Travel

Mimi-Matilda Petkova
Sofia
Bulgaria
Interviewer: Patricia Nikolova
Date of interview: August 2003

Mimi-Matilda Buko Petkova creates the impression of a strong and fighting woman, accustomed to defending her position to the end and able to survive all circumstances and changes. She is motivated by moral imperatives like: honesty, justice, existential freedom, social equality and social solidarity. But she believes in them only when she sees them realized in practice. She is tolerant and believes in values such as liberalism, democracy and respect.

I was born in the most beautiful town in Bulgaria, the capital of the Second Bulgarian Kingdom - Vidin, which was once named Bdin, back in the 12th century. The Second Bulgarian Kingdom was declared after the rebellion of the boyars Asen and Petar in 1186. This rebellion overthrew the power of Byzantium over the Bulgarians. The new territory of the Bulgarian state was between the Danube River, the Balkan Mountains and the Black Sea. The capital was the town of Tarnovo. Petar was declared king, and later on Asen too. If one stands exactly there, at the curve of the Danube, one can see Calafat [Romanian town] across the river. And the lights of Calafat are the lights of life: at first they come wide, then the Danube shrinks them, and then they fade away in one ray, for good. This memory of mine is unforgettable.

My ancestors came from Spain. They were called Bizanti. They were banished by the queen [see Expulsion of the Jews from Spain] 1 and passed through Italy. My ancestors spent some time in Toledo, where they were known as the Bizanti family, but when they passed through Piza, they renamed themselves Pizanti. Then they left for Turkey. Some of them stayed in Odrin and the others went to Bulgaria. [The contemporary Bulgarian State came into existence as late as 1878. Her ancestors settled in the Eastern Balkans, a part of the Ottoman Empire that became Bulgaria in the 19th century.]

The father of my great-grandfather was called David. I don't know anything else about him. His son Saltiel was my great-grandfather. He died as a volunteer in the fighting at Shipka Mount [see Liberation of Bulgaria] 2. My grandfather had three sons. One of them, Judas, was the father of Haim Pizanti, who was a famous personality in Bulgaria - founder of the communist party in the Vidin region and friend of Dimitar Blagoev 3. He was married to Sultana, who along with Vela Blagoeva, the wife of Dimitar Blagoev, was in the leadership of the women's organization in Vidin. In 1923 Haim Pizanti, his wife and three kids immigrated to Russia. There he was sent to Siberia, where he died during the repressions. His daughter, Renata returned to Bulgaria. Here she married the famous economist Jacques Natan. They also had three children: Dimi, Valeri and Tania. The first two have already passed away. At the moment the only heir to the Pizanti family is Tania Paunovska. Her son Vladimir Paunovski worked as an editor with the Sofia Jewish organization Shalom 4. Now he is the director of the museum at the Sofia synagogue.

Saltiel's second son was David, named after my great-grandfather. He had five sons from his wife Sarah. They were: Buko, Saltiel, Leon, Alfred and Sason. Their children were the parents of Jacques and David Pizanti who own the company of ladies' wear 'Pizanti' in France.

My great-grandfather Saltiel's third son was Isaak - my grandfather. He was married to Mazal Mashiah. He died in the Balkan War in 1913 [see First Balkan War] 5. They had two sons and two daughters. My grandfather was very religious. He was a tailor.

My father's name was Buko Isak Pizanti, but he preferred to be called Saltiel. He was born in Vidin on 20th December 1897. After I got married and moved to Sofia, he came to live with us. He was a very strict, but fair man. He never broke his word. He was not a complete atheist, because he kept my grandfather's tallit as a relic, as well as his kippah. When he went to the synagogue, he would put on his tallit and kippah at home. He seldom went to the synagogue though.

His siblings in their order of birth were: Liya, Israel and Sarah. When Liya was 16 years old, she got onto a carriage in Vidin, which turned over and... that was it. So only three of them remained.

My grandmother was a widow and supported her children by working in other people's houses. They were very poor. My father bought corn from the villagers and gave them some of the money in advance from a company, whose owner was Sason Pinkas. When the crop was ready, they transported it to Sofia and he paid them the rest of the money. After 9th September 1944 6 my father was employed in the trade business. He died of asthma on 16th March 1970. This is an illness he got while he was a common worker - his job was to turn the ears of corn over so that they would get damp before they were loaded onto the barge.

In 1918 my father fought as a volunteer in World War I. He had a medal of valor despite his death sentence. My father was a volunteer in the 6th infantry division [of the Bulgarian Army] during World War I. He was sentenced to death for organizing a mutiny. His sentence was N1009, issued on 12th April 1918.

Before he married my mother in 1920 my father went from Vidin to Sofia on foot and with no money to listen to a speech by Lev Trotsky 7. He was a member of the Komsomol 8. I remember my grandmother telling us how she boiled him three eggs for his journey. He ate them and sometimes the villagers he met on his way gave him something to eat too. And since he was afraid that he would tear his shoes, he took them off, flung them on his shoulder and walked barefoot. When he reached the Iskar River, he washed his feet, put his socks and shoes on and walked the remaining 10 kilometers to Sofia. Later the people there bought him a ticket for his journey home. So, he was quite wild. He married in 1920. Three years later he took part in the events of 1923 9.

He was imprisoned, because he had organized a mutiny. He was court- martialed. He was imprisoned in a barge together with his accomplices with the aim to sink it in the Danube near Vidin. But the international community managed to save them. In the end, in 1925 he was sent to prison, although he had nothing to do with the terrorist act. [Editor's note: the interviewee is referring to the bombing of the Sveta Nedelia Church] 10

My father's trial was very frightening. He had a death sentence. I wasn't allowed at the trial, because I was young, but my mother and my sister Liza went there. My mother was deaf. When Liza returned, she cried all the time. My father was beaten a lot, they hanged him with his feet upwards for 24 hours beating him on the heels. When my father was in prison, whatever we ate, my mother always divided it into five parts. She gave him his part when she went to see him every Friday. I also went to visit him: we had to wait in line before we were allowed to go in.

In prison my father made us shoes out of little laths nailed with tapes - instead of soles. My mother would knit some straps on them. I went to the front, wearing such shoes, trudging through the mud with them. They gave me some nice clothes only after the first fights.

I know many of my father's adventures. He went to fight for Bulgaria as a volunteer. But when Bulgaria lost in World War I - we were on the side of the Germans [see Bulgaria in World War I] 11. The then Communist Party ordered them to abandon their positions. He headed the mutiny, which was against this order. When he was sent to solitary confinement to wait for the trial, his friends brought him food and water secretly. His guards gave it to him, probably because they saw that he was right. When he was a prisoner of war in 1919 in Thessaloniki, he got malaria and the English treated him in a wonderful way. They gave him all the necessary medications. He told me about the barge in 1923, the people in the hold: they had no water, not enough air... By the way, in 1923 the police arrested my father at home while he was asleep. My mother got so scared that both her eardrums burst. My mother remained deaf for the rest of her life.

My father went to the synagogue, but he was an atheist. My mother was very strict on rituals. Everyone at home spoke Ladino, but my parents talked to each other in Turkish when they wanted to say something that the children shouldn't understand. They knew Turkish perfectly. Naturally, they knew Bulgarian as well.

The best synagogue in Bulgaria was in Vidin. It was very acoustic. I went with my mother on the balcony. She often went there. When Sabbath di Noche [Sabbath Eve] came, we always went there. I remember the paschal sweets, which the chazzan Meshulam gave to us. We had a shochet and he was the father of my uncle. There were a number of rabbis. I carried the chickens to be slaughtered at the synagogue. We didn't do that very often because we had no money. When I was 13 years old, my father gave me a bracelet for my bat mitzvah, telling me, 'From now on you are a woman.' I still keep it.

My father read more than my mother. He liked various Soviet books - from 'Dead Siberia Fields' to books devoted to Lev Trotsky. My father also loved singing. When we gathered with my father's sister and her husband at home or with my mother's brother and his wife, he always sang Ladino songs: 'Una morte union', '?tra muher nokero', 'Una chica corazon'.

My mother's name was Sarah Avram Pizanti, nee Lidgi, but everyone called her Freda. She was born on 8th August 1895 in Vidin. And she died on 30th October 1985. Her mother died when she was giving birth to her last son. My mother didn't know her father, because she was seven years old when he died. So, I didn't know any maternal or paternal grandparents.

My mother was a diabetic. She was almost illiterate. During the Law for the Protection of the Nation 12, she worked as a housemaid for the rich Jews. I, as the youngest child, went with her, peeling onions, potatoes etc.

My mother observed all holidays, especially Yom Kippur. We gathered with her brother and my father's sister. They didn't eat because of the holiday and we, the children, stayed in the shupron [shed for coal and wood], where they gave us something to eat. One day, on the evening of Yom Kippur after the shofar played in the synagogue and the family gathered, my father came back from the synagogue with the words: 'Come on, I'm hungry...' My mother brought him a dish of stuffed peppers. And suddenly she cried out: 'Buko!' and she fainted. Everyone started to fuss around her. When she came to, she said: 'Look, what you have on your tie!' And on his tie under his chin he had a piece of spaghetti. My mother was horrified that he had eaten during the day. 'How could you do that, Buko!', she said.

My father was a firm communist whereas my mother wasn't a member of any party. She was always afraid for him. She would tell him in Ladino: 'You will eat us out of house and home and ruin our children.' The house, the family, the home - that was my mother. She sewed clothes on a sewing machine so we were always neatly dressed. We, the sisters, passed the clothes to each other. The coat, which I wore at my wedding, in fact, belonged to my sister.

My parents knew each other from early on, because they were neighbors. They dressed like the others. My mother told me that her brother bought her cheap high-heeled shoes. The other sisters wore slippers with heels. My mother was raised by her brother, who also raised his other brothers and sisters. The shoes she was talking about were a bit above the ankle, with laces. Once she cut them from top to the bottom with a knife and he made her sew them together again. Then she continued to wear them for quite some time. Uncle Yako, her brother, bought my mother her first nice pair of shoes when she got engaged. That made her very happy.

At home we most often celebrated Yom Kippur, Fruitas 13 and Pesach, of course. My mother made delicious dishes from matzah and other things. I remember some wonderful paschal sweets, which we received at the synagogue. Often Uncle Yakim came on Pesach and my father would tell him, 'Come on, mumble something!' He was the son of the shochet and started like this, mumbling under his nose: 'Mmmmmm, uuuuuuuuh,' and did not say one word!

I loved Fruitas very much - the holiday, at which tanti [aunt] Sarah, my father's sister, filled some silk bags with fruits for us, because we had no money. It was my favorite holiday. She put dates, oranges, tangerines, nuts and plums in the bags. She would also put one lev in each so that we, the children, would have some money for the cinema or something else.

My mother loved telling a story, with which she wanted to warn us not to be too greedy and to make do with what we had: At midnight on Fruitas the trees kiss each other and God fulfils the wishes of all the people. At that moment an elderly woman stood at the window of her house, which was bolted with vertical bars. She managed to squeeze her head through the bars. When the trees started kissing, instead of saying 'Da mi grande cabizera!' ['God, give me wealth'], she said: 'Da mi grande cabeza!' ['Give me a big head'] And God granted her wish. She stayed with her head protruding outside for a whole year, and when the next Fruitas came, she said: 'God, please, I don't want anything - give me my head back!' And so she was back to normal. The moral of the tale according to my mother was: 'Do not want a big 'cabizera' - literally a pillow, and symbolically a 'state'. Better to want something small and God will fulfill it, otherwise he will punish you. I told this story to my children and my grandchildren. One should be satisfied with what one has and fight for as much as his or her strength allows.

My sister Veneta was born on 6th August 1925. Veneta finished junior high school. She was a seamstress. She married Haim Alhalel. Veneta always had a very sick heart. I remember that I waited for a whole night and half a day for her daughter Sonya to be born. Then I took her from the maternity home and brought her home as if she were a child of mine. Veneta died in Sofia from cardiovascular insufficiency on 24th February 1993.

Liza, my other sister, was born on 22nd January 1922. She finished her secondary education in Vidin high school. She had a college education and was a pharmacist. She married Tsvetan Penev. Liza has two sons, one of them is Fredi - named after my mother, and the other - Valentin. Liza died in 1995 after she had fallen down and broken her leg.

Both my sisters spoke Ladino. Liza knew Italian. They also lived in Vidin. When Liza married, she went to live in Byala Slatina and then I also went there to study in the technical college. I lived at her place for a while. But when I married too, everyone came to Sofia: my parents, Liza, Tsvetan, Veneta and Haim.

Once Veneta and I found the notebook in which my father wrote down what amount of money he had given to whom. Usually there was a fair on 28th August in Vidin. All children went there and their parents bought them confetti. So, we decided to make ourselves confetti from this notebook. That was such a disaster: the money of the owner of our house got completely mixed up. I still remember my father taking the notarial act of the house and giving it to the owner - if he didn't manage to collect the corn, the owner was free to sell our house. But the villagers were very honest and everyone brought him the corn. At the end of August, beginning of September my father came home with a big paper, in which sausages and warm bread were wrapped. He also brought back the notarial act. This happened in 1938-39.

At that time Jews were mostly merchants. For example, my father's cousins - the five sons of David - worked in Bourgas then, making contracts with companies importing Citrus fruits by sea. The market in Vidin took place every Friday. It was a colorful, typical village market. The women sat on the ground with their baskets and kerchiefs, because there were no stalls. You passed and they would shout at you: 'Come here, come there...' I loved it when my mother was walking around the market and she walked around three times so that she would be able to get the cheapest products. When my father worked and wasn't in prison, he often brought from the market a donkey cart with watermelons and melons. We, the three sisters, would line up with my father at the front, and we passed them to each other... If someone missed a fruit and dropped it, we ate it. I also remember that there were times when we couldn't afford to go to the market.

Before I was born, my father lived with my mother in the village of Gradets, Vidin region. I was born there. We had some very good friends - Uncle Lozano and Uncle Rusko. When the Law for the Protection of the Nation was passed, they brought us pumpkins, maize, flour and other stuff. The Jews could go to the market, but they could shop only with special talons, called food coupons, and only at specific times of the day.

Our house had two entrances. We paid for it in installments. At first the landlords lived with us. We lived in one of the rooms and my father paid them every month. We didn't have a garden. There was a cobblestone yard with very clean tiles. We washed them with a hose. We also had electricity. There were a number of extensions - a hen-house, a toilet and ? shupron. When my father paid the last installment, Uncle Stamen, the landlord, slaughtered a hen and opened a bottle of wine. We had a big mulberry tree in the yard; they sat under its shade, drank and sang... My father sang very well: 'Un amorte...un amor...' So the house became ours. This also happened in 1938-39.

We didn't have servants. As I said, my mother went to cook in other people's houses and I helped her. In 1941 when the Law for Protection of the Nation was passed a man called Ivan the Beast, the police chief, came and banished us from the house. We went to live under the hen-house and the shupron. We slept on the floor. All our belongings, the beds, the dishes, etc. remained with the Beast. At that time my father was in prison. Ivan the Beast returned from the Aegean region, when the Aegean Jews were all shipped to Majdanek 14. [Jews from the Bulgarian occupied Yugoslav and Greek lands, Macedonia and Aegean Thrace, were deported to Nazi death camps.] From there he brought home so many clothes and other stuff that his wife didn't know what to do with it all.

I didn't go to kindergarten; my mother took care of me. I studied in a Bulgarian secular school. I loved two subjects: history and Bulgarian language and literature, because history was related to my ancestry and I simply love Bulgarian poems. I wasn't sent to a Jewish school, because my father was an atheist and I had already begun my studies in the Bulgarian elementary school in the village of Gradets, where I was born. My favorite teacher was the one who taught me to write. His name was Tsankov; I remember him from the first grade. Our teacher from high school, who taught us Russian and French, from the forth until the eighth grade was Russian. Her family name was Belcheva, nee Galkina. She was a very cordial and charming woman. When she was talking, we couldn't take our eyes off her. She was the reason I loved Pushkin 15. I even named my daughter Tatyana after the female protagonist in 'Eugene Onegin'.

As I mention earlier, I didn't study in a Jewish school, but the Ivrit of the Jewish school, when he met me on the street, would shout, 'Pizantika, you must come to my class!' However, my parents had decided otherwise.

Uncle Stamen, the owner of the house, lived in the yard of our house. He was very tolerant. At the back of the yard on the other side, our neighbors were Jews. Haim Alhalel lived there. He fell in love with my sister Veneta and they later married. They had a big pear tree and when he climbed it to pick them, the pears would always fall in our yard and I couldn't explain why.

Aunt Ayshe, a Turkish woman, lived on the opposite side. She was also very nice. But two houses away from us, there were fascists, Branniks 16, Legionaries [see Bulgarian Legions] 17. They hurled stones at our house, shouting: 'Jews, leave our country!' This happened when the Law for the Protection of the Nation was passed, at the beginning of the 1940s.

I had many friends as a child. We lived in the Jewish neighborhood. At that time the town was small: around 19,000 people lived there, 8,000 of who were Jews. Rozanov was chairman of the Jewish organization. Later I was a member of a Jewish UYW 18 group. Our leader was the now well-known professor Avram Pinkas, a renowned surgeon. Our group also included Marsel Varsano, Leon Pinkas and Beka Aladgem. He was very pleased with me. I took part in all track tracing games, etc. In Hashomer Hatzair 19 I learned for the first time about Keren Kayemet Leisrael 20; I also learned the song 'Pumpkin, pumpkin' and other stuff. I didn't have much free time, because I often went to work with my mother. We cleaned and cooked in other people's houses.

Despite all the friends I had in Vidin and all the love I got from the Bulgarians - and there were also Armenians and Turks among my friends - I also remember a lot of hatred. I will not forget how when the Law for the Protection of the Nation was passed, the headmaster made us line up in front of the school. The high schools then were divided into girls' and boys' ones. In March 1941 we were already wearing yellow stars. Mr. Cholakov, the headmaster of the girls' high school, said, 'Mimi Pizanti, Beka Arie, Fifi Kohen and the others - two steps ahead. You are not wanted in our school from now on.' I left. The high school was quite far from home - I mentioned that we were close to the Jewish school - and I cried all the way home. My father wasn't in prison yet and he said, 'You don't need it. The socialist times will come, we will make our own schools, you will go to study in Russia, don't cry...' I will never forget that.

I was six years old when I first got on a train. My uncle in Sofia adopted me; he came to Vidin and took me in 1931. In accordance with the tradition, it was normal in a Jewish kin, that a family who had more children, gave one of them up for adoption to a childless brother or sister. That's what they did with me. Since I was the youngest, my father gave me to the family of his brother and his childless wife to look after me. I lived nine years with my uncle, until 1939. That is, until the Law for the Protection of the Nation was passed and Izie was born [nine years after Mimi's adoption the family had their own child, Izie]. Then my mother took me back.

Before the Law for the Protection of the Nation, once a year my father and I went to a fair. There we bought kebapcheta [grilled meatballs], which were served in big clay dishes and were delicious.

I remember the military parades and the holidays during which our school went to manifestations. 24th May 21 was a very nice holiday. We took part in the manifestations. All students were taken to church and we, the Jews, had to wait outside. Apart from me, I remember that Becca Arie, Fifi Koen and Viko - I don't remember his family name - also studied in that school. So, we played in the yard of the Bulgarian church.

I spent only one of my holidays at Moshava, a camp of Hashomer Hatzair. It was in present-day Velingrad. I remember that I ate very little. And my mother told me: 'If you eat French beans the whole summer, you will go to Moshava, if you don't eat, you won't go.' So, I grew to like French beans. I remember that my grandfather's brother kir David ['kir' means 'mister' in Turkish and it was also used in Bulgarian at the beginning of the century], who had five sons, had 50 levs in coins with the image of King Boris III on them. He went to my mother and said, 'Take these 50 levs and pay for Moshava. When her father comes out of prison, he will give it back to me.' Of course, my father didn't return it, but the important thing is that I went to Moshava and I liked it. That was my only vacation. During my other vacations I stayed at home and worked. There was no other way. I worked in the 'Arda' cigarette factory and in vegetable gardens for a guy named Tarzan. I still remember him standing at the beginning of a vegetable row and yelling 'Come oooon!' Even now when I'm doing something and someone stands behind my back, I start to shiver all over. I was a child at that time, after all.

Victoria Ilkova was a classmate of mine, a Wallachian [Romanian minority, living in various parts of Bulgaria, among them Vidin, by the Danube]. During the Law for the Protection of the Nation, when we were expelled from school, her brother was a political prisoner and in one cell with my father in Vidin prison. She lived in the Wallachian quarter of the town - Kum Bair, which was quite far from our home. But she came to our house, carrying lots of products wrapped in a canvas and hidden between her trousers and her panties. She brought us flour and meat and thus helped us. I will never forget her kindness. We survived because the Bulgarians were nice and tolerant with us [and so were the Wallachians, the Romanians].

After 9th September 1944 the police chief Ivan the Beast was arrested, because he beat political prisoners in the army. His wife Penka took their luggage and went to the village of his mother. We were very poor, so there was nothing they could take from us. But we had a red dress that I will never forget. At the port we were waiting to be taken to the barges and my mother had sewn for us bags for our most precious things. They told us, 'Leave you luggage and go', because they thought there was gold in it. Later I saw Rumyana, the daughter of the police chief in our red dress. And it was the only nice dress at home and my sister Veneta and I had taken turns to wear it. For the fifth anniversary of our marriage my husband bought me red cloth so I could have a red dress sewed for myself.

Speaking about the tolerance of our neighbors: we had a big mulberry tree in the yard. I was a very wild child and because of that my mother beat me up with the tongs occasionally. Once she chased me - I don't remember why - and I quickly climbed up the tree. But I slipped and my head got stuck between two branches. I couldn't free myself. At that time Uncle Stamen was painting his house and he had a tall ladder for masonry. They put my feet on it and tried to untangle me from the branches, but with no success. Haim's son-in-law came. He was a tinsmith, brought a tin, climbed up the ladder and placed it gently in front of my head. So, they were able to cut the branch. When they brought me down. I couldn't sleep for one week because of the horror I had experienced. One cannot forget such an experience; I was a very wild child.

The first anti-Semitic incidents were very frightening. They happened in high school and in other places and especially once we had to wear the stars, and they put a board on our door, which read 'A house of a person of Jewish origin' at the beginning of the 1940s. Before my father went to prison, he had put vertical wooden laths on the windows, like blinds, so that the glass wouldn't break when they hurled stones at the house. We sat in the dark most of the time, because the anti-Semites passed frequently near our house. Naturally, they were all members of pro-Nazi youth organizations such as the 'Branniks', 'Ratniks' 22 and 'Legionaries'. They were very similar to the Hitler Youth [Hitlerjugend] 23 in Germany. These incidents happened on Tsar Simeon Street. Such things cannot be forgotten.

