim happened on the same day. But anyway, in my childhood Purim was in March. And this was the happiest Purim in my life! When I got hold of a Soviet newspaper with a photograph of Stalin in the casket I kept it for a long time like a relic. I remember that Hitler committed suicide on 30th April and in the same way I remember that Stalin died on 5th March. They are both the same kind of evildoers for me. Looking at him in the casket I felt pleased that he had died. I met with so many wonderful people in the camp – there were masses of political prisoners sentenced for no reason. They were sentenced for 25 years of hard work, for which they weren't paid. Stalin plotted a system of credits, where one year was reckoned as three or seven years, and prisoners were happy that they worked off their 25 years in five or seven years, but they died before they were to be released. They either died from hard labor that was too much for them or they left the camps as cripples. 

In 1954 my term came to an end and I was released from the camp, but I still had my ‘indefinite exile' left. I couldn't leave Nyrob and I stayed there to work in the office. I was accommodated in a little room with a stove. At that time I met Igor Golubin, a prisoner from Kharkov. He was sentenced for what they call ‘commerce' nowadays: he bought or sold something and was sentenced for five years for profiteering. When he was released he came to me and confessed his love. He said he wanted to stay with me, though he could leave for wherever he wanted to. I asked him whether he had a family. Never in my life could I have been with a person who had a wife and children. My mother wrote in her last letter: ‘Never build your happiness upon somebody else's unhappiness'. This sentence was sacred for me. I asked him to have his mother write to me and confirm that he was single. She arrived at Nyrob and told me herself that she was happy for her son and that he wanted to marry a decent woman. We lived in civil marriage for three years, but Igor was drinking and I didn't dare to have a baby. Igor died from cirrhosis in Kharkov. 

In 1956, at the Twentieth Party Congress 13 Khrushchev 14 denounced Stalin and this had a direct impact on me – in 1956 I was released from exile. I was happy that they released me and I obtained a legal passport! My God! That's still the most precious thing I have in my life. It was summer. I had a piece of a red polka-dot staple fabric. I designed a dress and took the fabric to a dressmaker to make a dress for me. I was walking in the street wearing this dress, when I saw the chief of the camp. He said, ‘You look like a strawberry. Look, let's go to the cinema. No guns or dogs! Don't be unforgiving. Whatever there was there was.' I said, ‘Remember this, man. I shall never have anything to do with somebody who convoyed me at gun-point'. And I went on. I must say people treated me very well in the Ural. There was no anti-Semitism. I was a labor and salary engineer in repair shops in Nyrob and then I moved to Zlatoust in Cheliabinsk region. 

I didn't know anything about my brother and sister who had stayed in Romania, but I had relatives in Kishinev. I sent a letter to the address inquiry office in Kishinev and indicated their prewar address: 7, Fontannaya Street. I was hoping that somebody might have returned form the war. They sent me a note saying that my cousins Etia Yakovlevna Dener and Viktoria Yakovlevna Dener lived on 29, Armianskaya Street, Apt. 26, in Kishinev. I wrote to them and they replied. They wrote that Uncle Yakov had died in evacuation, that my brother Yuzef had perished in the ghetto in Transnistria 15 in 1942, and that my sister Sarah had survived and was working in the house of a composer in Bucharest. We began to correspond. In 1964, after her husband died, Sarah moved to Israel. They had no children. They offered her a job in a music school in a kibbutz, but she refused, ‘I lived my life in Bucharest and I can't live in a village'. She went to work in a restaurant where she washed dishes. Since Sarah knew six languages – French, German, English, Romanian, Russian, Yiddish and Latin –she went to work as a telephone operator on long distance calls within some time. Then she took a six-month training in Munich. All in all, she retired from her work as deputy chief of department in the Ministry of Communication of Israel. She lives in Ramat-Aviv. 

My cousin Viktoria was asking me how long I was going to live in the Ural and wanted me to come back to Moldova. I finally decided to try, and moved to Kishinev in 1964. I stayed with Viktoria. Etia Dener had passed away before then. I went to work in the construction department in Krikovo near Kishinev and lived in a hostel. Six months later our department moved to Kishinev. In 1968 I received a one-bedroom apartment in Ryshkanovka, the greenest district in town. I received a good salary and bought furniture on installments: a living room set, a couch, armchairs and a TV set. This was my home hearth and I enjoyed arranging it. I was 44, I was strong and was thinking of adopting a boy. I went to the children's home. There was a four-year-old boy there. His name was Andryushka and I was told that his parents had died in an accident. I went to see him four or five times. I brought him toys and sweets and went for walks with him. I had to collect a number of documents for adoption, including recommendations from work and a health certificate. I had wonderful recommendations, but in my health certificate they wrote: heart deficiency, surgery required. And they turned me down. Of course, Andryushka forgot me long ago, but I cannot forget this incident. I could have a son now. 

My boss Gennadiy Alexeevich Shevtsov knew that I had no children and swamped me with public activities. I was responsible for the training of young specialists who came to work at the department after college. He introduced me to them, ‘You can ask our chief engineer all work-related questions and address other questions to your tutor'. They came to me with all their problems: regarding a hostel, an award, holidays in summer time, or an apartment, when they were getting married. I called them ‘my boys' and loved them in a ‘motherly' kind of way and they returned my love. 

I was considering moving to Israel in the 1970s, when many people were going there, but my doctors told me that the climate wasn't for me. Many of my friends and colleagues left then. I don't remember the names. I remember numerous meetings condemning those people and putting them to shame. I sympathized with them, but I kept silent at such meetings. I already knew that sometimes it was better to keep silent. 

In 1978 the doctors said I urgently needed a heart surgery and that there could be no delay. I wrote to my sister in Israel. I wanted her to visit me before the surgery. I sent her an invitation and collected all necessary documents, but the Soviet authorities didn't give her permission to visit here. My cousin Viktoria Dener was a cardiologist in the Republican Polyclinic. She helped me to have the surgery done by assistant professor Vasiliev. She had to pull some strings for me because in the USSR one couldn't choose a surgeon. When I was in hospital, somebody at work got to know that I needed blood for blood transfusions. Once the chief of department at Paskaryuk came into my ward and said, ‘Esfir Borisovna, a bus from your workplace brought 18 young men to give you their blood.' ‘Where are they, my boys?' I asked. ‘Don't worry, we've sent them to the blood transfusion office.' he replied. I started crying, of course, sobbing, ‘What have you done. They didn't bring me candy or kefir, they brought me their blood, but you didn't even let me see them'. The doctor didn't want me to worry and joked, ‘You know, despite your hot temper 18 young guys are too much for you right now. Let them visit you one by one'. This simple joke put a smile on my face. And he continued, ‘Another tear and you will have an intravenous injection. You mustn't worry!' And later, the boys did come to see me.

After the surgery my doctors recommended me to have an apartment not higher than on the second floor and the construction department gave me another apartment in the same district. Every year I obtained a free stay at the cardiologic centers in Moldova, Palanga [Lithuania] and Kislovodsk 16. I loved traveling and the Crimea was my favorite place. I usually went there in the middle of September, the ‘velvet' season, when it was warm, but not hot. A plane ticket from Kishinev to Simferopol cost 17 rubles. I took a trolley bus to Yalta. This was the longest trolley bus trail in the USSR [about 160 km]. In Yalta I rented a room, swam in the sea and went for walks in seashore parks. I also went on tours along the seashore: to the former czarist palace in Livadia, to Count Vorontsov Palace 17 in Alupka, to Gursuf, which Pushkin 18 had once visited. I remember a beautiful open air museum near Yalta – ‘The Meadow of fairy tales…' And of course, I read in my free time. I had a small collection of Russian and foreign classical books. I like Somerset Maugham.

In 1988, when the relations between the USSR and Israel got warmer during the rule of Gorbachev 19, my sister Sarah obtained a three-month visa. I was expecting her to arrive on 5th May, but she arrived on 4th May and I didn't meet her at the station. She took a taxi. When I opened the door and saw her I exclaimed, ‘Mama!' We hadn't seen each other for 48 years and I remembered her as a 22-year-old girl and when I opened the door, I saw my mother, the way she looked when I saw her for the last time in exile in Siberia. Sarah looked so much like my mother. 

There was so much joy and so many tears on that day. Sarah brought me many gifts from my acquaintances from Falesti who had moved to Israel. She stayed in the apartment next-door because my neighbor went to Moscow for three months. We spent all our time together. She celebrated her 70th birthday here. I invited all of my acquaintances and arranged a party for her. Then we visited friends and there were feasts and parties. Sarah didn't understand this; she would say, ‘This is the wrong way to live. We live differently. We go to a restaurant, have dinner and listen to music or dance, but to cook so much! We don't cook so much.' She didn't like the shop assistants here. They weren't so friendly at that time. When we went to buy gifts for my acquaintances, Sarah was very nervous; and she was shocked by the fact that she wasn't allowed to go to Leningrad and Moscow. The authorities explained that she only had a visa for Kishinev. ‘How can one live here!' she was indignant. 

In the 1990s, after the break down of the USSR Sarah sent me two parcels with soap, shampoo and detergents. During her visit she had seen stocks of these in my neighbor's bathroom and must have come to the conclusion that we were having problems getting these goods. Perestroika 20 had its impact on pensioners and we began to have financial problems. I spent my pension to pay my rent, but I always pay my bills for the apartment, power and telephone in a timely manner, so that they, God Forbid, don't take away my apartment. I've had this fear in my blood since they forced us to leave our home, when the Soviet power here started. 

However, I understand that perestroika made the rebirth of the Jewish life in Kishinev possible. They opened a Jewish library, the Jewish Enlightening University [Community lecture course], and the Jewish Charity Center Hesed Yehuda started its work. I attend lectures on the subject of Jewish life in the Enlightening University twice a week. They tell us how to celebrate Jewish holidays and hold lectures on Jewish history and literature: [Isaac] Bashevis Singer 21, for example. I also go to the warm house where I celebrate Jewish holidays with older people like myself and talk. But I'm not used to going to the synagogue. I went to the restaurant in Hesed every day before I had a micro stroke in the eye, but now they deliver meals to my home. 

Four years ago [2000] I had a cataract surgery. To be blind would be terrible for me. I was alone in Kishinev. My cousin sister died in 1984, her son Yakov and his family moved to Augsburg in Germany. I borrowed money - it was a lot of money for me - on the security of my apartment through an acquaintance of mine. I wrote a request to the Assistance Fund of Hesed. The former director of Hesed said, ‘Make arrangements to leave them your apartment'. Four years have passed, but I cannot think calmly about it. I wasn't asking money for a coat, a dress or a visit to my sister. Loneliness and helplessness are the hardest things. There's nothing more important than human relations and health. My former colleagues often call me and send me their regards on New Year's, 8th March [Women's Day] and Builders' Day [one of the professional holidays in the former USSR]. Recently I got a call at midnight: ‘Esfir Borisovna?' the voice asked. I replied, ‘Speaking, Tarakanov'. I recognized his voice. This was Valera Tarakanov, one of my ‘boys'. ‘How come you call so ‘early'?' I asked. He said, ‘You know, I've recently come back from Israel where I was visiting my friends. Do you remember how you stood up for me, when I needed a room in a hostel?' … We talked until one o'clock in the morning. 

Glossary

Arnold Leinweber
Bucharest
Romania
Interviewer: Anca Ciuciu
Date of the interview: September 2004

Arnold Leinweber is a self-taught man. He learnt to read before he went to school and he was able to read the newspaper in the first elementary grade. Today, at 84 years of age, he writes poetry every day. He authored four volumes of poetry: ‘Anotimpuri’ [‘Seasons’], ‘Roi de licurici’ [‘Swarm of Glow-worms’], ‘Marturisiri’ [‘Confessions’], and ‘Revelatie’ [‘Revelation’]. He moves around with certain difficulty, but his eyes sparkle with intelligence. He maintains the stateliness of a man who could have broken ladies’ hearts in his youth, but who chose a family life instead. He feels lonely after the deaths of his wife and his daughter, in the 1990’s. He remembers dates and feelings with fabulous precision. His small studio is decorated with watercolors, a portrait of his great-grandfather, and old photographs. In the kitchen, he still uses towels made by his mother’s hand; the old floral motifs are partly visible on them.

My family story
Growing up
During the war
After the war
Glossary

My family story

From what I heard in my family, I know that my [maternal] great-grandfather, Mos [Uncle] Peretz [Moscovici], who lived in the village of Dragomiresti, in the Neamt County, was a petty barkeeper who had four children and who married a widow with five children of her own. He dedicated his modest work to this whole pack of children, who had to be raised. All the peasants loved him and respected him.. As a proof, here’s one of my mother’s stories. One night, two famous outlaws of the time knocked on his door. One was a tall, sturdy guy called Zdrelea, and the other was a short, thin character called Maruntelea. My great-grandfather was frightened, as he suspected who was at the door, but he opened anyway. The two men asked for tobacco and brandy and he served them. Then, they wanted the bill, to which Uncle Peretz, who was terrified, replied that he wouldn’t take money from them. But the outlaws told him: ‘Uncle Peretz, we know you, we know you’re a poor man and you sell on credit to all the peasants who don’t have money to pay you, so they’ll probably drive you to bankruptcy.’ And they were right. For what else could my great-grandfather sell in that bar except for tobacco and brandy? Matches hadn’t been invented yet, so he also had the steel, flint and wicks used to light the fire, and he had gas and large lumps of sugar, as granulated sugar hadn’t been discovered yet. The peasants didn’t need flour or fruit, since they already had them at home. So the great pub was more of a waste of time. And Uncle Peretz eventually left the village where he had been born and where he had raised his children, and went [with his family] to Piatra Neamt. There he earned his living teaching children to read and write in Hebrew. He died of old age. This is all I know about my great-grandfather.

I don’t know anything about my paternal grandparents, the Marcus family. I don’t know my grandmother’s maiden name. I once saw her at an old age home of the [Bucharest Jewish] community, on the street where [Nicolae] Cajal 1 used to live.

I don’t know the name of my father’s elder sister, who raised him. [His brothers,] Simon [Marcus], and Marcu [Marcus] emigrated to Israel. [His sister] emigrated to America [before 1921], got married, and acquired the name Montbllat. She went mad when she found out that my father had been killed. She had two girls and two boys. Frances was the elder sister and lived in Florida. She and I wrote to each other for a while, but she moved and I lost track of her. The elder boy was a hairdresser and owned a shop in New York, which he passed on to his son. He also had a daughter; she had a brain tumor which pressed against her optic nerve and caused her eyes to close. The younger boy was a great union activist who got killed in a car crash.

During forced labor [in 1941], I met my [first degree paternal] cousin, Adolf [Marcus], for the first time in 14 years, and I visited his family. I recognized Uncle Simon, who was a shoemaker. I had seen him in my childhood, but didn’t know he was my uncle. They all left for Israel [after World War II]. When I went there, in 1974, I saw Uncle Simon again. In 1977, I went to his funeral. I don’t know if Adolf is still alive. I know his daughter went to Canada.

I found out my father had a second brother, Marcu, who was also a shoemaker, and whom I visited [in the 1940’s]. He lived with his family on Carol Fleva [St.], in the vicinity of Dudesti [Ave], where Vitan [Ave] begins today. Marcu had four children: Stela came from his first marriage, and the others came from the second. I visited them in Israel. A cousin of mine was married to Bella Chitaristu’ [the Guitar Man] [Ed. note: composer of the song ‘Sanie cu zurgalai’ (‘Jingling Bells Sleigh’), very popular in Romania]. I knew fiddlers in the Tel Aviv area used to gather in a pub called ‘Moara Rosie’ [‘The Red Mill’, an allusion to the Parisian ‘Moulin Rouge’], where all sorts of bands would be born. I went there and asked about Bella. He showed up, but I didn’t tell him who I was. ‘Mr. Bella’, I said, ‘a good friend of mine asked me to look for you and inquire what you know about his cousins.’ - ‘What’s his name?’ - ‘Aronel, Aronica. Can I see your wife and talk to her?’ He was carrying his instruments in his sidecar, but he said: ‘Be here tomorrow, I’ll take you to her.’ They lived in a small Arab house. When my cousin saw me, she exclaimed: ‘See, I told you it was Aronel!’ She had guessed it only from the description he had given of me – you know, blood ties speak. She showed me a photo of her daughter, who had won the title Miss Army. On seeing her, I felt I was looking at my own daughter – so much they were alike. Thanks to my cousin, I saw the rest of the family, who gathered at a wedding which happened to take place there for several days. Bella and my cousin had three children: a boy who became an engineer, a girl who became a kindergarten teacher, and a second girl who became a school teacher in America. All of Marcu’s children are dead now, except for one of his sons, Carol Marcus, who has the same name as my father.

My father, Carol Marcus, was [probably] born in 1900. He didn’t have any education. He was an entrepreneur who made his own workshop of brushes and paintbrushes, although he had no qualification in this trade. He quit both his workshop and my mother who was pregnant and set off to join the Russian revolution. I don’t recall ever meeting him. He only saw me once. He died in April 1921 and my mother remarried. I didn’t have any relationships with my father’s family for a long time.

Here’s how I got to know the family of my biological father. In the first day of school I went to the Malbim School [Ed. note: This school founded in 1898, next to the Malbim Synagogue, was named Talmud Torah Malbim and consisted of four elementary grades. It was located in the Dudesti quarter, a poor area inhabited predominantly by Jews.], where our social assistance center is based today. Headmaster Koritzer came outside and told the first-graders to line up holding hands two by two and to enter the classroom. I held the hand of a fair-haired boy with glasses and his mother said: ‘Adolf, have you any idea who you’re walking next to? Your cousin!’ I turned to her and said: ‘This is not my cousin. I only have two cousins, from Aunt Lisa [Lisa Gherman, sister of Mr. Leinweber’s mother]. ‘He is your cousin’, she insisted. ‘Your father and his father were brothers! Your father shot himself!’ Well now, remember your own first day of school and the excitement of that moment. Can you imagine how it’s like for a seven-year-old to learn such things on his first day of school?! This happened in 1927. My first day of school was the day I found out that I was an orphan and the man I was living with was not my actual father. I don’t remember how that day went, but I know that, when I got home, I couldn’t eat. And I bore inside me this psychological burden throughout my entire childhood and adolescence.

It was only in my adolescence that I started to inquire about my father’s activities, so that I could determine what kind of person he had been – after all, this man had joined a revolution in his twenties. He was engaged in a conspiratorial activity, securing the liaison between the Romanian revolutionary committees in Kiev and Odessa, in the Soviet Union. He carried orders from all over the country on what delegates were to be chosen for the coming convention that was held in Bucharest, during which the Socialist Party moved from the 2nd International to the 3rd International. [Ed. note: On 11th May 1921, the Socialist Party Convention decided the transformation of the party into the Romanian Communist Party and its affiliation with the Communist International. The following day, the delegates who had voted without reserve in favor of the affiliation, which implied the subordination to the Comintern and to Russia, were arrested by order of the Government.] This and other conspiratorial activities led to that huge trial in Dealul Spirii. [Ed. note: ‘The trial of Dealul Spirii’ was held between 23rd January and 4th June 1922. The delegates of the 1921 convention and other communist militants were prosecuted. A great number of politicians and intellectuals made statements or wrote in favor of the Communists. On 4th June 1922, King Ferdinand I issued an amnesty decree based on which 213 out of the 271 people who had been arrested were freed.] My father’s and mother’s relatives were placed under surveillance – they were given a very hard time. My mother herself was dragged to the Siguranta 3. At that time, the printing press of the [Communist] Party 4 was removed from a former textile factory one day before the place was raided. Still, they found some typographical letters on the floor, and they took my mother to the scene of the crime. She was breastfeeding me back then and she almost caused me to get ill.

They caught my father in the North Railroad Station and found his pistol. The serial number proved that the gun came from a firearms depot in Ramnicu Valcea – which is why a gunnery warrant officer committed suicide. I know these things from the newspapers I read in those days. The records from the Forensic Institute show that my father was deposed there without official papers. There was no official report signed by a district attorney and he died with his lungs congested. They beat him to death. He did his duty; he didn’t give away anyone or anything. They set up a suicide for him and took his dead body to my uncle’s, Georges Gherman, who was their informant. All the people in his field bought the story. I noticed something was wrong with the records from the Siguranta. [Mr. Leinweber conducted his research in the 1970’s.] The file contained a leaflet launched by the Bessarabian Communists, who didn’t accept the idea that my father had committed suicide. It read ‘Assassination of the famous Misa, the comrade who…’ This is how I found out about his conspiratorial name. When I appealed to the Central Committee [of the Romanian Communist Party], they wouldn’t find the time to have a forensic examiner and a law enforcement officer review my file, because all the data led to assassination. At the [Communist Party] Convention, out of the thousands of letters sent to Ceausescu 5, the Politburo picked four. They summoned me to tell me ‘It was suicide, Comrade!’ I felt like replying ‘Suicide my foot!’ The trial of Dealul Spirii ended without any convictions, because this would have probably made the acceptance of the Great Romania 6 by the Great Powers more difficult.

I don’t know many things about my maternal grandfather, Haim Froim. Apparently, he was a tailor. He may have still been alive when his last child was born [in 1898]. My grandmother, Maria Froim, had no education. She was a peasant from the village of Dragomiresti who cultivated vegetables for a living. I know my mother was born in Bucharest. My grandmother – ‘baba’ [old woman], as my cousins and I used to call her – had come to the city [in 1898] because, having spent her entire life in the countryside, she was curious to see how they threw the cross in the River Dambovita on Twelfth Day, in the presence of the royal family and the metropolitan bishop. [Ed. note: Christian custom performed on 6th January, the day that celebrates the baptism of Christ in the Jordan River. The one who manages to swim across the icy water and retrieve the cross that was thrown in the river is believed to be blessed all year long.] My grandmother was o the verge of giving birth, so my mother was born that night in Bucharest. ‘Baba’ took her baby back to Dragomiresti, where she raised all her children. At a certain point, the family began to put pressure on her. They would ask her: ‘Well, Maria, what are you going to do with your children, who will marry your daughters, what kind of education do the kids have and where are they going to get it? How long are you going to stay in this village?’ So my grandmother left her house and the adjoining plot of land, which had been offered to her by a generous peasant – as she couldn’t have afforded it on her own –, and she took her children [three girls and two boys – a fourth girl had already died] to Bucharest, where they all started looking for work. They arrived in Bucharest in 1918 or 1919, so the war caught them here. My mother [Surica] and her elder sister, Liza, joined a factory that produced brushes and paintbrushes. The working skills were easy to acquire and the payment was per item, so the harder you worked, the more money you made. Matilda [the eldest sister] worked as a tailor to provide for her children, as her husband was on the front. Uncle Moritz worked as a tailor too. Uncle Aurel, my mother’s other brother, found a workplace at the Chrisoveloni Bank. So, all my grandmother’s children managed to find their way as well as they could.

My grandmother served as a maid in various households. Pastas couldn’t be bought in stores back then, so they were made at home. Vermicelli, for instance, were made from a dough that was left to dry and then was cut into small squares or split into small granules which were used to stuff the geese and turkeys. My grandmother was an expert in pickles and pastry. The clothes we, the grandchildren, wore came from those ladies that she worked for, who had children of their own and helped us – we were as poor as a church mouse. She was a very kind woman who looked after her grandchildren and dedicated her work to making our lives better and more comfortable. It makes you laugh to think that all her fortune consisted of 100 lei [the equivalent of an average salary] – and the whole family knew 100 lei was all that ‘baba’ ever had. Moritz [her son] would send his kid to her: ‘Go to «baba» to get 100 lei!’ One day the money got lost on the way. ‘Baba’ was left without her hundred, but Moritz never knew about it. The hundred was moved around so much that it disappeared.

My grandmother was a religious woman. She went to the neighborhood synagogue, dressed in black and always wore a kerchief. She had an asthma attack, suffocated and died [in the 1930’s]. Her end was probably precipitated by her lack of happiness, her worrying about the children, her troubles with Aunt Liza and that wretched Uncle George, who poisoned her life, my mother, who bore a child in her arms – and who was to marry a woman with a child? –, Uncle Aurel, who couldn’t find a job after the Chrisoveloni [Bank] went bankrupt, and Uncle Moritz, with his poor tailor’s shop and his five children.

My mother’s eldest sister, Matilda Pascal [nee Froim], was married to a tinsmith named Mahel Pascal. They had four children: Blima, Frima, Itic, and Julieta. Matilda died of tuberculosis. She caught it during the war [World War I], while attending the wounded and the sick. She was buried on 25th July 1923, in Bucharest, at the Filantropia Jewish cemetery. [My uncle] remarried, and then he died, so his second wife inherited his sewing machine, his whole fortune, three wardrobes full of dowry for the girls. I don’t know how Blima ended up a shop assistant in Targoviste. She later returned to Bucharest and married a certain Itcovici, who owned a vine cellar on 13 Septembrie [St.]. He was mugged and stabbed. Frima Vintila [nee Pascal] was a manicurist. She caught tuberculosis and died in 1944. She had a daughter, Florica Vintila. Itic Pascal ran away from home, led a tramp’s life and died from a lung disease, like his mother. He was buried at the Giurgiului [cemetery], with his elder sister, in a common grave. The youngest sister, Julieta Sabetay [nee Pascal], was taken by an uncle of mine, George Gherman, to a orphanage of the Jewish Community, opposite the Hala Traian. She stayed there until she got married to a lad from Craiova, Sabetay, whose brother was the president of the Jewish Community in Craiova for a long time.

Moritz Froim, my mother’s brother, had five children: Julieta, David, Zvi, Surica, and Mariana. Julieta [nee Froim] lived a hard life. Her husband was a war deserter and he had a terrible time until he was hired by the army again. I came across her when she was working in a soap factory near Carol Park – she was really backward, in a pitiful condition, and she had heart problems. She was buried at the Giurgiului [Jewish cemetery]. In order to be of some help, David Froim learnt the tailor’s trade from his father, of whom he didn’t lost sight. He did his military service in Israel, where he fought in the first war for independence, and he told us they had a gun – which was as old as the hills anyway – for five or six people. He had a large can which he would hit with a piece of metal, and so, bang-bang, they would attack making a lot of noise, and the Arabs would think the tanks were coming. To think that this is how they conquered the enclaves – it makes me laugh. After the war, he worked as a warehouse manager for the phone company in Haifa until he retired. He had three children: two boys and a girl. Moshe is in charge of a stable – he looks after the horses of some wealthy guy and two or three of his own, which he uses to teach the children how to ride. Ronel is a bachelor and is always studying something. I don’t know what he does for a living and he is staying at his mother’s. Etti is a Hebrew teacher and works in an ulpan 7. She has two children of her own – a boy and a girl. Zvi left for Israel in when he was a child. He became a molding worker and a mechanic – he had his own workshop in Ashkelon and he employed a staff of two. In 1974, he came looking for me. He wanted to take me to his home, as he had just bought a small villa. He died, but left behind him a boy, Iair, who’s specialized in electronics. Surica married a boy whom she met on her way to Israel through Italy. She stumbled and fell in a puddle; the guy saw her and went to help her get back on her feet. She was a pretty woman and they got married. They owned a house on Carmiel, in Haifa. She worked there as a shop assistant. She had learnt the tailor’s trade and she fixed clothes in some great store in Haifa, which belonged to the army. She passed away in 1998. Mariana, the youngest sister, stayed here, in Bucharest. Those bastards wouldn’t give her a passport for a long time. She stayed here for many years, got married, but didn’t have children. She became a diabetic, was always a housewife and died many years ago in Israel. Her husband is still alive.

Lisa Gherman [nee Froim] had two children of her own, Isac and Iancu Gherman – my cousins with whom I grew up. They both died on Russian soil. Uncle George Gherman was a barfly, a good for nothing bastard, an informant of the Siguranta. He took part in the set up of my father’s suicide, which everyone bought.

Aurel Froim is my mother’s brother. I don’t know when he was born. He was a clerk at the Chrisoveloni Bank, but he tried all sorts of other trades to earn his living: he distributed a magazine published on Sarindar [St.], he made candy on his own, he sold berets and caps on the street, and he took me with him to help him carry his suitcases full of boxes with merchandise. To sell caps, he would walk on Grivitei Ave. up to the North Station in the first day; in the second day, he would move to Rahovei Ave., from the Court house to Alexandriei Sq.; in the third day, he would be on Dudesti Ave., and in the Baratiei area; in the fourth day, he would reach Dorobanti Ave., Mihai Bravu [Dr.] and the Obor. He did that every week, over and over again. My soles and socks were ruined because he took me everywhere he went. I was 12, and the box I had to carry moved my muscle so much that my left lung can’t be seen now. He died in 1933. Aurel had only one child, Bernard Froim. He had a beautiful wife who worked as a cashier in a store on Lipscani Ave. His mother remarried after many years o widowhood, so he changed his name to Teodor Brates – he no longer was Bernard. He worked in television until his retirement, after the revolution 8. We don’t see each other.

I can’t tell you much about my mother’s youngest sister, because she died in Moldavia. She hadn’t got married yet, she was hardly 17 or 18. She did the laundry for richer relatives in those cold waters of Moldavia and she died.

My mother, Surica Marcus Leinweber [nee Froim], came to Bucharest with her sister, Liza. She learnt to make brushes and paintbrushes, and she exercised this trade. She owned a workshop built by my biological father, but she couldn’t keep it, so she sold it with workers included and ended up working herself in her former workshop. My mother’s nature was such that I didn’t feel affection from her, and craved it. I saw Auntie Liza play and fool around with her children and I envied them for living this joy of childhood that I was deprived of. My mother’s behavior towards me was rather fair and natural, but she never gave me sweetness and affection, and this had an impact on me. So did my finding out I was actually an orphan and the man at home wasn’t my father.

My mother remarried in 1924. The one who adopted me and whose name I bear was a worthy man, Fischer Leinweber – Friederich, as they called him. His behavior was beyond reproach and I never felt he was my stepfather. I remember my mother introducing him to me: ‘Look, daddy’s here, daddy’s here!’ I was two years and a half. He never did raise his voice at me, curse me, pull my ears or slap me. On the contrary, whenever I beat up my brothers – his children –, he left the house and looked for something to do elsewhere, lest he should lose control and say something bad or hit me. So I can say he loved me. This is something I really felt when I was about 16. I was in a scouts camp in Bugaz [today in Ukraine], where the River Dniester flows into the Black Sea. My classmate from the vocational school got drowned. The news was published in the newspapers, but the name wasn’t mentioned, so, naturally, everyone got worried. I didn’t write to my parents that I was alive because I was upset with them: at my request, they were supposed to send me 100 lei of their own money, but they took it from my personal savings, which were kept by a cousin of my mother’s. So I got angry and didn’t write anything. When I came back from the camp, my mother was so happy I was alive that she burst into tears. She immediately sent me to Aurora St., near the Malbim Synagogue, to a brush maker’s workshop where my adoptive father worked. I got there in the afternoon and found him resting on a bed. When he saw me, he jumped up and he embraced me with tears of joy in his eyes. What more proof did I need that this noble man loved me? To him, I was an adopted orphan, but he raised me and treated me nicely. How could I not cherish his memory and continue to bear his name with respect?

My father, with two brothers and two sisters, also had a cousin. His father had a brother in Storojinet, a glazier who fit glass into the frames of paintings. He came from Radauti at an early age, and he only went back to attend the wedding of two twin nieces of his – I was about 10 at the time, I believe it was in 1930. My father died in 1982.

Moritz Leinweber, my middle brother, was born in 1926, in Bucharest. He went to high school too. When the time came for him to earn his living, I sent him to a former schoolmate of mine from the vocational school, who was a skillful man, to learn about wiring, and he managed to acquire some experience. This was before the war [World War II]. On the spot where the National Theater lies today [Ed. note: The new building of the National Theater in Bucharest was opened in 1973, close to Magheru Blvd., in the center of the capital. The old building of the theater was inaugurated in 1852 on Victoriei Ave. and it was bombed on 22nd August 1944.], there was a line of stores built at that time. It was him who designed their wiring – he decided the number of circuits, electric meters, fuses, sockets etc. In two years he became very skillful. But the war came and there weren’t any new buildings, so he learnt to paint houses. And he started painting and whitewashing. Afterwards, he became, like many others, a Party activist in the field of personnel, and he ended up a head of the financial department of the 6th district of Bucharest. He was awarded the Medal of Work. Moritz died of colon cancer in 1992. He had two children: Liviu and Marius. They are both in Israel now. Liviu became an agricultural engineer and Marius became a technician in the same field. Liviu lives in Haifa and has a daughter. Marius lives in Tel Aviv and has a daughter too.

Osias Leinweber, my younger brother, was born on 1st March 1932 in Bucharest. He was our first-day-of-spring gift. [Ed. note: 1st March symbolically marks the beginning of spring. People celebrate it by offering flowers and small presents to their loved ones.] Osias didn’t go to high school. He chose the way of playing in bands – he had an ear for percussion instruments. He joined Adesgo [Romanian stockings factory that still exists today] to learn a trade and be able to turn an honest buck. There he became a member of the factory band and he went to play at weddings and baptisms. At a certain point, he left Adesgo and got a job in the restaurants business. He played at a restaurant in Ferentari, and then at the ‘Dunarea’ [restaurant], and the ‘Pescarus’ [restaurant]. He also played at the dining terrace in Herastrau Park [the ‘Monte Carlo’ restaurant], until he was hired by the ‘Ion Vasilescu’ theater company. He went on tours to Israel, Russia, and Poland, and then he came back and played for the ‘Savoy’ [Theater]. Without letting us know, he submitted his emigration papers and left to Israel [in the 1970’s]. He didn’t spend much time there. He went to Germany, where he worked for a while, and where he has been living for 30 years. He played with Gaston Marin, the pianist, at a spa [in Germany], and with other Gypsy fiddlers. Some of them would remain there, others would return – all this went on until the communist authorities made it impossible to wander around. Osias had a stage name. When he joined his first artistic band, a Jew from Cernauti told him he would call him Fredy. So, this became the name he was known by in his world of artists and band players. His wife is a Christian woman named Emilia. Even now, at 77 or 78 years of age, she looks very well; she’s about 7 years older than my brother. They owned a bistro, but it went bankrupt in 1991 – its location had become unattractive. He applied for his retirement pension, and then he found a job as a receptionist in some hotel. He now works as a sort of guard for some stores. His wife used to be a tailor. She had good drawing skills and worked in a large store. Her retirement pension is not very high. She now works for the Jewish community club in Frankfurt and is highly esteemed.

Growing up

My name is Arnold Leinweber. I was born on 12th August 1920. My father’s last name was Marcus, but he died when I was 8 months old. My mother remarried and I was adopted by her new husband. At a very early age [2 or 3 years old], I started going out of the house, and this is how I became familiar with the neighborhood. My mother would lock me inside and go to work; my grandmother would go to her mistresses too, so I would get bored all alone. How long can one stay locked indoors? I would get out through the window. I would use a stool to climb on the table, which was by the window. This wasn’t hard to open. The distance from the window to the ground was small, as our house was rather low, so getting to the courtyard wasn’t a problem. I would go on the opposite side of the street, on a waste ground, and come back in the evening, with my hair full of thistles. One day, a lady who lived in the same courtyard razored my curls of hair. Once I jumped through the window, crossed Triumfului St. and Moruzzi St., and reached Nerva Traian St. Then I crossed another little street behind the matzah ‘factory’ – next to it was the Dobroteasca church, which is still there. So I left my house at the crossroads of Foisorului St. and Triumfului St., I walked seven or eight hundred meters barefoot and wearing just a shirt, and I climbed some wooden stairs to the second or third floor of a place where I knew my grandmother, ‘baba’, and my mother had gone to visit Aunt Matilda [my mother’s sister]. Poor Matilda had died of tuberculosis. She caught it during the war, while attending the wounded and the sick. She was buried on 25th July 1923 [Mr. Leinweber was 3 at the time]. I was familiar with her neighborhood because the girls, my cousins, had taken me there.

From the age of 8 until I got married, I lived in the Aparatorii Patriei [quarter]. The house had its charm because, when we moved, it was being built, so we witnessed its erection. The pillars were already planted into the ground. They had been burnt to prevent them from rotting and fixed at an equal distance from one another. The space between the laths that united them was filled with bundles of clay mixed with straws and horse manure which I had collected in a bucket from the street myself. Hundreds of carts loaded with fruit and vegetable would come from Berceni and other villages and head towards the Natiunii Marketplace – the Great Marketplace, as they used to call it back then. So I witnessed how a house was built. The roof was hastily made, because we had no authorization for the house. If the gendarmes caught you building a house without authorization, they would stop you, unless the house already had a rood. So the pillars were fixed in a hurry, the roof was completed fast, and so were the timber walls. Reeds were added to the walls, and then came the plaster and the whitewash. Most houses were built directly on the ground.

My grandmother remembered her childhood and she took matters into her own hands in a room: she spread clay mixed with manure on the floor, so that the ground wouldn’t make dust; that room bore a particular smell. The most beautiful moments I spent in this house were when I went under the bed. That iron bed was high enough for me to fit underneath, with half a loaf of brown bread and some book. The window shade was a little bent, leaving room to the ray of light that I needed to read. I read anything I came across: fairy tales, novels, theater plays – anything that was in prose, but no poetry. Those were books I had borrowed or received as gifts. I never bought one book in my entire life – I only read library books. They helped me to form my vocabulary, to forge my own idea about life, to polish my behavior towards people and society, to tell good from evil – in fewer words, I became a modest self-taught person.

I first went to school in Bucharest, at the Malbim School, which shelters the social assistance center of our Federation today. I continued my education in the Aparatorii Patriei quarter [at the outskirts of the city]. The 40 or 50 Jewish families of this neighborhood and all the other ethnic groups lived together peacefully. We had some Jewish neighbors who had come from Transylvania in search of a better life. In the winter of 1928-1929, they had nothing they could use to make some heat, so it was freezing in their house. They had a little girl and they would come to our place to get warm. They couldn’t find a job and they had to stay indoors because of the cold. If we happened to have tea or something, my mother always offered them whatever we were having. This is how they lived through the winter, staying in our house most of the time. In this period, the head of the family tutored me in math. He had been an accountant at a timber warehouse and was a good mathematician. I, who used to hide under my desk in the first grade, so that the math teacher wouldn’t see me, managed to decipher all the secrets of mathematics that an 8-year-old could grasp – from adding 1 and 1 to the rule of three or the calculation of the interest. He put everything down in a small notebook, but I lost it, and some of that knowledge faded away from my memory. At school, my teacher, Mihail Rangu, a special man, sensed I was well prepared and had me write the addition of 1 and 1 on the blackboard – putting the second 1 under the first and drawing a line beneath it –, so that all the children could see how they were supposed to write in their notebooks as soon as they could add; the numbers were no longer added on the horizontal, but vertically. I also showed on the blackboard how a division was made. That accountant had taught me to subtract using the addition, so I checked the result at the same time as I made the subtraction. The subjects were all the same to me. I had to read, and I read well, because I had learnt it before I went to school. My handwriting was relatively nice, unlike my current handwriting – I am frequently unable to decipher what I wrote down myself. The primary school went by, and I got the first prize every year.

I can understand Yiddish, but I can’t speak its literary form. My adoptive father couldn’t speak [Romanian] correctly. He always confused the feminine with the masculine, and the plural with the singular, making a mess out of it all. He came from Bucovina, where he had spoken German. From that, he could easily switch to Yiddish, the language my grandmother and my mother were using. But I always answered them in Romanian. When I entered first grade, I read Hebrew with the old vowels [Before and during the Jewish primary school, Mr. Leinweber studied with an old Jewish teacher whom he called Rebe.], and I pronounced ‘Burih ata Adoinoi Eloheinu Meilah Uloilom’. The school taught me to say ‘Baruh ata Adonai Elohenu Melah haOlam’, so the language acquired a new fluency, a more uplifting sound, as there was a change in the way vowels sounded, and ‘Burich ata Adoinoi’ became ‘Baruch ata Adonai’. Because I could read both ways, I find it very hard to identify the alef and the lamed of the Israeli alphabet today. I can’t read anymore, and one of the reasons for this is that we all learnt [in Jewish elementary school] what to read and when to read it, but had no idea what we read. It was only after my first visit to Israel [in 1974] that I felt the need to express myself in Yiddish, even if that meant only a few words. Now I can say a number of commonly used phrases, but I’m totally lost in a normal conversation. My wife had heard her parents speak Yiddish too, she could understand it, but didn’t speak it. Still, we sometimes used a Yiddish word or two, so that our daughter wouldn’t understand what we talked about. There are some words that simply don’t sound as good in Romanian.

When I went to high school, I was too old for new tricks [after World War II], so I struggled with the French, Latin, and Russian language. I passed my graduation exam at 40 years old, at the ‘Zoia Kosmodemianskaia’ school [Ed. note: This was the name that was given to the Central School for Girls after 1947, in honor of a teenage Soviet heroine who died for the communist cause].

My parents observed the holidays. My mother lit the candles on Friday, but they weren’t devout Jews. They never missed the synagogue on holidays, but weren’t so religious as to go there every day. Besides, they had to go to work. There was a synagogue in our neighborhood – it didn’t have a specific name, it was the synagogue in Aparatorii Patriei. There could be no service held in the morning in our neighborhood, because most of the men went to work and the remaining ones weren’t enough to complete a minyan. There was no service in the evening either, but holidays were treated with all the respect due to the historical moments they celebrated: Yom Kippur, Sukkot etc. It was a pleasure to see the sukkah built by the Jews of our neighborhood, one more beautiful and more elegant than the other. On Purim, it was a real joy when the masked characters came to your house, had a drink, ate your cakes, and thumbed their noses at you because you hadn’t recognized who they were. We, the children, had a great time in those days. This lasted until the quarter was demolished. The Jews left to pursue the aliyah, and there were none left in the neighborhood.

I personally don’t have a favorite holiday. To me, the Jewish holidays are historical holidays, holidays of joy, celebrations of certain events related to agriculture and to the ancient life of the Jews – there’s nothing religious about them, in fact. The fact that, on Yom Kippur, people pray to God for forgiveness of their sins and for reconciliation between men who did wrong to one another, is a purely human thing. I was never a religious man. After my bar mitzvah – I did my duty, like any Jewish child –, the everyday work and my job prevented my contact with the Hebrew letters. When my father took me to the synagogue on Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur, he put the tallit on my shoulder and had me read from the siddur, but I couldn’t get it right – I read either too slowly or too fast, and he never knew where I was. This annoyed me, because it made me feel stupid, and made me forget everything I ever read. Even if I go to the synagogue only on festive occasions, this doesn’t mean I don’t feel like a good Jew. I go to the temple [the Coral Temple], because there are no synagogues left in my neighborhood. There used to be scores of them in the past. Each street had its synagogue, and each guild had its synagogue – the carpenters, the shoemakers, the tinsmiths, and all the others. The members of each trade had the ambition to have their own synagogue, which was a very good thing.

I spent my childhood in Bucharest, in the Vitan quarter, on Foisorului St., where I was born and where I took a bite of all the games of that age. As a child, I would go out through the window while my mother was at the workshop, earning her living, and I knew the neighborhood very well. The Dudesti [quarter], where I lived, was inhabited by modest, hard-working people, and life peaceful there. One of the special events was when it rained heavily and the water coming from Vitan flooded Foisorului St., went round a hill, and headed down to the River Dambovita. The water’s withdrawal was the kids’ joy. When we looked in the street’s gutter, we found wonderful trifles: marbles, steel balls, buttons, pierced coins from the time of King Carol [I] 9, and good money from the time of Ferdinand [I] 10. We used the change to buy half a Turkish delight, which was 50 bani, or a full one, which was 1 leu. This sweet was sold by people from Oltenia who had come to Bucharest. They made a living selling Turkish delight with cool water, of course, which they carried in a bucket. The water came from some springs which flowed into the Dambovita. One would get to them by going down some steps.

Apart from these moments of joy of our childhood, we were also happy when we had money. If we didn’t, we would just yearn for what we couldn’t have; we would stare at those Albanians or Turks who passed by yelling ‘Cool «braga» [millet beer], cool «braga»!’, and carried a device on their back, a sort of pump, on which they would lean to fill the glasses. There was another sort of Albanian merchant who cried his merchandise in the street too: he sold some green and red peppers on a stick, or some red lollipops on a stick. The kid who had money would buy this delight and, while he was licking it, the others were, of course, yearning for it. The rest of the commerce was equally picturesque. In the morning, the men from Oltenia came from what is called today the Natiunii Marketplace, carrying baskets loaded with vegetable and fruit. They would sell on credit, marking the debt in red chalk on the door frame, from where no one would have dared remove it. They would say: ‘It’s all right, Ma’am, you’ll pay me when you have the money!’ People were poor and had no cash. The milk lady used the same chalk marks. She would draw one, two, three, four lines, and, when she got to the fifth, she crossed all of them with a line. Five crossed lines represented five liters of milk. In the afternoon, another man from Oltenia would come – he sold fish on credit. There was also the man who sold an exceptional yogurt – only seeing him slice a portion made you drool.

Since electricity hadn’t been introduced in people’s homes yet, there were no electric irons, but only charcoal-based irons. Charcoal had to be bought from the people who walked the streets yelling ‘Get your charcoal!’ People would come out and buy this charcoal; it was as vital to their existence as water, which was carried in water-carts and sold by the bucket. The water was brought from Dudesti Ave. The water-carts gathered on the spot where the [Vitan] post office lies today. The first electric tram passed by this water supply center. The tram number 19 left from the end of Vitan St. and went downtown. It ran on Dudesti Ave., Vacaresti Ave., the then-Bratianu Blvd., and got to 1 Mai Blvd., to the Chibrit Bridge. These are my modest recollections of that time. The older kids would have kite competitions. Razor blades were added to the kite in order to cut the string of the adversary. We were divided into camps, according to whom we supported – we really admired them. We, the younger kids, would make firecrackers with dirt or would play with the spinning top – this was a lot of fun. The spinning tops had various colors and they imitated the rainbow’s lights when spinning. We also played with the hoop – we drove iron hoops and circled the neighborhood on the paved sidewalks of the time. These were all joys of my childhood. But the most exciting moment was when my [maternal] grandmother took me to Victoriei Ave., to the LaFayette store – the Victoria store today –, to admire the windows. There was a Santa Claus, a little Christmas tree, a train that kept moving in a circle, a doll, a little car, and I was happy to see all those things. But I never got to actually touch and play with such toys – I didn’t even have a rag ball. My regular toys were the firecrackers, the hoops, the ‘arsice’ [jackstones], the marbles – these were all part of my childhood.

There were many Jewish families in the Aparatorii Patriei quarter – over 60 families –, so the need was felt for someone to perform religious duties. The neighborhood was founded in 1927, at the outskirts of the capital, on a ground divided into lots. There was no pavement, no electricity, no sewerage, and no drinking water. There was a well here and there, from which water was extracted from a depth of 25 meters. We couldn’t afford an outside man, so a cooper from our neighborhood, named Rotstein, who had a lot of children and was familiar with the elements of the Judaic cult, became our religious servant. But on holidays, we still had to bring a hakham to slaughter our poultry. And since this cost pretty much, Mr. Rotstein went to a hakhamim school, probably at the Community. He was authorized to perform the ritual slaughtering, so he was both the religious servant and the hakham of the neighborhood. He was also the one who continued to teach children to read and write in Hebrew. The problem we faced was where to hold the religious service, as we didn’t have a synagogue. So a Jewish citizens’ committee was founded to deal with this problem. We needed a building large enough to allow room for us all – and there were many of us. And we organized a sort of balls in order to fund this building that was also going to shelter the kindergarten. The Romanians’ committee of the neighborhood did the same - they were more than we were. Jews went to the Romanians’ balls and the Romanians filled the Jews’ hall. I don’t know how much money was raised at these balls, because I was only a kid. The president of our committee, shoemaker Saraga, who owned a small store on Regala St., and counsel Stoica [the president of the Romanian committee], the only man in the neighborhood who had a brick house, agreed to do everything together. The money was gathered in one place and it helped to build a school with two classrooms - since the neighborhood didn’t have a school -, a church, which is still there today, and the synagogue [it didn’t have a name, it was known as the synagogue in Aparatorii Patrieie], which sheltered the kindergarten for all the neighborhood children. The opening of the kindergarten was attended by the prefect of the City police, Gen. Marinescu.

When the time of the racial laws [numerus clausus] 11 came, there was no change in the social relations in our neighborhood. We had the same degree of friendship and understanding between people. The cause was our poverty. Everyone left downtown or came there to exercise their trade, which hardly provided them with enough to survive. Except for counsel Stoica, shoemaker Saraga, and a clerk who worked at the Pop and Bunescu store, today the Bucharest [store], our neighborhood had no intellectuals. All the inhabitants were craftsmen, people who led a hard life, so there was no time for chauvinistic, anti-Semitic manifestations. The neighborhood also had Hungarians, Germans and Gypsies. Of course, there were a lot of Jews too. But the majority population was Romanian.

Until I finished school, I wandered through the fields. I never play soccer, I didn’t like it, but I played other kid games: marbles, ‘arsice’, ‘capra’ [leapfrog], ‘cal de print si de imparat’ [prince’s and emperor’s horse]. You had to throw the marbles in the hole. If you didn’t miss any throw, you were the emperor. If you only managed to put five marbles in the hole, you were the prince. If you put four, you were the emperor’s horse, and if you put three, you were the prince’s horse. A fifth boy threw the balls, and the result could turn the emperor and the prince into horses and the vice-versa. The emperor and the prince were afraid of the result, while the horses thrilled with anticipation. This was the whole game. I particularly liked ‘turca’ [tipcat]. There was a square piece of wood with a number on it that you fixed near a line. Then you threw a stick [the ‘turca’] at it, and, according to the number on the wood, you had to throw it again, gaining ground or losing. These were the games that we played at school. The girls liked ‘sotron’ [hopscotch], or played with the ball and the jump rope. These were the innocent games of our childhood.

Since we lived in the Aparatorii Patriei quarter, we would go to the Berceni Dr., which was full of caravans of carts loaded with vegetable and fruit. Of course, we, the kids, followed them and cried: ‘Won’t you give us a tomato or a pepper? May your horses live long! Won’t you give us a water melon, Mister? May your horses live long! May you have a good sale at the marketplace!’ The people were good-hearted and they gave us peppers, eggplants, tomatoes and water melons. We would eat the tomatoes and the water melons on the spot, in the ditch by the side of road. The drive was on higher ground, and there were bushes on the edge of the ditch. Everyone put down his ‘harvest’, and we didn’t go home for lunch anymore. The first time I came back home with fruit and vegetable in my shirt, my mother was scared and astonished: ‘What happened to you?’ She was preparing to beat me. ‘How could you beg?’ - ‘Well, all the other kids did it, so I did it myself!’ This was part of the fun too. There was this boy who kept beating me. He was more robust than me, and was the son of a carpenter named Wasserman. He left the neighborhood and I don’t know what became of him. I can’t get him out of my mind. He had a neighbor, a tinsmith’s nephew who abandoned his trade to become a barkeeper there, on Berceni Dr. He sold what he could, especially wine and brandy, and this is how he was able to raise his two daughters.

When I was nine and a half years old, a Jewish association, the ‘Lumina’ Lodge, gathered all the needy Jewish children at the Cultura High School 12, on Zborului St. After being examined by a medical commission, I left to Poiana Tapului on holiday. Aunt Liza said to my mother: ‘Oh, Surica, all the children left to a camp in Poiana Tapului! Quickly, you must send him too!’ My mother bought me a train ticket and took me to the station, where she passed me on to the lady who went there and who promised her she would take me to the camp too. It was then that I saw the mountains [the Carpathians] for the first time, and I fell in love with them. The son of the headmaster from the Moria School happened to be in the same camp with me. A rivalry was born, as kids became attached of me. I had my own fir tree, and it was tall enough, and the upper branches were curved in a way that allowed me to sit comfortably and swing. In order to get rid of the kids, I used to climb in it, and from there I could say whatever I wanted to. It was a very beautiful month. I experienced the magnificence of a fantastic moment: after a rain, on the other side of the railroad, where Zamora was, the foot of a rainbow was formed in a clearing. This image remained in my memory all my life. It was fabulous, it was huge, it had two strips. Last year I wrote a poem about it: ‘Poiana Tapului, Zamora, with proud mountains and fir trees / Somehow kept me at their bosom / For a moment at noon. / The Prahova was flowing slowly, carrying the whisper of springs, / The tiles on the roofs charmed me with their color, / In the forest, the Urlatoarea, a raging waterfall, / Went its’ way, cool, fresh, gay ... After the rain had stopped and the skies had slowly cleared, / A rainbow foot towards the Zamora appeared.’ [‘Poiana Tapului, Zamora, cu munti falnici si cu brazi / M-a oprit cumva la sine / Intr-o clipa de amiazi. / Prahova curgea alene, purtand murmur de izvoare, / Tigla pe acoperisuri fermeca cu a lor culoare, / In padure, Urlatoarea, o cascada tumultoasa, / Cobora si ea la vale, rece, proaspata, voioasa ... Cand a incetat si ploaia si s-a inseninat cu greu, / S-a ivit, chiar spre Zamora, un picior de curcubeu.’]

At 16, my school sent me to the seaside [by the Black Sea]. I was sent there three times. The third time, the reason was the good job I had done as head of my group at school, which determined the camp’s commander, doctor Dumitrescu, to call us there. I saw the place where the Dniester River flows into the sea [currently on Ukrainian soil]. The water there was clearer than a spring’s, and the beach was very wide, with sand dunes in which the foot would sink. When we had to return to the camp at noon, after having frolicked for hours, we couldn’t walk, but we had to run like crazy to reach the ground, because the sand was too hot to walk on. Another nice thing about that place were some very small mollusks in the sea, which died once they were thrown on the shore. In the evening, we would walk on the shore and find phosphorescent lights – the sea was full of shiny little stars. My boy scout’s hat had a sort of lyre-shaped lily on it. I would put these small crawfish on it, and my hat would glow in the dark. I enjoyed scouting very much. We slept in tents. The tent was partly buried in the sand, so that the wind wouldn’t blow it away and the tide wouldn’t drag it to the sea. Some ropes tied it to stakes. There were pretty tall weeds growing there, and we used them to make the base of our tent. We put the tent sheet over it, we stuffed the pillows with weeds, and this was our bedroom. I stayed with the other two heads of groups in a tent of three. Others stayed in tents of six, eight or ten. One day we were playing with a brick that was thrown in the water. The one who found it had the right to throw it further away, and the others had to look for it. Eventually, all my companions got bored, so I continued to play on my own. The current began to drag me towards the Dniester. As it was growing stronger and the water was getting deeper, I was getting tired. I was swimming towards the shore, but was not succeeding in getting away from the current. In that desperate moment, when I was facing death, I remembered that one of the boys, Tache, had said before a bonfire: ‘The current is a lot less strong at the bottom!’ So I dived to the bottom and started swimming. From time to time, I surfaced to breathe, and then I dived back. It took me an eternity to get to the shore. I just lay there for a while, to regain my powers. The following year, I could swim much better, as I was already a grown-up, and I raced for kilometers. My last swimming race was in Neptun, about two years before my retirement [1978]. I haven’t seen the sea since then. I am a great fan of nature; I miss it and yearn for it. I couldn’t say that I can easily afford it – but, look at us, our legs and hearts can’t stand this harmful air for much longer.

I had many occupations. I could do anything, if I was shown how to do it. At home, I used to help my parents make paintbrushes, which I took to the peddlers. I went to work, and, on my way back, took the orders from the peddlers. I made the paintbrushes at night. From 15th March 1933, when I was twelve years and a half, I spent 3 months preparing to become a zincographer. Zincography is divided into several parts. You see, the photograph taken by the reporter is put on a piece of glass. The light goes through and the image is transferred on the glass – the black becomes white and the white becomes black. The glass is then taken to a copying section, where it is placed on a zinc plate exposed to light. On zinc, the black becomes white and the white becomes black. The negative is immersed in hard water three or four times. Iosif Berman [Iosif Berman (1891-1941): Jewish photographer who was famous in the interwar period for his illustrated reports. He was nicknamed ‘the man with a thousand eyes’. Between 1920 and 1930, he contributed photographs to the ‘Adevarul’ newspaper, the ‘Realitatea ilustrata’ magazine etc. He was a correspondent for ‘Berliner Tageblatt’, ‘London Express’, and ‘New York Times’.] was accompanied by two apprentices. They were two grown-ups, Cioc and Matei, whom I met in the period when I had started to work as a zincographer. When they came back from the field, they passed through the zincography workshop, took the back stairs, for there was no elevator, and went to their lab. They developed the photos there, and brought them to the zincography workshop. Berman was loved by the people. One time he photographed me in front of the ‘Zig-Zag’ bar, on Matei Millo [St.], behind Otetelesanu’s [dining terrace], where the Telephones [the Telephone Company Palace, on Victoriei Ave.] are today. I don’t know what had caught my attention. I had climbed the fence to look at something, and he caught me on film. This is how I made it in the newspaper, in 1936 or 1937. In 1938, the newspaper had to be closed. I spent six years and a half at ‘Adevarul’ and ‘Dimineata’ [1933-1939].

Then I worked in a lighting appliances factory [in 1939 and 1940]. I did assembling, I was a locksmith, I polished the fittings of the bronze elements to give them a light color, I worked with the ‘druckbanc’. The ‘druckbanc’ was a sort of lathe on which the tin plate was shaped by pressing it with a ‘druck’, a metal bar. The plate glided in front of the handle, which was lubricated with animal fat so that the ‘druck’ would slide easily. I had to hold this plate inclined and bring it to the shape of the model. These parts were for lighting appliances. They were either the elements that would cover the connection between the ceiling and the lamp, or the components which would support the shade, including the tin ornaments which united in the center of the lamp to embellish the line of the rod.

During the war

In 1940, I was living with my parents. On the night of 8th October, we were woken up by the chief of the gendarmes’ station of the neighborhood; he was accompanied by five other individuals, one of whom was wearing a green shirt [he was a Legionary] 13. Claiming to be looking for subversive materials, they searched the entire house, frightening my elder brothers, and they took my father with them when they left. We went through a terrible night. Towards dawn, the chief of the station came back with other Legionaries and took my mother and myself to the station. I was 20 and my mother was 42. From the gendarmes’ station, we were taken to the 27th precinct police station on Pieptanari St., opposite the Bellu cemetery [a very old cemetery in Bucharest where many personalities are buried]. There we found my father together with Mr. Goldstein and Mr. Rozentzveig, who were more or less our neighbors. The ones who were there entertained themselves by slapping us; they also had my father clean the urine in the toilet with a handkerchief. Towards noon, we were all taken to the City police prefecture, where we got separated from my mother. They took us, the 4 Jews of the neighborhood, to the basement. There my father was systematically abused: first they hit his palms with a rubber cane, then the soles of his feet, until they swelled. To make them come back to normal, they made him dance until he collapsed. Then they went on with the beating; their sole purpose was to make him give away the names of the Communists he knew. The others were next. Towards the evening, when the abuse ended, we were taken to the third floor of the prefecture, where we found my mother and many other people who were forced to face the wall with their hands up. Meanwhile, people picked up by the Legionaries in the street kept pouring in. We stayed in that room until late at night, without food, water, sleep or the possibility to go to the toilet. Finally, an army colonel showed up. He examined each of us; he wanted to know our name, where we had been seized from and what we knew about our arrest and the abuse we had been submitted to. Shortly after he left, a commissioner came and asked us to go home.

In June 1941, after the outbreak of the anti-Soviet war, Bucharest was bombed by the Russian Air Force. The bombs hit Justitiei St., located close to 11 Iunie St., right at the foot of the Metropolitan Cathedral’s Hill, a house in our neighborhood [at the outskirts of the city] and a wing of the Hospital no.9 for mental illnesses. I don’t know whether there were any rumors or suspicions concerning the Jews. What’s certain is that, on 22nd July 1941 [Ed. note: in observance of Order no.4599/1941 of the Internal Affairs Ministry], all the Jews in the neighborhood were gathered [by the gendarmes]. All the [male] Jews from 18 years old to the oldest age were herded inside our synagogue and in its courtyard and forced to stay there. In two or three days our group was enlarged with some other men from Giurgiului Dr., the Progresul [quarter], Pieptanari Dr., Colentina Dr., the Bucurestii Noi and the Traian quarters, and Oltenitei Dr. We were more than 60 people and we were detained there for five weeks, guarded by the gendarmes. Only family members were granted access to us. No one from the Community or the Jewish Central Organization showed any interest in our fate. I saw hunger with my own eyes, in those whose wives or mothers had nothing else to bring from home. I remember the moments when one shared with his neighbor or friend what he had got from home, and the moments when one had to hide from the others in order to secretly eat something. However, our situation got better thanks to a former [Jewish] tenant from our neighborhood named Ascher, who managed to provide us food every day at his own expense. When the late Asher, may God rest his remains and his soul, brought us the necessary food, our morale went up, humiliations disappeared, and we simply lived there under the gendarmes’ watch. As I am probably the last inmate alive, I try to remember the names and occupations of those people in the camp [Ed. note: When using the term ‘camp’, Mr. Leinweber refers to the enclosure where the Jews were forced to live under military surveillance and which they were not allowed to leave, not a concentration/extermination camp proper], and various situations of that time.

After 5 weeks, at the end of August, an official decision [Ed. note: Order no.31200/1941 of the Joint Chiefs of Staff] freed us from the camp and put us under the authority of the Drafting Center, which sent us to various detachments; it was the beginning of the forced labor. The first detachment I was sent to was the one working at the shooting range in Bucharest; ditches had to be dug in order to allow the troops to train better. I did everything I was skilled to do: I painted beds at the Cantacuzino Hospital, in Gemeni Sq., which had actually been an employees’ dispensary named ‘Albert Thomas’, and I made over 1,000 mattresses at the Patronage Council. At first, they taught me how to stuff the mattresses with straws, so that they could sow the sponge on the margins. I became the head of a team made up of electricians, a tailor, a shoemaker and a bootmaker. None of them was an upholsterer. The one who had taught us was the son of a Jewish upholsterer who had regained his Polish citizenship and didn’t have to do forced labor. While we were looking for work, I came across engineer Maxim Branisteanu’s workshop for hydrophore sets and electric engines coiling, on Magheru [Blvd.], where the subway entrance is today. I found a man there who wasn’t an engineer, but who was consulted even by engineers with a degree. He explained to me in natural, simple words, how magnetism appeared, where electricity came in and out, why the engine rotated, why its rotation was faster or slower depending on the number of coils. Thanks to his teachings, I became capable of building an engine in one day. This was like a test to me, because the things I had done as a young craftsman, as an electrician, were totally different from that. Apart from this, everyone knows what forced labor was like. If one was lucky, one got to places that weren’t too harsh. This situation went on until the end of the war.

Moritz Leinweber, my brother, went to Transnistria 14, but his lot wasn’t thrown in a concentration camp, like the people from Bessarabia and Bucovina 15 and those from Northern Moldavia 16. They remained under the jurisdiction of the Romanian Army. They were deported in 1942, which means that they spent almost 2 years there. My mother managed to send him some clothing through the liaison man at the drafting center. That character had his share of the deal, but he was a decent man, and, thanks to him, we were able to keep in touch with Moritz. The members of the lot were repatriated in an organized manner. Many of them scattered around the city of Iasi because they were afraid the Russians would seize them and send them to the front. They got to Bucharest after 23rd August [1944] 17, with a great delay, because they had taken detours and had traveled at night in order to avoid the Russians, who were approaching the capital too. Transnistria meant the end of my adoptive father’s relatives. Uncle David was married and had a child – they all died. He had a brother – I don’t know what he did for a living. I came across his wife and daughter in Haifa, in 1974 – they had survived. He also had a sister in Vatra Dornei, who died there [in Transnistria].