I remember the anti-Semitic attitude of some of my classmates. In high school our class decided that no one should wear badges, otherwise they would be 'fined'. And when the Law for the Protection of the Nation was passed, we put on our yellow stars. When I went to school the first day, Rumyana, who was the chairperson of the class and the daughter of the police officer of our living estate, shouted, 'Take that off or we will fine you!' I told her, 'I cannot take that off, or your father will imprison me.' Her aim was to insult me. She knew that we, the Jews, wore 'Magen David' by force, but she pretended that she didn't know that, calling it merely a 'decoration'. However, I also had some good friends, for example, Kanna Semkova, Nadezhda Mladenova, Ilinka and Yanka with whom I shared a desk. When that happened, they told me, 'Don't pay any attention to her, don't cry, she is simple-minded'. But I could feel the humiliation. For example, I had to go to a supplementary examination in gymnastics in the former fifth grade, present-day eighth grade, because my teacher was head of the Legionary organization and a Brannik in Vidin. This Mrs. Stefka Ivanova made me dance Paydushko 'horo' [folklore ring dance]. I wasn't able to dance it properly and I had to go to a supplementary examination. I sat for it in spring, failed and had to sit for it again in fall. So, I just about managed to avoid repeating the grade. When 9th September 1944 came, I went to the front, so I didn't go to that supplementary exam, but I had the gymnastics class recognized as passed.

At the end of April, beginning of May the same year - my father was already in prison - a representative of the police came: Milushev from State Security. He handed me an order. One of us had to go to work in the State Hospital in Vidin where there was a ward especially for Germans, because the ferry to Calafat had already been built. The wounded soldiers from the Eastern front were transported to Vidin hospital, bandaged, and those who could handle it were transported to Germany by plane. Those in serious condition remained in the hospital.

At that time I was 14 and a half years old. Dad was in prison and my mother decided that from the three sisters it was safest for me to go through this period. So, she said to that State Security representative that I would go. They put a notice under the yellow star with my name and saying that I had the right to go out every morning between 6 to 6.30 am, to pass along Tsar Simeon Street to the State Hospital and return the same way by 5-5.30 pm in the evening. According to the Law for the Protection of the Nation all Jews were allowed to go out only at certain hours.

I will never forget the horror I experienced in the hospital. From 1941 until 1944 I worked in two rooms as a hospital attendant - I cleaned the urinals, washed and changed the clothes of the patients, cleaned the rooms... there were 16 Germans! All the time they pinched me and insulted me, saying 'Jude kaput!', etc. Since there was no food at home, I collected the leftovers and took them home to support the family. Maybe that's the reason why I found a partner quite late - in 1948. After all that I felt terrible. You also have to bear in mind that my great-grandfather died as a volunteer on Shipka Mount and my grandfather in the Balkan War [First Balkan War], my father fought in World War I and I myself fought in World War II... In January 1943 I stood at the port in Vidin waiting to be sent to Majdanek concentration camp. But the bishop came, put his hand on my head and told me, 'Don't worry child, you will not go.' He consoled me in this way.

When we had to wear the yellow stars in 1941, we weren't allowed to leave the neighborhood - Kale Husan. We could go to the neighborhood shops, but only during specific hours. Our homes were houses with yards, and between them there were little doors, the so-called 'kapidzhik', through which one could pass into the neighboring yard. We, the children, often roamed the whole neighborhood and then returned to our homes without going out into the street: from one yard into another, from one yard into another. If we saw some fascists or policemen coming, the little doors solved the problem right away. In this way we saved some people who were about to be arrested. For example, the well-known anti-fascist Asen Balkanski, commander of a Yugoslav brigade, hid in our basement for quite some time. In the end, he was transferred into a wagon and only later did we find out that on the border with Yugoslavia, in the town of Kula, they caught him and shot him down as a political prisoner...

I went to the front when I was 17 years and three days old. The Germans withdrew on 5th September. The partisan squad climbed down the mountains on 8th September, smashed the prison gates and so my father was freed. It was such a happy moment, we all gathered on the square, all people regardless which party they belonged to. It was 10th September 1944. Then we heard that the Germans were coming back. They had forgotten to blow up the ferry over the Danube, to Calafat. And the Soviet army was on the Danube border. The commander of the partisan squad - Ivan Vitkov Bakov summoned us, 'We have to organize a volunteers' team until the Soviet armies come and the situation in the regiments is normal again. You have to stop the Germans!' We had the third Drinski regiment, but they did not go then.

So on 10th September wearing these shoes sewn by my father and a summer dress I got on the truck. My sister Veneta caught up with me and said, 'Our mother is crying, they will kill you, get off, father is not in prison any more, get off!' I was very wild. I said to her, 'I will be killed, not her, why is mother crying?' So, I left. In the village of Voynitsa we were stopped, because the Germans had already passed through the border town of Kula and headed for Vidin. The village of Voynitsa is six kilometers from Vidin. We were given weapons, although we were not instructed how to use them. I carried a manihera gun, although I saw a gun for the first time. They showed us how to shoot.

At one point two motorcycles with two people on each one - German scouts - overtook us. Our boys aimed at them, killed one of them, the motorcycle fell, the other ran away and the others escaped and returned within an hour. We shot at the tanks, but the bullets rebounded. Kostya, a Soviet soldier, who had been a captive of the Germans and had come to welcome the Soviet army, grabbed two grenades, put two more on his belt, shouted, 'For the fatherland' and threw himself at the first tank. He pulled out their plugs and blew the tank away. The other tank withdrew. So Kostya died, at the threshold of freedom. He was the first Russian soldier who died on Bulgarian land. That is why there is a notice in Voynitsa: 'The Russian soldier Kostya died here.'

I have a big sin with regard to my parents: not only did I run away from them to go to the front, but also I didn't write them a single line. In the fights in Yugoslavia a Jewish girl died. She was from Silistra. Her name was Solchi. The kulaks 24 had killed her husband and son. I was 17 years old then; she was 25, that is, eight years older than me. They called her 'the Jewish girl'. They called me '6 by 35' because I was small and I carried a lady's gun [a smaller gun]. A friend of my father went to Vidin and my father asked him about me. 'Buko, they killed a Jewish girl, but I don't know her name...' Then they recited the Kaddish for me at the synagogue, believing that I was dead.

I returned at the beginning of June, because I was with the occupation soldiers. It was Sunday and my father was at home. He told me, 'How could you do that? Why didn't you write us a single line...' Then, for the first and last time, I saw tears in his eyes. And my mother told me, 'Loca! [Ladino for 'crazy'] And we gave our last oil to the synagogue...'

There was a coupon system at that time. The first thing I did when I came back was to apply to take my exams. Two teachers prepared me: one in maths - her name was Bronzova - and one in literature - I don't remember her name. I didn't know much. I was allowed to study in the eighth grade, which is the present-day twelfth grade. It was very hard for me and yet, I managed to complete my secondary education. Then I worked in the District Committee of the UYW since my father had no money to support me; he supported my older sister at that time, in accordance with the tradition. Then she married in the town of Byala Slatina and I went to study in the secondary technical school there. I met my husband Tsvetan Georgiev Petkov there. We were in the same youth UYW leadership. Then we both were members of a brigade 25 in Pernik. Later he went to a school for officers in reserve in Sofia and I went to work in the Agriculture Ministry in Sofia where we married.

The war gave me many things. I spent 46 days and nights on the battlefield. First, it helped me reconsider my life. Secondly, it made me firmer: more honest, more sincere and stronger. It could sound vain, but it made me the only Jew in Bulgaria with two medals of valor. So, I also defended the Jewish lobby in that war. Not only me -there were 2,848 Jews, 48 of them died, 240 of them were women.

Naturally, after the Law for the Protection of the Nation was abolished, we had more freedom. We had only our house, and everything in it was broken. At that time I wasn't in Vidin; just after the end of the Law for the Protection of the Nation I went to the front. My sister continued to study, the other one continued to work, and my father also worked.

I didn't emigrate, because we fought for Bulgaria. When I was at a symposium of Jewish medal holders 50 years after the end of World War II and Vivian, a medal holder from France, was called, the whole audience was clapping and shouting, 'Vi-vi-an! Vi-vi-an!' When Mimi Pizanti from Bulgaria was called, nobody clapped, but everyone stood up. For ten minutes they chanted: 'Bulgaria! Bulgaria!' [Mimi was associated with Bulgaria, which had saved the Jews within its territory.] That's why, my dear Bulgaria, you are my fatherland. It's true that Israel is the fatherland of my ancestors. Israel is the cradle of the Jewish people, but I was born here, my sisters and parents died here, my ancestors died here and my end will also be here.

My husband was born on 3rd March 1927 in the village of Dobrolevo, Vratsa region. My mother-in-law was a priest's daughter. Imagine a village in which one mother-in-law has four daughters and only one son, and the daughter-in-law - a Jew. In 1950 that was quite something. 'She is Uvreika, uvreika...' ['Jewish woman' in the local dialect; in proper Bulgarian it is 'evreika'] said the villagers. Only when my son was born and I named him Georgi after my father-in-law, he crushed some grape, treated the people on the street and said, 'She might be a Jew, but she gave my name to her son...'

My daughter Tatyana was born on 27th October 1951. She graduated from high school with a gold medal [awarded to excellent students] and from the textile machinery course at the Machine Electrical and Technical Institute. Then she specialized in industry design and now she is associate professor at the New Bulgarian University, teaching 'fashion'. Tatyana married Veselin Penchev, an engineer and forester. They have a son, Stephan, who will have his bar mitzvah this year.

My son Georgi was born on 27th September 1956. He graduated from the Russian high school and has a university degree in nuclear power engineering. He is unemployed. He is married to Ira, who is from Plovdiv. Ira was born on 24th October 1956. She is a historian and works in the Bulgarian State Archive. Their son is the first-born heir of the family - Ognyan Georgiev. He graduated from the French high school and has a university diploma in Economics of Military Industry. At the moment he works with the Europe TV station as an editor and news reporter. My son's second son, Valeri Georgiev, is six years younger and was born on 11th November 1986. Now he is a student in the 10th grade of the French high school. His character resembles mine; he is very disobedient and wild.

When my mother-in-law was visiting, we observed all Bulgarian holidays with no exception. When my mother was visiting, we observed all Jewish holidays. There were a lot of national holidays at that time - we observed 9th September 1944, 7th November [October Revolution Day] 26, 24th May, etc. But my children know that when the mother is a Jew, the children are Jews too. So, with Tatyana or Stefan, the Jewish strain in our family will be over. Stefan went to Sunday school at Shalom; Ognyan went to a Jewish youth camp in Szarvas in Hungary. At home we observe Fruitas, Pesach, Sukkot and Yom Kippur. We all eat matzah with no exception.

I was the founder of the section 'Disabled People' at Shalom along with the late Dr. Avramova and the late Lazar Sarchi.

In 1948 my uncle, who adopted me when I was nine months old, invited me to go to Israel with him, but my father didn't allow me to. My uncle's wife was killed in Bulgaria and there he married for a second time, a woman who had a son and a daughter. Once, my uncle sent me a letter asking me whether I could sell his apartment here. This was absolutely impossible; it was 1950. I had some very close friends from the war front. I promised him that I would do it if he sent me a warrant of attorney, because you cannot sell a property without having a document granting you that right. And I received a letter from his son-in-law, Moshon, saying that I was very cunning and wanted to steal my uncle's apartment. It said that the communists had already stolen everything the Jews had and since I was a communist and had fought at the front I should be able to sell the apartment without my uncle sending me any documents. And that if I had such good connections to sell the apartment, why hadn't I arranged to have a permit to come and visit Israel? The letter insulted me so much that in the period February-April I sold my uncle's apartment without any warrant of attorney and without keeping a single coin for myself; all the money was directly transferred to my uncle's account.

I also sold the house of Uncle Strel's nephew in Rousse. He had a workshop for shirts - 'Elen-Serdika'. His wife Berta was a rich woman, with a diploma in obstetrics. She was killed in her own home in 1947 - the day when Tito 27 visited Bulgaria. The reason was not an anti-Semitic but a political one. Berta was a famous communist. Selling his house was very hard but I managed to do it in 1959. I was so insulted by Moshon that on 8th March 1960 I applied for a visit to Israel. I decided that I should show them that I can go there. But the authorities refused to give me a foreign passport. They wouldn't let people go to Israel if they didn't have next-of-kin relatives there - mother, father, sisters or brothers.

The head of the passport department was General Georgi Stoyanov - a friend of mine from the war front, and yet he didn't let me go. Ten months of waiting passed and on 8th March 1960 I went to the hairdresser's, put on my new clothes, took my two medals of valor and the party ID and I went to the Department of the Interior. I went to the waiting room and two strong young boys asked me 'What do you want, comrade?' I said, 'I came to be greeted by the minister on the occasion of 8th March'. [International Women's Day] 'But you cannot enter, who are you?' While we were arguing, the door opened, the minister came out and asked, 'What's going on?' I said, 'I came so that you would greet me on the occasion of 8th March', and I entered. And he said, 'Do you have an appointment?' 'No, I don't have one, it's 8th March today'. And I remember him taking out a yellow daffodil from the vase and saying 'Here you are! Happy 8th March! Now, tell me, why are you really here?' And I told him everything. 'Why can't I go? I have a ten-year-old daughter here, a five-year-old son, a husband I love, my sisters and my parents. Their children are here - if I escape, they will suffer...' He watched me for some time and said, 'But where do you think you are?' I answered, 'In the office of comrade Solakov, Secretary of the Interior'. 'This is impossible,' said he. 'Why?' I asked him. 'Because, this isn't decided by the ministry, but by the Political Bureau.' I said, 'is that so? Here is my party ID, give it to the Political Bureau and tell them that if they don't believe me, I don't believe them either.' 'But you cannot do that, this is not the Central Committee...' And I said, 'Goodbye'.

So, I left the party ID there and left. March, April, May and June passed and in the middle of July General Stoyanov rang me one evening at home, 'Mimi! Come to my office tomorrow, alive or dead!' I thought that my husband and I would be fired and that my family life was over. I went and he told me, 'Here is you foreign passport, here is your visa, here is your party ID. This is not the way to return your party ID! Where do you think you are?' And I said, 'I'm in Bulgaria, I fought next to you and I think I can return that party ID.' So, in the fall of 1960 I went to Israel. Naturally I visited Israel as a Jew, not as a communist. However, I've always felt a communist, up until today.

I had many problems at work for being a Jew, but my name protected me. On 10th November 1989 28 I was already a pensioner; I retired in 1982. Before that I worked in 'Energoprojekt' [a state firm] as control specialist. I was also in charge of the party affairs; the party secretary was my boss, in the 'political prison' department. I had a colleague, who was filling in for me when I was absent, whose brothers immigrated to Brazil in 1939. So, he wasn't allowed to leave the country at all. In 1981 his eldest aunt died in Macedonia. He wanted to go there, but he wasn't allowed. So, I went to the personnel department and asked them who was in charge of Energoprojekt. They told me, 'State Security'. After calling a lot of my friends, I found out who was the person in charge there. I asked him, 'Why don't you let Mitsakov go? He is a very useful employee. He has a daughter and a mother, and Macedonia is close.' 'What will he do in Macedonia? He can't go, comrade!' 'And what do you think he will do?' 'He will persuade his brothers to come back...' 'How can you think that? They left in 1939, they already have families, work, children, grandchildren etc...' 'No, he can't go.' I told him, 'Listen, boy, here is my party ID. If Ivan Mitsakov doesn't come back, do what you like with my family and me!' They let him go. I warned him, 'If you don't come back, I will kill your daughter!' He came back, but on his way home his car radiator broke, and he stopped in a forest to repair it. When he finally passed the border, he stopped in the first village to call me. And he said, 'Mimi, I'm in Bulgaria, don't worry!'

And a second case: The best specialist in our department was Emil Kontev. He won a post in Algeria as a councilor to the minister, but the authorities sent a communist there, some incompetent man. I asked the head, 'Pesho, why?' 'But Emil's grandfather had a water-mill...', said he. 'Are you mad? He will build the image of Bulgaria, a smart man should go, so that he will present us positively!' So, they allowed him to go. When Emil Kontev came back, he asked me, 'What do you want me to give you as a gift for helping me spend six years there, having a great time?' I said, 'Give me something for my hands, not for my mouth.' He gave me a bread knife as a present and I still use it, remembering late Emil. Then they changed my job, because they said the non-members of the party had a bad influence on me.

I wrote a letter to Jan Videnov, who was Prime Minister at that time. It read: 'If you don't exclude Lyubomir Nachev from the party, I will return my party ID.' [Editor's note: Lyubomir Nachev: Secretary of the Interior in Videnov's cabinet, whom Mimi considered incompetent, moreover his name was associated with public scandals.] They didn't reply. After three months I sent my party ID to Yanaki Stoilov [Socialist Party member and activist] and wrote to them: 'I don't want to be a member of such a party.'

I was very insulted by Germany, because they don't think that those three years I worked for free in Vidin hospital as a child was slave labor. I received financial aid from Switzerland.

Glossary

Zoltan Shtern
Uzhgorod
Ukraine
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: April 2003

Zoltan Shtern is a man of average height, slim and lively. He has thick gray hair and very young eyes. We met in Hesed in Uzhgorod. Zoltan still works as a lawyer regardless of his age. He has a busy schedule and could hardly find time for this interview. Hesed is near his office in the town collegium of lawyers and we decided to meet there to save time. He speaks slowly as if weighing each word. It must be his professional trait. Perhaps, the story that he told me about the years that he spent in the Gulag 1 camps may seem incomplete, but it was difficult for him to recall this period of his life and he asked my permission to skip the details.

My paternal grandmother and grandfather were born and lived in the village of Rososh, in Svaliava district, Subcarpathia 2. This was a small village. There were about 30 families living there and about ten of them were Jewish. My grandfather, Nuchim Shtern, was born in the 1860s. I don't remember my grandmother's name. She was a few years younger than my grandfather. When I knew my grandfather he was retired. I think he earned his living as a coach driver. My grandmother was a housewife. They were poor. I only saw them a few times and remember very little about them. I can't tell what my grandfather looked like. All I remember about my grandmother is that she was short and always wore a kerchief on her head. They had four or five children. I didn't know any of them. My father, Moshe Shtern, was born in the 1890s. He never told me about his childhood or youth.

My father's parents were religious. There was no synagogue in Rososh and my grandfather went to the prayer house in the neighboring village of Holubino on Sabbath and Jewish holidays. There were only men praying there. Women prayed at home. My father's parents celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays and followed the kashrut. I can't remember any details. They spoke Yiddish and Hungarian in the family.

My grandmother died in 1939. She was buried in the Jewish cemetery of Lubino near Rososh. It was a Jewish funeral. They also buried the dead from the villages of Pasika and Holubino which had no Jewish cemeteries there. Grandfather Nuchim died one year later, in 1940. He was buried near my grandmother. Lubino no longer exists and my grandparents' graves are gone. There are floods in Subcarpathia. They wash away villages and that's what happened to Lubino. The residents of the village moved to other places. The same happened to Rososh.

I know a lot more about my mother's parents. They lived in the village of Pasika in Svaliava district. My grandfather, Kaske Aisdorfer, was born in Pasika in the 1850s. I don't know where my grandmother, Rosa Aisdorfer, came from. She was born in the 1860s. Her Jewish name was Reizl. I don't know her maiden name. Some of my grandfather's relatives lived in Pasika, but I can't remember any of them.

Grandfather Kaske was a short stout man. He had a big black beard with streaks of gray hair. My grandfather wore a kippah at home and a hat to go out. He didn't have payes. Only Hasidim 3 wore payes in Subcarpathian villages. My grandmother was a short slim woman. She wore plain clothes like all other women in villages. She always wore a dark kerchief on her head.

My grandfather owned a water mill. The villagers paid him with money or flour for grinding the grain. My grandparents were quite wealthy. My grandmother was a housewife after she got married.

My mother, Mira Aisdorfer, was born in the 1890s. I don't know all of my mother's brothers and sisters. There were six or seven of them. My mother's older brother whose name I don't remember moved to Galanta, a big resort town in Czechoslovakia, in the early 1920s. He went to work in a restaurant there and got married. Another brother, Kalman, was two or three years older than my mother. He lived in Pasika. The Hungarian fascists shot him in 1942. I don't know any details. Her younger brother, Iosif, went to work in the village of Vary near the Hungarian border in the early 1930s. Some people there took illegal emigrants to Israel. In 1933 Iosif was taken to Israel via the Netherlands. He lived his life there and died in 1985. When I traveled to the USA in the 1990s I tried to find his family in Israel from there, but I failed. I also knew two of my mother's sisters. I don't know whether they were older or younger than her. One of them, Sima, lived in Pasika with her husband. They had two children, a son and a daughter. The fascists killed their son. Their daughter, Rukhl, is in the USA. I met with her and her children when I traveled there. My mother's other sister, Rivka, got married and moved to her husband, who lived in a village in Svaliava district near the border with Hungary. They all perished during World War II.

My mother's parents were religious. Pasika was a small village, but it was still bigger than Rososh. There were about 60 families living there and about 15 of them were Jewish. The Jews were craftsmen for the most part: tailors, shoemakers, blacksmiths and saddle makers. There were also tradesmen among them. There was no synagogue in Pasika, but there was a prayer house. Women were allowed to come to the prayer house four times a year: at Pesach, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Purim. The men went there on Sabbath and on Jewish holidays. On weekdays my grandfather prayed at home in the morning and in the evening. They raised their children religiously. My mother could read and write in Yiddish and Hebrew and knew the prayers. I don't know where she got her religious education. The boys studied in cheder and the girls usually studied with a visiting private teacher. The family celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays at home and followed the kashrut. They spoke Yiddish and Hungarian at home.

My parents got married through matchmakers. It was customary with Jews at that time. Of course, they had a traditional Jewish wedding. It couldn't have been otherwise at that time. In smaller towns Jews observed all traditions. They lived in close communities and everybody watched everyone else and people were concerned about rumors or their neighbors' opinions.

After the wedding my parents settled down in a house that my father bought in Pasika. This was an adobe house. Sun-dried bricks were a common construction material in Pasika. Only wealthier people could afford wooden or stone houses. There were two rooms in the house. The bigger room housed my father's shop and the other room served as living quarters. There was also a kitchen with a big Russian stove 4 for cooking and heating.

My father had a small store. Every now and then my mother or my older siblings helped him there. The assortment of goods included kerosene, salt, flour and bread. My father brought bread from a bakery. He earned very little and they could hardly make ends meet. My mother had twelve children. Five died in infancy. All of us had Hungarian names written in our official documents and a rabbi issued a birth certificate with a Jewish name. All sons had their brit milah in accordance with Jewish traditions. My oldest brother, Vili, was born in 1914. His Jewish name was Josl. Then came my older sister Jolana, born in 1917. Jolana's Jewish name was Hana. I was born on 1st September 1919. My Jewish name is Esotskhar. Then came my younger brother Miki, Mekhl in the Jewish manner, born in 1921. My other two brothers, Yankel and Herman, and my other sister, Sima, were much younger than Miki: they were born in 1928 and in the 1930s, accordingly.

There was very little land near the house where we had a wood-shed and a stable in which we kept our livestock. There was no garden or kitchen garden near the house. My grandfather Kaske, my mother's father, gave us a plot of land of about 1,500 square meters where we grew potatoes for the family. We were a big family and mother was always concerned about food provisions. At first my mother kept a goat of a breed from Czechoslovakia. This goat gave more milk and it was delicious. Then we had a cow that we kept in the stable in the yard. There were also chicken and geese there. One had to keep livestock to make a living.

My father was a thin man of average height. He didn't have a beard or payes. He wore a black yarmulka called 'shrama' in local dialect. My mother wore a wig after she became a married woman. Sometimes she wore a kerchief.

My parents were religious. My father had a tallit and tefillin. He went to the prayer house on Sabbath and Jewish holidays and prayed at home on weekdays. We celebrated Sabbath and Jewish holidays. My parents weren't fanatically religious, but they strictly observed Jewish traditions. We knew that the situation was radically different in Russia and Ukraine after the Revolution of 1917 5: that religion had no big place in life and that Jews didn't have an opportunity to lead the life they wanted in this respect. During the Austro-Hungarian and Czech rule, the Jews observed their traditions.

The Jews in Subcarpathia didn't know any oppression during the period of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy before 1918 or afterwards when Subcarpathia became a part of Czechoslovakia. During Czech rule Jews even enjoyed more rights than before. They could hold official posts and even own big enterprises. Religiosity was appreciated. There was democracy in Czechoslovakia. President Benes 6 respected and supported the Jews. There was rabbi Chaim Shapira 7 in Mukachevo. President Benes awarded him the title of doctor of sciences.

We only spoke Yiddish at home. In Pasika all Jews spoke their mother tongue, Yiddish. In towns, like in Mukachevo, many Jews spoke Hungarian even when this area belonged to Czechoslovakia and children learned this language from their parents who were used to speak it. I believed that Jews had to speak their own tongue. We also spoke fluent Czech.

There was no shochet in our village. He came to work in our village from Holubino once a week. All Jews always waited for him to come to the village: they didn't eat any meat unless it came from the shochet. Nobody slaughtered any poultry, but the shochet. Then my mother kept the meat in water for six hours to make it kosher.

We celebrated Sabbath. Our mother cooked food for two days. It wasn't allowed to even warm up food on Saturday and she left pots with cholent in the oven of our Russian stove to keep it warm until the next day. We always had gefilte fish and challah on Sabbath. The family always got together on Friday. My mother lit the candles and said a prayer over them. Then we all said a prayer and my father blessed the food and we all sat down for dinner. My father didn't work on Saturday. He went to the prayer house and when he came back home he read the weekly portion of the Torah to us and told us stories about the history of the Jews.

We started preparations for Pesach long before the holiday. One Jewish family in Pasika made matzah for all the Jewish families. The other families gave this family orders in advance and they knew the quantities they had to make. My mother also stored one to two hundred eggs for Pesach. Many eggs were used throughout the eight days of the holiday: they were used for cooking and baking pudding or cookies. The chickens and geese were taken to a shochet. My mother melted goose fat to do all cooking on Pesach. She made geese stew and boiled chicken. Every day we had chicken broth with matzah and boiled chicken for lunch. We didn't eat any bread. My mother also baked strudels with jam and nuts and cookies. On the eve of Pesach we took the fancy crockery from the attic where it was kept in a box. My father conducted the first and the second seder. My older brother and I knew Hebrew and we posed the traditional questions [the mah nishtanah] to him. The adults were to drink four glasses of wine at seder. There was one extra glass for Elijah the Prophet 8. The door was left open during the seder for him to enter the house.

On Rosh Hashanah everyone went to the prayer house. My mother made a festive meal and always put a saucer with honey and slices of apples on the table. We dipped the apple slices into honey and ate them to have a sweet and happy year to come. On Yom Kippur the adults fasted for 24 hours. [Editor's note: According to tradition, Jews have to fast 25 hours on Yom Kippur.] Small children fasted after coming of age, boys at the age of thirteen and girls at the age of twelve. At Chanukkah mother lit one candle more each day. The shammash was lit on the first day of Chanukkah to keep burning throughout the holiday. All guests gave children some money. As for Purim and Sukkot, I don't remember how they were celebrated.

At the age of six I went to cheder in Svaliava, seven kilometers from Pasika. There was no cheder in Pasika, but my parents wanted me to have a Jewish education. My older brother Vili also studied in this cheder. I commuted to Svaliava by train. A monthly ticket cost me 10 Czechoslovak crowns. My parents gave me money to buy a ticket, but sometimes I spent this money to buy sweets. I then commuted by train for free and I only paid for a ticket when the conductors caught me. I left home in the morning and came back in the afternoon.

At the age of seven I went to a Czech elementary school in Pasika. I attended classes in the morning and in the afternoon I went to Svaliava where I had private classes with a rabbi. I studied Hebrew and learned to read and write in Hebrew and Yiddish and also studied the Torah and the Talmud. There were several Jewish children in the Czech school. The attitude toward us was very friendly. I studied well. There was a state school in Svaliava where children could finish the 5th-8th grades. Those that planned to enter the Commercial Academy in Mukachevo had to finish another year at school. My parents rented a room for me at a Jewish family's place in Svaliava. My landlady cooked for me and did my laundry. I spent my weekends at home. Besides going to secondary school I had classes with a rabbi until I had my bar mitzvah.

I had my bar mitzvah in the synagogue in Svaliava when I turned 13. I prepared a small speech, a droshe. I had to recite a section from the Torah and comment on it. My parents and relatives were at the ceremony. My parents brought vodka and snacks for the attendees. I can't remember what my droshe was about, but there was something else that made my bar mitzvah quite memorable. There was some vodka left and my parents told me to take it home. I did carry it home, but well, some was gone on the way... Since that time I've hardly ever drunk alcohol.

In 1930 there was a fire. There was a factory near our house. The fire started there and then spread onto our house. The fire was put out promptly and didn't cause much damage. However, a flood in 1932 destroyed our house. The village council decided to elevate the level of the street and spread about half a meter layer of soil. Then our houses turned out to be half a meter below the surface. In spring the river flooded the streets and houses. Our house was washed down within two hours. We moved to my mother's father. Those villagers that suffered from the flood sued the government and the government accepted the lawsuit. We received compensation, but it wasn't enough to build a new house. There had to be high foundations to protect the house from floods.

My parents had to take out a loan from the bank. In 1934 they completed the construction of a big brick house on the spot of our old house. There was sufficient room for a shop in the new house. However, my parents failed to pay back their debts to the bank. The bank ordered us to move out and put our house on sale in 1936. We didn't have a place to live and local communists insisted that the bank allowed us lodging at least on the verandah. There was a Communist Party during the Czech rule. The communists helped us to take our belongings onto the verandah. I cannot say how they managed to obtain permission for us to lodge in the house that belonged to us, but the outcome was that we lived on the verandah for almost two months. My parents informed my mother's brother Iosif, who lived in Israel, about what had happened to us. [Editor's note: Israel came into existence in 1948; Iosif must have lived in Palestine under British mandate.] Iosif came from Israel and bought out our house from the bank for a much lower amount than my parents invested into its construction. We moved back into our house.

I finished nine years in Svaliava and in September 1936 I entered the Commercial Academy in Mukachevo. The building of this academy is still there. It provided very good education and its graduates had no employment problems. It wasn't easy to enter this academy. Within the current educational system this academy would be equal to college. It prepared high- skilled specialists. Professors that left Russia after the Revolution of 1917 worked in the academy. Besides special subjects students studied foreign languages, shorthand and typing. I was an excellent student throughout all years of my studies and always helped other students that weren't doing so well. There were Jews, Czechs, Hungarians and Ukrainians in our group. There were no negative attitudes towards Jews. There was no anti-Semitism at that time. My brother Vili had also finished this academy and went to work as an economist at a factory.

In 1938 Hungary occupied Subcarpathia. Mukachevo was occupied in October 1938. I was a student of the Academy then. Hungary was an ally of fascist Germany. On 15th March 1939 Hungary occupied Svaliava district. I returned home before I finished my 4th and last year. There was an affiliate of the academy operating in Svaliava and I decided to finish my studies there. The Germans already held many official posts. When I continued my studies we had to greet our lecturer with 'Heil Hitler!'. It was an order that the representative of the Germans in the administration of the academy issued. After finishing my studies I became an economist and accountant.

After Subcarpathia was occupied Hungary began to implement anti-Jewish laws [anti-Jewish laws in Hungary] 9 and oppress Jews in every possible way. Jews had no right to own stores or enterprises; anything that might have brought any profit to its owner. A Jewish owner could either sell or transfer his property to a non-Jewish owner. Otherwise the property was taken into state ownership and the government used it at its discretion. My father had to transfer his store to a Ukrainian owner. My father began to work for him. He did everything he used to do when the store belonged to him, but now he received a miserable salary for his work.

Men that were fit for the army service were obliged to register at the gendarmerie once a week. Every week I walked six kilometers from Svaliava to register at the commandant's office. At times the gendarmes tortured and beat me. In August 1940 I decided to escape and cross the border. I didn't have much choice. Germany occupied Poland in September 1939. Polish refugees going via our village told us about fascism and the way the fascists treated the Jews. They were all heading for the USSR that seemed a rescue from fascism to them. Czechoslovakia was occupied by the fascists and there was only the USSR left. [Editor's note: Czechoslovakia was split, the Czech part was occupied by Germany and the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia was created, while Slovakia became a German satellite.]

We heard about life in the USSR after the Revolution of 1917. Unfortunately, we only had access to the official propaganda: radio and newspapers. I imagined the USSR to be a country of equal possibilities, freedom and justice. I also remembered how the communists had helped us when the bank chased us away from our house. If I had known the truth about the USSR or what they did to refugees who were trying to escape from the fascists - I wouldn't have gone there. Well, I went through this. I've lived through four disasters in my life: fire, flood, Stalin's camps and life in the USSR.

I couldn't tell my parents that I was crossing the border. My mother seemed to have an inkling that something was going to happen: she kept crying telling me, 'stay...'. I reached an agreement with a guide who took refugees across the border. We were to get together in a village, 30-40 kilometers from Pasika. I don't remember its name. On 20th August 1940 I left home without even saying goodbye to my parents. I still feel sorry about it, but at that time I was planning to take my parents to the USSR as soon as I settled down there. Three other people from my village joined me. There were three from Svaliava and others whom I don't remember. There were 54 of us in total. The majority were young people and there were older people, too, with their wives and children. Almost all of us were Jews, but there were a few Ukrainians as well.

On the night of 21st August we got to the border with the USSR. The guide took us to the border, showed us the way and returned home. We crossed the border, took a nap and decided that we had to look for a frontier guard. That was where the story started and it was a big story. The frontier guards found us before we found them. We were glad at first, but then our joy ebbed away when they ordered us, 'Stand up, line up, a step to the left, a step to the right shall be considered as an effort to escape and then we shall apply our weapons'. I will never forget these words. My other life began on 21st August 1940.

We were taken to a camp in Skole, Lvov region [120 km to Lvov]. There were 1,500-2,000 inmates in the camp. We weren't told what we were charged with and we sincerely didn't understand why we had been arrested. The camp was in horse stables. We slept on three-tier plank beds. We were provided one meal per day. We ate with wooden spoons from wooden plates. After three months we were taken to prison in the town of Striy, Lvov region [75 km from Lvov] by train. There were about 300 of us in the train and there were many guards. We stayed several months in prison in Striy. Groups of prisoners arrived every day. Most of the prisoners were people that had crossed the border. There were people from Subcarpathia, Polish and Ukrainian residents.

In winter 1941 we were taken by freight train to a big camp in Starobel'sk. The trip lasted seven days. We were given one meal per day. We were given salty herring, but no water. There were a few thousand inmates in the camp. The camp was in a former monastery where barracks had been constructed. There were people from Subcarpathia, Poles and Ukrainians. We stayed there for a few months. I don't remember how many. There were numerous guards in the camp. We didn't work in this camp. We were allowed to stay in a barrack or walk in the camp. We were given prisoner clothing.

On 11th June 1941 we boarded a freight train again to travel to Vladivostok [about 2,000 km in the Far East]. We arrived at Nakhodka bay near Vladivostok. When the train stopped in Irkutsk we overheard through our barred windows that Germany had attacked the USSR. [This was the beginning of the so-called Great Patriotic War.] 10 This was on 22nd or 23rd June. From Vladivostok we were taken to Nakhodka by trucks with tarpaulin tents. We stayed there several days and from there we were taken on a barge called 'Jurma' to Nogaev bay in Kolyma. Again, there were numerous guards. We sailed nine days. Many of us were seasick. It was such pain. It was cold and we only wore prisoner robes.

In Nogaev bay we were lined and marched to the distribution point in Magadan from where prisoners were distributed among Gulag camps. We stayed in the distribution camp for about two weeks. I was in a group of about 400 prisoners sent to Moliak camp. From there we were sent to Obiedinenniy camp on trucks. This was in winter 1941-42. Barracks in Obiedinenniy mine were in the process of construction and some of them didn't even have a roof. There were two and three-tier plank beds and gasoline stoves. In a barrack for a hundred inmates there were two gasoline stoves on the opposite ends of the barrack. We took turns to warm up near the stoves. Every prisoner could get close to the stove two to three times a night. Most of the prisoners died from hunger and cold in Obiedinenniy mine. We didn't go to work there.

In early 1942 the president of Czechoslovakia, Masaryk 11, the follower of Benes, signed an agreement for assistance and support with the USSR. Those residents of Subcarpathia that were born during the Czech rule were Czechoslovak citizens and Masaryk asked to review their cases. [Editor's note: Masaryk resigned from his office in 1935 and was succeeded by Eduard Benes. As the head of the Czechoslovak Provisional Government in London it could only have been Benes who signed such an agreement with the Soviets.] Then we were transported to Moliak camp. This camp had heating and we got food that wasn't too bad. We recovered within three months and then the camp management decided that we were fit to go to work. Moliak was a gold mine. There were open developments of gold and there were underground mines. There were rich gold veins and nuggets of gold. Once I found a nugget. There was a bonus given for it, but where could we spend the money if there were no stores in the camp? We weren't allowed to leave the camp and there was nothing we could do...

In summer 1942 I was summoned to the director of the gold mine. He announced that I was sentenced to three years in a high security camp for illegal crossing of the border. The director had just received our documents, but actually, it was my third year in imprisonment. This was not the worst sentence under article 80 of the Criminal Code of the USSR. When a person was accused of espionage the sentence was over five years. If a person had relatives abroad the sentence was over eight years of imprisonment. I was sentenced to three years for illegal crossing of the border. How this verdict was reached when there were no interrogations or investigations - who knows.

In late 1942 I was sent to Burkhala mine. There were several mines: Northern, Western, Susuman, Yagodny; I'm beginning to forget their names. We were sent to different mines and did similar work to what we had done in Moliak. In 1943 many former citizens of Czechoslovakia were summoned to the distribution camp in Magadan from where we started on our way to Kolyma. I was the only Jew among them. All Czechoslovak citizens were released and sent to a Czech legion formed in Buzuluk under the agreement between Stalin and Masaryk. However, when they read the list of this group my name wasn't on it and I stayed in the distribution camp, and after two or three weeks I was sent back to Burkhala without an explanation. I continuously requested appointments with the director of the camp asking for an explanation. I had been sentenced to three-year imprisonment. It had expired a while before and nobody had extended my sentence. I kept writing letters to all Soviet and party leaders: Stalin, Beriya 12, Kaganovich 13, Molotov 14; all of them. There was no response. I worked at Burkhala from 1943 to 1947. We weren't paid for our work, of course, we didn't get any food, no medical care, the conditions were terrible: there were barracks for 100-200 prisoners, hardly any heating, severely cold climate. Summer only lasted a few weeks and there were frost up to minus 40 degrees for the rest of the year.

Throughout this time I had no information about my relatives. The camp inmates weren't allowed to correspond with their families. It happened only once that I bumped into some short report in a piece of newspaper I got incidentally, saying that the Soviet troops had crossed Pasika liberating Subcarpathia. At least I knew that my village was still there.

On 30th January 1947 the director of the camp called me. He looked confused and said that he had already had problems since my sentence had been over for a long time and I was still kept in the camp. I was sent to the human resource department of the mine to obtain documents. I didn't quite know the way. They just explained to me that I had to cross a pass in the mountains and turn a few times before I came to the village. It was a miracle that's hard to describe: for the first time in many years I had no armed escort - I was free! I don't think I felt cold.

In the human resource department I obtained the certificate of release from the camp and a job assignment to work in Burkhala mine as an employee. The date of release in my document is 30th January 1947. I returned to the office of the chief engineer in Burkhala. He asked me where I wanted to work and I answered that I wanted to return home. He explained to me that I only had the right to live in Kolyma. I knew several Jews that were shoemakers and tailors in Magadan. To leave Kolyma I needed a permit without which I couldn't even get a train ticket. Besides, I didn't have money. I worked as a laborer in the stables for two weeks. Then I was summoned to the office again.

They reviewed my documents that said that I had finished the Commercial Academy in Mukachevo. I was sent to work as a worker in a store at the mine and they promised to make me a shop assistant in a short while. There were four shop assistants in that store. This was a store for residents and employees selling meat, sausage, butter and sugar per food coupons. I had been a worker there for two months when the director of the store was transferred to a store in Yagodny mine and I took his place. I lived in a hostel near the store. When I became director I received a room of my own in this hostel. I received a salary and had sufficient food. The people and management of the mine treated me well. Throughout this period I kept writing letters to Moscow. I was writing these letters and I never got any response. I didn't even know whether my letters ever left Kolyma.

In December 1947 I was summoned to the office of the mine. They told me that I was allowed to leave Kolyma. However, it was next to impossible to leave Kolyma in winter. The rivers were frozen and the planes were only for the management to fly on business. A few days later the manager of the mine and his family were going on vacation and he offered me help. I was so happy to get this offer: I could go to Magadan in a bus. This was in February 1948. The temperature was minus 50 and there was heating in the bus. I obtained an official certificate saying, 'Released from the camp and is allowed to go to the continent' [the European part of the USSR].

I was sent to the town of Voronovitsa in Vinnitsa region [20 km to Vinnitsa, 215 km to Kiev]. From Magadan I flew to Novosibirsk via Yakutsk. It was faster to go via Khabarovsk, but I would have had to wait for a whole day for the plane via Khabarovsk and I was too impatient to be on my way. From Novosibirsk I took a train to Moscow. I wasn't allowed to live in big towns, but it was all right to travel through them. I stayed in Moscow a day and took a train to Vinnitsa. In Vinnitsa I rented a room from a poor Jewish family. A few days later our district militiaman came to tell me that my point of destination was Voronovitsa. I have no idea how he knew about where I was to go, but you know, that was how information spread in the USSR. I went to Voronovitsa where I rented a room from an old woman. I had to go to work, but all I could think about was going home.

I called the village council in Pasika and asked them to find someone from the Shtern family. I told them when I would call back. When I called again Bela Shtern was on the phone. He wasn't a relative, just had the same surname as I. I talked to him. He said that none of my relatives were in Pasika, but he didn't offer any details. He promised to send me money to travel home and said that he would tell me what I wanted to know when I came there. I kept writing to Kiev trying to obtain permission to travel home since Subcarpathia belonged to the Ukraine already. I also requested an appointment with the chairman of the regional executive committee in Vinnitsa and the KGB 15 office, but there was no response.

Throughout the few months of my life in Voronovitsa I had meals in a diner. It was inexpensive and I had to be saving for my return home. I was lonely and wished I could talk to someone. I met a young waitress there. I told her that I wanted to go home, and was waiting for permission and money to buy a ticket. Later this woman turned out to be a KGB informer. Once a KGB officer came to the diner where I used to have meals. He checked my documents and took me to the district militia office. I was kept there for several hours. They checked my documents, apologized and let me go. For the rest of my life they watched me and kept me under control. Shortly afterward I received permission to go home. In October 1948 I left for Subcarpathia. I left Kolyma in February and only in October, eight months later, did I manage to reach home.

Shtern sent me money and I bought a ticket to Lvov. I didn't have one kopeck left. In Lvov acquaintances from Subcarpathia helped me to buy a ticket to Uzhgorod. Upon arrival I had to register at the KGB office. They were aware of my arrival and waited for me. From Uzhgorod I got a truck ride to Pasika. I didn't have a penny left. The villagers were happy to see me. They helped me to get to Bela Shtern, who had moved to Svaliava. He treated me like one of his family. He told me that in 1944 the Hungarians summoned young men to forced labor at the front and the remaining Jews - women, children and old people - from Subcarpathia were sent to concentration camps. Only a few survived. My parents, my older sister Jolana and my younger siblings Yankel, Herman and Sima perished in Auschwitz in February 1945. I thought that my brothers Vili and Miki also perished. A few years later I got to know that they had survived. They were liberated by the Americans and knowing that Subcarpathia became Soviet they decided to move to the USA. Shtern also told me that my mother's parents died in 1942, but I don't know where they were buried.

I lived with Shtern and he treated me like his family. He shared his food and helped me to get me clothes. I lived like this for a month. I had to start looking for a job. I met my childhood friend, my fellow student from the academy in Mukachevo. I used to help him with his studies when we were students. He became the prosecutor of Mukachevo. He asked me where I wanted to work and I said that I would agree to any work I could get. My friend had a good relationship with general Andrashko, the prosecutor of Uzhgorod region, and knew that the prosecution office needed a logistics supervisor. My friend phoned Andrashko and asked him to employ his friend Zoltan Shtern.

I went to the prosecution office in Uzhgorod. The general asked what I wanted to do and I said I wanted to be logistics supervisor. Andrashko considered my response and then said 'No, you shall not work as logistics supervisor'. I thought it had something to do with my sentence in the camp, and was about to leave, when he continued, 'You shall not be logistics supervisor, you shall be investigation officer'. I began to refuse: firstly, I was a convict, and my sentence hadn't been canceled, secondly, I was no lawyer. The general said he didn't believe my sentence and made me investigation officer in the prosecutor's office of Irshava district.

My colleagues were very nice and friendly. They helped me to get into the essence of this job. It took me a couple of months to learn everything about this job. From Irshava prosecutor's office I was transferred to the prosecutor's office of Uzhgorod district. I entered the extramural department of the Faculty of Law of Lvov University. The regional prosecutor signed a request to admit me to university and I became a student without any problems. I took a holiday to go to Lvov to pass my exams. I was an excellent student and my lecturers treated me well. I never faced any anti-Semitism in Subcarpathia. Anti-Semitism developed only when the new arrivals from the USSR began to prevail. These people became the source of manifestations of anti-Semitism, as far as I'm aware of it.

In 1952 the Ukrainian prosecution office got to know that I had brothers in the USA. It was dangerous to have relatives abroad 16, particularly, if it was a capitalist country, even though we had no contacts. One could be fired or even be subject to more severe punishment. The General Prosecution Office issued the order of my dismissal. This is what was written in my employment record book: 'Fired per order of the general prosecutor of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic'. Even though I was shocked at the loss of my job I was happy to get to know that my brother Vili and Miki were alive. The KGB officers informed me about it. Of course, they spilled no details and I couldn't correspond with them, especially because I was a former convict.

By that time I had finished three years at the Faculty of Law. I decided to take advantage of this sudden unemployment factor and switched to the daytime schedule of studies. I got accommodation in a hostel in Lvov and attended classes every day. I was the oldest student in my group and my fellow students treated me with respect. When I worked in the prosecutor's office my management offered me to join the Communist Party. They said it was good for my career. I became a candidate to the Party then and in 1953 I was admitted to the Party when I studied at university. There was a party meeting in the concert hall of the university when I was to be admitted to the Party. There were about 600 professors and students present. I briefly told my story. There was silence in the hall when I finished. Then people started coming to shake my hand or give me a pat on the shoulder. Of course, I mentioned that I was a Jew. I never concealed my Jewish identity. I wrote in all forms that I was a Jew. If I did otherwise it would be humiliating myself.