After the war

From 1946 until 1948 I worked as a head of the administrative service of the district committee of the Romanian Communist Party. Then I moved to the Ministry of Trade, where I worked as a financial inspector until 31st December 1951. I did these things because I was given the opportunity to. At the Ministry of Trade, I was annoyed by the primitive system of recording the materials and the lack of proper inventories, so I asked Patrascanu’s 18 uncle, who was an accountant at the Party section of the 3rd [district], to teach me accounting by transcripts. I established a functional inventory system; for instance, if anyone were to ask what item no.10 was and where it could be found, I was able to check my records at any time and say that item no.10 was the typewriter with wide carriage and it could be found at the X division, room Y. Everything was accounted for. The Party and union leadership were impressed by these achievements, which belonged, after all, to a man who had only been to a vocational school. Following the decision of the Council of Ministers, which required that the advanced workers be turned into financial inspectors, I had to attend the financial inspectors’ school for 3 months.

One day I was waiting in line at the union organization of the 3rd district. A tall individual, Ion Stoica [member of the Romanian Communist Party] asked me: ‘Hey, Nicu [Ed. note: ‘Nicu’ is a diminutive of Arnold – Aronica, Nicu.], you live in Aparatorii Patriei, right? There used to be a family there, a brush maker who had three sons. Do you know anything about them?’ – ‘Of course I do, Comrade Stoica, I know them!’ He couldn’t believe his ears. ‘When you needed my parents [Surica and Friederich Leinweber], you all came barging in; you slept and ate at our place, while I was staying in a ditch, watching your backs – in case some suspicious fellow would show up, I was ready to get you out through the corn field, so that you wouldn’t get arrested. And now, after 23rd August [1944], have you totally forgotten the people who gave you a helping hand?’ They left their materials at my father’s, based on nothing but trust. Someone else came to get them after a number of days, and they were hidden next to one of those old-fashioned gas lamps. The lamp stood in a vessel and the papers were placed between the lamp and the vessel. My parents were some poor old people, they had no money and no one cared about them. But they risked their freedom nonetheless… [Ed. note: Before 23rd August 1944, the Romanian Communist Party led an underground activity.]

[In the 1950’s] we created a band at the ministry. The Ministry of Trade was located on Victoriei Ave., on the spot where the Bucharest Hotel lies today. We had the theater hall where the meetings were held, and we had three employees who played the instruments, plus some lad from another division, who played the violin and the piano – and the band was born. I was the drummer. We started with Russian songs – this is how everything started. My coworkers couldn’t believe their eyes when they saw who played the drums – they all knew me because I was the head of the inventory and logistics department, and anyone who needed a chair, a filing cabinet, a carpet, a typewriter, pencils, paper etc. had to come to me.

In 1952, I applied for a transfer to the Public Food Trust, on a similar position. At the beginning, I worked for about three months to determine the cause of the losses reported by a fruit and vegetable store. Then I started to audit many public food trusts, which administered restaurants, pubs, confectioner’s shops and their labs. I was withdrawn from this line of duty [in 1958] by the trade and finances union, who was familiar with my activity as the trade union’s official in charge of cultural events in the capital. They sent me to work at the ‘Spartac’ Central Sporting Council, which included all the employees in trade, finances, cooperatives and the food industry. I was in charge with analyzing the financial problems which had come up in this association. As I was good at target shooting, I joined the team of the ‘Spartac’ Association. I competed with Iosif Sarbu, Carmen Stanescu, Herscovici, a multiple national champion, and many other worthy sportsmen that this country had in those days.

[In 1960] I returned to the ministry as a financial economist and I was transferred to the Chemical Materials Wholesale Trade Enterprise in Bucharest. I was in charge with keeping the records for all the refrigeration equipment that came from abroad. As soon as the machines crossed the border, I was supposed to know everything about their status – I was a sort of analyst. Payments were made by means of credit. When the machine reached its destination, I was informed of its receipt, and then I went to the Development Bank on Academiei St. to get the credit. Until then, I was the one who paid the interest. And so I started working with two bank accounts. I didn’t have a university degree, so the state secretary issued a permit on my name. I was the only trade employee who had such a permit. For this, 200 lei were cut from my salary. I was responsible with the electronic and technical field; I purchased and sold lighting appliances – there were over 2,000 items. Some of them were interchangeable – they fit to any rod –, others were special, and I had to have some of each – irons, components and all that. I worked with about 36 suppliers and there were times when I had to sign thousands of contracts. I supplied the entire capital – this is what I did in my last 20 years of activity, until I retired, on 1st September 1980.

I met my wife while working for the Party. She was a very quiet and decent girl. Her father was rather old and they had no means of existence; they had been bombed during the war and were as poor as a church mouse. I found them living in an attic in the Lanariei quarter, on Diditel St., close to Serban Voda [Ave.]. I met her in 1946 – I was a financial supervisor and she was an accountant. At a certain point, Comrade Secretary got me cornered: ‘Listen, when are you going to pull yourself together? When are you going to get married?’ – ‘Get married? With the money I’m making, Comrade Secretary?’ I lived with my parents, dined at the canteen and had a tea in the morning. ‘Look at me’, the secretary insisted. ‘I’m married and I have two children’. I refrained myself from reminding him that it was I who was paying for his extra money – this was our duty. There was this saying: ‘Who will climb the barricades in the name of the revolution?’ – ‘The activists.’ – ‘Who are the activists?’ – ‘The members of the district’s Party bureau!’ We, the others, were cattle; we were nothing compared to them, the seven hotshots, the great Party officials of the district. They would get bonuses, benefits, all sorts of assistance loans that were never paid back. So I shut up. But I had to admit that bachelorhood wasn’t a good idea. So I started looking for a wife. I searched in the 27th precinct, in the Progresul quarter, in the 26th, 23rd and 24th precincts, at this or that factory, but I couldn’t find someone right for me. I met quite a number of girls at balls and parties – we all had our balls and parties. So I narrowed the area of my search and I got to the Party staff and to my administrative department – and then I saw my accountant from a new perspective. We both left to attend a meeting at the City’s Party bureau, and I dragged her into a cinema against her protest. ‘Comrade Nicu, we can’t be doing this! Let’s go back!’ – ‘Oh, forget about them, they’ll wait for us. Right now, let’s see a movie!’ And this is how the courtship began.

My wife, Melania Leinweber [nee Reischer], was born in Roman, in 1926. She had three siblings: Herman Reischer, Iancu Reischer and Rebeca Saper [nee Reischer]. Herman worked as a photographer in Focsani, then he went to Israel, where he was a cook on a ship, and he died in a sanitarium. The younger brother worked at the ‘Vulcan’ [Plant in Bucharest], and then he left for Israel, where he worked with the lathe in Haifa. He died a tradesman there. Rebeca died in 1996, in Israel. Melania went to high school and became an accountant. It was with difficulty that we managed to have a child together – she miscarried several times. She spent three months and a half in bed when she gave birth. She worked as an accountant for the Central Committee of the Romanian Communist Party until she had the baby, and then she moved to a food store. When I was in high school [evening classes], she used to translate to me book fragments from Latin or French into Romanian. She had a good reputation, so the Ministry of Light Industry appointed her head of a millinery department. Then she moved to the knitwear and ready-made clothes department, where she was in charge with all the centers countrywide. Knitwear contracting was her responsibility – she had become an expert. She retired in 1981.

My ‘dowry’ consisted of a blanket and an eiderdown that I had made myself, and some sheets and pillows given by my mother. My wife didn’t bring anything – they had lost their house in a bombing. According to the law, when people got married, they got an extra salary. With our money combined, we bought a wardrobe, a lousy carpet, a desk, an electric lamp and a gas lamp, and this is how we started our home. Since I was a Party activist, we occupied half of an apartment – we had a living room that measured 3 meters by 3 and a half, a bathroom, a kitchen, and we shared the hallway with someone else. It was at 14 Unirii Embankment, opposite the Morgue. Now there’s a large apartment house there. After my wife gave birth [in 1949], my father-in-law died, and my mother-in-law came to live with us. We never had any spare time. Money wasn’t enough. The cost of living went up, so I, the great economist, had to work at home to make some extra money – electric work and some hand-made objects. We put a small bed at the entrance, as if we had a common bedroom; and there was also the baby’s crib. In the morning, we took it out in the hallway. I asked the union for a place to live and I got one on Sfantul Gheorghe St. We didn’t have a bathroom, only a toilet with a small sink, and a kitchen. Such were our living conditions. But at least we had a large room for us and our little girl and her iron bed. My mother-in-law’s bed was in the living room. My wife was assigned a three-room apartment in the Balta Alba [quarter]. It had two bathrooms. We purchased it [after the revolution], but I had to sell it [later], because I was unable to pay the utilities.

My wife and I rarely went on vacation together because our vacations weren’t at the same time or we had to work extra. We went to Sangeorz, to Eforie once, to Neptun once, to Slanic Moldova once. From Neptun, she came back with a broken leg, but she recovered. We also went to Buzias, Borsec, Brasov. When in Tusnad, she became ill with aneurism. My wife died in Bucharest, in 1990.

Victoria [their only child] was born in 1949. She went to the kindergarten on Zamfirescu St. She loved to dance. She went to elementary school on Mantuleasa St. and to high school on Mosilor Ave. She chose the Transportation Faculty, where she was among the top ten students. Her final average was over 9, and she got a 10 at the graduation exam. She was assigned as an intern in Brasov, to prepare her graduation exam. They were glad to have her there and treated her with respect, but she wouldn’t stay. So the minister of light industry talked to the minister of transportation and the latter ordered the research institute on Grivitei Ave. to hire her. I’m not saying those people were anti-Semites, maybe they were just bad – in any case, they didn’t want her there. She had to pass another exam: she was given a railroad station in Brasov and she had to establish the quality of the terrain, the goods and the passenger traffic in Brasov – an economical analysis. In college, she had got a 10 on a similar topic. [Ed. note: In the Romanian grades system, the highest grade is 10, while the minimum grade required not to fail is 5.] But those guys gave her an 8 because she didn’t know how the goods containers were fixed. I told her: ‘No matter how high your grades were in college, no matter how skillful and competent you are, you have to be better than a man. Remember this, in order to be accepted as a woman, you must prove extraordinary qualities, that aren’t required from a man!’ She became a head of department at the financial division – markets and prices analysis. When she was sick, the manager called her home to ask her what to do – the people there didn’t know, they had all been taught by her. She was a real expert. She also had research contracts with the ministry. She was very friendly, she was a good organizer, she was competent and took her position seriously. She rebelled against injustice, she was very outspoken. I tried to determine her to be more balanced, more careful – I knew it was because of my straightforwardness that I hadn’t been able to gain management positions. After she got married [in the 1980’s, to a Christian], her name became Niculescu. She died from a pancreatic cancer on 30th December 1993. She is buried at the Giurgiului [Jewish cemetery] in Bucharest. I have a grandson, Daniel Niculescu, aged 21.

I confess I gradually became an atheist. But I am still a man who loves and respects people. My parents-in-law, my parents, my relatives who stayed in Romania, my mother’s cousins and their wives, my first degree cousins, they are all buried at the Giurgiului cemetery. Only my biological father and Aunt Matilda, my mother’s eldest sister, are buried at the Filantropia cemetery. When I visit their tombs, I recite the Kaddish, of course, but this is a formality which doesn’t help at anything – it is about tradition, about one’s feelings, about one’s paying respect to the memory of the people whom one knew and loved. The Judaic religion so many rules concerning human relations and hygiene, and the kashrut leads straight to absurdity. There is a difference between cooking in a vessel that had milk in it and cooking in the milk vessel or the meat vessel; then you must have a whole different set of vessels for Passover. If you don’t, you must boil them with sodium carbonate to make them clean. You mustn’t eat bread, but only matzah – I mean all this seems a little extreme to me. I had an argument with one of my father’s cousins in Israel. I called him without realizing it was Friday night, and his wife picked up and told me he was at the synagogue. The following day, he told me: ‘Well, Nicu, you committed a great sin. You called me and my wife had to answer the phone!’ - ‘Yes, I did that. And you are so right’, I said ironically, ‘I committed a huge sin, I used the phone and you didn’t answer!’ And I asked him: ‘Do you take your wife out for a walk on Saturday?’ - ‘Sure I do.’ - ‘So this means you should leave your door unlocked; and if you feel the need to go to the toilet, you should refrain yourself. If your wife’s answering the phone was a sin, so is locking the door on Saturday, flushing the toilet, eating, doing anything, right?’ This is all absurd in the year 2000.

No matter where they are born, people are helpless in their fight against nature, so they feel the psychological need for some support, and this is God. But everyone has a god: Buddhists, Adventists, Christians, Muslims, Pentecostals, Protestants, Lutherans, you name it. We, the Jews, stuck together because of our ‘Next year in Jerusalem!’ and the persecutions, which forced us to be united; morally united, because, from a material perspective, every man had his own tent. We are the people of the Bible, those who passed the 10 Commandments on to the world through Moses, the one who spent I don’t know how many days on the mountain and broke the plates against their heads when he found the idol they were worshipping. These commandments were the source for Napoleon’s code, the judicial code that was adopted by everyone. This and many other wonders were possible thanks to the Jews, these people who knew how to keep their history by means of the word. So I am not religious, but I am a Jew. The Torah ceremony is a historical event. When entering the sukkah, people celebrate their harvest. The oil that kept the candle burning created the Hanukkah, another moment of joy, the holiday of light, which Rosen 19 used to create the Hanukiad – something that astonished all those foreigners, who came here to see what it was all about. [Ed. note: The Hanukiad is the name that Mrs. Moses Rosen gave to the tour encompassing the Jewish communities in Romania, which was created in the 1970’s, on Hanukkah. Foreign guests were invited to these visits that were organized by the leadership of the Jewish community.] Rosen himself said we don’t have a religion, but a tradition which we observe: the tradition of food, the tradition of relations between people, the tradition of celebrating some events. Man needs to cling to something, he needs some moral support, and I respect that.

In 1948 [when the State of Israel was created], there was joy, there was enthusiasm, there was momentum. I was surprised – Sada had come to Jerusalem, to the Knesset, to make peace. I was in hospital at the time; I avoided having a stomach operation. This is how I felt when I first went to Israel [Mr. Leinweber reads one of his own poems]: ‘I once descended from a plane / And a porter sitting by the stairs greeted me: Shalom. / This made me feel human, / A special human being, wrapped in the warmth of this word. / Shalom, this welcome word tickled my heart and my feet. / (Why was I so moved?) I stepped upon your holy land full of history / A land that was longed / By a Diaspora that has always wanted / To have its own country, in days good and bad. / You welcomed many and held them up in your arms / Together you erected what many others failed to erect. / Your creation, a paradise on Earth, and the one on Mount Sinai / Bear the flag of Zion / Which will for ever wave. / Shalom.’ [‘De pe scara unui avion candva am coborat / Si un hamal ce langa el statea mi-a spus Salom! / Eu am simtit ca sunt un om, / Eram un om mai deosebit, caldura ta m-a invaluit. / Salom!/ Acest cuvant de intampinare eu l-am simtit in suflet si picioare./ (De ce am fost emotionat?) Paseam pe al tau pamant plin de istorie si sfant, / Un pamant ce a fost dorit / De o Diaspora ce a voit / Mereu sa aiba tara ei la bine si la greu. / Pe multi tu i-ai imbratisat si cu caldura i-ai ridicat. / Impreună ati clădit ce multi alti n-au izbutit. / Creatia ta, gura de rai si cea de pe Sinai / Poarta stindardul cu Zion / Si flutură în veci / Şalom.’] My feet got soft. I couldn’t walk and I felt a sort of drowsiness; I couldn’t control myself. I felt the same in front of the Western Wall. Only thinking of it makes me feel excited. It’s as if something were falling upon you, pressing and squeezing you, then lifting you up into the air. It’s hard to explain. And we wonder why people cry there – a surface in a mere square.

Why didn’t we move there? We were about 40 years old, our girl was in high school, so her education was a problem. My wife was a brilliant, highly respected clerk at the ministry. What was she to do down there? Be a maid? Who needed an accountant who didn’t speak Ivrit? Besides, neither my wife nor my daughter could cope with heat. When summer came, we stayed indoors. Our house was cool and we felt good in it. We would lock ourselves in to prevent people from bothering us. ‘We’re leaving! We’re not leaving! We’re leaving!’ There was a certain state of mind that pressured you to leave, to let yourself carried away by the wave. We had an iron door on the outside and we would shut it to make people believe we had left and live in peace. I saw everything there was to see in Israel – beautiful girls and all that –, but only as a tourist. It’s hard to live there, with all the scumbags from Vacaresti Ave. and Dudesti Ave. who became successful, while the competent people who believed in moral values struggled with poverty until they got on their feet a little.

Our relatives from abroad wrote to my mother. All those who left, both those from my father’s side of the family and her own, had first passed through her place. So she had all their addresses. When I went to Israel, in 1974, I took all those addresses, plus those of the people from the old neighborhood. Some put me in contact with others, so I managed to visit around 50 families of relatives, acquaintances and friends. I got to 75 [families] in 1977. I would go on my own and was a surprise to them. When I went to Israel with my wife, in 1981, I couldn’t do the same thing – I had to take her with me in my visits, so I didn’t manage to tackle as many families as before. The last time I went there was in 1996. I knew many had died in the meantime. I came back a sad man.

My mail was read [by the Securitate] 20, but I didn’t mind. I once wrote that my girl had been courted by a police captain. He was a crime investigator at the police station in the Balta Alba quarter, where we lived, and they had met in the trolley-bus. The man was examined. ‘You know’, he told me, ‘they started asking questions about my planning to get married!’ He was kept under surveillance by the Securitate officers from the police station – they knew everything about him, because it was their duty to keep an eye on their personnel. In order to arrange for their marriage, I had to go to Aneta Spornic, a former minister of education. ‘What have you got against this boy? He fell in love with a girl whose father was a Party activist, whose grandfather was involved in revolutionary activities, and whose step-grandfather, Leinweber, risked his freedom to host outstanding Party figures who are now ministers!’

I listened to the Radio Free Europe 21 and kept myself informed. Considering myself an honest and fair man, I couldn’t accept the humiliation of people who had to stay in line to buy bread. In order to buy cheese and meat, one had to queue up in the evening to make sure he’ll get something the following day. People didn’t buy what they wanted, but whatever was available. I felt frustrated. Had such things happened during the bourgeois regime, the Communists wouldn’t have accepted them and would have urged the people to rebel. But if you protested, you were seized immediately and sent to cleaning windows or wiping floors, or put under arrest.

The old Aparatorii Patriei quarter disappeared in the 1980’s. A sea of apartment houses lies today in the area that was used for farming. The place where our house used to be is now surrounded by new buildings and streets. I, who spent my childhood in the middle of nature, inhaled fresh air and saw the starry sky, confess I still miss it. None of the buildings I knew survived. Everything was demolished during Ceausescu’s regime and new buildings were erected to accommodate more people who came from outside than people from the neighborhood. The terrain was cleared by the demolition 22 of the modest houses, which had small courtyards and orchards. My mother was given a studio somewhere on [Ion] Sulea [Dr.], in the Energeticienilor quarter. Then I took her at my place, because she couldn’t live alone anymore. And so, the people of the old neighborhood scattered around and they lost track of one another.

I thanked God when they killed Ceausescu. I would have shot him myself for having betrayed the confidence of honest people like myself and many other Jews who had joined the communist camp to give a helping hand, but were later removed. After [the revolution of] 1989, little changed. My wife, who was ill, died, my daughter got ill and died, I remained alone and I got ill. I went to visit my brother [in Germany], but his economic situation made me come back.

I had no part in the Jewish life after the war – I was too busy with my work and didn’t have time for such things. I asked for the support of our social assistance center when my mother-in-law broke her femoral bone and I needed to hire someone to look after her. As I was ill, I was only working four hours a day, and so was my wife. Our daughter was in high school and we just couldn’t cope from an economical point of view anymore. There was this young man at the social assistance center, who also worked with Rosen. He positively reviewed my mother-in-law’s file, so she got the support she needed. When my wife died, Amalia [Rabbi Moses Rosen’s wife] came to me and gave me some money. When I remained alone and my retirement pension wasn’t enough anymore, I ate at the canteen. I became an assisted man, I received medical care and medicines, and a financial aid in fall [in the 1990’s], which came at the right time. I had a heart attack in 1993 and I stayed at the Caritas [Hospital]. When I got better, I was sent home with an expensive treatment that I still use today. I had signed up for Cristian [a retreat of the Federation of the Jewish Communities in Romania located in the Brasov County], but my heart attack made them erase me from the list. I needed some rest after the 40 days spent in hospital, so I talked to Wiener, who’s a decent man. Since then, I have gone to Cristian every year. As a token of gratitude for their work, I dedicated occasional poems to them. Now I hear they added them to my file. When I asked why, they told me ‘Why not? Just in case.’

I have no future here anymore. My future is my eternal resting place, next to my mother, my father, my wife, my daughter, my mother-in-law, my mother’s cousins and my own cousins. I’m too weak to go to the Filantropia [Jewish cemetery] now – I have to stop and rest three times before I get there, because my legs hurt, my pelvis hurts, my joints hurt. Only my mouth is all right – I say whatever crosses my mind. I used to look at my adoptive father – at 82, he was a wreck, he forgot things, he used a walking stick. I still have a lucid mind, I write poetry, I talk to our ‘younger’ members at the daytime center. I make mascots using white, gray and beige fur. I make puppies, lions, monkeys. I was born here and I lived here, and, despite all the persecutions, I remained a man of this land. I have notebooks full of poems: lyrical, for children, about nature, and patriotic poems. I am now working at my stellar poems – I have 30 poems about the stars, the sky, the comets and all that. Try to identify yourself in here: ‘You look around you cautiously, / But let your heart speak, / When you walk, your body shivers, and you feel it grow complete, / You wait for the kiss that rests on your lips to be stolen, / You want to replace time with your swinging thighs, / Your heart is tense and you feel like tearing its garment. / The night’s warm wind gives you the thrills, / Your face is burning as the wind surrounds you, / ‘tis love and innocence that you bring along with you on the path of life, / You’re like the morning dew under the ray of the sun.’ [‘Privesti in jur prudenta, / Dar inimii dai glas, / Pasesti vibrandu-ti trupul, ce simti cum se implineste, / Iti vrei furat sarutul ce gura il odihneste / Cu coapse in leganare, sa inlocuiesti vrei timpul, / Ti-i inima in incordare si ai vrea sa-i rupi vesmantul, / Te simti infiorata sub vantul cald de seara, / Arati imbujorata privind cum te inconjoara, / Aduci pe drumul vietii iubire si candoare / Ca roua diminetii sub razele de soare.’]

Glossary

Vladimir Olgart
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of Interview: October 2002


My father, Mordko Olgart, was born in a small town near Warsaw in 1870. At that time this area was part of the Russian Empire. I know very little about my father's family. His father, Leizer Olgart, and his mother died before I was born. I don't remember my grandmother's name. My grandfather was paralyzed and confined to bed for a long time. My father had two older sisters. At the end of the 19th century they moved to the US, and we had no contact with them. Some time after 1905 my father's family moved to Skvira [about 150 km from Kiev]. I don't know why they decided to move. My father told me that he finished cheder and received religious education.

Unfortunately, I know even less about my mother's family. I have no information about her parents. They both died before my mother, Neha Olgart, turned 15. My mother was the youngest daughter. My mother's parents lived in Volodarka, a small town in Kiev province. My mother was born in 1887. She remained alone in her parents' house after they died. Her older sisters and brothers had moved out by that time. I don't know how many brothers and sisters she had. I knew her older brother Dudik. He was a shoemaker and lived in Skvira with his family. Later he moved to Kiev.

My mother got married to my father when she was 17. My father was much older than my mother. He was over 30 when they got married. I think my father didn't get married at an earlier age because he had to take care of his father. My mother was an orphan and had no dowry. She and my father were married by matchmakers. They had a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah and a rabbi in Skvira.

My parents rented a two-bedroom apartment. It was part of a two-storied house. Their landlords also had tenants on the second floor. The rooms were always shaded by lilac bushes growing near the house. My mother cooked on a big stove in the kitchen. They didn't have running water or a well in the yard. Water was delivered to the houses by a water-carrier in big barrels loaded on a horse-driven carriage. He was driving slowly along the streets shouting 'Water! Water!' The water-carrier delivered water twice a day: in the morning and in the evening.

My father was a barber. I don't know where he learned his profession. He was very skilled and had quite a few clients. He owned a barber's shop, but he was the only one working there. My mother was a housewife. My parents didn't have children for some time. They went to see a very wise rabbi who was well known in Skvira and beyond the town. It was the custom to seek advice from a rabbi. People asked him all kinds of questions related to everyday life or business. I don't think he took money for giving advice. People made contributions to the synagogue anyway. He told them that in four year's time they would have their first baby, and from then on they would have a child every second year. It was true. My parents got married in 1904 and in 1908 my older brother Mikhail was born. He was named Moshe at birth. In 1910 my sister Riva was born and I followed on 15th December 1912. I was named Velvel at birth, but later my family began to call me Vladimir. My younger sister Sonia was born in 1914.

Jews constituted 90% of the population in Skvira. They got along well with the Ukrainian population. Jews were mainly craftsmen: shoemakers, tailors, barbers, and traders. There was a big two-storied synagogue in Skvira and a Jewish lower secondary school. When we were 6 my brother and I went to cheder. An old melamed with a gray beard taught us Hebrew, religion and the history of the Jewish people. My sisters studied there, too. It was closed in 1919. My brother and I then studied in a Russian secondary school; the majority of pupils were Jews, but there were Ukrainians as well. It used to be a grammar school before the revolution, and after the revolution it became a Russian lower secondary school. We had wonderful teachers. And the school building was very beautiful, with sculptures on the façade.

My parents were religious people and raised us accordingly. We spoke Yiddish at home, but we also spoke fluent Ukrainian and Russian. Every Friday my mother cooked for Sabbath. She baked challah in the Russian oven, made stuffed fish and boiled chicken. It wasn't allowed to cook or heat food on Saturday. On Friday evening our family got together for a prayer. My mother lit candles and we sat down at the table for a Saturday meal. Our Ukrainian neighbor used to light our kerosene lamps and make fire in the stove on Saturdays in the winter. My father prayed at home on Sabbath and he read a chapter from the Torah to us, and then we had guests over. My father's cousins lived in Skvira and so did my mother's brother Dudik before he moved to Kiev in the 1920s. They visited us with their wives and children. They all had big families. We had a lot of fun. We had tea, cookies and sponge cakes that my mother made. We sang Jewish songs, recited poems and danced. My parents had a record player and records with Jewish songs and dance music. We used to dance Jewish folk dances: sher, freilakhs and skotchna. We also got together at birthdays. My parents went to the synagogue on holidays. There was also a choral synagogue in Skvira. Men prayed downstairs and woman were on the 2nd floor. There was a cantor in the synagogue and often other cantors came on tours. I remember cantor Pinch from Odessa. I went to the synagogue to listen to him when I was a small boy. Many people had tears in their eyes listening to him. He was majestic. Jewish theatrical groups often came to Skvira on tours. My older brother was very fond of theaters and attended every performance. Actors were poor people and often couldn't afford to pay for the hotel. Mikhail brought them home and they slept on the floor, on the tables and even on the stove in the kitchen. And we went to their performances for free. I can't remember what we watched, as I was too young. A group of Purimshpils came on tours at Purim. They performed in a big wedding hall. We all went to see Purimshpils. They often performed "Ahashverosh-shpil" and I also remember "Selling Joseph". At Purim my mother used to make gomentashy - triangle pies with poppy seeds and raisins. Parents bought their children wooden rattles. The melamed explained to us that their sound scared away the evildoer Aman, one of the main characters in Purimshpils and the evil would stay away from our homes.

I remember the celebration of Pesach at home. On the eve of Pesach we searched for chametz with a candle and a chicken feather. We had to sweep every breadcrumb onto a piece of paper with the feather to have them burnt later. There was a special bakery in Skvira where they made matzah. We bought enough matzah to last through Pesach. Every member of the family bought some new clothes before Pesach. The boys got new shirts, and the girls got new dresses. My mother bought a few chicken to have chicken and chicken broth on the table every day at Pesach. She bought the chickens and took them to the shochet. She also made delicious stuffed fish, strudels and cookies from matzah flour. We followed the kashruts in the family. My mother always cooked kosher food. She liked cooking and was very good at it. We kept special dishes that we only used at Pesach in the attic. On Pesach morning the family went to pray at the synagogue. In the evening we had the first seder. I asked my father questions [the four questions] in Hebrew, and he told us about Pesach. On other days of Pesach we often had guests. It was lots of fun. At Yom Kippur the whole family fasted, even children over 5 years old fasted the whole day. We also celebrated Rosh Hashanah. We didn't celebrate Sukkot but I don't know why not. I don't remember anybody in Skvira building a sukkah.

At Purim my mother used to make hamantashen - triangle pies with poppy seeds and raisins. Parents bought their children wooden rattles. The melamed explained to us that their sound scared away the evildoer Haman, one of the main characters in Purimshpils, and the evil would stay away from our homes.

Jewish theater groups often came to Skvira on tours. My older brother was very fond of theater and attended every performance. Actors were poor people and often couldn't afford to pay for the hotel. Mikhail brought them home to our place, and they slept on the floor, on the tables and even on the stove in the kitchen. In return we went to their performances for free. I can't remember what we watched; I was too young. Purimshpil groups came on tours at Purim. They performed in a big wedding hall. We all went to see Purimshpils. They often performed 'Ahasuerus-shpil', and I also remember 'Selling Joseph'.

There was also a choral synagogue in Skvira. Men prayed downstairs and woman were on the gallery. There was a cantor in the synagogue, and often other cantors came to visit. I remember cantor Pinch from Odessa. I went to the synagogue to listen to him when I was a small boy. Many people had tears in their eyes listening to him. He was majestic.


There was a big market in Skvira where local farmers used to sell their products. But there were only Jewish butchers at the market. They always sold kosher and non-kosher meat [for Ukrainian customers]. The majority of Jews were poor people. Sometimes they didn't have money to pay for the meat they were buying, and butchers allowed them to pay later. There was plenty of fruit and vegetables at the market. Farmers delivered milk and dairy products to the houses every day. They also brought eggs and chicken.

There was a special wedding hall in Skvira owned by a man named Tulchik, which was called 'At the Tulchik's'. All weddings in Skvira took place in this hall. My parents had their wedding in this hall, too. Tulchik's son was a musician, a klezmer, and had an orchestra that used to play at weddings. I went to watch wedding ceremonies. There was a chuppah covered with crimson brocade, and the bride and bridegroom were taken underneath it. Klezmer musicians were playing and a cantor sang 'Kalene, kalene, veyn, veyn' ['Cry, cry, you bride']. It meant that the bride had to cry for the life she was leaving behind and for leaving her parents' home. I remember brides crying.

Then the rabbi approached the bride and bridegroom. He was also the chazzan. He said the blessing, and the bride and bridegroom exchanged rings and drank a glass of wine. They broke the glass. Then the music played and klezmer musicians sang Jewish wedding songs. There was a tenor in Skvira - many people came to listen to him. Then all guests sat down at the tables. The food was cooked by special wedding cooks. They were called 'servieren'. Every cook had a special dish that she was best at cooking. It was convenient to have them cook all food especially considering the number of guests at a traditional Jewish wedding. There were always two crews: one to cook food and another one to make pastries. Guests danced Jewish dances. They all enjoyed freilakhs. Poor people were sitting next to rich people at weddings - they were all equal, enjoyed the wedding and had lots of fun.

Before and after the revolution of 1917 Denikin gangs [the White Guards] 1 often came to Skvira. A Russian landlord used to give us shelter in his house on such occasions. He was my father's client and had a lot of respect for my father. We used to hide in his closet. He put a big lock on the door to create the impression that there was nobody inside. Denikin officers often asked this landlord to send them a barber, and he recommended my father. My father went there, and they were all pleased with the job he did. Denikin troops didn't harm poorer people, as a rule. They forayed the houses of rich Jews demanding money and valuables from them. My father's cousin was killed during one of those raids. There were wooden shutters on the windows at that time. My father's cousin went out of the house one morning to close the shutters and was killed by a stray bullet. No gangs ever tried to break into the synagogue. These raids were robberies and didn't have any anti-Semitic character.

My father wasn't recruited to the army because of his hernia. He took no interest in politics. Jews were enthusiastic about the revolution and had hopes for a better life. During the fights between the Red 2 and White 3 armies almost all stores in Skvira were closed, and people were trying to stay in their houses. After the revolution the stores opened again, and people returned to their daily routine. This lasted until the end of the NEP 4 period in 1924 when the expropriation of people's property took place within a few weeks. The state took away all people's property: houses, stores, cattle, and so on. Jews from Skvira who had lost their property moved to bigger towns in search of jobs. There was a short period in 1924 when people were allowed to move to the US and Canada. My father's sister mailed an invitation to him from the US, but my father didn't want to leave his country. He loved his motherland.

When I was 13 I had bar mitzvah. A rabbi came to our house, a big celebration was arranged, and there were lots of guests and presents. I received a tefillinw and felt like an adult.

My older brother completed 5 years of Russian secondary school. He decided to learn a profession. He was apprenticed to a locksmith who repaired clocks, sewing machines and bicycles. In 1926, when he turned 16, Mikhail moved to Kiev and became a locksmith apprentice at the Arsenal Plant [biggest military plant in Ukraine]. My older sister Riva followed him shortly afterwards. She got a job as a cashier at the canteen of the Smirnov-Lastochkin garment factory. Riva rented a room in Podol 5, not far from the factory.

I completed 8 years of Russian secondary school in Skvira. During my studies I began to learn the barber's profession from my father. I assisted him after my classes.

I had a cousin in Moscow: the son of my mother's older brother Dudik. When I turned 16 and obtained a passport I decided to go to Moscow. My relatives invited me to come there. Besides, I found it exciting to go to the capital. In Moscow I got a job as a barber. I rented a room. There were three other tenants in this room: three Jewish guys from Belarus. We became friends. At work I became a Komsomol 6 member; I was fond of the idea of 'building communism', just like so many other young people. My friends and I often went to the Jewish theater. I watched several performances featuring a well-known Jewish actor, Solomon Mikhoels 7. Sometimes we attended Jewish concerts. Religion was no longer popular among young people. We didn't go to the synagogue and didn't celebrate Jewish holidays. However, I went to the synagogue on Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah, but I didn't fast on Yom Kippur any longer. After I became a Komsomol member I left religion behind.

Winters in Moscow were cold. We didn't have enough warm clothes, but we were young and we didn't really get cold. We had meals there during the day in a cheap café and in the evening went there to eat, dance and listen to music. We didn't drink alcoholic drinks. There were a few girls in our group. They were Russian girls from Moscow.

My friends and I celebrated Soviet holidays. We enjoyed watching parades. Entrance to the Red Square was restricted, therefore, we sneaked in before 5 o'clock in the morning. To avoid militiamen we hid in building entrances before we could come out to watch the parade. I saw Stalin quite a few times. Once I saw Kalinin 8 buying something at a kiosk. Leaders of the country went out without any guards. People loved them a lot.

From 1932-33 a famine 9 hit Ukraine in 1932-331. I was living in Moscow, and there was no famine there. My relatives in Skvira also survived, because my brother and sister were supporting them from Kiev. The situation was easier in bigger towns. Besides, my brother was working at a military plant where food supplies were regular. I also sent parcels with dried bread and cereals to my parents in Skvira. They didn't starve.

In 1933 Hitler came to power in Germany and newspapers wrote about this event. [Editor's note: In 1933 Hitler became chancellor, in 1934 president and supreme commander of the armed forces.] Ordinary people also discussed it. I went to the synagogue on Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah, and Jews there discussed these events, but they only discussed official information that was published in Soviet newspapers. We didn't know all the facts about the actual situation, but we realized that there was nothing good for Jews in Hitler's policies and his appeal to the purity of the Aryan racewere. By 1938 we were well aware of the German attitude towards Jews.

By that time my brother and sister were both married. Mikhail married a woman from Kiev. She was a Jewish girl named Dusia. They had a son and a daughter. Riva married a Jewish man named Bateiko. I don't remember his first name. He was a dressmaker and a very interesting man. He came from Chernigov. His parents had 13 sons. They all passed away. Riva and her husband had three daughters. Riva quit her job after their first baby was born and became a housewife. Sonia, their younger daughter, got married in Skvira. I don't remember her husband's last name. His Her husband's name was Efim; he was an accountant. They had a son and a daughter. Sonia and her husband bought a house in Skvira after they got married, and my parents moved in with them.

Mikhail and Riva were asking me to come to Kiev. I moved there in 1936. In the beginning I stayed with Riva and her husband. I met my future wife, Betia Chornaya, in Kiev. She was born in Skvira in 1912. Our families knew each other. Betia's father died at a young age, and her mother raised all the children; I believe there were eight of them. Betia finished lower secondary school in Skvira and decided to move to Kiev. She lived with Riva and worked as a secretary at the plant. We dated for a short time and then decided to get married. We didn't have a wedding party. We had a civil registration ceremony, and that was it. I got a job in a big barber's shop. We rented a room in Podol. We lived there for a short while until I bought a small house in Irpen, on the outskirts of Kiev. I had some savings from Moscow. We moved to Irpen in 1937. My wife worked as a secretary at the Irpen town council, and I continued working in Kiev. Commuting to Kiev and back home was a problem. There were no buses or local trains that made commuting very comfortable. I got to work via long-distance trains. I didn't want to lose a good job. We spoke Russian in our family. We identified ourselves as Soviet people.

In 1937 our daughter Mara was born. My wife quit her job and dedicated herself to raising our child. I wanted to move to Kiev so much and finally got the opportunity. My colleague and I obtained permission to build an annex to a small two-storied building in a suburban street in Kiev. Each family had two small rooms and a kitchen in this annex. Water and toilet were in the yard. This could hardly be called a dwelling at all, but many families lived that way at the time; it was the usual thing. We moved to this annex in 1938.

I took no interest in politics. Everything was fine and quiet in my small world: my beloved family was well, we had a place to live, and I had a good job in one of the best barbershops in Kiev. I knew about the arrests of people [during the so-called Great Terror] 10 and the war in Poland and Finland, but it was all so far away from my life.

In 1940 I got a job in the military residential neighborhood in Sviatoshyno. I had a higher salary, and it was easier to commute to work.

On 22nd June 1941 11 I was working. I was going to work by tram. It was early morning and I heard explosions all the time. Of course, I had no thoughts about a war. There were frequent military trainings at that time. When I came to work my colleagues told me that German planes were bombing the Post-Volynskiy railway station and a plant in Sviatoshyno. The commissar of the military unit offered me to join their military unit, but I refused and went to our district military office. I received a subpoena on 24th June. My daughter turned 4 that day. The following day I went to the recruitment office. I was sent to the 38th army of the South Western Front chief sanitary storage facility. We obtained medication in the hospital in Pechersk and began to form a sanitary train. I had enough time left to send my family into evacuation. It didn't matter much where they went to as long as the location was far from the war scene and out of reach of the fascists. I put my wife and daughter and my wife's mother, who came from Skvira, on a train. I didn't know where it went.

We moved our medication storage facility to Poltava [350 km from Kiev]. From there we went to Lyski station, Voronezh region, and then to Stalingrad. We were following the front line picking up the wounded and supplying medication to field hospitals. This lasted for two years. In 1943 we stopped at the town of Krasnaya Sloboda, near Stalingrad, only on the opposite bank of the river Volga. Stalingrad was already on fire. We had hardly any food. Several people had to share one piece of dry bread. We didn't have enough water. The river was covered with a thick layer of oil from oil storages blasted by the Germans. One evening the chief of headquarters told four of us to cross the Volga and bring bandaging material from the storage facility. The Volga was on fire. We crossed it and stayed overnight at the storage facility. We found a lot of bandaging material, loaded it on the boat and went back. I was awarded a 'medal for courage' for this mission. Stalingrad was a turning point in the course of the war. We proceeded to Konigsburg and further on. We were continuously on the front line. I used to take medication directly to the front line. On 9th May 1945 I was on a train heading to the Far East. It took us 30 days to get there.

I didn't have any information about my family. During the war with Japan 12 I was in Kharbin, Manchuria. In autumn 1945 the war was over and we got on our way back. We were stationed at Grodekovo station near Ussuriysk [about 3,500 km from Kiev]. From there my manager sent a letter to the evacuation agency in Buguruslan requesting information about my family. We got a response from them saying that my wife and daughter were in Samarkand, Uzbekistan. I wrote to my wife and got a response from her, in which she said that she had married another man. She probably thought that I had perished having had no information about me for almost six years. My wife and daughter didn't want to come back. It was a blow to me. My wife had a new husband and they had a good life together.

I once faced anti-Semitism in the Far East. I was supervisor at a storage facility. We were getting ready for mobilization and waited for soldiers that were to replace us. They were young people born around 1927. One of them didn't take notice of me and said to his comrades, 'These zhydy [kikes] stayed in the rear and didn't fight at the front. Hitler would have done better with them ...'. I hit him in the face before he could finish the sentence. This was the only time in my life when I faced anti-Semitism.

We returned to Kiev in autumn 1946. The storage facility was unloaded at the Kiev-Tovarny station and we returned to the city on a horse-driven cart. My relatives were already in Kiev. My brother Mikhail was at the front. His family returned from evacuation in Novosibirsk. They moved into their apartment. Mikhail found a job at the barber's shop. Riva and her family had been in evacuation in Novosibirsk. Her husband had been wounded at the front, but survived and returned home. My sister Sonia, her husband, her children and our parents were in the Ural. They returned from evacuation and settled down in their house in Skvira. Fortunately, the Babi Yar 13 tragedy didn't hit our family. Only the parents of Sonia's husband perished there.

My house hadn't been destroyed, but it was housing a kindergarten. I rented the same room in Podol where my wife and I used to live after we got married and got a job as a barber. However, everything in Kiev reminded me of my family life, and I decided to start my life anew. I moved to Leningrad in 1953 and lived there until 1956. I rented a room and got a job as a barber. But I didn't feel at home in Leningrad. I felt homesick and returned to Kiev.

After the war there was only one operating synagogue in Podol. I went there on Pesach, Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. There were so many people that many of them had to stay outside the synagogue, and the whole street was crowded on holidays. Going to the synagogue became a need to me.

Stalin died in 1953. I was in Leningrad at the time. People didn't go to work on the day of his death. Everyone was crying. They were saying that it was the end of the world and that they were lost and confused. I didn't feel anything like that. I felt slightly concerned about who was to become the new 'tsar'. It was Khruschev 14. I believe that he did a lot of good for the country beginning with his denunciation of the cult of Stalin at the Twentieth Party Congress 15. Khruschev released inmates of the camps, and people had more freedom during his rule. Many houses were built under his leadership.

My father died in 1956. We all got together in Skvira. My father was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Skvira, according to Jewish rituals. My sister Sonia and her husband sold their house in Skvira and moved to Kiev with their children and our mother. My mother fell very ill. She had problems with her vessels that were incurable at the time. Sonia inherited this disease from her as it turned out later. Sonia bought a small house in the outskirts of Kiev. She got a job at a department store. My mother brought Jewish traditions back into my life. We all got together at Sabbath. My mother always cooked for Jewish holidays. We couldn't get all the necessary products, and our dinners were much poorer than before the war. It wasn't kosher food, but there was always stuffed fish. My mother also got matzah for Pesach. Mikhail and Riva came with their families; I was on my own. I was introduced to Jewish women, but I didn't think of marriage. My wife's betrayal hurt me deeply, and I was afraid of being hurt again.

In the early 1960s my mother had her leg amputated. She had gangrene. My brother and I were helping Sonia to look after her. My mother died in 1967. We buried her in the Jewish section of Baikovoye cemetery according to Jewish tradition. There was also a rabbi from the synagogue at the funeral. The Jewish cemetery in Kiev had been destroyed by that time.

In the 1970s Jews began to move to Israel. Riva's husband died unexpectedly in 1970, and her daughters insisted on emigrating to Israel. My sister left with her daughters. She died in Jerusalem in 2000. I had no thoughts about leaving my country. I had a place to live, my friends and my job. I didn't feel like changing anything. I thought that it was for younger people to change their lives. I was about 60 at the time. I might have moved if I had had a wife and children. But I didn't. Unfortunately, I have never been to Israel. I wish I could go, but I'm far from being well enough to travel.

The 1970s were a time of loss to me. Soon after my mother died Sonia got the same illness that my mother had been diagnosed with. Within three years she had both legs amputated. She died in terrible pain in 1976. My sister remained religious until her last days. She always tried to celebrate Sabbath. She prayed and fasted according to the Jewish laws. Sonia's son and daughter live in Kiev. In 1977 my brother Mikhail died of a heart attack. His older son died in 1982. His daughter moved to Israel.

I often saw my daughter Mara. She graduated from the Energy Insitute at Kiev University and married a Russian man named Teslenko. Mara's husband is a very talented economist and professor. They have two daughters, born in 1976 and 1979. Mara used to lecture at the Energy College. Later her husband was offered a position as head of the Economics Department at Chernigov University, and they moved to Chernigov. Mara's older daughter moved to Israel and her younger daughter lives in Kiev. She has a 4-year- old daughter, my great-granddaughter. Regretfully, I rarely see her. Mara visits me once a year on her vacation.

I got married again in 1976. My second wife and I have been together for 26 years. We met by chance and never parted since that time. I believe I owe it to my wife Lubov [nee Bezrukova] for living such a long life. She is Russian and was born in the village of Novaya Khoperka, Tambov region in 1923. Her father was a convinced communist. He perished in one of the Gulag camps 16. There were no specific accusations against him, but he was sentenced to death and executed. His wife raised four children. Lubov's mother worked all the time and her grandmother looked after the children.

My wife was fond of sports. She was recruited to the army and studied at the flight training school. She studied there for a year and became a military pilot on a night reconnaissance plane. She was at the front in Regiment 346, 17th Air Force Army, 3rd Ukrainian Front, from 1942 until the end of the war. Their commander was a prominent Soviet pilot, Marina Chechneva. They flew at night. They had optical equipment in their planes enabling them to mark the location of German troops on thee map. On the front she met an artillery lieutenant, Joseph Goldberg, a Jewish man from Kiev. They fell in love with each other and got married. They didn't see each other for two years, but they wrote to each other.

After demobilization in 1945 Lubov came to Kiev. Her husband's aunt was living there. Joseph returned from the front. His right leg was amputated at the front. But Lubov was happy that he was alive. They stayed with Joseph's aunt, Clara. Lubov studied at the Pedagogical College. Their first daughter, Clara, was born in 1946, their second daughter Zhenia followed in 1949. Joseph's aunt liked Lubov a lot. She was like a mother to Lubov. Clara was a religious woman and told Lubov a lot about Jewish religion and traditions. She celebrated Sabbath and all Jewish holidays. Lubov always helped her to cook for festive dinners. She observed Jewish traditions, and they went to the synagogue together. At first she did this to make Joseph's aunt happier but gradually she felt the need to observe traditions.

After finishing college Lubov began to work as a drawing teacher. Joseph got a job as a designer. The city authorities gave him a car as he was a war invalid. Unfortunately he was hit by a truck in 1961 and died. The truck driver was drunk. Lubov dedicated herself to the children. Her daughters received higher education and got married. Joseph's aunt died in the late 1960s. It became difficult for Lubov to work at school, and she became a design artist at an art factory some time before we met.

Lubov brought warmth and care into my house. Besides, she is a deeply religious woman and observes all Jewish traditions. She helped me to return to my origin. We pray every evening. She says we have to thank God for this life and for the days that we have lived in love and peace. On Friday she cooks for Sabbath. On Friday evening she lights candles and we pray. We go to the synagogue on all Jewish holidays and celebrate them at home. Sometimes we go to celebrate holidays at Hesed.

Jewish life in Ukraine has revived within the last ten years. Hesed assists people and helps them to communicate with each other. We have many new friends. Twice a week we have lunch at Hesed - this is called 'warm house'. There are 14 old people in our group. They are all very nice people. We feel very comfortable at Hesed. It's very important for older people to feel support and communicate with one another. I feel terrible looking at miserable old Ukrainian and Russian people. Our old people receive assistance. We get food packages and medication. We are very grateful for it. Our children can't support us. They can hardly feed their own families. But they love us and care about us. We are fine, thank God. My wife and I ask for peace here and in Israel in our prayers. I also thank God for giving me Lubov. We are together and that means a lot to me.


Glossary

1 White Guards: A counter-revolutionary gang led by General Denikin, famous for their brigandry and anti-Semitic acts all over Russia; legends were told of their cruelty. Few survived their pogroms.

2 Reds: Red (Soviet) Army supporting the Soviet authorities.

3 Whites: Tsarist forces defending the monarchy in Russia.

4 NEP: The so-called New Economic Policy of the Soviet authorities was launched by Lenin in 1921. It meant that private business was allowed on a small scale in order to save the country ruined by the October Revolution and the Civil War. They allowed priority development of private capital and entrepreneurship. The NEP was gradually abandoned in the 1920s with the introduction of the planned economy.

5 Podol: The lower section of Kiev. It has always been viewed as the Jewish region of Kiev. In tsarist Russia Jews were only allowed to live in Podol, which was the poorest part of the city. Before World War II 90% of the Jews of Kiev lived there.

6 Komsomol: Communist youth political organization created in 1918. The task of the Komsomol was to spread of the ideas of communism and involve the worker and peasant youth in building the Soviet Union. The Komsomol also aimed at giving a communist upbringing by involving the worker youth in the political struggle, supplemented by theoretical education. The Komsomol was more popular than the Communist Party because with its aim of education people could accept uninitiated young proletarians, whereas party members had to have at least a minimal political qualification.

7 Mikhoels, Solomon (1890-1948) (real name Vovsi): Great Soviet actor, producer, pedagogue. He worked in the Moscow State Jewish Theater (and was its art director from 1929). He directed philosophical, vivid and monumental works. Mikhoels was murdered by order of the State Security Ministry.

8 Kalinin, Mikhail (1875-1946): Soviet politician, one of the editors of the party newspaper Pravda, chairman of the All-Russian Central Executive Committee of Soviets of the RSFSR (1919-1922), chairman of the Supreme Soviet of the RSFSR (1922-1938), chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR (1938-1946). He was one of Stalin's closest political allies.

9 Famine in Ukraine: In 1920 a deliberate famine was introduced in the Ukraine causing the death of millions of people. It was arranged in order to suppress those protesting peasants who did not want to join the collective farms. There was another dreadful deliberate famine in 1930-1934 in the Ukraine. The authorities took away the last food products from the peasants. People were dying in the streets, whole villages became deserted. The authorities arranged this specifically to suppress the rebellious peasants who did not want to accept Soviet power and join collective farms.

10 Great Terror (1934-1938): During the Great Terror, or Great Purges, which included the notorious show trials of Stalin's former Bolshevik opponents in 1936-1938 and reached its peak in 1937 and 1938, millions of innocent Soviet citizens were sent off to labor camps or killed in prison. The major targets of the Great Terror were communists. Over half of the people who were arrested were members of the party at the time of their arrest. The armed forces, the Communist Party, and the government in general were purged of all allegedly dissident persons; the victims were generally sentenced to death or to long terms of hard labor. Much of the purge was carried out in secret, and only a few cases were tried in public 'show trials'. By the time the terror subsided in 1939, Stalin had managed to bring both the party and the public to a state of complete submission to his rule. Soviet society was so atomized and the people so fearful of reprisals that mass arrests were no longer necessary. Stalin ruled as absolute dictator of the Soviet Union until his death in March 1953.

11 Great Patriotic 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-called Great Patriotic War.

12 War with Japan: In 1945 the war in Europe was over, but in the Far East Japan was still fighting against the anti-fascist coalition countries and China. The USSR declared war on Japan on 8 August 1945 and Japan signed the act of capitulation in September 1945.

13 Babi Yar: Babi Yar is the site of the first mass shooting of Jews that was carried out openly by fascists. On 29th and 30th September 1941 33,771 Jews were shot there by a special SS unit and Ukrainian militia men. During the Nazi occupation of Kiev between 1941 and 1943 over a 100,000 people were killed in Babi Yar, most of whom were Jewish. The Germans tried in vain to efface the traces of the mass grave in August 1943 and the Soviet public learnt about mass murder after World War II.

14 Khrushchev, Nikita (1894-1971): Soviet communist leader. After Stalin's death in 1953, he became first secretary of the Central Committee, in effect the head of the Communist Party of the USSR. In 1956, during the 20th Party Congress, Khrushchev took an unprecedented step and denounced Stalin and his methods. He was deposed as premier and party head in October 1964. In 1966 he was dropped from the Party's Central Committee.

15 Twentieth Party Congress: At the Twentieth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in 1956 Khrushchev publicly debunked the cult of Stalin and lifted the veil of secrecy from what had happened in the USSR during Stalin's leadership.

16 Gulag: The Soviet system of forced labor camps in the remote regions of Siberia and the Far North, which was first established in 1919. However, it was not until the early 1930s that there was a significant number of inmates in the camps. By 1934 the Gulag, or the Main Directorate for Corrective Labor Camps, then under the Cheka's successor organization the NKVD, had several million inmates. The prisoners included murderers, thieves, and other common criminals, along with political and religious dissenters. The Gulag camps made significant contributions to the Soviet economy during the rule of Stalin. Conditions in the camps were extremely harsh. After Stalin died in 1953, the population of the camps was reduced significantly, and conditions for the inmates improved somewhat.



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Lily Arouch
Athens
Greece
Interviewer: Annita Mordechai
Date of interview: November 2005

Lily Arouch, 77, has beautiful light blue eyes and wears glasses. She lives in a big apartment in the suburbs of Athens.

Since September 2005 she shares her apartment with her granddaughter Yvon, who has moved from Thessalonica to Athens due to her studies. In the same apartment block lives her older daughter's family.

Around her apartment are pictures of her family, her daughters, her grandchildren and her husband as well as her sisters' families. In the living room there is an impressive library, where one mostly sees history books.

The apartment is always full of little treats for guests or the family and it always has a delicious cooking odor.

Being her granddaughter myself and listening to her stories gave me a completely new perspective on the past of my family and life in Thessalonica.

• Family background
• Growing up
• During the war
• Post-war
• Glossary

• Family background

I don't know much about my great-grandparents. I didn't even meet my grandfathers, neither of the two. I did meet my grandmothers though before they were taken to the concentration camps. I believe that my father's family came from Portugal because they ended up in Monastir, a small town in Serbia.

I don't know very much about my father's family. My grandfather on my father's side was named David Pardo and was married to Lea Kamhi. They had five children: my father and four daughters who were all born in Monastir, Serbia.

[Editor's note: After the end of the Second Balkan War in 1913, formerly Ottoman-occupied Macedonia was carved up among Serbia, Bulgaria, and Greece. Monastir was in the territory incorporated by Serbia; renamed Bitola it today belongs to the FYROM. (Source: Mark Cohen, 'Last Century of a Sephardic Community: The Jews of Monastir, 1839-1943')]

My father's mother, Lea, was a very traditional woman: she didn't go out much, she wore her traditional headscarf and she only spoke Spanish, even after moving to Thessalonica in 1914-1916. Of course Thessalonica was Turkish then; it became Greek only later on.

[Editor's note: Thessalonica became part of Greece with the Treaty of Bucharest in 1913. A few months later WWI started during which the city accepted the allied forces of the Entente; nevertheless Thessalonica was still quite Ottoman in nature.]

I guess she was very traditional but not religious. She wasn't very talkative, but she was very active within her household, she took very good care of us and was very important in our house. We lived in a house in the center of the city, so my family wasn't in a very Jewish environment; I guess the environment was more the Orthodox Christian environment of Thessalonica.

My grandmother didn't have much of a relationship with the neighbors but she was always waiting for Saturday when her daughters and grandchildren would visit; visitors were always a cause for celebration in the house. She used to live with us, but unfortunately she was taken to a concentration camp.

My mother's family, the Berahas, probably came from Spain and then settled in Skopje. My grandfather on my mother's side was called Solomon Beraha and was married to Doudoun Frances. They got married in Skopje but came and settled in Thessalonica.

I know that my mother's father was a pharmacist who had studied in Constantinople [today Istanbul, Turkey]. He went back to Skopje, but life wasn't good there, so they moved and settled in Thessalonica. My mother's father died at the age of forty, so I guess he was born around 1870. My grandmother Doudoun had another daughter, Laura, and a son, Gastone. My grandmother went to a nuns' school, so she spoke French and Spanish, which was her mother tongue.

My grandfather Solomon was a pharmacist, so when he got to Thessalonica he opened a pharmacy. When his son Gastone grew up, he wanted to renew the pharmacy; back then it was traditional for the children to take up their fathers' profession. So in 1917 he ordered new equipment for the pharmacy from Germany.

In 1917 there was a great fire in Thessalonica 1. After the equipment arrived, the fire broke out and everything, along with the pharmacy, burnt down, and they were left with nothing. The family, husband, wife and three children, was left without anything. In 1918 my grandfather died from appendix problems; he was forty at the time. His family was left without any means to survive.

My grandfather had brought the medication from Germany, and when one of his German associates learnt about the incident, he came to take my mother's brother Gastone with him to Germany to help the family. Gastone went with him to Germany at the age of eighteen. He was the one who supported the family financially; he was sending money to his mother for her to make a living and get the girls married and so on.

My grandmother Doudoun spent some time in Paris with her son Gastone, and then, before the war, she came to Thessalonica and stayed with her other daughter Laura; unfortunately the Germans took her away. Our family wasn't religious in the strict sense of the word, but they were very traditional: Saturday night was always a celebration; my grandmother Lea always lit the candles, without being too religious though. My grandmother didn't really go to the synagogue.

My parents were called Haim and Eugenie Pardo. They had an arranged marriage in 1928 in the synagogue in Thessalonica.

My mum, like her mum, went to a nuns' school, a 'l'ecole des soeurs' as they used to say, so she spoke French and Spanish and some Greek. Her Greek wasn't very good, but she managed.

My father was born in 1898 in Monastir. His mother tongue was Spanish. In addition to the German language, which he probably learnt at the German school he attended, he spoke French fluently and also Greek. I don't know if he went to school for that, I think he learnt Greek by himself, but he spoke and wrote it very well.

He was also very keen on learning, he was a philomath. He was tall and thin. He wasn't very talkative, but he was gentle and decisive. He was always helping different charity institutions. I know he was a big patron of the Jewish institutions of Thessalonica, but I don't think he was ever a member of any political organization.

He was a self-made man; he came [to Thessalonica] from Monastir with his parents during World War I, probably around 1916-1918, and started working on his own. I guess his father was sick because he started working and fighting for survival very early on.

He started off as an employee and then founded his own business, a commercial shop named 'Pardiko,' on 28 Tsimiski Street. It was an electrical shop that sold electrical appliances and items, wires, leads etc, and even bathrooms and sanitary ware.

• Growing up

My parents' clothes were very European and contemporary for their times. They were no different than other people of that time. My mother was very elegant and chic. I remember that my father used to read a lot. I don't remember my mother reading, but my father really read a lot.

He was reading all sorts of books: literature and even political books, but not religious ones; my family wasn't very religious. He didn't use the library. He was working long hours. He used to read at noon when he came back from work. People back then, or at least my father, would come back from work, we would eat and sit and then he would read his newspaper, and then he would go back to work.

At the time they used to work mornings and evenings. He would come home very late at night. He reinforced us to read from a young age. We went to school, a Greek school, straight away, but we always had a French tutor in the house, because we needed to know a foreign language.

In Thessalonica other than the Greek newspapers there were also Jewish newspapers in circulation, published by Jewish editors. There was 'Le Progres' and 'El Messagero' and 'L'Independent' among many others. 'El Messagero' was Spanish. Two friends of his [my father] published two of these, and he used to read them every day.

Sam Modiano was the publisher of 'Le Progres' and Ilias Tas was the editor of 'L'Independent,' the two French papers in circulation in Thessalonica then. My parents used to read many foreign newspapers. My mother's brother Gastone, who had left for Germany when he was eighteen, left Germany in 1933, when the situation got worse for the Jews, and went and settled in Paris.

So they had good and direct knowledge of the situation. That, along with the information from the newspapers, made the atmosphere in the house heavy, as if we were waiting for something very bad to happen. We knew that in Germany things were bad for the Jews and were frustrated, as we didn't know what to do and how to do it. They were very aware of the situation in Germany and Europe, my parents as well as their friends.

My family lived in the center of town, on 35 Tsimiski Street; this means there was no Jewish neighborhood around us. We were living in a mansion- style house with five apartments, three of the families that lived there were Jewish. One of the families was called Gildi, they owned a big bakery in the center of the town; the other family was called Shalom.

It was with them that my parents were closer; they used to see each other socially once in a while. We lived in one of the apartments: my parents, their three daughters and my grandmother Lea. It had five rooms, my parents' room, my grandmother's room, which is where I stayed because I was the oldest daughter, the living room and the dining room, which were closed at that time, and one more room for my two little sisters.

I remember the furniture distinctly, it was very traditional. The beds were brass and very big, my mother's was gold-plated, I think, and covered with very big mosquito nets that we used to call 'baltakina' 2. We had them over all the beds, and in my grandmother's room.

These mosquito nets were quite luxurious with many layers of lace. They were important because there were a lot of mosquitoes back then. In my grandmother's room, along with the big bed there was a 'lavomano' 3, which was a big bowl with a porcelain jug. The dining room had a big buffet where they kept the silver tray with the silver spoons that they used when we had visitors.

They would take out the silver tray, the silver spoons and glasses and offer three types of dessert. My grandmother Lea was a renowned hostess, so when we had visitors she offered not one but three types of dessert.

We had electricity in our house and running water, we even had a boiler that would heat the water up with wood, and this was fairly sophisticated for our time. The electricity was used for lighting the house. As we didn't have electrical appliances at home, we would cook with charcoal and we had something like a fire cooker, in Spanish we called it 'formaiya' 4.

There was an entrance hall in the house like in most houses at the time. It was there that the 'salamandra' 5, a big stove that worked with charcoal, was. That is how the whole house was heated up and we had smaller wood burners in some rooms.

We used to have a girl that helped with the household chores and she used to stay with us; she mainly helped with the washing and the kitchen. We also had a teacher, who would take us for walks and look after us. We didn't have a garden, and we had no animals.

In the apartment next to us there was another family, the Negrepondis. Ambrosio Negrepondi was an insurer and had two children. His daughter, Maria, was the same age as my sister Roza; the two practically grew up together. Maria was constantly in our house when we had French lessons; she also took lessons with us.

Maria, our little Maria Delivanni, was a dean of the University of Thessalonica and is a respectable member of the society of her town. We still have contact with her, mostly my sister Roza sees her once in a while. It is her family that kept some of our belongings when we had to hide; it was them who gave us shelter during the first months of the liberation.

As for the town of Thessalonica during the post-war period I remember there weren't many cars, even though we lived in the center. There were a few cars and even fewer taxis but people mainly used horse carriages. There was the tram and this is how we mostly moved around. Where we lived was a very central place, so all streets around were of asphalt.

Near our house was a really beautiful square, Aristotelous Square, which had all sorts of coffee places around, and the cinema was there as well. That is where we would go for walks or play games, with our parents or without. Of course there were neighborhoods in Thessalonica that didn't have asphalt roads, and they were really poor.

We always kept Sabbath; Friday night was a very special night, and the same was true for Saturday. We always had someone over for dinner on Saturday, a close relative, a cousin or a friend. Every Saturday afternoon, [Grandma] Lea's daughters would come to visit her with their husbands and children.

Pesach was a very big celebration. We might not have been religious, but in our house tradition was sacred. First of all I remember that around Purim, which is exactly a month before Pesach, preparations had to begin. In those days we didn't have a mixer or anything like that, so when the sugar arrived in crystals, I remember my mother and my grandmother trying to break it up with a mortar and a pestle in order for the sweets to be prepared. The sugar had to be Pascoual 6 in order for the sweets to be proper. After that there was a huge box, it was more like a trunk, where they stored the Pesach pans and pots for the rest of the year.

On the eve of Passover these were taken out and all the rest of the household stuff was put away. The big trunk was sent to the matzah factory. Back then we didn't have the matzah cut in maneuverable sizes, bought in boxes; the matzah came in big pieces of differing size, in the trunk, covered with a white cloth. It had to last for the entire Passover period.