Frankly speaking, there is a lot of good in the idea of communism. What Stalin and his followers did to it is a different story. I felt it myself. Until I got to the Soviet Union I didn't know what was going on here. 1,500 or 1,600 camp inmates had been killed before I arrived at Moliak. So many people perished. And this was just one of many camps where all the inmates were exterminated in one day. I tied this to the name of Stalin, but at the same time I couldn't believe that the leader of such a huge country could be so cruel. Whatever there was to it, it's true that during World War II people fought in the name of Stalin. Millions believed him unconditionally. Of course, people were aware of some things, ignorant about many others or closed their eyes on some.

I remember well the Doctors' Plot 17 in January 1953. Many Jewish students were expelled and professors were fired from Lvov University. I was left in peace. I didn't know why, but I stayed. Later, when I talked with friends that were doctors in Mukachevo, they told me that many weren't just fired, but also sent to camps. They were released after Stalin's death in 1953.

Stalin's death on 5th March 1953 wasn't a big loss for me like it was for the majority of the Soviet people. I was an outsider, different from those who grew up during the Soviet regime. Besides, people that went through the camps were disillusioned. I understood that Stalin had to know what was happening in the country and nothing could happen without his blessing. I felt this and Khrushchev's 18 speech at the Twentieth Party Congress 19 confirmed my conviction about the criminality of the Stalin rule. After the cult of Stalin was denounced at the Twentieth Party Congress I was rehabilitated 20 in October 1962. The regional court of Lvov reviewed my case and determined that I was subject to oppression in fascist Hungary as a Jew and there was nothing criminal about my crossing the border to the USSR.

I graduated from university in 1954. My friends working in the Subcarpathian regional executive committee sent the university a request for issuing me a job assignment to work there. Upon graduation I received a job assignment to the Subcarpathian regional executive committee. I was employed as manager of the legal and protocol department of the executive committee. I worked there for three and a half years. I had very good relationships with my management and even got a raise from the Council of Ministers of Ukraine. My salary as a manager was 690 rubles and the Soviet of Ministers added 300 rubles for excellent performance. This was a lot of money: few people in the USSR earned this much. I had rented a room before, but the executive committee gave me a one-bedroom apartment.

In the house that we had owned before the war there was a two-year local school. The local administration allocated funds for the repair of this house and the school director appropriated this money and bought a house in a neighboring village. Then he suggested that I claimed my rights on our house. My parents had been the owners of this house. I had my inheritance documents for the house issued according to the rules. Since I didn't feel like disowning the children from their school building the secretary of the district party committee proposed that I sold the house to the school. They could only pay the cost of the insurance evaluation of the house which was half the price of the house. I agreed, but then they deducted the cost of the repairs supposedly completed. To avoid the inspection of the building which would for sure have proven that no repairs had been done whatsoever the school director made an agreement with a local journalist who wrote an article saying that I was taking away the building from the children. Of course, if there had been an investigation I would have been proven innocent, but nobody felt like clearing things.

The regional party committee decided to remove the source of conflict from the executive committee. And I was this source. They forced me to submit my letter of resignation since otherwise they would have fired me under a criminal code and they would have had no problem in plotting charges against me. My boss, the secretary of the executive committee, was reluctant to let me go, but he couldn't fight with the secretary of the regional party committee. I quit the executive committee and became secretary of the Trade Unions of Governmental Employees where I worked for several years. When I worked as investigation officer I met the chairman of the regional court, Martin, who later became chairman of the collegium of lawyers.

In 1965 he convinced me to start working as a lawyer. That was when I became an attorney and I've never regretted taking this decision. I'm happy doing this work. I can protect people. I was awarded the title of 'Honored Lawyer of Ukraine'. I was the only lawyer in Subcarpathia that was awarded this title. There's a militia colonel, my good friend, and prosecutors and judges with this title, but I'm the only attorney. This title allows me an increase of my salary of 85 hrivna [about USD 16] that I will be receiving from January 2004. It's important for me. I receive a 157 hrivna [about USD 30] pension like the majority of the pensioners in Ukraine. My capital are my friends, that is, that I have many and nice people that I meet a lot. Many people know me in Uzhgorod. They trust and respect me. I have Jewish, Ukrainian and Hungarian friends. I don't care about nationality. A decent personality is what matters. However, it happened so that most of my friends are Jews. Jews are my people. I've always thought about them and it hurts to witness demonstrations of anti-Semitism.

I've always been a Jew in my heart. I've had faith in God and always prayed at home in the morning. I couldn't observe Jewish traditions or celebrate Jewish holidays at home since I worked for the government and was a member of the Party. The state struggled against religion 21 and religious people were persecuted. If I had been seen at the synagogue I would have lost my job and party membership card. Considering my conviction it might have been even worse. I also celebrated Soviet holidays since it was necessary to do so.

In 1961 I married Prascovia Goncharenko, a Ukrainian girl. I met her at a party. Prascovia was a student of the Faculty of Philology of Uzhgorod University. My wife is much younger than I am. She was born in a village in Sumy Region in 1936. I've forgotten the name of this village. Her parents were kolkhoz 22 farmers. After finishing secondary school Prascovia entered Uzhgorod University. Her childhood dream was to become a teacher. We saw each other for about half a year and then we got married. We had a civil ceremony and in the evening we had a wedding party to which we invited our acquaintances. My wife took my surname after we got married.

Upon graduation from university she was an elementary school teacher. She loved children. Every now and then strangers approach me in the street telling me that my wife was their first teacher. I can tell you frankly that I appreciate it. In the 1970s the school management applied to the higher authorities requesting the approval of Prascovia's award of 'Honored Teacher of Ukraine'. That was when my Ukrainian wife faced anti-Semitism. The director of the regional department of public education didn't like her Jewish last name of Shtern. He didn't forward her documents to Kiev. I got to know about it several years later.

Our first son, Evgeni, was born in 1962 and Victor followed in 1964. I tried to teach my sons Jewish religion and Jewish traditions. Regretfully, they were far from conceiving them. My sons were pioneers and Komsomol 23 members and lived in accordance with the laws of the USSR. They didn't identify themselves as Jews and were just Soviet people. In those years we didn't observe any religious traditions at home. We didn't celebrate Soviet holidays either. We celebrated our birthdays and our children's. We invited friends, had parties, listened to music and talked. We spent vacations traveling to Subcarpathia or to the Crimea with the family.

Evgeni wanted to become a teacher like his mother. After finishing school he entered the Faculty of Mathematics of Uzhgorod University. Upon graduation he became a teacher at a secondary school. He's a very good teacher and children like him. Victor finished the Faculty of History of Uzhgorod University. But, unlike Evgeni, he wasn't attracted by the idea of being a schoolteacher. He worked at school for some time upon graduation and then entered the Faculty of Law of Uzhgorod University. Upon graduation he obtained his license and became an attorney. He works well and I'm not saying this just because I'm his father.

My sons are married. I have four grandchildren. Evgeni has a Jewish wife. They have two sons: Evgeni, born in 1984 and Alexandr, born in 1987. They both study in Israel under a Sokhnut 24 student exchange program. Evgeni has finished school and is a university student. The younger one is still at school. He goes in for sports. He is a candidate for a master of sports in fencing. My grandsons are very happy in Israel. They often write me and call me. They have great perspectives and I'm very happy for them. Evgeni and his wife are going to move to Israel. I'll be missing them, but I understand that their children are there and therefore, their future is in this country. They study Ivrit. My son has quite a good command of Ivrit. Well, all I can do is pray to God for peace in Israel. My younger son, Victor, has a Ukrainian wife and they also have two sons: Sergei, born in 1987 and Andrei, born in 1994. They go to school.

When many Jews were moving to Israel in the 1970s I helped and supported them, but I myself never considered this option. I was born and grew up on this land, I like Subcarpathia and cannot imagine living in a different country. It's not that easy to cut off everything that was your life and leave. However, everybody must make his own decisions.

In the late 1980s perestroika 25 began. At first I was skeptical about it: I didn't believe in positive changes and believed the totalitarian regime to be unshakable. Later I saw that life was changing. Perestroika gave us a freedom we weren't used to. We could correspond with our friends and relatives living abroad, travel and invite them here. Mass media and television started to say things that in the past people were afraid to even mention when they talked in a whisper: about the lawlessness and repression in the USSR. An avalanche of information about our miserable life in the USSR depriving us of human rights fell upon us. However, many people tried to ignore it: it destroyed their understanding of the USSR, the Communist Party and many other things. Of course, from a material point of view life became more difficult: the standard of living became lower and there was unemployment that didn't exist before. As for me, I believed it was vitally important that we gained freedom. Anti-Semitism mitigated during the perestroika. Religious people weren't persecuted any more.

I've found my brothers in the USA. They live in Long Island, New York. They were very happy to hear from me. They thought I had perished. I've visited them five times since then. They are married, have children and grandchildren. They are pensioners. My brothers are members of the Jewish community. My older brother Vili is very religious. His older daughter's husband, his son-in-law, is a rabbi. He lives in Israel and lectures at Jerusalem University. Vili's family observes all Jewish traditions; they follow the kashrut, celebrate Sabbath and Jewish holidays. On Sabbath the family goes to the synagogue. My younger brother Miki isn't so deeply religious, but he and his family also go to the synagogue. Recently my older brother had a surgery. I always look forward to my younger brother's calls to tell me about how my older brother feels. He is 89 years old, not young any more. I cannot afford to call them in America: it's too expensive.

There are a lot of good things about the USA. I used to think that rich people built their riches on a dishonest basis stealing and lying while millionaires in the USA do a lot of charity and help the poor. However, basically I think that people in America aren't so open and friendly. I think it's better here. My brothers were telling me to move to the USA, but I never considered this option. I like my work and I like the people here. They treat me with respect. I think I would miss this if I left.

Another happy event in this country is that Jewish life began to revive. The synagogue began to operate in Uzhgorod. There were mostly older people attending the synagogue in the past, but after Ukraine gained independence younger Jewish people began to go to the synagogue, too. It never happens now, like it did before sometimes, that there aren't enough men for a minyan at the synagogue. I'm a Jew, I've been a Jew and I will always be a Jew. Lately I've attended the synagogue on Sabbath and Jewish holidays. I pray at home every day. I ask God for my brothers' health, for the health of my family and peace in Israel and Ukraine.

Many things have changed lately. Hesed plays a big part in the social life of Jews here. It opened in Uzhgorod in 1999. Hesed takes care of all Jews: from infants to old people. It provides assistance to the old and needy and supports them when they need medical care. It's also important that Hesed also supports our spiritual life. There's a number of clubs and studios in Hesed where everyone can find something to his liking. Older people appreciate the opportunity to socialize. I still work and don't suffer from loneliness while old people that don't go to work are very sensitive about an opportunity to talk. They get together in Hesed, which offers them interesting lectures, literature and music parties. We also spend Jewish holidays in Hesed.

Glossary

Eva Meislova
Prague
Czech Republic
Interviewer: Pavla Neuner
Date of interview: March 2003

Eva Meislova lives in a small apartment in a Jewish pension full of original paintings collected by her father. Her apartment is gracious and full of flowers. In addition to the paintings she has big wooden trunk from her mother. Although she spent most of her life under the communist regime and suffered under the Nazi persecution, she is a very kind and open-minded person and interested in public events. She was keen on all different kinds of sports in her youth and is still in good shape, both physically and mentally. She goes for a walk daily.

Family background">Family background

My paternal grandfather, Jakub Bohm, was born in Batelov, Moravia, in 1861. His father had a drapery factory and died when my grandfather was a kid. When my grandfather grew up he managed the drapery factory with his brother, but they went bankrupt. Later he was a coachman and had a buggy pulled by a horse. He liked to play cards and enjoy life. My paternal grandmother, Veronika Bohmova, [nee Redererova], was born in Celkovice, near Tabor, sometime in the 1860s, but I don't remember when exactly,. Her father was a shammash in Tabor. She had a brother, Ignac Rederer, who gave lectures at the university in Prague. I didn't know him very well; they weren't in touch that often.

When my grandfather got married to my grandmother he moved from Moravia to Celkovice where she lived. Celkovice was a suburb of Tabor at that time. He opened a drapery shop in Tabor. He employed one shop assistant and a few tailors and a foreman in the workshop, which was next to the shop. They sewed clothes for man, mainly uniforms for the garrison in Tabor. My grandparents lived about 15 minutes walk from our place. It was a nice house with a garden, situated next to the river. They didn't have electricity so they used oil lamps, and the toilet was in the yard. My grandfather used to sleep in our house, except for the weekends, because it turned out to be too far for him to go back to Celkovice every day. He stayed in the shop until evening and then he arrived and read the Prager Tagblatt. [This was a German-language daily newspaper.] My grandmother had her own friends but they weren't Jewish because there were no Jewish people in Celkovice. They met and talked but in general they didn't have very much spare time.

My grandmother was a housewife all her life. She had a maid at home for help. She was breeding hens as a hobby. My grandfather wasn't religious at all, he only went to the synagogue on Yom Kippur. He came from an ordinary Czech-speaking family, but he was a big fan of Austria-Hungary. My grandmother was religious but not extremely so; she kept a kosher kitchen, observed Sabbath and went to the synagogue on Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. Celkovice was a small village, and my grandparents were living in the same way as the other Czechs. They were concerned about their family, house, garden and business.

Shortly before World War II my grandparents moved to an apartment in Tabor because my grandfather was already too old to work. At the beginning of the war they moved to our big apartment following the order that Jews could only live in certain parts of town. My grandparents went to the concentration camp Terezin 1 with us and died there. My grandfather died in 1942 when he was about 80 years old. My grandmother died a month later because she was old but, I think, also because she was used to him and suffered from his loss.

My father, Alois Bohm, was born in Celkovice in 1885, but he lived in Tabor all his life. Tabor was a calm countrified town without industry, there was only a malt-house and a tobacco factory. Before World War II about 15,000 people lived there. It was surrounded by a beautiful hilly landscape with lots of woods. There was a lake called Jordan, in which we used to swim in the summer. The Jewish cemetery was on the outskirts of town. Due to the mayor of the town there was quite a big Czechoslovak garrison [after WWI]. Barracks were built for the soldiers, and later they served for the Gestapo. There were about 800 Jews in Tabor, but none of them was really religious. The Jews in Tabor were mostly middle-class, not very rich but not very poor either. There was one Jewish factory-owner but most of the other Jews were just small businessmen.

I don't remember if my father studied anywhere. He was a businessman. He got his business license and became my grandfather's partner in the drapery shop. He wasn't religious. He didn't go to the synagogue except for Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. My mother said that he actually withdrew from the Jewish community because they asked him for too much community tax. He smoked a lot and drank a lot of coffee, but he didn't drink alcohol. My dad was this kind of sociable Jew, his 'sport activity' was limited to visiting the coffee shop and meeting people there. I used to go for a walk on a very beautiful, long pathway through the wood on Sundays with my mum. My dad always said to my mum that he would go to the coffee shop to meet people instead and asked her to join him later. So we were walking until four o'clock in the afternoon, and afterwards she met him in the coffee shop.

My dad had one sister. Her name was Julie, and she was a bit younger, two or three years, than him. She married a Christian man named Belohlavek. He was a very religious Christian and went to church very often. He was the director of the Sporitelna Bank in Prague. They lived in a beautiful three- bedroom basement apartment in a noble district of Prague. Their apartment was next to a large garden. We always walked through the gardens when we wanted to get to the center of the city. Uncle Belohlavek and Julie didn't have any children together. My uncle had a son from a previous marriage.

When my uncle was already retired he became quite a strange person. He underwent some rejuvenation cure when he was already over 60 years old. He put on high heels, painted his nails red and wore a corset. He also underwent prostate surgery which wasn't successful and, along with the treatment, caused his death at the beginning of World War II. Aunt Julie turned crazy because of it, walked the streets without the Jewish star attached, and someone reported her. She was in Terezin but I don't know where exactly she was killed. My mum thought that Belohlavek junior reported Aunt Julie because of the property. Belohlavek junior got married to some girl who wasn't good for him, according to his father. They didn't communicate with him and disinherited him. At the beginning of the war their son started to visit them from time to time. After the war he lived in Tabor and worked in a bank, but I wasn't in contact with him, and he didn't show any interest in communicating with me either.

My maternal grandfather, Josef Kraus, came from a Czech family. He was born in Cechtice in central Bohemia, and he also died there before World War II. He had a heart failure, was paralyzed as a result and spent the last ten years of his life bound to bed. I didn't know him very well. He had a small shop selling various products, and I know he tried to work in agriculture because he also owned some fields. My mum said that no seeds ever grew and that each pig they bought died shortly afterwards. So that part of business didn't get them anywhere.

My grandparents had a small village house, which included the shop, situated in the village center. My grandfather wasn't religious at all, and neither was his wife, my grandmother, Pavlina Krausova [nee Fischerova]. She came from Mlada Boleslav and moved to Cechtice after she married my grandfather. She was quite a smart woman with a good knowledge of cultural and historical events. My grandfather and her weren't a good match at all; I don't know where and how she wound up with him. After his death she moved to her sons in Prague. She didn't survive the Holocaust.

My grandparents had six children. The oldest, Rudolf, died as a soldier in World War I. Emil was a dentist. He lived in Karlovy Vary with his wife Eva and their two children. He died in 1933 of blood cancer. Bedrich was a clerk with the Union Bank. His wife's name was Dorotea, and they had two children. Bedrich was murdered in Auschwitz. Then there was my mother, Stepanka Bohmova [nee Krausova]. Next was Frantisek, who lived in Prague and ran a business manufacturing hand-embroidered clothes and evening clothes in the center of the city. The name of the company was Makra and it was successful. They made very beautiful things, and they even sold their products to the Castle [the seat of the government]. The youngest of my grandparents' children was Anna. She lived in Kralupy, near Prague, and was my favorite aunt. Anna ran a shop selling paints and varnishes. None of the siblings was religious.

My mum was born in Cechtice in 1895. Although she came from a Czech family she received German elementary school education. She was a young girl from a good family so she stayed in a girl's boarding school in Teplice, where she lived and studied and was preparing for family duties. It was a German secondary school.

My mother met my father on the train, and it was love at first sight. They had a Jewish wedding, and she moved to Tabor with him afterwards. She was a housewife, and in the afternoons she went to help my dad in the shop. She wasn't very religious. She only went to the synagogue on major holidays and much more to show off a new dress than for religious reasons. There was a big beautiful two-storied synagogue in Tabor, where women had places on the balcony. Praying women were sitting on the left side, and the right side was full of women who just came there to meet and talk. The praying women were rebuking them for disturbing them.

On Yom Kippur we went to the synagogue. When we returned my paternal grandmother arrived. My mum prepared dinner: It used to be barkhes and some chicken. My mother and grandmother fasted but we, the children and my father, didn't. My mum always said to my father, 'You only observe the holidays because of the food.' We didn't go to school on Yom Kippur but the drapery shop was open.

Growing up">Growing up

Our family belonged to the middle class; we were neither rich nor poor. My dad was officially the head of the family, but it was my mum who managed the house and family matters. She got a monthly salary from my dad and organized everything at home and everything concerning us, children. She was very joyful, loved to talk and was very popular in Tabor. People in Tabor were still remembering her a long time after her death. She liked to dress nicely and even had a personal tailor in Prague. She didn't have too much hair so she was wearing hairpieces. She was always very elegant but above all a very happy person. My dad, on the other hand, was a serious person. They loved each other a lot.

I had an older brother, Rudolf Bohm, who was born in Tabor in 1921. He finished a Czech gymnasium but wasn't allowed to continue the studies then because of his Jewish origin [because of the exclusion of Jews from schools in the Protectorate] 2. He was a boy scout when he was small. We had an average relationship, just like an older brother and younger sister tend to have. I remember I was crying when he refused to dance with me at dancing courses. My mum said to me, 'Don't cry and be glad that you have enough other suitors.' Rudolf was a very handsome and smart boy. He was the educational type and wanted to become a psychiatrist. Rudolf was the member of a hakhsharah 3. He spent two summers with them training in agriculture work. They lived there together and shared the money they earned. It was kind of a kibbutz life. The next year, that was either in 1940 or in 1941, my brother was already sent to forced labor. He worked on the river regulation in Sezimovo Usti. He was also working as a manual laborer when Bata 4 started to build houses in our region.

We lived on the first floor in an old house. We had a large apartment, three big rooms and a small one for the maid. We had a living room and a dining room with black furniture. My parents slept in the bedroom, and my brother and I in the living room. We had electricity at home and cold running water. We warmed the water in a high-tile stove, which we used for heating. There was a coal stove for cooking in the kitchen. My dad was always cold, and I recall him reading the Prager Tagblatt leaning against the stove and warming up. During the winter we only heated one room. The apartment was rented because my mum never wanted her own apartment. She always said that you only have to pay the rent and have no other troubles. I never wanted to own a house either. Later someone bought our house, and he planned some reconstruction that my mum wasn't fond off. So she found another modern apartment but in the meantime the Germans arrived, and we had to stay. The owner then made the reconstruction in our apartment and transformed our hall into a small room, into which the Germans moved a Jewish family.

We had a maid who lived with us and helped my mother with the housekeeping, but she wasn't taking care of us. Maids were usually young girls from villages who wanted to earn some money. So they went to work, and then they often got married and left. We liked them but my parents kept some distance. We didn't have Jewish maids or any other Jewish girls for help. Whenever Jewish girls worked for a family, they were only looking after the children. We had a few Jewish friends who were visiting us from time to time but not because of their origin. We knew a few more religious families in Tabor but most of the Jews didn't even observe Sabbath. Jews in Tabor for the most part only observed the high holidays. In those small towns Jews usually lived like the other Czech people. We celebrated Christmas and New Year's Eve like most of the people in town.

A girl from a good family was supposed to play the piano, so my mum bought a piano for me. It stood in the corner of the living room. I wasn't talented at all but I had to play. I also took classes with piano virtuoso Mrs. Marketa Koprova but I was never good. Each day after lunch I played the piano, my brother was fiddling, and when the windows were open we heard my future husband, Jiri Meisl, play the piano too, so in a way we were making music together.

I finished the Czech school in Tabor, where we learned German from the 3rd grade. I think that the school-leaving exam was also in German. We also had religion classes. Then I attended gymnasium but I had to leave after the 5th grade, when we started to learn French, due to the fact that I was Jewish. I was the only Jew in our class. There were a few more Jews at school but not in my class. We had three elementary schools and two secondary schools in Tabor but no special Jewish school. Pupils attended the schools depending on their place of residence. I still visit our gymnasium class meetings today although I hadn't passed the school-leaving exam with my former classmates. They say it doesn't matter because they consider me one of them. Our class was a girls' class and all of them always behaved well towards me. I cannot complain about anything concerning anti-Semitism. My schoolmates didn't regard me as a Jew, and I never experienced any anti-Semitic acts from their side.