This matzah had to be cut down in order for all the sweets to be prepared, like the burmoelos 7, a very traditional sweet of Thessalonica. We kept the seven days of Passover and the whole tradition of it. For Passover, only one of my father's sisters, Ester, would come; the other three had big families of their own.

Ester lived near us and she came with her husband, Sabethai Pardo, and her two children [Nina and Alberto]. My mother's sister Laura joined us as well with her husband - the rabbi's son - and we all sat together around this traditional table.

As for Rosh Hashanah I remember the festive table. It might not have been as intense as Passover, but it was a big celebration for the family. We followed most of the traditions. There were the traditional Rosh Hashanah dishes; like the fish of which each one had to have his own as a symbol of his/her self-sufficiency, and the fish-head that symbolizes our path, our forward path.

Then there was the leek, we would make it into leek balls. We heat up the leeks and dry them very well, we add some breadcrumbs, salt and pepper and some egg. Then we make the mix into balls and put them in the frying pan [traditional Sephardic recipe].

There was spinach we would make into pies, and of course there were the dates. I still make the traditional apple sweet of Rosh Hashanah, not only for myself but also for the whole family and friends. The recipe is as follows: About 1.5 k of apples and 1k of sugar and a glass of water. We dissolve the sugar in water and quickly add the apple after we have peeled and grated it. We add some lemon so that the color stays and leave it on the fire until it settles. We leave it to cool and then we add almonds and we put it into jars [traditional Sephardic recipe].

On the night of Rosh Hashanah we say, 'Let the new year be as sweet as honey.' It is traditional to have the apple sweet on that night in order to wish for the year to be as sweet and nice. My grandmother and my mother used to make this sweet for everyone in the family and sent it to them.

Yom Kippur was the only day my father spent the entire morning and afternoon in the synagogue. He would return home in the evening, and there would be a sort of feast. It was a very respected day for everyone in the house; my mother would spend it absorbed in prayer and we, the children, would try to keep the fast.

It was my father who went to the marketplace, the Modiano market [built in 1923 by the architect Eli Modiano, who was the son of a well-known banker, Saoul Modiano]. He would go out in the morning to shop. He always had one of his employees with him. He would shop and the guy would bring the stuff back home.

My father would buy all the special items, like fish or meat. The grocer would send his helper around the house and my grandmother would order the rest of the stuff that was needed. It would be delivered later on in the day.

I have the impression that the merchants at this market were mainly Jewish. There was this central marketplace, the Modiano market. This market still exists in Thessalonica and it used to be the food market of the town. I remember it used to have three or four corridors where different kinds of shops were situated. You could find fish, meat and vegetables. It is my impression that lots of the shopkeepers were Jewish.

There was a very active Jewish community in Thessalonica. When I say active I mean it had many charity institutions to help the poor; as the community was so big, it had people from all social classes. There were lots of poor people, entire neighborhoods, and I know that the community would take care of them. It had institutions, old people's homes, orphanages, institutions for poor girls. There was also a big hospital named HIRS that was built by Baron Hirs, who was known throughout the Balkans. It was a big hospital and I think it still exists. There was the Mair Aboav; I think that was the name of the orphanage, Matanot Levionim 8, the Saoul Modiano care home.

I don't know how many rabbis there were in Thessalonica, or if there was a shochet or chazzan. There were Jewish schools, but my sisters and I didn't go there, so I don't know how many Jewish schools existed.

I don't remember the political atmosphere so much as I was too young. Before I was born there was a fire in Cambel. This group that was called 3E 9 had burnt a whole area but that was either before I was born or when I was really young.

Of course we were very annoyed with the dictatorship of Metaxas 10. He had established E.O.N. 11 in which he made very clear and obvious he would not accept Jews. I remember my parents and their friends were very upset. I don't remember any parades.

In Thessalonica there were two different views among the Jews: one of the two groups believed that everyone should leave and go to Palestine; they were called the Zionist movement. The others held the view that they should try and be incorporated in the society they were living in. My father supported the second view; he thought efforts should be made to assimilate with the Greek society.

My parents' friends were all Jewish and had similar views. They would talk to my mothers' sister and her husband, with my father's sisters and their husbands and other friends, but they were all Jewish. They would come over or go out probably to other people's houses or somewhere outside to sit and chat.

All [friends] I remember are Zak Franses and Alfredo Beza, who survived the war, and also Salamo Arditi, who was consul of some country - I don't remember which one - but he helped my father during the war because of his position, I guess. The first week the Germans were there they informed the diplomats that they would open the banks for two hours.

Everything my father owned was in a safe in the bank. His friend Salamo notified him and my father managed to join the diplomats and salvage all he could. He was always very grateful to his friend that he owed a big favor to; they spent a lot of time together. I also remember Pepo Beza, who was also a good friend and a merchant too.

My father's associates and colleagues were mainly Christians and even though they had very good relationships, we didn't have closer family-like relationships with them. I remember that our family would never go on holiday.

My mother's sister was called Laura and she was married to David Haguel, who was a son of Ha Giako Haguel, the great rabbi of bet din. The bet din was the supreme Jewish court and I remember that when the rabbi died the whole community was really shocked; he was a very important figure at the time.

My grandmother Lea had a sister in Thessalonica called Mesulam - Luna Mesulam Tamar - my father would go and visit her once a year during Passover. My other grandmother Doudoun had a sister who would occasionally come and visit us; her name was Myriam.

I was born in Thessalonica in 1929. My mother took care of my two younger sisters and me even though we also had a teacher that looked after us. My grandmother did the cooking. I went to school when I was six, the Valagianni School; it was all girls, but I don't remember making any special friends. We had a lot of lessons at school and also French lessons.

We would go to school in the morning, come back around one, have something to eat and go back at three o'clock, then we would go back home at five, and at five thirty our French teacher would come.

After that we had to do our homework. When I was a bit older, about eight or nine years old, I would try and finish my homework earlier, so I could go to my father's shop, which was very close to our house. We lived on 35 Tsimiski Street and the shop was across the street on 28 Tsimiski Street.

I really loved going to the shop because I really enjoyed being close to him and also watching and listening to what they were doing. I remember that we were very busy [at school] and had no free time. We would go to school even on Saturdays, although it was Sabbath and my aunties used to come over.

I clearly remember the headmaster of the school, Ms. Valagianni. When things got worse in Thessalonica she called me into her office and said, 'my child I understand that now you might not be able to come to school, but you should know that whatever you want I am here and you can come to me.' At that time something like that was very important and I still remember; it gives me the chills. People in my school were nice, and I don't remember any anti-Semitic incidents.

I went to the same school as my sisters; I remember we used to play a lot. We would never go to the synagogue, only if there was a wedding or some other event. Of course we had a beautiful synagogue of the people from Monastir [see Monastir Synagogue] 12, where my father came from, and which was being maintained.

My father always went alone to the synagogue; he never took us with him. Every Sunday my parents would meet up with other couples who had children our age; they had about two or three friends like that. They would talk to the grown-ups and we played with the children, who were pretty much our age. All these friends were Jewish. I didn't do any sport, and then, unfortunately, I was eleven when the war started and I couldn't do anything after that.

I went on a train journey once with my mother; we went to Paris in 1936. It lasted for three days and three nights, from Thessalonica to Paris, and I remember it very intensely. When we got to Paris we were grubby from the smoke in the train.

Our parents didn't teach us anything directly but their example was intense. I mean how nice they were to their friends, how caring they were to the family; my father was always worried about the family and my mother would take very good care of her sister. It was these things that were important for us.

Looking back at my family environment, I believe that we were a middle class family and there were two basic things: the first was education, where every generation would reinforce the next, every generation was more educated than the last one because there was a will to learn, a will to teach the children.

My father and his sisters went to school, of course, but then they continued getting educated and the same was the case with my mother's family. The second thing I think affected this family was immigration: in all the families there was someone that left. As for my father's family, two of the five siblings went to North Africa.

In my mother's family their support was the brother in Germany. In my husband's family, out of the four siblings two left looking for a better life: Morris, who went to France, and Mordo, who went to Skopje. There he created a company. All in all, the basic similarity was a will to better their lives.

• During the war

For me the war started on a Monday morning, it was the 28th of October 1940. We were very scared; we had heard that the Italians would bomb us. Our house had four floors, so we arranged it with the neighbors and went and slept in the basement on makeshift beds and mattresses.

Three days went by, but then we started going out a little bit. Of course we weren't going to school then because we were scared. On Friday morning the alarm went off and fortunately we were all home, except my father, who was at work. We were with Mother and we didn't know what to do, so we gathered in a little corridor in the basement.

My father stayed at work. Then really loud bombing started; it was probably so loud because we were in the center, opposite the post office. As we were in the corridor, we could actually feel the bombing; it really was that loud. We didn't know what to do.

Anyway, when this whole thing was over we realized by looking out the window that it was our father's building that had been bombed. Luckily for us, the other side of the building was the one that had the damage, and so he was saved.

After that my mother and father decided we would move to some little house outside Thessalonica, in the countryside. They said it was impossible to live in the center and especially as central as we did, on Tsimiski Street. So we put some mattresses and some clothes on a horse carriage.

There was no other means of transport, so we took the tram: it was my parents, the three children and my grandmother who had real difficulty moving. During the tram journey the alarm sounded, we got off and went to a basement because there weren't any shelters; things weren't organized at all. My father and the neighbors paid to make a shelter, so when the alarm sounded we would hide there, even though we were outside the city.

My father still went to work, even with one half of the building having been bombed. In another incident I remember, there was a bomb that fell into the courtyard of my father's shop and it didn't go off. Usually, the employees would hide in the basement during the alarms, that time they were extremely lucky because it didn't go off.

They called the police to deactivate the bomb. Imagine, they had to empty the whole square because they were very scared. They even marked the day by writing the word 'black day' somewhere. Thankfully they managed to deactivate the bomb successfully, and our father was saved, thank God.

We remained in the countryside until April or May when the Germans came and we had to go back to our house. After that our trouble with the Germans began. The Germans entered Thessalonica in April 1941. For about a year they were slightly tolerant and life went on normally, even though we were terrified.

We stayed in our house in the center that whole winter of 1940- 1941. The Germans would often order the whole town to stay inside their houses, and sometimes they would choose a house and enjoin it. In our house they took over one room and accommodated a German officer there, which obviously caused us a lot of problems.

My parents wouldn't let us out of the rooms. A bit later on the Germans took another two rooms, so they had three in total. My family was limited to two rooms. In the other three rooms lived a German family. The situation went on like this for about a year.

In July 1942 an order came out that all Jewish males aged eighteen to forty- five had to gather up at Eleftheria Square. My father was quite clear from the beginning that he was against that and he refused to go. My mother was very scared because they were making known the penalties for not showing up. However, my father still refused. 

As I was the oldest daughter, they decided that I had to go and see what was happening. I was thirteen then. I left and went to Eleftheria Square which is surrounded on three sides with tall office buildings and the sea on the other; I went on a balcony of one of those buildings, along with many other people. I was too young and no one noticed me. I guess the people around me were all Christian.

The view was horrifying. It was a square full of men without tops or hats and the sun was burning hot. They had been lined up on the central side. The Germans were positioned in front of a big bank and they were making rounds and pointing at people. They would shout, 'you, you' and make them do cartwheels and hit them.

They forced them to stay there for many hours until the sun went down; they were standing since dawn and being tortured one after the other. I have to admit I was terrified and I went and told my father what I had seen, which made him refuse to go more firmly. I was proud that my father didn't go even though there was great propaganda against such behavior. Anyway they were all let free that night.

Then there was an order that those who hadn't gone to Eleftheria Square should go and present themselves in some school buildings. Things were getting rough, so my father decided he couldn't avoid showing up in a Jewish school. It was a bit outside the town; I went with him.

There must have been about a hundred people gathered there. Again they had to walk in the sun until they got to this place by the coast, Aretsou maybe, I'm not sure. They were put into line and they all went through a series of doctors; supposedly they were the ones with health problems. My father was relieved because obviously something was wrong with him, and he didn't have to go for labor like the ones before him.

As time went by the Germans gathered more and more Jews and had them working, building roads at Lamia 13. A lot of children died from malaria; there was an epidemic at the time. At some point the Jewish Community of Thessalonica gave a large amount of money, gold liras, to stop the hunting down of the young people, and the sickness. I know that my father gave a significant amount for the cause, but nothing happened.

The situation got worse: the winter of 1941-1942 was the winter of hunger, as they used to call it. It was very hard because the Germans had confiscated all the food. It was very cold, we had no heating and we stopped going to school. My father still went to work, but business was very limited, no one was really building or fixing anything, and the Germans claimed a lot of the merchandise too, just like that.

In February 1943 the real persecution started. It was then that our neighbor, Maria's father, came to discuss with my father how they could save their children. When the time came and we had to leave, they were really close to us. First of all we gave them all our carpets and the pianos were moved from window to window, and these are the only things we managed to save.

The rest of our furniture was never found. Some people said that some of our pictures eventually turned up in some basement. Someone who knew my father put them in a bag and gave them to him. So these were saved very randomly.

In April 1943 we were forced to wear the star of David, even the children, and we were moved to the ghetto. There were two ghettos in Thessalonica, one by the train station and one close to the countryside; we went to the second one [see Thessalonica Ghettos] 14. In the ghetto each family, regardless of how many members, had one room. We spent about two months there. The bad news just kept on coming: they started arresting and sending people to the train station ghetto and then put them on trains and shipped them off somewhere.

The situation was getting worse and by manipulating the community and the head rabbi Koretz, the Germans selected a hundred well-off community members, including my father, whom they called 'hostages.' They were responsible for the people that tried to escape: for whoever would try to run, one of the hundred men would be executed. A lot of people would come by the house and a lot of them had a compromising attitude. They were saying that it didn't matter, if they were shipped off to Germany, it would be the same, 'work here and work there.' They had their older parents to consider, as they said.

This young man, an employee of my father and cousin of my mother, Alberto Kovo - he was about twenty eight years old - came to the house one day. My father told him, 'what do you think you're doing? You are a young man you should go.' He said, 'I can't go, it doesn't matter if I work here. I will work here. I can't leave my mother.' At the same time there were people that were more dynamic. They would come and say, 'we won't bend down our heads to the Germans. God knows what they will do to us.'

My father knew very well what was happening in Germany and he would discuss it with other people. He knew it because he was aware of things, he read a lot of things about how bad people were being treated. Obviously he didn't know anything about the crematoria and the concentration camps, but we knew about people being treated badly, we were living in such conditions.

One day my father received a message from a friend, a doctor, George Karakotsios. It said, 'I am willing to put you and your children up so long as you manage to leave that place.' My father didn't think twice, even though he had to leave behind his old mother, and my mother had to leave her mother and sisters and their families.

On 12th April 1943 I left the ghetto with my two sisters; we stayed alone that night. Before we left my father told me, 'Listen child, you have two younger sisters and you need to take care of them.' We didn't know what was going to happen next. Thankfully my parents came the following night and then the morning after that everyone in the ghetto, where we had also been before, was gathered and taken to the ghetto next to the train station.

From there they were forced into trains and left. My grandmothers and aunties were taken too. We found that out when we were hiding, because we had a Christian friend who would come and tell us some news. We remained hidden in that house for nineteen months, even though the original plan was to move further away from the center. The apartment was very central, it was on 113 Tsimiski Street, on the third floor. It was an apartment with three rooms and the people living in it were the doctor, his wife and their child.

These people saved us, they were very special. He was a known tuberculosis doctor, George Karakotsios. He was the manager of a branch of IKA [social security office] in Thessalonica. His wife was Fedra and they had an eight- year-old boy then.

These people took us in, gave us their room and hid us there for nineteen months. They shared with us the little bread and food they had, and also our fear and frustration. It was a very hard time for us, and for them. We were all very scared. Imagine, we were living in a very small apartment and every sound and every knock on the door was scary for us. My father was hiding in a closet and my mother was hiding under a bed.

We also found out afterwards that the building opposite was a partisan hideout, so we would hear 'boop boop' and it was the boots of the Germans going to search that apartment. Twice we really thought they were coming for us, so my parents left in the night. Back then there was a curfew, so the streets were completely empty.

We were left in the house. On the one hand we were fine, because we were living in an apartment, but on the other hand we were scared too. We would walk with socks because we didn't want the people living below us to know how many of us were living up there. Obviously the lady of the house would go out shopping for the family and obviously it was quite basic: we didn't have much money; my father had some but not that much. We were just trying to survive.

We were eating pulses; I rarely had meat that whole time. There was a shop close by that made yogurt of terrible quality, our hosts would buy some and they would share it with us and a piece of bread. That was dinner. For lunch we would have pulses or a potato - very basic.

That period we weren't keeping Sabbath or any of the holidays we didn't even know when they were, my parents would calculate it could be [Yom] Kippur, but there was no way we could keep it. My mother and I would do all the housework, we would wash the clothes by heating up some water on coal and briefly try and clean them.

We would make bread if there was flour, and we were all allowed one piece each. The bread that was available at the time was called 'bobota', a kind of hard corn-flour bread, that's what the bakeries were selling. Time went by and my mother would wash and cook and keep the children busy; my younger sister was three years old.

My father was reading books from the doctor's library and I was too. I was reading a lot, both the doctor's and his wife's books. Or I would knit if there was wool, so I could make some clothes for my sisters; they had nothing to wear and there was no chance we could go out and buy any [clothes].

Naturally they [Dr. Karakotsios' family] limited to the minimum the people that visited them. Only a friend of my father's would come every fifteen to twenty days to see us and tell us what was happening in the outside world. Time was going by slowly and we were hearing stories about people getting arrested and we were very scared.

Then there was bombing in Thessalonica and I remember being in the room and watching the port on fire. We really were very grateful to these people; until the day she died my mother called George Karakotsios an angel. The Karakotsios' though were hit by a great misfortune. After the liberation my parents would see them sometimes.

Their son, who was aged about eight or nine, like my sister Rosa, grew up and became a soldier. He was their only child. One day his mother saw a military Jeep come by with two coffins. They said, 'we brought your son.' She went crazy and jumped off the fourth floor and died. Mother and son were buried the same day. The father was a wreck and didn't live more than another year or two. This was a terrible ending to this family and we were very hurt by what happened.

• Post-war

When the war ended in October 1944 [12th October 1944], we saw the Germans leave in their trucks; we had a little window and we could see what was happening. Once again they sent me out first, to see what was happening. When I came back I told my father, 'I don't see any Germans, I think you can go out.' And so we left our hiding place. We had stayed there from April 1943 to October 1944, we had been there for nineteen months. After that we left the hiding place and life went on.

When we were liberated we found out that my grandmothers and my parents' sisters were all dead. The only one who was rescued was one of my father's sisters, Ester Pardo, with her husband, Sabethai Pardo, and her daughter, only because her son was a civil guard 15.

During the war the community had organized a few young people with the promise that they would be treated better, if they became civil guards.

My little cousin, who was twenty, joined them, and he helped bringing a group of people to the trains. A person from that group escaped. When the Germans counted them and realized someone was missing they took him instead: he was sent to Lamia, to forced labor. He tried to escape and was shot in cold blood. His parents went out looking for him; they left the ghetto and were saved.

In addition we learnt that Gastone had been saved. He had an adventure but was lucky. In 1939 Gastone had already moved to Paris and had been married for a year. His wife was expecting a baby and wanted to go back to Cairo, to her mother, to give birth.

Gastone and his wife left for Cairo where they ended up spending the entire period of the war as they couldn't get back to Europe and had two children: Deniz, who was born in 1940, and Mony Beraha, born in 1944. The family returned to France in 1948 and Gastone managed to establish himself as a pharmaceutical merchant. He lived all his life in Paris.

When we left the house we were hiding in, we only had a little suitcase with very few clothes, and as we had nowhere to go we went to a hotel. We went back to our old house and there was nothing. There were some refugees living there already, the house was empty and there was nothing in it.

My father went and bought five plates and five forks and a couple of knives so we could sit and have something to eat. We stayed in that hotel and then moved to a better one, which was called 'Modern.'

On the second day my father went out to see what was going on in the town. His shop was completely empty, there was nothing left. Everything had been evacuated by the Germans. Our house had been completely emptied of our things, so we really didn't find anything.

Many refugees had come in from the provinces around. While we were hiding the rural areas were severely suffering from the Germans. It was these people that had occupied our apartment. They were moving into any empty house or apartment they found.

My father, probably out of anxiety for the future, or sorrow, or both, went through a paralysis. He was unable to move and so stayed in the hotel room for a while. Everyone said it was psychosomatic stress he was going through. It was probably a combination of the fact that he had been lying down for nineteen months in the house that we were hiding in, and then he suddenly started walking and moving, and the chaotic situation when we came out. We didn't find anything, neither our house nor our furniture nor the shop and its merchandise. Thank God he recovered in the end.

On our return from hiding the reaction of our neighbors was mixed. There were those who were happy to see we had survived and those who had a peculiar attitude saying, 'oh, so you were not taken away, were you?', as if they were happy to have got rid of us.

The community had not been reconstituted yet. We were among the first ones to come out on 26th October, and then slowly people started coming down from the mountains. In Thessalonica we found a doctor named Matarasso who hadn't been persecuted as he had a Christian wife. The first meetings were held in his house, at night we would all gather there: my father, the doctor and anyone else that had returned, either from hiding in the mountains or the villages around.

My father tried to reestablish himself in Thessalonica, where we stayed the entire winter of 1944-1945; it was very tough. That winter he tried to restart his business without merchandise and money. It was his acquaintances from before the war that helped him.

My father owned the building where his shop was. In the meanwhile one of his associates came back from Germany - his name was Ovadia Medina - and another one named Leon Carasso returned from hiding in the mountains. The latter was to become my brother-in-law later in time. On their return all three of them tried to reestablish the business and get back to work.

This new venture expanded and when we came down to Athens, my father created an import office there. That way he was providing the shop in Thessalonica with merchandise. This business was very successful all through the post-war years until my father's death.

I believe that after the war my father clearly became pro-Israel, which was an impressive change of view. The state of Israel was founded in April 1948, which was a great relief for us as messages from the concentration camps had started arriving.

[Editor's note: On 14th May 1948, the day the British Mandate over Palestine expired, the Jewish People's Council gathered at the Tel Aviv Museum, and approved a proclamation, declaring the establishment of the State of Israel. The new state was recognized that night by the United States and three days later by the USSR. Source: Howard M.Sachar, 'A History of Israel: From the Rise of Zionism to Our Time,' Alfred A.Knopf, New York, 1982.]

When the first survivor came back from the concentration camps, a man called Leon Batis, he came to Dr. Matarasso's house where we all met up and when he started talking about the crematoria and human fat being turn into soap and all these things, everyone was staring at him and saying, 'poor guy he is mad, hardship made him loose his mind.' That is how unbelievable it all seemed. Later more and more people started coming back and what was happening in the camps became well-known.

This is what made all of us, my father as well, realize that it was only on Israel we could rely. Since then he became a very eager supporter of Zionism. The American Joint Committee [see Joint] 13 was very active in Greece at the time. They came to help and they actually did help a lot of people.

After the war there weren't many friends or relatives left, some never came back and some started immigrating, mainly to the USA but to Israel as well. It was mainly younger people that left. To get to Israel wasn't easy at the time. The British were arresting everyone in Cyprus and putting them in concentration camps until they were allowed entrance to Israel.

I imagine we didn't immigrate because my father wanted to continue his business and he didn't want any more adventures in his life. He felt he was responsible for his family, and he felt he had something to start from here in Greece: his shop and colleagues. It was mostly the ones that lost everything - their houses and their jobs and their families - that took the decision to immigrate. My father was lucky enough to have had a base, and so he tried to rebuild the situation. As soon as we arrived from Thessalonica in 1945, my father's old colleagues in Athens helped him substantially; they gave him the means to start sending merchandise back to Thessalonica.

Our family moved to Athens. My sisters carried on with school, life carried on normally and naturally.

Socially, of course, my family remained within a Jewish circle. The girls [daughters] had their classmates but always kept their Jewish circle of friends. My parents' friends were all Jewish and so they could talk about their own problems and issues. Life went on, but unfortunately I came out of the occupation with a health problem; I had a hard time for a very long time. When my health got better, around 1950, I started working at my father's office and that is where I retired. I had to stop working because of health reasons.

My husband's family and mine had known each other for a while. That is how we ended up being introduced. His name was Manuel Arouch; he was born on 7th April 1911 in Thessalonica. His mother tongue was both Spanish and Greek. He was Jewish, and a doctor already when we got married. We got married in 1952.

Our wedding took place in a synagogue in Thessalonica, the rabbi, Morris Halegua, performed the ceremony. It was a small but traditional Jewish wedding, very moving. Without many relatives because neither my husband nor I had big families any longer. There was his older sister with her husband, Gracia and Leon Carasso, his mother, Sonhoula Arouch, my parents and my sisters. My wedding dress was very beautiful, it was a present from my mother, and I still keep it as a memento or reminder.

Before the war my husband's family was made up of four children, their father died when Manuel, my husband, was a high school boy. They were financially tight, but they all had an inclination or talent for learning. They were all educated. The older brother, Mordo Arouch, went to Skopje where he started a commercial business.

He got married there and had two children, Pepo and Alice. The children must have been around 15-20 when the persecution began. The Jews that were caught in Skopje were put on a boat to cross the Danube. The family found all this out later, after an official research in the archives of the concentration camps took place; there was no record of an arrival of a riverboat in any of them.

The other brother, Morris Arouch, left for France. Morris was a printer by profession; he read so much. He was married to Julia. He left for Marseille in 1930 in search of a better life. He worked really hard and in 1932 he called his wife to join him. They made a beautiful family there and had three children, Odet, Joseph and Alice.

The family had no other means and so both brothers, Mordo and Morris, and the sister, Gracia, helped my husband financially through his studies. They were sending him money each month. He had left Thessalonica in 1932 to come to Athens to study; he spent most of the occupation period in Athens. He was organized with the progressive youth organization of the university and the occupation period was hard for him as well as for all students; they survived on student commons.

When the persecution began, the student union joined NLF 17, which helped them a lot. My husband was with the group of people that helped the chief rabbi of Athens to disappear and burn the archives of the [Jewish] community of Athens.

The Germans put pressure on him to give them the list of the members' names, so they could record and arrest them. My husband was in the team that got close to the rabbi and convinced him not to consign the archives. He escorted him one night away from Athens to hide him and eventually send him to the mountains. Manuel went along with him and hid in the mountains.

During that period he was a member of NLF and then in ELAS 18, all the years of the persecution he was in the mountains of mainland Greece. He worked as a doctor while he was there, he took care of the rabbi; during the war he was protecting and taking care of him.

The first years after the liberation he worked for the [Jewish] community of Athens, he was the one who helped all the people that came back from the concentration camps or hiding. Later on he was employed by Joint and he created a multi-purpose medical office on the premises of the community of Athens; he worked there for many years. The work they did there was very important, as most people came back from the concentration camps either sick or very weak. They would take care of them, place them in sanatoria and give them the proper medicine. Joint had brought medicines from the USA and so people got substantial help.

Family ties were very strong during the post-war years when Manuel started practicing his profession. His brother, Morris, lost his wife to a fatal illness. Morris was left alone with three young children and no house to his name. The first money ever made by my husband was immediately sent to Marseille for Morris to buy a house.

Morris' three children are still in Marseille, and are true to the Jewish traditions, despite the fact that the two girls had a civil wedding to people of other faiths. We still see them once in a while. My husband earned his first money while he was working for the community of Athens.

My mother-in-law, Sonhoula Arouch, was a woman of quality; she survived the war hiding in the mountains. Before the war she lived with her daughter, Gracia, and her son-in-law, Leon Carasso. Leon had known and collaborated with my father before the war. He was very well connected and from the first moments of the occupation he made clear he was not going to follow the Germans.

He took his wife and mother-in-law and left for the mountains. His mother in law was 70 at the time but still followed her children. There she was looked after and taken care of by all, but she was the one to look after the sick and feed the weak. She was known under the nickname 'Comrade Katina.'

Every time the partisans had to move further up the mountains, because the Germans were coming close, they all had to walk while 'Comrade Katina' was always on a donkey or a mule. She was the oldest woman from Thessalonica to have survived; during the liberation most people called her 'Nona.'

My husband and I lived most of our lives in an apartment in the center of Athens, at Exarheia. My parents had their own house in a different area in Athens. My husband's mother Sonhoula lived in Thessalonica with her daughter but came to stay with us once for a couple of years and another time for three years.

I had two daughters with my husband: the first one, Aliki, was born in 1955 and the second one, Nelly, in 1959. They both went to the Jewish Elementary School of Athens. I believe that the fact that they went to the Jewish school was an essential part of their education, not to say that my husband and I didn't contribute.

As long as my daughters were still young and went to the Jewish school their friends were mainly Jewish. In high school they started having friends of different faiths but always kept in close contact with their old friends. We both talked a lot to them about everything we were interested in and read a lot.

We always bought new books and took our children to the theater; I believe we had a very close relationship with them. We both spoke to our children about their Hebrew background and as they were at the Jewish school they knew a lot about Jewish traditions already.

Every Friday night we celebrated Sabbath, lit the candles, and on Saturday no one did a lot at home; it was kind of a holiday. The Jewish school took the children up to the age of twelve to the synagogue every Saturday. They went to the Jewish summer camp and took part in the organized excursions of the youth club to Israel.

As I have said, our friends were mainly Jewish and so the conversations were mostly about what had happened during the war and the situation at the time. Our children were never excluded from such conversations; they knew most things from an early age. I remember there was a really interesting French magazine of Jewish content that we subscribed to, called L'Arche. Of course we always read a national Greek newspaper in order to keep informed about our country.

My husband mostly read history books, whatever had to do with history he enjoyed reading; he read books by left-wing orientated historians as well as right-wing ones. I mostly read novels and studied English.

We always took part in the happenings that the Jewish Community of Athens organized, but we also went to the theater and to lectures taking place in town. We went on holidays for just a couple of weeks and always around Athens, as my husband worked very hard and didn't have much time to spare.

At home we spoke Greek among ourselves, but the grandparents spoke Spanish, so the children learnt Ladino by listening to it. Today both of my daughters speak Ladino and Greek. We tried to raise our children firmly within the Jewish traditions. For Pesach we invited all the family and friends to our house, even though it wasn't very big.

We always kept Yom Kippur and even my husband didn't go to work on that day, and for Rosh Hashanah we went with all the family to my parents' house. We never celebrated Christmas or Easter at home, but as the children didn't have to go to school it was almost like a celebration.

I still keep my cooking traditional, just as I learnt it from my mother. I try to preserve the traditional way of cooking without being to strict about it. My favorite dishes are the soup called 'Matsa al Kaldo,' as we say in Spanish, and all kinds of pies. I believe I am more traditional than my mother was.

My husband and I used to travel abroad fairly often, firstly for health reasons and then because my husband had his brother Morris Arouch's family in Marseille. They were very close, these two, and so were both of our families. We were also going to conferences and always went to visit the family.

My husband had many non-Jewish friends among his colleagues, with whom he always had very good relationships. On my side the biggest percentage of friends was Jewish. As a family we had friends we had known for a long time. My husband's sister lived in Thessalonica. Still we were very close, she and her husband used to come to visit us in Athens quite often.

We used to have very close contact with my sisters' families, who lived in Athens as well. We used to see them once a week, on Sundays, when we used to go on excursions. It was we and our children and my sisters' families as well as some family friends with their children.

We had found a field somewhere in Attica and we went for picnics, because not only could we not afford to go to amenity centers or clubs, but we didn't like it either. We preferred to prepare some snacks to take along, and I remember we were having a great time. Our children became very close to each other as they played together every Sunday and we, adults, had the time to chat about our things.

We were always talking about issues concerning Israel and Judaism to our children. These issues were always of our interest, and we were following whatever was going on in Israel, as the times were hard then. There was no one in our social circle that wasn't willing to discuss such issues.

As for my daughters' bat mitzvahs I remember them being very simple but emotional ceremonies. We never had arguments with the grandparents on the way we were raising our children; they were tolerant and not very religious themselves. We always sought for the grandparents to light the candles on Sabbath.

My mother died on 20th June 1973 after a fatal accident, and my father died on 16th May 1976 of a heart attack. Both funerals were held in the Jewish Cemetery of Athens, according to the Jewish laws and traditions. My parents- in-law are buried in the Jewish Cemetery of Thessalonica. A Kaddish was recited and we still keep 'the day of remembrance of the dead', Yom Hashoah [Holocaust Remembrance Day].

My younger daughter, Nelly, had a very painful experience. Since she was a child she had wanted to become a teacher. When she finished school and was about to take the exams for the training college, she was told that it was impossible for her to be accepted because she was Jewish.

So she wasn't allowed to teach in a Greek school! That was a major shock for her, as she had grown up with that dream, and so she decided to go to Israel. I escorted her, we were together when she registered, and I must admit I found it hard to leave her there on her own, in a foreign land. That is not to say I wasn't happy she was in Israel, but I couldn't avoid being overprotective, I am a mother.

Our house was always open to our children's friends, my husband was very tolerant and he really enjoyed seeing them. Whenever they were to go out their friends would come and pick them up from the house, and so we were always trying to guess who the future groom was!

My daughter Aliki lives in Athens and I have the pleasure to live close by, not in the same house but near. She has two daughters, Annita and Lily, 25 and 23 years old, respectively. Nelly, my other daughter, is married in Thessalonica and now lives there. She has Yvonne, who is 18, and Ben, who is 17. I have the pleasure to see my grandchildren often enough, and I also speak to them on the phone very often.

Nelly now works for the Jewish Community of Thessalonica, specifically coordinating the youth programs, so the kids [my grandchildren] from Thessalonica, because of their mother's profession, have a closer relationship with Judaism.

My grandchildren in Athens are less involved in Jewish life, as they live far from the center, although their parents are active community members. My granddaughters are not very religious or traditional but it doesn't bother me, as parents are the ones to judge what is best for their own children. All my grandchildren attended the Jewish elementary school.

I have been involved with WIZO 19, which is a women's organization that helps Israel, for a long time now. I have been very active and take part in everything we do: conferences, workshops or bazaars; I also try to financially contribute as much as I can.

Moreover I take part in most community-organized events, and whenever there is a lecture I go. Every 15 days I meet up with my friends from WIZO, which is a great pleasure for me. In addition I meet up with my sisters once a week at least. I still cook. These days I go on vacations along with my children, as I cannot go on my own anymore. It gives me great pleasure.

• Glossary:

1 The Fire of Thessalonica: In the night of 18th August 1917, an enormous fire, fed by the famous Vardar wind, destroyed the city centre where most of the Jews lived.

It was a region of 227 hectares, where 15,000 families lived, 10,000 of them were Jewish families which were deprived of their homes. The Jews were hit the hardest, since more than two thirds of the property destroyed by the fire was Jewish and only a tenth of that immense fortune was insured.

Nearly all the schools, 32 synagogues, 50 oratories, all the cultural centers, libraries, clubs, etc. were annihilated. Despite of the aid of a sum of 40,000 golden pounds collected from all over the world, the community never recovered from that disaster.

The Jewish face of the city that had been there for more than five centuries was wiped out in 36 hours. 25,000, out of 53,000 of the stricken Jews that belonged mostly to the lower and middle class, were forced to live in the working-class districts that were hastily built in a rudimentary fashion. (Source: Rena Molho, 'Jewish Working-Class Neighborhoods established in Salonica Following the 1890 and the 1917 Fires,' in Rena Molho, 'Salonica and Istanbul: Social, Political and Cultural Aspects of Jewish Life,' The Isis Press, Istanbul, 2005, pp.107-126.)

2 Baltakina: very big mosquito net

3 Lavomano: jug and bowl used by people to wash their faces

4 Formaiya: Big benches with hole-like stoves where charcoal was placed. It was used to cook, sometimes a big baking sheet was placed on top of it.

5 Salamandra: big stove for heating the whole house

6 Pascoual: appropriate for consumption during the week of the Jewish Easter (Pesach or Passover), a time when the Jewish people do not eat food that raises, e.g. bread.

7 Burmoelos (or burmolikos, burlikus): A sweetmeat made from matzah, typical for Pesach. First, the matzah is put into water, then squashed and mixed with eggs. Balls are made from the mixture, they are fried and the result is something like donuts.

8 Matanot Laevionim: (Hebrew: Gifts to the Poor); a philanthropic institution, founded in Thessalonica in 1901, with the aim to distribute warm soup to poor schoolchildren without means.

9 3E (Ethniki ?nosi ?llados): lit. National Union of Greece, a fascist nationalist organization, founded in 1929 by George Kosmidis. It had about 2000 members, of whom the majority was immigrants. (Source: J. Hondros, Occupation and Resistance: the Greek Agony, New York, 1983.)

10 Metaxas, Ioannis (1871-1941): Greek General and Prime Minister of Greece from 1936 until his death. A staunch monarchist, he supported Constantine I and opposed Greek entry into WWI. Metaxas left Greece with the king, neither returning until 1920.

When the monarchy was displaced in 1922, Metaxas moved into politics and founded the Party of Free Opinion in 1923. After a disputed plebiscite George II, son of Constantine I, returned to take the throne in 1935.

The elections of 1936 produced a deadlock between Panagis Tsaldaris and Themistoklis Sophoulis. The political situation was further polarized by the gains made by the Communist Party of Greece (KKE). Disliking the Communists and fearing a coup, George II appointed Metaxas, then minister of war, to be interim prime minister.

Widespread industrial unrest in May allowed Metaxas to declare a state of emergency. He suspended the parliament indefinitely and annulled various articles of the constitution. By 4th August 1936, Metaxas was effectively dictator. Patterning his regime on other authoritarian European governments (most notably Mussolini's fascist regime), Metaxas banned political parties, arrested his opponents, criminalized strikes and introduced widespread censorship of the media. But he did not have great popular support or a strong ideology.

The Metaxas government sought to pacify the working classes by raising wages, regulating hours and trying to improve working conditions. For rural areas agricultural prices were raised and farm debts were taken on by the government. Despite these efforts the Greek people generally moved towards the political left, but without actively opposing Metaxas.

11 E.O.N.: National Youth Organization, founded by Metaxas

12 Monastir Synagogue [Monastirioton in Greek]: founded in 1923 by the Aruesti family who had sought shelter in the Jewish Community of Thessalonica - along with other families from Monastir - during the Balkan Wars (1912-1913).

13 Lamia: a city in the mainland of Greece; most Jewish males from Thessalonica were sent to Lamia and its surroundings to forced labor camps during WWII.

14 Thessalonica Ghettos: The two ghettos in Thessalonica were established by the Germans in Fleming and Syngrou Streets, in the east and the west of the city respectively. These were formerly neighborhoods with a dense, yet not exclusively Jewish population. There was no ghetto in the city before it was occupied by the Germans. (Source: Mark Mazower, Inside Hitler's Greece : the Experience of Occupation, 1941-44, New Haven and London)

15 Civil Guard: a.k.a. 'Capo'; young men recruited from within the Jewish Community. (Source: Mark Mazower, Inside Hitler's Greece : the Experience of Occupation, 1941-44, New Haven and London)

16 Joint (American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee): The Joint was formed in 1914 with the fusion of three American Jewish committees of assistance, which were alarmed by the suffering of Jews during WWI. In late 1944, the Joint entered Europe's liberated areas and organized a massive relief operation.

It provided food for Jewish survivors all over Europe, it supplied clothing, books and school supplies for children. It supported cultural amenities and brought religious supplies for the Jewish communities. The Joint also operated DP camps, in which it organized retraining programs to help people learn trades that would enable them to earn a living, while its cultural and religious activities helped re- establish Jewish life.

The Joint was also closely involved in helping Jews to emigrate from Europe and from Muslim countries. The Joint was expelled from East Central Europe for decades during the Cold War and it has only come back to many of these countries after the fall of communism. Today the Joint provides social welfare programs for elderly Holocaust survivors and encourages Jewish renewal and communal development.

17 NLF: National Liberation Front - Ethniko Apeleutherotiko Metwpo (EAM), founded at the end of 1942. It was the combating section of the left-wing Resistance. (Source: J. Hondros, Occupation and Resistance: the Greek Agony, New York, 1983.)

18 ELAS: Ethnikos Laikos Apeleutherotikos Stratos - National Popular Liberation Army, the central organization of the left-wing Resistance, joined also by other pro-democratic individuals. (Source: J. Hondros, Occupation and Resistance: the Greek Agony, New York, 1983.)

19 WIZO: Women's International Zionist Organization; a hundred year old organization with humanitarian purposes aiming at supporting Jewish women all over the world in the field of education, economics, science and culture. The history of WIZO in Greece began in 1934 with a small group of women, which was inactive throughout WWII.

In 1945 WIZO was again active in Greece because of the efforts of its first president, Victorine Kamhi, who eventually moved to Israel. After her retirement she was named an Honorary Member of WIZO. (Information for this entry culled from http://www.movinghere.org.uk/stories/story221/story221.htm? identifier= stories/story221/story221.htm&ProjectNo=14 and other sources).

Arnold Leinweber
Bucureşti
România
Reporter: Anca Ciuciu
Data interviului: Septembrie 2004

Arnold Leinweber este un autodidact. A învăţat să citească înainte de a intra la şcoală şi în clasa întâi citea ziarul. Acum la 84 de ani, scrie poezie în fiecare zi. Are patru volume de poezii: „Anotimpuri”, „Roi de licurici”, „Mărturisiri” şi „Revelaţie”.  Se deplasează mai greu, dar ochii strălucesc de inteligenţă. Îşi păstrează prestanţa unui bărbat care putea să frângă inimile doamnelor în tinereţe, dar a ales în schimb viaţa de familie. Se simte singur după moartea soţiei şi a fiicei, în anii 1990. Are o memorie fantastică  a datelor şi sentimentelor. Mica garsonieră este decorată cu acuarele, tabloul străbunicului şi fotografii vechi. La bucătărie, mai foloseşte unele prosoape făcute de mâna mamei, pe care se văd în parte vechile motive florale.

Familia mea
Copilăria mea
Al Doilea Război Mondial
După Război
Glosar

Familia mea

Din cele cunoscute în familie am aflat că străbunicul meu [matern], Moş Peretz [Moscovici], care a locuit în satul Dragomireşti, judeţul Piatra Neamţ, a fost un mic cârciumar cu patru copii, care s-a recăsătorit cu o văduvă cu alţi cinci copii. Cu acestă spuză de copii, care trebuiau crescuţi, el şi-a dus munca modestă. A fost respectat şi iubit de toţi ţăranii. Ca dovadă a acestui fapt este una din povestirile mamei mele. Într-o noapte doi tâlhari renumiţi din acele vremuri, unul înalt, zdravăn, zdrahon care se numea Zdrelea, iar celălalt mic, mărunţel, pirpiriu, Mărunţelea, i-au bătut la uşă. Era înspăimântat, ştia cam cine poate să fie, dar a deschis uşa. Au cerut să fie serviţi cu tutun si cu rachiu şi el i-a servit. După care cei doi tâlhari i-au cerut nota de plată, la care moş Peretz, înspăimântat, a spus că nu primeşte bani de la ei, iar aceştia i-au spus : „Moş Peretz, noi te cunoaştem pe dumneata, ştim că eşti un om sărac, dai pe datorie la toţi ţăranii care n-au bani să-ţi plătească înapoi şi o să te scoată la faliment până la urmă”. Şi aşa s-a întâmplat. Ce putea să vândă în cârciuma aia a lui în afară de tutun şi de rachiu, chibrituri nu se inventaseră pe vremea aia, avea fitil de amnar şi amnar, ca să aprindă cu scântei, gaz şi zahăr candel, că nu exista zahăr încă. Că făină ţăranul avea, fructe avea, deci era apă de ploaie marea cârciumă.  Şi moş Peretz a lăsat satul lui natal unde  a crescut copiii şi a plecat [împreună cu familia] la Piatra Neamţ unde a trăit din ce a învăţat pe copii să scrie, să citească limba ebraică şi a murit de bătrâneţe. Asta ştiu despre străbunicul.

Despre bunicii Marcus din partea tatălui nu ştiu nimic. Pe bunica nu ştiu cum o chema. Am văzut-o la un cămin de bătrâni al comunităţii [evreieşti din Bucureşti] de pe strada pe care a stat [Nicolae] Cajal 1.

Din familia lui tata, sora cea mare, care l-a crescut, nu ştiu cum a chemat-o. [Fraţii lui], Simon [Marcus], Marcu [Marcus], au emigrat în Israel. [Sora cea mare] a emigrat în America [înainte de 1921], era căsătorită, se numea Monbllat. A înnebunit când a auzit că tata a fost omorât. Ea a avut două fete şi doi băieţi. Cu fata cea mare, Frances, care locuia în Florida, am avut un timp corespondenţă şi pe urmă s-a mutat şi i-am pierdut urma. Unul  din băieţi era frizer şi avea la New York un atelier de coafură şi frizerie, care la rândul lui a avut un băiat şi i-a predat când a ieşit la pensie atelierul. A avut o fată, care a făcut o tumoare la cap care îi apăsa nervul optic şi i se închideau ochii. Băiatul cel mic, era un mare activist sindical  care a fost omorât într-un accident de maşină. 

La muncă obligatorie [în 1941], mi-am reîntâlnit vărul [primar patern], Adolf [Marcus], după 14 ani, şi i-am vizitat familia. L-am recunoscut pe unchiul Simon, care era cizmar, că-l ştiam din copilărie, dar nu ştiam că-i unchiul meu. Toţi au plecat în Israel [după al doilea război mondial]. Când am fost în Israel în 1974, l-am revăzut pe unchiul Simon. În 1977 am asistat la înmormântarea lui.Adolf, nu ştiu dacă mai e în viaţă, fiica lui a ajuns în Canada.

Am aflat că tata mai are un frate, Marcu, tot cizmar, pe care l-am vizitat [în anii 1940] pe [strada] Carol Fleva, cam pe [Calea] Dudeşti, unde e acuma începutul lui Vitan [Calea Vitan] şi i-am cunoscut şi familia lui. Marcu  a avut patru copii, o fată din prima căsătorie, Stela, şi ceilalţi din a doua căsătorie. I-am vizitat în Israel. O verişoară a mea era căsătorită cu Bella Chitaristu’[Notă: compozitorul celebrei melodii „Sanie cu zurgălăi”, foarte cunoscută în România]. Ştiam că de obicei lăutarii din zona Tel Aviv-ului se adună la o cârciumă, la „Moara Roşie” [aluzie la „Moulin Rouge”], unde se formează tot felul de formaţii. M-am dus acolo şi am întrebat de Bella. A venit şi nu i-am spus cine sunt. „ Domnu’ Bella, zic, un prieten bun de al meu m-a rugat să te caut ca să te întreb ce ştii despre verii lui. –Cine e?-Îl cheamă Aronel, Aronică. Pot să merg la soţia dumitale să vorbesc, să o văd?”Avea instrumentele pe ataş, dar zice „Vino mâine, te iau şi te duc”. Locuiau într-o casă mică arăbească. Când m-a văzut verişoara a zis: „E, ţi-am spus eu că-i Aronel?” După semnalmentele date de el, ştii cum, sângele vorbeşte. Mi-a arătat o fotografie cu fiica ei, care a fost Miss Armata şi când am văzut-o era fii-mea, fii-mea întreagă. Prin ea am văzut restul familiei, la o nuntă care s-a brodit acolo câteva zile.  Bella cu ea au trei copii, un băiat inginer, o fată educatoare şi o fată profesoară în America. Toţi copii lui Marcu au murit în afară de unul din băieţi, Carol Marcus,  care poartă numele tatălui meu.

Tata, Carol Marcus, s-a născut [probabil] în 1900. N-a avut nici un fel de educaţie, a fost un întreprinzător, şi-a făcut singur atelierul de perii şi bidinele, deşi nu era de meserie. A abandonat şi atelierul şi pe mama care era gravidă şi a plecat să facă revoluţie în Rusia. Nu l-am cunoscut niciodată, el m-a cunoscut pe mine o singură dată. Tata a murit, în aprilie 1921, mama s-a recăsătorit şi nu am avut relaţii cu familia tatălui multă vreme.

Cum am reuşit să cunosc familia tatălui biologic? În prima zi de şcoală m-am dus la şcoala Malbim [Notă: Şcoala creată în 1898 pe lângă sinagoga Malbim, cu numele de Talmud Tora Malbim, avea patru clase primare. Era situată in cartierul Dudeşti, cartier sărac predominant evreiesc.], unde acuma este sediul Asistenţei noastre. Şi a ieşit directorul Koritzer afară şi ne-a zis să ne ţinem de mână doi câte doi cei din clasa a I-a şi să intram în clasă. M-am luat de mână cu un copil blond cu ochelari... şi maică-sa spune „-Adolf, ştii cu cine te-ai luat de mână? Cu vărul tău!” Eu m-am întors: ”Ăsta nu e vărul meu, eu am doi veri, de la tanti Lisa [Lisa Gherman, sora mamei]. -Este vărul tău, tatăl tău şi cu tatăl lui au fost fraţi! Tatăl tău s-a împuşcat!”. Încearcă mata să-ţi aminteşti prima zi de şcoală când ai emoţiile clipelor şi să vină cineva să spuie asemenea treburi unui copil la şapte ani! Deci asta a fost în 1927, prima zi de şcoală, când am aflat că eu sunt orfan şi că omul de acasă nu e tatăl meu. Nu ştiu când a trecut ziua, dar ştiu că acasă eu n-am mâncat, n-am putut să mănânc şi am purtat în mine acest balast psihic toată copilăria şi adolescenţa mea.

Abia în adolescenţă am început să fac cercetări despre activitatea tatei, să ştiu ce fel de om a fost, dacă la 20 şi ceva de ani face revoluţie. Era angajat într-o activitate conspirativă, făcând legătura între comitetele revoluţionare comuniste române aflate în Uniunea Sovietică la Kiev şi Odessa. El venea cu directive în toată ţara, ca să-şi aleagă delegaţii la următorul congres ce s-a ţinut în Bucureşti care a determinat trecerea Partidului Socialist 2 de la Internaţionala a II-a la Internaţionala a III-a. [Notă: La 11 mai 1921 în timpul congresului Partidului Socialist s-a hotărât transformarea partidului în Partidul Comunist Român şi afilierea la Internaţionala comunistă. A doua zi delegaţii, care votaseră afilierea fără rezerve, implicit subordonarea faţă de Comintern şi Rusia, au fost arestaţi din ordinul guvernului.] Acest lucru cât şi alte activităţi conspirative au dus la acel proces imens din Dealul Spirii. [Notă : Între 23 ianuarie- 4 iunie 1922 s-a desfăşurat „procesul din Dealul Spirii” intentat delegaţilor la congresul din 1921 şi  altor militanţi comunişti. Un mare număr de oameni politici şi de cultură au făcut declaraţii sau au scris în favoarea comuniştilor. Regele a dat la 4 iunie 1922 un decret de amnistie, pe baza căruia au fost eliberaţi 213 din cei 271 arestaţi.] Rudele tatei şi mamei au fost puse sub observaţie, a fost nenorocire pe capul lor. Mama a fost şi ea târâtă la Siguranţă 3. Tiparniţa Partidului [Comunist]4 pe vremurile acelea, a fost luată de la o fostă fabrică de textile înainte cu o zi de a se face o descindere acolo, dar găsindu-se jos câteva litere, mama a fost luată acolo. Ea mă alăpta pe mine, era să mă îmbolnăvească. 

[Tata] a fost prins în Gara de Nord, i s-a găsit pistolul, seria a identificat provenienţa unui depozit de armament din Râmnicu Vâlcea, fapt pentru care un plutonier armurier s-a sinucis. Acestea le cunosc din presa citită în  acele vremuri. Din dosarul de la Institutul medico-legal  rezultă că el a venit fără acte oficiale, n-a existat proces verbal şi semnătura unui procuror şi a murit cu plămânii congestionaţi. A fost bătut până a murit. Şi-a făcut datoria, nu a divulgat pe nimeni şi nimic. S-a înscenat o sinucidere a tatălui meu, a fost adus mort în casa unchiului meu, Georges Gherman, care era informatorul lor. A crezut toată lumea, toţi oamenii din profesia lui. Eu am văzut că nu e în regulă din dosarul de la Siguranţă[Cercetările au avut loc în anii 1970]. În dosar era un manifest lansat de către comuniştii din Basarabia, că nu accepta ideea că el s-a sinucis. „A fost asasinat vestitul Mişa, tovarăşul care etc., etc.” Aşa am aflat că avea nume conspirativ. Când am apelat la Comitetul Central, nu a avut timp să-mi analizeze dosarul cu un om al Institutului Medico- Legal şi un om de meserie poliţist, pentru că toate evenimentele de acolo trădau asasinatul. La Congres, din toate miile de scrisori trimise acolo, pe adresa lui Ceauşescu, patru au fost luate la Biroul Politic şi am fost chemat să-mi spuie că „A fost sinucidere, tovarăşu’. Era să răspund „Hai, sictir!” Procesul din Dealul Spirii s-a încheiat fără condamnări pentru că eventuala lor  condamnare ar fi dus probabil la greutăţi în obţinerea avizării de către Marile puteri a României Mari.

Aşteptam la rând la activul sindicatului sectorului 3. Un cetăţean înalt, Ion Stoica [Notă: membru al Partidului Comunist Român] mă întreabă: „Măi Nicule [Notă: diminutiv de la Arnold - Aronică, Nicu], tu eşti din Apărătorii Patriei? Era acolo o familie, un perier care avea trei băieţi, ştii ceva de ei? -Tovarăşul Stoica, sigur că ştiu de ei, îi cunosc!” A rămas Stoica căscat. „- Când aţi avut nevoie de părinţii mei [Surica şi Friederich Leinweber], aţi dat cu năvala, aţi dormit acolo, aţi mâncat acolo, v-am păzit stând pe marginea şanţului dacă vine vreo mutră străină  să vă scot prin lanul de porumb, să nu vă aresteze. Acum după 23 august [1944] aţi uitat de cei care v-au dat o mână de ajutor?” Au lăsat materialele acolo lui tata pe încredere. A venit după nu ştiu câte zile altcineva să le ia şi ele erau ascunse sub o lampa din aia bătrânească. Lampa de gaz era băgată într-un vas, între acest vas şi lampa de gaz stăteau materialele. Tata şi mama erau nişte bătrâni amărâţi, fără nici un chior, nici o atenţie. Dar de riscat au riscat...[Notă: în perioada de dinainte de 23 august 1944 activitatea Partidului Comunist Român era ilegală.]

Despre bunicul meu matern, Haim Froim, nu ştiu multe. Se pare că era croitor. Poate mai trăia sau a murit când s-a născut ultimul copil [în 1898]. Bunica, Maria Froim, neavând nici un fel de şcoală, şi fiind ţărancă din satul Dragomireşti a trăit din legumicultură. Mama ştiu că s-a născut în Bucureşti, unde bunica Maria, „baba”,  cum îi spuneam eu şi verii mei, venise în Bucureşti [în 1898] şi curioasă, fiind trăită  la ţară, a vrut să vadă cum se aruncă crucea de Bobotează în Dâmboviţa, acolo unde venea familia regală şi mitropolitul [Notă: Obicei creştin, în ziua de 6 ianuarie,  zi care aminteşte de botezarea lui Isus în apele Iordanului. Se spune că cel care înoată în apele îngheţate şi prinde crucea aruncată este binecuvântat tot anul]. Gravidă fiind în ultimul ceas, în noaptea aceea mama s-a născut în Bucureşti. Apoi a plecat înapoi în satul ei Dragomireşti unde şi-a crescut mai departe copii. Supusă unor presiuni din familie şi întrebată „Bine, Marie ce faci cu copiii tăi, cu cine îţi vei mărita fetele, copiii tăi  ce şcoală au şi unde s-o facă? Cât ai să mai stai în sat?” Şi atunci a părăsit casa şi pământul de lângă casă oferit de un ţăran cumsecade, pentru că ea nu a avut de unde, a venit la Bucureşti cu copiii [trei fete şi doi băieţi; una dintre fete murise înainte], unde fiecare şi-a căutat de lucru. Au venit la Bucureşti prin 1918-1919, războiul i-a apucat aici. Mama [Surica] şi cu sora ei mai mare Liza au intrat la fabricat perii şi bidinele unde se învăţa meseria repede şi se câştiga la bucată, astfel că cu cât lucra mai mult cu atât câştiga mai bine. Matilda [sora cea mai mare] şi-a crescut copii muncind în timpul războiului, cât bărbatul ei era în război, făcând croitorie, celălalt frate al mamei, nenea Moritz, a făcut croitorie. Nenea Aurel a găsit un loc de muncă la banca Chrisoveloni. Aşa că toţi copii bunicii şi-au găsit un rost fiecare cum a fost posibil.

Bunica a muncit la cucoane, pe vremea aceea nu exista paste făinoase se făceau toate astea în casă.Trebuiau făcute fideluţe, coca se întindea se lăsa la uscat şi pe urmă se tăia în pătrăţele mici, sau se făceau un fel de granule mici cu care se îndopau gâştele şi curcanii. Era specialistă în murături şi prăjituri. De la cucoanele acelea cu copii, ne îmbrăca  pe noi, pe mine, pe nepoţi, eram nişte oameni săraci, abia ne ţineam zilele. Era o femeie tare bună şi care avea grijă de  nepoţi  şi  le asigura o viaţă mai bună şi plăcută   prin munca ei. Îţi vine să râzi,  toată averea bunicii mele era 100 de lei [Suma reprezenta un salariu mediu] şi tot neamul ştia că baba a rămas cu 100 de lei. Moritz [fiul ei] trimitea copilul, „Du-te la baba să-ţi dea 100 de lei!” Într-o bună zi s-a pierdut suta pe drum. Baba a rămas fără sută, iar el nu ştie că n-ar fi dat-o înapoi. Atâta s-a plimbat suta până a dispărut.

Bunica a fost o evreică credincioasă. Mergea la sinagoga din cartier se îmbrăca în negru cu marama care se pune pe cap, era nelipsită.  A avut o criză de astm s-a sufocat şi a murit [în anii 1930]. Probabil şi fericirea neîntâlnită, grijile copiilor, cu tanti Liza cu nenorocitul de nenea George, care i-a mâncat viaţa, mama cu copil în braţe, cine era să se însoare cu o femeie cu copil, Aurel că nu găsea serviciu, după ce s-a terminat cu [banca] Chrisoveloni şi nenea Moritz cu croitoria lui  amărâtă şi cinci copii.

Sora cea mai mare a mamei, Matilda Pascal [născută Froim] era căsătorită, bărbatul ei a fost tinichigiu şi s-a numit Mahel Pascal. A făcut patru copii: Blima, Frima, Iţic şi Julieta. Matilda a murit de TBC, s-a îmbolnăvit în timpul războiului [primul război mondial] tot lucrând pentru răniţi, pentru bolnavi. A fost înmormântată la 25 iulie 1923  în Bucureşti , la cimitirul evreiesc Filantropia. [Unchiul] s-a recăsătorit, pe urmă  a murit şi el şi a rămas a doua nevastă cu maşina de cusut, cu toată averea, cu trei şifoniere cu zestre pentru fete. Blima, nu ştiu cum, a ajuns la Târgovişte, vânzătoare.. S-a întors pe urmă la Bucureşti s-a căsătorit cu un oarecare Itcovici care avea  o vinărie pe [strada] 13 septembrie şi a fost tâlhărit şi înjunghiat. Frima Vintilă [născută Pascal] a fost manichiuristă. S-a îmbolnăvit de TBC şi a murit în 1944. Are o fată, Florica Vintilă. Iţic Pascal a fugit de acasă, a dus o viaţă de vagabond şi a murit bolnav de plămâni ca şi mama lui. E înmormântat la [cimitirul] Giurgiului cu sora lui mai mare, e un mormânt comun.Cea mai mică Julieta Sabetay [născută Pascal], a fost dusă de către un unchi al meu, George Gherman, la un cămin de orfane a Comunităţii Evreilor vizavi de Hala Traian, până când s-a căsătorit cu un băiat din Craiova, Sabetay,  al cărui frate a fost multă vreme preşedintele comunităţii evreilor din Craiova.

Moritz Froim, fratele mamei a avut cinci copii: Julieta, David, Zvi, Surica, Mariana. Julieta [născută Froim] a dus  o viaţă foarte grea, bărbat-su a fost dezertor de pe front şi a dus o viaţă cumplită, până s-a reangajat la armată. Am dat peste ea  ca muncitoare la o fabrică de săpun de lângă Parcul Carol, era înapoiată rău de tot, vai de capul ei, era suferindă de inimă. E înmormântată la [cimitirul evreiesc] Giurgiului. David  Froim a învăţat şi el croitorie de la taică-său ca să-l ajute, nu se mişca de lângă el. În Israel a făcut armata, a făcut primul război de independenţă şi ne-a spus că aveau  o armă la cinci-şase inşi, de pe timpul lui Papură vodă. [Notă: foarte vechi, în stil ironic] Avea un bidon mare şi  lovea cu o bucată de fier şi zdranga – zdranga, noaptea mergea la atac făcând zgomot şi arabii credeau că vin tancurile. Aşa au cucerit enclavele, te apucă râsul. A intrat ca magazioner la Telefoane, la Haifa, de unde s-a pensionat. A avut 3 copii, doi băieţi şi o fată. Moshe care se ocupă cu un manej, cu cai, are grijă de ei, ai unui bogătaş şi vreo 2-3 cai ai lui pe care fac călărie copii. Ronel este necăsătorit, mereu învaţă câte ceva, nu ştiu din ce trăieşte, stă cu maică-sa. Etti e profesoară de ebraică şi lucrează la un ulpan 5, la rândul ei are şi ea doi copii un băiat şi o fetiţă.  Zvi a plecat în Israel copil, apoi a devenit un matriţer şi mecanic şi avea atelierul lui împreună cu doi ajutori la Aşkelon. În 1974 a venit să mă caute să mă duc la el acasă, tocmai îşi cumpărase o vilişoară. S-a prăpădit, de pe urma lui a rămas un băiat, Iair, care este electronist. Surica s-a căsătorit cu un băiat pe care l-a cunoscut  în drum spre Israel prin Italia. S-a împiedicat şi a căzut într-o baltă şi el a văzut-o şi s-a dus s-o ridice. Era frumuşică şi s-au căsătorit, locuiau într-o casă proprie pe Carmiel la Haifa. A lucrat acolo ca vânzătoare şi învăţase croitoria, făcea reparaţii la un mare magazin din Haifa, magazin al armatei. În 1998 s-a prăpădit. Mariana, cea mai mică, a rămas aici în Bucureşti. Nu i-au dat paşaport pungaşii ăştia, a rămas mulţi ani aici, s-a căsătorit, n-au avut copii. S-a îmbolnăvit de diabet, a fost casnică tot timpul, şi s-a prăpadit acum mulţi ani tot în Israel. Bărbatul ei mai trăieşte încă.

Lisa Gherman [născută Froim] a avut la rândul ei doi copii, Isac şi Iancu Gherman verii mei cu care am crescut. Amândoi au murit pe meleagurile  ruseşti. Unchiul George Gherman, era un stâlp de cafenea, om de nimic, informatorul Siguranţei. El participat la înscenarea sinuciderii tatei, în care a crezut toată lumea.

Aurel Froim este fratele mamei, când s-a născut nu ştiu. Aurel era funcţionar la banca Chrisoveloni, dar a încercat fel şi fel de profesii, ca expeditor al unei gazete de pe [strada]Sărindar, s-a apucat să facă bomboane singur, a mers pe străzile capitalei însoţit de mine cu valize cu lădiţe cu berete şi şepci  ca să scoată o pâine. Făcea drumul  de la Calea Griviţei-Gara de Nord să  vândă şepci, a doua zi pe Calea Rahovei de la Tribunal până la Piaţa Alexandriei, a treia zi pe [Calea] Dudeşti, Bărăţiei,  a patra zi pe [Calea] Dorobanţi, [Şoseaua] Mihai Bravu şi  Obor. Aşa făcea în fiecare săptămână, pe urmă o lua de la capăt. M-a lăsat fără pingele, fără ciorapi. Aveam 12 ani mai şi căram şi eu o cutie, care mi-a deplasat muşchiul de nu se mai vede acum plămânul stâng. A murit în 1933. Aurel a avut un singur copil, Bernard Froim. Avea o soţie foarte frumoasă, casieră la un magazin pe Lipscani. Maică-sa recăsătorindu-se după mulţi ani de văduvie,  fiul ei şi-a schimbat numele în  Teodor Brateş, nu a mai fost Bernard. A avut serviciul la televiziune până s-a pensionat după revoluţie. Nu am relaţii cu el, nici el cu mine.