When I had to leave the gymnasium, my mum put me into a home economics school, which I fortunately only attended for one year. We were learning how to handle our future family duties, which I really wasn't fond off. My mum apprenticed me to a seamstress and was paying her 30 crowns a month. I liked school, and I always had good marks. I wanted to become a pharmacist. I had private lessons in English, German and French before the war. I was pretty good at sports. I used to go to Rytmika, where we were dancing to music. In winter I went skating and skiing. I also went to Sokol 5 for exercising. I was also a member of the scout group. I went to a summer camp with them two or three times, but I stopped before they could exclude me for being Jewish. I've never felt too much anti-Semitism. I just remember one incident: I was waiting at the doctor's and when it was my turn to go inside, I heard a fascist, a member of the Vlajka 6, screaming that as a Jew I should be waiting and be the last in the queue. After World War II this man was caught and put on trial. I know that because my husband went to see the trial. Later this man had serious health problems, and in the end he was visiting Jewish doctor!

We had a car, a Cabriolet Tatra. [Editor's note: Before 1939 many car factories existed in the Czech lands, the best-known were Laurin & Klement, Tatra, Jawa, Praga and Aero. Cabriolet Tatra was a car for the higher middle class.] We went on trips very often. My most favorite places were Orlik and Zvikov, where we could swim in the summer. [Orlik and Zvikov are resorts situated on the river Vltava, about 50 kilometers from Tabor.] Although my dad was born near the river he couldn't swim, and he was always running along the shore warning us to be careful not to drown. I didn't like car rides because I was always carsick. Even after I got married I couldn't stand traveling by car or train. Once a year my dad and his friend Svehla, who was the director of a school in Borotin, went on a longer trip, for instance to Slovakia, about 400 kilometers from Tabor. They spent a week hiking in the mountains. They had canes on which they put stickers of the places they had visited. Usually we didn't go that far away; not even during the winter because we had enough snow in Tabor to ski there.

We also had a dog, a foxhound, whose name was Maxel, and, after his death a canary. Maxel learned to go to our neighbor butcher, and she always gave him something to eat.

We didn't celebrate Jewish holidays. Uncle Belohlavek was a very religious Catholic, and his family always came for Christmas, which we celebrated. He was rich so he brought candies to hang onto the tree and presents. We ate fish and potato salad. We didn't even know about Chanukkah. We didn't stick to kosher food, we ate pork and everything else. My mum bred geese in the cellar for meat and fat. As to Jewish meals, we only ate cholent and challah on Yom Kippur.

We ate together, the dinner was at 7 pm, and my parents strictly kept this rule. My brother once asked if he could be late. He had a girlfriend and wanted to accompany her home. There was a promenade in the center of town, and my mum told him: 'Take her to the corner at Kubes, and apologize to her that you have to be home for dinner.' We also had lunch together every day. I only had school classes in the mornings, and even when I was in gymnasium and had afternoon lessons, everyone went home for lunch. My dad also closed the shop and went home for lunch and to have a short nap.

We had a rabbi, a cantor, a shochet and a shammash in Tabor. They lived in the former Jewish school. The rabbi taught religion and the cantor assisted in the synagogue. There was a Jewish school before World War I but not in my time. We didn't have a mikveh or yeshivah. Most of the Jews in Tabor were assimilated businessmen. Jews didn't live in any special part of the town. It was only later, during the war, when Jews weren't allowed to live in the center of town.

Neither my dad nor my granddad cared much about politics, and they weren't politically involved at all. My father voted for the Zivnostenska Party 7, but he used to say that the best 'party' is the relationship between a man and a woman. My mum joined a kind of friends club that we used to call 'club of old virgins'. About ten Jewish and Christian women used to gather. They either met in the coffee shop or at their homes and prepared some food and chatted. They also got together on New Year's Eve for a little afternoon party. After World War II my mum was the only Jewish woman from this club who had survived and it wasn't the same as before, so they stopped their meetings.

It didn't matter to us whether our friends were Jewish or not. I had two very good Christian friends, one isn't alive any more, the other one I still visit in Tabor once in three months for four days. Her name is Jaroslava Teclova, and she is my oldest friend. We have known each other from our childhood. Jaroslava was a kindergarten teacher and her husband was a doctor. We went for long walks in the woods very often. She says that since I have moved to Prague, she is getting fat because she doesn't have anyone to go for a walk with. She lives with her son now.

My husband was born in Cerveny Ujezd, near Benesov, in 1921. In 1930 his parents bought a house with a shop in Tabor and moved there. Jiri celebrated his bar mitzvah with his relatives, and I remember that he got his first watch. That was in July 1934. He lived with his parents and his brother Richard. We started dating when I was 15. Jiri was also very good friends with my brother Rudolf. They were in the hakhsharah together, as well as in forced labor and in the concentration camps. Our parents were also friends. He also came from a Czech family. He finished his studies in a two-year trade academy before World War II and worked for a while in the office of the Velim confectionary factory. Then he stayed at home because he wasn't allowed to work anymore.

I had a lot of Christian friends and didn't feel very Jewish, so I didn't notice the growing anti-Semitism. I was entertaining myself in the same way as the others, even some of my suitors were Christians. Step by step we were excluded from our previously normal life, and the Jewish youth began to mingle with people of their own only. First, I think that was in 1940, Jews had to hand in their wireless sets. The next step was that Jews had to move out of the town center; we weren't allowed to use the sidewalks and had to walk on the road instead. [The interviewee is referring to the introduction of the various anti-Jewish laws in the Protectorate of Bohemia- Moravia.] 8 We didn't tamper with the rules because we were afraid to be reported to the Gestapo by Czech Vlajka fascists. We weren't sure who was who any longer; first we thought about someone of being well-disposed, and finally this person turned out to be an anti-Semite. We stuck to the rules and stayed away from the town center.

During the war">During the war

My mum sold the goods from our drapery shop when my father was arrested at the beginning of World War II. Jews had to hand in all their gold. I don't remember exactly when it happened but once in the evening German soldiers came to check our place. We were threatened because my mum had hidden some fabrics from the shop at home. We used to have cushions between the glasses of the windows, it was stylish at that time, and my mum had made those cushions from fabrics from the drapery shop. The soldiers didn't find anything and were quite decent. Actually we didn't know much about what was going on, regarding the deportations because we were far from Prague. When we were taken to Terezin we didn't have any idea about that place. We found out how terrible it was pretty soon though.

In 1939 the rumor was circulating that the Russians were already coming to liberate Tabor. The Germans then organized raids and arrested a lot of Czech people, mainly Jews, including my dad. At first he was a prisoner in Dresden and then he was sent to Oranienburg. [Editor's note: There was a concentration camp in both Dresden and Oranienburg, the first was a subcamp of the Flossenburg concentration camp, and the second a subcamp of the Sachsenhausen concentration camp.] He was used to smoke, drink good coffee and have a good meal, so he just couldn't bear it. They were also torturing people. My dad died in Oranienburg in 1940. What was interesting was that they sent us his urn from Oranienburg along with his clothes and all his other things including his denture with a gold palate. We also got the death certificate. There was still a Jewish cemetery in Tabor so we took his remains there. Then the cemetery was liquidated and since the urn hadn't been there for a long time we were allowed to remove it and take it to a Catholic cemetery. They had made a space for Jews near the cemetery wall there, and my dad's has remained there ever since.

At the beginning of the war I fell sick and couldn't do as much as before. The pain started in 1939. The doctors said that it was the appendix and sent me for surgery. But the pain remained, and in 1940 I was diagnosed with a tumor on the ovary. I had my last period in Terezin. But we got food with quinine in it there, and it stopped the menstruation of most of the women in the camp.

It was terrible when we were deported to Terezin in November 1942. All the Jews from Tabor and the surroundings received summons for the transport to the ghetto from the Jewish community in Prague. We were put into the school building. There were about a thousand people crowded there. We arrived there in the evening, didn't get anything to eat and slept on straw mattresses for one night. Early in the morning we were taken to the train so that no one would see us. It was bitter cold. We knew we would go to Terezin but had no information about the place. Until then we hadn't suffered physically because my mother had sold all the goods from the shop, so we had had assets to live on.

I lived in L-309, a kind of youth hostel for girls. It was a single-storied house, and I shared a room with twelve girls there. I remember that the cembalist Zuzana Ruzickova stayed in the room next door. This house originally belonged to a woman who was also kept in Terezin. I worked in a laundry situated outside the ghetto. My mum took care of a 5-year-old boy called Kaja. Kaja was there with his father only. They somehow became our relatives. My brother worked in agriculture first, and then in the Kinderheim [children's home]. My grandfather died a month after our deportation to Terezin, and my grandmother died a month after him. The burials in Terezin were the same for all people. The corpses were burnt, and the ash was thrown into the water. We were allowed to take part at the funeral. We said a prayer and received my grandparents' clothes.

In the evening we got a piece of bread for dinner, for lunch we usually had lentil soup. Sometimes we also had millet pudding, which I have been cooking ever since our liberation. It's kind of a piety for me. I say that this is a memory of Terezin I keep. I like millet pudding, but I prepare it better because I cook it with milk, and in Terezin it was only cooked with water. Another time we had a yeast dumpling with special black sauce, which was very tasty. It was sweet and made from black coffee residue mixed with bread and some margarine. I was trying to prepare it after the liberation, but it was never as tasty as it was in Terezin. Sometimes we also had stuffed cake. My mum didn't like the dumplings so I swapped it with her for the cake. We drank water.

Once we were listed for a transport to an extermination camp, and Viktor Kende, a friend of us, helped us to get crossed off the list of people to be transported. In December 1943 we were listed again, just my mum and I, but Viktor couldn't help us this time. My brother and Jiri weren't on the list for this transport but they enlisted themselves voluntarily, so they went with us. Jiri's parents had already gone, but he had been sick at the time so he hadn't gone with them.

We didn't know where we were going to. It turned out to be Auschwitz. We spent about two days in cattle-trucks. In the end the doors were opened, and we saw the notice 'Arbeit macht frei'. [German for 'Work make you free', the words inscribed on the infamous gateway to the Auschwitz concentration camp.] Germans were shouting, and we had no idea what was going on. We had expected that we would be going to a place similar to Terezin. In Auschwitz we were in the so-called Family Camp. [The so-called Family Camp established in September 1943 was an area reserved within Auschwitz for Czech Jews deported from Terezin.] I was carrying barrels with soap, Mum still took care of the small boy who was gassed along with his father later. My brother worked with children in the Kinderblock [children's block] with Freddy Hirsch. [Freddy Hirsch, originally from Austria, emigrated to the Czech Republic before World War II, and was known as a great Zionist and sportsman. In Terezin he took care of children and was very popular among them.]

After half a year I was moved with my mum to forced labor in a Frauenlager [women's camp] near Hamburg. We stayed there for four days, and it was very bad. Once they left us kneeling down the whole day. Then we went to Harburg, which was a suburb of Hamburg, where we stayed in some barns and went to Morburg, a huge oil factory, by boat. We were rebuilding the factory. When the factory was supposed to be reopened air raids started and it was destroyed again. After that we worked in Neugraben [a subcamp of the Neuengamme concentration camp], where we were scavenging through debris; and in Tiefstack [another subcamp of the Neuengamme concentration camp] we worked in a brickyard. There wasn't enough food. In the evening we got a quarter of bread and my mum said to me, 'You must not eat it all, you have to save half of it.' So we were saving part of the bread but our co- prisoners stole it. From then on we were eating everything at once.

Post-war">Post-war

In 1945 we were taken to Bergen-Belsen, which was a terrible place. I remember tents full of corpses. We were liberated from there by English troops on 16th April 1945. Some women from Czechoslovakia paid for the bus to get their men back home. But their men weren't in this camp. I remember my mum telling me that there was a bus going home and that we had to take it. It took us about two days to get back. The bus was old and just about to fall apart. At night we slept in the open air. I don't remember this personally because I was sleeping but my mum said that our two drivers attacked some Germans at night, killed them and stole tires. Then we came to Prague where we stayed at some first-aid place for prisoners in the beginning. Afterwards we decided to return to Tabor.

We had friends in Tabor called Macaks, and my mum sent them a letter saying that we were alive and asking if they knew anything about Jiri and my brother. She also wrote that she was looking forward to stuffed cakes. When we arrived in Tabor we met our friend Mr. Kratochvil, who had a furniture factory, and he offered that we could stay with him for a while. I didn't know that Jiri was already in Tabor. He didn't know that I was alive either. There was a bakery in Tabor, owned by a family called Lapacka, and Jiri went there to buy bread. Mrs. Macakova was in the shop at the same time, and she told Mrs. Lapackova that she had received a letter from my mum. That's how Jiri found out that I was alive. He didn't know anything about my brother. They had both been transported to Schwarzheide concentration camp in June 1944. Jiri said that Rudolf had been too weak to join the first death march and that he stayed in the camp. He then joined the second march but he was too weak. Jirka Frankl wrote to us that he was with him and that Rudolf had some cigarettes and wanted to change them for some food but without success. All the prisoners were weak and Rudolf didn't want to hold them up, so he sat down on the side of a ditch and was shot.

Back in Tabor we received a large four-bedroom apartment in town from a Jewish family called Mendl. Jiri and his brother Richard received an apartment, too, and Jiri's cousin, Marta Navratilova, was staying there with them for a while. Our belongings had been hidden at different people's places, and we got some parts of it back. We had troubles with one furrier. He had a concave stairway in the house, and my mum had hidden a lot of things there, including carpets and original paintings that my dad was collecting. My mum had made a list of all the things she had actually put there. When we wanted these things back he made difficulties and, for example, just gave us the frames without the paintings. He kept saying that the Russians had confiscated everything, and my mum got upset about his lies and brought him to trial. She won, and he had to pay us 30,000 crowns. He robbed a lot of Jews and made money on them. Except for this we had a very warm welcome after coming back. We also had belongings at some of my friends' who returned everything to us.

Jiri and Richard decided to rebuild the confectionary warehouse. We didn't have very much money but the Orion confectionary factory gave them a credit in the name of their father, and so we got started. I worked with them, and my mum was at home cooking for us and doing the housework.

In April 1946 we had a double wedding, me and Jiri, and Richard and Marta, who was Jewish and had lost her husband during the Holocaust. The wedding was on the same day a year after I had been liberated. I didn't realize until I received a telegram with congratulations from my former co- prisoners.

We shared a house with Richard, his wife and their two daughters, Marcela and Zuzana. was religious and often went to the synagogue. He came to Prague on Jewish holidays. His girls didn't feel Jewish. We had the warehouse and sold goods to small businessmen. We had a Tatra and an assistant driver. We were successful, but we worked really hard for it. I was in the shop or in the office every single day. When communists nationalized the warehouse in 1948, I was actually glad that I got rid of it.

My mum had an apartment in Tabor and lived there with her nephew, who had returned from the camp alone. His name was Harry Kraus, and he was born in 1933. He was the son of my mother's brother Frantisek. Due to the war, Harry had lost several years of compulsory education. My mum sent him to the gymnasium in Tabor after the war, so that he could complete his studies. However, he cared more for girls then for his studies, so she organized an apprenticeship for him in some weaving factory in Ceska Trebova in 1948. He didn't feel comfortable there either, and in the end some friends persuaded him to go to Israel.

It was legal emigration, organized by a man, whose name I can't remember. A group of young people, who had survived the war and stayed alone, went to a kibbutz called Hachotrim. The kibbutz was near Tel Aviv and close to a Czech kibbutz named Masaryk. Hachotrim was mainly an agricultural kibbutz; they were breeding hens there. Well, Harry was kind of a wild person and wasn't able to keep up with the discipline there, so he left. He spent some time in Haifa and then moved to Tel Aviv, where he worked in some laundry.

Harry got married soon after he arrived in Israel at the age of 19. His wife, Lilly Kleinova, was two years older than him. Lilly originally came from Slovakia, her family ran a quarry there. She couldn't have children, so they adopted a three-month-old boy. My husband and I visited them in 1969 for a month, and Harry tried to persuade us to stay for good. But firstly I didn't really like it that much, and secondly we didn't want to emigrate because of my mum, who was already severely sick. We could neither take her along nor leave her. My husband loved my mother, and they had a very nice relationship. We made a deal that we would come back to Prague, and after that we could eventually try to figure out how to manage the aliya. When we returned, the borders were closed, and I'm glad we didn't stay there. My mum died in Tabor in 1962. She had a civil burial. We stayed in the old house but were only three people, so in the end we sold the house and moved to two apartments.

We had a few friends in Tabor, but we were mostly in touch with our own families. Richard and his wife were older, so their daughters spent most of the time with us, and we also took them on vacations with us. We often went to Bulgaria for vacations and later to Slovakia. We also spent some holidays in Zelezna Ruda at a cottage, which belonged to the company I worked for. After the events of 1968 [Prague Spring] 9, Marcela moved to Prague, and Zuzana emigrated to Switzerland.

My husband began to work in a textile factory in Ceske Budejovice in 1948. He was diligent, worked his way up and soon held a distinguished post. However, some communists didn't like it because he used to be a businessman, and they fired him during the program '77.000 persons to manufacture' [the program was actually called 'Action 77,000'] 10 so he had to start all over. There was a silicone fiber production factory in Tabor, so he went to work there with a friend of his. He started as a manual laborer, it was nonstop work, including Saturdays and Sundays. In the end he worked his way up, but again he was told that as a former businessman he could be no more than a foreman. Jiri said to the director, 'Comrade director, you say I cannot be production planner but you let me be a foreman who can influence hundreds of people?' He did become a foreman but slowly worked his way up again, and then he was in a really good position until his retirement in 1981.

I started to work with Jednota, which was a collective consumer co- operative, in 1950. In the beginning I was an assistant in the administrative department, but I worked my way up to the head of the financial department. I worked there for 30 years. I was never voted to become a member of the company union, although I worked there for ages and had a leading position. I was Jewish and my husband a former businessman, and that wasn't the best 'qualification' under the communist regime. But we cared little about it. I continued working there for two years after I retired at the age of 54.

We celebrated Christmas. We knew that there was Pesach and Chanukkah and so on but we didn't celebrate it. We ate matzah on Pesach, but I didn't do any special cleaning at home. We didn't observe the high holidays. Most Jews from Tabor, who had survived the war, had moved away afterwards. We used to go to Prague but only for memorial services to remember relatives who didn't survive.

When the Russians came in 1968 we were both surprised and disappointed, just like everyone else. Their tanks drove into Tabor, and Jiri wanted to go to the square but I was scared. However, I was more afraid to let him go on his own, so I joined him. The streets were full of people but nothing happened. The tanks must have come to Tabor by mistake because people had moved the road-signs giving directions to Prague, so the Russians sometimes ended up somewhere else than they planned. At that time we had visitors, young relatives of Jiri staying with us, the children of his cousin Marta Navratilova: Jirka and Vera Navratil and their partners were spending their vacation in our region. Vera was canoeing with her boyfriend, and when the tanks were on the bridge they did a very stupid thing: They started to throw potatoes from the canoe towards the tanks. Fortunately nothing happened, and there was no shooting. In Tabor the situation wasn't as tough as in Prague. Well, we were checked at our workplaces, so that they could see if we were loyal enough and if we agreed with the invasion of the Soviet army, but that happened everywhere.

I helped at the local organization of the Union of Anti-Fascist Fighters. I didn't feel any anti-Semitism after World War II. We have been registered with the Jewish community in Prague since 1945. There was no Jewish community in Tabor, so we were living there as the almost only Jews and didn't bother anyone. I had a simple and nice life with my husband. We didn't have any children. We were neither rich nor poor, and we weren't involved in politics. We have always lived modestly and what we had was enough for us. We weren't persecuted in any way.

I wasn't very excited about the Velvet Revolution 11 in 1989 and the time after. I'm not a fan of Vaclav Klaus 12 or Vaclav Havel 13. I lived under capitalism before so I know that those who don't work won't eat. And that's what people couldn't understand. They thought that if they jingle their keys on a square everything would just easily fall into their arms. [Editor's note: During the Velvet Revolution people went out on the street and jingled their keys, in imitation of the last school bell before school is over, as if to say that the days of the communist regime were numbered.] And Mr. Klaus was supporting them in this idea. My husband died in Tabor in 1999 and had a civil burial.

I moved to a Jewish pension in Prague a year and a half ago, and I like it very much. No one is really religious here but we get together on Jewish holidays. I have a nice pension so I am not really dependent on the assets I receive from different funds for Holocaust victims. It's nice to get that money, but I'm not upset if the payment is delayed unlike some other people.

I was and I am a believer. I believe that there's someone who directs our life. I think God is 'human', and he's not only there for Jews or Christians but for everyone. However, I cannot imagine that I would ever pray. I believe that when someone is born his destiny is already written. What happened to us probably had to happen. Our fate is to be Jewish.

Glossary">Glossary

Eva Meislová

Praha
Česká republika
Rozhovor pořídila: Pavla Neuner
Období vzniku rozhovoru: březen 2003

PLEASE NOTE - this is only the transcript of the interview, the final edited version will be uploaded later

Kazeta č. 1:

A: Jak se jmenoval tvůj tatínek?

B: Tatínek se jmenoval Alois Böhm a narodil se 18.8.1885 v Čelkovicích.

A: A kde byly Čelkovice?

B: U Tábora, takový předměstí, tenkrát.

A: A v Táboře pak žil celý život?

B: Ano. Byl živnostník, měli jsme obchod se suknem. Tedy jeho otec a pak tam byli partneři.

A: A co prodávali konkrétně?

B: Látky na kabáty a tak podobně.

A: Pocházel z české rodiny?

B: Ano, mluvili doma česky.

A: A jaké bylo jeho vzdělání?

B: Nevím, nepamatuju se, že by táta někdy studoval. Zažádal o živnostenský list a potom se stal dědovým společníkem.

A: A kdy tatínek zemřel?

B: Zemřel 30.6.1940 v Oranienburgu. Na začátku války v roce 39 kolovala po Táboře taková fáma, no nějaký Češi si prostě vzpomněli, že Rusové už přišli osvobodit Tábor a Němci pak udělali takovou razii a zatkli spoustu Čechů a hlavně Židů, mezi nimi i tatínka. Napřed byl v Drážďanech ve vězení a pak ho poslali do Oranienburgu. No a on byl zrovna v tom věku, kdy byl zvyklej denně kouřit, pít kafe, dobře jíst, no jak to tak bývalo. A prostě to nevydržel, oni tam byli taky dost mučený. Zajímavý bylo, že nám z toho Oranienburgu v tý době poslali urnu s jeho poelem, jeho šaty a všechny věci, které mu zabavili. Tenkrát to bylo ojedinělé. I úmrtní list nám dali. Urnu máme ještě teď na hřbitově. Měli jsme ji na židovském hřbitově, který ale zrušili, a že tam byla uložená jen krátce, dovolili jí mamince přenést na ústřední hřbitov, takže je uložený v urnovém háji v Táboře. Vymezili tam Židům místo u zdi. I moje maminka a manžel měli pak občanský pohřeb.

A: Byl Tatínek pobožný?