 De sora mamei cea mai micuţă nu am ce să spun, că a murit în Moldova. N-apucase să se mărite, dacă avea 17-18  ani, spăla rufe în apa aia rece din Moldova  pentru rude mai bogate şi a murit.

Copilăria mea

Mama, Surica Marcus Leinweber [născută Froim] a venit la Bucureşti cu sora ei Liza.  A învăţat să facă perii şi bidinele, a practicat această profesie, a avut atelier propriu făcut de tatăl meu biologic pe care nu l-a putut ţine şi a vândut atelierul cu lucrători şi lucrătoare şi a ajuns să lucreze ea însăşi în fostul ei atelier. Era structura şi caracterul mamei aşa, cert este că eu de la ea n-am simţit afectivitate şi am jinduit-o. O vedeam la tanti Liza cum se juca şi hârjonea cu copii ei şi eu îi invidiam, că ei au această bucurie a copilăriei pe care eu n-am trăit-o, n-am simţit-o. Mama a avut faţă de mine o purtare destul de corectă şi firească, dar drăgălăşenie, afecţiune de la ea, niciodată nu am simţit şi asta m-a afectat, ca şi faptul să fi aflat că sunt de fapt orfan şi acasă nu e tatăl meu.

Mama s-a recăsătorit în 1924 şi am fost înfiat şi port numele unui om de ispravă, Fischer Leinweber sau cum i se spunea Friederich. A avut faţă de mine o purtare ireproşabilă şi n-am simţit că  mi-ar fi tată vitreg. Îmi amintesc când mama mi l-a prezentat ca “Uite a venit tata, a venit tata!” Aveam 2 ani jumătate. Niciodată nu s-a răstit la mine, nu m-a înjurat, nu m-a urecheat, nu mi-a dat nici o palmă. Din contră când imi băteam fraţii, copii lui, el ieşea din casă şi îşi căuta  de treabă ca nu cumva să scape cumva o  vorbă sau o palmă.  Deci pot spune că m-a iubit, lucru pe care l-am simţit că este real când eu aveam vreo 16 ani. Eram într-o tabără de cercetaşi, la Bugaz [actualmente în Ucraina], unde se varsă Nistrul în Marea Neagră. Un coleg al meu de bancă de la şcoala industrială s-a înecat. S-a publicat în ziare, dar nu s-a spus numele şi fireşte toată lumea a fost îngrijorată. Eu n-am scris părinţilor mei despre aceasta că sunt în viaţă fiind supărat pe ei –  la cererea mea trebuiau să-mi trimită ei 100 de lei din banii lor, s-au dus şi au luat  din economiile mele la făcute la un văr al mamei – şi atunci m-am supărat şi nu le-am scris. Când am venit acasa din tabără, mama de bucurie a izbucnit în lacrimi că sunt în viaţă şi m-a expediat în Bucureşti pe strada Aurora, lângă sinagoga Malbim, era un atelier al unui perier, unde tatăl meu căruia îi port numele, lucra. L-am găsit după amiaza pe un pat acolo unde se odihnea când m-a văzut a sărit şi în lacrimi de bucurie, m-a îmbrăţişat. Ce dovadă îmi mai trebuia mie să-mi dau seama că omul ăsta nobil mă iubeşte, un copil înfiat, rămas orfan, pe care l-a crescut, cu care s-a purtat frumos. Cum să nu-i porţi o amintire  şi să continui să-i porţi numele  cu stimă?

Tata, cu cei doi fraţi şi două surori, a avut un văr, tată-său a  avut un frate la Storojineţ, un geamgiu, făcea geamuri la rame de tablouri. A venit de tânăr de la Rădăuţi, nu s-a mai întors înapoi decât la o nuntă la două nepoate gemene, aveam eu  vreo 10 ani, cred că în 1930. Tata a murit în 1982.

Moritz Leinweber, fratele meu mijlociu, s-a născut în 1926, în Bucureşti. El a făcut şi el liceul. Când a venit timpul să-şi câştige existenţa, i l-am dat unui coleg de-al meu de şcoală industrială care era un bun meseriaş  ca să înveţe instalaţia electrică şi a reuşit să înveţe oleacă de meserie. Asta era înainte de război [al doilea razboi mondial]. Unde e acum Teatrul Naţional [Notă: Noua clădire a Teatrului Naţional Bucureşti funcţionează  din 1973 aproape de Bulevardul Magheru, în centrul capitalei.Vechea clădire a teatrului s-a inaugurat în 1852 pe Calea Victoriei şi a fost bombardată la 22 august 1944.],  era un rând de magazine construite pe vremea aceea, la care el a făcut instalaţia electrică, el a stabilit câte circuite, tablouri, siguranţe, prize, etc. În doi ani a învăţat meserie foarte multă. Dacă a venit războiul şi nu s-au mai făcut construcţii nu mai avea ce să lucreze şi a învăţat vopsitoria. S-a apucat de zugrăveală şi vopsitorie. După aceea, cum era moda, a devenit şi el activist pe linie de cadre şi a sfârşit ca şef de secţie financiară a sectorului 6. A luat Medalia Muncii. Moritz a murit de cancer de colon în 1992. Are doi copii: Liviu şi Marius. Copii lui sunt în Israel, Liviu a făcut ingineria agricolă şi Marius a fost subinginer în acelaşi domeniu. Liviu e la Haifa, are la rândul lui o fetiţă. Marius stă la Tel Aviv, are şi el o fetiţă.

Osias Leinweber, fratele mai mic, s-a născut în 1932, 1 martie, în Bucureşti. A fost mărţişorul nostru. [Notă : 1 martie marchează simbolic începutul primăverii şi este sărbătorit prin oferirea unor flori sau mici cadouri celor dragi.] Osias n-a făcut liceul. El a luat-o pe linia orchestrei, era percutist după ureche. El a intrat la Adesgo [Fabrică românească de ciorapi, care încă mai există] să înveţe o meserie să mănânce o pâine şi acolo a intrat în orchestra fabricii, şi mergea la nunţi, botezuri, până a plecat de la Adesgo şi s-a angajat la o întreprindere de alimentaţie publică. A cântat la un restaurant din Ferentari, de acolo a cântat la [restaurantul] „Dunărea”, la [restaurantul] „Pescăruş”, a cântat şi pe terasa de la Herăstrău [restaurantul "Monte Carlo "], până când l-a angajat la Teatrul Ion Vasilescu. Pe urmă a  fost în turneu în Israel, în Rusia, în Polonia, pe urmă a venit şi a cântat la [Teatrul] „Savoy” şi  a băgat acte fără să ştim şi a plecat în Israel[ în anii 1970]. A stat puţin acolo şi a plecat în Germania unde a practicat un timp meseria şi [unde] stă de 30 de ani. A cântat cu Gaston Marin, pianistul, la o staţiune balneoclimaterică [în Germania], cu alţi ţigani lăutari, unii au rămas pe acolo, alţii s-au mai întors,  până când s-a lăsat că nu mai era de umblat de colo până colo. Avea  un nume artistic când a intrat în prima orchestră de artişti, un evreu cernăuţean a zis că o să-i spună Fredy, şi a rămas cu numele de Fredy, în lumea lui artistică şi de muzicanţi. Pe soţia lui, o creştină, o cheamă Emilia. Şi acum arată foarte bine la cei 77-78 de ani, e mai mare cu vreo 7 ani ca fratele meu. Au avut un bistro, care a dat faliment în 1991, nu mai avea vad comercial. El s-a pensionat şi a găsit de lucru ca recepţioner la un hotel. Acum este un fel de bodyguard la nişte magazine. Şi ea care era croitorească, bună desenatoare şi care era angajată la un magazin mare, s-a pensionat şi a ieşit cu o pensie din care se descurcă greu. În prezent lucrează pentru clubul comunităţii evreieşti din Frankfurt şi este foarte apreciată.

Mă numesc Leinweber Arnold, născut în 12 august 1920, sub numele de Marcus, rămas orfan la 8 luni. Mama s-a recăsătorit şi am fost înfiat. Plecam de acasă de mic copil [de la doi-trei ani], aşa am cunoscut cartierul. Mama mă încuia în casă şi pleca să lucreze, bunica pleca la cucoane să facă treabă, aşa că mă plictiseam. Cât puteai să stai închis în casă? Ieşeam pe geam. Mă urcam pe un scăunel pe masă,  [care] era la marginea geamului. Deschideam cu foraibărul, pământul era aproape de geam pentru că era casa ceva mai joasă şi n-a fost o problemă să cobor în curte. Mergeam vis-a-vis pe maidan  şi mă întorceam seara acasă cu capul plin de scaieţi până când o vecină din curte a băgat maşina [de tuns] şi m-a lăsat fară bucle. O dată am sărit pe geam şi am traversat strada Triumfului, strada Moruzzi şi am ieşit la strada Nerva Traian. Am traversat încă o străduţă în spatele fabricii de pască, lângă ea era biserica Dobroteasa care există şi acum. Deci am plecat de unde am locuit, colţ Foişorului cu Triumfului, am parcurs drumul ăsta destul de lung, de aproape 7-800 de metri, în picioarele goale, în cămăşuţă şi am urcat undeva, un etaj sau două,  pe nişte trepte de lemn că am auzit că baba, bunica, şi cu mama s-au dus la  tanti Matilda [sora mamei]. Matilda murise săraca de TBC. S-a îmbolnăvit în timpul războiului tot lucrând pentru răniţi, pentru bolnavi. A fost înmormântată la 25 iulie 1923 [Arnold Leinweber avea 3 ani]. Eu am cunoscut zona unde stătea că m-au dus fetele, verişoarele mai măricele şi atunci eu am cunoscut cartierul Foişorului

Casa copilăriei de la 8 ani în sus până m-am căsătorit  a fost în [cartierul] Apărătorii Patriei. A avut farmecul ei pentru că atunci când ne-am mutat, casa era în construcţie şi am asistat cum se construieşte. Casa avea deja stâlpii puşi în pământ, arşi la foc să nu putrezească şi înfipţi în pământ la distanţe egale, cu şipci bătute pe ele, şipci între care s-au pus mănunchiuri de pamânt  amestecat cu paie şi bălegar  de cal  luat de pe şosea şi strâns de mine cu găleata. Treceau sute de căruţe din Berceni şi alte sate cu legume şi fructe spre Piaţa Naţiunii, Piaţa Mare cum îi spunea atuncea. Am asistat cum se face o casă, acoperişul era făcut în grabă,  pentru că era construită fără autorizaţie. Dacă te prindeau jandarmii te opreau, dar dacă avea deja acoperiş te lăsau în pace şi atunci se puneau stâlpii în grabă, se făcea acoperişul şi se făceau pereţii de paiantă. Pe aceşti pereţi de paiantă se bătea după aceea trestie şi peste ea se arunca tencuială şi se văruia. În general toate casele au rămas cu pământ pe jos.

Bunica şi-a adus aminte de copilăria ei şi una din camere a uns-o ea cu pământ galben  cu bălegar, ca să ţină pământul să nu se facă praf şi avea un miros deosebit. Cele mai frumoase clipe trăite în casă  au fost  când eu mă băgam sub pat. Era un pat de fier destul de înalt ca să pătrund sub el cu o jumate de pâine neagră lângă mine şi cu orice fel de carte de citit, şi  bătea  de la fereastră pe sub jaluzeaua puţin îndoită raza de lumină necesară ca eu să citesc. Am citit tot ce mi-a căzut în mână,  poveşti cu Feţi Frumoşi, drame, acţiuni,  teatrale, proză, dar fără poezii. Erau cărţi împrumutate şi căpătate, niciodată n-am cumpărat o carte în viaţa mea, eu am citit numai cărţi din biblioteci. Aceste cărţi m-au ajutat să-mi formez limbajul, să-mi creez o noţiune despre viaţă, să-mi şlefuiesc comportamentul faţă de oameni şi societate, să discern binele de rău, într-un cuvânt am devenit un modest autodidact. 

Şcoala am început-o în Bucureşti la Şcoala Malbim, unde în prezent se găseşte Asistenţa Federaţiei noastre, după care mi-am continuat cursurile în cartierul Apărătorii Patriei [la periferia capitalei]. Era un cartier în care au trăit  şi au convieţuit în mod paşnic cu toate etniile vreo 40-50 de familii de evrei. Nişte vecini de-ai noştri, evrei veniţi din Transilvania pentru o viaţă mai bună,  neavând cu ce să se încălzească în 1928-1929, îngheţau de frig în casă. Aveau o fetiţă mică,  şi veneau la noi să se încălzească. Nu găseau de lucru şi trebuiau să stea în casă din cauza frigului. Şi dacă noi beam un ceai sau ceva, nu putea mama să nu le dea şi lor şi aşa au trecut iarna la noi în casă, timp în care bărbatul s-a ocupat de mine la matematică. El era un fost contabil de depozit de cherestea şi un bun matematician. Eu care la clasa I-a primară mă ascundeam sub bancă să nu mă vadă profesorul de matematică, am prins tainele matematicii  atât cât putea un copil de 8 ani să reţină, de la adunat 1 plus 1,  până la regula de trei simplă şi calculul dobânzii. Toate erau notate de el într-un carneţel, am rămas fără carneţel şi din memorie s-au mai dus. La şcoala simţindu-mă pregătit, profesorul Mihail Rangu, un om deosebit, m-a pus la tablă să fac unu plus unu dedesubt şi tras linie egal doi, să vadă copii cum trebuie scris la matematică în caiet din clipa în care ştim să adunăm. Nu s-a mai scris pe orizontală ci pe verticală, eu am demonstrat la tablă cum se face o împărţire, învăţasem de la acest contabil că scăderea se face prin adunare şi făceam în felul ăsta direct proba scăderii. Materiile erau egale pentru mine. Aveam datoria să citesc, citeam bine, pentru că citeam înainte de şcoală, scriam relativ frumos, nu ca acum când  de multe ori scriu şi nu înţeleg ce am scris. Aşa au trecut anii de şcoală primară, bucurându-mă de premiul I în fiecare clasă.

Înţeleg idiş, dar nu literar. Tata care m-a crescut  nu ştia să vorbească corect [româneşte], încurca femininul cu masculinul, pluralul cu singularul, te durea capul, că el era din Bucovina şi ştia nemţeşte, de la nemţeşte a trecut uşor la idiş, şi a vorbit cu bunica şi cu mama, dar eu le răspundeam în româneşte întotdeauna. Eu care intrând în clasa a I-a primară ştiam să citesc ebraică cu vocalele vechi [a învăţat cu un învăţător evreu bătrân, pe care îl numea Rebe, înainte de şcoală şi apoi la şcoala primară evreiască] şi spuneam „Burih ata Adoinoi Eloheinu Meilăh Uloilom”, la şcoală [evreiască]am învăţat „Baruh ata Adonai Elohenu Melah haOlam”, deci limba a căpătat o altă cursivitate, altă tonalitate, mai înălţătoare prin schimbarea denumirii vocalei şi folosirii în sensul „Baruch ata Adonai” în loc de „Burich ata Adoinoi”. Deci eu care am citit şi într-un fel şi în celălalt, astăzi cu greu identific alef şi lametul din alfabetul israelian. Nu mai ştiu să citesc şi la aceasta a contribuit faptul că în general noi toţi evreii  am învăţat [la şcoala elementară evreiască] ce să citim şi când să citim, dar n-avem habar ce citim. Abia după ce am fost prima oară în Israel [în 1974] am simţit nevoia să mă exprim în idiş, măcar câteva cuvinte şi acum mă pot exprima cu nişte fraze mai uzuale în anumite împrejurări dar conversaţie în nici un caz nu pot să fac. Şi soţia mea a auzit idiş în casă la părinţii ei şi înţelegea dar nu vorbea, dar mai scăpam câteva cuvinte să n-audă fii-mea. [Sunt] câteva cuvinte specifice care  nu au charm în limba română.

Când m-am apucat eu în liceu eram prea bătrân [după al doilea război mondial], şi m-am luptat şi cu franceza şi cu latina şi cu rusa, am învăţat pentru examen, şi la 40 de ani am luat examenul de bacalaureat la şcoala „Zoia Kosmodemianskaia”[Notă: nume dat după 1947 Şcolii centrale de fete, pentru a onora memoria unei eroine adolescente sovietice moartă pentru cauza comunistă].

Părinţii ţineau sărbătorile, mama aprindea vinerea lumânările, dar nu erau habotnici. Erau nelipsiţi de la sărbători dar nu atât de religioşi ca să meargă zilnic la sinagogă, pentru că mergeau la servici. Aveam sinagoga în cartier, n-avea nume, era sinagoga din Apărătorii Patriei. Dimineaţa nu se puteau ţine rugăciuni în cartier pentru că soţii plecau la muncă iar atâţi câţi mai rămâneau nu erau de ajuns ca să se facă rugăciunea, iar seara nici atât, dar sărbătorile erau respectate cu consideraţia cuvenită  momentelor din istorie amintite: Yom Kippur, Sucot, ş.a.m.d. Era o plăcere să vezi sucaurile în cartier la ovreii noştri, care mai de care mai frumoasă şi mai elegantă. Când era Purim era o adevărată bucurie să-ţi vină mascaţii în casă şi să nu ghiceşti cine sunt, să vină, să bea, să-ţi mănânce prăjiturile şi să-ţi dea cu tifla că n-ai ghicit cine este. Era o adevărată plăcere şi bucurie pentru noi copii în vremea aceea şi asta a ţinut până când cartierul s-a demolat, au plecat în alia şi n-au mai existat evrei în cartier.

Eu personal nu am o sărbătoare preferată. Pentru mine sărbătorile evreieşti sunt sărbători istorice, sunt sărbători ale bucuriei, ale unor evenimente legate de agricultură, de viaţa antică a evreilor, n-au nimic de fapt religios în ele. Faptul că de Yom Kippur, oamenii se roagă la Dumnezeu pentru iertarea păcatelor, pentru împăcarea între oameni care au greşit, are un caracter deosebit uman. Eu n-am fost niciodată religios, după bar miţva  mi-am făcut datoria ca orice copil de evreu, munca de zi cu zi, serviciul a împiedicat contactul cu litera ebraică. Când mergeam cu tata la Roş Hashana, la Yom Kippur, la  şil şi mi-a pus talitul pe umăr şi am citit din seider o luam ba înainte, ba rămâneam în urmă că nu ştia pe unde sunt. Şi m-a enervat că  mă simţeam ca viţelul la poarta nouă şi toate astea m-au făcut să uit şi ce-am citit. Asta nu înseamnă că dacă nu prea merg decât rar la sinagogă în împrejurări festive, nu mă simt un bun evreu.  Merg la templu [Templu Coral], căci în cartierul meu nu mai există sinagogă. Erau cu zecile în trecut, fiecare stradă avea câte o sinagogă, fiecare breaslă  avea sinagogă, de tâmplari, de cizmari, tinichigii,  câte meserii au fost. Fiecare meserie avea mândria ei să aibă sinagogă ei ceea ce era foarte frumos .

Am copilărit în Bucureşti, în cartierul Vitan, strada Foişorului unde m-am născut, unde am gustat jocurile copilăriei acelei vârste. Copil fiind ieşeam pe geam că mama era la atelier, să îşi câştige existenţa, şi cunoşteam foarte bine cartierul. Cartierul [Dudeşti] în care am locuit era un cartier de oameni modeşti, oameni muncitori şi în care viaţa se desfăşura în mod paşnic. Evenimente deosebite erau acelea în care erau ploi torenţiale şi apa curgea de la Vitan pe strada Foişorului pe undeva pe lângă un deal al Foişorului, apa curgea după aceea la vale spre Dâmboviţa. Retragerea apelor pluviale de pe stradă erau bucuria copiilor pentru că căutând în rigola străzii aveam să găsim fel de fel de minuni pentru noi copiii, bile din sticlă, bile din oţel, nasturi, bani găuriţi din vremea regelui Carol [I], bani buni din timpul domniei regelui Ferdinand [I]. Cu bănuţii ne cumpăram o jumătate de rahat, care era 50 de bani sau un rahat întreg care costa 1 leu, un dulce care era vândut de olteni veniţi la Bucureşti să-şi câştige existenţa. Şi vânzând acest rahat, cu apă rece bineînţeles, purtată într-o doniţă. Apa era a unor izvoare care se scurgeau în Dâmboviţa şi la care se ajungea pe nişte trepte.

În afara acestor  bunătăţi ale copilăriei, mai ne bucuram dacă aveam bani, dacă nu jinduiam şi ne uitam la acei albanezi sau turci care treceau strigând “Bragă rece, bragă rece !„,  şi în spate [aveau] un dispozitiv, un fel de tulumbă, el se apleca şi umplea paharul. Sau trecea alt gen de negustor albanez şi care la rândul lui striga marfa pe care  o vindea, erau nişte ardei verzi şi roşii pe băţ sau nişte cocoşei roşii pe băţ [Notă: acadele]. Care copil avea bani cumpăra şi îşi lingea bunătatea iar ceilalţi fireşte jinduiau. Restul comerţului era la rândul lui pitoresc, pentru că dimineaţa veneau oltenii din  actuala Piaţa Naţiunii cu coşuri încărcate cu legume şi fructe şi lăsau pe datorie, datorie care era trecută cu creta pe tocul uşii, unde nimeni n-ar fi îndrăznit să şteargă niciodată. Spuneau „Lasă cucoană, o să-mi dai când o să ai bani!”, că lumea era săracă şi n-avea de unde să cumpere. Aceeaşi însemnare cu tibişirul [Notă: creta] o făcea şi lăptăreasa, ea făcea o linie, două, patru, a cincea traversa aceste linii cu o dungă, iar cinci reprezentau cinci litri de lapte. Mai venea după amiază olteanul care vindea peşte tot pe datorie, iaurgiul. Făcea un iaurt de excepţie, numai când tăia cu paleta porţia de iaurt îţi lăsa gura apă.

Cum pe vremurile acelea curentul electric încă nu se introdusese în casele oamenilor şi nu existau fiare de călcat electrice  ci numai cei cu cărbuni, aceştia trebuiau cumpăraţi de la cei care treceau pe stradă şi strigau „Chiop, chiop, cărbunarul!” Lumea ieşea şi cumpăra aceşti cărbuni, ca şi apa necesară existenţei, care era adusă cu sacalele şi vândută cu găleata. Era adusă de pe Calea Dudeşti, din faţa actualei clădiri a Poştei [Vitan], în jurul căreia se adunau sacalele [Notă: butoi pe un cadru de două sau patru roţi]. În jurul acestui centru de apă trecea  primul tramvai electric nr. 19, în Calea Dudeşti, în capul străzii Vitan, şi de unde pleca spre centru. Străbătea Calea Dudeşti, Calea Văcăreşti, bulevardul Brătianu pe vremea aceea şi ajungea în bulevardul 1 Mai, la podul Chibrit. Astea sunt modestele mele amintiri din acele vremuri. Erau întreceri cu zmeul,între cei mai mari, se puneau lame la gura zmeului ca să taie sfoara adversarului. Se împărţeau  copiii în tabere, care cu care  ţinea, exista admiraţie pentru aceştia. Noi cei mici, ne mai jucam, ba cu pocnitori făcute cu pământ, ba cu sfârleaza, era o plăcere. Erau sfârleze de diferite culori şi când se roteau, imitau luminile curcubeului. Mai ne jucam cu cercul, împingeam cercurile de fier şi înconjuram mahalaua pe trotuarele asfaltate la acea vreme, erau bucuriile copilăriei. Cea mai mare bucurie era  aceea când o dată bunica [maternă] m-a luat şi m-a dus, în Calea Victoriei, la magazinul LaFayette, astăzi magazinul Victoria, ca să mă bucur de conţinutul unei vitrine. Era acolo Moş Crăciun , un brăduleţ, un trenuleţ care se învârtea în continuu, o păpuşă, o maşinuţă, iar eu copil eram fericit să văd acest lucru. Dar cum arătau jucăriile, cum se foloseau acestea n-am apucat niciodată, nici măcar o minge de cârpă n-am avut. Jocul meu au fost cu pocnitorile, cercul, arşicele, jocul cu bile, aceasta a fost parte din copilăria mea.

În cartierul Apărătorii Patriei erau foarte multe familii de evrei, peste 60 de familii, şi s-a simţit nevoia unui om  de cult.  Cartierul a luat fiinţă  la marginea capitalei, pe un teren parcelat, în anul 1927. Nu era pavat, nu avea lumină electrică, canalizare sau apă potabilă. Ici, colo se afla un puţ cu care se scotea apa de la 25 de metri adâncime.Nu aveam posibiltăţi să aducem din afară un om şi un dogar din cartier, pe nume Rotstein, cu o spuză de copii, şi care cunoştea bine elementele de cult, a fost deserventul nostru. De sărbători, însă, trebuia să aducem  neapărat un haham, să ne taie păsările, dar cum şi aceasta costa destul de mult, domnul Rotstein a făcut o şcoală de hahami, probabil la comunitate. A fost  autorizat s-o facă şi el a fost şi deserventul nostru  de cult şi hahamul cartierului nostru şi tot el a continuat să înveţe pe copii să scrie şi să citească limba ebraică. Problema se punea, unde să ţinem rugăciunile, că nu aveam sinagogă  şi atunci s-a înfiinţat un comitet cetăţenesc de evrei,  care s-a ocupat de problema cultului, dar se punea problema unei clădiri unde să încăpem, că eram foarte mulţi. Şi am organizat fel de fel de baluri din ale căror fonduri să putem face această clădire în care să facem şi grădiniţa pentru copii. Acelaşi lucru l-a făcut şi comitetul de români din cartier, că era mai numeros. Evreii mergeau la balurile românilor, românii umpleau sala evreilor. Cât se realiza la astfel de baluri nu ştiu, eram copil. Preşedintele comitetului nostru, marochinerul Şaraga, care avea un mic magazin pe strada Regală, şi avocatul Stoica, [preşedintele comitetului românesc], singurul cu casă de cărămidă din cartier, s-au înţeles să facă totul împreună. De fiecare dată banii s-au strâns la oală şi s-au făcut în cartier  o şcoală cu două săli de clasă, că n-aveam şcoală  în cartier, biserica cartierului care există, apoi sinagoga [nu avea nume, era numită sinagoga din Apărătorii Patriei] în care a funcţionat şi grădiniţa  pentru toţi copiii cartierului. La deschiderea grădiniţei a participat prefectul poliţiei capitalei, generalul Marinescu.

În timpul legilor rasiale nu s-a schimbat nici un fel de relaţie, aceeaşi amiciţie, aceeaşi înţelegere între oameni, cauza a fost sărăcia, că fiecare pleca la oraş sau venea  în cartier şi îşi practica profesia  din care cu greu scotea cele necesare traiului. Cartierul nostru, în afară de avocatul Stoica de marochinerul Şaraga şi un funcţionar de la magazinul Pop & Bunescu, actualmente [magazinul] Bucureşti,  n-a avut intelectuali, toţi erau meseriaşi, toţi  erau oameni care duceau traiul de azi pe mâine  şi nu mai era timp de manifestări şovine, antisemite. La noi în cartier au fost şi unguri şi  nemţi şi ţigani, de evrei nu discut, că am fost destui, români au fost majoritatea.

Până am terminat şcoala, am bătut câmpul. Nu am jucat fotbal niciodată, că nu mi-a plăcut, dar eu am jucat jocurile vârstei, bile, arşice, capra, Cal de prinţ şi de împărat. Se aruncau bilele în gaură, dacă erau toate în gaură erai împărat dacă erau numai cinci erai prinţ, dacă erau patru în gaură erai cal de împărat şi eu îmi călăream calul,  iar cel care băga numai trei era cal de prinţ şi îl călărea prinţul, iar al cincilea băiat, dădea cu bilele şi în funcţie de rezultat regele şi cu prinţul aveau emoţii să nu-i schimbe, iar caii abia aşteptau să fie schimbaţi. Şi ăsta era jocul. Mai ales îmi plăcea ţurca. Era o bucată  de lemn  pătrată, pe care scria o anumită cifră şi o puneai la o margine de linie şi o băteai  şi cădea ţurca şi ce cifră aveai aicea, luai ţurca o băteai şi ajungeai la distanţe tot mai mari şi cu asta câştigai terenul sau pierdeai. Astea erau jocurile copilăriei în şcoală. Iar fetele jucau şotron, mingea sau sărea coarda. Astea erau jocurile nevinovate ale copilăriei noastre.

Locuind în cartierul Apărătorii Patriei, am plecat pe şoseaua Berceni unde treceau caravane întregi de căruţe cu legume şi fructe şi cu pepeni. Bineînţeles că noi, copiii, ne ţineam după ei strigând: „Nu ne dai şi nouă o roşie, un ardei? Să-ţi trăiască caii! Nu ne dai, nene şi nouă un pepene ? Să-ţi trăiască caii ! Să ai vânzare bună la piaţă!” Şi oamenii buni la suflet ne dădeau ardei, vinete, roşii, pepeni. Roşiile şi pepenii se mâncau acolo pe şanţ, că şoseaua era mai înaltă decât terenul şi erau tufişuri pe marginea şanţului era adunată de fiecare partea lui, nu mai mergeam la prânz acasă. Prima dată  [când] am venit cu toate în cămaşă, mama a rămas speriată şi uimită : „Ce-i cu tine?”, gata să mă ia la bătaie, „Cum te-ai dus să ceri?-Păi dacă toţi copii au cerut, am cerut şi eu!”. Asta a fost o parte din distracţie. Un prieten mă bătea şi tot am mâncat bătaie de la el, că era mai voinic, era băiatul unui tâmplar, Wasserman,  care a plecat din cartier undeva în lume, nu ştiu unde a ajuns, pe care nu pot să-l uit şi mai avea el un vecin. Era nepotul unui tinichigiu, care s-a lăsat de meserie,  şi s-a făcut cârciumar acolo pe şoseaua Berceni, unde vindea şi el ce putea acolo, vin şi rachiu, şi şi-a crescut astfel cele două fete.

Aveam nouă ani şi jumătate când o asociaţie evreiască , „Loja Lumina”,  a adunat copii evrei săraci la Liceul Cultura 6, de pe strada  Zborului. Acolo m-a văzut o comisie de doctori şi am plecat la Poiana Ţapului în vacanţă. M-am trezit cu tanti Liza: „A, Surica, toţi copiii au plecat în colonie la Poiana Ţapului! Repede, să-l trimiţi şi pe el!” Mi-a dat bilet de tren şi m-a dus mama în gară şi m-a dat în primire cucoanei care mergea acolo şi i-a promis să mă ducă şi pe mine la colonie. Am văzut munţii [Munţii Carpaţi] prima dată la nouă ani şi jumătate, de care m-am îndrăgostit. Şi am nimerit  în această casă unde a fost colonia şi pe copilul directorului de la şcoala Moria. Şi de aici rivalitate, s-au ataşat copii de mine. Aveam bradul meu, destul de înalt şi sus făceau crăcile aşa o curbă, tocmai bine să te instalezi cu popoul în el şi mă legănam în el. Şi ca să scap de ei mă urcam în brad şi de acolo spuneam tot ce vroiam. A fost o lună de zile foarte frumoasă. Am trăit măreţia unei clipe fantastice în urma unei ploi, peste drum de calea ferată era Zamora, şi acolo a căzut într-o poiană un picior de curcubeu. Această imagine m-a urmărit toată viaţa, era fantastic, uriaş, imens pe două benzi. Am scris o poezie despre asta, anul trecut: „ Poiana Ţapului, Zamora, cu munţi falnici şi cu brazi,/ M-a oprit cumva la sine/Într-o clipă de amiazi/ Prahova curgea alene, purtând murmur de izvoare,/ Ţigla pe acoperişuri fermeca cu a lor culoare,/ În pădure, Urlătoarea, o cascadă tumultoasă/ Cobora şi ea la vale, rece, proaspătă, voioasă [...] Când a încetat şi ploaia şi s-a înseninat cu greu/ S-a ivit chiar spre Zamora, un picior de curcubeu”.

La 16 ani când am fost trimis de şcoală la mare [Marea Neagră] şi în anul următor, iar a treia oară   fiindcă făcusem treabă bună ca şef de grupă din şcoală ne-a chemat comandantul taberei, doctorul orelist Dumitrescu. Am văzut marea unde se varsă Nistrul [actualmente teritoriu ucrainean]. Apa de acolo era mai limpede decât cea de la izvor şi plaja este atât de lată, cu dune de nisip pur şi simplu, în care piciorul se afunda. Când trebuia să ne întoarcem în tabără la masă, după ce ne zbenguiam, nu puteam să mergem, alergam de nebuni să ajungem pe pământ, nisipul fiind fierbinte. Şi mai era ceva drăguţ acolo, erau nişte moluşte tare micuţe în mare, care aruncate pe mal mureau. Seara mergeam pe mal şi găseam lumini fosforescente, marea era plină de steluţe minuscule. Pălăria cercetăşească avea un fel de crin pe ea ca o liră şi o aranjam cu aceşti răcuşori micuţi şi se vedea în întuneric pălăria luminată. Cercetăşia mi-a plăcut foarte mult. Am dormit în corturi. Cortul era băgat în nisip ca să nu zboare, era legat cu sfori de ţăruşi, foile erau băgate în nisip ca să nu îl ia curenţii. La mare creşteau ierburi destul de înalte, pe care noi le-am tăiat şi am făcut aşternut din ele. Pe ele am pus foaia de cort, pernele le-am umplut tot cu iarbă şi ăsta a fost dormitorul nostru. Eu am stat cu ceilalţi doi colegi ai mei, care erau comandanţi de grupă într-un cort de trei persoane, alţii erau în cort de 6, de 8 de 10. Ne jucam cu o cărămidă aruncată în apă, cine o găsea avea dreptul s-o arunce mai departe şi ceilalţi s-o caute. Într-un asemenea joc, ceilalţi s-au plictisit, iar eu am continuat să mă joc de unul singur şi curenţii m-au purtat către Nistru. Curenţii erau tot mai puternici şi adâncimea tot mai mare şi oboseam tot înnotând spre mal fără să pot ieşi din curent. Şi în clipa aia de disperare, în prag de moarte, mi-am adus aminte că la un foc de tabără, unul din băieţi, unul Tache, zicea „La fundul apei nu prea mai sunt curenţi!” Atunci m-am aruncat spre fund şi am început să înot. Ieşeam afară să trag aer, iar mă aruncam în adânc şi după o veşnicie am ajuns la mal la plajă şi am stat nu ştiu cât acolo până mi-am revenit. În anul următor ştiam să înot, matur fiind am făcut curse de kilometri. Ultima am făcut-o înainte de m-am pensionat cu vreo doi ani [1978], la Neptun. De atunci n-am mai văzut marea. Asta e că mi-a plăcut natura foarte mult, mi-e dor de ea şi o jinduiesc, n-aş putea spune că nu pot face faţă unor cheltuieli, nu ne mai ţin picioarele şi inima, să inspirăm aerul ăsta nociv.

Am avut multe ocupaţii. Orice am reuşit să fac dacă mi s-a arătat. În casă eu i-am ajutat pe părinţi să facă bidinele, pe care le duceam la ambulanţi. Plecam la servici mă întorceam de la servici luam comanda de la ambulanţi, seara, noaptea le confecţionam. În 15 martie  1933, când aveam 12 ani şi jumătate, am stat 3 luni să învăţ profesia de zincograf. Zincografia se împarte în mai multe secţii. Adică să înţelegi dumneata, fotografia o face reporterul, se ia fotografia se pune pe un geam, se reflectă lumina şi se transcrie poza pe geam unde-i negru devine alb şi unde-i alb devine negru. Se ia apoi geamul şi se duce la altă secţie de copiat, geamul se aplică pe o placă de zinc sub lumină, unde este negru devine alb pe zinc şi unde este alb devine negru. Se ia clişeul şi se bagă în nişte băi de apă tare, 3-4 băi.  Iosif Berman [Notă: (1891-1941): fotograf evreu celebru în epoca interbelică pentru reportajele sale. Era supranumit „omul cu o mie de ochi”. A colaborat în perioada 1920-1930 la ziarul „Adevărul”,  la revista „Realitatea ilustrată”, etc. A fost corespondent la „Berliner Tageblatt”, „London Express” şi „New York Times”.] era însoţit de alţi doi ucenici de-ai lui oameni maturi, Cioc şi Matei pe care i-am cunoscut în perioada când eu începusem meseria de zincograf. Când intrau în zincografie venind de pe teren, treceau prin atelier, ieşeau la o scară prin dos, că n-avea lift, şi se duceau în laboratorul lor unde developau fotografiile şi le aduceau în zincografie. Era foarte iubit de oameni, şi odată m-a fotografiat  în faţa barului „Zig-Zag”,  pe [strada] Matei Millo, în spatele [terasei] Oteleleşanului, unde acum sunt Telefoanele [Notă: Palatul Telefoanelor, pe Calea Victoriei]. Nu ştiu ce a fost pe acolo şi eu m-am suit pe gard să casc gura şi el a prins o poză a momentului şi am apărut şi eu în ziar, în 1936-37 cam aşa ceva, că în 1938 ziarul a fost suspendat.  La „Adevărul” şi „Dimineaţa”, la ziar, am stat 6 ani jumătate [1933-1939].

Apoi am lucrat la o fabrică de corpuri de iluminat [1939-1940] şi am făcut montajul corpurilor, am făcut lăcătuşerie, am şlefuit garniturile elementelor de bronz să aibă un colorit deschis, am lucrat la druckbanc. Druckbanc-ul  era un fel de strung pe care se modela tabla prin apăsare cu un druck, o bară de metal, tabla aluneca în faţa mânerului şi acesta apăsa şi uns cu slănină ca să alunece druckul, eu trebuia să aplec această tablă şi să o aduc la forma modelului. Aceste piese erau utile pentru alcătuirea unui corp de iluminat, fie că era pentru acoperit legăturile de la plafon dintre lampă şi corpul lămpii, fie erau acele piese pe care se sprijinea abajurul, inclusiv elementele ornamentale din tablă care se uneau să facă frumoasă linia tijei în mijlocul lămpii.

Al Doilea Război Mondial

În anul 1940, locuiam cu părinţii. În noaptea de 8 octombrie am fost treziţi din somn de şeful de post al jandarmeriei din cartier, însoţit de cinci indivizi dintre care unul purta cămaşă verde [Notă: era legionar] 7. După ce au scotocit prin toată casa, speriînd pe fraţii mei mai mici, sub pretext că vor să găsească material subversiv, au plecat luând cu ei pe tata. Am trăit atunci o noapte înspăimântătoare. Spre ziuă, şeful postului, s-a întors cu alţi legionari şi ne-a dus la post pe mine şi pe mama. Pe atunci eu aveam 20 de ani şi mama 42 de ani. Am fost duşi de la post la circa de poliţie 27, situată pe strada Pieptănari, în faţa cimitirului Bellu [Notă: cimitir foarte vechi din Bucureşti, unde sunt înmormântate multe personalităţi]. Acolo l-am găsit pe tata, pe domnul Goldstein, pe domnul Rozentzveig, ambii oarecum vecini cu noi. Cei prezenţi la secţie se distrau pălmuindu-ne, iar pe tata l-au pus să şteargă urina din WC cu o batistă. Spre amiază, toţi am fost duşi la Prefectura poliţiei capitalei, unde am fost separaţi de mama. Pe noi, cei 4 evrei din cartier, ne-au dus la subsol. În acest subsol, tata a fost bătut sistematic, mai întâi la palme cu bastonul de cauciuc, apoi la tălpi până i s-au umflat. Ca să se desumfle l-au pus să danseze până s-a prăbuşit. Apoi au continuat bătăile cu unicul scop de a divulga pe comuniştii pe care îi cunoaşte. Au urmat la rând toţi ceilalţi. Spre seară, după încheierea maltratărilor am fost duşi la etajul II al Prefecturii, unde am găsit-o pe mama şi numeroşi oameni, care erau siliţi să stea cu faţa la perete cu mâinile ridicate. În tot timpul acela se aduceau oameni culeşi de pe stradă de legionari. Nemâncaşi, nebăuţi, nedormiţi şi fără posibilitatea efectuării nevoilor, am stat în acea încăpere până târziu noaptea, cănd am primit vizita unui colonel din armată. Acesta ne-a chestionat pe fiecare cum ne cheamă, de unde am fost luaţi şi ce ştim despre ridicarea şi maltratarea noastră. La scurt timp după plecarea sa un comisar a venit şi ne-a cerut să plecăm acasă.

Anul 1941, odată cu declanşarea războiului antisovietic, în luna iunie, aviaţia acestora a bombardat capitala. Bombele au căzut e strada Justiţiei, în apropiere de strada 11 Iunie, chiar sub dealul Mitropoliei, pe o casă din cartierul nostru [la periferia capitalei] şi o aripă a spitalului numărul 9, de boli nervoase. Dacă au existat zvonuri sau suspiciuni asupra evreilor nu ştiu, dar cert este că la data de 22 iulie 1941 [Notă: Conform ordinului nr.4.599/1941 al Ministerului Afacerilor Interne],  au fost adunaţi [de jandarmerie] toţi evreii din cartier. Am fost obligaţi să [stăm] în curtea  şi incinta sinagogii noastre, toţi [bărbaţii] ce împlinisem 18 ani până la vârsta cea mai înaintată [Notă: termenul este folosit cu sensul de perimetru in care au fost fortati sa locuiasca sub paza jandarmilor si pe care nu puteau sa-l paraseasca, nu cu sensul de lagar de concentrare si exterminare]. În două-trei zile s-au adăugat lotului nostru alţi câţiva bărbaţi de pe şoseaua Giurgiului, [cartierul] Progresul, şoseaua Pieptănari, şoseaua Colentina, din Bucureştii Noi şi din cartierul Traian, de pe şoseaua Olteniţei. Aici am fost reţinuţi, peste 60 de oameni, timp cinci săptămâni sub pază de jandarmi. Singurul acces permis a fost al membrilor de familie. Nimeni nu s-a interesat de noi din partea comunităţii sau Centralei Evreilor. Am văzut cu ochii şi am trăit fenomenul foamei  al celor la care nu mai aveau ce să li se aducă de acasă  de către soţii sau mame. La clipele în care cineva împărţea ce i s-a adus de acasă cu  celalalt vecin sau prieten, dar şi clipele în care trebuia să te ascunzi când mâncai ceva  ca să nu te vadă celălalt. Dar situaţia noastră s-a îmbunătăţit datorită unui fost locatar [evreu] din acest cartier, pe nume Ascher care prin posibilităţi proprii a reuşit să ne aducă hrană în fiecare zi. Când defunctul Asher,  Dumnezeu să-i odihnească osemintele şi sufletul, ne-a adus hrana necesară moralul ne-a crescut, umilinţele au dispărut şi am dus viaţa acolo sub pază de jandarmi. Fiind poate singurul supravieţuitor, încerc să îmi amintesc numele şi profesia celor din lagăr, diferite ipostaze ale acelor timpuri.

După 5 săptămâni, la sfârşitul lunii august, printr-o hotărâre statală [Notă: Conform ordinului nr.31200/1941 al Marelui Stat Major] s-a dispus eliberarea noastră din lagăr şi puşi la dispoziţia Centrului de recrutare care ne-a trimis la diferite detaşamente, a început munca obligatorie. Primul detaşament în care eu am nimerit a fost cel de la Poligonul Bucureşti, unde s-a lucrat la anumite şanţuri pentru  a înlesni instruirea armatei la acest poligon de tragere.  Am făcut tot ce mi-a stat la îndemână, am vopsit paturile la spitalul Cantacuzino de la Piaţa Gemeni,  care a fost de fapt un dispensar al salariaţilor, se numea „Albert Thomas„. Am făcut saltele, peste 1000 de saltele, la Consiliul de patronaj. M-a învăţat la început să umplu salteaua cu paie, să poată să coase buretele pe margini, am devenit eu şeful echipei compusă numai din electricieni, un croitor, un papucar şi un cizmar. Nu era de meserie tapiţer nici unul,  cel care ne-a iniţiat fusese fiul unui tapiţer evreu, care şi-a recâştigat cetăţenia poloneză şi a scăpat de muncă obligatorie. Şi în timpul în care ne căutam noi de lucru, am nimerit la atelierul de hidrofoare şi bobinat motoare electrice al inginerului Maxim Brănişteanu, pe [Bulevardul] Magheru, unde e gura de metrou acuma. Am găsit un om, care nu era inginer dar la care veneau ingineri din facultate să-l consulte şi mi-a explicat într-un limbaj foarte adecvat şi simplu cum se formează magnetismul, pe unde intră curentul şi pe unde iese curentul, de ce se roteşte rotorul, de ce se roteşte mai iute, de ce se roteşte mai încet în funcţie de numărul de bobine, iar eu am ajuns un om să fac un motor într-o zi. Şi pentru mine era un examen, pentru că eu am făcut cu totul altceva ca tânăr meseriaş,  ca electrician.  În rest se ştie ce viaţă am dus sub muncă obligatorie, fiecare cu norocul pe unde a nimerit până s-a încheiat războiul.

Moritz Leinweber, fratele meu, a fost în Transnistria , însă nu  în lagăr aruncaţi, ca cei din Basarabia şi Bucovina şi nordul Moldovei, a fost sub controlul armatei române. Au fost luaţi din 1942, deci aproapre 2 ani a stat acolo şi mama a reuşit cu legătura de la centrul de recrutare să-i trimită ceva îmbrăcăminte. Îşi lua şi el darul, dar a făcut treabă omul ăla, a fost cumsecade, şi aşa am ţinut legătura cu el. I-a dus organizat înapoi ţară, s-au cam împrăştiat în jurul Iaşilor că n-au vrut să-i prindă ruşii să-i trimită să lupte. A ajuns în Bucureşti după 23 august [1944] cu mare întârziere, a ocolit noaptea să nu-i prindă ruşii, care veneau şi ei spre capitala. În Transnistria au murit rudele tatălui meu adoptiv. A fost unchiul David, care se căsătorise, avea un copil, au murit toţi. A avut un frate, nu ştiu ce meserie a avut, a cărui nevastă şi fiică i-am regăsit la Haifa în 1974, care au scăpat cu viaţă, şi o soră  la Vatra Dornei, care a murit pe acolo [în Transnistria].

După Război

Din 1946 până în 1948, am lucrat la Comitetul raional PCR, şef serviciu administrativ apoi revizor contabil, la Ministerul comerţului, ca economist din 1948 până  la 31 decembrie 1951. Am făcut în viaţă aceste lucruri pentru că mi s-a oferit ocazia. În  Ministerul Comerţului, m-a deranjat răbojul evidenţei materialelor sau lipsa de evidenţă a inventarelor şi atunci am solicitat unchiului lui Pătrăşcanu 8, care era contabil la sectorul de partid [sectorul] trei  să mă înveţe cum se aplică contabilitatea prin transcriere. Am înfiinţat un sistem de inventariere, încât în orice clipă oricine ar fi întrebat articolul nr. 10 ce este şi unde se găseşte, atunci din evidenţă spuneam articolul 10  este maşina de scris cu carul mare şi se găseşte în direcţia X, şi în camera Y, erau toate sub semnătură. Văzând cei din conducerea de partid şi sindicală realizările acestea ale unui om cu o şcoală industrială, în urma unei hotărâri a Consiliului de Miniştri ca din muncitorii evoluaţi să se facă revizori contabili, am fost obligat să urmez şcoala de revizor contabil  timp de 3 luni de zile.

 Am făcut orchestră în minister [în anii 1950], unde e acum hotelul Bucureşti, pe Calea Victoriei, acolo era Ministerul Comerţului. Acolo era o sală de teatru şi în care noi ţineam şedinţele din minister şi dacă am avut trei salariaţi instrumentişti,  şi mai era un băiat din altă direcţie care cânta la vioară şi la pian, am făcut o formaţie de muzicanţi. Eu am bătut tobe. Şi a început cu  melodii ruseşti, cu asta se începea întotdeauna, şi au rămas toţi căscaţi când m-au văzut la tobă, că toţi ştiau că eram şeful serviciului inventar şi materiale şi toţi aveau nevoie de un scaun, un fişet, covor, maşina de scris, creioane, hârtie şi altele.

În 1952 m-am transferat la Trustul de alimentaţie publică pe aceeaşi funcţie. La început, vreo trei luni, am lucrat la stabilirea cauzelor pentru care au fost pierderi la aprozar apoi am început sa fac revizie la foarte multe TAP-eleuri, adică Trusturi de Alimentaţie Publică, care administrau restaurantele, bodegile, cofetăriile şi laboratoarele aferente. Am fost scos din producţie de către Sindicatul comerţ finanţe [1952-1958], cooperaţie care îmi cunoştea activitatea ca responsabil cultural pe capitală în sindicatul comerţ. Am fost trimis să activez în Consiliul central sportiv Spartac, care cuprindea toţi salariaţii din comerţ, finanţe, cooperaţie şi industria alimentară, unde a trebuit să analizez probleme financiare care au apărut la această asociaţie. Având talent la tir, am făcut parte din echipa de tir a Asociaţiei Spartac, am concurat la poligon alături de Iosif Sârbu, Carmen Stănescu, cu Herşcovici, multicampion naţional şi mulţi alţi sportivi de valoare pe care i-a avut ţara în anii aceia.

[În 1960] am revenit iar la poziţia din Minister  ca economist financiar, m-am transferat la ICRM Bucureşti, Întreprinderea comerţului cu ridicata, materiale chimice, unde m-am ocupat de evidenţa tuturor utilajelor frigorifice care veneau din străinătate. De la graniţă eu trebuia să ştiu de starea lor, un fel de analist financiar, trebuia să ştiu starea fiecărui utilaj. Trebuia plătit dintr-un credit, când utilajul ajungea la destinaţie trebuia să-mi comunice că l-a primit  şi după aceea mergeam la Banca de Dezvoltare de pe Academie ca să iau creditul şi până atunci plăteam dobânda. Şi am început treaba cu două conturi la bancă. Neavând studiile la facultate, mi-a dat derogare secretarul de stat, am fost singurul cu derogare în tot comerţul, fapt pentru care la fiecare salariu aveam mai puţin cu 200 de lei. M-am ocupat de tot sectorul electrotehnic, am cumpărat şi am vândut corpuri de iluminat, erau 2000 şi ceva de articole, unele erau interşanjabile, mergeau la orice fel de braţ, altele erau speciale, trebuia să am din fiecare, fiare de călcat, piese de schimb la ele. Aveam vreo 36 de furnizori cu care aveam relaţii şi la un moment dat trebuia să semnez mii de contracte. Aprovizionam capitala, asta a fost activitatea mea în ultimii 20 de ani până m-am pensionat, la 1 septembrie 1980.

Am cunoscut-o pe soţia mea în cadrul activului de partid. Era o fată foarte cuminte, la locul ei.  Tatăl ei era în vârstă şi nu mai puteau să lucreze, fuseseră bombardaţi în timpul războiului  şi erau săraci lipiţi. I-am găsit locuind într-o mansardă, în cartierul Lânăriei, pe strada Didiţel, aproape de [Calea] Şerban Vodă. Am cunoscut-o în 1946, eram responsabil financiar şi ea contabilă. La un moment dat tovarăşul secretar mi-a pus sula în coaste. „ Ia ascultă, când te culegi de pe drumuri?Când te însori? -Cum să mă însor tovarăşe secretar, cu leafa mea?”  Eu am stat la părinţi, mâncam la cantină, dimineaţa un ceai. - „Da, eu cum sunt însurat şi am doi copii?” N-am mai zis că tot eu îi dădeam bani în plus, aşa era sarcina. Se spunea „Cine iese la baricadă pentru revoluţie? –Activul!- Cine-i activul?- Membrii biroului de sector!”. Noi eram drojdia, eram nimic, ei şapte erau grozavii, marii responsabili ai partidului pe sector. Şi se dădeau prime, ajutoare, care nu se mai rambursau. Am tăcut, dar totuşi nu era o soluţie să umbi din creangă în creangă. Şi am început să caut, cartierul meu nimic, circa 27 nimic, cartierul Progresul nimic, circa 26, 23,24, fabrica cutare, nu am găsit nimic care să meargă la suflet. Cunoşteam destule fete, şi la baluri şi chermeze, toţi veneau la balurile şi chermezele mele. Şi am strâns aria căutărilor şi am ajuns la cadre, la mine la administrativ, şi atunci am privit-o cu alţi ochi pe contabila mea. Am plecat amândoi la o şedinţă, la capitală şi am vârât-o în cinematograf cu tărăboi. „Tovarăşe Nicu, cum se poate? Să mergem înapoi! –Lasă că ne aşteaptă, să vedem un film acum!” Şi aşa a început curtea.

Soţia, Melania Leinweber, era născută [Reischer] la Roman, în 1926. Avea trei fraţi: Herman Reischer, Iancu Reischer şi Rebeca Saper [născută Reischer]. Herman a fost la Focşani fotograf, apoi în Israel, bucătar pe vapor şi a murit într-un sanatoriu. Fratele mai mic a lucrat la [Uzina]”Vulcan”[în Bucureşti] şi apoi a plecat în Israel unde a practicat strungăria la Haifa şi acolo a murit negustor. Rebeca a murit în 1996, în Israel. Melania a făcut liceul, a fost contabil. Am avut un copil cu mare greutate, pentru că pierdea sarcinile, a stat cu el 3 luni şi jumătate la pat. A fost contabilă la C.C.[Notă: Comitetul Central] al PCR până a născut copilul şi apoi a trecut la Alimentara  tot contabilă. Când eram la liceu [la seral] îmi traducea din latină sau din franceză şi îmi spunea în româneşte ce scrie în carte. A fost apreciată şi au luat-o în Ministerul Industriei Uşoare ca şefă de secţie la pasmanterie, după care a trecut la serviciul de tricotaje şi confecţii şi se ocupa de centrale din toată ţara şi cu contractările la capitolul tricotaje, era deja specialistă. Pe urmă a ieşit la pensie în 1981.

Am venit în casă cu zestrea adusă de mine, o pătură şi plapuma făcută tot de mine, cearşafuri, perne a dat mama. Ea n-a venit cu nimic, n-avea cu ce să vină, erau sinistraţi. Cu banii daţi de către sector, aşa era legea atunci, când cineva se căsătorea primea încă un salariu şi cu salariul primit de mine şi cu ce a primit şi ea, am cumpărat un şifonier, un covor amărât, un birou, o lampă electrică, o lampă de gaz şi aşa ne-am încropit noi căsnicia.  Fiind activist de partid cu soţia mea m-am căsătorit şi am înjghebat un cămin pe jumate de apartament, adică aveam o cameră 3 pe 3 jumate, un loc de baie, bucătăria şi hol comun cu altcineva. Era pe Splaiul Unirii nr. 14, acum e un bloc mare acolo, era vizavi de Morgă.  După ce a  născut soţia [1949], a murit socrul şi a venit soacră-mea să stea la mine. N-am avut timp liber niciodată. Nu ne ajungea salariul. Se scumpise viaţa şi a trebuit să lucrez şi acasă nişte treburi electrice şi de artizanat, eu marele economist, ca să scot un ban. Băgam un divan mic la intrare ca un dormitor comun şi mai era patul copilului. Dimineaţa îl scoteam pe hol. Am cerut la sindicat o locuinţă şi mi-a dat pe [strada] Sfântul Gheorghe. N-aveam baie, era doar bucătărie  şi un WC cu o chiuvetă mică. Astea erau condiţiile mele de trai, dar măcar era o cameră mare, unde am stat cu fetiţa şi pătuţul ei de fier şi soacră-mea în sufragerie pe un divan. Am obţinut o repartiţie, pe numele soţiei, la o casă de trei camere în [cartierul] Balta Albă cu două grupuri sanitare. Am cumpărat-o [după revoluţie] şi am vândut-o [mai târziu], neputând să plătesc întreţinerea.

Cu soţia nu am făcut vacanţe, pentru că nu se potrivea concediul meu cu concediul ei, fie aveam contractări în acelaşi timp, şi completări la contractări. Adică primăvara făceam completări şi toamna făceam pentru anul următor. Împreună am fost la  Sângiorz, la Eforie o dată,  la Neptun o dată, la Slănic Moldova odată. De la Neptun am venit cu ea cu piciorul în ghips, s-a reparat. Am mai fost cu ea la Buziaş, la Borsec, la Braşov. La Tuşnad a făcut un anevrism. Soţia a murit în Bucureşti, în 1990.

Victoria, [unicul copil] este născută în 1949. A făcut grădiniţa pe strada  Zamfirescu, îi plăcea să danseze. A început clasele primare la o şcoală pe strada Mântuleasa, liceul l-a început pe Calea Moşilor. A intrat la facultatea la Transporturi,  unde s-a remarcat, era printre primii zece în facultate. A terminat facultatea cu 9 şi ceva şi la examenul de stat a luat 10 pe lucrarea ei. S-a trezit repartizată la Braşov unde a făcut practica pentru examenul de stat, s-au bucurat de venirea ei şi au apreciat-o, dar nu a vrut să stea acolo. Atunci ministrul de la industria uşoară, a discutat cu ministrul de la Transporturi şi a dispus Institutului de cercetări de pe Calea Griviţei s-o primească. Oamenii nu spun că au fost antisemiţi, poate răuvoitori, n-au vrut s-o primească. A depus un nou examen, i s-a dat ca lucrare o staţie de cale ferată de la Braşov şi trebuia să stabilească calitatea traseului, mărfuri, pasageri pentru Braşov, adică o analiză economică. La examen cei de la facultate i-au dat 10 [Nota: În sistemul de notare şcolar românesc nota maximă este 10  şi  nota minimă de promovare 5. ] şi pe acelaşi subiect aici îi dă 8, pentru că nu a ştiut cum se fixează containerele de marfă. Eu i-am spus „Oricât ai ieşit cu note mari din facultate, oricât de capabilă şi competentă ai fi, trebuie să fii cu două capete deasupra unui bărbat! Trebuie să dovedeşti calităţi ca să fii acceptată ca femeie, să ţii minte asta în viaţă!” A devenit şefa serviciului, la secţia economică, analiză pieţe şi tarife. Câtă vreme a fost bolnavă, directorul dădea telefon să întrebe ce-i de făcut pentru că nu ştiau ei, dar ştia ea,  şi tot colectivul era pregătit de ea, asta a fost calitatea ei profesională. A avut şi teme de cercetare, contracte de cercetare cu Ministerul. Era foarte sociabilă, avea spirit de organizare, a fost foarte capabilă, şi-a luat locul foarte în serios. Se revolta,  nu suporta nedreptatea, avea limbă de glaspapir ca şi mine. Am obligat-o să fie mai cumpătată, mai atentă pentru că tot din cauza asta eu n-am mai evoluat în funcţiile superioare. S-a căsătorit [în anii 1980, cu un creştin], după căsătorie se numea Niculescu. A murit pe 30 decembrie 1993, din cauza unui cancer de pancreas. E înmormântată la [cimitirul evreiesc] Giurgiului, în Bucureşti. Am un nepot, Daniel Niculescu, de 21 de ani.

Eu mărturisesc că am devenit ateu cu timpul, am rămas unul care iubeşte oamenii, respectă oamenii. Socrii, părinţii, rudele care există aicea, verii lui mama cu soţiile lor, verii primari sunt la Giurgiului, numai tatăl meu biologic este la Filantropia şi cu tanti Matilda, sora cea mai mare a lui mama. Când sunt la cimitir sigur că spun kadiş, deşi asta este o formalitate care dealtfel nu ajută la nimic,  este legată de tradiţie, de sentimentele omului, de plecăciunea omului în faţa unor amintiri, ai unor oameni pe care i-ai cunoscut  şi îndrăgit. Religia iudaică are regulile ei de relaţii umane şi de igienă, care duce la absurditate cu caşrutul ăsta. Una e să găteşti într-o oală în care ai avut lapte, şi alta e să găteşti în oala de lapte, oală de carne, de Paşte alte vase. Dacă nu ai alte vase, trebuie să le fierbi cu sodă, să le faci curate, să nu mănânci pâine ci numai pască adică nişte exagerări. Eu am avut o ciocnire cu un văr de al lui tata în Israel. Îi dau telefon şi îmi răspunde soţia lui, nu mi-am dat seama că e vineri seara, şi îmi răspunde că e la sinagogă. A doua zi îmi spune „Bine mă Nicule, ai făcut un păcat mare, ai dat telefon şi soţia mea a trebuit să-ţi răspundă la telefon! - Da măi, am făcut lucrul ăsta, să ştii că ai mare dreptate, am făcut un mare păcat, că eu am pus mâna pe telefon şi tu n-ai răspuns!” Şi i-am zis „Tu sâmbăta te duci cu nevasta la plimbare? -Cum să nu mă duc?-Deci laşi uşa deschisă, nu o încui, dacă te apucă burta te duci la WC? Nevastă-ta a răspuns la telefon şi a făcut un păcat, tu să încui uşa sâmbăta nu e păcat, să tragi apa nu e păcat, să mănânci nu e păcat, că faci o muncă?“ Ce sunt cu absurdităţile astea în anul 2000?

Oamenii oriunde s-ar naşte sunt neputincioşi în faţa naturii, psihic simt nevoia să se agaţe de un sprijin şi acest sprijin real este Dumnezeu. Dar avem ceva şi  la budişti, adventişti, creştini şi la mahomedani şi la penticostali şi la protestanţi şi la luterani şi la tot ce vrei. Noi evreii am rămas staţionari în acest nod gordian cu „La anul la Ierusalim !“ şi persecuţia, care ne-a obligat să fim uniţi între noi, moral. Material, fiecare cu cortul lui. Suntem oamenii cărţii, oamenii Bibliei care le-au dat cele 10 porunci prin Moise, care a stat nu ştiu câte zile pe munte şi le-a spart în capul lor, când a găsit idolul la care se închinau. Din ele s-a născut codul napoleonian, codul juridic pe care l-a îmbrăţişat toată lumea în justiţie  şi multe alte minuni din astea care se datoresc evreimii, acestor oameni  care au ştiut să-şi păstreze istoria pe calea cuvântului. Aşa că eu nu sunt un religios, dar sunt evreu. Ceremonia Torei este un eveniment istoric, faptul că intri în suka, oamenii se bucură de rezultatele recoltei. Găsirea uleiului care  a ars a creat Hanuka, alt moment de bucurie, sărbătoarea luminii, din care Rosen 9 a făcut Hanukiada cu care a uimit pe toţi din străinătate, au venit să caşte gura şi ei să vadă cum e. [Notă: Hanukiada, este numele dat de doamna dr. Moses Rosen, turneului de vizitare al comunităţilor din ţară, iniţiat din anii 1970 cu prilejul zilelor de Hanuca. La aceste vizite organizate de conducerea comunităţii evreieşti erau invitaţi şi oaspeţi din străinătate. Faptul că las un pahar plin pe masă să vină sfântul Ilie, cine să vie să bea ? Omul se gândeşte că a fost sfântul Ilie, se sărbătoreşte o amintire. Aceste lucruri au un fond care impresionează, chiar şi Rosen a spus că nu avem o religie, ci o tradiţie, pe care o respectăm,  tradiţia mâncării, tradiţia relaţiilor între oameni, a sărbătoririi unor evenimente. Omul are nevoie să se agaţe de ceva, are nevoie de un sprijin moral, iar eu respect acest lucru.

În 1948 [când s-a creat statul Israel], era o bucurie, era un patos, o stare de fapt. Am fost suprins, venise Sadat la Ierusalim, la Knesset, să facă pace. Eram în spital, am evitat să mă operez la stomac. Prima oară în Israel [în 1974] îţi spun ce am simţit [domnul Leinweber citeşte o poezie proprie]: „De pe scara unui avion cândva am coborât/ Şi un haial  ce lângă el stătea mi-a spus Şalom!/Eu am simţit că sunt un om,/ Eram un om mai deosebit, căldura ta m-a învăluit./ Şalom!/ Acest cuvânt de întâmpinare eu l-am simţit în suflet şi picioare./ (De ce am fost emoţionat?) Păşeam pe al tău pământ plin de istorie şi sfânt,/ Un pământ ce a fost dorit/ De o Diasporă ce a voit/ Mereu să aibă ţara ei la bine şi la greu./ Pe mulţi tu i-ai îmbrăţişat  şi cu căldură i-ai ridicat/ Împreună aţi clădit ce mulţi alţi n-au izbutit./ Creaţia ta, gură de rai şi cea de pe Sinai/ Poartă stindardul cu Zion/ Şi flutură în veci/ Şalom.” Apoi mi s-au îmuiat picioarele, nu am mai putut să mai merg, m-a cuprins aşa o toropeală, nu mă mai puteam controla. Aceeaşi stare am simţit-o la Zidul Plângerii. Numai când îmi aduc aminte sunt emoţionat, parcă cade ceva pe tine, te apasă, te strânge, parcă ceva te poartă aşa în aer. Este greu de explicat şi te miri de ce oamenii merg şi plâng acolo. O suprafaţă într-un biet pătrat oarecare.

De ce nu am plecat acolo? Aveam în jur de 40 de ani, fetiţa era la liceu, era problema învăţăturii, era problema soţiei, care era funcţionară eminentă şi apreciată în minister. Ce era să facă acolo, să fie servitoare la alţii? Cine avea nevoie de contabil care nu ştia limba? Plus că soţia şi fata nu suportau căldurile. Venea vara, stăteam închişi în casă. Era  foarte răcoroasă şi ne simţeam acasă. Ca să am linişte în cap, închideam ca să nu mai vină lumea. „Plecăm! Nu plecăm! Plecăm!” Era ceva care apăsa starea psihică şi de ameţeală te forţa să pleci, luat de curent. Aveam o uşa de fier afară, o trăgeam să creadă lumea ca am plecat şi stăteam acasă ca să am linişte. Am văzut tot ce vrei în Israel,  toate frumoase, dar numai ca turist. Ca să convieţuieşti este foarte greu, că toate jigodiile din  Calea Văcăreşti şi Dudeşti, acolo au parvenit şi oamenii competenţi cu valori sociale, s-au zbătut în chin şi mizerie  până când s-au mai săltat şi ei.

Rudele din străinătate i-au scris mamei, toţi care au plecat au trecut mai întâi pe la ea, şi rudele din partea lui tata şi rudele ei de sânge. Şi  avea adresele lor, eu când m-am dus în Israel în 1974,  am  luat toate adresele şi am avut şi adresele celor din cartier. De la unul la altul am început să mai lărgesc cercul, am vizitat  circa 50 de familii, rude, cunoscuţi, prieteni. Am ajuns la 75 [de familii] în 1977. Şi mă duceam singur  şi eram o surpriză. Când am venit cu soţia în 1981, nu mai puteam face acelaşi lucru. Când anunţam că vreau să vin, trebuia să mă duc şi cu ea şi n-am mai putut să mai cuprind aşa de mulţi. M-am dus ultima oară în 1996, deşi ştiam că mulţi au murit, că mulţi au dispărut. M-am întors mâhnit.

Corespondenţa mea era citită [de către Securitate] şi nu m-a deranjat. O dată am scris că fata a fost curtată de un cetăţean care a fost căpitan în miliţie. Era criminalist la circa de poliţie din Balta Albă, unde noi locuiam şi s-au întâlnit  în troleibuz. Şi el a fost luat la întrebări „Ştiţi, am fost luat la întrebări că vreau să mă însor!” Era filat de  către securiştii circii de poliţie, ei ştiau cu cine umblă, că-şi păzeau cadrele. Şi ca să-i lase să se căsătorească a trebuit să intervin la Aneta Spornic, fostă ministru la Învăţământ. „Ce aveţi cu băiatul ?  S-a îndrăgostit de o fată al cărui tată a fost activist, al cărui bunic a făcut activitate revoluţionară şi  tatăl vitreg, Leinweber, a fost gazdă ilegală, la care au venit cutare şi cutare, somităţi ale partidului... şi care acum sunt mari miniştri !”.

Eram în braţe cu Europa Liberă şi eram la curent cu toate. Considerându-mă un om cinstit şi corect, nu am acceptat  batjocura să stea oamenii la coadă de nebuni la pâine. La brânzeturi şi mezeluri stăteau oamenii la coadă de seara până a doua zi. Nu cumpărau ce voiau, ci ce vine. Eram indignat, pentru că pe vremea burgheziei aşa ceva comuniştii n-ar fi tolerat,  scoteau oamenii la revoltă. Dar aşa cine deschidea gura era înhăţat şi dus la spălat geamuri, la bătaie, la frecat pe jos.

Cartierul Apărătorii Patriei  a dispărut în anii 1980. Astăzi e o mare de blocuri pe locul în care a fost agricultură, de jur împrejurul locului în care am locuit sunt locuinţe, străzi noi. Iar eu fostul copil, care  am trăit în natură şi am sorbit aerul curat şi am văzut cerul înstelat, mărturisesc că încă mi-e dor de el. Din tot ce a fost în cartier  cunoscut, nu mai există nimeni, a fost demolat în timpul lui Ceauşescu şi s-au făcut noi construcţii în care s-au mutat oameni veniţi din afară şi mai puţini din cartier. Eliberarea terenului a fost prin demolarea caselor 10 modeste, cu mici curţi şi grădini cu pomi fructiferi. Mamei i s-a dat o garsonieră undeva pe [Şoseaua Ion] Şulea în cartierul Energeticienilor, apoi am luat-o la mine că nu mai putea să stea singură. Şi aşa s-a imprăştiat toată lumea din cartier de n-a mai ştiut unul de altul unde se găseşte.

Am zis bogdaproste că l-au lichidat pe Ceauşescu, că l-aş fi împuşcat cu mâna mea pentru că a distrus buna credinţă a oamenilor cinstiţi, a mea şi a multora şi a foarte multor evrei care au sărit în tabăra comunistă să ajute să sprijine şi pe urmă au fost îndepărtaţi. După [revoluţia din]1989 nu s-a schimbat mare lucru, soţia bolnavă a murit, s-a îmbolnăvit fata, a murit, am rămas singur, m-am îmbolnăvit. M-am dus în vizită la fratele meu [în Germania] şi din cauza situaţiei economice am vrut să plec înapoi.

Nu am participat  la nici un fel de viaţă evreiască după război, pentru că eram ocupat cu munca mea profesională şi n-am avut cum să am relaţii. Am cerut sprijinul Asistenţei să-mi dea ajutor să plătesc un om atunci când soacră-mea a făcut ruptură de femur şi zăcea în pat. Eu aveam pensie de boală, lucram doar patru ore, soţia de asemenea, fata era  la  liceu şi nu mai rezistam economic. Şi întâmplarea a făcut  ca un băiat care lucra la Asistenţă,  era omul de lângă Rosen, i-a făcut un dosar favorabil şi a căpătat un ajutor. Au fost primele contacte cu asistenţa. Când mi-a murit soţia, Amalia [Notă: soţia rabinului Moses Rosen] a venit şi mi-a adus bani. Atunci când am rămas singur şi nu mă mai ajungeam cu pensia, mâncam la cantină şi plăteam abonamentul. Am devenit asistat, am căpătat asistenţa medicală şi medicamente şi un ajutor în toamnă [în anii 1990] care mi-a prins bine.  Am făcut infarct în 1993, şi am stat la [Spitalul] Caritas şi după ce s-a vindecat rana m-a trimis acasă cu un tratament medical costisitor pe care îl iau şi în ziua de astăzi. Eram înscris la Cristian [Notă: tabără din Braşov a Federaţiei Comunităţilor Evreieşti din România ] şi după infarctul pe care l-am făcut mă ştersese de pe listă. Aveam nevoie de linişte dupa 40 de zile de spital. Am vorbit cu Wiener, care e un om la locul lui, şi de atunci am mers în fiecare an la Cristian şi am onorat gestul lor cu versuri de ocazie să apreciez munca lor  şi auzi că mi le-a băgat la dosar. Pentru ce? „Las să fie acolo!”.

Eu nu mai am nici un viitor, viitorul meu este locul de veci, acolo e mama, e tata, e soţia mea, e fiică mea, acolo e soacră-mea, toţi verii mamei şi verişorii mei.  N-am putere să mai merg la [cimitirul evreiesc] Filantropia, trebuie să mă opresc de trei ori până ajung, că am dureri de picioare, de la bazin, de la încheieturi. Gura mea nu tace, spune tot ce simte. Mă uitam la tata care m-a crescut, la 82 de ani era un om terminat, uita, umbla în baston. Eu mai gândesc lucid, fac poezii, ascult „tinerii” noştri asistaţi la Centrul de zi. În rest fac mascote, din blană alb, gri, bej, să iasă lucruri frumoase. Fac căţei, lei, maimuţe.  Eu care m-am născut şi crescut aici, cu toate persecuţiile trăite, am rămas un om al pământului. Am caietele mele de poezie: lirice, de copii şi pasteluri şi patriotice. Acum lucram la poezii stelare, am 30 de poezii numai cu stele, cu cerul, cu comete, cu tot ce vrei. Încearcă să te regăseşti aici: „Priveşte în jur prudentă/ Dar inimii dai glas,/Păşeşti vibrându-ţi trupul, ce simţi cum se împlineşte,/Îţi vrei furat sărutul ce gura îl odihneşte/Cu coapse în legănare, să înlocuieşti vrei  timpul, / Ţi-i inima în încordare şi ai vrea să-i rupi veşmântul,/ Te simţi înfiorată sub vântul cald de seară,/ Arăţi îmbujorată privind cum te înconjoară,/ Aduci pe drumul vieţii iubire şi candoare/Ca roua dimineţii sub razele de soare.” 

Glosar:

Luna Davidova
Sofia
Bulgaria
Interviewer: Atanas Igov
Date of interview: April 2003

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

My family background

My family came from Spain in the middle of the sixteenth century after the Jews were expelled from Spain [see Expulsion of the Jews from Spain] 1. They settled throughout Europe - a big part of them settled in the Balkans, in what was then the Ottoman Empire, where they were welcomed. My father's surname is Katalan, which may be a testimony to our coming from Catalonia. Nevertheless I chose Davidova as my artistic name, which I still use. Davidova is the paternal name of my father and it became the surname of me and my sister.

My mother's surname is Bidjarano. I can remember my maternal grandfather, David Bidjarano. He was a shopkeeper and he had an old house in the center of Kazanlak on the Jewish Street. It had two floors - there was a kitchen with a fountain and a stone sink downstairs. Upstairs there were two rooms with couches by the windows and a coal brazier, where they boiled coffee - they drank a lot of coffee. In this room there was a big ancient mirror as well as a wide bed where my grandpa lay and was dying slowly for almost two years. I could still hear him calling my grandmother to give him some water or medicine. He always wore a black suit, his shoes were always shining and he had a bowler hat - I don't remember him ever being careless or untidy.

We never visited them without being given something- my maternal grandmother, Beya Bidjarano, would open a cupboard and offer us some dried morellos or other delicacies. In front of their house there was a vine trellis with splendid white grapes. We almost didn't talk to grandma - she seemed to us terribly old yet she was very kind and loved us very much. I remember her sisters - Ester and Luna who lived in a small house in a remote place near Kazanlak called Kulbe. Both of them were widows - Ester was a gentle and peaceful woman, a fastidious person who was always resting on her arms. Luna's son had been a soldier and disappeared during the Balkan Wwar 2- she spent all her life waiting for his return but she never heard anything from him. Luna was a lively, alert and even ironic woman;, she smoked a lot - she rolled her cigarettes by herself. My maternal grandmother, Beya Bidjarano died on the 11th of June 1943 - the very same day when we were interned from Kazanlak. Our friends and neighbors buried her there after we had left.

Both of my grandfathers were religious. My maternal grandfather was more religious, he read in Hebrew and attended the synagogue regularly. They almost didn't leave home except when they went to the synagogue or visited some relatives. All my grandparents conversed in Ladino - we called it Judeo-Espanñol. David and Beya hardly knew Bulgarian - David more or less managed;, he was a shopkeeper after all. But my poor grandmother knew just a few words in Bulgarian - she called the window 'pendjura' - Quiero a sentarme hasta la pendjura [Ladino: I would like to sit next to the window] - and she said 'furkulitsa' for 'fork' - these are both archaic Bulgarian words.

I remember my paternal grandfather, David Katalan. With his first wife Luna he had three children: two sons, my father Buko and Gavriel and one daughter, Solchi. My grandmother fell sick with tuberculosis and died in Vienna where she was buried. - Wwhen my husband and I went to Vienna we tried to find her grave but we couldn't. Then my grandfather married a Jewish woman from Istanbul whose name was also Luna. They had two children together, - Shella and Berto. I don't remember the maiden name of my Turkish grandmother but I remember that she was a very beautiful woman, an aristocrat and she didn't like doing the housework at all. Her sister Fortuna came with her from Tsarigrad [historical Bulgarian name for Istanbul; means the City of the King]. She was a spinster, hunchbacked, but extremely intelligent, and she did the housework. David Katalan had a little grocery store in the village of Turia near Kazanlak; he then settled down in the town of Kazanlak where he was engaged in rose oil trading for a while and he built a big and beautiful house. It had three floors and on holidays the whole family gathered there.

My mother Sara was the youngest child in her family - she had three brothers and one sister. The eldest brother, Buko, left for Plovdiv where he was a bank officer. Her second brother, Raphael Bidjarano, graduated with a degree in medicine in Vienna and he came back to work as a physician in Kazanlak. Her third brother, Yakov, was a naïve and good-hearted man who couldn't finish whatever he was doing.

My mother's sister, Oro [Ladino: gold], was a very beautiful woman; she fell in love with a young Bulgarian from Kazanlak. At that time this was considered setting a terrible precedent, almost a scandal for the Jewish community and her relatives; they renounced her and they didn't want to see or to hear anything of this beautiful woman. Later she married a wealthy Bulgarian in Plovdiv - he had some business in the oil and gas industry. They had two daughters, Beti and Rezhina. Later on they forgave her the mistake and she could come and visit us in Kazanlak. - dDuring these visits I was fascinated with her beauty. Afterwards they divorced, her husband left for Egypt with one of their daughters and she left for Paris with the other one in 1935 or 1936. She survived the German occupation in France, her friends and neighbors hid her. After the war she and her daughter made a little industry of prêt-a-porté. In the beginning of the 1960s I visited them onin the outskirts of Paris where they lived at the time. My aunt Oro was almost senile at that time but when she saw me she looked at me for a long time and finally she smiled - as if she understood who I was. But she didn't say a word.

My mother, Sara Bidjarano, was born on the 24th of May 1904 in Kazanlak. She finished the Girl's High School in Kazanlak - it was a rarity for a girl to graduate at that time. She married my father very young in 1924 at the small synagogue in our town. After the wedding they went on a honeymoon trip to Vienna - as long as they lived they never stopped talking about this trip. She was a housewife all her life, a fastidious person - she sewed, knitted, cooked, did the shopping. She had a great sense of humor., She was a cheery and sociable person;, people loved her and visited her to drink a cup of coffee, to have a talk, to exchange gossip. She was very beautiful - she had green eyes and copper-red hair that she sometimes wore in a great shining chignon; she also had red freckles to match her 'djindjita' -- as her red hair was called. This was a great discomfort to her - she applied different creams to her freckles in hopes to remove them, but none of them worked. She loved reading and she liked to visit the the chitalishte. 3.

My parents observed the rituals of the Jewish holidays at home because they respected the traditions although they weren't religious at all. I can't remember if they ever stepped inside the synagogue. The synagogue had two floors. The Jewish school where my sister and I studied until the fourth 4th grade was also there. The curriculum was the same as in the Bulgarian schools but also included Hebrew, the Torah and Jewish history. In the same building apart form the synagogue and the school there was a big hall with a gallery. Its door had a lattice window -women with head coverings gathered there to attend the ceremonies. Men were downstairs and also wore something on their heads. Only men went to the cemetery for the funerals.

In the yard of the synagogue and the school there was a little house where the dead were washed according to ancient tradition - they were buried naked only with a sheet. There was a woman called Tanti Reina [Ladino for queen], she was rohesa - the person who washes the bodies of the dead and prepares them for the funeral. She had an extremely strong spirit, she looked after the sick, she and she knew how different diseases should be cured. It was as if she had been born to help people and she did it without receiving anything in return. She also had a family;, she had two daughters.; Sshe was one of a kind - I don't remember seeing anybody else like this in my town. There was not a special kosher store in town but at the market hall there was a special label on the veal and the lamb - 'KOSHER'. We took the chicken to our rabbi or to his assistant the shammash, to get them slaughtered.

My father, Buko Katalan, wais the first-born son of the Katalans. He was born on 7th September 1902 in Kazalan. He finished the Boy's High School in Plovdiv., Hhe was an atheist and a communist. Before 9th September 1944 42 he was imprisoned several times, for example in the Stara Zagora Prison in 1935-1936 for a couple of months and in 1941-1942 in Kazanlak as a political prisoner under the Law for the Protection of the Nation 53. He was fluent in Spanish, French, Russian and German. He also spoke excellent Turkish and loved the Latin proverbs. At home we read Dostoevsky 6 and Chekhov 7 in Russian, as well as YeEsenin 8, Poe, Heine, Zweig, Meyerhold and Stanislavsky. There was even an Italian Bible. My father was a Bohemian - he was fond of drinking with friends, of laughing and joking. He maintained a friendship with Chudomir until the end of his life [Dimitar Hristov Chorbadjiisky alias Chudomir (1890-1967), - a well-known Bulgarian humorist] until the end of his life. Chudomir visited our home very often;, they played backgammon and talked about books, poetry, painters and theater. He staged some plays at 'Iskra', a chitalishte in Kazanlak.

My father's sister, Solchi Montiyas, nee Katalan, was born in 1907/8. She graduated from the French Catholic College in Rousse. In the family they were afraid she might convert to Catholicism but she married a handsome and wealthy Jewish man there - Mony Montiyas. They had two sons, David and Monti. When I was only 13 or 14 I visited them in Rousse; it was the first time I left Kazanlak. I traveled by train and for me Rousse was almost Europe - one of the most presentable Bulgarian towns: there were paved streets and trams. They were very hospitable;, it was a splendid period of time I spent there and I'll never forget the fish they brought from the Danube.

My father's brother Gavriel Katalan was born in 1917/8. He finished the Technical High School in Kazanlak. He was handsome like a god - a slender and radiant man. He was the leader of the young people in Kazanlak. There were several Jewish organizations in Kazanlak - Hashomer Hatzair 94, a quite left leaning youth organization; Maccabi [see Maccabi World Union] [105], more right wing and Zionist. Gavriel was the life and the soul of Hashomer. They played volleyball, he read a lot and told them about Bulgarian and the Jewish history. He was a witty guy with a great sense of humor and he was a born leader. Among the Hashomerists he met his future wife. She was a wonderful girl, she was tiny and she had black eyes. She helped him in all his doings - he was Ah Gavriel and she was Ahot Rashka [In Hebrew, Ah - brother; Ahot - sister]. They left for Israel in 1947-1948 as did Solchi and Mony Montiyas together with their families. Gavriel worked as an aircraft mechanic and died in 2000 in Israel.

Shella Gateva, nee Katalan, my father's stepsister, was born in 1926. She finished the Girl's High School in Kazanlak; then she became a chairwoman of the UYW [116] at high school. She went to Stara Zagora to work in the Komsomol [see Bulgarian Komsomol] [127] and finally she came to Sofia where she worked in the Central Committee of the Komsomol, and she taught Biology at the Sofia University. She married a Bulgarian, Mitko Gatev alias Yavorski and used his surname - Shella Gateva. She left for Israel in 1997 and nowadays she is safe and sound there - and a professor of Biology.

My father's youngest brother, Berto Katalan, was born in 1928/9. He left for Israel in 1942 and he is there now - safe and sound as well. He was just a boy when he left: - an idealist, a Zionist, he who dreamed of founding an independent Jewish state. We have always felt as if we have two Fatherlands: First, Bulgaria, the real, large and principal one where we were born, where we lived and worked. And then the other one - a dream, a fiction for founding a state that we knew we could always take shelter in even if it is far away.

Kazanlak used to be a small town in my childhood - its population was about 15, 000. There were many Turks, Gypsies, Armenians, Karakachans as well and as 500 or 600 Jews, roughly 100 to 120 families [see Bulgarian Minorities] [138]. We led a quiet and calm life in the town;, there was a wonderful harmony and mutual understanding among the ethnic groups. I don't remember anybody ever stealing anything. My father had excellent relations with the Turks, a great number of his friends were Turks and they drank wine and rakia [strong Bulgarian grape brandy] together, they played backgammon and visited each other. From these times I still have two friends - a Turk, Miryam, and an Armenian, Elis. I didn't witness any anti-Semitism in these years.

The market-day in Kazanlak was on Tuesday - the peasants came from the villages with donkeys and saddlebags to the market-place. The whole town woke up and the great dalavera began [dalavera is slang for; the bargaining process, sometimes accompanied by unfair practices]. I don't know what both my grandfathers sold in their stores but they earned the living for their two families. I remember that my father began to work in his father's store but he spent the whole day in the store of bai [Bulgarian; a respectful form of address] Petar on the opposite side of the street. Every time we went there they played backgammon. Even today I can't figure out where the money came from, what we did for a living but we weren't hungry or without clothing. Once a year we were bought shoes and new clothes were sewed for us.

On Tuesdays my aunt Shella, my sister and I went to our grandfather David Katalan's store to ask him for money: 'Granpapa, nos vas a dar un leva por merkarbos halva [149]'? [Ladino: Grandpa, would you give us one lev to buy some halva?]. He always pushed the money to the back of the drawer and said: 'No tengo, ija, no hay' [Ladino: I don't have, daughter, I don't.] and he showed us the empty drawer. He was never lavish in giving money. But our maternal grandfather, David Bidjarano, always gave us one lev and we went to a confectioner's across the street called Gineolu to buy either chocolate halva or boza [150] and ice-cream.

At the market-place there were numerous little stores and most of them were Jewish: the shoemaker's, the furrier's, the glassware store, the tinsmith's; there was a nice bookstore, a barber shop and a lot of cafés as well. I remember even the names of the bigger stores - 'Lilia' and 'Zlaten Luv' [Bulgarian: Golden Lion] where they sold fabrics, there was one called 'Zelena Zvezda' [Bulgarian: Green Star] where they sold needles and threads; and 'Bratstai' -- the abbreviation of Bratia Staikovi - The Staikov Brothers -- for yarn and wool. All these were typical fare of small traders.

Growing up

I was born on 5th August 1926 in Kazanlak. In fact it was on 31st July but my father had been expecting a boy so much that when I was born he was so angry with my mother that he didn't go to the municipality to register me for five days. So I have two birthdays but in both cases my zodiac is Leo. I remember the house where I was born - the old house of my paternal grandfather at the back of the synagogue and the Jewish school. Afterwards our wanderings began: - we have never had our own house, we've always lived as tenants. But our lodgings were always in the center of the town and they have were never been small - we have had two, three or even more bedrooms in our apartments. I remember the house next to 'Iskra': - it had a lovely yard with boxes and many other trees. Afterwards we lived in Penyo Radev's house next to the Rozarium [aA rose garden in Kazanlak, which is in the Valley of Roses where rose oil is produced]. Our landlord wasn't very kind - he always scolded us because we picked cherries. And then we lived with Dr Bukovsky, a dentist - this was while we were interned from Kazanlak.

My childhood was very good because we loved each other - especially my sister, Beti and I. We have never been envious of each other;, I don't remember our parents having ever beaten us. Our mother pinched us when she didn't get on well with her housework. We were a little bit angry with our father because of his Bohemian lifestyle but it was n'ot a tragedy because my mother accepted him as he was. He called our place Dreimädchenhaus [German: the house of three girls]. We talked both in Ladino and in Bulgarian at home. That's why I know Spanish quite well. We often visited our grandparents, especially my mother's parents.

In summer we went on trips to the Chanakchiiski baths near to Kazanlak and to Pavel bath [bathing resorts with hot mineral water springs] - we rented a cart, we packed all the pots, saucepans, pans, hot plate and some clothes and we rented a lodge. We didn't have a bathroom in Kazanlak and on Friday afternoon we went to the hammam [a big public Turkish bath]. The teliaks [Turkish for bath attendants] scrubbed our backs, took out some leeches from some little jars and put them on our temples to suck the dirty blood. We lay down on sheets, we drank lemonade and it was a great afternoon kef. [161].

In the summertime we went to the River Tundja or to a beautiful place called Kainardja. The River Tundja was far from town - the River Baz Baya crossed it. The old Green Bridge was there and the Turkish mosque was nearby. Several Jewish families gathered together, we had everything ready for eating - there was rakia and wine for men. We spread out rugs by the river and the children had baths while the men played backgammon. We put the watermelons and the cantaloupes to cool in the water along with the mastika [172] and the rakia. There was a little restaurant nearby where you could order some kebapche [Bulgarian: grilled pieces of minced meat].

We played many games in my childhood: - we played hide-and-seek and hopscotch; we rolled hoops with a stick. There was a special game - we called it the ring-game. All the children squatted in a circle and one of us got out of it and put a 'ring' somewhere in the clothes of the other children. The ring itself was a trifle, a piece of junk and the one who received it had to feel it and to run for the one who had hid it. I remember that at the back of my grandfather David Katalan's house there was a large meadow with a huge nut-tree that produced a lot of nuts. We went there to shake the nuts down and the owners always scolded us. We made some balls from mud and buried them because we believed that they would become iron; we did the same with grains and beads - we put them into little boxes and buried them because we thought they would turn to silver and gold.

On the other side of this house there were fields - yellow in the fall with lots of cornflowers and poppies. We walked through the fields to collect these flowers and make wreaths. There was a factory beyond the fields - we called it the Silk Factory as well as the airplane factory. Farther away was the Oreshaka [walnut grove] - now all the trees have been cut down. We used to go to the Rozarium because there were many golden butterflies that we had fun trying to capture.

I remember the first time when I went for a drive with a car - it belonged to one of the richest families in our town, the Shipkovs. They were several brothers who were rose-traders and had a big and beautiful house. This house seemed to me like a palace - it had towers, a lovely yard with a reservoir and several big pine-trees. In the yard there was also a garage with one or two cars. When I was 11 or 12, I was friends with their daughter Ani and one day she took me to their house; and it was like a miracle - the iron gates opened and Ani's father said to the driver: 'Get in the car and take a drive over to town.' It was my first encounter with modern machinery. When we lived in Dr Bukovski's house, there was a bicycle on the wall and I learned to ride it. I rode it up to the Rozarium and to the old river. The first radio in the 1930s was also a great wonder, the first telephone, too. My uncle Dr Bidjarano was among the first in Kazanlak who had a radio and telephone; , I' am not sure if the radio was Philips or Telefunken.

My favorite holidays were Purim and Pesach. On Purim, a joyous holiday, we walked around with little bags hanging on our necks - our mothers sewed them especially for the holiday. We visited our neighbors who gave us something - a coin for example. We disguised ourselves: - we put masks not only on our faces but we even put on whole costumes if we could find any. On this holiday some sweets were made - very fragrant white candies slivers. Pesach was a cheerful holiday, too. The whole family gathered on this day at the house of my grandfather David - with the prayers, with the meals: the matzah, the lettuce and the eggs. The eggs should be boiled the whole night with some onion flakes until they become brown and then they should be baked in the oven. We ate hens, there was a drink made by from raow nut kernels soaked in water and put into jars. The nut kernels had incredible flavor and aroma. There was also a cake with the funny name tishpishti [in Bulgarian a play on words, since it sounds like 'tri puti pishti' which means 'it cries three times'] and another one called- masapan. The latter was made with sugar and almonds only - without being baked, just ground almonds and sugar are mixed together to a certain point - punto as we say in Ladino. I can't say we've never eaten pork; - we ate it but in the market hall they sold preserved meat, kosher - our rRabbi slaughtered the calves and the chicken there.

I finished the fourth 4th grade at the Jewish school. - I remember some of our teachers there: the rRabbi, Hezkiya and Aronov. Then I attended a Bulgarian Junior High School and I enrolled in the Kazanlak Girl's High School where I studied until the sixth 6th grade. I was a keen reader as a child: - I loved Jack London, Mark Twain. 'Little Lord Fauntleroy' was one of my favorite books. I wasn't a diligent or ambitious student but my results were excellent., I knew my lessons well. In high school I had only one notebook in which I wrote everything - my friends have always laughed at me because of this. I was a member of my uncle's organization [Hashomer Hatzair]., I had many friends in the Jewish quarter and at school - some of them are my friends up to this day. I loved going to the cinema - there was a cinema at the chitalishte and we went to see movies. I cried a lot and I remember that when I saw 'Les Miserables' I was very tormented by Cosette's and Jean Valjean's destiny. I perceived very sensitively everything I read or saw - I've shed so many tears over these things. I began reciting there - I was regarded as a good performer of recitations at school but until I first came to Sofia I had not taken part in a play.

During the war

When Hitlerism began [in Bulgaria the beginning of Hitlerism was officially decreed in 1941 when Bulgaria became an ally with Germany] and the Law for the Protection of the Nation was adopted under the pressure of Germany, some small organizations appeared in our town. Of these, the most malicious were the members of 'Otetz Paisii' [means Father Paisii (1722-1773), the ideologist of the Bulgarian Revival from 18th cCentury] and the Legionaries [see Bulgarian Legions] [183]. Brannik [194] was a massive state organization such as the Komsomol in the years after 9th of September 1944. They were given suits, but I had some friends from the high school who were members of Brannik - wonderful and progressive girls [The expression 'progressive' was quite common in socialist times: People with left-wing political ideas were called in this way following the philosophy of Karl Marx about the 'historical progress' toward a truly human world]. This was at the time when the severe measures were introduced and stores were closed, you couldn't own two houses, there was a curfew and occasionally the Legionaries smashed some windows. But there has never been any pogrom or maltreatment. They were just a small group that consisted of a few people.

My family had a lot of Bulgarian friends, I felt perfectly well at high school. When we were forced to wear the small stars [in Poland and elsewhere the stars were much bigger than in Bulgaria and they had to be worn on the sleeve], my schoolmates were shocked;, they felt guilty. The star was made from bakelite plastic, it was 3x3x3 cm in size and it was yellow with a black line on the edge. When we were interned, all my classmates came to see us off at the station. So I have never felt any anti- Semitism.

When the War began and the Law for the Protection of the Nation was promulgated, my father was forced to go to the labor camps for three years - from the beginning of spring until the late fall. All Jewish men were forced to work at these forced labor camps 20. My father was sent to the Rila or to the Rhodope Mountains near to the borderline with Greece - the villages of Liubimetz and Krushevene - to crush rocks and to build roads. We felt fear in the air, there were talks about where the people who had been interned were sent.

I remember clearly how a train full of Hungarian Jews arrived in Kazanlak. It was before our internment in 1943; the echelon stopped in our town and many people came out of the wagons. They were accommodated in the yard of our Jewish school. The local Jews managed to take a lot of them to their homes in order to get them fed and cleaned. A girl came to our house - I shall never forget her although I can't remember her name. She was a beautiful girl at the age of 14 or 15 with a large braid. She was alone, she had no parents and I can still see her red coat with white furs. She stayed for a couple of days at our place; almost everywhere there were several Hungarian Jews. But then they were taken back to the wagons and the train left. Almost all of the Hungarian Jews were annihilated with the exception of those who managed to run away and those who had realized what was to follow.

We were given a couple of days to sell our household goods before the internment on 11th June 1943. Peasants came from the villages with their carts to make the dirt-cheap bargains but they had no guilt - we were to be led away and we didn't have the right to take anything except a bundle with some clothes and a blanket. We gave my father's library and a beautiful office desk to our Bulgarian friends. Afterwards they returned them to us.

We were interned in Lom, on the bank of the Danube [see Internment of Jews in Bulgaria] [2115]. There were many Jewish families there who welcomed us at the railway station and took us to a big school called Fotinov. We settled down in the classrooms. It was summertime, vacation for the students - and we were about 50 people in one room - men, women and children. We slept on the ground. There was a vast yard where we washed ourselves, we kindled a fire and our mothers cooked beans, lentils or potatoes. We had strictly fixed hours to do the shopping in certain stores. Some friends of ours sent us parcels with food. One night we even had policemen in our room - one of the officers across the street had taken a look at two splendid sisters. They were 20 years old, they had black hair and green eyes. They were, incredibly beautiful creatures and he came at night to do some zulumlutzi [zulum, pl. zulumlutzi - from the Turkish, meaning outrage, harm]. They wanted to make my father work at the port but he refused - he could afford to refuse and so he did. Once we went to have a bath because we got infested with lice.

In September when the school classes began the Kapons took us in their house - we lived in one room with another family;, we changed our clothes in shifts. Then a wonderful guy took us whose name was Rangelov. He was a lawyer. He went to the countryside with his family because of the bombardments and left his house at our disposal. He didn't want any rent for it. Our Bulgarian neighbors often gave us meals - grilled fish for example. I finished the seventh 7th grade in Lom but I can't remember anything from the school - neither the teachers, nor my classmates. My sister and I worked in the confectioner's. - we We cleaned nuts and brought our parents whole bags filled with nuts. Then we went to work in a workshop where we cleaned fruits such as apricots, peaches, etc. and we put them into containers, barrels or the like. They probably used fresh fruit to make some jam or compote to send to Germany. And we were paid for our work - I was 16, my sister was ten and we earned a few stotinki [1 Bulgarian Leva is equal to 100 stotinki].

My uncle, Raphfael Bidjarano was interned before us, in 1943, to the village of Morava [Svishtov district] with his wife Rozeta and his children Albert and Reni. He was given a cabinet to examine the sick. In August 1944, I think it was during the Government of Mushanov [Mushanov was a minister. The Prime-Minister at the time was Muraviev], when we could remove our yellow stars, I went there to welcome the Soviet army on the bank of the Danube - we owe our liberation from Fascism to them. For the salvation of the Bulgarian Jews some say we are indebted to the Bulgarian people, others say to the King Boris III [2216], still others say to Peshev, Dimitarrov [2317] and the deputies or to Exarch Stefan [2418].

Post-war

When we came back from Lom to Kazanlak we stayed in my uncle's house because we had nowhere else to go. He had a big house and we lived there in one room for quite a long time. Afterwards we found a flat. In 1945 I finished the Kazanlak Girl's High School and in March 1946 I came to Sofia. A friend of my father found a job for me as a teacher at the primary Jewish elementary school on Osogovo Street in the third dDistrict. I replaced the teachers when they were absent, I was also a secretary of the school and I paid the salaries.

I enrolled in Sofia University to study French Philology but I never took great efforts so I left during the third semester and I stayed as a teacher at the school. I still regret not graduating but I do know French very well - I can read, translate and speak it. I have been five times to Paris and I've managed quite well. My mother's tongue is Bulgarian; I also speak Ladino. I' am not fluent but I can read and write in Spanish. I' am fluent in Russian- I've got the feeling and the passion for this language. I can read English but very poorly - my husband spoke it fluently as well as my sons who had private lessons.

My sister, Beti Davidova, was born in 1936. She finished the Kazanlak Girl's High School and after she graduated from the Sofia University in history., Sshe taught in Kazanlak and in the village of Alexandrovo where her husband worked as a physician for a while. Then she was a high-school teacher in Sofia and finally she retired as an editor in the publishing house 'Narodna Prosveta'. Her husband, Mois Nisimov, graduated in Medicine in Prague and now he works as a pediatrist. They got married in 1958 in a civil ceremony. Their son, Ilya Nisimov [(born in 1960]) is an excellent doctor too - he is a neurologist at the First Municipal Hhospital in Sofia. My sister was one of the most beautiful girls in Kazanlak. She is a, very sociable person and she has many friends in Sofia. - Hher home is always open for guests -- Abraham's home as we say. And she is a public figure as well:, she is in charge of the cultural activities of the elderly people in Shalom 25. I have been a chairwoman of a Jewish organization, WIZO [Women's International Zionist Organization]. I've been several times to Israel on account of this. Nowadays I am an honorary chairwoman of this organization.

When I came to Sofia I was fascinated by the theater. I have inherited the artistic inclinations of my father. I took part in a performance at the Jewish chitalishte, Emil Shekedjiisky;, it was still called Bialik at the time. [see Bialik, Haim Nachman (1873-1934) - famous poet who wrote in Hebrew. Born in Russia, since 1922 he lived in Germany where he was Head of the Hebrew Writers Union] 26 I recited Vaptszarov's poetry [see Vaptszarov, Nikola] [1927] one of the classics of Bulgarian literature - 'Oh, Mother, Fernandez was murdered.' Then Nikolay Masalitinov [famous Russian and Bulgarian director, Head Director of the National Theater 'Ivan Vazov' in Sofia (1925-1944)] was staging a Jewish play by Shoaleom Aleichem 28 called 'Tevye the Dairyman' starring the great Bulgarian actor Leo Konforti as Tevye. I took part in it on the stage of our chitalishte and obviously it turned out to be fine because Masalitinov was carried away by my performance. He said: 'You should go and apply at the Theatrical Academy.' It happened by chance -- well probably not only by chance -- I was admitted in September 1948 to VITIZ [Vissh Institut za Teatralno I Filmovo Izkustvo - Higher Institute for Theatrical and Film Arts]. I graduated in 1952 and I was immediately assigned to the Mladezhki Teatur [The Youth Theater].

In the first several years after 9th September 1944 many Bulgarian Jews left for Israel - 35-40,000 people. The third district where the school was located became desolate due to their departure; in Kazanlak there is only one Jew left nowadays. But a lot of people remained here, mostly the communists. When we came back to Kazanlak after the internment the people welcomed us; my father became a secretary of the chitalishte 'Iskra'. He was a communist and that's why he stayed in Bulgaria. We were 'progressive' - I was a member of the UYW, then of DCYU [stands for Dimitrov's Communist Youth Union], and of the Komsomol -- we were fond of these great ideas. And if they were not realized, it was due not to the ideas themselves but to the people who tried to realize them. Communism turned out to be a mistake, maybe a criminal attempt, but not because of the criminal essence of the idea but because of the people who tried to make it real. Communism, socialism - these are things dreamt by Jesus Christ as well, the same Ten Commandments are found in the principle of the great ideas and ideologies. But neither Christianity nor socialism made them real. I applied for membership in the Party in 1950 and I was accepted as a member in 1953. I' am still member of the Bulgarian Socialist Party [the successor of the Bulgarian Communist Party].

My mother has never been member or supporter of any parties. My father was a member of the Bulgarian Communist Pparty but he was expelled in 1963 in Kazanlak because he stood up for a friend of his, an ex-military officer named Slavov. Later my father was invited to join the Party but he refused;, he was very grieved. My parents lived in Kazanlak until 1966 when they came to Sofia to live at my sister's place.

In the Jewish school where I worked until 1948 I had a good salary, I was given a scholarship during my study in VITIZ by the Konsistoria [the Jewish Community Foundation]. I also won an award named after Georgi Dimitrov 29, thus I had no material troubles. Otherwise we went on brigades [3020], I recited Smirnensky [Hristo Smirnensky (1898-1923), - famous Bulgarian poet], Vaptszarov, Mayakovsky 31. When I first came to Sofia, I lived at on 38 Iskar Street 38 in the same room where my husband came to live when we married. Our first son was born while we lived there, in the student lodging. In 1958 we moved to the flat where I still live - we don't have any other property. We remained proletarians until the end.

As an actress I advanced quickly through the ranks; I took part in a lot of radio shows, in radio plays, I read poetry. I made several TV performances and I participated in several films - the best role I had was that of Varvara in 'Tobacco' [Dimitar Dimov (1907-1966) - one of the classics of Bulgarian literature. His novel 'Tobacco' - Tiutiun - was stigmatized by the cCommunist ideology as 'bourgeois and Freudist' when it was first published in 1951 and he was forced to re-write it]. But it seemed that I was not created for cinema;, my good roles were those in the theater. I had many recitals - Yavorov's poetry for example; we made performed plays with Chaprazov and Duparinova [famous Bulgarian actors]. Nowadays the young people don't know me but there are some adults who see me and say: Ah you are Maria Stuart [from Friedrich Schiller's play], or 'Aesopus'!, or ah yes, 'A Holiday In Arco Iris', ah you acted in 'The Stone Guest' by Pushkin 32. I can remember quite well ten or fifteen roles that I had, as well as my excellent colleagues and directors. I've always had good relations with my colleagues - I' have never been envious of someone else's role, talent, or intelligence. And I have been respected for this quality of mine. This is one of the very few things that give me the self-confidence of a good human being.

Married life

When I was at the Youth Theater I married Haim Buko Levi whom I knew from the Jewish chitalishte. He was born on 9th September 1920 in the town of Dupnitza. His father was a shoemaker, a good and modest person. My husband had two brothers, Hertzel and Simcho, and one sister, Marieta alias Marcella. Hertzel was a building manager for 'Trud' newspaper; he lived in Sofia and after 1989 he left for Israel [see 10th November 1989] 33. Simcho was a kiosk vendor in Dupnitza and he left for Israel with his wife and his two sons, Izi and Sami, in 1989. Marieta alias Marcella was a housewife in Kjustendil.

My husband graduated from the Svishtov University in Economy, then he studied Law at Sofia University but he didn't graduate. He was a journalist;, his main interests were in economics. He worked within different newspapers - the daily 'Trud' [Labor], the biweekly 'Evreiski Vesti' [Jewish News] as well as the weekly 'Ikonomicheski Zhivot' [Economic Life] from where he retired and received his pension. His political ideas were the same as mine - he was a communist, a socialist. In 1952 our friendship and love began;, in 1953 we got married in a civil ceremony. My husband died in 1995 in Sofia.

We have two sons, - Anri and Albert. Anri, the older one, graduated in Chemistry, Microbiology and Foreign Commerce - he has two diplomas. He is fluent in English and Russian, he can use French and Italian and I regret that we never spoke in Ladino at home. Nowadays he is unemployed. Albert, who graduated in Economics, left for Israel in 1991. He has one daughter, Lora. She is a student of Economics at the University of National and World Economy in Sofia.

Half of my friends are Jews - now the Jewish community is what binds us together. I celebrate the holidays, we attend the synagogue but this is just a tradition - we are not religious. Our children are atheists, too. The breakdown of the diplomatic ties between Bulgaria and Israel was very hard for us. We thought that this nation had the right to its own piece of land. Maybe the Jews have made mistakes regarding the Palestinians but I think that these conflicts stem from the Arab world. They have enormous territories but none of them give asylum to their Palestinian brothers. The Jordanian king Hussein expelled them, no one wants them and they felt envious of this land and decided that Jerusalem belongs to them. If you open the Bible you will see that everyone has conquered this piece of land - the Syrians, the Babylonians, the Romans, the Crusaders, the Turks. But the country is still there, it is the birthplace of this nation according to the Bible.

I've been to Israel several times. During the communist rule we didn't say that we had relatives there, it was forbidden although my uncle and aunt were there. In the beginning we didn't send them any letters. Neither did they because it could do us harm. Our politicians didn't make just a few mistakes - they made many. We began to correspond without difficulties from the beginning of the 1980s. After the ottepel [Russian for thaw; synonym of perestroika] 34 my aunt Solchi and my uncle Gavriel came to Bulgaria to visit my father and my aunt Shella. She was still here in Bulgaria at the time.

Since we were socialists, the changes that we experienced after 10th November 1989 were very hard for us. We stand for a social politics that supersedes the incredible division among the people. It is the awful division of people into rich and poor that binds me to socialism; I feel it with my heart. We lived painfully through the terrible things that happened - the plunder, the fire in the House of the Party, the destruction of the Mausoleum: a whole series of negative events. Here in our park they destroyed the huge garden that led to Bratskata Mogila [the Monument of those who died in the anti-Fascist fight] because they were afraid that someone would go and lay a flower commemorating those who were killed in the name of just an idea.

I don't get any help from the Jewish community but there are people who do. My pension is regarded as big but it is n'ot enough. In my flat it is cold the whole winter. I simply can't figure out how to make ends meet. I have nowhere to get money from - if I do take part in some artistic shows, I do it for free, because of solidarity.

As for the Hungarian Revolt [see 1956] 35, the Prague Spring 36 - I consider these events as an expression of the peoples' discontent and disagreement; each nation has the right to do it. It' is a matter of importance how the opposite side would react, the side that bears the guilt for the state of affairs - they should think how to act too. In the Soviet Union, as well as in Russia, there has been a lot of anti-Semitism, in Romania too. Not to speak of Poland - there is terrible anti-Semitism there. In France there is also anti-Ssemitism but I've been many times to England and I haven't experienced this there. There is no anti-Semitism among our Balkan neighbors, Greece and Turkey.

My mother cooked very well, she made a special mayonnaise with chicken and fish. She also made a meal called apio with celery and lots of lemon juice,, it which is served cold. She cooked a lot of meals with aubergines, especially a kind of moussaka [a meal of potatoes, minced meat and yogurt]. And a special meal made from zucchini - andjenara. I loved her baked blue tomatoes minced with meat croquettes. She also cooked okra with a lot of tomato juice. I learned to cook all these meals, my sister too, and now my daughters-in-law, the Bulgarian girls are fond of them and cook them. And I don't know whether they will pass this tradition on to their children. I don't have this particular contact with my grandchildren. But I suppose that mothers will pass the things on to their children that they themselves like.

Translated by Atanas Igov

Glossary

Otto Simko
Bratislava
Slovak Republic
Interviewer: Zuzana Slobodnikova
Date of interview: February - March 2005

Otto Simko is a man in the best years of his life, and is fully enjoying his "golden age". He actively engages in sports activities, devotes time to his hobbies and lives a rich cultural life. Within his family circle and the company of his grandchildren, he now with just a smile on his face reminisces about the many hard times in his life. He recalls what was beautiful and good. His family, friends and those close to him. Even though he's already lost many of them, they still hold a place in his heart. Many of the events in his life are moving and sad, but time has already healed these wounds. Even though they can never be completely forgotten.

Family background">Family background

My name is Otto Simko. I'm the son of Artur and Irena Simko. My name is unusual for a Jewish family [Jews living on Slovak territory before World War II had mostly German surnames, which is closely tied to the reforms of Jozef II 1 - Editor's note], which is why I decided to investigate its origins. I pondered where it could possibly originate, and came upon one thing. During the time of Austro-Hungary, my great-grandfather lived in Halic [Halic: later Galicia, is a historical territory in today's southeastern Poland and northwest Ukraine. During the years 1772 - 1918 it belonged to Austro-Hungary - Editor's note]. This means that the name Simko is probably of Polish origin. But it's quite possible that my great- grandfather changed his original Jewish name in Halic, because the name Simko isn't Jewish. According to documents that I have, my great- grandfather must have spoken German, as back then our name, Simko, was written Schimko and was written in German Schwabacher [also called Gothic, or black-letter script].

My grandfather, Albert Simko, was born in 1866 in the town of Rajcany. He had a pub in a small village named Dolne Chlebany, today it's in the Topolcany district. It was a typically Jewish pub, together with a small store. My grandparents were married on 25th August 1891. I don't know much about Grandpa Simko. I remember that he used to give me candies, just little details like that. I know that he spoke German, Hungarian and of course Slovak. My grandfather was a kulak 2. He had 40 hectares of land in Dolne Chlebany, in Rajcany and I don't know where else. I also know that my grandfather annually sent two wagons of hops to Munich.

My grandma, Malvina Simkova, nee Löwyova, was born on 11th June 1871 in Trencin. Someone remembered that her grandfather, or great-grandfather was a famous rabbi. But who it was, I have no idea. From this one can deduce that in those days these members of my family were Orthodox Jews 3 [Neolog communities 4 in Slovakia began appearing only after the Budapest Congress in the years 1868/69 - Editor's note]. I had very good experiences with my grandma. After my grandfather died she lived with us. Grandma even also brought up my daughter, Dasa. She was a very wise woman. People from all around used to always come to her for advice. Malvinéni [Hungarian: Aunt Malvina - Editor's note] was a concept. When she was 95, she was drinking beer in Zelezna Studnicka [Zelezna Studnicka: a recreational region near Bratislava - Editor's note] and someone said "Grandma, that's a beautiful age to be." She said: "What? That's a beautiful age?! Eighty, that was beautiful!". So I'm sticking to that, and when I was 80, I said to myself that this is that beautiful age that my grandma mentioned. She was of small stature, poor and those kind of people live a long time. She had gray hair. Beautiful smiling eyes. Her eyes, shone, laughed. She radiated well-being and wisdom. She had no schooling. She was a housewife from the farm. She had natural intelligence and that's what gave her personality character. Grandma Malvina died at the age of 100, on 19th May 1971, and is buried in Slavicie Udolie in Bratislava. Up to the war, Grandma was an Orthodox Jewess. After the war, no longer.

The Braun family is from my mother's branch of the family. My grandparents were named Vilmos [in Slovak Viliam] Braun and Cecilia Braunova. My grandfather on my mother's side was born in the town of Dolna Lehota, in 1850. He owned a café in Nitra. The popular Braun Café was very well known in this city. The café was located in the center of Nitra, beside the then Theater of Andrej Bagar. Unfortunately it's been since town down. They were enlarging the town square, so they leveled it. I don't remember my grandfather, he died in Nitra in 1920. That one I never knew. My grandma, Cili [Cecilia], her I remember well. She and her husband had eleven children. I think that two of them died right after birth. What my grandmother's maiden name was, that I don't know. I only know that she was originally from Nitra. She was born in 1856 and died, in 1936, in her hometown of Nitra.

The most characteristic for the whole family was Vilmos Braun. I've even got a book, named Nevet a Nyitra - Usmievava Nitra [in Hungarian and Slovak: Smiling Nitra], that contains all the anecdotes about Vilmos Braun. There are a lot of them. They're anecdotes typical of small-town café life during peacetime [during the time of the First Czechoslovak Republic 5 - Editor's note], when people had no worries. They amused themselves by playing tricks on each other and were happy when they successfully pulled off some mischievous prank.

One of the anecdotes about the Brauns says that Grandma Cili always asked: "Mikor jöttel haza? When did you come home? "I was already home at one." She didn't believe him and said to herself: "I'll get the better of you." She lay down in bed crosswise. He'll have to wake her up when he comes home at night...! In the morning Grandma wakes up, and Vilmos is fast asleep beside her. Or there was this ad in Hungarian. At night a bed during the day a 'fotel'. That's this type of folding bed. And he wrote a letter to the factory. Please sirs, I'm a café owner, I work at night and sleep during the day. Do you also have something that's a 'fotel' at night, and a bed during the day? It's full of these stories. Vilmos had a beautiful watch. "Mr. Schlessinger, I'll give this watch to you." "But why?" "My only condition is that you've always got to tell me the time. When I ask you, when I won't have a watch. You'll tell me." Schlessinger knew that something was up. But he took the watch. Vilmos let him wait for two days, after all, he had a spare watch. The third day, at 1:00 a.m., his servant is banging on Schlessinger's window: "Mr. Braun wants to know what time it is.' So by then Schlessinger knew what the deal was. That's the Braun family.

Of Cecilia and Vilmos's children, Aladar now occurs to me. He died along with this whole family in Sobibor 6. His wife Sarika as well as the children, basically the whole family died. Aladar was an extremely interesting person. At home he at first began to raise rabbits. Then he rented out a spa - Ganovce, near Poprad, and recruited children from Budapest, and also from all of Slovakia, advertising it as being in the Tatras [High Tatras: mountain range in northern Slovakia. The highest peak is Gerlachovsky Peak (2,644 m) - Editor's note]. Children from Budapest arrived there, having been sent to the Tatras by their parents. But they never saw the Tatras. Ganovce was three kilometers from Poprad [Poprad: the biggest town in the foothills of the High Tatras, with a population of 54,098 - Editor's note]. But Aladar was so clever, that he knew how to deal with them and keep them there. In the end everyone was satisfied. I also used to go there together with my brother every summer.

Here's one interesting incident with Aladar, so you can get to know the Braun nature. There was a Mr. Pazmandy in Nitra, a well-known man. He was this "degenerate' member of the upper class, simply put, a little loopy. Once Pazmandy arrived in Ganovce with his coach, or car, I don't exactly know any more. He arrived with a fishing rod. When Aladar saw him, he said to himself: "Holy moly, how in the world will I get rid of him?!" and asked him: "Pazmandy, why are you here?" "Well, I've come to catch some fish." "And what's the fishing rod for?" "I've come to fish, haven't I?" "Mr. Pazmandy, here in Ganovce we catch fish in a completely different way.' "And how, Mr. Braun?" "Well, you need an alarm clock and an axe." "And how's that?" "You put the alarm clock on the shore, and when a fish comes to have a look what time it is, you hit it on the head." To this he replied: "Sir, you have insulted me!" He turned around and offended went home. That's the Braun nature.

I'd also mention the black sheep of the family. This was Eugen Braun, a musical clown. The way it sounds. A typical musical clown, with a little violin and lots of instruments. He used to perform in circuses in Belgrade, Budapest, Sofia - all over the Balkans. A big black sheep of the family. A clown. But he was hugely successful. The king of the southern Slavs, Petar II 7 even invited him to his court. What he did is that he arrived with a large violin, broke it, and took out of it a small violin. Otherwise he also had a cello. But he didn't want to carry it around any more, and so he gave it to me, and I then had to learn to play the cello, because of him. His clown nickname was Kvak [Quack]. Because he used to perform with a trained duck. The duck was trained so that he'd put it down beside him. He'd play and the duck would quack in time, when he wanted. How he did it, I have no idea, but he had huge success with that duck. Once a terrible thing happened. He sent the duck home, and Grandma Cili slaughtered it. That was a huge catastrophe. Now, I don't want to wrong her, whether she killed it on purpose or not. But a clown for a son didn't sit well with her.

I remember, this was already in the time of the Slovak State 8. At the time Eugen was living in Romania. He said that he'd like to come home, and Grandma wrote him don't come, as things are bad for Jews here. Despite that he came. He was home for three weeks and died. He died a natural death in the hospital. As if he'd felt that he'd die and needed to say goodbye to his family. That might have been in 1942, right when the transports were taking place. He might have been about 44 or 45 years old at the time.

Another of my mother's brothers was Artur. He lived in Bratislava, in the Manderlak [Manderlak or Manderla Tower: considered to be the first so- called skyscraper in Bratislava, and in Slovakia. It was built in 1935 according to the designs of Rudolf Manderla, after whom it is named. It has 11 floors and for a long time was the tallest residential building in Bratislava - Editor's note]. He worked as a clerk for some insurance company. Later, after the war, he lived in New Zealand. Before he died, he managed to return home. He died on the plane on the way back to New Zealand. It was as if both Artur and Eugen both felt their end drawing near, and came to say home to say goodbye. Artur's son was in the English army, and after the war [World War II] the moved to New Zealand.

My mother's oldest sister was Matilnéni, alias Matilda. Matilnéni had two husbands. Her first husband was Juraj Weiss. Her first son with this husband was Kliment. After the war he was hounded by the StB 9. He died tragically, as the StB came to his apartment in Cukrova Street in Bratislava. He didn't want them to arrest him, and so he jumped out of the fourth floor. He committed suicide. Matilda's second son, Ondrej, who we called Bandi, Weiss was a musician. He used to play in cafés. He died during the Holocaust, in the gas. He was one very merry boy. See, a typical Braun. He didn't have any children. The third son, Ludovit Klein, was already from my Aunt Matilda's second marriage. He lived in Munich. He died a natural death. He survived the war in Hungary. Later he emigrated in Lima, and then to Munich. Matilnéni died of cancer, already before the Holocaust, in Nitra.

The most tragic fate was that of Serena Braunova. Sczemcinéni [Hungarian: Aunt Sczemci]. She married a man by the name of Bela Szilagyi. Bela Szilagyi was a very respected Nitra lawyer during the times of a mayor named Mojto [Frantisek Mojto]. He died already before the war, in 1937. Serena was the richest of my mother's siblings. After her husband's death she owned fields and properties in the city and its surroundings. But later, riches cost her her life. Someone told her to sell her properties, that it would save her from deportation. But as soon as she sold them - for a symbolic price, of course, they immediately put her on a transport, with the comment 'return undesirable'. Serena and Bela had no children.

Lajos [Ludovit Braun] survived the Holocaust using Aryan papers in Liptovsky Hradok, as a journalist, under the name Ludovit Bran. He kept on writing, he even published some articles, mainly a Hungarian paper. I think the paper was named Reggel. In Nitra he had a stationery store by the name of Palas. He didn't start a family, he lived with his wife, Aranka. They didn't have any children. After the war he died of cancer. Aranka then lived in Nitra in a retirement home. She died of natural causes.

The next was Hugo. He later ran the Braun Café after his grandfather. He's also illustrated in that book, Usmevava Nitra. Of course there are also some anecdotes in about him. He was in hiding during the war, but I don't know where. He died after the Holocaust of natural causes. He married before the war, and had a son, Viliam. His nickname is Bubi. Bubi lives in Munich.

Rezso, Rudolf, they called Cigi, because he was like a gypsy, completely black [from Cigan, the Slovak word for Gypsy]. I've got this impression that Grandma Cili must have had him with some Gypsy [the interviewee said it as a joke - Editor's note]. He was an amazing guy! He was very intelligent. In fact, during the war he saved me. My family, the Simkos - that is, my grandma, brother, father, mother and I, were in a camp in Vyhne. Before Vyhne we were in the Zilina collection camp. Rezso was still free. He made us a fake baptism certificate. So that we'd been converted [to Christianity] before 1938. I'd never in my life seen a priest, and neither had my family. Anyways, those who'd had themselves converted before 1938 were supposed to go to the Vyhne camp 10. It was for those in mixed marriages and Jews who'd converted before 1938. And Rezso brought a piece of paper to Zilina, that my father had been converted in 1938, so they didn't send us to the gas in the Auschwitz concentration camp, but to Vyhne. Basically, he saved us. He himself didn't manage to save himself. They then caught him in the second batch 11 and in 1944 he died.

All the Brauns had a high school education, with a natural intelligence and capable of surviving and knowing how to get ahead in life. In a word a typical vital family... Unfortunately not all of them managed to survive the horrors of the war.

My father, Artur Simko, was born in Dolne Chlebany on 31st August 1892. He's the son of Malvina and Albert Simko. He studied in Budapest. That's also this little curiosity. Jews were usually faithful to the regime that was in power at the time. Back then it was Austro-Hungary. My father was somewhat of an exception, he didn't fit into the usual Jewish stereotype. He got into Slovak society, and was a pan-Slavist 12. Sometimes he even had problems because of it, as my grandma, his mother told me that once some people came to see her and said to her: "If you don't do something about that Artur of yours, if you don't rein him in, we'll have to put him in jail." Actually, he was a dissident even back than. A Slovak against Hungarians. That's really quite atypical among Jews. In 1922 my father Artur married my mother Irena, nee Braunova. How they met and where the marriage took place, that I don't know anything about.

My mother, Irena, is of course one of the daughters of Viliam and Cecilia Braun. She was born in 1897 in Nitra. They called her Csibi. No one knew her by any other name than Csibinéni. Csibe, which means chick, that's from Hungarian. Because she was this typical little chick, merry and chipper. My mother was amazing. Unfortunately she got cancer. Just the year before she died, we'd still been skating and skiing together. In 1953 she died suddenly in Zilina of cancer.

After their marriage, my father and mother moved to Topolcany. After Grandpa died, Grandma moved in with us, and became a matter-of-fact part of our family. At first my father made a living as a lawyer, but this profession didn't make him very much, as a barrister he want bankrupt. And mainly because others were charging fifty crowns an hour, and he charged ten. He was also an extremely fair person. Not very suited for the world as it was back then. Well, because he didn't succeed as a lawyer, he became a judge. They then transferred him in this job from place to place. When I was 3 years old we had to move from Topolcany to Nove Zamky. So as a three- year-old I moved to Nove Zamky. But after three years we again moved. This time to Nitra. They'd transferred my father there, and our entire family, including Grandma, had to move again. In Nitra my father worked as a judicial advisor. I don't remember much from Topolcany or Nove Zamky any more. But Nitra was my entire childhood. My mother liked to dress nicely and fashionably, and I've even got photos. My father was a judge and also dressed well.

In Nitra we had a four-room apartment. My parents had the bedroom, my grandmother and I shared a room. Another room was this fancy one, and one was a normal one. We had it very nicely furnished. Wooden furniture from the beginning of the 20th Century, leather armchairs, a dining table with chairs, a piano. They were these elegant things. I've got them to this day. We had an exceptionally large library. All this belonged to the standard our household was at. We also had a grand piano. My mother played the piano and, later so did I. I still play to this day. I can't read music, but I know how to play. Though I did take music lessons for about two years, I didn't learn much, because I hated the teacher. We had only a few things that were typically Jewish. A Chanukkah candelabra, that we definitely had. I don't know if there was a mezuzah [Mezuzah: a box for parchment that's fastened on the right side of gates and doors in Jewish households - Editor's note] on the door. We only used the candelabra during Chanukkah [Chanukkah - the Festival of Lights, also commemorates the rebellion of the Maccabees and the re-consecration of the Temple in Jerusalem - Editor's note]. Mother would play the piano and we'd sing. Though we weren't Orthodox, we cooked kosher 3. At least Grandma tried to keep it up. There'd always be barches, shoulet and other Jewish foods. On Friday we roasted a goose. First would come liver with cracklings, then on Saturday the drumsticks and on Sunday we'd have the breasts. This is exactly the way it went every week. At home we observed virtually all the holidays. There was seder [Seder: a term expressing a home service and a requisite ritual on the first night of the Passover holiday - Editor's note], Pesach [Pesach or Passover: commemorates the Israelites leaving Egyptian captivity, and is characterized by many regulations and customs. The main is the prohibition on eating anything leavened - Editor's note]. For Sukkot [Sukkot: the Festival of Tents. A singularly festive atmosphere dominates during the entire week that this holiday takes place, where the most important things is being in a sukkah - Editor's note]. My favorite was Pesach, and I also remember seder. So, for example, my grandfather kept his café open both on Friday and Saturday [The Sabbath: during the Sabbath, 39 main work activities are forbidden, from which the prohibition if others stems. Among the forbidden activities is for example "the manipulation of money" - Editor's note]. I've got this impression that he was also Neolog. For sure they weren't Orthodox, when he had his café open on Saturday, and accepted money. Not only the Jewish population visited the café. The gentry also visited it, small-town bon vivants.

Growing up">Growing up

I spent practically my entire childhood in Nitra. Very often we'd go to Zobor [Zobor: a hill by the city of Nitra (height above sea level 588 m), in the Tribec mountain range - Editor's note], both with friends and with my family. I know every corner of it there. I spent all my free time there. In the summer we'd go biking there, in the winter skiing. I always liked sports. I spent a lot of my free time doing sporting activities. At home we had a ping-pong table in the courtyard. My brother and I would often play table tennis. In those days there were two places to swim in Nitra, so we used to go swimming.

When I was 13 I had a bar mitzvah [Bar mitzvah: "son of the commandments", a Jewish boy that has reached the age of 13. A ceremony in which a boy is proclaimed to be bar mitzvah; from this time onwards he must obey all commandments prescribed by the Torah - Editor's note]. I know that I had to study with a cantor. I wasn't very good at singing, that was very bad, but I suffered through it and then some children that my parents had invited to our place came for the party. I don't think that I got a gift as such. I had only the party. My brother also had a bar mitzvah. Both of us had it in the Neolog synagogue in Nitra with Rabbi Schweiger.

My father was a judge. We didn't go hungry, but neither were we rich. I know that my father's monthly salary was 1200 crowns [in 1929, it was decreed by law that one Czechoslovak crown (Kc) was equal in value to 44.58 mg of gold - Editor's note]. That was a lot, but not again that huge an amount. The only one in the family back then to have a car was Serena Szilagyi. We also had one permanent household helper, besides the one that took care of us children. She took care of the household, cooked and did the shopping. She lived with us. I also know that she used to get 20 crowns a month.