B: Táta nebyl vůbec pobožný, dokonce prý podle maminky vystoupil i z víry, protože po něm chtěli příliš vysokou náboženskou daň. Pocházel z české rodiny. My jsme chodily jako děti na náboženství, ale do kostela jsme chodili jen na Jom Kippur a Nový rok. V Táboře bylo asi okolo 800 židů, ale nikdo nebyl moc pobožný. Táta hodně kouřil a pil hodně kafe. Maminka si taky občas dala cigaretu, po válce kouřila dost, ale po infarktech jí to doktor zakázal a přestala. Táta byl pravej Žid, sportoval maximálně v kavárně.Když jsme o víkendu, v neděli chodili na procházky s maminkou, to byla taková dlouhá krásná lesní cesta, říkával tatínek mamince, že jde do kavárny, aby za ním přišla. Takže my jsme se procházely tak do čtyř odpoledne a ona pak šla ještě za tátou do kavárny.

A:  A pamatuješ si, že by sloužil v nějaké armádě?

B: Ne, nemyslím.

A: Měl tatínek nějaké sourozence?

B: Měl jednu sestru Julii, která si vzala křesťana pana Bělohlávka, který byl v Praze ředitel Spořitelny. Byla o něco mladší, asi dva nebo tři roky než tatínek. V Praze žila se svým mužem v nádherném třípokojovém družstevním bytě v ulici Na valech.

A: Měli spolu nějaké děti?

B: Děti neměli. On měl akorát syna z prvního manželství.

A: Strýc Bělohlávek zemřel kdy?

B: Bělohlávek zemřel ještě na začátku války. Jí z toho přeskočilo a chodila bez hvězdy a někdo jí udal, ale vůbec nevím, kde po Terezíně nakonec skončila. Ten nevlastní syn Julči se oženil s nějakou holkou, kterou oni nechtěli, protože jim nebyla dost dobrá, tak oni ho úplně vydědili a vůbec se s ním nestýkali. On pak s tou svou manželkou je začal trochu navštěvovat za války a maminka si myslela, že tetu Julču nakonec udal on kvůli tomu majetku.

A: A víš, co s ním bylo po válce?

B: On po válce žil v Táboře a pracoval v bance, ale já jsem se s ním nestýkala, protože se nezachoval dobře a  ani on neprojevoval žádný zájem.

A: Teď se tě zeptám na tvého dědu z otcovy strany, jak se jmenoval?

B: Děda z otcovy strany se jmenoval Jakub Böhm.

A: A kdy se narodil?

B: Narodil se v Batelově na Moravě, jen už nevím kdy. Tam měl továrnu na sukna. 

A: A kde ještě žil?

B: Do Celkovic se přistěhoval, když se oženil s babičkou, která tady žila, a otevřel si v Táboře obchod se suknem, kde pak byl můj tatínek společníkem. V Celkovicích měli dům, tenkrát to bylo takové předměstí Tábora, teď už je to v podstatě Tábor. Když dědovi zemřel otec, zůstali s bratrem a maminkou a bratři řídili továrnu. Jenže zkrachovali. Jeho bratr žil v Německu, ale nic o něm nevím, moc se nestýkali.

A: Kdy zemřel?

B: Děda zemřel v roce 1942 v Terezíně měsíc poté, co jsme tam přišli. Už mu taky bylo přes osmdesát let. 

A: Byl pobožný?

B: Nebyl nábožensky založený. Těsně před válkou se přestěhovali z Celkovic do Tábora do bytu, protože od nich z domu to bylo do obchodu do kopce a děda už nemohl. Pak za války se po nařízení, podle kterého Židi mohli obývat pouze některé čtvrti, přestěhovali k nám, my jsme měli velký byt. Pocházel z normální české rodiny, nicméně byl velký vyznavatel Rakouska-Uherska.

A: A jaký jsi k němu měla vztah?

B: Dědu jsem měla ráda, dost často u nás spal, protože to pro něj do Celkovic bylo už daleko. Ale nějaký zvlášť přátelský a srdečný vztah jsme neměli, ani s tatínkem. To spíš s maminkou.

A: Jak daleko to bylo od vás do Celkovic?

B: Ten dům v Celkovicích byl od nás asi čtvrt hodiny pěšky, byl to hezký poschoďový dům se zahradou u řeky.

A: A jak to tam bylo vybavený? Měli elektriku a tekoucí vodu?

B: Neměli elektriku, svítili petrolejkou a záchod byl na dvorku. Dědeček s babičkou byli talkoví normální jednoduchý lidi. Moc často jsme tam ale nechodili.

A: Víš o tom, že by sloužil v nějaké armádě?

B: To ne, alespoň o tom teda nevím.

A: A jak se jmenovala babička?

B: Babička se jmenovala Veronika Böhmová, rozená Redererová, ale nevím kdy. Narodila se v Celkovicích.

A: A bydlela ještě někde jinde?

B: Ne, tam také žila celý život, než se v 1937 nebo 1938 přestěhovali do bytu v Táboře.

A: A kdy zemřela ?

B: Šla s námi do Terezína a zemřela přesně za měsíc po dědečkovi, jednak byla už stará ale taky na sebe byli celý život zvyklí, tak zemřela taky trochu na ten smutek z jeho ztráty.

A: Měla nějakou profesi?

B: Ne, byla celý život jako žena v domácnosti, jejím koníčkem bylo chování slepic.

A: A pamatuješ si, jestli měla nějakou školu?

B: Myslím, že určitě ne. Ale měla bratra, který přednášel v Praze na Vysoké škole.

A: Byla babička pobožná?

B: Babička Böhmová byla pobožná, držela košer kuchyni, protože byla z pobožné rodiny. Její tatínek byl šamesem.

A: A kde šámesoval?

B: V Táboře.

A: Tak teď k prarodič§m z matčiny strany. Jak se jmenoval dědeček?

B: Dědeček z matčiny strany se jmenoval Josef Kraus.

A: A kdy a kde se narodil?

B: Narodil se v Čechticích a tam také zemřel ještě před válkou. Měl deset let před svou smrtí mrtvici a pak už vlastně všechny ty roky jen proležel.

A: A čím se živil?

B: Moc jsem ho neznala. Měli nějaký obchod ses míšeným zbožím a pokoušeli se dělat do zemědělství, ale bez úspěchu. Maminka říkala, že nevyrostlo nic z toho, co zaseli. Byli důkaz toho, že Židi a zemědělství nejdou dohromady. 

A: Byl pobožný?

B: Určitě nebyl pobožný, což nebyla ani jeho žena moje babička Pavlína Krausová.

A: A kdy a kde se narodila?

B: nevím, vím jen to, že pocházela z Mladé Boleslavi.

A: A žila ještě kde?

B: Provdala se za dědu a žila tedy v Čechticích. Po jeho smrti se přestěhovala ke svým synům do Prahy.

A: Víš něco o jejím vzdělání?

B: Ne, moc jsem u nich nebyla a nic jiného o ní nevím.

A: Jak se tedy jmenovala tvoje maminka?

B: Maminka se jmenovala Štěpánka Böhmová, rozená Krausová.

A: Kdy se narodila?

B: Narodila se 10.5.1895 v Čechticích ve Středních Čechách.

A: A zemřela?

B: Zemřela 6.2.1962 v Táboře.

A: měla nějaké školy?

B: Jako mladá dívka z dobré rodiny byla v Teplicích v penzionátu, kde bydlela a učila se a připravovala se na rodinné povinnosti.

A : A tam se seznámila s tatínkem?

B: S tatínkem se seznámila ve vlaku. Po svatbě (rodiče měli židovskou svatbu) se přestěhovala za ním do Tábora, starala se o domácnost a pomáhala tatínkovi v obchodě.

A: Byla maminka pobožná?

B: Pobožná vůbec nebyla, do kostela chodila akorát na velký svátky a to ještě aby předvedla nějaký nový model šatů. V táboře byla veliká krásná poschoďová synagoga, na balkonech měli místo ženy a nalevo seděli ty pobožný a napravo ženy, které si tam spíš přišly popovídat než se modlit, a ty, které se modlily, je upomínali, aby byli zticha.

A: A jaký byl její rodný jazyk?

B: Maminka pocházela z české rodiny, ale měla německou školu základní.

A: Měla nějaké sourozence?

B: Máma měla pět sourozenců, nejstarší Rudolf padnul jako voják v první světový. Další bratr byl zubní lékař a zemřel už v roce 1933 na leukémii. Jedna teta bydlela v Kralupech a další dva bratři žili v Praze.

A: A jak to u Vás doma fungovalo? Kdo řídil domácnost?

B: Maminka byla krk a tatínek hlava. Maminka všechno řídila, po stránce finanční byli dohodnutý, tatínek jí dával nějakej měsíční plat, a tatínek to dělal spíš z pohodlnosti. Prostě co se týkalo výchovy, to řídila maminka. Někdy jsme dostali facku, ale nikdo nás moc nebil.

A: A jaká byla maminka osobnost?

B: Maminka byla veselá a ráda se bavila,byla velmi oblíbená. I teď ještě na ní v Táboře lidi vzpomínají. Maminka chodila hrozně pěkně oblíkaná, dokonce šila v Praze. K tomu krejčímu jezdila i po válce. Měla vlasy do drdolu, ale měla jich dost málo, tak nosila takové tupé. Maminka byla velice elegantní a hlavně velmi oblíbená a veselá. Tatínek byl naopak poměrně vážný, ale měli se moc rádi.

A. Ty jsi měla bratra, je to tak?

B: Měla jsem ještě staršího bratra Rudolfa.

A: A kdy se narodil?

B: Narodil se  v Táboře 23.6.1921.

A: A jaké měl školy?

B: Vystudoval české reálné gymnázium, ale dál už nemohl pokračovat.

A: Měl nějaké koníčky, nebo byl členem nějakých organizací?

B: Bratr chodil taky do skautu jako já. Ruda byl členem sionistické organizace Hachšara, což byli mladí židé. Byl s nimi dvakrát v létě asi na tři měsíce na zemědělských pracech. Oni tam spolu všichni žili a bydleli a peníze, které vydělali, dávali do společné kasy, takový jako kibucnický život. Jirka tam byl s ním. Další rok, to už bylo tak vo roce 1940 nebo 1941 už museli jako židé pracovat nuceně. Vím, že dělali na regulaci řeky v Sezimově Ústí. Taky byly na pomocných pracech, když tam Baťa začal u n nás stavět bytovky.

A: A jaký jste měli s bratrem vztah?

B: Měli jsme spolu takový normální sourozenecký vztah.Vím, že jsem brečela, že se mnou v tanečních nechce tancovat a maminka mi říkala: "Nebreč a buď ráda, že máš vlastní nápadníky."

A: A jaký byl tvůj bratr člověk?

B:  Ruda byl krásný kluk a hrozně inteligentní, byl takový studijní typ. Chtěl se stát psychiatrem.

A: A on šel s Vámi do Terezína?

B: Jo, ale z Osvětimi šel do Schwerheide a zemřel na pochodu smrti.

A: Tak teď budeme mluvit o strejdovi. Jak se jmenoval?

B:  Můj manžel se jmenoval Jiří Meisl a narodil se 4.7.1921 v Červeném Újezdě u Benešova.

A: A jak se dostal do Tábora?

B: V roce 1930 jeho rodiče v Táboře koupili dům s obchodem a přestěhovali se tam.

A: Byl pobožný, měl třeba bar micka?

B: Jirka měl ve 13 Bar micva, na kterou se sjeli příbuzní a pamatuji se, že dostal hodinky. Bylo to v červenci a myjsme myslím byli s rodiče někde na dovolené. Oni bydleli naproti nám a my jsme spolu vlastně začali chodit už od patnácti let. On se taky hodně kamarádil s mým bratrem Rudou a naši rodiče se taky stýkali.

A: Jaká byla jeho rodina?

B: Pocházel také ze zcela židovské české rodiny.

A: A jaké měl školy?

B: Vystudoval před válkou ještě dvouroční obchodní školu a byl zaměstnaný v kanceláří ve Velimských cukrovinkách. Pak už byl doma a nemohl pracovat.

A: Jirka zemřel nedávno, že?

B: Ano v roce 1999.

A: V Táboře?

B: Ano.

A: Teď
tady máme informace o dětech.

B: My jsme děti neměli. Nemohla jsem. Na zacatku valky jsem docela tezce onemocnela a uz jsem pak nikam moc nechodila. Měla jsem bolesti už od roku 1939 a doktoři usoudili, že je to slepé střevo a tak mi ho vyoperovali. Když ale bolesti neustávali, zjistilo se v roce 1940, že mám nádor na vaječnících. Poslední menstruaci jsem měla ještě v Terezíně, tam ale dávali do jídla chinin a většina žen přestala menstruovat, já už potom nikdy.

A: Měli jste doma služku?

B: Babička i my jsme měli služku, která u nás bydlela a pomáhala s domácností. Prala a vařila, ale nebyla to chůva.

A: A Jaký byl váš byt?

B: Měli jsme velký byt, tři pokoje a kamrlík.

A: A co elektrika a tekoucí voda?

B: Měli jsme doma elektriku a tekoucí studenou vodu. Maminka vybudovala koupelnu s vanou a jednou týdně jsme se koupali. Voda se ohřívala, měli jsme vysoký kachlíkový kamna, ve kterých se topilo. V kuchyni pak byl sporák na uhlí, na kterém se vařilo. Táta byl zimomřivý a vidím ho, jak si čte Prager Tagblatt a opírá se zády o kamna a nahřívá se. V zimě se topilo jen v jednom společném pokoji a spát se chodilo do studenýho.

A: A to byl váš vlastní byt?

B: Byt byl nájemní, moje maminka nikdy nechtěla vlastní byt. Ona vždycky říkala, zaplatíš si nájem a nemáš s tím žádný další starosti. Mě to taky nikdy nebavilo starat se o dům. Těch služek jsme měli několik, protože to většinou byly mladý holky z vesnice, který si chtěli vydělat peníze, tak šli do služby, pak se často vdali a odešli.

A: A jaký jste k nim měli vztah?

B: Měli jsme je rádi, ale rodiče jim vždy vykali a nikdy si je nějak víc nepřipustili k tělu.

A: Služky byly i židovky?

B: Židovský holky spíš chodily k dětem, když už. Ale aby šla nějaká židovská holka za služku, to si vůbec nepamatuju.

A: Židi v Táboře byli chudší nebo spíš bohatší?

B: V Táboře žila střední židovská vrstva, ani bohatí ani chudí, jen jeden pan továrník a jinak spíš samí obchodníci.

A: Stýkali jste se s nimi?

B: Měli jsme mezi nimi i nějaké židovské přátele, s kterými se rodiče navštěvovali, ale ne ani tak kvůli tomu, že byli židi, prostě si byli sympatičtí.

A: A bylo tam hodně pobožných?

B: Bylo tam pár více pobožných rodin, ale většina nedodržovala ani šabat, stejně jako my. 

A: Chodila jsi do školky nebo jsi byla doma?

B: Vyrůstala jsem doma, ale bez chůvy. V Táboře jsem vychodila českou obecnou školu, od třetí třídy jsme se učili německy, z němčiny se myslím i maturovalo.  Pak jsem chodila do reálného gymnázia, ale absolvovala jsem jen pět tříd, v páté jsme se začali učit francouzsky. Scházíme se jako maturantky, ačkoli já jsem s nimi vlastně už nematurovala, tak říkají, že je samozřejmý, že patřím mezi ně. Naše třída byla dívčí a všechny se ke mně chovaly vždy slušně.

A: Vybavuješ si nějaký antisemitismus ve škole?

B: Nemůžu si stěžovat na nějaký projevy antisemitismu. Nikdy jsem si na škole nevšimla nějakých protižidovských akcí, ty spolužáci tenkrát ani nějak nevnímali, že jsem židovka. Maminka mě pak dala do rodinné školy, kam jsem chodila jen rok.

A: Co se dělalo v rodinné škole?

B: Kromě učení se tam šilo a vařilo a mě to hrozně nebavilo. Pak už jsme do školy nesměli chodit a maminka mě dala do učení k jedné švadleně a ještě jí platila 30 korun měsíčně za to, že jsem tam mohla chodit. 

A: Byla jsi dobrá žákyně?

B: Škola mě bavila, vždycky jsem se dobře učila a chtěla jsem být farmaceutkou.

A: Chodila jsi do nějakých kroužků?

B: Docela jsem sportovala, chodila jsem do Rytmiky, tam se tak tancovalo podle hudby, v zimě se bruslilo a lyžovalo, chodila jsem i do Sokola, hodně jsem cvičila. Před válkou jsem chodila na soukromý hodiny angličtiny, němčiny a francouzštiny k paní Polákové. Byla jsem taky u skautů a jednou nebo dvakrát jsem s nima jela na letní tábor. Pak jsem tam přestala chodit dřív, než mě vyloučili. 

A: A jak jsi se vyrovnávala s antisemitismem?

B: Necítím se zas tak židovsky a ani po válce jsem to tak necítila. Asi proto, že jsem žila v českém prostředí a celou dobu po válce jsem nežila mezi židama, v Táboře jsme byli v podstatě jediní. Jen si pamatuju, jak ještě před válkou, jsem čekala u doktora a když jsem byla na řadě vešla jsem do ordinace. Na chodbě pak křičel jeden Vlajkař tak, že to bylo slyšet až dovnitř, že jako židovka bych měla počkat až tam vůbec nikdo nebude. Toho Vlajkaře lidi po válce odchytli a pak byl odsouzenej, to vím, protože Jirka se šel na ten soud podívat. Pak byl těžce nemocný a nakonec chodil k židovskému doktorovi se léčit.

A: Co jste dělali ve volném čase?

B:  My jsme měli Tatru kabriolet a jezdili jsme hodně na výlety. Jezdili jsme pravidelně autem na výlety do okolí, Orlík a Zvíkov asi nejčastěji. Tam jsme se koupali. Tatínek, ačkoli se narodil u vody, neuměl plavat a vždycky běhal kolem vody křičel na nás, abychom se neutopili.

A:  Jezdila jste ráda v autě?

B: Pro mě ty výlety autem byly strašný, protože jsem nerada jezdila, pokaždý jsem totiž zvracela. Ještě když jsem se vdala, nesnášela jsem i auto i vlak.

A: A podnikali jste i delší výlety?

B: Tatínek jednou za rok vyrazil se svým kamarádem třeba na Slovensko. Ale normálně se tak daleko nejezdilo. Ani v zimě, protože u nás bylo tolik sněhu, že jsme vždycky lyžovali v táboře.

A: Slavili jste nějaké židovské svátky?

B: Žádný židovský svátky jsme neslavili. Strýc Bělohlávek byl hrozně pobožnej katolík a…

A: To byl manžel od otcovy sestry?

B: Jo, tak oni vždycky přijeli na Vánoce, ty jsme slavili. Jak byly bohatý, tak vždycky přinesli kolekce na stromeček a dárky. Jedli jsme kapra a bramborový salát. Vánoce vlastně slavili všichni, my jsme ani nevěděli  kdy a že je Chanuka. Doma jsme moc návštěvy neměli. Šabat jsme nedrželi, ani košer jídlo. Jedli jsme i vepřové. Maminka měla ve sklepě husy a chovala je na maso a sádlo.

A: Měli jste nějaké domácí zvÍřectvo?

B: Jezevčíka Maxela a potom, když umřel ještě kanára.

A: A co jedl?

B: Maxel dostával k jídlu naše zbytky, ale chodil vedle k řeznici, která mu vždycky dala něco dobrého. Vozila jsem ho v proutěném kočárku na panenky, ale pak jsme ho musli nechat utratit.

A: Měli jste nějaké jídelní zvyky?

B: Jedlo se společně, večeře byla vždycky v sedm a striktně se to dodržovalo. Bratr jednou chtěl svolení, aby mohl přijít pozdě. Měl holku a chtěl ji doprovodit. V centru bylo  místo, kde se korzovalo a maminka mu říkala doveď jí na roh ke Kubesům (tam to korzo končilo) a omluv se, že musíš být u večeře. Taky jsme společně obědvali.

A: A to jste chodili na oběd i během školy?

B: Měli jsme školu dopoledne a v gymnáziu byly hodiny pak ještě odpoledne. Otec taky zavíral obchod a šel na oběd a zdřímnout si.

A: Jedli jste nějaká specielně židovská jídla?

B: S židovských jídel jsme jedli maximálně šoulet a před Jom kippur jsme měli taky něco speciálního.

A: Byli rodiče nebo prarodiče členy nějaké politické strany?

B: Tatínek ani dědeček nebyli nikterak politicky angažovaní a ani se o to nestarali. Tatínek volil Živnostenskou stranu, ale vždycky říkal, že nejlepší strana je muž a žena.

A: A maminka měla nějaké zájmy?

B: Maminka měla takový kroužek, kterému jsme vždycky říkali kroužek starých panen. Byli tam židovky a křesťanky dohromady, scházeli se v kavárně nebo u některý doma. Po válce se ze židovek vrátila jen maminka a už nějak nebyla chuť tenhle spolek obnovovat.

A: A tatínek měl nějaké kamarády?

B: Tatínek chodil do kavárny s kamarádama. Nepamatuju si, že bychom se nějak jako různé rodiny moc navštěvovali. V každém případě jsme nerozlišovali, jestli jsou naši kamarádi židi nebo ne.

A: Kolik asi žilo židů v Táboře?

B:V Táboře bylo tenkrát asi 800 židů, a měli jsme tam rabína, kantora, šámese, kteří bydleli v bývalé židovské škole.   Nebyla ani žádná specifická část města, kde by se židi soustřeďovali, to až později za války z donucení je vyhnali pryč ze středu města. Rabín vyučoval náboženství, kantor asistoval při bohoslužbách. Židovská škola tam bývala ještě před první světovou, ale za nás už ne.

A: A mikve nebo ješivu?

B: Ani mikve nebo ješivu jsme neměli.

A: Dá se říct, co většina židů dělala za zaměstnání?

B: Většina židů byli obchodníci, s ovocem, galanterií a tak. Jeden byl továrník, ten měl sladovnu.

A: Ty pokoje doma, o kterých jste mluvila, byly velké?

B: Měli jsme doma velké pokoje, obývací, jídelnu, kde byl černý nábytek. A protože dívka z dobré rodiny musela umět hrát na piano, koupila mi maminka klavír, který stál v obýváku. Já jsem byla hudebně nenadaná, ale musela jsem na to piano hrát. Chodila jsem k jedné klavírní virtuosce Markétě Koprové, ale nikdy jsem se to nenaučila. Vždycky po obědě jsem hrála na piano, bratr na housle a když jsme měli otevřená okna, slyšeli jsme jak naproti zase hraje Jirka, a tak jsme vždycky přes poledne koncertovali.

A: A vy jste s bratrem bydleli v tom pokoji?

B: Jo, a pak jsme ještě měli ložnici, kde spali rodiče a my s bratrem jsme spali v tom obývacím pokoji. A kamrlík pro služku.

A: V kterém patře jste bydleli?

B: Bydleli jsme v prvním patře takového starého domu, který pak někdo koupil a plánoval tam nějaké přestavby, které se mamince nelíbili, takže jsme už měli vyhlídnutý modernější byt v centru. Mezitím ale přišli Němci a my jsme tam už museli zůstat. Majitel pak z chodby udělal ještě pokoj, kam nám pak nastěhovali jednu židovskou rodinu, což bylo dost nepříjemné.

A: Měla jsi židovské nebo víc křesťanské kamarádky? Všimla jsi si vzrůstajícího antisemitismu?

B: Měla jsem křesťanský kamarádky a ani jsem se nějak židovsky necítila, takže jsem si nějakého vznikajícího antisemitismu nevšimla. Dělala jsem to, co ostatní, chodila jsem do tanečních, i někteří moji nápadníci nebyli židé. Postupně už nás pak všechna možná nařízení protižidovská vyloučila z normálního života a stýkala se ta židovská mládež jen mezi sebou. Já jsem měla svoje dvě křesťanský kamarádky, jedna už nežije, ale za tou druhou ještě pořád jezdím do Tábora, je to moje nejstarší kamarádka.

A: Měli jste nějakou představu, co se s židy děje nebo, co se na ně chystá?

B: Vlastně jsme nic moc nevěděli co se děje, ani co se týče transportů, to se všechno rozhodovalo v Praze. Když jsme šli do Terezína, neměli jsme prakticky vůbec představu, jak to tam vypadá. Že je to hrozný, jsme zjistili až na místě.

A: Jak to probíhalo, když jste museli do transportu?

B: Když nás pak odváděli do transportu do Terezína, bylo to hrozný. Soustředili nás ve škole, tam jsme byli jednu noc, spali jsme na slamnících a pak nás vedli brzo ráno, takže tam ani žádní obyvatelé u toho nebyli. Věděli jsme, že jdeme do Terezína, ale jak to tam vypadá, jsme neměli zdání, šuškanda žádná k nám nepronikla. Do té doby jsme ani nějak fyzicky netrpěli, rodiče vyprodali všechno zboží z toho našeho obchodu, takže jsme měli z čeho žít.

A: Vy jste šli všichni dohromady a kdy?

B: Deportovali mě, babičku, dědu, maminku a bratra na podzim 1942.

A: Jak jsi tam bydlela?

B: Bydlela jsem na L-309 v takovém mládežnickém domě, kde bydlela samá mladá děvčata a pracovala jsem v prádelně, která byla mimo ghetto, tak nás tam vždycky vodili. Maminka pracovala na slídě, štěpení slídy. Starala se tam o malého chlapečka, asi pětiletého, který tam byl s tatínkem a oni byli vzdálení příbuzní.

A: A bratr?

B: Bratr pracoval napřed někde v zemědělství a potom v Kinderheimu. 

A: A prarodiče taky pracovali?

B: Dědeček za měsíc umřel a babička měsíc po něm. Jednak už byla stará a jednak na něj byla prostě zvyklá.

A: A jak to s vámi pokračovalo?

B: Potom jsme se jednou, nevím přesně, dostali do transportu a po mohl nám Viktor Kende, s kterým jsme se hodně kamarádili, prostě nás vyreklamoval. V prosinci 1943 jsme byly zařazeni znovu, ale jenom já a maminka, a to už nám Viky pomoct nemohl. Můj bratr a můj muž v transportu nebyli, ale přihlásili se dobrovolně, takže šli s námi. Manželovi rodiče byli už tenkrát pryč, on byl tenkrát nemocný, měl příušnice a s rodiči nešel.

A: Jak jste žili v Osvětimi?

B: V Osvětimi jsme byli v tzv. druhém rodinném táboře. Já jsem pracovala jako menáždienst, nosily jsme sudy s polívkou. Maminka se tam pořád starala o toho malého chlapce, kterého pak i s otcem zplynovaly. Bratr taky pracoval s dětmi v Kindrblocku s Freddy Hirschem. Po půl roce nás s maminkou převezli na práci. Dostali jsme se do Frauenlagru u Hamburgu.

A: Jak dlouho jste tam byli?

B: Tam jsme byli asi čtyři dny a bylo to tam hrozné. Jednou nás nechali klečet celý den. Jirka  s bratrem odešli 5.6. do Schwerzheide. Potom jsme odjeli do Harburgu, to bylo předměstí Hamburgu, tam jsme bydleli ve stodolách a lodí jsme jezdily do Morburgu, což byla velikánská továrna na oleje. Tam jsme pracovaly na obnovení továrny, já čirou náhodou v kantýně. A když už se ta továrna měla otevírat, přišel hrozný nálet a továrna byla zase zničená.  Pak jsme pracovaly v Neugraben, kde jsme odklízely trosky a v Tiefstack v cihelně, tam byl taky velký nálet.

A: Co jste dostávali k jídlu?

B: Jídla moc nebylo. Večer jsme dostaly čtvrtku chleba a moje maminka mi říkala: "Nesmíš to sníst, musíš si půlku nechat." Tak jsme si vždycky půlku nechaly, až nám to potom spoluvězni ukradli. Tak potom na to přišla, že je lepší to sníst najednou. V 1945 nás odvezli do Bergen Belsenu.

A: Jak to tam vypadalo?

B: Tam to bylo hrozné, to byly stany a ty byly plné mrtvol.

A: A tam vás osvobodili?

B: Tam nás 16.dubna osvobodili Angličani. Pak jsme se dostali do Prahy, kde jsme byli v nějaké záchytné stanici pro vězně a rozhodli jsme se, že pojedeme do Tábora.

A: A jak dlouho jste jeli domů?

B: Pár dnů snad. Oni nějaké ženy vězňů z Bergen-Belsenu poslali a zaplatili autobus pro své muže a když ten autobus přijel, zjistilo se, že oni už tam nejsou. Pamatuju se, že jsem ležela někde na marodce a maminka přišla, že odjíždíme do Prahy. Ten autobus byl strašně starej a nefunkční, v podstatě vrak.

A: A kde jste cestou spali?

B: Vždycky se na noc zastavilo a spali jsme pod širákem. Pamatuju si, že maminka vyprávěla, jak jednu noc, já jsem to nezažila, já jsem spala, naši dva řidiči zavraždili nějaký Němce a ukradli jim pneumatiky.

A: A věděli jste o Jirkovi a ostatních?

B: To je dobrá příhoda. Měli jsme dobré známé Macákovi, kterým maminka už dříve napsala, že jsme živy a jestli se vrátil bratr a Jirka a že se těší na buchty. V Táboře po příjezdu jsme potkali nějakého známého, pana Kratochvíla, on měl továrnu na nábytek, ten nás pozval, abychom u něj ten den přespali. To jsem ještě nevěděla, že můj muž už je v Táboře. On to taky nevěděl, jestli jsem živá. V Táboře byli nějací Lapačkovi, měli pekařství a on si k nim přišel pro chleba a současně tam přišla ta paní Macáková a ona té Lapačkové vypravovala, že jí maminka psala, že jsme živé a zdravé. Tím se to můj muž také dozvěděl.

A: A bratr?

B: O mém bratrovi Jirka nic nevěděl, protože prý už byl dost slabý a nešel tím prvním pochodem smrti a zůstal ve Schwerzheide. Pak ještě vypravili jeden pochod a na ten se přihlásil, jenomže nestačil. Jirka Frankl nám tehdy napsal, že on s ním šel, že měl Ruda nějaké cigarety a že to tam chtěl směnit za jídlo a že se to nepodařilo. Protože byli všichni slabí, tak nechtěl aby ho podpírali, tak si sedl někde u příkopu a oni ho zastřelili.

A: Kde jste tedy po válce bydleli?

B: Dostali jsme velký asi čtyřpokojový byt ve městě po židovské rodině Mendlových. Jirka  se svým  bratrem Richardem taky dostali byt a ještě s nimi bydlela sestřenice, Marta Navrátilová.

A: Měli jste schovaný nějaký majetek?

B: Měli jsme poschováváno spoustu věcí u jiných lidí, tak i něco z toho jsme dostali. Měli jsme potíže u jednoho kožešníka, u kterého bylo duté schodiště a maminka tam schovala spoustu věcí, včetně koberců a obrazů, který tatínek velmi sbíral, originály. Ten kožešník říkal, ať si tam všechno schová, ale maminka sepsala vše, co tam dala. Pak když jsme se vrátili, tak nám třeba z těch obrazů dal jenom rámy. Tvrdil, že mu všechno sebrali Rusové a maminka se naštvala a dala ho k soudu.

A: A jakto dopadlo?

B: Soud vyhrála a on nám musel zaplatit asi 30.000, což bylo tenkrát spoustu peněz. On okrad spoustu židů a hodně na tom zbohatnul.

A: Jak se k vám lidé chovali po návratu?

B: Po návratu nás přijali velmi dobře. Měli jsme taky věci u mých kamarádek, které nám všechno vrátili.

A: A co jste po válce dělali, šli jste ještě studovat?

B:  Rodiče Jirky  měli v Táboře původně velkoobchod s cukrovinkami a dům, tak se bratři rozhodli, že ten obchod obnoví. Celkem moc peněz jsme neměli po návratu, ale továrna Orion, továrna na cukrovinky, jim dala úvěr na zboží na jméno jejich otce, takže jsme začali. Já jsem byla s nimi zaměstnaná, maminka byla doma a vařila nám a hospodařila. Pak jsme se s Jirkou vzali a přestěhovali jsme se do toho domu po rodičích. Po válce jsme neměli tolik peněz, takže jsme měli společnou svatbu s Jirkovým bratrem Richardem.

A: A kdy byla svatba?

B: Vdávala jsem se 16.4.1946. Mí spoluvězeňkyně se scházeli na den našeho osvobození a poslali mi telegram ke svatbě a vlastně jsem si uvědomila, že se vdávám ve stejný den, kdy mě osvobodili.Pak jsme bydleli v jednom domě s Richardem, jeho ženou a jejich dětmi, Marcelou a Zuzanou. Jeho žena zemřela v roce 1972 a Richard se pak ještě oženil. My jsme tedy měli ten obchod s cukrovinkami, který nám celkem dobře prosperoval, nadřeli jsme se tam tedy dost.

A: Jak velký byl ten obchod?

B: Byl to velkoobchod, kupovali jsme ve velkém a prodávali malým obchodníkům.

A: Měli jste nějaké zaměstnance?

B: Měli jsme Tatrovku auto a závozníka. Musela jsem být celý den v krámě nebo v kanceláři. Když nám to v 1948 znárodnili, byla jsem vlastně ráda, že jsem se toho zbavila.

A: Mluvila jsi o nějakém příbuzném v Izraeli.  Jak to s ním bylo?

B: Maminka dostala byt v Hanušově ulici, měla u sebe ještě synovce, který se sám vrátil, byl to syn jejího bratra. Jmenoval se Harry Kraus, původně bydlel u svého strýčka v Praze, ale to prostředí nebylo pro něj moc vhodné, on měl bar. Tak si ho maminka vzala k sobě. On byl rozený 1933 a chodil málo do školy, tak ho maminka dala v Táboře do gymnázia, ale on spíš koukal po děvčatech a škola mu nešla. Potom ho maminka dala učit do České Třebové do nějaké tkalcovské továrny, to už byl ale rok 1948. On byl takový "hlavou proti zdi", takže se mu tam taky moc nevedlo a potom ho nějací kamarádi přesvědčili, aby šel do Izraele, kam se nakonec legálně vystěhoval.

A: A jak žil v Izraeli?

B: Nejdřív byl v kibucu Hachotrim, ale prostě se nemohl srovnat s tou disciplinou, tak potom odešel. Jeden čas byl v Haifě a pak se přestěhovali do Tel Avivu, dělal v nějaké prádelně a celkem se jim nevedlo špatně.  My jsme u něj taky byli se podívat.

A: A nenapadla vás v té době emigrace?

B: Ne, že by nás emigrace nenapadla, ale nechtěli jsme kvůli mamince, byla těžce nemocná, takže jsme jí nemohli opustit a ani už ji vzít s sebou. Manžel jí měl taky moc rád a měli jsme takový hezký vztah, takže bychom jí nemohli opustit.

A: A kdy jste tam vlastně byli?

B: V Izraeli jsme byli v 1969 na návštěvě a bratranec nás přemlouval, abychom tam zůstali, ale mě se tam moc nelíbilo. Letěli jsme tam a zůstali asi měsíc. Ale dohodli jsme se, že pojedeme domu a eventuálně to nějak uspořádáme, ale když jsme se vrátili, tak akorát zavřeli hranice. Ale já bych tam stejně nechtěla žít.

A: Pamatuješ si na události v roce 1968?

B: Když přišli v 1968 Rusové, byli jsme překvapení a zklamaní, asi jako všichni. Do Tábora prijeli tanky a Jirka se tam chtěl jít podívat a já jsem nechtěla, aby šel sám, tak jsem prekonala strach a šla jsem s nim. Oni se tam vlastně dostali náhodou.

A: Jak to?

B: Protoze jim lidi prehazovali na cestach ukazatele smerem na Prahu a tak se kolikrat dostali uplne jinam. Tak taky dorazili do Tabora. Tou dobou u nas take byli mladi Jirkovy pribuzni Jirka a Vera Navratilovi, kteri v okoli travili dovolenou se svymi partnery. Vim, ze cele dny chodili na mista, ktera Rusove obsadili a diskutovali s nimi. Vera byla se svym pritelem na vode a kdyz jeli tanky s vojaky pres most, udelali takovou hloupost, ze po nich hazeli bramborama. Nastesti se jim nic nestalo. V Tabore to nemelo tak ostry prubeh jako v Praze. Potom nás v podniku proverovali, jestli jsme loajální a souhlasíme se vstupem Sovětských vojsk, to se delalo vsude.

A: Měli jste po válce nějaké židovské přátele?

B: V Táboře jsme měli jedny přátele, on byl napůl žid, ale to nebylo podstatné. Nejvíce jsme se ale stýkali v rodině, jak jsme bydleli dohromady s Richardem a jeho rodinou. Oni byli jako rodiče už starší, takže jejich holky byli skoro pořád s námi, jezdili s námi i na dovolenou.

A: A Richard byl pobožný?

B: Bratr byl poměrně pobožný, chodil často do synagogy, ale holky nemají k židovství žádný vztah.

A: Kam jste s holkama jezdili?

B: Jezdili jsme hodně na dovolenou do Bulharska a na Slovensko. V Železné rudě jsme měli chalupu a tam jsme také byli často. Po 1968 se Marcela odstehovala do Prahy a Zuzana emigrovala a my jsme zustali v tom uz starem dome sami tri. Tak jsme se s Jirkou prestehovali do bytu a barak jsme prodali druzstvu, ktere za nej Richardovi dalo druzstevni byt.

A: Kde Jirka pracoval po znárodnění?

B: Po 1948 pracoval manžel v rozdělovně textilu a protože byl pilný a pracovitý postupně se vypracoval a byl v Budějovicích v celkem vysokém postavení. Jenže některým komunistům to nešlo pod nos a v průběhu akce 77.000 lidí do výroby ho vyhodili a tak musel začít od začátku. V Táboře byla továrna na silonová vlákna a tak se tam ještě s jedním známým přihlásil. Začínal jako spřadač, dělalo se tam nepřetržitě, soboty, neděle a to mu nevyhovovalo, protože buď spal nebo byl v práci. Nakonec se zase vypracoval na plánovače výroby, ale v 50. letech řekli, že ho jako bývalí živnostník nemůže dělat. Ředitel si ho zavolal a dali ho dělat mistra zase na tři směny a on tomu řediteli řekl: "Soudruhu řediteli, plánovače výroby dělat nemůžu, ale mistra, kde můžu ovlivnit stovky lidí, to dělat můžu?". Tak dělal mistra, ale pomaloučku se zase vypracoval, až nakonec skončil jako vedoucí odbytu. To bylo skutečně dobré postavení a tam to dotáhnul až do penze v 1981

A: A ty?

B: Já jsem nastoupila v roce 1950 do Jednoty, to bylo lidové spotřební družstvo. Původně jsem tam dělala takové pomocné administrativní práce, ale dotáhla jsem to až na vedoucí všeobecné finanční účtárny. Byla jsem tam 30 let až do důchodu.

A: Cítila jsi nějaký antisemitismus?

B: V podniku mě nikdy nezvolili do Závodního výboru nebo do nějaké funkce. Pracovala jsem tam léta a měla jsem vedoucí postavení, ale byla jsem židovka a můj muž bývalý živnostník. Ale my jsme to všechno brali tak nějak sportovně.

A: Kdy jsi šla do důchodu ty?

B: Do duchodu jsem odesla v padesáti ctyrech letech. V Jednote jsem pomahala jeste asi dva roky jako duchodkyne a pak jsem taky vypomahala na okresnim Svazu bojovniku za svobodu.  Jinak jsem se po válce s  žádnými konkrétními projevy antisemitismu vůči sobě nesetkala.

A: Byli jste členy obce?

B: Na zidovske obci jsme byli zaregistrovani uz od 1945. V Tabore zadna zidovska organizace nebyla a my jsme v Táboře žili jako židi prakticky sami, takže jsme nikomu nevadili ani nebyli na očích. Díky tomu jsem k židovství ani nijak výrazně nepřilnula. Měli jsme s manželem hezký život, takový jednoduchý. Nebyli jsme bohatí ani chudí a podle toho jsme také žili. Nebyli jsme ani nijak politicky angažování a nemůžu říct, že bychom byli nějak perzekvovaní.

A: A jak se díváš na Sametovou revoluci?

B: Po revoluci se mi to moc nelíbilo, já nemám v lásce ani Klause ani Havla. Já už jsem kapitalismus zažila, tak jsem věděla, že kdo nepracuje ani nejí. A to lidi neuměli pochopit, mysleli si, že když zazvoní klíčema, tak jim spadne všechno k nohám a pan Klaus je v tom podporoval. Takže mě ta revoluce moc nevzala.

A: Jirka zemřel kdy?

B: Manžel zemřel 17.7.1999 v Táboře. Děti jsme neměli.

A: A jak dlouho bydlíš tady?

B: Před rokem a půl jsem se přestěhovala do židovského Penzionu v Praze a moc se mi tu líbí. Není tu nikdo pořádně nábožensky založený, ale slavíme tu židovské svátky. Žili jsme s mužem vždycky skromně a vystačili jsme s tím, co jsme měli.

A: Ty dostáváš nebo jsi dostala prostředky ze všech fondů co tu byly pro oběti holocaustu?

B: Já mám pěkný důchod, s kterým vystačím, takže nemůžu říct, že bych byla závislá na těch penězích, co dostávám z různých fondů pro oběti holocaustu. Je to příjemné, ale nerozčiluju se jako ostatní, když náhodou dojde ke zpoždění.

A: Věříš a věřila jsi v Boha?

B: Byla jsem a jsem věřící člověk. Věřím, že existuje někdo, kdo řídí náš život, nějaká vyšší moc.

A: Myslíš, že je bůh žena nebo muž?

B: Bůh je podle mne muž a není jen židovský nebo jen křesťanský, je pro všechny. Ale, že bych se modlila, to si nedovedu představit.Věřím, že když se člověk narodí, má už svůj osud napsaný. To, co se nám stalo, se asi stát mělo. Náš osud je, že jsme Židi.

Kazeta 2   Eva Meislová

A: Tak teď se vrhneme na fotky. Popiš mi, prosím, fotku číslo 1.

B: No, jsou tu rodiče Jirky před jejich obchodem. Jirka tam stojí vedle nich, jako mladík.

A: A co to má za kalhoty?

B: Pumpky, v tom se tenkrát chodilo, byla to taková moda pro mladý.

A: Pamatuješ si, kdo to fotil a kdy?

B: To si bohužel nepamatuju.

A: Tak fotka číslo 2.

B: To už je po válce, to je Jirka na zahradě v Celkovicích.

A: A ta chalupa v Železné rudě?

B: To byla od Jednoty,od podniku, to nebylo naše.

A: Fotka 3.

B: To je maminka a Jirka, když jsme se brali.

A: To bylo v roce 1946?

B: Jo.

A: A kde,měli jste třeba židovskou svatbu?

B: Ne to bylo v Táboře na okrese.

A: Fotka číslo 4.

B: To je bratr někdy po maturitě. To se fotilo ještě před válkou a vím, že to pak maminka po válce nechávala takhle zvětšovat. Je z ateliéru Kliment.

A: A jaký byl Rudolf?

B: No, on byl hrozně krásnej a veselej kluk. Chtěl být psychologem, on byl akový hodně studijní typ. Byl strašně hodnej.

A: Fotka číslo 5.

B: To je maminka za mlada, někde na dovolené nebo na výletě.

A: Víš kdo a kde to fotil?

B: To fakt nevím.

A: Fotka číslo 6.

B: To je fotka jak jsem byla na tom skautském táboře.

A: A kde a kdy to bylo?

B: Myslím, že v Červené Řečici, kdy to nevím, ale počkej, bylo mi asi šestnáct let.

A: To vedle je maminka?

B: Jo, oni tam za mnou přijeli na návštěvu.

A: Vy jste spali ve stanech?

B: Jo, s podsadou.

A: A co jste tam dělali?

B: Hráli hry, učili se vázat uzle, koupali se a tak.

A: Fotka číslo 7.

B: To je tatínek. On jezdil každý rok se svým kamarádem řídícím Švehlou na pěší túry. Vždycky někde týden chodili po horách. Většinou jezdili na Slovensko a celý týden fakt chodili.

A: Švehla byl řídící školy?

B: Ano, v Borotíně.

A: A co to má za hůlku?

B: To je hůlka a na ní jsou štítky,které se přilepovali podle toho,kde člověk byl.

A: Fotka číslo 8.

B: To je na chatě u Hermíny Meislové, to je Jirkův tatínek a maminka. Ale to tam dávat nebudeme.

A: Fotka číslo 9.

B: To jsem já s maminkou na procházce v Táboře, to už je po válce.

A: Jste tak elegantně oblečené.

B: Jo, maminka byla hrozně elegantní a taky to byla nedělní procházka.

A: Fotka číslo 10.

B: To je děda od tatínka, pak Rudolf a já.

A: To je v Celkovicích?

B: Jo, na zahradě.

A: Rudolf je tu trochu tlouštík, že jo?

B: On byl tlustý a pak najednou ve třinácti letech zhubnul.

A: A to vzadu je váš dům?

B: Ne, to je sousedů.

A: Fotka číslo 11.

B: To je babička, děda a já zase v Celkovicích.

A: Fotka číslo 12.

B: Tohle je bratranec Harry se synem Michaelem,kterého si adoptovali, když mu byli tři měsíce. Oni s Lilly nemohli mít děti, ona měla RH faktor, krev ten její plod vždycky sežrala, byla asi desetkrát v jiném stavu, ale prostě to nešlo.

A: To vypadá jako jeho bar micka.

B: No jo, Harry nám tu fotku poslal a na rub napsal „žrádla byla fůra“.

A: A kdo je Lilly a jak se poznali?

B: Lilly je ze Slovenska, její rodina tam měla nějaké doly a přežila a potkali se v Izraeli. Brali se vlastně hned, Harrymu bylo devatenáct.

A: A on je syn Františka?

B: Jo.

A: A ze kdy je ta forka?

B: Asi z roku 1980.

A: A tohle, fotka číslo 13.

B: To je Jirka o Vánocích.

A: A fotka číslo 14?

B: To je naše svatba.

A: A co jsi měla za kytky?

B: Jo, to bylykonvalinky.

A: A co je to za lidi.

B: Tady je Sylva, ta z Argentiny, a plukovník Fink, který šel Jirkovy za svědka, on byl Jirkův vzdálený strýc, on přišel se západní armádou a byl to jeden z nejbohatších lidí v Táboře. Byl před válkou advokátem. Pak tam je pan Hofman, ten plešatý,byl to řezník a pak pan Freuned,žid z Tábora.