Aunt Serena once paid for our vacation in Yugoslavia. That I remember, that she took my mother, brother plus one lady who took care of us children on vacation. We had this woman in our household that took care of us. We were in Crikvenica, by the sea. At that time I was about 7, my brother 3 years younger. I've got the feeling that Aunt Szilagyi also helped us financially. My mother was this entertaining type. I remember that when we were in Yugoslavia, below deck there was a piano, she was playing the piano and having fun, and I started crying. She was very disappointed that she couldn't play the piano. She felt good when she played. They were dancing there and I began crying and then she had to take me and leave. My mother was this entertaining type of person. She always liked to have fun, she and my father would also go to New Year's parties and I'd always wait to see what they'd bring me, what sort of balloons and confetti and things like that.

I've talked about my parents and grandparents, and we didn't get to my brother yet. Well, I wasn't a good student. My brother Ivan was always getting top marks. A much better student than I. He was very talented, and wanted to be a doctor, he was a great kid. He was born in 1927 and in 1944 he died. He was only 17 at the time. He was still this child that was growing up. This is what happened to him. You see, he was always very bold. We didn't look like Jews. He was hiding out in Nitra on Zobor and someone gave him away. Then he was in the Sered work camp 14 and before the deportations he hid in a pile of sawdust. But they found him, and then, when they were transporting them in a train to one of the concentration camps, he was apparently sawing his way out of one of the wagons. He wanted to jump out of the wagon while they were still transporting them. He tried to save his own life right up to the last moment. Unfortunately he didn't manage to. After that I didn't hear anything more about my brother.

As I've mentioned, my father was already a pan-Slavist during the time of Austro-Hungary. Then after the front, after World War I, also atypical for a Jew in Topolcany, in Koruna, he founded the Slovak National Council [Slovak National Council: the name of several high-level organs of various types during the history of Slovakia. See also 15 - Editor's note]. Koruna was the most elegant place there, a café. There were lots of Jews and Hungarians in high functions in Hungary, who were saying goodbye to Austro-Hungary and were still singing the Hungarian anthem. In the "next room over" my father was founding the Slovak National Council. My father's entire tendency was pro-Slovak, I'd say. For example, when during the war they wanted us to save ourselves from the Holocaust in Hungary, my father was against it. That was one line. The second line was social democracy [Czechoslovak Socially Democratic Labor Party - Editor's note]. He was on good terms with the minister of justice, Deder 16. My father was probably the only leftist judge in the region. It wasn't usual for judges. They were all national socialists, in short they were in the "butcher parties", they weren't in leftist parties. My father was this solo player, this black sheep. During the First Republic the Social Democrats were very active. I know that we used to go to the Social Democrats' Labor House. It was called the Labor Physical Education Union. The on the basis of this I became a shomer [a member of the Hashomer Hatzair movement. See also 17 - Editor's note]. A shomer was the closest thing to those leftists.

During the Slovak National Uprising 18 my father represented to city of Nitra at the unification congress of the Social Democrats and the Communists. That was the line, completely clear-cut, that my father took. My mother was apolitical. She couldn't care less one way or the other. She had completely different interests. And this Czechoslovak patriotism of our father's was also passed on to my brother and me. I remember composing poems about Stefanik 19. And even today, I can still recite that poem that I wrote as a schoolboy on October 28th [the anniversary of the creation of the First Czechoslovak Republic - Editor's note]. I pasted tricolors all over my chair, and recited on that chair. I still have that chair. That Czechoslovak patriotism was very strong in our family.

My father was so respected that people tried not to express any anti-Jewish comments or indications in front of him. They had to try hard. My father was the first to begin with the People's Courts 20 after World War II. It was this satisfaction for him. Nitra was the first district in the republic and my father was the first judge who began trials with Fascists and Guardists 21. For example the Guardist Gombarcik, he convicted him and I even saw his execution. He was a person who had regular murders on his conscience. Then, when the National Court ended with big trials like Tiso 22 and Mach 23, my father became the chairman of the National Court in Bratislava. He judged people like Tido Jozef Gaspar 24 and Karmasin 25, the local German boss. He also judged Wisliceny 26 - Eichmann's advisor in Slovakia!

Despite the fact that we had never hidden our Jewish origins, by our name and the way we looked people mostly didn't recognize it. In Nitra our whole family also attended synagogue, yet we didn't belong to that part of the population against whom others would have some sort of objections to. Somehow they considered our family to be good Slovaks and one of them. So in the pre-war period we never felt any anti-Semitism. We also had friends and acquaintances from mixed society, both Jews and non-Jews. So it was actually this kind of assimilation, in the good sense of the word. Certain religious customs were preserved, the Jewish identity remained. But it never came across as repellent for the surrounding population. So they accepted our family without any problems. I can say that this time was without any expressions of anti-Semitism whatsoever. The breaking point didn't come until later, at school.

The principal of the people's school 27 was Feher. An exceptionally intelligent man, who kept the school at a very high standard. Unfortunately that school building is also a sad symbol for me, because Jews were concentrated in this school in Parovce before transports from in and around Nitra. From there and the through the train station began the road to the gas. So that school actually has two faces for me. One in the fact that I attended it and had very good adventures and experiences. A few years later it was a collection point for Jews.

The first time I traveled by train it was under these peculiar circumstances. It was in people's school. President Masaryk 28 was passing through Zbehy, probably to Topolcany [Kastiel in Topolcany was the summer home of president Tomas Garrigue Masaryk - Editor's note]. Principal Feher took our class to Zbehy by train. At the trains station in Zbehy we were waving to Masaryk, and at the time Bechyne [Bechyne, Rudolf (1881 - 1948): Czech journalist and publicist, Czechoslovak socially democratic politician - Editor's note] was the minister of transport, and we were waving to him as well. It was this agitprop trip. Nitra wasn't on the main railway track. Zbehy were a railway nodal point and so we went to greet Masaryk from Nitra to Zbehy. That was my first train experience. amplified by Masaryk in the train that we were waving at. In my days people's school had five grades. I did four of them, and from fourth grade of people's school I went into high school. The building of the high school was multi- story with a large courtyard.

Before the war the Nitra Jewish community might have had several thousand people [official sources state that in the period before World War II, the Jewish community in Nita was composed of 4,363 people. According to many contemporaries of the time, the number of Jewish inhabitants in the city was higher - Editor's note]. Nitra Jews were mostly concentrated in the city quarter of Parovce, which was the former ghetto. Here there was also the famous Nitra yeshiva [The Nitra yeshiva led by a rabbi named Michael Dov Weissmandl and students that had survived the Holocaust moved in 1946 to the USA, where it exists to this day under the name Yeshiva of Nitra Rabbinical College - Editor's note]. Basically it was poor people living in Parovce. The higher and middle class lived in the center of town. Parovce was mainly very neglected old buildings, the old ghetto. There was also a mikveh [ritual bath - Editor's note] in Nitra. But we didn't go there. I don't even know where exactly it was.

When I reminisce about school days, I can't say much about high school. It doesn't have so much to do with school subjects as that at that time the nationalists were beginning to show their teeth. Those were the main experiences from high school. There were about six Jews in our class, and already there you could feel this certain, you couldn't yet call it anti- Semitism, but this certain tension. Anti-Semitism didn't rear its head until one Sudeten German 29 began teaching us, in 'tercie' [third year], I think. He came to teach Slovak, but he was a German. He was explicitly against us. He asked me: "What do you speak at home?" I said: "Slovak". "You don't speak Slovak, you definitely speak Hungarian!" and he began whacking me over the head with a newspaper. It was already obvious.

But it was in 'kvinta' [fifth year] that the main turning point came. That was in 1939. When the Slovak State already existed. Back then the following happened. We were six Jews in the class, two girls and four boys. In the morning we came to class, and written on the blackboard was the title: Jews! Then followed a long litany of all that we'd caused the Slovak nation and the conclusion "and thus we've designated the following places for you." Originally we'd each been sitting somewhere else, and suddenly they designated that we all sit together. Mendlik, our homeroom teacher, arrived. He was a Czech, and when he saw what was on the blackboard, he became extremely upset. He went to see the principal. He told him that he'd no longer be the home room teach for that class. He protested against it. Most of our high school professors were Czechs. This Mendlik taught us geography. So that's more or less how it started with that school in 1939.

During the war">During the war

I ended school in 'kvinta', in 1939. I was still allowed to attend school for one more year. I could have done 'sexta' [sixth year] but I decided for hakhsharah 30. So I went to hakhsharah, intending to aliyah to the Palestine. The hakhsharah was in the town of Radvan near Banska Bystrica [the town of Radvan was annexed by the city of Banska Bystrica and became one of its city wards - Editor's note]. I was there for one year, and absolved many jobs there. Since then I'm very good at making shoes. So I was a shoemaker. Before that I studied to be a bookbinder, so I also know how to bind books. By the way, later, in the Vyhne camp, I worked in a bagmaking workshop. There we sewed wallets and all sorts of things. I finally graduated from hakhsharah, but I didn't go to the Palestine. At the time it wasn't that organized yet and I myself decided not to go anywhere. Though I was prepared, I was supposed to first go to Denmark. I've got this large crate that was supposed to serve as a suitcase. I've still got it stored away in the cellar. In the end nothing came of it. So I stayed in Slovakia. The first guardian angel saved me when they came for me to our apartment in Nitra in 1942. Back then the non-family transports were going. It was the very first one. So they came to Seminarska Street, where we lived, for me as well. But luckily I was in Jur [Svaty Jur] at the time. We were digging a canal on the Sur River. So my father told the person that had come for me: "Otto Simko isn't here. He's working in Jur." And in this way I actually avoided deportation. That was the first guardian angel.

Once the Gestapo and the Guardists burst into Jur. It was nighttime and we were all sleeping in barracks. They came with the words: "Schweine! Hunde! Ausstehen!" [in German: Swine! Dogs! Get up!]. It was at night, and we got up. They had a list, and took boys away to the transport. At the time I wasn't on their list. But it was a sign for me that I couldn't stay in Jur any more. So I left there and returned back home, to Nitra. By then I wasn't on the list there anymore, so this is how I got through that first danger of the transports. But then, there was this thing, that they took my father to jail, to Ilava! Not as a Jew, but as a social democrat! As a political prisoner to Ilava. The transported my mother, brother and me to a collection camp in Zilina, intending to send us to Auschwitz or to one of the other German concentration camps. But they transferred my father from Ilava, to Zilina as well. That was a horrible meeting! He didn't know that we were there. And when he saw us there, that was very moving both for him and for us. For two months I was in Zilina with my entire family. Then my mother's brother, Rezso, brought a fake baptism certificate. In it, it stood that my father had been converted before 1938, and on the basis of that our entire family went to the Vyhne camp. We were actually the first transport that went through that gate not into cattle cars, but into passenger trains, which then took us to Bzenice, which is the station before Vyhne. Vyhne doesn't have its own station. From there they took us on buses to the Vyhne labor camp. In Vyhne I worked in a bagmaking workshop, where I learned to make wallets, briefcases and similar things.

An interesting thing was when we came from the collection camp, from Zilina, to the Vyhne labor camp. The head of the Jewish camp had us line up, and said in German: "You were all converted before 1938." To this one voice: "Not me, not me!" Everyone stood in shock, wondering who was shouting that. It was a proletarian from Bratislava, Willy Kohn. A notorious Bratislava character. He also got into the Vyhne camp, but not because he'd been converted, but because he had an Aryan wife. Because they were also sending people from mixed marriages there. "I got Aryan wife! I got Aryan wife!" You see, Willy didn't speak Slovak well. He was a Presporker [Prespork, or Pressburg - the German name for Bratislava - Editor's note] and didn't speak Slovak. To that was this first funny incident, gallows humor.

Vyhne was known for having a boss, Gindl, who had this specialty, when someone did something, he got 25 on the whipping horse. He had a whipping horse set up there. A certain Guardist named Ondra used to give out 25 blows. He had this little boat and we called him the little brigadier. But Gindl was then let go, and Leitner arrived. He was a soldier, and he was much more decent. After his arrival the conditions in the camp got a bit better. We were in the Vyhne labor camp for ten months. Then my father got a departmental exception. Back then the minister of justice was a certain Fritz [Dr. Gejza Fritz]. He arranged for him to be employed in Trstena. He was responsible for the Grundbuch [in German: land register - Editor's note]. Polish towns that had fallen under the Slovak State needed to arrange some things in the land registry, and they put him there because of that. We were very glad to be able to leave.

But here's the way it was. Back then the transports weren't running anymore. It was this in-between time. When the transports had ended, and the next ones hadn't started yet. Those who were out, were afraid that they'd take them to Sered, Novaky or to Vyhne, but those who were already in a camp, they were content, because the transports were no longer running. But that Damocles' sword [metaphorically speaking, a symbol of ever-present danger - Editor's note] was still hanging over us. So in that sense it was good that we could leave that camp early. Otherwise, I've got this very interesting document from that camp. I think it's the only one, because labor camps didn't issue documents. The Jewish camp leadership, namely Mr. Wildmann, issued it to me. I had asked him for confirmation that I'd been in that camp. The confirmation sounds typically thought through in a Jewish fashion: "According to legal regulations. We cannot issue you a report regarding your employment in our Jewish labor camp, although during your stay from 18th October1942 to 31st August 1943 you proved very satisfactory in our bagmaking workshop." They gave me a confirmation that says that they can't issue me a confirmation, although you from, to... in a word, I loved that idea. So I'm the only one to have a confirmation from that camp.

From Vyhne I went home, to Nitra. But the times were uncertain. I decided to get a job using so-called Aryan papers. I had a fake birth certificate, on which I didn't even have to change my name. With these papers I got a job as a bookbinder at the Hlavis Company in Liptovsky Mikulas. I went there alone, without my parents and that's where I was when the uprising 17 came along. So I immediately volunteered for the uprising and was a member of the 9th Liptov Partisan Division, in the Liptov Mountains. One thing has remained in my memory above all. There were five Jews in our division. We also slept in one tent, and everyone knew that we were Jews. We felt great during all the missions, as we felt this satisfaction, that now we had rifles in hand. We were no longer persecuted. Now we were equal. In short it was this feeling of amazing rebirth of your own person and also self-confidence.

The most powerful feeling was when one of my Jewish friends, Gabi Eichler, now he's in Israel and is named Gabi Oren, who was the boldest of us all. He was in the town of Vitalisovce at the time. The rest of us were in Zdiarska Dolina [the Zdiar Valley], in a cabin. In Vitalisovce he captured a German officer, and brought him to us in the cabin in Zdiarska Dolina. After a detailed interrogation it was ascertained that he was a guard from Dachau 31, a member of the SS. The result couldn't be anything other than execution. As partisans we couldn't take prisoners along with us. Execution as decided on, and the political commissar, Galica, picked two Jewish boys, me and another one, for the execution. Galica went with us as well. We went with that German up above the cabin, a little ways off, and there we told him to get undressed. We still needed his uniform. I even tried to explain to him in German why he had to die. He reacted: "I know what's going to happen to me. I'm still loyal to Hitler. I don't regret anything. Not even from the concentration camp, what I've done, with Jews. That was my belief, that it's right." In short, he felt to be a member of the SS up to the last moment. He didn't want to regret anything. Of course, for me it was then easier, and even that shot came out easier. I'd never shot anyone from such a close distance before. I shot a person who really did deserve it, when you think about it. Well, and later I almost paid the price for that execution.

Later our partisan division, at the Zdiar cabin, was scattered by the Germans and we had to retreat across the hills to Rohac. One of the Jewish boys, Janko Pressburger, was wounded. Now he lives in the town of Ber Sheva, in Israel. Two of us carried him through the mountains. We lost our unit. We were then hiding out in Pribilina, and I went to Liptovsky Mikulas dressed as a civilian. I knew that the director of the hospital there, Droppa, hid partisans and Jews by pretending that they were patients. My task was to get our wounded friend into the hospital there. Well, in Liptovsky Mikulas I was caught by a Guardist by the name of Kruzliak. He checked my ID, but my papers weren't in order. He began asking questions, who I was, what I was. I had to pull down my pants in front of him. When he saw that I was circumcised, they threw me in jail right away. I was locked up in the local jail. When in the meantime the Germans arrived in Zdiarska Dolina, they exhumed that executed German. In the jail they were investigating what had actually happened, who had done it. Someone gave away the fact that I'd been in that partisan division that had executed him. So they investigated me in connection with the execution. I of course knew that if it came out, I'd be dead. I denied ever having been there. That I'd never even been a partisan and didn't know about it and so on. The beat me a lot, and wanted to get it out of me by force. But at this time my German helped me a lot. One SS soldier said to my interrogator, who was called Barnabas Magat: "I'm not sure about that little guy." By the little guy he of course meant me. They didn't know that I understood German. His doubts about my guilt buoyed me and despite a heavy beating I kept denying it.

In jail it was scabies that helped save me, when I think about it. Because I got scabies, and when the Red Cross arrived, they decided that I have to go to the hospital for treatment. Two militiamen led me at bayonet-point to the hospital for treatment. I told the nurse, when she wanted to take my clothes: "Leave my clothes here. I want to escape. And please, prolong the treatment for as long as possible." That was in December of 1944. So the militiamen waited for me in front of the washroom, and I opened the window and hightailed it away from the hospital. Then I got to Nitra and hid out there in the Mr. Truska's cellar. The way it was, was that I went to see one acquaintance that knew that my father had been a social democrat before. He sent me to another place, and from there they again sent me on. Until finally that Truska took me in. He had a bunker in the cellar, and there were about ten Jews there. All Orthodox Jews. I arrived there, everyone there had a beard, and the first thing they asked me was what was up with the rabbi. But I didn't know what was up with the rabbi.

My father was also in the mountains from the start of the uprising. My mother and grandma were in hiding in Nitra. My brother was also in Nitra in the beginning, but they then took him away. My mother and grandma were saved. They were hidden in the same place. I knew where they were hiding out. I knew that they were alive. We didn't know about my father, just like we didn't know about my brother's further fate. So liberation was actually this bittersweet affair. My father returned. But we were waiting for my brother. That was the worst disappointment.

Post-war">Post-war

Luckily we were able to return to our old apartment. We discovered that the Germans had had a casino in our apartment. The furniture was there, but the neighbors had looted everything else. But the apartment was there, and that was enough for us. We had someplace to come back to. Then also many of those that were returning lived with us, as we were the only ones who had at least some sort of haven. We had enough to be able to live. As soon as we returned to the apartment, I went down to look in the cellar. There were about fifteen people hiding there, because just then they were bombing the city. I was an excellent shelter from the bombing. Well, they were completely horrified when they saw me, because many of them had the things that had been taken from our place. But back then I didn't care about things. I know very well that they were very horrified that I'd returned.

But basically no one took an openly negative stance towards us. My father's position in Nitra was such that no one dared to in some way show some sort of hate, or something similar. Right away he was a people's judge in Nitra. When the people's court began to hold sessions, they didn't want to start anything with us. We also weren't out for revenge. What was important to us was for my brother to return. But that didn't happen. So that's how we survived the war. I had to graduate from high school by taking an accelerated program in Bratislava. After the front I moved to Bratislava. I didn't have anything in common with Nitra anymore. My father and mother stayed in Nitra along with Grandma. Only I was in Bratislava, studying. My father became the chairman of the Regional Court in Zilina. So my parents moved from Nitra to Zilina. In time my father became the chairman of the Regional Court in Bratislava. in 1953 my mother died of cancer, and is buried in Zilina at the Jewish cemetery. She had a proper Jewish funeral.

The Slansky trials 32 didn't affect my father in any special fashion. But something worse affected him. The justice minister was one very well known Jew, by the name of Reis. He was Gottwald's 33 good friend, a Communist. My father was the chairman of the Regional Court in Zilina, and this Reis stripped him of his position of chairman and designated a different person, a worker cadre, who started working there as the chairman of the Regional Court. Back then it wounded my father very much.

After arriving in Bratislava I finished high school by taking an accelerated program, and registered at Comenius University in Bratislava, at the Faculty of Law. So I was a law student. From 1945 to 1949. I got a break, because as a partisan I was credited with one year, or two semesters. So I studied law for only four years. Otherwise, studying law consisted of going to lectures. Some went, some didn't, you just had to pass the exams. I rented a place with two other classmates. Well, and then I finished my studies. Then I got a job at the Commission of Social Affairs. Later, already as a doctor of law, in the legal department. So I was there, but later I then led the education division at the Labor Commission. That lasted until the 'Slanskiade' [the Slansky affair].

Well, then there was that sort of intermezzo, that the Slanskiade had arrived. Suddenly I was working as a lathe operator in Martin. That was in the year 1951. Then I was a teacher in a home for apprentices, as they needed me there. Later I also worked as a 'labcor', or labor correspondent. As a worker I wrote various contributions for Prace 34. As a labcor they sent me for schooling, the fact that I was just by the way already a doctor of law didn't trouble them. But as a labcor, pretty please, I did well and they accepted me onto the staff of the daily paper Smena 35. In 1954 I started working in the offices of Smena in Bratislava. At first I worked in the labor department, then later mainly in the foreign department. I didn't have anything to do with law anymore. Law didn't come in handy until they threw me off the staff of the paper, after Party screenings. In 1971, a couple of years after the arrival of the "brotherly armies" 36, I was thrown off the staff.

Finally I got a job as a company lawyer in one construction company in Bratislava. It was named Staving. Here it finally came in handy that I had studied law. I was a company lawyer, I used to go to meetings. I represented the company against employees. But it always ended well, because I always came to an agreement with the employee. He either withdrew his claim, or we came to some other agreement. I actually worked in Staving up until retirement. I was about 60 when I began working and retired. In retirement I again began writing for newspapers. After the war I never met up with anti-Semitism again. I think that in this respect I've got good experiences, I never had problems of this type.

Before the war I was a Neolog, a normal thing. After liberation, very many Jews, including me, saw a certain solution in leftism, Communism. So I don't have a relationship to Judaism through religion. Which is typical for people of my type, a common fate, past. All this brought me to Judaism, in that now I'm quite active in the B'nai Brith and Hidden Child organizations. So there I found myself. I entered the Jewish religious community in Bratislava about two years ago [i.e. in 2004 - Editor's note]. Even before that I participated in all events, but didn't formally join the community. But then I felt a summons, that I must fulfill this formality as well. Even though with me it has nothing to do with religion.

I'll mention my personal life after the Holocaust only very briefly. Back in those days there used to be company vacations to Bulgaria. From the Labor Commission I also want on vacation to Bulgaria. There I met my wife. She was a medical lab technician in the Tatras, in a sanatorium. For a long time nothing happened, but then it ended up with us getting married. She was named Matilda Podobnikova. She was from the Gemer [region], from a little village named Lubovnik. She was from a family with many children, there were six or seven of them. Her first name was officially Matilda, but everyone called her Mata. They then combined it with the famous Mata Hari [real name: Zelle, Margaretha Geertruida (1876 - 1917): a notorious dancer and courtesan. During World War I she was convicted of espionage and executed - Editor's note] and everyone called her Harina, Harnika or Hari. She wasn't Jewish. No one in her entire family was Jewish. Despite my origins, there wasn't even a pinch, not even a hint of some verbal slip, that they objected to my being a Jew! That was something amazing, as far as their relationship to Jews went. I really did find a family where it played absolutely no role.

Matilda and I were married in 1954 in Bratislava. Just at city hall. She worked in the Tatras, even when we were married. I worked for the paper in Bratislava. Then Matilda came to live in Bratislava. At first we lived in hotels, we didn't get an apartment until later. In the meantime my father and grandma moved here. They rented a place, finally they came to an agreement with the owner, and bought the apartment from him. My wife and I lived there with our little daughter who'd been born in the meantime, with my father and my grandmother. My wife died in 1996. She was five years older than me.

My wife and I had one daughter. She was born exactly two years after our wedding in 1956, and we named her Dasa. Dasa wasn't brought up in the spirit of Jewish traditions. She knows who her father is, and what fate befell his entire family. My wife and I didn't observe any Jewish customs. We had a normal household. I continued to be inclined towards Judaism, but only alone. I didn't lead my daughter to it.

My grandma died at the age of 100. That was in 1971, and that was a period when she couldn't have a Jewish funeral, and is buried in Slavicie Udolie. My grandmother, who would have deserved it the most, didn't have a Jewish wedding. My father died in 1976, also here in Bratislava. He also had a civil funeral, and his ashes are scattered over the scattering meadow of the crematorium in Bratislava.

Because I'd been thrown off the staff of Smena, they didn't want to accept my daughter into university. She wanted to be a pharmacist. So at first she went to Prague, into a so-called zeroth year. Then they just barely accepted her into mechanical engineering, but she was there only a half semester. They then accepted her to the Faculty of Chemistry, where she was for about six semesters, but she said that she wouldn't work. so they finally gave her Russian and Bulgarian at university. There she even completed a doctorate and worked on Russian-Slovak and Bulgarian-Slovak dictionaries at the Language Sciences Institute. Currently she's working with schola ludus [schola ludus: a civic society whose main goal is the support and systematic development of lifelong, informal education, mainly in the sphere of natural sciences, the support of scholastic education in the sphere of general scientific and technical literacy - Editor's note], that's this one organization where they educate children in physics and chemistry.

Her husband is the actor Petr Simun from the Astorka Theater. Recently I attended one amazing performance, Eve of Retirement. It's a symphony of acting, playing in it were Kronerova, Simun and Furkova. Though there were only three actors on stage, but it was worth it! It's all on a Jewish theme. The play is very successful. My daughter has two children. My grandson is named Palko [Pavol] and my granddaughter Barborka [Barbora]. We see each other almost every day. They come here, then I go see them. In short, as if we lived together.

In retirement I make use of my free time and enjoy life. Four times a week I go swimming, which is a good thing. I inherited these sports activities of mine from my mother. She also had an all-around talent for sports. Until recently I also used to go skating. Of course, I also devote myself to cultural events. I have enough time, so I try to use it to the fullest. For suffering during the Holocaust, I get compensation monthly, and also something from the Claims Conference. But I've got to say, that given my modest lifestyle, I don't have these types of problems.

Glossary">Glossary

Vladimir Tarskiy is a short man. He is sharp, chatty and cheerful. He lives in a two-bedroom apartment in Konkovo, a suburb of Moscow. His wife Anna died in 2003. Vladimir is a hospitable and friendly host. His apartment is furnished with furniture from the early 1960s. He has many books on technical subjects and fiction. He was willing to give us an interview and he fondly told us the story of his family.

My family background

Growing up

During the war

After the war

Glossary

My family background

Unfortunately, I know very little about the relatives of my father Leonid Tarskiy, or Emmanuel Sokolovskiy, which was his real name. My father was actively involved in the revolutionary communist movement. Leonid Tarskiy was his pseudonym. His documents indicating this name were issued to him at the time, when the Communist Party was in the underground and was persecuted by the tsarist authorities. In the early 1920s this became his name for the rest of his life, and he was called that at home and at work, and it was given in his documents.

My parents weren’t officially married, and my father lived separately from us. He left Moscow for the Far East and later moved to Voronezh [about 450 km south of Moscow]. My father came from the family of the Sokolovskiys. All I know about his father is that his name was Lev Sokolovskiy and that he lived in the town of Nikolaev [about 400 km south of Kiev]. His children were also born there. When they grew up, they got involved in revolutionary activities and left their home. I don’t know anything about my paternal grandmother whatsoever.

My father had an older brother and two sisters. His brother Ilia Sokolovskiy was born in Nikolaev in the 1880s. He became a journalist and wrote popular articles for Odessa newspapers under the pseudonym of Sedoy. My father’s older sister Alexandra was born in the 1870s. She was actively involved in underground revolutionary activities. She became Trotsky’s 1 wife in the 1890s. According to my mother, my father didn’t speak well of Trotsky. Probably the reason was that he left his sister with two children. Also, the shadow of Trotsky probably fell on him as well as his brother Ilia and his sister Alexandra who all perished in the Gulag 2 during the period of Stalin’s arrests [the so-called Great Terror] 3. They were blamed of relations with Trotsky, who was in disgrace, and sent to the Gulag.

Recently my relatives in Israel came across a magazine in which they published the memories of a former prisoner of the Gulag in Russian. She witnessed how Sedoy perished. He was exhausted and weak, and his convoy stabbed him with their bayonets. During the Great Patriotic War 4 Stalin issued an order for all prisoners to be taken away from German occupation to the East. They were exhausted and fell dying, and their convoy finished them with bayonets. Regretfully, I don’t know anything about my father’s sister Maria.

My father also got involved in revolutionary activities when he was young. As I mentioned before, Tarskiy was his pseudonym and later it became his surname, as well as mine. My father’s older brother Ilia provided money for my father to finish a Humanitarian Faculty in Switzerland. At the age of 22 he was elected a member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Ukraine at the 1st and 2nd Congresses of the Communist Party of the Bolsheviks of Ukraine and the Central Committee sent him to Odessa 5 [about 450 km south of Kiev] to organize the Bolshevik underground to struggle against Denikin 6. My father became a Bolshevik journalist. He supervised the ‘Odesskiy communist’ newspaper publications. Later my father was chief editor of the ‘Knigonosha’, a popular magazine in Odessa in the 1920s.

I know more about my mother’s relatives. Her paternal grandfather Reb Boruch der Magid Roshal lived in the town of Shklov. [Editor’s note: Names like Reb Boruch der Magid Roshal were typical Jewish names in the 19th century. There was a common belief that if the angel of death would come for Boruch, he would not find him, but Magid and vice versa. The name was believed to guard a person from troubles.] I don’t know when my great-grandfather was born, but he died in 1890. I read about him in the biography of my uncle Victor, an amazing and extraordinary person. He wrote his autobiography in 1904. I read that in his childhood he was under the influence of his grandfather, ‘a preacher by profession, a man with patriarchal appearance, deeply religious and with an inexhaustible sense of humor’.

I don’t know anything about his wife, my great-grandmother, unfortunately. The parents of my grandmother were Gersh and Nehama, nee Vermel, Tseitlin. They must have come from Shklov as well. This is all I know about them. According to the family legend, my mother’s father changed his surname to Rabinovich to avoid mobilization to the army. This was the surname of some childless relatives who adopted him fictitiously [at that time the only sons in families were not subject to military service]. My grandfather’s first name was Honon Yankel. He was a quiet man. He read a lot and helped his wife who owned a store. He often went on business trips. When he was at home, he worked in the store, always hiding his books under the counter from his enraged wife. He was born in Shklov in 1850 and died in Odessa in 1907. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery. His wife, Maria Rabinovich, nee Tseitlina, owned a store in Odessa. She was a very busy woman and had to take care of her family. My grandmother was born in 1857 and died in Moscow in 1932. She was cremated and buried in Donskoy cemetery. Later all the deceased of the Rabinovich clan were buried there.

My mother’s parents had twelve children. The older children were born in Shklov. After my grandfather died in 1907, the family moved to Odessa. All children finished grammar school and were educated and intelligent people. My mother Yeva Lyulkina, nee Rabinovich, was the last child in the family. Her Jewish name was Hava. She was born in 1899. My grandmother owned a big store of household goods, but her children made a different choice in their life. All the older children got involved in revolutionary activities, traveled a lot and were taken to prisons. All of their friends and comrades found shelter in the house. The younger children, Rosa [Jewish name Rachil], Sophia [Jewish name Sarrah] and my mother Yeva were supposed to take care of their older sister and brothers and their comrades, when they were behind bars. The younger children were called Sonechka, Rosochka and Yevochka in the family. They sent or delivered parcels to their brothers and sisters and their comrades in jails.

My grandmother often went on business trips. While she was away, the younger children packed goods from her store and took some cash keeping it a secret from her. My mother’s brother Victor was born in 1882. He finished a Realschule 7 in Odessa and began to work as a propagandist of the committee of social democrats. He was arrested and put in Odessa prison. He took part in a hunger strike, was taken to jail in Voronezh and exiled to eastern Siberia. He participated in a riot in a transit prison and was sentenced to 20 years of forced labor in a camp. In January 1905 Victor escaped through a mine to Paris where he became a professional revolutionary. His life was like an adventure story. Several times he traveled to Russia illegally, was arrested but escaped again. He lived in London, Argentina, Australia and Africa. After [the Russian Revolution of] 1917 8 he returned to Russia through Japan. On his way back to Russia he managed to force Chinese officials to sign a protocol of reassignment of the Chinese Eastern Railroad to Russia. [Editor’s note: the railroad in North Eastern China, from Manchuria station through Kharbin to the Far East and Port Arthur, built by Russia in 1987-1903. Under the Russian-Chinese Treaty of 1924 it was recognized as a commercial enterprise to be managed jointly by China and Russia].

Although he didn’t have a higher education, Victor spoke several European languages. During the Soviet rule he was assistant Vice-President of the Academy of Sciences for the publication of the Big Soviet Encyclopedia. Later he worked as a diplomat in Latin America and China. Mayakovsky 9 was his friend. He accompanied the poet on his trip to Mexico. I remember him to be a merry and kind person telling lots of jokes. He was just called Vitka in the family. He died in 1934.

My mother’s brother Philip, called Fishka in the family, was not so accessible. He was born in 1885. He was a trade representative in the Soviet Embassy in London, traveled to Moscow and stayed in a suite in the Metropol Hotel. Later he was deputy minister of foreign trade and deputy minister of forestry. He vanished in the Gulag camps in 1937.

My mother’s sister Cipora, born around 1880, was a professional revolutionary. The tsarist police exiled her to the town of Ust-Sysolsk [about 1,200 km north of Moscow], where she died in 1913.

In 1920 or 1921 the family moved to Moscow. Grandmother Maria Rabinovich lived with her daughter Rosa till she died in 1932. I often stayed with them, when my parents took me there. I remember my grandmother well. She had a sound mind and a sense of humor till her last days. She never made the impression of an old and decrepit person. Being a real Odessite she used to repeat with the typical sense of humor that these people have: ‘As much as I know, it doesn’t hurt me’. The family was very close and its members always supported each other. The older brothers, Victor and Philip, gave Sophia and Rosa money to buy a cooperative apartment in 1933. Our relatives and friends used to have gatherings in this apartment in Odessa. The doors were always kept open for visitors. Later, when our family got into trouble, we found shelter in this apartment. My cousin Marianna, Aunt Sophia’s daughter, and my sister Inga, her daughter Anna and grandson Zhenia live in this apartment now.

My stepfather, Veniamin Lyulkin, was also an open, cheerful and hospitable person. I rarely communicated with him, though. Veniamin was quick and kind. He was a high-level official in the field of agriculture and grain stocks. My mother had two children from her first marriage: my sister Victoria, born in 1922, and I, born in 1925. Veniamin Lyulkin was the father of our younger sister Inga, born in 1931.

I don’t know where or how my parents met, but I guess that they came together through their revolutionary activities. Of course, Jewish traditions were out of the question. They were atheists. I was born in 1925. My early childhood was happy and untroubled. My mother, father, my sister and I lived in a big house in the center of Moscow. This building used to house a hotel in the early 20th century. In 1925 our family moved into two rooms of an eight-bedroom communal apartment 10 where the owner of the hotel had lived before the Revolution.

Growing up

My sister and I stayed with our nanny Polia, a young pretty girl from Riazan region. She adored me, as my older members of the family told me later. I was a quiet, agreeable and nice child. I didn’t cause anyone any trouble and was everybody’s darling. My nanny took me for walks. I particularly liked the bus stop near our house, where bright red English ‘Lowland’ buses with shining copper rails stopped. They looked like sailors starting on their journey. I envied the happy passengers going on their long tours. I was passionately fond of traveling when I grew up.

After my father moved to Voronezh he corresponded with my sister and me sending us cards with short letters written on the back, giving us instructions regarding studies and the list of books he was sending to Moscow. In summer 1932 I started kindergarten. This kindergarten took the children on trips to the seashore. I remember a Black Sea Fleet squadron with a battleship and cruisers in the sea, a boat cruise and a meeting with Red army troopers for who we gave a concert. When in 1929 our stepfather joined the family, we moved to his big three-bedroom apartment on Gorky Street in the center of Moscow. My kind and strong stepfather was quite an agreeable replacement of my father for me. I went to the Russian school near our house. My school life till the 6th grade could be described with my mother’s saying: ‘Quiet successes and noisy conduct’. I was a naughty and lazy idler. I was a pioneer [see All-union pioneer organization] 11 like everybody else and blindly believed in communist ideas.

In the late 1930s our family faced a number of disasters. My father became the first victim. He was deputy chief of the political department of the South-Eastern Railroad and executive editor of the ‘Vperyod’ [‘Go forward’] communist newspaper. On 13th May 1937 he was sentenced to ten years in prison for ‘anti-Soviet propaganda and illegal possession of weapons’. According to the information of the chief information center of the Ministry of Home Affairs of the RF, my father ‘died in prison on 10th January 1938; location unknown’.

The next victim was my stepfather, sentenced to ten years in prison on 16th July 1937 for ‘sabotage and participation in the anti-Soviet Trotskist organization’. In September my mother was notified on the ‘compaction of her living conditions due to her husband’s arrest’. My mother submitted a claim to the court referring to her having three children. On 3rd November official representatives made their appearance in our apartment with a search and arrest warrant. A Special Council of the NKVD 12 USSR sentenced my mother to ‘eight years in penitentiary camps as a member of the family of an enemy of the people’ 13. My mother was taken away that same night.

My sisters Victoria and Inga, the younger one was five years old, and I, eleven years old, were taken to a transit home for orphaned children - that we became all of a sudden despite our parents living - at the Holy Danilov Monastery in the center of Moscow. We got a wash in the shower, they took our fingerprints and photographs en face and profile, as if we were adult criminals. We were provided sufficient food and had clean bed sheets, but we weren’t allowed to leave the monastery. The walls around the Monastery were stuffed with broken glass. We were horrified waiting for them to send us to a children’s home, because we knew that my sisters and I would end up in different children’s homes in different towns and would be given different names and never be able to find each other again. Twice a day our tutors arranged ‘lessons of political education’ for the children of enemies of the people, taking us through a crowd of whistling and hooting local stray children: ‘Look at the saboteurs and traitors of their Motherland! Death to spies’. Our aunt Sophia saved us. She managed to obtain guardianship of the three of us. She took us to her home and told us that our father had been sentenced to ten years in prison without the right to correspond with us. From the talks in the children’s home I already knew that it meant the death penalty. She also told us that our mother had been sentenced to eight years in camps on the charges of being a non-informer.

Aunt Sophia had her own daughter, Marianna, born in 1932. The family never mentioned the father of the girl. Sophia worked as an economist in an office, but she couldn’t manage to support four children and aunt Rosa helped her. We went to school. Many of my classmates’ parents had been arrested as well. It was not appreciated to talk about it, and we felt very lonely. When the war in Spain [see Spanish Civil War] 14 began, the schoolchildren began to dream to fight on the side of the republicans. I was no different. ‘It’s important to go abroad’, I thought naively remembering exciting stories that uncle Victor had told us. The radio broadcast merry songs: ‘We live merrily today and tomorrow will be even better…’ And our situation was that our aunts worked so very hard to feed four children.

So, there was a firm decision taken to go to Spain. I was responsible for buying bread for the family. I saved some change each time till I had enough to buy a train ticket to Rzhev. I plotted the route: the nearest was the Latvian border, from there I would get to the sea, take a boat to France and then cross the border to Spain. I drew the route on the map of Europe; this map is still kept in my files in the Ministry of Home Affairs archives. For the case I would be captured by the opposite side in Spain I had typed a pile of anti-Soviet flyers on our typewriter at home. So I took a train to Rzhev from where several international trains were going to Riga.

I got to Rzhev [about 200 km west of Moscow] and managed to get into an international railcar. It was empty and all doors to the compartments, but one, were locked. My heart was pounding. I got into this compartment: there were rolled mattresses on the third bench and I hid behind them. I woke up from the noise of slamming doors: a frontier man and the conductor were inspecting the railcar. They didn’t notice me and the border was crossed easily. So all I had to do was stay quiet till the train reached Riga [about 680 km west of Moscow]; it was like a sentence to ten years in prison to wait that long. At the first stop I got out of the railcar and into an empty barrel without a bottom to spend the night. A janitor discovered me and took me to the local police who put me back on the train to transfer me to the transportation and road department of the Rzhev NKVD office.

They searched me and discovered a compass, a map and the flyers with the false slogans of the Soviet power, about the absence of freedom and lines for bread. ‘Who gave you these, boy and where were you going to take this anti-Soviet stuff?’ ‘I wrote them myself’. I spent the first month in a cell of t 4х1.5 meters and about 2.5 meters high. There was a bed attached to the wall, a stool and a bulb over a small window with a wooden shield outside. Later I learned that this shield was called a ‘muzzle’ in prisoners’ jargon. It was tightly adjusted to the wall from the outside leaving only a palm-wide slit on top through which the prisoners saw a piece of sky. There was not even a table or a toilet in the cell. The latter became the cause of my first conflict. According to the procedures for bull pens there was a schedule for going to the toilet to be followed by the convoy, while I believed that I could go to the toilet whenever I wished. I knocked on the door, but they didn’t let me out. I complained to a supervisor who explained the procedure to me. I got along well with my guards. They were young guys who were probably serving their mandatory army term. They didn’t bother me with interrogations and came to my cell twice a week.

All I saw was my cell, the toilet, corridors and the interrogation room. There was also a small yard where I could walk and three to four other prisoners were walking as well. There was a wall surrounding the yard on two sides, and on the two other sides there was a high fence with several rows of barbed wire on top of it. There was a tower and a guard with a rifle on it in the corner of the yard. There was a radio on a post outside, and at night I could listen to the news. Once it announced that the republicans had been defeated, and this made me upset more than my personal problems.

Two investigation officers were conducting my case. I refused to tell them my name or home address, but my aunt Sophia’s request helped the investigation to discover my address. My restless aunt addressed the Holy Danilov Monastery where I had been in 1937 after my mother’s arrest. The omnipresent organs helped her to find me in Rzhev where she arrived immediately. The investigation was over. I was sentenced under Article 58 items 1а – treason, 10 – anti-Soviet agitation and 84 – crossing the state border.

I was then taken to a common cell. It was a dim cell with a ray of light coming from the narrow slit between he wall and the ‘muzzle’. The window was in the upper part of the wall, and prisoners could only see the sky standing on the table pressing their faces tightly to the window niche. This was forbidden by prison rules and was punished by sending one to a punishment cell. I met my co-prisoners, got attached to them and close to some others. I told them about the events in the world and in the country.

The prison in Rzhev was built in the tsarist time. There were large numbers of inscriptions on all kinds of subjects on its brown and red walls. There were two rows of plank beds by the walls on two sides of the cell. There was a toilet in one corner, and the table was in the brightest part of the cell by the window. There was an electric bulb attached to the ceiling above the window opening, in a glass cowl and protected with thick wire grid. There were twelve prisoners in the cell sentenced for anti-Soviet propaganda. One was the former assistant people’s commissar of the food industry. He was an intelligent older man. He taught us English and Arabic.

There were ridiculous circumstances under which people were taken to prison. One young aviation technician after the 1st May parade of 1938, for which he prepared air planes for the flight over the Red Square on Stalin’s order – and there were 1000 planes involved – told his comrades that he had been invited to a banquet in the Kremlin where he had a shot with Voroshylov 14. As a proof, he showed them a card with a portrait of the people’s commissar signed: ‘My companion for a drink and snack. Klim Voroshylov.’ He actually bought this card and signed it himself. He was reported on immediately, arrested and sentenced to three years in prison for ‘political hooliganism’.

There was also an older blacksmith who had been a cavalry man during World War I. Somebody also reported on him. The investigation officers beat him demanding to confess of having served in intelligence. The blacksmith, who was used to fights in his village, endured it and kept silent. He actually didn’t seem to understand what they wanted from him. We spent time playing chess which was also forbidden. We made chess from bread painting the white ones with toothpowder. To make the board, we wiped tobacco ash onto the table and then made black cells on it. I was once sent to a punishment cell for playing chess, when the chief of jail broke into our cell catching me playing chess and ordered the guards to take me to the punishment cell for gross violation of the rules of conduct.

I was taken to a small 2х1.5 meter stone hole with a ventilation opening under the ceiling. There were many curses inscribed on the walls. There were sewage remains on the concrete floor. The guard said, ‘Don’t knock – nobody will hear’. My body gradually got sweaty. I felt giddy and dizzy. There was no toilet or stool in the cell. My fellow prisoners demanded at this time that the ‘teenager’ was taken back to his cell. Perhaps, this helped or for other reasons four hours later I was taken back. We also used to hum songs. Prisoners knew many songs. Songs cheered us up, quieting us and helping to get adjusted to one another mitigating the dislike that appeared among prisoners from time to time. My investigation officers didn’t bother me and I even forgot that they were still there.

One day in early June the guard opened the door and said: ‘Tarskiy, get your belongings and come out’. I was taken to a special black car with steel bars commonly called ‘voronok’ [derived from ‘Varon’, raven in Russian, and means bringing trouble]. I was taken to a room where there was an officer whom I had never seen before. He offered me a seat and read the sentence of the special council of the NKVD USSR [extra-judicial punitive body within the NKVD authorized to issue sentences without a trial or attorney. In 1939 it was acknowledged to be illegal and its sentences became ineffective]: ‘The defendant charged under Article 58-10 part 1 and 84 of the CC of the RSFSR Tarskiy V.L. should be set free with the inclusion of the term of punishment into the term of his stay in the bull pen’. They asked me to sign under my obligation not to disclose the circumstances and materials of my case, gave me a ticket to Moscow and took me to the railway station in a car.

I returned home, and half a year later my stepfather, Veniamin Lyulkin, was released from prison. It turned out that Stalin needed to have strategic food stocks made while my stepfather and a number of best experts in bread stocks were in prison. He issued an order to discharge them. My stepfather began to pull strings in Moscow for my mother’s release: ‘She is in prison due to me, and I have been found innocent. Let her free’. However, my mother was only discharged on 21st December 1940. We didn’t get our apartment in Moscow back. There was our big family of eight living in my aunt Sophia and Rosa’s apartment.

There was always the atmosphere of love in this apartment. The sisters Rosa, Sophia and Yeva loved and supported each other, and my mother was grateful to her sisters that they rescued her children. My mother lost apartment and belongings, but at least the children were doing all right. My stepfather became the head of this big family. He loved all of us. When he saw me thin with my head shaved, he demanded my certificate of release and burned it. ‘That’s it! Nobody knows about the jail. Don’t tell anybody and live your life as a free person’.

In the 1960s I, a veteran of the war and former intelligence sergeant, addressed the KGB 15 with a request for review of my case. The officers there were surprised: ‘What do you mean, citizen! You crossed the Soviet border, didn’t you? You did. This means, you are still a state criminal and you are not subject to rehabilitation 16’. Many years later, on 18th October 1991, the law of the RSFSR [Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic], ‘Rehabilitation of the victims of political repression’, was issued canceling all verdicts of the ‘Special Council of the NKVD’, and the ‘council’ itself was recognized as illegal. On 23rd June 1993 I finally received a certificate of rehabilitation.

After I was released I went to the 6th grade of another school. I had smartened up in jail and became the best pupil of this school. I had excellent marks only in the 6th and 7th grades. Then I decided to enter a technical communications school. They admitted me without exams and nobody knew about my past and my parents’ sentences.

On Sunday 22nd June 1941 only my mother and I were at home, when the radio broadcast with a tragic voice of the announcer: ‘Listen to an important news’. Then Molotov 17 spoke. As it happened, the war had begun and bombs were falling. I was 16 and had a passport when the war began. Fire protection groups were formed. In the first month of the war we patrolled the roofs in Moscow installing barrels with water, bags of sand and big long tongs to fight the fire bombs. There was an air raid on 22nd July 1941. The Germans made a tactical mistake. There were markets under glass roofs near railway stations in Moscow and the railway stations were camouflaged. So they dropped bombs on those glass roofs, but the stations were intact.

We saw German planes targeted by our ground artillery and were happy when their planes were hit. Later there were bombings every day. Fire bombs broke through the roofs and stuck in the attics. We grabbed them with tongs and threw them into barrels with water. We saw big fires. Soon a direction for the evacuation of the children from Moscow was issued. My sisters Victoria and Inga, my cousin Marianna, my mother and I and my aunts Sophia and Rachil evacuated to the town of Naberezhniye Chelny [about 900 km east of Moscow]. There was a big grain elevator in the town, and my stepfather had acquaintances who worked there. He made arrangements for the children to stay in the kindergarten and the adults to be accommodated in local houses.

I hated to evacuate, but my family convinced me to do so since I was the only man with a whole bunch of children and women. We sailed there by boat and I stayed with machine operators all the time. When we arrived at Naberezhniye Chelny, I went to look for a job and was sent to an equipment yard in a big kolkhoz 18 where I worked as a scale operator and later, when tractor operators went to the army, their foreman trained me to operate tractors and I became a tractor operator. I was very strong. My mother and my aunts went to work, and Inga, Victoria and Marianna were in boarding school. We didn’t starve.

After the harvest I went to work as an electrician at the grain elevator and later went to a course of agricultural mechanics. I was sent to work in a kolkhoz. I fixed a vehicle and wanted to drive it, but I didn’t get permission and the work I had to do seemed dull to me. On the way to Naberezhniye Chelny I got interested in the work of boat motor operators. I quit the kolkhoz and went to work on the ‘Zhemchuzhina’ [‘Pearl’] boat, the biggest freight and passenger boat in the Volga-Kama basin.

I worked in 3x1 shifts: working one shift and resting the two following shifts. I was a stoker working from 12 midnight till 4am. At four I was replaced and fell asleep on the dark iron floor right where I was. It felt as if I had just lied down when they were pushing me to get back to work. We sailed up and down the Kama and Volga. As the front line was approaching Stalingrad [about 900 km from Moscow] in 1942 the ‘Zhemchuzhina’ was used for the needs of the front for the transportation of ammunition and the wounded. The Volga was not as wide as it is now and the Germans blocked it by dropping mines. There were barges and towboats exploding on them. Later I got to know that there was Stalin’s order to leave 10 percent of the crew on a damaged ship and the remaining staff was to join the marines.

During the war

Once our boat bumped into a mine and I was assigned to the marines. I was 17. We were trained to manage rifles. I was wounded in my first battle and taken to hospital. From there I was sent to the Ordzhonikidze motorcyclist school in the town of Minusinsk [about 3,400 km east of Moscow], but they didn’t admit me after they got to know about my family and sent me back to the frontline. However, the military registry office authorized me to find out, if there were students in this school who wished to go to the front before they finished the course of training. I stayed there for some time looking for the strongest young men. I had meals in the cafeteria of this school. The food was miserable: a big bowl of boiled water with potato peels, bread crumbs and food fat made from kerosene and oil, and mashed potatoes for the 2nd course. The volunteers received their rationed food and we went to the front line.

Our destination point was near Smolensk [about 350 km west of Moscow] and from there I was sent to the Omsk infantry school where I failed for the same reason of my family history. Finally I joined Novosibirsk reserve infantry division 21 training infantry sergeants. I liked it there. I wrote for a newspaper about our commanding officers. I was promoted to the rank of a private first class. I was praised for my performance in this school. They even sent my mother a letter of gratitude for raising a good son. We were accommodated in big earth huts for 200 tenants. There was a forest nearby. We exercised drills and mine firing. I then joined the Komsomol 19, and became a Komsomol battalion organizer. I wrote articles for a district newspaper.

Then we headed to the front as a marching battalion. We stayed longer in Novosibirsk [about 2,800 km east of Moscow]. We were thirsty. I took a bucket to fetch some water, but when I ran back – there was no train. I saw the train some 50 meters away and ran after it. I caught up with the last railcar and jumped into the tambour. It was autumn, cold wind and snow falling. I was freezing. I put down the bucket trying to get myself warmer. When the train stopped, I ran to an open platform, and on the next stop I ran to our railcar. I jumped on the footboard, but I couldn’t lift my arm to knock and knocked with my head instead. The others dragged me inside and gave me half a glass of pure spirit and I felt my ears getting warmer.

For the first time we realized that we were moving to the front at Bologoye station [about 200 km west of Moscow]. There was hell at this station. It must have been bombed severely: there were twisted rails and turned over locomotives. We moved on. At night we got off the train in Toropetz [about 400 km west of Moscow], and marched to infantry division 71 of the Baltic Front. I was assigned to the division intelligence. Later I served in intelligence units of different divisions and fronts throughout the war. I had to catch prisoners for interrogation, identify a junction between the wings of armies, identify the front line and set up communications with partisans.

We were in the northeastern part of Belarus, in the vicinity of Nevel [about 450 km south of St. Petersburg]. There were partisans in the middle of swamps to which Germans couldn’t get access. We delivered directions, and weapons and ammunition to partisans. We sometimes got directions to capture a prisoner for interrogation, but at times it just happened so that we did. Once we were ordered to identify and bring together the flanks of a division, when we captured a prisoner. This German trooper either got lost or had no idea where he was going. When he saw about eight of us he raised his hands shouting ‘Hitler kaput’. This was a common statement when they surrendered.

We went on tasks in our military uniforms, but left all documents and awards. To capture a prisoner for interrogation we went in two groups: one capture group and one cover group. I was big and strong. Once a German trooper stabbed me in my neck with his knife. I stabbed him to death and we didn’t capture a prisoner that time. It took us one, two or even three days to capture a prisoner since we also had to identify access to capture one at night. We had to find one or two German troopers because if there were more of them they would start firing at us and this would mean the end. Germans were very cautious guarding their positions at night. When we bumped into one German he was afraid of starting fire and so were we. He feared that if he started making a noise we would kill him, and we were afraid of attracting attention. When German troopers realized there was a group of us they usually surrendered. I have another scar on my hip: by another German who tried to stab me in my stomach.

Our division advanced to Nevel. The Soviet troops started their advance to break through the blockade of Leningrad 20, and our division was ordered to attack from the north of Nevel to distract Germans and make it impossible for them to provide additional troops to the Leningrad Front. We suffered significant losses, but we had to demonstrate a massive attack and all division staff including accountants and intelligence troopers were distributed to infantry regiments. I was assistant platoon commander. After an artillery preparation we advanced across the Lithuanian border to the town of Pustoska [about 400 south of Leningrad]. I was with a ‘Dehtiaryov infantry’ machine gun. My friend Semyon Narovlianskiy perished in this battle, and I was wounded: both my hands were shot through during an attack.

I left the battle field and was taken to a hospital in Nevel. The doctor decided to amputate my hand. She was a dentist by profession. An old assistant doctor saved my hand. He was telling the doctor to save the 17-year old guy’s hand and wrote to my mother, who rushed to where I was. She wanted them to send me to Moscow. My sister Victoria talked to her co-student who was the daughter of a general, chief of medical service of a hospital in Moscow. My mother obtained a letter of permission to take me to Moscow. A doctor in this hospital performed surgery on my hand. At that time my mother received a letter from my military unit. They informed her that I was awarded a medal, the number of the medal and that the medal and a certificate were sent to the department of awards. My mother was very happy. This was my first award.

After the hospital I was sent back to the front line. I was assigned an intelligence trooper to the operations unit of a Guard Mine Firing Unit. The intelligence troopers were to identify the coordinates of German troops. There were Katyusha units at quite a distance from where we were at the front line. We also served as communication troopers. There were no radios, but wiring units and when the wire got damaged we were to find the breakage. Once I was wounded in my right shoulder trying to fix a communication line. In total I served two weeks in the Guard Mine Firing Unit. I had to stay about a month and a half in a hospital near the front line. I was wounded in January and in late March or early April I was back to the front, in the 17th Guard division.

This was the period of preparation to the ‘Bagration’ operation for the liberation of Belarus. This was the 3rd Belarusian Front. There were big battles near Vitebsk [about 450 km west of Moscow]. At times divisions dispersed several kilometers away from one another, and there were swamps between them, and then intelligence troopers were to find the flanks to take them together. Following this order we got into treble firing of two our divisions and one German. I was severely wounded there. After the hospital I was sent back to the front. This was already the year of 1944. I had to catch up with our troops. I got to Orsha [about 550 km from Moscow], and the front line was in the vicinity of Minsk [about 720 km from Moscow], and there were no trains moving in this direction. There were trains full of the military from hospitals going back to the front in Orsha.

All of a sudden a passenger train stopped at the station. It was heading to Minsk. There were officers and generals in the train and we climbed the roofs of the railcars. The commander of the station couldn’t allow people to be on the roof. He came to the platform with his men armed with machine guns ordering us to clear the roof. Nobody listened to him. Everybody was eager to go to the front, when all of a sudden a general got off the train and shot his gun into the air demanding for the commander to make his appearance: ‘How much longer can we be here? I’m going to command a division. If the train doesn’t move in five minutes I shall shoot you and inform the commandment that I’ve done it on grounds of sabotage’. The commandant waved his hand and the train moved on. We arrived in Minsk sitting on the roof of the train.

The railway station had recently been cleared of Germans, and there were ashes and ruins around. In the commandant office we were told to move on since the Third Belarusian Front was in Lithuania. In my effort to catch up with my troops I walked across Lithuania as far as Eastern Prussia. The military heading to the front line from hospitals had certificates for rationed food or hot meals that they could receive in special provision centers on their way. In Eastern Prussia, where I arrived, was detached fighting anti-tank artillery brigade 47 of the reserve of the chief commandment. Its commanding officer was captain Chemeris, a nice, but weird, person. He tested me, but since I had studied artillery, I knew all kinds of details, including targeting and identification of coordinates. He liked me so much that he appointed me commanding officer of a platoon.

We served side by side with him till the victory over Germany and later in Japan. Our task was to identify the targets and coordinates. Since this was anti-tank artillery with direct targeting our observation point was located beside the front line positions of infantry where we performed our tasks. At first there were inert battles in Eastern Prussia. Our brigade participated in a few breakthroughs. We were making the way for infantry marching ahead. We took the firing positions on tank risk direction locations. When intelligence units advised us that there were tanks accumulated in the rear of German troops we moved in that direction, deployed there waiting. If there was an order to go into action, we did.

Once, when we were deployed near the Lithuanian-German border, Captain Chemeris called for me. He always had unusual ideas. This time he ordered me to go to the rear of the Germans and hide in a haystack unnoticed by the Germans. When the Germans started on their tank attack, we were to set all haystacks on fire and return to our unit. In this way the tanks were to be seen in the light of burning haystacks and we could shoot at them easily. My soldier and I looked at each other. We had no idea how we could manage this. Where would we go in the background of burning haystacks? However, this was an order and we went on. We discovered a spot in the lowland where there were no Germans and where we could crawl into their rear. We crawled to haystacks and stayed there overnight, but there was no attack that night. We stayed in those haystacks for another day till we could manage to go back to our positions in the dark. The commanding officer praised us.

Then fierce efforts to liquidate the Eastern-Prussian grouping were taken. Our brigade joined a tank army. We broke through the front line with the tanks. A tank is a noticeable target and we were to neutralize the weapon emplacement to enable the tanks to attack. For these actions and the storming attacks on two towns our army received appreciation of Stalin twice. There were fierce battles in this direction. We witnessed how General Cherniakhovskiy, Commander of the 3rd Belarusian Front, was lethally wounded in a small town cleared from the Germans who retreated into a small forest on a hill in the north. Thus the town was in their full view. Our attack was delayed. Cherniakhovskiy was a very energetic man, the youngest Commander of the Front. A column of vehicles with the Commander of the Front drove to the headquarters. The staff rushed outside, the Germans saw it and shot Cherniakhovskiy.

Marshal Vasilevskiy replaced him. He was chief of general staff before. We, soldiers, sensed the difference. Perhaps, German troops were exhausted from previous battles or Vasilevskiy was more skilled than the previous commander, but German troops began to fall apart. They were encircled and eliminated without significant losses or hysterical battles. The front promptly advanced to the Baltic Sea. The Eastern-Prussian grouping of Germans was cut into two parts.

I need to mention an episode that hasn’t been recorded in military history. Konigsberg [today Kaliningrad, Russia] was encircled twice. The first time, and we participated in it, was a breakthrough to Zalmanskiy peninsula. We advanced to the sea west of Konigsberg cutting it from Pilau where the Germans had several tank units. They attacked, captured many prisoners and came back to Konigsberg. I need to mention here that while our aviation bombed military facilities and utilities, the Americans and British raged on cluster bombings of the towns that were to belong to us after the war. They destroyed Dresden this way and bombed Konigsberg. We were in a town near Koningsberg before Germans repositioned themselves in Konigsberg. The allies didn’t drop bombs on this town and all German elite took shelter in it.

When we came into this town, there were civilians in it. We had never met any before. Peaceful citizens usually left the towns before we entered there, but here we broke into a living German organism. I didn’t care about women then. Besides, nobody raped my wife or killed my children, but there were older soldiers who had information that their wives had been raped by the Germans or their wives and children had been killed. They began to take revenge on German women. I don’t think there were more than 20 percent of the German women left who weren’t raped in this town. The soldiers destroyed and ruined everything. I saw them throwing down a grand piano listening to its clinking. It didn’t occur to them that it would be all ours in the end. They burned everything. They sensed the victory. If they had saved every house on our territory because it was ours, there, on the German land, they wreaked vengeance on Germans. ‘Let’s set this house on fire and I will get warm nearby.’

I remember our troops seizing a railway station where there were trains with valuables that Germans had taken to this station. There were a few railcars with Swiss watches. Our soldiers took five to ten watches each. I didn’t need a watch, so I took a box full of Zeiss binoculars and stereo tubes with periscope features. These were valuable trophies for my intelligence activities. While we were in this town, we didn’t know what was happening in the rear, and at this time Germans troops broke back to Konigsberg. We were ordered to move in the assigned direction, when we bumped into a commandant’s platoon. ‘Who are you?’. We began to explain that we were from the frontline observation point and that we had got the order to return to our unit. They took us to the commandant office to clarify the circumstances and put us into a cellar with cupboards full of delicious food. There was silver tableware on the table in the middle of the cellar. This had probably been a hotel or a café before.

We took to drinking and eating, when we heard some noise and cracking sounds upstairs. The door opened and our commanding officer and the commandant came in. He pretended to speak in a threatening voice ‘What are you doing here? Eating? The battery is fighting and you are fooling around here? Rush to the battery location!’ We were sorry to leave the spot, but moved to the position of the battery. By the way, we left there on time since the Germans went on their attack: their two groupings that we had split before united and they occupied Konigsberg and the town where we had stayed before.

There were many battles and attacks before we broke through to the sea and proceeded to Konigsberg and fought it back in April. For the attack on Konigsberg I was awarded the Order of the Red Star 22. Then there was the Zalmanskiy peninsula and fortress Pilau. This was a historical fortress. There were huge marine cannons there. During our attack on Konigsberg we had an inconvenient position to support our infantry. We couldn’t see the positions of the enemy. Our commander ordered me to move onto the territory of the enemy and shoot air rockets in the direction of the positions that were to be destroyed. There was an artillery preparation and Germans were hiding away. I went on this task with my radio operator.

After fulfilling the task we hardly managed to escape from there. Later this radio operator perished. I usually went on my intelligence tasks with a radio operator. Three of my radio operators perished during the war. One was hit by a mine and smashed to pieces, there were no remains left to bury; another operator perished in the tank brigade near Pilau. This battle was called ‘Landing troops on armor’. I was sitting on the tank beside my radio operator to send messages about our whereabouts, when a shell exploded near us. He was killed and I just fell off and wasn’t even wounded. He was a skilled carpenter. When a soldier had been killed before, this man made him a coffin and a grave pillar with a star. He said back then, ‘Here we bury him while there will be nobody to make a decent burial for me’, and indeed it happened so. I put him aside, we threw stones over him, marked the spot on the map and moved on to Konigsberg.

I didn’t have any fear during the attack. I was young and had no children. Besides, I had been in the war for some time. I used to feel fear in Belarus and in Smolensk region during bombings and air raids, when we were defenseless. There were bombs falling on you and the soil hitting you from all around. It wasn’t just fear, it was the feeling of hopelessness, when you look for a hiding, but there is none. An attack is different. When I had been wounded in my hands I felt like running forward and tearing everything apart with my teeth, though I couldn’t even hold weapons. Any of us felt the same. We attacked shouting ‘Hurrah! There! Go forward!’, or advanced in silence. When we came closer when we could see Germans we began to shout to scare them and it worked: they left their trenches retreating – it was scaring when a brutal crowd moved on them. I joined the Party at the front. My father was a dedicated communist. I became a traitor of the motherland for struggling for communist ideas. I was absorbed in them. I joined the Party for ideal considerations.

They write in books that the infantry received vodka before attacks. We didn’t. In winter we got our daily rates regardless of attacks. We always had almost a canister of vodka in our intelligence platoon. Our sergeants were smart. They submitted requests for a ration for 50 people before a battle and after the battle there were about 20 survivors and there were always sufficient quantities of vodka available, but I don’t remember any drinking excesses. Well, we could drink 200 grams instead of the standard 100. There was the tradition to drop awards in the mess tin to ‘wash it out’.

The war in Eastern Prussia was over in April. We moved to the seashore. We stayed in a nice resort town: gorgeous houses, furnished and vacant. There were still battles near Berlin, but we liquidated all Germans in Eastern Prussia. I was under arrest on Victory Day 23. We felt like the war was over for us, even though there were battles near Berlin or Vienna – this was far from where we were. It lasted about two days, when we were told that we were to attend mandatory political classes. In the morning my commanding officer gave me the schedule. We had been on battlefields, when now we had to attend a class with the title ‘Sleep and security’. My platoon and I went to a forest, took off our boots and leg wrappings and relaxed on the grass. However, we were intelligence troopers and we watched around to be on the alert.

On the 2nd day of training an inspector arrived from the general staff office. I noticed somebody approaching us, looked at my watch - it was the time for a three-minute break according to the schedule. I approached the inspector to explain that we were having a class and then there was a break. ‘Why don’t you order ‘Attention?’ I explained that this order wasn’t supposed to be given during a break and there was loud snoring around. Formally they couldn’t forward any charges, but they still gave me three days of house arrest. This happened on 8th to 9th May 1945. This was a punishment for officers. There were no guards, but I wasn’t supposed to leave the house.

I was taken to a nice house, my guys brought wine and food there. I was eating, when I heard shooting. There were even heavy cannons shooting and air rockets. My commander came running in. ‘Why are you sitting here? It’s the victory; that supersedes everything!’ I had a box full of German air rockets on my vehicle. I opened it to shoot color rockets. Basically, we celebrated the victory. A few days later we were ordered to relocate to Konigsberg for a parade of the garrison. Marshal Vasilevskiy received it. I was a leading singer in the regiment. We sang naughty songs: ‘when a gypsy man threw a gypsy woman onto a bench’. Our commanders and we liked these songs a lot. Then we were taken to Mongolia by train.

I didn’t know much about what the Germans did to Jews during the war. We knew that they exterminated prisoners, as a rule, and that there were death camps. In the army I had ‘Russian’ indicated in my documents since if God forbid I would have got in captivity, everybody knew it was sure death, but we didn’t know any details about the camps, crematoria, six million of killed old people and children. [Being a Jew meant being surely destined to death in case they were captured, and for a Russian there was still hope to survive.] Nationality didn’t matter in the army. Personal values mattered. There was a mixture of nationalities in our units. Everybody was aware I was a Jew wherever I served, but there was no segregation in this regard. It was only after the war that anti-Jewish attitude on a large scale appeared. There were many Jews at the front. All boys in our family who came of the recruitment age were at the front. My two cousin brothers perished: one near Stalingrad and the other one near Moscow.

I had several wounds, seven of them severe, during the war. I was wounded in my shoulder three times, one splinter wounded me in the abdominal cavity, I still have 20 splinters in my head, talocrural and in the shoulder, but in general, I was lucky and young, and the wounds healed fast. They healed and I still run around today or pretend to be running around. 

I have orders and medals. I have 22 governmental awards in total. There were awards for combat actions. I received an Order of the Great Patriotic War, 2nd class after we repelled a tank attack in Eastern Prussia. [Editor’s note: established 20th May 1942. These orders were awarded to officers and men of the Soviet army, navy, and to partisans for personal courage and bravery as well as to those who contributed to the success of an operation. The 2nd class award was issued over 1,028,000 times.] I also have an Order of the Red Star 22 for Konigsberg and two medals for combat service. [Editor’s note: established 17th October 1938. This medal was awarded for a person’s contribution to the success of a combat mission and for the enhancement of the combat readiness of the military units. The silver medal with the inscription ‘For distinguished service in battle’ over a saber crossed with a rifle. The medal was awarded over 5,000,000 times.] And I have a Mongolian order for the defeat of Japanese troops.

The trip from Konigsberg across the victorious country to Japan took us a whole month. How we were met! There were flowers thrown at us, people were meeting their liberators at stations and in towns. They were happy that we had won and that this horrific war was over and brought flowers to meet the trains from the front, in which the military were returning home. We passed villages where there was nothing left and they were throwing us carrots. Tears filled our eyes: people didn’t have anything, but shared the last things they had with us. In Darasun [about 4,500 km east of Moscow] we got off and walked across Buriatia and Mongolia to Choybalsan [about 5,000 km east of Moscow]. We encamped in Mongolia. There was general staff of the Zabaikalskiy front. We were told lies during our trip. We were told that we were taken for reformation, and that we needed to take everything we could from Prussia since at the place we were heading to we were to dig earth huts. We loaded wood, a grand piano and even vehicles; everything we could. We didn’t know where we were going.

Before our departure a high official from the political department started his fable about correspondence with relatives. I wrote my mother every day from the front and the field mail operated well, but this queer man told us to not drop our letters in mail boxes at stations, but hand them to field mail reps.

Our commanding officer didn’t want us to write about our destination. My mother all of a sudden received my letter from Konigsberg saying that I was alive and healthy and would come home soon, while she hadn’t received a letter from me in three months. No letters that we took to the field mail office had been sent. Later censors thoroughly checked my letters from Choybalsan crossing out any mention of my whereabouts. However, knowing the Russian characters, I mentioned the name of the town five to six times in a letter. They crossed it out at the beginning and at the end of the letter, but missed the middle part. Our commanding officers got married during the trip. We had a grand piano with us and there were girls joining us on our way. We sang and danced. When we approached the border with Mongolia, we were told that only the military, but not their girlfriends would be allowed across the border. When we arrived in Mongolia, it turned out that Mongolians paid one horse for a binocular.

They could see a rider at quite a distance through the binocular. We didn’t need a horse, so we traded a binocular for money and bought alcohol. We were in Choybalsan for about a month. Troops for the attack on Japan were gathered there. We were in the reserve of the Zabaykalskiy Front and were waiting for the declaration of war. There was one army protecting our borders located in Mongolia throughout the war. When we arrived this army moved to the border, and we became a front line reserve. I admired the fortifications that the army made with a few stories, the passages in the sand, shelters, and everything was skillfully camouflaged.

The war with Japan 23 lasted three months. On 10th August Japan capitulated. On 3rd September I received a medal for the victory over Japan. We struggled against Japan on the territory of China. We actually had no combat actions. There was major Japanese resistance in the direction of Vladivistok where they held strong, but what could they do here with the open steppe and a tank army attacking? We had all cannons and heavy artillery with us in Eastern Mongolia. Of course, we had losses. There’s even a monument to those who perished in the Far East - there were about 15 of them. This happened at the time, when the 11th army alone lost over 10,000 during the attack on Konigsberg. The Japanese were very scared of getting captured by Mongolians. They were so wild. They didn’t give food to prisoners. And they threw a loop around their neck, riding their horses and the prisoners were running behind.

Our troops didn’t torture prisoners. There were Japanese officers supervising Japanese captives, and our troops even left their cold weapons with them. There were only our guards watching that our soldiers didn’t rob the Japanese captives. The Japanese had watches that became trophies. I knew that Americans had dropped an atomic bomb on Japan, but this was somewhere far away from me. We actually didn’t read newspapers and had no idea about how deadly dangerous nuclear weapons were. There were no such celebrations like there had been after the victory over Germany. There was triumph that it was so easy to destroy a big empire. There was no immediate demobilization, but I got lucky. There was an order issued saying that military who had three or more wounds were subject to immediate demobilization, and I had seven.

After the war

After the war with Japan we were grouped based on the locations we came from and sent home by trains. The trains were slow and I was eager to get home as soon as possible. I changed for a courier train to Moscow. I was rich when I came to Moscow. The money that I brought with me lasted in the family for quite some time. I had shoes and clothes and received cards. [Editor’s note: the card system was introduced to directly regulate food supplies to the population by food and industrial product rates. There were cards for workers, non-manual employees and dependents in the USSR. Food products were distributed per food cards or coupons. There was nothing in stores to buy for money. Food cards were issued at work, in colleges or in social services.] We were paid at the front, but we hardly ever spent this money. Before going to the East we received bags of money: there was guard and field money, in Germany we were paid in occupational marks, and in Mongolia we received tugriks. In Manchuria we received Chang Kay Shi Chinese dollars. In Moscow I exchanged these currencies to rubles.

My family was happy that I was back home. We lived in the apartment where my aunts Rosa and Sophia accommodated us. My friends and my sister's friends, the former exiles who had no place to live and our relatives always found shelter in this apartment. There is the friendly atmosphere surrounding anybody who comes into this apartment. I decided to go to college, but first I had to obtain a secondary school certificate. I had finished seven years at school. I passed school exams for three years. This was 1947 when specialists for atomic energy studies were in great demand. I entered the Engineering and Physics Faculty of Moscow Applied Physics College. Right upon my admission the period of exclusion of Jews from science began: the campaign against cosmopolitans 24. I remember Professor Landa, who had organized this college, was fired. Professor Haikin, an outstanding mechanic theoretician quit his job.

I studied well and made reports in our mathematics club. I was a head student of the course. When we were in our third year of studies students began to obtain permits to do sensitive work. I was invited to the special department where they told me that they could not allow me access to secrets due to my name. I had too many sins according to their thinking. My father having been arrested as an enemy of the people and I having being in prison and probably my Jewish identity also played its role. I went to study in the Moscow Machine Instrumental College [STANKIN], the faculty of machines and technology of the foundry production. This was one of the few higher educational institutions where Jews were admitted. There were many Jewish lecturers and students. As a result, there were such good results, that graduates from STANKIN were in great demand. Our students’ life was wonderful. It was easier for me to study there. It took me one or two hours to prepare for exams. I went in for tourism and mountain climbing. In winter I guided groups of skiers to Moscow region. I was head man in the group, editor of the wall newspaper and chairman of the tourism and mountain climbing club. I organized many tours, became master of sports in tourism and traveled to the Far North in the country. I was a reliable leader. There were no accidents in my groups and I was often invited to supervise training in the Caucasus and Altay. 

In 1949 my mother died after being severely ill. My mother wasn’t a public person. She never joined the party or any public activities. She liked everybody, supported and helped all. One of my strong impressions was that during my mother’s funeral: the hall of the crematorium was overcrowded, many people grieved after my mother. This was the kind of person she was. My stepfather Veniamin Lyulkin lived with us for a long time and was the head of the family. He worked in the ministry of bread products where he was deputy chief of department of acceptance and placement of bread. In 1952 he remarried, received a new apartment and moved there with his wife, but he continued to be a friend of the family. He died of a heart attack in 1960. Aunt Rosa had fracture of the femoral neck and was bedridden ever since. She died in 1963. Aunt Sophia got blind in the late 1950s, but she kept her sense of humor and nice attitude. She lived wrapped in Marianna and her nephews’ care and love. She died in 1989. My sisters Victoria and Inga, my cousin sister Marianna and I have always been friends.

My older sister Victoria finished Moscow Polygraphist College and married Vladimir Zaitsev, a nice Russian guy, in 1946. She worked as an editor and a librarian. Her daughter’s name is Yekaterina. Victoria died in 1996. My sister Inga graduated from the Geographical Faculty of Moscow University. She worked as a geographer, married Igor Kontsebovskiy, also a Russian guy, and they live in harmony. She has two daughters: Yelena and Anna. She raises her grandson Yevgeniy, Anna’s son.

The time of receiving mandatory job assignments 25 was coming close. I spent a lot of time with public activities, had all excellent marks, was editor of the faculty newspaper, a veteran of the war, a member of the party and I assisted the dean’s office to eliminate lost hours in our studies. I believed I had all grounds to expect a good job assignment, but I was the last one to be called into the room. The meeting was chaired by the deputy minister of machine tool construction. He was a foundry man. Many years later I did joint work with him, and then he explained: ‘Look, I had directions of the district party committee regarding all job assignments. It didn’t matter what I knew or wanted. Everything was directed’. To cut this long story short: I was told that there were no vacancies in Moscow, though I was aware that the director of the scientific research institute of the foundry machine building [NIILITMASH] had forwarded a request for my assignment to his institute. I was assigned to work in Kolomna [a small town 50 km from Moscow], at the biggest plant of heavy machines. I realized it didn’t make any sense to complain. When I came to the ministry to obtain a letter of assignment, they told me that the plant had refused to employ me. So they sent me to the Klinskiy, about 100 km from Moscow, to a machine repair plant, the last enterprise in the lists of our Ministry. They didn’t know what a wonderful gift they prepared for me.

I went to the plant. Its director was a former foundry man. He appointed me chief of laboratory. This was good for a graduate since the others were just the lowest rate engineers in their scientific research institutes. This happened to be a nice job for all ‘outcasts’ that later developed into the best chief designers. There were literally trains of machines shipped to our plant under the reparation terms [from the beaten countries] and we restored them. I dealt with the best machines in the world. Soon I became supervisor of the foundry shop and then was chief of laboratory and supervisor at the same time. The director of the plant was a drunkard, but he was a great foundry specialist and we got along well. There is a German saying about the foundry men: ‘It’s a bad metal that doesn’t pour and the foundry man who doesn’t drink’.

Once we decided to celebrate my promotion. I went to buy more vodka in the café at the railway station. I bought two bottles. This was fall 1953, when there was amnesty and many criminals were released in Klin. [Editor’s note: After Stalin had died in March 1953 he was succeeded by Nikita Khrushchev 26 as First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. The new leadership declared an amnesty for some serving prison sentences for criminal offences, announced price cuts, and relaxed the restrictions on private plots. De-Stalinization also put an end to the role of large-scale forced labor in the economy.] When I was going back, two men caught up with me. One of them took a knife out of his pocket demanding my coat from me. I grabbed a bottle and gave one of them a hard blow in his temple. He fell to the ground and another criminal ran away. The blow was so hard that even the bottle broke. I happened to be attacked by the criminals who had been released from jail. I killed one of them. The militia proved that I was defending myself and the case ended well for me. They found the knife with the criminal’s fingerprints on it at the scene of crime. However, about two weeks later the captain of the militia office notified me that there was a gang of criminals in Klin planning to wreak vengeance and it would be better for me to leave town.

At that period there was an order issued by the government to send industrial engineers to kolkhozes and equipment yards. I wrote a letter to the central party committee informing them that I was ready to go to any distant kolkhoz and they assigned me to an equipment yard in Tajikistan. I worked there for four years. Then the equipment yards were closed. My wound on the hip opened and I was taking medical treatment in Moscow, when the director of NIILITMASH, who had known me since I was a student, offered me a job. I worked there from 1957 to 1996. There were many Jewish employees working in this institute. During the period of the suppression of Jews the NIILITMASH was allowed to employ Jews. This institute gathered such a brilliant team of designers that this industry, which was underdeveloped before, reached an internationally recognized level in the Soviet Union.

When I was employed there was one vacancy for a senior engineer. It was a lower position against my previous positions, but I agreed to take it. I finally got a chance to deal in the science that I had studied in college. Before the end of two years I was promoted to supervisor of a group, then chief of the laboratory, and then I won the competition for the position of chief of department and in this position I worked till I retired. I liked this job: firstly, I returned to Moscow and secondly, I got to work in science after I returned from a Tajik field. Actually, I reached the highest qualifications in my profession.

There were five laboratories in my department, about 50 people in each of them, I wrote manuals and other scientific books. My industry people still remember me and make agreements for writing books with me. There were different laboratories. There were international jobs related to specialization of cooperation of the production of foundry equipment. My department dealt in economics, specialization of cooperation and new equipment. We studied the best international practices and published recommendations about development of new equipment. Our department determined work directions for our institute and industry. I had serious scientific research works at the institute at the beginning of my career. There were several dissertations based on my ideas defended in the institute [see Soviet/Russian doctorate degrees] 27. Over 250 of my works were published, translated into foreign languages and published abroad. I didn’t want to defend a dissertation. I earned sufficient money: I had my salary of chief of the department and lectured on foundry discipline in two higher educational institutions.

In the late 1980s the new era began when we stepped into capitalism in its wild form. There were all kinds of conflicts with the new management of the institute since I didn’t agree with its financial policies. Our customers paid for the contracts completed by my department, and the managers took this money. I got so sick and tired of it that I quit my job at the institute in 1996 and retired. I have agreements that I execute through the association of foundry experts, and I get paid for this work. These are research works on sales markets in Russia or in the world for the products of the foundry industry and the cost of foundry products. Besides, I write manuals for foundry students.

I met my wife, Anna Tarskaya, nee Shamrai, on a hiking tour in 1952, when I worked as a senior instructor for tourists. I had high skills in orientation and azimuth orientation. I was 27 then. I looked well, was a strong and quick young man. I had finished college and was chief of laboratory. I was chief of the whole tourist hiking base and I chose the prettiest girls and the strongest young men for my group. I liked my future wife Anna. She was a small, pretty slim girl, but very quick and business-like. We saw each other for a year until 1953, when I had to leave Moscow for Tajikistan. When I returned I thought Anna had forgotten me, though I remembered her. Anna was Russian, but nationality didn’t matter to me. I called her and we met and began to see each other again. Then we got married in 1957. There was a big joyous wedding to which Anna’s friends and my relatives and friends came, but of course, there were no Jewish or Russian traditions observed.

Anna’s family came from Kaluga province. Her grandfather, a poor villager from Vinnitsa province, moved to Kaluga province with his family in the late 19th century where he bought a plot of land. Though his successors joined a kolkhoz after the Revolution of 1917, and Anna’s mother was a milkmaid there, they were still declared kulaks 28, and thus subject to dispossession. They escaped to Moscow. Anna’s father and mother went to work at the plant of rubber products ‘Kauchuk’.

There were five children in the family: Tatiana, Maria, Ivan, Pyotr, and the oldest Anna, born in 1925. Her mother had no education, but she was a wise woman and helped her children to get a higher education, although Anna couldn’t get a higher education because of the war. Anna’s mother worked in the metallization of rubber and was awarded orders for her performance. Anna worked at the bullet plant during the war. This was terrible work: they worked on the conveyor placing bullets into cases. Every day another girl lost her finger in an accident. Anna was accurate and hardworking. The NKVD office noticed her and sent her to a course of typewriting, stenography and German. She finished the course with honors and spoke fluent German. She was sent to Germany on an intelligence task at the end of the war. She worked for an organization purchasing and shipping out documentation and consumables of missile equipment. Their organization was disclosed and she saved them from execution by writing an explanatory note that those were outdated documents that had been shipped and lost. In Germany she worked for the Soviet Military administration and they didn’t dismiss her for a long time as they were interested in her knowledge of all German office and bureaucratic rules. She returned to Russia in 1947. In Moscow she was chief of department 1 [secret] in an academic institute and later she became human resource manager. My parents and hers didn’t mind that I was a Jew and she was Russian.

Her sister Tatiana is also married to a Jewish man. We lived many years together, but there were never any signs of anti-Semitic expressions or displeasure. We were one wonderful family. My family was happy about my marriage. He finally got married! There was no question of whether I had a Jewish or a Russian wife. What kind of Jews were we?! I’ve already mentioned that nine out of twelve children of my grandmother were in exile. They were internationalists. There was no Russian or Jewish spirit in our family. We didn’t teach our daughter Jewish traditions and she didn’t identify herself as a Jew.

At first we rented an apartment. Then my stepfather received an apartment and remarried. Anna and I moved into his wife’s room. Soon my wife received an apartment from her institute. This is where I live now. In 1960 our daughter Natasha was born. She grew up a cheerful and quick girl. She studied well. At school she was chess champion. When she was small we rented a dacha [cottage] near Moscow and later we spent vacations in recreation centers. I often went to the Crimea or the Caucasus as an instructor of tourism and mountaineering. The organizers of these trainings paid for my trips. My wife and I like traveling across the country. We took many tours. Now, as an invalid of the war, I receive tickets to stay in health centers. Last summer I flew to Vladivistok, to the division in which I served during the war. This year I want to go to Kamchatka to look at geysers. I had friends who worked for foreign companies that I worked with. They invited me to visit them. I traveled to Norway and Germany. I made a tour to Italy and traveled all over the country. We had many friends at work. We often got together and visited each other.

My wife and I lived in harmony. After finishing school she went to study in Moscow College of Fine Chemical Technology. She studied in the evening department and went to work at daytime. After finishing the college she went to work at the academic institute. She worked well and was going to defend a dissertation of candidate of sciences when perestroika 29 began. She began to receive a very low salary at the institute. Our daughter already had two children. Natasha works in the business department of the Tax Police Fund. I’ve never asked her how much she earns, but since she goes abroad with her children twice a year, and they have nice furniture and computers at home, and everything is super, I believe she earns all right. Natasha got married in 1980. Her husband, Alexandr Kurilenko is a chemist, a military, worked in the space industry and was responsible for fueling missiles. Recently he retired in the rank of colonel. He is Ukrainian, but his mother is half-Ukrainian and half-Jewish.

My grandchildren are a mixture of Russian-Ukrainian-Jewish blood. My granddaughter Maya is a 4th-year student of the psychology department of the Jewish University. She is now working on a thesis on Jewish subjects. She studies Hebrew, the history of Jewish people and knows all Jewish traditions, though they don’t celebrate Jewish holidays at home. The Jewry has returned to my granddaughter. My grandson Misha is a 3rd-year student in college.

In 1999 my wife fell ill with rectum cancer. She lived three more years after the surgery, but then she had metastasis. She had another surgery, got weaker, lost her ability to speak and orientation. She died in hospital in 2001. I buried her in the Hovanskoye town cemetery in Moscow.

Basically, I’m positive about perestroika, but what kind of perestroika is this? This is just a many-year destruction of the country’s industry, that’s how I call this period. I am an economist. I wouldn’t want to say that everything was fine during the Soviet power, but when Kosygin was in power, there was discipline. [Editor’s note: Kosygin, Aleksey (1904-1980): state and party leader 1961-1964, 1st deputy chairman of the council of ministers, 1964-1980 chairman of the council of ministers USSR.] There was a five-year plan 29, and he never allowed a single kopeck for anything beyond this plan. If a ministry wanted the construction of something they were to provide documents to prove that they stopped constructing another facility. Although, in my opinion, there were huge amounts spent on defense that they might have given away to the people.

When the USSR broke up, the industry went down to 10 per cent of the Soviet period. The industry was destroyed and where were they supposed to take the money? There might have been a tough economy and it might have been wrong during the Stalin rule, but there was iron discipline. Within five years after the war the level of production exceeded the prewar levels. Now it’s been ten years since perestroika [editors note: Perestroika started in 1985, after Gorbachev came to power], and the Russian President Mr. Putin tells us that industry has increased by 10%. I feel ashamed to hear this – I would spit into his eyes. Ten per cent of what? Of the 10% that it was dumped to in the 1990s? There are many grave mistakes made just because of misunderstanding the situation. The power allowed certain manufacturers to make big money, and the working class and working people became miserably poor.

When Jews got their state in 1948, I felt very proud. I perceive this state as a part of myself, I’m proud of the military successes of the Jewish people, but I’ve never strived to go there [Israel]. Just to go there on a visit maybe, but nothing else. I’m a Jew. I was born to a Jewish family. Before the Great Patriotic War I identified myself as just a Soviet person. There were children from Brazil, Latvia and Germany in my class. There was never an issue of nationality. I’ve never kept my Jewish identity a secret.

Before receiving my first passport at the age of 16, I wrote in my application form that I was a Jew. After I returned from the army there was reregistration. The militia asked me while looking into my old documents why it was written that I was Russian, when I was a Jew by my passport. I said that they had to register me as a Jew. I felt patriotic about my people at the moment and believed I had no right to reject my belonging to the nation. I grew more conscious and restored my nationality in my documents. Since Jews were suppressed in their rights I believed that I didn’t have to play tricks and hide away. Even if I don’t know Yiddish or Hebrew, the Old Testament or Jewish laws, by my nature and in essence I identify myself as a Jew.

My roots are in Russia, I was educated here, I worked in this country on many jobs and positions: as stoker, tractor operator, sewing cotton… I was an honored mechanic of the republic and I worked 40 years to support the foundry machine building. I struggled for this land. Foreign countries still believe me to be the greatest expert in foundry equipment; I have 22 governmental awards from this country. I don’t think Israel to be my state. I’m a citizen of Russia.

Glossary

Herta Coufalova
Sumperk
Czech Republic
Interviewer: Barbora Pokreis
Date of interview: November 2004

Mrs. Coufalova is a sprightly, vital older lady, who despite her advanced age has a big interest in literature and travel. She lives in a small Czech town called Sumperk, not far from her three daughters. Her biggest joy in life is her great-grandson Davidek. Daily she visits her granddaughter Lenka, who is a single mother, to help her out. Mrs. Coufalova is a very affable, intelligent lady with a sense of humor. The interview was made on the premises of the Jewish community in Brno at 3 Kapitan Jaros Avenue. Mrs. Coufalova answered our questions obligingly and willingly. The interview took place during two sessions.

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

My family background

All of my grandparents, except for Grandma Hermina Reich, my mother's mother, came from Trebic. Both grandfathers - my father's father Hermann Glasner, and my mother's father Hermann Reich - were businessmen. The Reichs had a 'white goods' shop. They sold everything to do with white cloth, for example towels and dishcloths. The Glasners, as their name indicates, were in the glass business. They had a glass and porcelain shop.

My grandmother, Hermina Reich, nee Mayer was born on 9th July 1875 in Pohorelice in Southern Moravia. She died on 15th July 1944 in Auschwitz. She left Terezin 1 on the last transport of old people. Her husband, Herman Reich, was born on 12th March 1869, and died on 19th February 1929. I don't remember my grandfather very much. I was only three years old when he died. He would always borrow a horse-drawn sleigh and drive us around the surrounding villages.

My grandparents' mother tongue was German, but they also spoke Yiddish. I assume that they had a basic education. Grandma Reich went to a Jewish school in Pohorelice when she was young, because in Moravia people used to be very religious. My grandmother was a born businesswoman. After her husband's death she ran his white goods store for some time, eventually though she sold it.

My mother's grandparents lived on Dolni Street in Trebic, in a neighborhood called 'v Zidech' [At the Jews] - today that part of town is a UNESCO cultural heritage site. There were always a lot of Jews in Trebic. Even today, when there are none left, the town retains certain Jewish characteristics. My mother's parents owned a house, which stands to this day, on the main square, opposite the synagogue. The house was comprised of two larger rooms, one smaller one and a 'black kitchen' with fireplace. They already had electricity, but running water wasn't brought to that part of town until 1936 or 1937; until then they carried it from public pumps.

Despite the fact that my grandmother came from a religious family, she didn't wear a wig. One couldn't say that my grandfather was religious. He didn't wear a beard, payes or a kippah. Trebic had a modern Jewish community. Not even the cantor and rabbi wore a beard. Men wore black hats. I rarely saw them without a hat. They felt Jewish and went to the synagogue on the major religious holidays. They had kosher households, ate kosher meat and never mixed meat and dairy products.

My grandmother on my father's side was named Pavla Glasner, nee Orchstein. She was born in 1845 in Trebic and died there in 1930. Grandpa was named Hermann Glasner. He was born in the same year, and even in the same town as his wife. He died in 1922, also in Trebic. If it hadn't been for Mr. Hitler none of us would have ever set foot outside of that town. In their home town they had a shop named Hermann Glasner. My grandmother had the reputation of a very capable businesswoman. In the summer she used to sit in front of the shop and would always knit socks that were so well made that my father and his brother could never wear them out. I remember those socks to this day, even their color, grey and black. In the winter she also sat by the doorway of the shop, but inside, and knitted. She called people that came in and didn't buy anything 'Indians'. Where she got that name and why she called them that, I don't know.

The Glasners lived on the town square, to be exact, in a place then called 'U Piku'. Later they moved, as they say, only a few steps further on. They bought a larger house, which stands to this day. There they built a crossing, where via a footbridge people could get directly into the Jewish Town [ghetto in Trebic]. It was a large apartment with a spacious circular hall. My grandparents' house consisted of two small, four larger and three beautiful large rooms. They had electricity and running water. The only disadvantage I could see was that it didn't have a yard. In the beginning they had two maids, when they got older they sufficed with one. Grandpa employed six people in the shop. None of them were of Jewish origin.

My grandparents on my father's side didn't have a kosher household. They went to the synagogue sporadically, usually only during major religious holidays and at maskir. Otherwise they didn't. Grandpa didn't wear a beard or payes and my grandmother never wore a wig. These things weren't worn in Trebic, ours wasn't a religious town.

I don't remember much about the siblings of my grandparents, the Glasners. Grandpa had three siblings. Uncle Kurt lived in Vienna. Then there were Uncle Leo and Aunt Frida. Other than their names I don't know anything about them. My grandmother's siblings I don't remember at all.

In the days of my youth [the 1930s] Trebic had approximately 22,000 inhabitants, of those around 250 to 270 were people of Jewish faith [according to the 1930 census Trebic had 17,555 inhabitants]. Jews didn't live in just the ghetto any more, but had spread out all over town. At the end of World War I Jews inhabited the upper and lower streets, which formed the ghetto. This part of town was called Zamosti [Behind the Bridge]. As the Jewish population increased, the ghetto couldn't accommodate them all. Jews began to flow over to those parts of Trebic where Catholics lived. Because most of them made their living as merchants, they moved to the town square, where there was the greatest population density, this being good for business. At the beginning of the 1930s all of Trebic already had electricity. However, running water still wasn't everywhere. Water wasn't brought to all households until 1936 to 1938. All of the streets in town were paved with stone and not dirt streets.

We weren't Orthodox; in fact there weren't any Orthodox Jews in town [see Orthodox communities] 2. None of the men wore payes, a tallit or kippah. Despite this there lived among us even quite deeply religious people. Our family also kept up traditions. We always felt ourselves to be Jews.

There was only one synagogue in town, which stood on Dolni Street in Zidech [part of the former Jewish ghetto in Trebic]. After the war it was bought by the Czechoslovak Church. The town also had a prayer hall, which we used to visit in winter, during which the synagogue wasn't heated. The prayer hall also served as a school after the anti-Jewish laws [in the Protectorate of Bohemia-Moravia] 3 came into force.

The rabbi in Trebic was named Ingber. He came from Ruthenia [see Subcarpathia] 4, from a poor family. He had many children. He promoted reformed Judaism. We used to study Ivrit with him. He didn't lead us toward tradition, but rather to a modern, conscious life. For example, even in pre- World War II Trebic would you have found a mikveh or cheder. Izidor Polnauer was the shochet and at the same time the shammash.

Most Jews in town made their living as merchants. A large number of them owned textile shops. A typical Jewish shop was for example that of the Fuersts. They sold textiles and wool. There were also landowners like Mr. Goldmann, who had a large estate. You could also find a few tradesmen, such as tailors and shoemakers. Besides the store, our family also had a glass workshop.

My father was born on 17th February 1885 in Trebic. His name was Emanuel Glasner. My father's mother tongue was German, but besides this he also spoke Czech and Yiddish. He completed his basic schooling in Trebic. He studied business in Vienna. There he also began his compulsory military service, which lasted three years. That was in the year 1911. After the end of his term of service in 1914, World War I broke out, so he once again had to join up. He served on the Russian front, where he was captured. He didn't get back home until 1922. After he returned, he and his brother Wilhelm took over the family store Hermann Glasner. They were successful, and built up a large glass and porcelain shop.

Growing up

My mother, Irma Glasnerova, nee Reich, was born on 18th January 1902. I don't remember her Jewish name. My mother's native tongue was German, so she did her basic schooling in a German school. After that she graduated from a business academy, but that was already in Czech. She also spoke Yiddish. She spoke German with her parents, but Czech with us. Before she married she worked as a secretary in the Zubak factory. It was a large tannery. After her wedding she no longer worked, but took care of the household and of us children. We never had a nanny. She used to go on walks with us, taught us how to swim. She made my life miserable with piano. Every day after lunch I had to practice. In the beginning she always stood above me like Damocles' sword.

My parents never told me about how they met. They were married on 15th February 1925 in Trebic. The wedding ceremony was of course Jewish. It's said that on the day of the wedding my father had such a bad case of the flu that their wedding night came to nothing. For a long time after, my mother kept her wedding bouquet, made of elder and lilacs. She had it stored away in a box printed with a flower pattern.

My parents dressed according to the times. We lived well, and never knew hunger. We weren't poor, we had everything. Quite often someone would play the piano and everyone read a lot. We didn't have a car or radio. Our father didn't like it. We lived in the upper street, 92 Husova. It was in Zamosti, in Zidech. We had a large five-room house. Always cold, we constantly had to heat it. We didn't have running water yet, but my grandparents who lived on the town square did. Our house had a large garden. We didn't grow anything in it besides chives and parsley. Mother had roses planted there. In the garden there was a small bower with climbing roses on each side. Another bower was covered in climbing vines, whose tendrils meandered down the terrace. In the fall they had beautifully colored leaves.

Up to when I was ten we always had a maid at home. When the last one got married, my mother proclaimed that she didn't want another. My grandmother Hermina Reich was an extremely energetic, relatively young woman. According to her no one else knew how to cook, wash, clean and properly shop, so she did all these things herself.

We had a kosher household. We never mixed meat and dairy products. We had special, dedicated kitchen utensils. We also had special utensils for Passover; we would exchange them so that there wouldn't be any chametz left over. We didn't eat pork. We would go with our mother to the synagogue every Friday evening. Our father would go only on the major holidays and at maskir. At home we observed all holidays. During Sabbath Grandma recited the Kiddush and blessed the barkhes. Before that two candles would be lit. Once in a while my uncles would come for Sabbath, but otherwise we didn't usually have guests.

As a child I liked all the holidays, because each one had its special magic. I was one of the few children that liked going to the synagogue. Passover, that was a beautiful holiday. Before the holiday started we would clean the entire house. The Passover dishes would be brought down from the attic. We would put the everyday dishes in a box and carry it upstairs. The whole house was always topsy turvy. For Chanukkah we usually sang. My job was to each day light a candle, each day one additional one. We got gifts from our parents, not with each candle, but we did get some. For Sukkot we didn't have a tent [sukkah]. A tent was set up in front of the synagogue. I don't remember any more exactly how many people would meet in the tent, but there were a lot, mainly we children. The rabbi would always gather us around and tell us many stories about the holidays. The Kiddush was recited, and everyone got small barkhes. During Simchat Torah we walked around the synagogue with blue and white flags and each of us got a box of pastries. As a child I also liked Yom Kippur. At a very young age I began to fast and I was always very glad when I held out until the end. We then had a celebratory supper and the whole family went to the synagogue. For the first food after Yom Kippur we would have sweet-filled buns with coffee.

Our house had an extensive library. As I child I loved to read. Someone was always bothering me, so I would lock myself in the bathroom and read. I didn't care if there was a queue in front of the door. I was curious and read everything, but newspapers were my favorite. I inherited this passion from my father. I would read every single page. Each day we bought Lidove Noviny 5, the Morgen Post for Grandma, on Sunday we always read the Prager Tagblatt 6, which came every two weeks, and we were also used to having an illustrated newsmagazine and Narodni Politika. [Editor's note: the publisher of the paper Narodni Politika or (National Political Post) was the printing and publishing house Politika. Its philosophy during the First Czechoslovak Republic (1918-1938) was close to the Czechoslovak National Democrats. The paper was popular for its multi-page classified insert Maly oznamovatel.] Mother and Grandma read all sorts of books. Besides regular books we also had prayer books for all holidays at home. Those I have until this day. During the war our neighbor hid them away. After the war ended he defended himself that he had to burn The History of the Czech Nation, because he was afraid of the Gestapo, but he didn't even touch the prayer books, because he was a deeply religious Catholic.

I don't remember my parents' political opinions, they didn't interest me. They weren't members of any political party or organization. My father always said: "Do what you like, you can go to Sokol 7, to the Scouts [see Czech Scout Movement] 8, but always remain a Jewess.' It was his credo. My father always identified his nationality as Jewish, which after the war they changed to Czech. No one from our family was a member of any political party.

We didn't have any immediate Jewish neighbors, only Christians. They were very decent people, who treated me very well after the war. Those, about whom I thought who knows what they're really like, helped me very much. Conversely, those I expected would help me, would even have denied the nose between their eyes. We never had any problems with our neighbors due to our being Jewish.

My parents didn't like to socialize. They met only with their siblings. Mother had three siblings, my father nine. They would all meet up in Trebic, but most of them lived in Vienna. Most frequently we saw my aunt [Jenny Beer, nee Glasner], who lived in Brno. My father was among people all day and didn't need any additional company. He was a passionate tarot player. Each Sunday he would go to the cafe U Ceplichalu. That was where the Jewish society met and where social life took place. During the week he was also used to taking off for an hour here and there, so he could play cards.

We weren't used to going anywhere on holidays. One could say that we had holidays all year round. Our mother was at home with us all day. She would take us on outings. We used to go swimming in local Trebic ponds. On Sunday we would manage to cajole Father into also coming along. Those were different times than now.

My father was one of nine children. He spent most of his time with his brother Wilhelm, with whom he took over grandpa's glass and porcelain store. Uncle Wilhelm had four children. All of them had a high-school education and two of them began studies at university. My cousins Mordecai and Leo [the sons of Wilhelm Glasner] were fervent Zionists. Mordecai, who they called Modsche, left in 1927 for Palestine. Cousin Leo followed him in 1938. Their sister, whose name I don't remember, met a man who came to Trebic from Palestine on vacation. They were married in 1935. Their wedding was the last big Jewish wedding in Trebic. To this day we wonder where the Glasners got top hats and a carriage. The young couple settled in Palestine. They were all chalutzim and lived in kibbutzim. Their youngest sister Helena stayed in Trebic. I visited her often, despite the fact that she was older than I. She didn't survive World War II. She died in Auschwitz.

Another of Father's brothers, Samuel, lived in Prague. Yet another, Michael, lived in Vienna. My father's sisters were named Lotte, Jenny, Erna, Klementina and Berta. They all married and belonged to the middle class, except for Aunt Erna, who was better off. Her husband, Max Durnheim was the director of the Danube Steamship Company in Vienna [Editor's note: the royally patented company was created in 1830 as a joint-stock company, on the basis of a patent registered by private individuals in 1828. The first steamship traveled in 1830 from Ebersdorf to Pest, but regular connections between Vienna and Pest weren't established until 1831. This route was soon expanded by a connection between Vienna and Bratislava and between Bratislava and the Lower Danube. The Danube Steamship Co. soon became the largest transport company and had a great influence on the development of transportation in Hungary. The company was headquartered in Vienna.] Almost all of my father's siblings died during the Holocaust. Only Uncle Samuel managed to survive.

My mother had three brothers, but I don't remember them much. Uncle Walter, along with his wife Hana and daughter Ruth, died in Poland during the Holocaust. The same fate met Uncle Fritz and his wife Feodora. Their daughter Emma however managed to survive. Today she lives in Montreal, in Canada. The last of my mother's brothers, Uncle Bertold, died in 1945 during a death march. His wife Franzi [Franciska Reichova, nee Kohoutovas] and son Peter didn't survive the war either.

We saw our relatives in Trebic on a daily basis. Every day I would run around and visit everyone to find out what was going on. We saw our relatives from Vienna only during summer vacation, because during that time they would always come to Trebic for a week. My father's sister Jenny and her husband used to come from Brno to visit us fairly often, as they had a car. They used to come, as one would say these days, 'for a cup of coffee'.

I was born on 23rd January 1926 in Trebic. During childhood I spent most of my time with my mother and grandmother Hermina. We never had a nanny. I would say that I was brought up by all of my relatives. I was an active child, and was always running around somewhere. My mother wanted me to take piano lessons, become a Scout, go to Sokol, and take German, English... I was always off at some lessons or activity. I loved to read, I read everything that came into my hands.

My school was close to home, on the same street. As soon as I ran down our steps, I was at municipal school. After municipal school 9 I went to council school 10 because my father wanted me to have a practical education. Today there is a medical school in the building of the former council school. In the third year of council school I was accepted at a business academy, but I didn't get the chance to start it. It was the year 1939 and regulations were passed that expelled Jewish children from schools [see Exclusion of Jews from schools in the Protectorate] 11.

I liked all subjects in school, except for math and physics, but my favorites were history, geography and literature. My favorite teachers were Mr. Vagner, who taught us geography and history, and my Czech teacher. They were excellent teachers. They knew how to attract the children's interest, and also had the appropriate literature for teaching. Until 1937 I never felt any anti-Semitism in school. At that time the school had a stupid catechism teacher, I don't remember his name, and at Easter told some girl, the types that sat only in church, that the preparation of matzot involves using the blood of Christian virgins and that we Jews crucified Jesus Christ. Those girls then began to bully me. They would dip my pigtails in ink, and constantly harassed me with various stupid comments. Truth be told, I didn't sit back and take it, I yelled at them but good. It ended up being a big to-do. My father had to come to school. After that things settled down.

As I child I had a busy schedule. I was always off somewhere: twice a week to piano lessons, twice weekly German, twice weekly English, twice weekly exercise at Sokol, and once a week to the Scouts. I loved scouting. Once a week we had a meeting where everyone wore a brown kerchief around their neck. We organized various trips, which every year culminated in summer camp. I went to three in all. We used to go on outings in the surrounding countryside, along the Jihlava River. Ski trips cost 50 halers and for another 50 halers we ordered tea with rum and felt like kings. The scout troop had only a few of Jewish members. Most Jews went to Sokol. Sokol was an athletic organization and similarly to the scouts organized various summer camps. A couple of years before the war my father forbade me from attending it. I never found out why, but the truth is that its management was quite chauvinistic.

I was the spitting image of my father and everywhere I went people recognized me and said: 'You must be Manka [a diminutive of Emanuela], Glasner's daughter.' Of course, when they came into my father's store, they would immediately tell him where they had met his daughter. I loved my father, even more than my mother. It's just that it really annoyed me that I was recognized everywhere I went.

I was a sociable child. I had many friends, both from school and from among my relatives. My friends were mostly non-Jews, because there weren't many Jews of my age in Trebic. We had this gang of school friends. We would go bicycling around the outskirts of town. I still see three of my former classmates, even now that we're all retired. They were nice girls, and never cared that I was Jewish.

My brother Harry Glasner was born on 20th September 1929. We had a good relationship, though it's true that I used to beat him to a pulp. I guess I was jealous of him, because I was a hulk and he was my exact opposite. To me they were always saying: 'You're eating again already!' and to him: 'Please, just one more bite...'. When hard times came, my parents would hide meat and roasts for him, because I didn't need it. Harry finished only four years of public school. He had his bar mitzvah in Terezin; it was a very simple ceremony. Only my grandmother Hermina Reich and I were there. The ceremony took place in a room that had been adapted as a prayer hall. He was for the first time summoned to the Torah and they accepted him into the society of men. I don't know who prepared him; we weren't together much. I had to go to work. He lived at L 417, a youth home. They deported him to Auschwitz on 16th October 1944. They sent him straight to the gas chamber.

We had religion lessons twice a week, where we studied Ivrit from textbooks by Dr. Feder. Later I got to know him personally in Terezin, where he did a lot for us. In Trebic we were led to be conscious of our Jewishness, but not to a religious lifestyle. At home I studied with my mother, or alone. My father was always in the store. The shop was open from 6am to 12pm and then from 12.30 to 6pm. After work I would always run to meet him. Every Friday evening and Saturday, before I started to attend school, my mother and I would go to the synagogue together.

During my childhood I never experienced any anti-Semitism. I'm sure it was there, just not that apparent. In the year 1939, when they threw all Jews out of school, they opened a so-called Alia school in the building where the prayer hall was. This school was open until 1941, when the Gestapo closed it. We were even taught by university professors who had been forbidden to teach otherwise. We also studied religion. We studied Hebrew from a book that had been published by Rabbi Feder, so that we would be able to read religious texts. They were preparing us for emigration to Israel. After the school in Trebic was closed I used to go to Brno, where a similar school had been opened, in the building of the Jewish community [on today's Kapitan Jaros Avenue]. There was even a Jewish high school in Hybesova Street, which had a large garden. There we studied agricultural methods. Our teacher was Mrs. Haas, the wife of composer Pavel Haas. [Haas, Pavel: (1899-1944): composer, born in Brno died in Auschwitz.] It was a good school, because they taught us practical subjects that were very useful to us in later life.

During the war

The anti-Jewish laws gradually changed our lives. We had to give up our jewelry, fur coats. We didn't have a radio, because my father didn't like it. I even had do give up my bicycle that I had gotten in 1938. The Gestapo arrested my father in 1941 and took him away to Jihlava. We never saw him again. We never found out the reason for his arrest. I think that our neighbor, who worked for the police, denounced him. He was at our place twice during house searches by the Gestapo. After my father was arrested they froze our bank accounts. We had no cash. Everything stayed in the store. In December 1941 we got a telegram in which was written: 'Ihr Ehemann ist im Konzentrationslager Auschwitz verstorben.' [German for 'Your husband died in the Auschwitz concentration camp']. In October of 1941 the Gestapo summoned my mother as well; it was on the second day of the Rosh Hashanah holiday. That was the last time that I saw her. From Jihlava they sent her straight to Ravensbruck 12. I and my grandma Hermina remained alone.

During this time Jews were being expelled from certain towns, for example Jihlava, which had to be judenfrei 13. Most of the Jews from Jihlava moved to Trebic, to the former Jewish ghetto in Zamosti. There were seven of us crammed into our house, I and my brother, Grandma, Uncle and Aunt Lang and their children Ludka and Petrik. Quite enough for one toilet and kitchen. Food was distributed via a system of coupons. We could only go shopping at a certain time, in only one store. We used to get a much smaller ration than Aryans. Despite the bad times there were people that risked their lives and helped us. Mr. Novacek, my father's friend from World War I, used to come visit us. He would bring cheese, milk and eggs. He also helped a lot after the war. A few years after the fall of the German Fascist regime the Communists sent him off to the Jeseniky Mountains where the poor man died.

We had no money, our bank accounts were blocked. We had to gradually sell our furniture, a beautiful Petrof piano... In May of 1942 an edict was passed that all Jews had to leave Trebic. Two transports set out from the region of Jihlava, to which Trebic belongs. In March or April a list of all Jews was drawn up and in May we gathered in the Trebic high school. We were there for only a short time. They sent us to Terezin via the AW transport. Each person was allowed a maximum of 50 kilos of luggage. At that time the trains didn't travel directly to Terezin. We got off in Bohusov and from there walked to Terezin. We younger ones managed the trip and the heavy load, but for older people it must have been very exhausting. We tried to help them with their luggage. After we arrived at the Terezin ghetto we each got a registration number and a mattress. They divided us up and put us into barracks. I went to the Hamburg barracks, while my grandmother went to the Dresden barracks. During the war years in Trebic living conditions hadn't been rosy, but a person could always bathe and have some sort of privacy, while in Terezin it was terrible. As time passed and we got to Auschwitz, Terezin seemed like Mecca.

We young ones were lucky in that we could work. At first they employed me in the laundry, where I worked with a friend of my father's, Mrs. Goldman. I worked there for about three quarters of a year. After that came work in the fields and gardening. While doing this work in Terezin I got into the Zionist association Irgun Dalet. Life was easier when you belonged to some sort of social circle. With the passage of time the association ceased to exist, because the transports that were constantly leaving Terezin completely wiped Irgun Dalet out. Most of the people that belonged to this association, naturally those that survived, emigrated to Palestine after the war.

My last job in the ghetto was helping out in the bakery. It was extremely hard physical work. On the other hand, I have to say, though it may sound stupid, that I always tried to work somewhere where it was possible to steal something. Though the fact that 'Thou shalt not steal' is one of God's commandments, stealing food was a question of life or death. In the ghetto my friend Janecek was in the function of staff captain. You could say that in his function he was practically on the same level as the Germans. Once he brought his mother five radishes. They found out about it and immediately punished him. In the ghetto a person did things that he would have condemned in normal daily life. The luckiest though were those that managed to get work outside of the Terezin ghetto gates.

In Terezin I also met my aunt Erna Durnheim, my father's sister with her husband, who unfortunately died there. Life in Terezin was very cruel for old people. Most of them didn't know how to get to anything, mainly to food, where to find it.

When we came to Terezin, we weren't allowed to move about freely, as there were still non-Jews living there. In the year 1943 there were no more Aryans in the ghetto, so we could then freely move about. After work I would always run to visit my grandma in the Dresden barracks, because I was in the Hamburg barracks and my brother in L 417. That was a youth home - Jugendheim, where there were only boys. After the original inhabitants left and there were free houses, we got into L 316 thanks to connections. There were 16 of us girls in one room. We had double bunk beds. There were a larger number of rooms. We were lucky, because there was also a bathroom in the house. In 1943 there were an awful lot of fleas and bedbugs in the ghetto. There were so many of them that we couldn't even sleep, we had to drag our mattresses out on the terrace, and slept there. A group of men, called Entwesung [German for 'disinfestation'], would gas the houses. It was done in stages, at that time we had to move out. The cause of the epidemic was overcrowding and insufficient hygiene. After all, they were old houses. There was also a large percentage of old people living there, those I felt the most sorry for. Their buildings were the most disease- ridden.

There were very dedicated doctors in the ghetto. They had a minimum of medicines at their disposal, but tried to do the best they could. Dr. Hans Schaffa was a very selfless person. He was born in Mikulov. Before the war he worked as a pediatrician in a Brno hospital. He was transported to Terezin on the first AW transport in May 1942. In Terezin, despite great obstacles and difficulties he established a children's hospital in one of the buildings, including a tuberculosis ward. It wasn't anything big, but in that time and place it was a miracle! He helped many children, unfortunately most of them, just like the hospital employees, died. Funerals in Terezin weren't carried out in any traditional way, there were carts drawn by people that would come along the street. The dead bodies would be placed on them. Later a crematorium was built. When a lot of ashes built up they would be dumped into the Odra River. Nowadays there is a large cemetery on that spot.

Terezin's self-government was a big plus. Cultural life in Terezin became an unforgettable experience for me. I remember the conductor Rafael Schaechter, who was from Brno. He managed to organize a beautiful concert. His concerts weren't officially allowed in the ghetto, but for people that loved music it was balsam for the soul. His last concert in Terezin was Mozart's Requiem. I will never forget this performance of Mozart's work, even though I've heard it several times since the end of the war. When the performance was near, and the compositions were learned, often the musicians were designated for transport. There were always talents to work with to be found. I heard the Requiem there, and the Bartered Bride [opera by Bedrich Smetana], sung by a world-famous soprano from Hamburg. The musicians had to interrupt their career while still young. I had the opportunity to hear Gideon Klein sing, and then Vava [Vlasta] Schonova, later she changed her name to Sanova. She used to live in Haifa. As an actress she had no success in any Israeli theater. So she started working in radio. After the war we met twice. The first time was in May 1965: we were on a beautiful trip in Bet She'an together. Towards the end of her life she suffered from cancer. From Haifa she moved to Jerusalem to be with her daughter, an Orthodox Jewess. She died a few years ago in Israel. That cultural life helped us. For the young there were various educational activities and lectures. A whole lot was done for us, the young people, in terms of education and various lectures.

Education wasn't formally taken care of. The little that was done for young people had to be done on the sly. We were taught by university professors. They did a great service; even so they put them on the transports. I remember Willy Groag, who came from Prostejov. [Groag, Willy (b. 1914): Czech painter, doctorate in Chemistry. He started drawing in Theresienstadt, where he taught the children. Groag emigrated to the Kibbutz Maanit in 1945. He worked in agriculture, art was his hobby. Later he worked in painting and silk-screen printing. He first exhibited at age 77.] In Terezin he founded a home for young girls. He was constantly fighting dissolution and illiteracy, despite having to do most things on the sly. He survived the war in Terezin together with his wife Madla. After the liberation they emigrated to Palestine. Madla was one of the first victims of polio that broke out in Israel in the 1950s. Groag married again. He had a daughter from his first marriage and a daughter and son from the second. He lived in the Maanit kibbutz, where he built a factory, what kind I don't remember. He was and still is a person respected everywhere where his former wards live. Later on he established a fund for university studies that bears his name.

I was in Terezin from 22nd May 1942 until 16th October 1944. I was in transport AW-546. We traveled under horrible conditions, I don't remember any more for how many days we traveled there. In Auschwitz they gave me the number JR 1143. Our transports, though we didn't know it at the time, were liquidation transports of 2,000. October transports weren't tattooed, because the Germans didn't have the time any more. On the ramp we met a Slovak transport. There I ran into my cousin from Bratislava. She had her son Petrik with her, who was about four or five. They sent them straight to the gas chamber; the same happened to my brother. There were soldiers standing on the ramp, and they were sending us either to the right or to the left. With the wave of a hand we were fated for either life or death. But even life wasn't worth a whole lot. There were masses of people there, there were 200 of us just from Trebic alone, but at the same time there were 1,000 and 2,000-person transports arriving. We mixed in with Slovak and Hungarian transports. Before we knew what was happening, our family was scattered among them. When mothers didn't want to give up their children, they went with them to the gas chamber.

Those of us that were sent to the other side had to strip naked. We stood in a large hall where they looked us over again to see what we looked like. I guess I was in such shock that it didn't seem at all strange to me to be standing there naked. They herded us into showers; at that time we didn't yet know that we could have been gassed, we didn't learn that until later. We received these awful rags and wooden shoes; they didn't care if they fit us or not. And so we became people with less value than your average dog. Then they shaved us all, one group shaved our heads, another our armpits, yet another our genitals. Then they herded us all into the showers again, and back out, wet. At that time it was already cold out, because it was October. I got a skirt so short that my butt stuck out of it. I tore the lining out of the skirt and three of us made headscarves out of it. It was a flowered skirt, and the wooden shoes on top of that, well, we looked like Gypsies.

I was in Auschwitz for six weeks, and then some of us were picked for work in Kurzbach. Kurzbach is in Silesia, I found that out later when I was in Israel, because there they've got everything precisely mapped out. It was a small village. There they herded us onto a farm. In the middle of the farmyard there was a pump: when we saw it we all immediately went over to it and washed ourselves. I didn't matter at all to us that it was cold out. Then they herded us into a hayloft, where there were three-story bunk beds. Each one of us got her own blanket. Two of us would always huddle together and cover ourselves with two blankets so we would be warmer. At that time I looked so horrible that the camp commander felt sorry for me. He got me stockings and socks, and so I was a bit more warmly dressed. He was a very decent man, and despite the bad conditions he would always try to make sure that in the evening we got hot soup, hot coffee with a piece of bread weighing about 20 - 25 grams, jam or margarine. The SS women in the camp were horrible beasts; the men were all right.

In Kurzbach we worked in the forest. Each time two women would get two tree trunks to carry. One was put on each shoulder, and we would then walk back. We would go twice a day. We also dug roads for tanks. It was work just for the sake of working, despite this it was extremely hard. We had no time to rest; they were always chasing us off somewhere. We dug up tree roots in the forest for the army, because they were laying underground telephone lines. At that time I was so exhausted that I fainted; my friends worked at reviving me until I was finally back on my feet. I was lucky that they didn't shoot me: we had a guard there that loved to shoot. That was the first and last time that I fainted. The work seemed to be endless, maybe it wasn't, maybe it just seemed that way, at that time we were basically useless.

On 23rd January 23, 1945, on the day of my 19th birthday, I got a wonderful gift. They sent us out of Kurzbach on a death march; of course we didn't know at the time that it would later be known by this name. What an unforgettable birthday gift! There was a lot of snow and it was very cold. The first night they herded us into a hayloft in a village named Wohlau. The Germans were driving us all the way to Gross-Rosen camp 14. They marched along with us, also on foot, but at least they could stop, have a bite to eat, and were warmly dressed. We got nothing. Well, there, amidst a lot of shouting they forced us to strip naked outside. They herded us into showers and then back out into the cold and gave us lice-ridden dresses. To this day I'm amazed how we managed to survive all of those horrors, but a person had that sporting spirit. And despite difficulties we managed to keep ourselves relatively clean.

The other girls' hair hadn't grown back yet. I always had a lot of hair which grew quickly. When they gave us those lice-ridden rags, that was the end. We saw boys that we knew from Terezin; they were driving those poor wretches further onwards. The next day they loaded us into open rail wagons. They were so crowded that we couldn't even stand on both feet. First they transported us to Weimar. They wanted to put us into Buchenwald 15, but it was already overflowing. We remained standing at the train station. It was a beautiful winter's day, the sun was shining. At noon they started to bomb Weimar. A few bombs also fell on the train station. The English didn't know that all those prisoners were standing there at the station. Our locomotive got hit. Pieces fell into our wagon as well, we had some casualties. We were so deadened that we laid the corpses in a pile and could finally sit down in that overcrowded wagon. I and my girlfriend Liza were lucky. We had met in Terezin; she had been a teacher at the youth home. She was talented, already then she could speak French and English perfectly. We put the dead into one pile and then could sit down. During the trip we got nothing to eat or drink.

Then we just continued on and on. We came to some sort of small station. There, amid a lot of shouting, we had to get off the train. Later we learned that it was Bergen-Belsen and that we were somewhere near Hanover. That camp was the worst of all, true hell. This was already in February 1945, and there they were all like beasts, mainly the SS women, they were horrible. There we had nothing: there was no water, no food. We were exhausted, we slept on just a bare concrete floor, and to top it all off one Polish woman stole my wooden shoes. There was no hygiene, diseases spread, and horrible runs. I also got infected. Thanks to the girls and mainly Liza I survived, because there was always someone worse off and someone better off. We dragged each other to roll calls, and when they counted us from the front, then they held me from the back, and conversely, when they counted us from the back, then they held me from the front. One day some girls from Hamburg arrived, they had been on cleanup details. When the front started to draw near they herded them off to Belsen. They weren't as badly off as we were, at that time they gave me a spoonful of sugar.

They liberated us at the last moment, it was 12th May 1945. The soldiers carried me out as one of the dead. I'll never forget how I frightened those young men when I piped up that I was alive. They carried me off to the field hospital. I always said to myself: 'My God, what are they going to do, we're so dirty and lice-ridden.' In those days there was the miracle of DDT powder, they covered us in it, and truly even deloused us. We got clean nightshirts. They put us up in German barracks. Those of us that were very badly off were actually lucky, because those who weren't quite so sick ate meat and canned food and that was the end of them. I know that it's rude, but it was said that they 'shat themselves to death'. I couldn't even walk; I weighed about 34 kilos. It was strange to see Germans, how they were suddenly submissive and small, and how they had to carry water. Many of them were also killed, as people who still had the strength to do it lynched them. I wasn't vindictive: I can't even kill a chicken, let alone a person.

Next there came a Red Cross program where each country took in prisoners for recuperation. About 10,000 Czechs were taken to Sweden. First a hospital train took us to Lubeck, and there they transferred us onto a Swedish Red Cross ship. It was a major act of bravery, as the whole sea was still mined. We went to Stockholm by ship, from there they took us to Sigtuna. During the school year Sigtuna was full of high-school students. In a large central building there was a gymnasium, we lived in small multi- story three-room houses. After reconvalescence they took us to Ritzbrunn- Ryd, which was between Malmo and Goteborg. It's a small spa in southern Sweden. There we got clothing and five Swedish crowns a week for pocket money. I spent all my money on lemons, because the first few days I ate only lemons. We had it very good there. In October 1945 the first repatriation transport arrived. I decided to go home, after all, what if my mother was alive? I had three cousins in Israel, two boys and a girl, who wanted me to come and stay with them. I actually wanted to, but first I returned to Trebic. About eighty of us went home on the first transport. We arrived in Lubeck. Of course our officers had nothing ready for us. They stuck us in a Serbian camp, everyone was drunk. The English declared that we couldn't stay there and took us in. They took very good care of us, we went to concerts and out dancing, that was the first time in my life that I had danced. After four or five days we were able to continue on to Prague. There I had an uncle, his wife was an Aryan. They lived in Smichov, so they were there waiting for me. I stayed with them for only a few days. Then I returned to Trebic.

I had different plans, reality was also different. I expected that I would get the house and store back and that I would sell it, or rent it out. I wanted to attend school and wanted to go to Israel. All of my friends were there, and my cousins. But it all ended up differently. I didn't get the house back. They gave me the store back in March or April. One morning about two months later I opened up an official gazette and there it was: 'The company Hermann Glaser has been nationalized retroactively to February 1948'. Soon after the property manager showed up as well, I think his name was Kadanka. Earlier he had been a big member of the People's Party and in February he had changed into a big communist. He was a capable person, but acted repugnantly. There were also those that managed to get their property back because they had loyal employees. Our Mrs. Krista was very capable and hard-working, but not loyal.

Post-war

There were a few people that helped me after the war. One lady came to see me and said: 'Herticka, come over, we've got your duvets'. It seems that my grandma had ordered new feather duvets - for my brother and for me. And so after the war I had two duvets and four pillows: in those days that was big property. Our neighbor was a pious Catholic. He had hidden away a lot of our things, among them also our prayer books The Five Books of Moses, Machzor, tallit and tefillin. As I told you earlier: After the war he defended the fact that he had to burn the History of the Czech Nation because he was afraid of the Gestapo. But he didn't touch the prayer books because he was such a deeply religious Catholic. There were decent people, but there were also hyenas among them.

Before I got married, I lived with our neighbor in Zamosti. I couldn't stay there long because they only had one room and a kitchen. At that time I got an offer from Mr. Neuman, who had also returned, to take care of his house while he was in Prague. It was a large house with a beautiful bathroom. I had a small room with a separate entrance. I took care of it, and when it was being painted, I also cleaned the whole place. When they returned to Trebic, his wife ungraciously threw me out. The reason she gave me was that she wanted to move her parents in. At that time I was already going out with Karl - my future husband - and he slept over there once in a while.

If it hadn't been for my friend Lucy we would have both ended up on the street. They had a beautiful tailor's workshop and let us use part of it. My husband divided the workshop with a partition. This created a large room. When Janka [Jana Kubikova, nee Coufalova] was born, she slept in a baby blanket. It was an adventure. The toilet was at the other end of the courtyard. We had to go down a spiral staircase, through a long hallway and across the courtyard to get to it. Today I would barely make it there. A person was young then, and told himself that he had to get through it. That was also one of the reasons we left Trebic. Karel couldn't find work, partly also because of me, because I was a 'capitalist', even though I had nothing. And so in 1949 we picked up and left for Sumperk.

When I returned after the war, no one cared that I had no place to stay. A clerk at the town hall told me that I should change my name, because Glasner sounds Jewish. I answered why should I change my name if Gottwald can be named Gottwald and Fierlinger be named Fierlinger? My parents never shamed our name, they always paid their taxes. I hope that I'll never do anything to cast our name into disrepute either. I think that after the war it was worse than before, because some people had property fall into their lap. Everyone managed to tear off a piece for himself. When you walk around Trebic today, just imagine that the entire main square, especially the lower square, those were all Jewish houses. No one talks about that today.

I very much wanted to leave for Israel, but I got married. My husband was a Catholic, and didn't have any interest in Israel. In 1947 our daughter Jana was born, and everything became complicated. During the aliyah in 1948, I also wanted very much to leave. He said I could go, but our child would stay. So I stayed.

In December 1945 I started working in our store. Four years later we moved to Sumperk. At first I devoted myself to bringing up my firstborn daughter, and later I found a job, for six months, in a furniture fabric factory. In the meantime I had two more daughters and I remained at home. After my maternity leave ended I went on to work for twelve years in television. I left my job after a change in management. I didn't like my new boss. Every apprentice had a higher salary than I did. My last employer was the Grand Hotel in Sumperk. At first I worked as a receptionist and eventually became the reception manager. I very much enjoyed my work. One had the chance to meet interesting people. We had many clients, because there was a lot of industry in the region - wood, paper and metallurgy. There were the Rapotin glass works, and a paper mill in Velke Glosiny where they manufacture handmade paper to this day.

I never joined any political party because I'm not a submissive person and I don't like only one line of thought and respect the opinions of others. I never held a person's political opinion against him. I don't understand people who in the name of ideology gave up their family, studies, even their life. Many people lost their lives in the name of ideology, for example Slansky 16 and Sverma 17. The Slansky trial 18 was manipulated, that was known even then. Only now do people talk about it openly, but that won't bring those people back to life. People are short- sighted and forgetful. Although today you can go to the store and find everything, first you have to look and see what you've got in your pocket. It's human nature to want to have everything, but we've all got different abilities.

During the events of 1968 [see Prague Spring] 19 we were at our cottage. At night I awoke to the sound of airplanes above us. My husband said to me that it was probably the Russians on maneuvers. Well, they weren't just maneuvering. Polish soldiers came to our region, they were everywhere. At that time there were about a thousand Russians there. Those boys were wretches; they lived in horrible conditions and were beaten. Their pay was seven crowns per day, when they couldn't stand it any longer they would of course run away. They left behind a devastated environment. Of course people were glad that they were gone, and now they reminisce about the good old days. They don't realize that we had to pay for all those advantages ourselves.

Neither I nor my husband were ever members of any socialist organization. We were only passive members of the ROH 20. We didn't go on recreation trips with them. My husband worked in the sawmills in Northern Moravia via which they used to be organized. I had to put up with them all year, and then on top of that to have to go on vacation with them, that was out of the question. When we didn't have money for a vacation, we would go camping on pastures by the reservoir.

At work I never hid the fact that I was Jewish. When I working at the Grand [Hotel Grand], that might have been the 1980s by then, we had this one trainee. One day she came to me and asked if she could ask me something. She had heard that supposedly I was Jewish. I answered that yes, I was. She looked at me and said: 'You're just like rest of us.' And what do you think, that we climb trees like monkeys, and that each one of us has to have some sort of nose? She was a pleasant, clever girl from Prague. People are prejudiced against foreign ethnicities. Today a similar problem exists with Gypsies. Those people can't help the fact that they live so poorly, there are some among them that are starting to make their way up. But that isn't only the first generation, because even their grandparents had to be civilized. When they come from Romania, from Slovakia, they don't know how to use the WC and that there's such a thing as running water. That's nature, when we don't know something, we destroy it. It's a mistake to leave it be, it's also a ghetto. First people fought to open the ghetto, then to close it.

My husband, Karel Coufal, was born in 1926. He was from Trebic. We had already known each other in public school. After the war, food coupons were given out once a month, and he was in charge of this. Because I'm very disorganized, it would regularly happen that I wouldn't pick up my coupons until I had no food left at home. However, it was necessary to also bring along your identification, which I had of course misplaced somewhere. So that's how we met, at the food coupon distribution window. Soon we started dating. We had common interests and friends. A person needed to have something in common with the other.

We were married on 30th August 1947 at the Trebic city hall. I had a light blue wedding dress with short sleeves. We were both absent-minded and so we forgot about the bouquet. At the last moment I had one made by Mr. Pavlik so that my mother's friends wouldn't say 'that Coufal didn't even give her a bouquet'. As a wedding gift we got a basketful of pastries. The wedding banquet menu was very simple - chicken with new potatoes and cucumber salad. In the end all of our friends and acquaintances showed up and what we had planned as a small wedding turned into a big feast. Before the wedding Karel had had a goodbye party and for a long time had the feeling that his 'yes' wasn't pure.

I've never had a good relationship with my mother-in-law Leopolda and my sister-in-law Slavka, because they didn't like the fact that I'm Jewish. When our oldest daughter Janka was born, she rather left for Slovakia. That's why our children didn't go visit them during summer vacation. We only met at Easter and during summer vacation. In those days we used to go to our cottage in Trebic for longer periods of time. Grandmother never babysat the children.

Karel attended an industrial technical high school in Sumperk. He was always ambitious. He studied to be a machine operator, electrician, auto- mechanic and projectionist. In his old age he finished a welding course at the Slovak Technical University in Bratislava. He worked his whole life in the Northern Moravian sawmills as chief of mechanization.

In Sumperk we used to live across from the city hall. I was an old three- bedroom apartment, so it had high 3.2 meter ceilings and the rooms were 7.5 x 5.5 meters. It was always quite lively, because during summer vacation we had up to eight children at our place. They used to ride their tricycles in our front hall; once in a while they broke something. There was no shortage of injuries, I remember how once my daughter Helena [Mikulova, nee Coufalova] flew through a glass door and smashed her knee. After my husband's death I moved into a small two-bedroom apartment in the center of town. The bus and train station were nearby, as well as a health clinic. My husband and I had never had any inclination towards amassing property. We had a car, a cottage in Kuty, children and grandchildren.

I didn't bring up my children in the Jewish faith. When they were small, they didn't even know that I was Jewish. They only knew that was going to Brno, or that I was going to Prague for a Terezin reunion. Now that they are older, they're quite interested in it, they read the magazine Rosh Chodesh and the Jewish almanac. I tried to bring them up in a tolerant fashion; they weren't brought up in any religion so that they could then freely choose on their own.

We didn't observe Jewish holidays at home, because I lost my desire for keeping traditions. At Christmas my husband would decorate the tree. We had a festive supper and the children got gifts. We would spend Easter by the river in Trebic. Of course we would paint Easter eggs and on Easter Monday our children's classmates would come over to visit.

Our friends weren't Jews, because there weren't any Jews of my age in Sumperk or its surroundings. My girlfriends aren't alive any more. Two of them were in Prague and one in Sumperk. We got to know each other through our children. They moved from Most when little Jana was about five. We used to go on walks, to the theatre, and to classical music concerts.

Our oldest daughter, Jana, was born in 1947 in Trebic. She went to elementary school in Sumperk. She studied photography at a secondary school in Brno. After graduation she got a job in a metallurgical research institute and worked there until her retirement. She married twice. The children were like real siblings. Lenka has her own apartment and lives there with her son David who was born in 2003. Martin lives in Zlin, his wife is named Renata. They have a seven year old son, Honzik [Honza, Jan - Honza is a less formal version of the name Jan. It comes from the German name Hans, short for the German equivalent to Jan, Johannes].

Jitka was born in the year 1951. She is twice happily divorced and childless. Jitka graduated from library science at secondary school. She has her own bookstore in Sumperk. Currently she also employs my youngest daughter Helen. Helen was born in 1952, and went to mechanical-technical secondary school. Her husband is named Jozef Mikula. They have two children together, Jitka and Jozef. She lives in a house with a garden and has a partial disability pension. Jozef is a carpenter and Jitka a student at police academy.

I was happy when the state of Israel was created in 1948 and was sad that I couldn't go there. People went there out of idealism. They went to work in the fields and there was always a shomer - a guard with a gun - with them. They lived in primitive houses; parents didn't sleep with their children, who lived in special homes. These days they live relatively well. People in kibbutzim don't want to work. Nowadays every kibbutz has affiliated production, because otherwise they wouldn't be able to support themselves. This is partly due to a serious lack of water.

The wars and conflicts in Israel always saddened me. I had relatives and friends there. Now there are already three generations of Glasners there.

I've been to Israel four times, each time I stayed for fourteen days. The first time I went was in the year 1956. I came to a town where they were opening the Terezin Memorial. Five of us from Brno had been invited. It was very difficult for me to get permission to travel. Permits were given out on Hradcanske Namesti [Hradcany Square, in Prague]. I had to go there three times. The civil servants acted like the Gestapo towards us. The man who gave out the permits yelled at everyone. When my turn came, before he could open his mouth to say anything, I piped up first: 'Look here, now tell me whether you do or don't have that permit, but you're not going to yell at me, I'm not being interrogated by the Gestapo here.' He just looked at me and threw me the permit. The flight was Prague - Sofia - Athens. From there we traveled on by boat, stopping at Cyprus and Crete. The memorial opening was on the 22nd and I didn't manage to fly out until the 22nd. I was there for two weeks, and liked it very much. It was beautiful, because in those days there weren't a lot of people going there yet. And when I returned there this year, I didn't even have time to stop and think a bit, because I was carried along by the crowd. I was there again in the year 1985 - 1986 and in 1989.

In Sumperk I didn't get to any underground literature. I had a girlfriend in Prague, Doris Grosdanavicova, whom I had met in Terezin, who always passed on books and magazines to me. I was partial to the Western broadcasts of BBC and our Radio Free Europe 21.

I maintained only written contact with friends and relatives living abroad. In Canada [Montreal] I have a cousin, Emma. When my husband died in 1985, I traveled to Canada for a visit. They [Emma and her husband] paid for my stay, and they would do it again today. I'm the only one in our family that won't let them. For example, Emma saves all year so she can spend the worst winter months in Florida. Once she took me there with her. Since I play neither tennis nor golf, I was terribly bored. The rest of my cousins have already died. But I still keep in touch with their children. There are 21 Glasners living in Israel. The last time, when we had a reunion in Trebic, I played tour guide for them. My feet hurt so much afterwards that I said to myself, 'never again'.

I welcomed the fall of the Communist regime with great joy, but I didn't go jingling my keys [during the Velvet Revolution 22 people symbolically expressed their dissatisfaction with the Communist regime by jingling their keys during demonstrations]. I sat and listened to the radio. In my opinion, it's going to take a few years until people get used to democracy. It's necessary for some generations to die out, mainly mine. Our lives didn't change and stayed in a rut. Jitka has her own bookstore. Right now the new supermarkets are big competition for her, because people need bread for life, not books. Luckily she manages to make a living and also employs her sister [Helena].

In Brno I would like to return to Orthodoxy, but that's not possible any more. My generation is dying out; the war destroyed everything for us, mainly the conservation of traditions and laws. Though one respects them, one is no longer able to follow them, because when 99 percent of people go through what we went through, faith simply disappears. Maybe from a certain perspective it's a positive thing, it's said that this is a way to preserve Jewry, but it seems to be somewhat forced to me. Most people that are inclined toward Orthodoxy, are like us, original Jews.

I've always been a member of the Jewish community in Brno, and have never been ashamed of it. Similarly I'm also a member of the Terezin Initiative [Foundation] 23, and I receive the Terezin Bulletin in German from Israel. According to my abilities I also contribute to various organizations.

After the year 1989 I got restitution from the state for my parents, which however didn't bring them back to life. I also got something from the Claims Conference. I'm not some sort of capitalist, and don't know how to manage money. I divided everything up among the girls. Lenka has David now, so I'm not worried about the currency dropping.

Glossary

Gracia Albuhaire
Sofia
Bulgaria
Interviewer: Dimitrina Leshtarova
Date of interview: November 2001

Gracia Albuhaire is an extraordinary person, a poet and a writer. She is very sensitive and open to all problems common to mankind. She has developed her own point of view and is well acquainted with Jewish history. Gracia is short, thin, elegant, very nice and always full of optimism, in spite of the difficulties of life. She lives in a small apartment in the Mladost quarter of Sofia together with one of her daughters and her grandson. Her room is a 'sacred' place - both intimate and cozy. She lives and works at home. Gracia is very communicative and popular in the Bet Am circles.

Family background
Growing up
During the war
Post-war
Glossary

Family background

My name is Gracia Nissim Albuhaire - this is my husband's family name. The name, inherited from my father, is Gracia Nissim Yulzari. I belong to the Yulzari family. We are Sephardi 1 Jews - both on my father's and my husband's side. My family lived in the town of Karnobat. My grandfather Kemal Yulzari and my grandmother Gracia, whom I was named after, came from Krushevo. They died many years before my birth.

I know almost nothing about my grandfather and my grandmother's families. I know from my aunt Dudu [Kemal Yulzari] that my grandfather died first. My grandmother died due to a fire. Once, my older brother Jack, when he was four or five years old, started playing with a gas lamp in order to catch a butterfly. My grandmother was sitting under the lamp. It fell on her and she caught fire. She died from her wounds a few days after the incident. This happened in our house in Karnobat, where my father and my grandfather lived.

My grandfather Kemal had brothers and sisters as well, but I have no memory of them. I know only that his brothers' children lived in Karnobat and the doyen among them was tiu [uncle in Ladino] Mesholam Yulzari, the eldest one, who was a gabbai.

My grandfather Kemal Yulzari and my grandmother Gracia had six children - three boys and three girls. The boys were Nissim, my father Chelebi and Yako, the youngest one. Their daughters were Anum, whom they used to call Ana, Dudu and Reina.

Anum, the oldest one, was married to a widower in the town of Sliven. My aunt Ana was thin, beautiful, with lovely blue eyes and very good by nature. But it seems that her husband didn't fall in love with her and for six years she stayed a virgin with him. After that she gave birth to four children: Fortune, the eldest one, then Rosa, Jack and Tanchi. Their family name was Ashkenazi, as my aunt's husband was Sadi Ashkenazi. He already had three other children: Buka, Liza and Nissim. But she raised them in the same way as she did her own children, which created a very close relationship among all the kids. When one of them left for Palestine, all the rest followed him. Everyone else obeyed Nissim, the oldest one. He took care of the family after their parents' death. It was a very close-knit family.

Of my aunt Ana's seven children, Fortune, the eldest one, had a boy and a girl, who are now in Israel. The other daughter, Rosa, never married and had no heirs. She lived in a retirement center in Israel. Jack didn't get married either, because of Rosa, and died a bachelor. The youngest daughter Suzana - we used to call her Tanchi - was a wonderful person, loving, kind- hearted and gentle. She spent the rest of her life in Israel. I have such warm feelings for her and I will never forget her. She had one daughter Liza, of whom I have a baby photo, sent by Tanchi. When I was in Israel last year, Liza heard that I was coming and we met. Her soul resembles that of her mother entirely - the same warmth, kindness and sweetness. She currently lives in Beer Sheva.

The eldest of the stepchildren was Buka - her son is a doctor, living in Italy. I have seen him only once, when he was in Bulgaria. He settled in Italy before 9th September 1944 2, but I don't remember exactly when - probably before World War II. The oldest stepbrother Nissim Ashkenazi, who used to take care of the family, married Dona, with whom he had a son, Sadiko - named after grandfather - and a daughter, Mati. When I was in Israel I visited Mati in Jerusalem. She is married to a professor, who is a doctor. His name is Albert Behar. They have two girls, also married - a doctor and a dentist, who have kids of their own. Liza, the third stepchild, had three daughters. All of them died except one.

Dudu, the second of my father's sisters, never married. She had no children. She lived with us. She was like a second mother to me, as she took great care of me. My own mother was jealous of her and used to tell me: 'You love her more than you love me.' Dudu was the person to whom I dedicated my poem written in Judezmo [Ladino] 'Latia Mia'. I don't know how it happened but this poem was published in the Israeli magazine 'Akia Rushalaem', printed in Judezmo. Later on, when my father died, my aunt came to live with my mother and me. She died and we buried her in Sofia.

It was said that my grandfather Kemal's third daughter Reina got sick out of love, but she probably had tuberculosis and they just didn't know it. She died very young, unmarried.

Yako, my father's youngest brother, was a soldier in the army in Bourgas. He was very handsome, they say, but he was found dead - drowned. There was a rumor that some homosexuals had something to do with this. The case was suppressed because an officer was involved in it, yet I don't know if the story is true.

My father's other brother Chelebi was a peddler, a vendor of sweets. He did all kinds of work, whatever he could find. He was even a candy shop assistant. He married Perla, a Haldeyan from Sofia. ['Haldeyan' or 'Tudesk' is how the Sephardi Jews called the German Jews in Bulgaria.] There was a time when they quarreled so much that they were on the verge of getting divorced. Then he came to live with us. He lived in our house for a year and worked as a seller for his cousin Sebata Yulzari. My uncle Chelebi was a tall, strong man with big blue eyes and a good heart. The whole family on my grandfather Kemal and my grandmother Gracia's side are blue-eyed. He had two children, Sami and Regina. Uncle Chelebi left for Israel with his family in 1948, where they stayed until they died. Regina became a well- known journalist in Israel, while Sami was a dental surgeon.

My mother is from Yambol. I have no memories of her parents. I know only that my grandfather's name was Rafael Beraha. A grandson was named after him. My mother's family was a poor family.

My mother had two brothers, David and Bohor, and a sister, Carolina. Her sister was married in Sliven and lived there. She had two children, Stella and Sami. My uncle David, my mother's younger brother, lived in Yambol. He married a very young and beautiful woman, Virginia. I loved her very much and she also loved me. He was a street-vendor, selling textile. They had a son and a daughter, Rofeto and Ida. His wife died very young at the age of 35. He got married a second time to Suzana, who had a son. She raised the three kids together. He is now married to the well-known Bulgarian opera singer Anna Tomova-Sintova and he is her manager. Rofeto lives in Sofia with his wife Valya, a Bulgarian. They have two daughters: one of them, Virginia, named after Rofeto's mother, who died very young, is as beautiful as her grandmother was: tall, thin, elegant, blue-eyed and slightly dark. Lidka, the other daughter, is a slightly underdeveloped child as her mother worked in a printing house and inhaled poisonous substances when she was pregnant. They come to the Jewish cultural center, they eat in the Jewish canteen and I often meet them. Ida Kalderon also lives in Sofia, in a retirement home.

My father Nissim Yulzari first married a woman called Mazal. He had a son with her named Jack. He divorced her and later he married my mother Zyumbyul [or Zimbul; in Bulgarian this word means hyacinth] Beraha from the town of Yambol. When they got married, he was still well off; they owned a shop. My father inherited this shop from his father. My mother, as a poor girl, worked as a servant somewhere. My father offended her very often but she would patiently endure it. I felt sorry for her. Marriages were arranged at that time. My mother's marriage was an arranged one just like the marriage of my aunt Ana and the widower from Sliven. I have no idea how it actually happened. I never asked her. She wasn't happy with her marriage. It wasn't only due to the fact that she had to work to provide for her family. It was also because her husband wasn't always kind and gentle with her; at least that was my impression. In general he wasn't a bad or rude person, but life made him such. He used to swear saying: 'If there was God, he would give bread to my children, but no, they must go hungry'. He was desperate with the unbearable poverty at home.

After the death of my father's first wife, he married my mother, but she was barren for a long time. Her children always died, so she accepted my stepbrother Jack and took care of him. He was very handsome - tall, corpulent, with big blue eyes and fair skin.

My mother had lost seven children. There was no obstetrician at that time. There was only one old woman, a priest's wife, who delivered children. They were usually born half-blue, with their umbilical cord wrapped around their necks, or they were aborted. There were even cases when the child was born alive but very weak and they would throw it away saying that the kid wouldn't survive. One day my mother told her aunt in Yambol that her children died and were being thrown away still alive, since they didn't think they would survive. She was also pregnant again. Her aunt told her to come to Yambol when the due date approached, so that she could take care of her. And indeed she went to Yambol, to the house of her oldest brother, my uncle Bohor. Thus, I was born there - blue, with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. But my aunt was prepared for this and took care of me properly. My mother stayed there for 40 days, until I grew stronger. Therefore it was written in the documents that my birthplace was Yambol. Although I consider Karnobat, where I have grown up and lived, to be my real hometown.

Growing up

I was born on 15th March 1925. Shortly after I was born, there was a big fire in the neighboring house. The flames came very close to the house, in which my mother was staying. My uncle Bohor was all the time with her, encouraging her and telling her not to get frightened, as he was prepared to evacuate her together with the child. Then the fire was put out and they didn't have to leave. They also told her that she became popular in the whole city, as people knew she was a young mother with a baby girl. Then we came back to Karnobat and there she gave birth to my brother Sami.

We lived in a house that was inherited from my grandfather Kemal, who built it. It was a very solid house for the time. We had two large rooms and a big entrance-hall. Later, in a part of the entrance hall, which was covered from above but opened at the side, another room was built, on a higher level. It belonged to my aunt but I used to sleep there too. By the time that I lived in this house, it was already old. We had only three floorboards in the entrance-hall, the rest were decayed and thrown away. We had no money and we couldn't repair the house. I was terrified of going into the toilet, because some of the floorboards would shake and I had that awful fear of falling down. We had a mezuzah at the front door of our house. When going in or out, my mother always kissed the mezuzah.

We had a yard also and I took care of it. My uncle Yuda's wife used to advise me: 'Don't bother yourself now, the hens will come and peck it.' And they really came and pecked everything, while I was trying to plant flowers in my garden. We all had hens before the war. They were egg layers. When we didn't have enough money to buy some gas for the lamp - without electricity the lamp was our source of light - my mother would pay with a few eggs in the grocery in exchange for gas. A special hen was left, not only an egg layer but also one that would also raise little chicken. We had chicken at home as well. And we had a dog. But unfortunately a cart ran over it. There was a cat as well. But they lived in the yard, in the street. We loved them, but they had no names.

The house was at the edge of the Jewish neighborhood, where at that time some 100 or 120 Jewish families lived. Almost all of them were Sephardi. We used to live very harmoniously together. Young people were friends and the older people also knew and respected each other. Our house was at the end of the street, very close to the hill. Next to it there was a pasture with sheep and wolves would frequently appear there. Our toilet was outside and I was so scared to go in there in winter because I thought a wolf might come and attack me. I was really very frightened. So, when I went to the toilet, especially in winter when there was a thick layer of snow, my mother used to escort me!

My grandfather once built a wonderful well. Karnobat is a place with a considerable water shortage and at that time there was no water at all! In the years I lived there, in the Jewish neighborhood there was only one well. People used to queue for water. The fountain also had a trough and people used to come with a kettle to collect water, waiting for hours. During the summer it hardly trickled. In winter it froze quite often. We were blessed with our well full of cold, fresh and sweet water. The neighbors - our relatives - also used to take water from there but we would hardly let strangers use the well because we were afraid of an outbreak or that it would become unsanitary. We used to close it. Much later uncle Yuda placed a pump there. Before that we hoisted up water with a simple wooden pulley, a rope and a bucket. The bucket used to fall quite often into the well and we had to pull it out, which cost us enormous efforts. We had a special iron hook, which we let down. It usually came up with a very old bucket, one that had fallen in there a long time ago, but not the one that had just fallen in. After some time it 'jumped' out while another one fell down. Finally we used just one bucket. That well saved us, especially in the dry years.

Above the Jewish street there was a hill with trees planted by many generations. My father planted trees there as a schoolboy, my brother Jack, my little brother Sami and I did as well. And yet the forest always looked young. There were more acacias and broad-leaved trees there. On one of the sides of the Jewish street the Bokludzha river passed. It was dry in summer and in winter it swelled so much that it destroyed the bridges. Behind that river was Diado [grandfather in Bulgarian] Dimcho's hill, where boys and girls used to walk. That lasted until 1939-1940. We had lived so well, but the war began and along with it the persecution of the Jews.

Uncle Yuda Yulzari, a cousin of my father, used to live with his family opposite us. His wife's name was Dudu, just like my aunt's. He had only one daughter named Rashka. She had a boy and a girl also - white, blue-eyed, resembling our kin.

Next to us lived Uncle Salvator. His grandmother is my father's cousin, probably on his mother's side, as her family name is Decalo. Salvator's mother had died. His grandmother tia ['aunt' in Ladino] Buhuru was an elderly woman, who used to cook corn traditionally in a large pot every Friday evening, and used to invite us to 'piniunikus' [a meal, Judezmo]. She shelled the corn, and then boiled it and it was very delicious. She, the poor one, got very scared when kukers 3 passed by. She usually locked the door with an axle so that no one could get inside. That was a custom inherited from the Turkish [Ottoman] yoke. My aunt was also very scared of strangers. She used to even call my little brother 'You, Tartar' when he did mischief. Another cousin of ours, Buko Yulzari, with his wife Gracia and their two children lived on the other side of us.

We got on very well with the Bulgarians who lived next to us. My aunt Dudu's best friend was Neda who lived high on the hill. They visited each other very often. Bulia [aunt in Bulgarian] Neda, as I used to call her, used to come to our house and aunt Dudu would visit their house, too. They had a garden with flowers.

My father fought as a soldier in the Balkan War [see First Balkan War] 4 and later in World War I. It was such a misery with no food in wartime. My mother was left in the shop but there were no goods, no money, and she went bankrupt! The shop was closed and this was when we became very poor. My father had no profession and he didn't know where to start. He was thin and feeble. His participation in wars had brought nothing positive to him. He was in the army supply train and he even caught the Spanish disease - this was a kind of severe influenza, which usually had a lethal outcome in those times. They brought him home and he was saved literally in the last minute. That was the time when an indescribable misery visited our house. When I was one and two years old, we used to be the poorest family in town.

Our means were very meager. My mother used to buy one and a half liters of milk from neighbors who had sheep. She boiled it, put it in the middle of the table and we all sipped from it - and that was our dinner! Also at that time there were Albanian sellers of boza 5, who passed by our house and we would buy some and eat bread and boza!

My mother was tall and thin. She was a hard-working woman. When a holiday came, she took horse or cow dung and clay from the mountain, mixed it and cleaned the clay floor of the house with it. She used to whitewash the walls with a thick cloth, as there was no brush. I remember what her hands looked like after that with her fingers full of gashes, as the lime ate into her flesh. She took care of everything. She went to the Bokludzha river to wash clothes and I accompanied her. In spring the waters were low, there were flat stones and she beat the rags with the paddles, washed them and then stretched them to dry a little so that we could carry them home. This usually happened on Pesach. In winter my mother washed outside, in the terrible cold. Next to the toilet she made a fireplace. She would build up a fire, put the cauldron with a bag with ashes in it so that the water would become mild. She saved the soap as if it were a very rare and expensive food - she used it in very small quantities, because later on we wouldn't be able to afford it.

Starting as early as summer, my father saved coin after coin to buy an ox cart full of logs for winter. It was enough only for a month and what would we do in the remaining five to six winter months? We had a 'Gypsy love' stove at home - a small one. My mother used to get up early in the morning, when it was still dark - sometimes at one, two, three, or five o'clock. She never knew what time it was, as we didn't have a clock at home. She fired up the stove, put on the traditional rye coffee, which she roasted and ground herself. My brother and I had only coffee and bread for breakfast. Every time she shuddered by the stove until it lit up. She had bronchitis and a heart disease as well. Nevertheless she got up every morning to prepare us for school.

In winter, when the thick deep snow was falling and it was above our heads, she started to dig with a spade in order to make a path for us so that we could go to school. Our lessons were in the afternoon and in winter she was afraid for us, as it got dark very early. She, poor woman, went out into the snow to wait for us in front of the gate. She took great care of us; she was an honest, humble and a very exhausted woman.

I went to the nursery school and then to the Jewish school where I studied until the 4th grade. I had lessons in Hebrew and Bulgarian, and then we had an exam and transferred to a Bulgarian school - first to an elementary school and then to high school. Our teachers changed very often - in an unfamiliar city, with no company in the Jewish neighborhood, they must have felt bored. Almost every year we had different Hebrew teachers. I suppose they attended courses, perhaps in Sofia, and they came out there to teach us. I remember all of them.

In the nursery school my teacher's name was Benzion. He was a dark-eyed, nice man, who lived in my classmate Mois's house. I was in love with that teacher. He also paid attention to me - he used to take me in his hands, put me on his knees and told me fairy tales. And I stared at him with an open mouth. In the 1st grade another teacher came - Pesach was his name - he was a big man, a little rusty. Then came Lili - in the 3rd grade - from Plovdiv; she was short, fluffy and very nice. I remember only that once she visited us and in my garden there was one hyacinth and I picked it and gave it to her. My mother said, laughing: 'This was the only one you had'.

In the 4th grade our teacher was Abramovich from Romania. He didn't know a single word in Bulgarian and therefore he was always looking for someone to accompany him. And it was announced that everybody who knew Hebrew should assemble. He chose me. I accompanied him all the time - to the barbershop, the food shop, as though I was 'sewed' to him in order for him to manage. I learned Hebrew quite well, yet so many years have passed since then and I don't remember the words anymore. But I remember him.

When my father was young he attended the Jewish school. They studied in Ladino, or Judezmo-Espaniol, as we used to call it in our town. In Sofia they call it Ladino but we used to call it Judezmo-Espaniol, which means Judeo-Spanish. But they wrote in the Rashi script. Therefore my father and my uncle Chelebi, who was from Sofia, used to correspond in Rashi. The letters greatly resembled the ones of the Hebrew alphabet, but the meaning was not understandable. I asked my father about it, he laughed and said that he didn't want me to know what their correspondence was about. I can speak Judezmo-Espaniol, which I learned from my parents. I don't know Rashi, because when I started studying, everybody used Hebrew already. That's why I can write in Hebrew but I don't know Rashi.

At school we spoke more Bulgarian, while at home we spoke Judezmo. My aunt Dudu, for example, didn't know Bulgarian and she spoke Judezmo and Turkish. The Turkish [Ottoman] Empire reigned in this country and she was a witness of those times [see Ottoman Rule in Bulgaria] 6. With Bulia Neda they communicated both in Bulgarian and Turkish.

I had a Bulgarian friend at school, a classmate, who lived close to us - Zdravka was her name. We still keep up a correspondence in letters. We were born in the same year, in the same month with only a week's difference. My mother even told me that once, when she got ill and couldn't breast-feed me, Zdravka's mother took me and fed me for a week. She is my milk sister - that's how I call her. Now she lives in Dimitrovgrad and we communicate very often. We are very close. I also had another good friend, 'Americata' - the American - they called the family like that because my friend's father had left for America in search of a job. He couldn't find any, so he stayed for a while there and then returned to Karnobat, where he opened a café. His nickname remained.

My brother became a 1st grade student when I was already in the 4th grade. I have a memory of celebrating the Jews' liberation from Egypt during Purim with a lot of games, songs, and with masks. Our teacher, geverit ['Miss' in Hebrew] Ester prepared the program. Everyone had something to perform - a sketch, a song, a poem, etc. And then my little brother came home crying and said that geverit Ester had distributed all of the sketches for Purim and he was the only one left without a task. He used to stammer a little and she, probably not wanting to bother him, didn't give him anything to perform. But he felt insulted and he was crying. I was sorry for him and told him not to cry and that I would find him a poem to recite. He asked me where I would find the poem and I replied that I was going to write it. He was very surprised by this but I wanted to prove it to myself, so I sat and wrote a poem inspired by Purim. It was the first poem that I wrote out of necessity. I made him learn it, encouraged him not to recite it too quickly, not to stammer and not to embarrass himself. Sami was really very enthusiastic about it and gave his best. Next day in the evening he showed the poem to the teacher and insisted on reciting it. They opened the Purim evening with that poem. Sami recited it perfectly and everything went well!

On the next day the teacher met me in the street and asked me where my brother had found the poem. I was very ashamed and embarrassed and I said: 'I copied it from a newspaper. 'Which newspaper?' she asked me - as there were no newspapers at that time, let alone Jewish newspapers! I said: 'I don't know, I don't remember'. She laughed and went on. I came home and told my brother what had happened - that I had become embarrassed and told the teacher that I had copied it from a newspaper. 'Shame on you to lie to the teacher, yesterday she asked me and I told her that you wrote it!'. I wrote the poem in Bulgarian. [It translates as follows:]

'Day of Purim, our holiday, coming here again! We will wear masks and scare the children! How much fear they will feel - The well-known fear of the old times - Of the Jewish people - from those Mizrims awful! They would slaughter them, they would hang them, By the order of minister Haman the 'tipesh' [fool]. Yet, our queen, Beauty Ester, She would save all Jews from death!'

At the time when I was to start high school we had no money. Everyone said I should be responsible and begin work in order to support my family. I had just finished the 7th grade in junior high school. I had no choice so I started working for a tailor. I had to hem garments. I was stuck at my work place all day long; I wasn't even allowed to eat. The tailor kept telling my mother how skillful I was, and how I would become an excellent tailor. But I wasn't satisfied with this, because I wanted to continue studying. There was a bell in the school. It usually rang at 7.30am and at 2pm - few people in the town had watches and they used to orient themselves by the bell's ringing. When I heard the sound of that bell, I usually hid so that my mother wouldn't see me and I began to cry. I was so sad that I couldn't go to school. I remember that even for the poorest people the school fee was still expensive - 1,200 leva. I cried for a week and finally my mother decided there was something wrong. She managed to collect the money from here and there and finally I went to school about two months late. I enrolled in the 5th grade in the same way - several months late, yet this time I wrote to my elder brother Jack in Sofia and he sent me the money. At school they knew I was a good student and they always showed understanding.

Our friendship circle was quite interesting. I was a poor girl, therefore the town's boys didn't pay much attention to me. Moreover, I was quite small and thin, and I went to school dressed in a black overall with a white collar and a beret. I didn't raise any interest as a woman. When this group of young men came from Bourgas, I really fell for Albert. I was introduced to him in the evening but he didn't really notice me. The next evening I decided to find a way to attract his attention. I had a blue and white dotted cotton costume. It was like the color of my eyes. I put it on and it looked perfect on me. I wore large sandals, given to me by my cousin Fortune from Sliven. I had beautiful curly hair, which I usually plaited into two braids. But on this occasion I let my hair loose and turned the plaits into curls. I made myself look smart and in the evening I went out in the street together with the company. When I arrived, the boy who I liked asked the others to introduce me to him. On the next day, while I was going to school, he met me in the street, looked at me, smiled and said: 'Hey, kid!' And since then he always called me 'My little kid!'

During the Holocaust we used to write letters and that is how he wrote to me. We saw each other only when he left for the labor camps in early spring [see forced labor camps in Bulgaria] 7. And we only met for four or five minutes - the time when the train was waiting at the station. And when he was coming back from the camps, we again met for five minutes. He was in many camps. There was mail, so I got letters from the camps. We wrote in Bulgarian. Once he even played a trick on me. I received a letter from an unknown man, a Jew named Nicko Varsano, who wanted to correspond with me and get to know me. But when I read the letter, I realized that it was from my boyfriend because I recognized his writing style.

There is another interesting thing: his parents didn't accept me during my school years, because we were poor. I even got a letter from his mother that she would report me to the teacher if I were dating her son. This did not offend me, as he was the one who actually mattered to me. Yet, after the war he himself offended me. Then I told him that I wasn't a match for him and we broke up. Albert left for Israel in 1948-1949. He had a shop for roasted kernels there, inherited later by his children. During one of my visits to Israel, in Herzlia, I met him and had a formal lunch with his family. His wife knew a lot of things about me.

We used to make mill-clacks on the holiday. There is a song which says: 'Avanarisha, rash, rash, rash...' and then we started with the mill-clacks and such yelling and screaming began at school that you can hardly imagine! The evening before we disguised ourselves with whatever we found - we wore the clothes of our grannies and mothers, we painted ourselves and we prepared masks. And in groups we went about from one house to another singing that special song: 'Hak Purim, hak el feia lel aldim!' We sang the song and the housewife gave us 'mahpuri' [money]. If she had mahpurim she would give us some, if not she would treat us with sweets! It was such great fun on that holiday! We used to make special sweets called 'mavlach' - either white or white and red. This is condensed sugar in the form of scissors or pretzels. We also gave each other presents and ate other kinds of sweets also - 'saralia', 'baklava', 'burikitas elhashu' - filled with nuts, raisins and sugar inside and generously poured with syrup. Some even used to make 'masapan' - but it was prepared rather for other holidays- wedding celebrations, brit milah, the circumcision of boys, bar mitzvah, etc.

'Masapan' is a traditional Jewish delight, meant especially for celebrations. It is prepared only from sugar and ground almonds. Sugar is condensed to the required thickness, which we call 'al punto' - to capture the moment! Then the almonds are added. When my daughter got married, I made masapan. All the Jews gobbled up the masapan, while the Bulgarians preferred the chocolate. None of them tried the masapan, because they had never tasted it and they didn't know how delicious it was.

My mother always prepared herself for the holidays, with whatever she could. At Pesach, besides the basic cleaning we did, we had special dishes to serve in 'pascual', special glasses for water, a frying pan, in which we used to prepare Burmoelos 8 for Pesach. We soaked bread, added eggs and roasted it. We had a special pot, in which we cooked; plates, forks and spoons especially for Pesach. After the holiday was over, we washed the dishes and placed them in a special cupboard, keeping them for the next Pesach. The everyday dishes were taken out in their place. They were chametz, mixed with bread.

Some ten days before Pesach the Jewish community hired a bakery. Women came and sterilized it, they washed it, took out everything that was chametz and they kneaded bread - boyo and matzah - and gave all the people unleavened bread to eat for eight days. Poor people received it for free. They paid for it with the social support provided by the community for such purposes. In these eight days we ate only boyo, which was as hard as a stone. Even those who had good teeth couldn't eat it, let alone those who didn't have teeth. My mother put it under vapor in a pot, and it got a little softer so we were able to eat it.

For Pesach my parents always bought me something - usually patent leather shoes with buttons on the sides and squeaking; they were fashionable at that time. We always compared them to see who had the loveliest pair. We didn't wear special clothes, we wore what we had; it just had to be neat. My aunt, who belonged to the older generation, put a bonnet on her head. She made it out of special tea lace: a beautiful bonnet, a hat for a parade. When she went out she put on a large lined taffeta underskirt. When I got married I made an official evening dress out of it. She put on a sleeveless jacket. She had a nice coat and elegant patent leather shoes. She had very small feet and I was dying to try on her lovely high-heeled shoes when she wasn't at home. She mumbled that I shouldn't put them on, for she didn't have another pair, and I might ruin them.

In addition to the school, we also had a synagogue. My father sat on the ground floor - men gathered in the stalls, while women gathered upstairs, in the box. Men and women don't sit together in the synagogue according to the Jewish custom. Children used to gather downstairs, because if they took us upstairs, we became very noisy. In the stalls everything was covered with white marble and we weren't able to make that much noise. There were benches where we used to sit while the grown-ups sat elsewhere. For holidays like Pesach, for example, we were presented with patent leather shoes and we enjoyed hearing them squeak while walking. And when going out of the synagogue both our shoes and the marble used to squeak and there was that strange noise. And the school's servant - the shammash, tiu Ishua -was waving his finger for a 'Hush!' so that we wouldn't disturb the prayer.

The synagogue was decorated with large beautiful chandeliers. The synagogue seemed very large to me. It had a nice yard. All the rituals were performed. People didn't wear kippot but hats. Everyone wore whatever he had but nobody entered the synagogue without a hat. My father wore a suit. Men entered the synagogue with whatever clothes they had, with a hat or a cap, and it was obligatorily to wear a tallit. My father had a very beautiful tallit, inherited from his father, and a cap - but not a bowler hat as he didn't have one - and he took the prayer book with him. The tallit usually passes from one generation to another. But after my father's death, the tallit, as well as some books in Hebrew, prayer books and other things were all lost somewhere.

The shammash in the synagogue was tiu Ishua. He also worked in the school. He cleaned and washed the synagogue. When there were holidays he usually took a pan with oil [in Bulgarian, it is called a chrism] out of the synagogue and everyone looked at himself in it for health, dropping coins as a gift. He built a small wooden house [sukkah] at Sukkot. People gathered there in the evening, they served grapes, cheese and bread and for us, the children. But there wasn't enough space and we usually sat outside waiting impatiently for tiu Ishua to bring us some food. The sukkah was a large shed, covered with tarpaulin from the outside, with a straight roof. They put two big tables and wooden benches in there. They gathered, read the prayer and afterwards they ate.

We had a hakham, but we didn't have a rabbi. He said not only the prayers but was also the shochet. Our hakham, whose name was Haribi Haim, used to go to special market halls when he had to slaughter lambs. He read the prayer and performed the ritual. We bought only lamb and veal that was kosher, i.e. meat for Jews. The rest is called 'trofa' [or treyf] and it shouldn't be eaten. We had a special market where kosher meat was sold, yet it wasn't in the Jewish neighborhood, but quite far away.

When Haribi Haim read the Jewish prayer for kosher meat, he took livers and other animal innards and he divided it into portions in special plates called 'platicus' and each family was given one. The young lamb was called 'trofanda'. Rich people usually returned the plate with money, while poor people didn't put in anything. The hakham also used to do brit to the boys on the eighth day after their birth. Later, when the war started, those rituals stopped.

The hakham walked with a slightly bowed head. He took a cane only as a formality, as he wasn't that old. He wore dark clothes. He had two daughters and one son. A special house in the town was given to him to live there with his family. I don't know for what reasons but he left even before the war. Another hakham replaced him but he wasn't as active.

There is an old Jewish cemetery in Karnobat, where my grandmother Gracia is buried. Once I went there with my aunt Dudu, but we couldn't find her gravestone. My father was buried in the new cemetery.

During the war

But all that normal life lasted only until the war began in 1941-1942. We knew that a war had started; yet we didn't have enough money to buy newspapers, and we didn't have a radio. Finally we realized that a war with Britain had begun. But we learned about the persecution of Jews much later, we even didn't know anything about the gas chambers. In early spring, when the earth was still frozen with ice, the Jewish men were sent to labor camps and women were left home alone. [see Law for the Protection of the Nation] 9

In 1942 we were at first 'decorated' with yellow stars. We received them from the community and we stitched them to our clothes. We couldn't go out without the star on the overcoat! On my graduation photo I also wore that yellow star. They changed my name. Gracia wasn't Jewish enough, so I was renamed Zili. After that our radios and jewelry were confiscated, we were forbidden to walk freely on the street. Our street had two ends - one end led to the main street, the other to the Gypsy neighborhood. We didn't have the right to walk in the center, which contained a large street with several branches. We didn't have the right to go to the cinema or to the theater. Bulgarians were forbidden to hire us for work.

In Karnobat Jews mostly owned boutiques for textiles, paints and haberdashery, in the main street. There was also a Jewish café, as well as the 'Garti' kiosk for cigarettes. When the Law for the Protection of the Nation was passed, everything was closed, sealed and confiscated. The Commissariat on the Jewish Questions was responsible for this. There were also some Jews in the Commissariat, thus they could influence its decisions in our favor, as the authorities dictated everything. Uncle Yuda was also a member. The Commissariat was placed in the municipality - in Karnobat there weren't many administrative buildings.

Uncle Yuda's dairy was also liquidated. There were no possibilities either for dairy farming, or for leather processing or even trading! We all became unemployed, hungry, no matter how rich or poor we were. Only those were able to survive, who had plenty of gold or money and who had previously used the chance to put something aside for savings.

A coupon system was introduced. We couldn't buy anything. We were given very small portions of bread - a half or a quarter per person. My brother ate his whole portion in the morning. Later he didn't have any money for lunch or for dinner and my mother gave him her entire portion and she went hungry. I was quite a poor eater myself and somehow I managed to cope with hunger. The bakery belonged to a Turk from our neighborhood. Sometimes I went there and asked him to give me a half-bread, and when there were no people around, he did me the favor and on such days the situation was much better. There was a time when we ate only potatoes. Everyone could receive a kilogram. It was a period of severe hunger.

Medicine, doctors - all these things were a luxury! There was no cinema, no theater. We were so isolated that in the end it was like in a ghetto. Sometimes branniks 10 came, breaking the windows, damaging the doors, especially the hakham's house, on which swastikas were drawn.

Before the laws were repealed, uncle Yuda came and warned us to prepare no more than 30 kilograms of luggage because we would be sent somewhere. As we were in a border zone - Karnobat, Bourgas, and Kjustendil - we would be deported. I wasn't aware at all what was happening, but my mother was terrified. We didn't have any underwear - it was all worn out; we didn't have any proper blankets, everything was torn. We didn't have money for food. Yet the second order never came. It was postponed by the protests in Kjustendil. And the Soviet Army was already close as well.

My brother Jack was sent straight to Sofia to a camp. My father was already advanced in years and they didn't call him. We, the young people from the country, were sent to do agricultural work. The food we produced was sent to the Germans on the front line.

First I participated in gathering the harvest for a landowner in the summer of 1942. I tied sheaves there. The landowner had a daughter, who was my classmate. She must have told her father about this because the next day he came with a special reaper. He taught me how to regulate the knife in order to reap uniformly. He took me with him and from then on I didn't have to walk on foot. He drove the reaping machine and I regulated the harvesting. Thus my job was easier than that of my classmates, who gathered the crop and tied the sheaves.

In 1943 I went to gather the harvest and pull out the potatoes. The soil in Karnobat was fruitful and there were fields in the suburbs. It was a rich agricultural region. There were plenty of vineyards and well-developed stockbreeding - producing the best sheep and the best wool. People soon learned that I was a good student. The landowner I had to work for had a son, a second grade pupil with poor marks who had to retake an exam. He told me that he would pay everything if I prepared his son to pass his exam in Bulgarian. So I became a tutor and he passed the exam.

I remember once a blockade. The authorities were chasing a Jew, who hid in a hencoop in a Jewish house in the highest part of the town. Later he joined the partisans. And I recall another blockade as well. A friend of mine came to me and told me to destroy anything suspicious that I had. At that time I was corresponding in Esperanto with a teacher from the countryside. I wanted to practice and learn the language. I also had a book at home with a story about a sailing boat with some 300 Jews, leaving for Israel, which sank. In that book I had made a note, which said that the Gestapo or the police had a hand in that affair of killing so many Jews. [Editor's note: The interviewee is referring to to the tragedy of a sailing boat with Bulgarian Jews aboard, which left for Israel from the Bulgarian coast in 1941 and sank in the Black Sea.] I threw both the letters and the book into the stove.

The Jewish school was immediately occupied - first by the German troops in 1941, when they were on their way to Greece, and later by the police. It was never opened again. Jews weren't allowed to study in high schools. Interned young people from Sofia came to our town, excellent students, who were deprived from the opportunity to continue their education. Only the best among the local Jewish schoolgirls and schoolboys were allowed to study in the Bulgarian school. The ones from the capital were forbidden. Of some 1,000 Jewish students, only three people from Karnobat - I, Nora Hanne and Mois Tano - were admitted to go on with our education in the Bulgarian school. We went to school through side streets, not along the main street. We were wearing our yellow stars, of course. Sometimes branniks and legionaries [see Bulgarian Legions] 11 made fun of us. We were pretty girls, and they, pretending that they were making passes at us, were actually poking fun at us as Jewish girls. Otherwise I didn't have any problems in my class, nobody maltreated me there.

When we finished school, I wanted to go to the secondary school students' farewell ball like everybody else. A girl from Sofia gave me her costume. I went to the ball, but my teacher stopped me at the front door, and told me not to go in because it was expected that the legionaries and branniks would get drunk, which could lead to something bad. I guess she must have had instructions not to let Jewish people in the ballroom of the theater. And she didn't let me in. I was very upset but I couldn't say anything. What could I possibly say in those years of terror? I just left. Then she said: 'Gracia, wait for me please, I will walk you.' She was scared that someone might attack me in the street, as I was alone. She walked me home. I have a short story in my book 'Monologue for Love'. It was dedicated especially to this occasion. It is called 'The White Blouse' and in it I tell the story of two white blouses - mine and that of my daughter, who, many years later, did go to her farewell party. I tore my white blouse with the yellow star and threw it in the Bokludzha River when freedom came. I was so happy to be free that I climbed the hill and began crying: 'We are free, we are free!' That is how that period of persecution between 1942- 1944 ended.

Post-war

Right after the war we celebrated Pesach, Purim and other holidays, but there was no sugar for sweets. People moved and there was nobody to prepare them. The factories were no longer working; the families had left. The synagogue in Sofia remained closed a long time after the war. We only started observing the traditions again after 10th November 1989 12. We organized a fancy-dress ball with masks for Purim, we lit a chanukkyiah at Chanukkah. After the synagogue was opened, some ritual objects were found for it. The small synagogue was destroyed during the war. Now it is partially reconstructed. Moreover, from the 48,000 Jews only about five or six thousand were left, including the mixed marriages.

After 9th September 1944, I became a temporary teacher in the elementary school in the village of Nevestino. It was about 15 kilometers from Karnobat. In the beginning I walked by foot, later they found me lodging in the neighborhood. We prepared food and sweets for the wounded among the front line soldiers and we carried them to the Sliven hospital. We helped women whose husbands were still fighting at the beginning of 1945 to plant vegetables in their yards. Later I moved to Bourgas to become a regular teacher. I was told that I had to graduate from the Pedagogy Institute, which had open doors during the summer. So, I began in the summer and later I became a teacher of Bulgarian language and literature at the Jewish school in Bourgas for two years.

There was a saying after 9th September 1944: 'Work the whole day, go to a meeting in the evening and join the brigade on Sunday'. At a meeting where my future husband was a speaker, a friend called Albert was there, too. After the meeting there were dances. Everybody invited me because I was a guest. My husband didn't dance with anybody, and then he suddenly came and invited me. He asked me to wait for him after his meeting in the municipality, because he wanted to speak with me. I said 'Fine'. I left with Albert and told him that I was going to come back because Jack asked me to see him afterwards. At first he didn't say a word, then he snapped very angrily: 'Don't you see he is going to propose to you. Go, if you want.' I was mad at both of them. At Albert because he spoke sharply with me, and at Jack because he would ask me to marry him after only seeing me for the fist time. I took my suitcase and left for Karnobat. The following day Jack arrived in Karnobat with his friend Shimon. And there they took me to a football match. And then they left. Jack didn't say anything more to me at this point. He was very shy. Then we met at a meeting in Bourgas and Shimon said: 'Let me congratulate you on your engagement!'. And I shook hands with my husband. He said: 'Let me introduce you to my mother.' And so it all started. I went there and sent a telegram to my mother that I was getting married to Jack Albuhaire.

My father-in-law was born in Turkey and had Turkish citizenship. During the fascist times the authorities wanted to send him back to Turkey as a Turkish citizen, while his wife Rebecca and the children, who were Bulgarian citizens, were to remain in Bulgaria. My father-in-law, very upset, went to Sofia to try and solve the problem. A motorcycle hit him there. His leg was broken, he was sent to a hospital and so he missed the internment in Turkey. This is how they remained in Bourgas.

My husband graduated from the business high school in Bourgas. During the Holocaust he was sent to forced labor camps. He had a certificate, issued by the Jewish community, listing all the camps he was sent to. Unfortunately I don't know to which ones. He worked in the big Bourgas flourmills and during World War II, despite the prohibition to hire Jews, the owner retained his position but took his sister Matilda instead.

My husband had a younger brother named Mair and a sister, Matilda. My mother-in-law didn't let us marry for a long time because according to the tradition the daughter had to marry first. When we got engaged, his brother Mair was in a military school, while his sister worked as a teacher in the Jewish school in Sofia. We lived in one room, and my father-in-law, who was ill, and my mother-in-law lived in the other room. My husband provided for all of us. We lived for three months as a family but we were only engaged. In a small town people often gossip and they invent so many things. One day I received a letter from my mother, in which she told me that a rumor had spread in town that I was kept as a mistress and that they would get rid of me sometime, leaving me with nothing. I read the letter, smiling faintly, because we were so busy that this didn't even occur to us. When he read the letter, Jack got so upset that he took my hand and told me: 'Let's go and sign right now.' I told him: 'Please, give me at least a week to prepare myself!'

The Women's Section of the Karnobat Jewish community, the WIZO 13, presented me with a pink silk cloth, which they had bought with coupons. Some tailors volunteered to sew it for me for free and from the silk petticoat of my aunt Dudu they made a lacy evening dress for me. It was wonderful, it suited me very much - I was very thin, and had a nice body. So, it took me a week to get ready for the wedding. My bride's coat was made from my grandmother's old coat; it was turned inside out and sewn like that. Jack wore his regular suit.

Our wedding was in December 1945. We had a civil marriage. Everything was bought with coupons and we couldn't buy anything from the market in order to prepare ourselves for the modest party. My husband still worked in the mill, where, despite the prohibition, his sister had worked as an accountant in his place during the war, as he was in the labor camps. From there he was given some pork guts, from which we cooked meatballs. We found a kilogram of semolina somewhere and made artificial caviar - with onion, red pepper and a little vinegar. There was no sugar to make sweets. It was something extraordinary when we first received support from the Joint 14 - orange juice. We saved it for our daughter, so that she could taste it. In the evening they came to our home to have a modest celebration. That was it - our wedding.

We stayed for two years in Bourgas, where my elder daughter Reni was born. I gave birth in a house, which had been turned into a maternity home. There was one obstetrician and one nurse there. After the birth I had a three- month maternity leave [the maximum amount at that time]. Yet the child had to be nursed not for three, but for nine months. So I had to go home from school. I was given a break at ten o'clock. One hour to go and breast-feed my baby and then return to school. I was exhausted from running around. I was undernourished; I had no milk. The baby was crying, and I had no experience with babies, I didn't know that she was crying because she was hungry. Later I fed her from a bottle. While I was working, my mother-in- law took care of her. It was very hard but I didn't quit my job.

After the annulment of the coupon system during the 1940s, things loosened up a bit; holiday houses were built at the sea and mountain resorts sprung up too. A special department was formed for the distribution of holiday cards. They were at reasonable prices for 15-20 days. We went on holidays every year, either the whole family or just one of us with the children. My husband loved to take me to different interesting places and show me the most picturesque ones. I still remember, as though in a dream, a wooden palace of woodcarving called 'The Forest King', somewhere in the Varna district. We visited the Plovdiv fair on a regular basis. My husband took me everywhere with him; he enjoyed traveling with me. When he went to a conference in Czechoslovakia, Poland, Yugoslavia or some other country, he took me with him at his own expense. He loved providing me with these pleasures. He was a very good person and we lived very well.

After 1948, when everyone left for Israel [during the Mass Aliyah] 15, there were no more children and the Jewish school was closed. We couldn't leave. My husband's relatives all remained here together with their families. As for my family, my elder brother left, but my younger brother stayed here. My mother and my aunt lived with us also, as I took care of them.

In Sofia my husband worked for the trade unions. In the beginning when we came to Sofia, my mother and my aunt lived with us. We lived in one room, on Veslets Street, as there were no apartments at that time. Those were hard times, until we were given a two-bedroom apartment in the center. Several years later we moved to the apartment in Mladost district, which I eventually bought. We didn't have any firewood - and my poor aunt lived in a room, which I couldn't heat up. We were given half a ton of house coal for the whole winter. And my little daughter Olya was about a year old. We only heated the kitchen stove, where we gathered to cook and this is where we spent the most time because it was warm enough for the baby and my older daughter. My aunt couldn't get up and she had to stay in the cold room. She died in 1952. My mother died quite soon afterwards due to having a bad heart. They are both buried in the Jewish cemetery in Sofia.

My husband retired as a chairman of the Trade Union of Banking and Trade Workers. He was also elected a deputy of the Sofia municipality. He died in 1986 after an unsuccessful prostate operation.

I graduated with a degree in journalism in 1954. The faculty of journalism was temporarily closed then; there weren't many newspapers and radio stations, there was no TV, but there were quite a lot of people who enrolled and graduated in journalism. A decree was passed, saying that all the people who were employed as journalists were obliged to have a higher educational degree. As there were many editors-in-chief and department directors who had no degree, a class was formed by the Central House of journalists with people who didn't match the criteria. They passed a qualification course there, at the end of which they got official diplomas, authorizing them to practice their profession. So, I joined the class with my editor's recommendation letter. That's how I graduated in journalism with the same professors who taught at the university.

When I came to Sofia I first began working in the Voluntary Auxiliary Defense Organization (V.A.D.O.) at the Ministry of Defense. It was a school for radiotelegraphic operators, parachutists, and motorcyclists. I was there for some six years and in charge of the radio programs. Then I was redirected to the military editors of Radio Sofia and our programs were broadcast from there. The programs were dedicated to different competitions in yachting, parachuting, and to various club activities; to the work of the V.A.D.O. in different enterprises. At that time Kamen Roussev, a senior lieutenant, was the editor-in-chief. I didn't get on well with him at all. I was inexperienced at the very beginning of my career as a journalist and he was constantly making remarks to me.

Then I switched over to working in the 'Internal Information' department of the radio. I traveled around plants and factories and made a lot of interviews and articles about them reflecting on various problems. Now most of those enterprises are destroyed and it makes me feel really sad. Those were highly esteemed enterprises, which had worldwide export.

I made an interview with Tupolev - the aviation constructor, who created the TU-154 airplane. I also interviewed a Chilean diplomat who came to establish friendly relations with Bulgaria [that was long before the Junta]. We arranged a meeting in the Balkan hotel with the understanding that he would come with an interpreter, but his interpreter didn't come. With my school French I was quite unable to make an interview. I tried Judezmo-Espaniol and the conversation went well. However, as a diplomat he passed me a paper with already prepared questions, but I couldn't read his handwriting. So what was I supposed to do? In order to resolve the delicate situation, I offered to take him to the radio studio because of the noise in the hotel lobby. He agreed but preferred to walk there by foot. I introduced him to the director and the secretary immediately found an interpreter - and that's how the interview was finally taken. I have also worked for the radio shows called 'Foreign Programs' and 'Program for the Capital'.

I also collaborated with newspapers; I wrote short stories. Albuhaire is quite difficult to pronounce and I was working primarily with Bulgarian people, so I decided that my husband's name Jack was much easier and I chose to present myself with it as a penname. So I am known as Gracia Jack in the radio and writers' circles and that's how I sign my name. In the Jewish quarter and the Bet Am 16 I am better known as Albuhaire.

I started publishing books after 10th November 1989. I had greater opportunities because I received financial support from Switzerland, and I invested a part of this in publishing my books. The promotion of my books took place in the Jewish school and the Jewish community Shalom 17. Many of my poems became popular in the Jewish community. In my book 'Shadai - the Star of David' I wanted to immortalize the memory of my perished compatriots.

I have rarely come across anti-Semitic manifestations. Once I was on a business trip to Kula [in Northern Bulgaria]. I went to the municipality to meet the person responsible for the military department. It turned out that he was an acquaintance of mine from Kardzhali [Southern Bulgaria]. We had been colleagues. So we shook hands like in the old times and we talked for a while. It was during the Six-Day-War 18 in Israel. Suddenly he started saying: 'Those dirty Jews, how could Hitler have not exterminated them all!' The awful things he said terrified me and I told him in the end: 'What have I done to you to make you wish that Hitler had killed me too?' 'Why?' - he asked. 'Because I am a Jew.' - I replied. He turned pale, he wrung my hand but he couldn't say a word to me. And that's how we parted. I didn't make an interview with him. There were isolated cases like this one, but the good things were more numerous and far more interesting.

Isidor Solomonov from our 'Jewish News' newspaper, with which I used to collaborate, introduced me to the writer Marc Abramovich [his pen name was Marc Rasumnii] from Riga, Latvia, from the former USSR. I got in touch and kept correspondence in Russian with him until his death. He used to send me his books and short stories and I translated them. One summer I visited him. He took me to the Riga Memorial of the Jews who perished in World War II. He was an elderly Jew who had survived the Holocaust. We discussed a lot of themes with him and now I feel sorry that I never asked him how he had managed to escape from the Nazi occupation in Riga. He kept correspondence with the 'Hamerlaind' Jewish newspaper in Moscow; therefore I suppose he was a German Haldeyan Jew. I still keep his letters and one day I will probably send them to Riga.

I tried to find the archives of the Karnobat synagogue, which was destroyed after 9th September 1944. The Jewish school is still there in Karnobat but it is quite neglected. The archives, the things needed for prayers - the Torah, the books and other ritual objects -have disappeared. I was told that they were in museums in Bourgas and Sofia, but I couldn't find them. I was also told that most of the things from the provincial synagogues had been put in a depot in Pancharevo [a village near Sofia], but there had been a fire in that depot and they were destroyed.

In Karnobat not only the synagogue has been destroyed but also all the Jews have left since 1948, in large groups. Today there is not a single Jew in the town. Even the Jewish neighborhood, which had once been so lively, is now populated with Bulgarians who came from the nearby villages. The name of the street has been changed to 'Ivan Vazov', although people still say that they live in the Jewish quarter. I visited the town on a school graduation anniversary, and the first place I went to was the Jewish neighborhood. I was terrified because I couldn't find my father's house. I saw my neighbor 'Americata' by chance and she led me to the place where a big residential estate had been built. I asked her where the nice well had vanished to with the cold water we had once drunk from. The pear tree, the trellis vine had also disappeared. The well was now in the basement of the living estate, plugged up and quite useless. Uncle Yuda's house, which was opposite ours, looked dark, plain and abandoned. It looked like a shack, although it had once been stately, beautiful and large. I was very saddened. The well next to the school, from where the whole city took water, had also vanished.

I became a member of the Bulgarian Communist Party in 1946, in the teacher's organization in Bourgas. Yet my children were brought up as Jews in the spirit of the Jewish holidays and traditions. My older daughter, Reni, graduated in machine engineering and worked as a constructor and designer, but she became ill with diabetes and she is now an invalid. My younger daughter, Olya, married Victor Avramov but they got divorced. He didn't like being a Jew and being called Beraha, so he calls himself Victor Avramov, after his father's and grandfather's name. They have one son, Alexander, who studies in the American College in Kjustendil and lives with his other grandmother.

After 10th November 1989 we would have had to get documents to prove that my grandfather owned his house and to prove our rights as heirs, but most of the family members were in Israel. It was all too complicated, so we left it at that. Nobody had the nerves and the time to deal with this.

I went to Israel in 2000. My nephews sent me the ticket and organized my stay there. In the course of a month I visited all the relatives on my father's side and some on my husband's side. When I arrived I felt like I was on an Asian continent. In Tel Aviv I saw broad-leaved trees. My first impression was that the country was wonderful. I had meetings with poets and leaders of different organizations, who had arranged literary meetings for me. I saw many people from Bulgaria. Obviously they had announced my visit and people from Karnobat came especially to see me. I traveled to many cities. Be'er Sheva, Jaffa, Tel Aviv, Rishon Letzion, Ramat Gan, Jerusalem, Haifa. When I was in Israel I was as though in a dream-like state - full of emotions and experiences. We were all the time worried about our relatives and friends in Israel, as well as now.

During my trip to Israel that year, I also visited professor Albert Behar in Jerusalem. We saw the sights of Jerusalem; we visited the Yaf Ashen memorial. At the same time the road to old Jerusalem was closed. The Arabs had announced a day of revenge, a day for peaceful manifestations and meetings, although they actually fired shots. It was frightening. Therefore the police had cordoned off the whole region. I celebrated Yom Kippur in Jerusalem; we did taanit [means fast in Ivrit] and went to the olive forest. The professor showed me the city. When we saw a package with a bottle sticking out of it, he told me that we should immediately report it to the police because it might be an explosive. I thought that it was probably a bottle of water. But he insisted that it might be a 'Molotov' cocktail.

Almost all of my generation, the middle-aged or even the youngest ones, in the Jewish community know me. They ask me to read books or recite poems for them. I have recited poems in Ladino when there were guests from Israel. I think that people have respect for me. Nowadays I regularly visit the Bet Am. I am happy with the life within the Bet Am now. We have different celebrations and gather on different occasions. The time I need for personal amusement and recreation I usually spend in the Bet Am. Some of its initiatives are financially supported by the Joint because the Jews that live here don't have many financial possibilities. We get together and a Jewish atmosphere is created. Quite a lot of weddings are carried out currently in the synagogue, something that has never been done before. Traditions that have fallen into oblivion are renewed. There is a youth organization. There is also a Bulgarian school where Hebrew is taught. We call it a Jewish school. There are young Bulgarian people who have also enrolled to study Hebrew. The children also gather on Sunday. They visit the events of the different clubs, organized by Shalom, such as concerts, meetings with composers, artists, etc. They visit the synagogue also, especially on Sukkot. Older people are more active in terms of visiting the Bet Am. There is also the women's organization, the WIZO. At 'ESPERANSA 2000' we shared experiences and knowledge in how to preserve our ancestors' language Judezmo-Espaniol, in which many books have been written. It will be a real treasure to read them and learn about our history. It was interesting to meet other Jews from other Balkan countries at this festival.

Glossary