A: A kdo to fotil?

B: To byl pan Schlée, to byl pouliční fotograf, co chodil po oslavách.

A: Fotka číslo 15.

B: To je taky ze skautského tábora. Máme tu na sobě kroje, holky chodili v sukních.

A: A to jste tam byly jen samé holky?

B: Ne i kluci, ale ty měli samostatný tábor hned vedle.

A: Mám ještě pár dodatečných dotazů. Co si vybavuješ při vzpomínání na dědu?

B: Dědův táta umřel, když byl děda malej kluk. Děda po tom jezdil jako podomní obchodník, měl vozík a koně. Taky si rád zahrál karty a užíval život.

A: Babička Veronika měla bratra, který přednášel,pamatuješ si co?

B: Veronika měla bratra, který přednášel, moc se nestýkali. Jmenoval se Ignác Rederer. Já jsem ho moc neznala.

A: A jak vypadal ten váš obchod, s čím tatínek obchodoval?

B: Byl to obchod se suknem, měli jsme příručího. K tomu jsme měli krejčovskou dílnu a zaměstnávali jsme několik krejčích. Do Tábora přišla armáda československá před válkou a my jsme měli velké zakázky a šili jsme uniformy. Zaměstnávali jsme krejčí v domácnosti a byl tam také mistr. Šili jsme tam spíš kabáty a pro muže.

A: Co dělala babička?

B: Babička byla v domácnosti.

A: A děda teda nebyl doma přes týden?

B: Děda bydlel přes týden u nás, aby nemusel šlapat. Do večera byl v krámě, večer si přečetl Prager Tagblatt.

A: A co dělala babička ve volném čase?

B: Babička měla své kamarádky, ale ne židovský, tam žádný židovky nebyly. Sešli se a kecali. Moc volnýho času neměli.

A: Říkala jsi, že babička byla pobožná?

B: Babička byla pobožná, ale s mírou. Sama se modlila a držela košer kuchyni. Děda chodil do kostela jen na Yom Kippur. V těhle malých městech se žilo normálně, jak žili Češi, tak žili i židi. Babička šla ještě na Nový rok.

A: Takže táta byl taky pobožný?

B: Tátu nevychovávali v pobožnosti. Ten vůbec do kostela nechodil. Židi se sjížděli akorát na velký svátky.

A: Kde bydlela Julie v Praze? Co to bylo za čtvrť?

B: Na valech byla ulice v Praze 6 v Dejvicích. To byla nóbl čtvrť. Bydleli kousek od Stromovky. Strýc byl strašně spořivej a tak jsme chodili vždycky do města přes Stromovku pěšky. Bydleli v přízemí.

A: A Bělohlávek byl hodně pobožném, že?

B: Chodil často do kostela, i když byl u nás v Táboře.

A: On zemřel před válkou a jak vlastně?

B: Bělohlávek zemřel, byl operovaný na prostatu a nechal se omlazovat, nevím, jak se to dělalo. Bylo mu už přes 60 let. Byl zvláštní, nosil kramflíčky a maloval si nehty na červeno. Ke stáří zblbnul, už byl v důchodu. Nosil korzet.

A: On byl homosexuál?

B: Nebyl homosexuál, ale byl šíblej. Nepovedla se asi operace prostaty a s těmi omlazovacími kůrami dohromady to  asi způsobilo, že zemřel, to bylo na začátku války.

A: Teď ještě k rodičům od maminky, říkala jsi, že měli nějaké pole?

B: Nikdy se jim nic neurodilo, měli nějaké malá pole, bydleli na vesnici a moc se jim nevedlo. Maminka vždycky říkala, že koupil prase a to jim chcíplo. Měli šest dětí a měli se co otáčet.

A: Pamatuješ si jací byli?

B: Babička byla velice vzdělaná, jemná dáma, moc se k němu nehodila. Nevím, kde k němu přišla. Ona byla z města a on z vesnice. Maminka tam jezdila, ale já ne.  Měli venkovský dům na náměstí s tím krámkem, který maminka po válce dostala a hned ho za lacino prodala.

A: Teď potřebuju vědět víc o maminčiných sourozencích, jak šli za sebou a jak se jmenovali?

B: Emil, dentista, Rudolf padl v první světové válce, pak byl Bedřich, který byl bankovní úředník, tenkrát se říkalo disponent, pracoval pro Union banku a zemřel v Osvětimi 7.března. František měl výrobu ručně vyšívaného prádla, ubrusy a ložní prádlo v Praze v Truhlářské ulici číslo 5 v centru, dělali velmi krásné věci, dodávali dokonce i na hrad. Jmenovalo se to Makra.

A: A sestra byla Ana?

B: Anna, bydlela v Kralupech a prodávali barvy a laky.

A: Takže nejstarší byl kdo?

B: Nejstarší byl Rudolf, pak Emil, Bedřich, maminka, František a nejmladší Aninka.

A: A Rudolf byl čím?

B: Padl jako normální mladý voják, nevím, čím byl.

A: Navštěvovali jste se ?

B: K tetě do Kralup jsme jezdili na prázdniny a k Bedřichovi do Litoměřic taky. Ten žil nakonec v Praze. Měli dvě děti a  manželku Doroteu.

A: A koho jsi mělanejraději?

B: S Aninkou jsme se nejvíc stýkali a měla jsem ji nejradši.

A: Byl někdo z nich pobožný?

B: Nikdo z nich nebyl pobožný.

A: Scházeli jste se při nějaké příležitosti všichni najednou?

B: Maminka vždycky za někým jezdila, nestýkali jsme se všichni dohromady u příležitosti nějakého svátku.

A: Ta dívčí škola, kam maminka chodila to byla židovská škola?

B: Dívčí škola v Jihlavě nebyla židovská škola, normální rodinná německá škola. Další stupeň po základce.

A: A kam by jsi zařadila svojí rodinu, byli jste bohatý nebo chudý nebo jak?

B: My jsme byli střední měšťanská vrstva. Ani bohatý ani chudý.

A: Jak to u vás chodilo třeba při Yom Kippuru?

B: Na Yom Kippur maminka dělala večeři, barches, kuře v nudličkách. Maminka vždycky říkala tatínkovi „Ty světíš svátky jen podle jídla“. Když jsme přišli z kostela, tak k nám přišla taky babička, maminka dělala bábovku a dělala se svačina. Barches je vodou zadělaný jakoby na vánočku, podává se to třeba k masu.

A: A to je sladký?

B: Není to sladký.

A: A postili jste se?

B: Maminka se postila, my děti ne.

A: A chodili jste do školy, když byl Yom Kippur?

B: Do školy jsme nechodili tenhle den.

A: A Jirkovi rodiče?

B: Jirkovi rodiče byli pobožný dost, když byl svátek, měli zavřený obchod. Tatínek měl otevřeno, ten nebyl vůbec pobožně vedeném.

A: Kolik židů si měla ve třídě?

B: Ve třídě na gymplu nebyl ve třídě ani jeden žid. Ani na základní.

A: To byly soukromé školy?

B: Státní školy to byly. Na gymplu bylo pár židů, ale ne se mnou ve třídě. V Táboře bylo víc škol. Na Starým městě byla obecná škola a na Novým taky. Bylo to podle toho, kde kdo bydlel. Obecných škol jsme měli tři, gymnázia dvě. Tenkrát nebyli žádné soukromé školy.

A: Dodržovala jsi nějaké zvyky po válce sama?

B: Já jsem nedodržovala žádný svátky po válce. Po válce byla jen modlitebna. Maminka ještě dělal večeři a postila se, ale po její smrti už jsme to neslavili.

A: Teď mi prosím vysvětli, coto byla Živnostenská strana.

B: Živnostenská strana byla strana živnostníků. Byla to malá strana, která snad ani nebyla ve vládě. Tenkrát byla hlavní strana Národní socialisti.

A: Maminka měla ten svůj klub. Jak že jste jimříkali a co dělali, kolik jich bylo?

B: Klub starých pannen, asi deset žen, scházeli se u některý z těch kamarádek, dělali svačinu a tlachali. Taky se scházeli odpoledne na Silvestra. Udělali si takovej mejdanek. Když jsem byla vdaná, tak jsme s Jirkou chodili na Silvestra tancovat. Před válkou jsme tak čekali do půlnoci. Tatínek vůbec nepil. Po válce už se nescházeli, ty židovky se nevrátili a už to nebylo ono.

A: Jak bys hodnotila židy v Táboře před válkou?

B: Skoro všichni židi v Táboře byli asimilovaní.

A: Teď mi, prosím, popiš ty protižidovská nařízení.

B: Šlo to krok za krokem. První bylo, že jsme museli odevzdat rozhlasový přijímače, to bylo asi ve 1940. Potom jsme se museli sestěhovat, židi nesměli být v centru a nesměli jsme chodit po chodníku, museli jsme šlapat po silnici.

A: A nezkusili jste to vzdorovat?

B: Každý to dodržoval, protože se bál, aby ho ty Vlajkaři neudali. Bylo jich tam dost. U koho si člověk myslel, že je mu nakloněný, tak pak se z něho třeba vyklubal antisemita. My jsme dodržovali ty nařízení, takže jsme do toho města vůbec nepřišli. Žili jsme tam spolu na tom předměstí a stýkali se mezi sebou. Maminka vyprodala obchod a zavřela ho, potom, co tatínka zavřeli. Meiselům dali německého správce. Museli jsme odevzdat všechno zlato, co jsme měli. Jednou, nevím kdy, k nám přišli Němci. Maminka si nechala spoustu látek, jak v okně bývali takový ty polštáře, tak udělala polštář a byly v tom ty zabalený látky. Dělali u nás vojáci německý šťáru, měli jsme hroznej strach, ale byli celkem slušný. Už nevím, proč to dělali.

A: A kdy tam přišli?

B: Přišli večer.

A: Odkud jste dostali předvolání do Terezína?

B: Do Terezína jsem dostali předvolání z Prahy z židovský obce, celej táborském okres jsme se soustředili ve škole. Tam jsme byli všichni. Tam jsme jednu noc přespali a druhej den ráno jsme měli transport.

A: Kolik vás vy té škole bylo?

B: V tý škole nás bylo kolem tisíce lidí, byli jsme úplně namačkaný. Večer jsme tam přišli ani jsme nedostali najíst. Byla už dost zima, měli jsme nějaký ruksaky. Tenkrát jsme byli mladý, to se líp snášelo, než třeba děda a babička.

A: Kde si pak žila v Terzíně?

B: Já jsem bydlela na L- 309, tam byli samý mladý děvčata. To byl dům, který původně patřil nějaký pani, která tam s náma taky byla zavřená. Já jsem se s ní seznámila někde v nemocnici, když jsem měla záškrt.

A: Říkala jsi, že ten malej Kája byl jakýsi váš vzdálený příbuzný, kdo teda byla jeho matka?

B: Švagrová od maminčina bratra Franty. Oni jí zavřeli pro nějakou blbost a ten její muž tam sám s tím chlapečkem.

A: Kolik holek vás bylo na pokoji v tom domě?

B: Na pokoji nás bylo  12 na kavalcích. Vedle bydlela Zuzana Růžičková, cemballistka, stejně stará jako já. Byl to jednoposchoďový dům.

A: Co jste tamjedli?

B: Dostávali jsme kaši prosa jeden den, jindy jeden kynutém knedlík a na tom byla taková černá omáčka, ta nám strašně chutnala, taková sladká, dělalo se to z logru, z černýho chleba a do toho byly kousky margarinu. Vždycky jsme si říkali, že si to budeme dělat, až se vrátíme, ale nikdy se nám to tak dobrý nepovedlo. A jednou byla buchta. Maminka nejedla ty knedlíky, tak jsme si to vyměňovali. V poledne byla většinou čočková polívka a večer čtvrtku chleba.

A: A co jste pili?

B: Voda tam tekla a tu jsme pili. Já ještě z piety pořád tu kaši z toho prosa vařím, docela mi chutná, já říkám, to mám jako vzpomínku z Terezína. I s Jirkou jsme si jí vařili. Tenkrát jí vařili do vody a já ji vařím do mlíka, takže je lepší.

A: Když umřel děda a babička, měli nějaký pohřeb?

B: Oni mrtvoly spalovali a házeli popel do moře. Ty, co zrovna v tý době umřeli, tak měli pohřeb, my jsme se tam pomodlili a hodili to do moře. Jejich oblečení jsme dostali.

A: Pak, když jste jeli z Terezína, věděli jste, že je to do Osvětimi?

B: Nevěděli jsme vůbec kam jedeme, jeli jsme v noci asi dva dny. Najednou otevřeli ty dobytčáky a tam byl nápis Arbeit macht frei a teď tam lítali ty kápové a my jsme vůbec nevěděli, co se děje. Možná, že to někdo věděl, asi ty co se už tenkrát zajímali o odboj. My jsme mysleli, že jedem do něčeho podobného jako Terezín.

A: Jak jste se konkrétně dostali zpátky do Čech po válce?

B: Nějaká ženy z ČSR vypravili nebo zaplatili nějakej autobus, aby ty muže odvezl. Jenže oni tam ty muži nebyli, tak maminka najednou přišla a říká, jede autobus do Čech, tak pojedem s ním. Jeli jsme asi dva dni. To byla taková kára na rozpadnutí. Spali jsme venku pod širákem. Maminka říkala, že naši dva šoféři přepadli nějaký Němce ještě v Německu v noci a zabili je a sebrali jim gumy od auta. Já o tom nevím, já jsem spala. Pak jsme přijeli do Prahy.

A: Marta, Richardova žena, byla taky židovka?

B: Marta byla židovka z Prahy, byla vdova. Měli jsme dobrý vztah.

A: A jak se s Richardem seznámili?

B: Seznámili se přes jejího bratra Eduarda, který bydlel v Praze se svojí ženou a Richard za ním přijel. U nich zůstávala i Marta a tam se poznali.

A: Kterého sourozence maminky byl Harry syn?

B: Harry byl syn Františka.

A: Takže přežil jen on?

B: Ze všech sourozenců přežila akorát maminka, Harry a já. Bedřich a vdova po Emilovi šli do plynu 7.3. 

A: Harry šel po válce do Izraele, to bylo nějaký hromadný nebo organizovaný?

B: Po válce to byla taková vlna a řídil to nějakej chlápek trochu starší, mladý kluci, který se vrátili sami, to bylo organizovaný a šli do Hachotrim. Maminka byla docela ráda, protože on byl Harry těžko zvladatelném. Oni šli legálně, měl několik beden s sebou. Oni pak všichni bydleli v Hachotrim. On byl dost nespoutaném typ a nemohl si tam zvyknout. Jeho žena se jmenovala Lilly Kleinová a oženil se s ní v 19, brzy potom, co tam přišel.

A: Kde je Hachotrim?

B: Hachotrim je blízko Tel Avivu. Blízko kibucu českého Masaryk. Hachotrim byl zemědělskej a chovali strašně moc slepic.

A: Ta chalupa v Železné Rudě byla podniková?

B: V Železné Rudě to byla chata od Jendoty, tam jezdili i jiný lidi. Bylo to pro lidi od podniku.

A: Co jste s Jirkou slavili?

B: S Jirkou jsme slavili Vánoce, na Yom Kippur jsme nechodili do kostela. Všichni židi se buď odstěhovali nebo byli starý, když tak jsme jezdili do Prahy na modlitbu za mrtvý. Rudolf byl pobožnější a jezdil sem do Prahy na svátky, my jsme jezdili, když byla ta vzpomínková tryzna za ty mrtví, kteří 7.3. šli do plynu. Pesach ani Chanuku jsme neslavili. Jen macesy jsme si kupovali, věděli jsme , že je Pesach, ale ani jsem nedělala  žádný zvláštní úklid.

A: Zuzana emigrovala kam?

B: Zuzana emigrovala do Švýcarska.

A: V 68 byl v Táboře nějakej větší bugr?

B: V Táboře tam sověti byli přes noc a pak odjeli zas na Prahu. Nic se tam nedělo, bylo tam hodně lidí, všichni se šli podívat. Ale bylo to v klidu.

A: Teď mi , prosím,popiš Tábor před válkou?

A: Tábor před válkou bylo takový klidný provinční město bez průmyslu, byla tam sladovna a tabáková továrna. Starosta se zasadil o to, aby tam byla vojenská posádka. Postavili tam nový vojenský kasárna a tím se ten život trochu zpestřil, ale jinak to bylo provinční.

A: Kolik tak žilo lidí?

B: Před válkou tam bylo tak 15/ 20 tisíc lidí a teď je tam asi 32 tisíc lisí, oni k tomu připojili i ty okrajový vesnice jako Celkovice. Když jsem se vdala, toužila jsem se stěhovat do Prahy, ale Jirka tam chtěl zůstat, neuměl si představit žít v Praze. Měli jsme tam jedny přátele položidovský a žili jsme s tím bratrem hodně dohromady. Je tam nádherná příroda v okolí. Je tam velkej rybník Jordán a tam se chodilo koupat, byla tam plovárna. Na kraji města byl židovském hřbitov. V kasárnách byla československá posádka, docela velká, po válce to přestavili a říkalo se tomu Pentagon, RVHP tam mělo nějaký sportoviště. Z části kasárna bylo Gestapo za války. Tábor má moc krásný okolí, hodně lesů. Ale jsem celkem ráda, že tam nejsem. Nikdo mě tady nezná, v Táboře když jsem šla, tak všichni po mně koukali, nebo jsem si to aspoň myslela.

A: Jezdíš tam někdy se podívat?

B: Já tam jezdím každého čtvrt roku od úterka do pátku. Zůstávám tam u té své dlouholeté kamarádky, známe se ještě dřív, než když jsme chodili do školy. Ona byla učitelka v mateřské škole, Jaroslava Teclová, měla za muže lékaře. Žije se synem. My jsme spolu dost chodili na delší procházky do lesa a teď jí to chybí, že tam nejsem.

Henryk Prajs
Gora Kalwaria
Poland
Interviewer: Aleksandra Bankowska
Date of interview: January 2005

Mr. Henryk Prajs is a cheerful and friendly person. He participates in the activities of various veterans organizations and is also a member of the Social and Cultural Society of Polish Jews seniors club in Warsaw. We met at his house in Gora Kalwaria near Warsaw, where he lives by himself. He feels very closely bound up with his town. Mr. Prajs is a very talkative person, although often wandering off subject and into digressions. During our conversations he stressed his Polish identity and his liberal views time and again. He asked me to stop recording a couple of times, not wanting to disclose certain information publicly.

My family history
Growing up
In the army
During the war
In hiding
After the war
Recent years

My family history

My grandparents came to Gora Kalwaria 1 from the Kielce region [town ca. 180 km south of Warsaw]. I know for sure since 1850 my father's side of the family lived in Gora Kalwaria, on Pilsudskiego Street, and they had their own little house there. It's no longer there, the Germans pulled it down. My paternal grandfather was called Majer Bejer Prajs. He worked as a middleman, ordering dairy products - cream, milk - and delivering them to Warsaw, for Jews only, as it was all kosher. I remember him as a brisk elderly man with a short gray beard and a 'krymkowka,' a Crimean cap [a round black cap with a small visor]. I have his death certificate, he died in 1930. My grandmother was called Golda, but I never knew her, I think she died before I was born.

They had many children. My father's brothers were called Nusyn and Mojsze. Nusyn didn't have a proper job or profession. Sometimes he worked picking apples, give a hand somewhere, and so on. There were lots of people like him among the Jewish poor. Mojsze had a horse cab; he made his living driving people places. He used to drive the judge to the court for example, he had his regulars. He had two children, Josla and Golda. Every one of them had a daughter called Golda; they were given that name after Grandma. He lived with his family in Gora Kalwaria, in a wooden house, just like us, nothing fancy whatsoever, definitely in poverty.

Father's sisters were called Kaila, Malka, and Chana. Kaila's husband, Herszek Bogman, was a shoemaker. They had children, too, but I don't remember them all, it was a lot of people. There was Hudeska, Glika, and a boy called Mosze.

Father's younger sister was called Malka. Her husband was Dawid Szyniawer. He was a Torah scribe; it's called a soyfer [sofer]. You know, he wrote the Jewish [Hebrew] letters from right to left, on a parchment. It has to be officially approved calfskin, very thin; they only write on that, it's forbidden to use anything else. Malka had many children, that is: Mojsze, Szulim, Eta, Mendel, Josel, Ele, and Gedale. I do remember all of them because they lived nearby and were either my age or older.

Aunt Chana had a small notions shop. Her husband's last name was Szoskiel, but I don't remember his first name, Duwid perhaps? She had two children, a daughter called Golda and a son, Ele.

I didn't know my maternal grandparents. They were seldom spoken of at our home; it wasn't considered an important subject. Mom's family was called Frydman. They lived in the country not far from Gora Kalwaria, they had an estate [sic] in Coniew. Not a big one it was, a garden and a little house. They moved to Gora Kalwaria before the war, in 1937 or 1938, and didn't live there anymore. We didn't see each other much at the time, as I was in the army. I can tell you they were truly religious Jews.

Mom had many brothers and sisters as well. Her eldest sister was called Frajda, then came Mom, after her Szulim, after Szulim came Chana, after Chana came Glika, and after Glika Iciek, and after Iciek came Fajga, and after Fajga came Sura.

Frajda had a husband, she lived in Piaseczno [town 15 km north of Gora Kalwaria] and so I can't tell anything about her because I don't know. Szulim had a family in Gora Kalwaria. His wife was called Czarna, they had four children: Herszel, Josek, Gina, and Rachel. Szulim was a tailor, he used to make the so-called 'tandeta,' shoddy clothes. They were called 'tandeciarze,' second-rate tailors, you know, because they made the worst quality, the cheapest clothes. While in pre-war times you had to pay a tailor 25 zlotys for a suit, just for the tailoring, a 'tandeciarz' would bill you 23 for the whole suit: fabric, tailoring, the whole nine yards. The poor from the villages as well as the towns would buy it. He [Szulim] made those shoddy clothes and sold them at the market. The fair was held once a week, on Tuesdays I think.

Mom's sister Chana was a housewife, her husband's name was Mosze Warym. They had a restaurant in Gora Kalwaria at the main square, on the corner of Pilsudskiego and Pijarska streets. I think they had three children, Motek, Gedale, and yet another Gina.

Glika didn't have any children, she was a spinster. She worked as a seamstress. She only made underwear, men's and ladies' shirts. Iciek had a shop in Warsaw on 4 Sowia Street, with dairy products. He was doing very well. I don't remember his wife's name. He had three children. One of them was Gina, nicknamed Genia, but I don't remember the rest, they were little children.

Sura was a spinster as well, she never got married. She was a seamstress. There was also Fajga, a seamstress as well, she only made men's trousers. Fajga died two weeks before the expulsion of Jews [from Gora Kalwaria] in 1941. She was still buried in Gora Kalwaria. She passed away peacefully, so to speak. She was buried according to the Jewish rite. It's weird, we actually envied her that she died naturally and didn't live to witness the catastrophe. I know more or less where we buried her, but the tombstone is gone.

How is one buried according to the Jewish rite? A person dies, you have to bury his the very same day, you don't wait to check if it's some coma or not. Basically there's a regular grave you know, and the Jewish coffin consists of seven boards, two boards a side, 20-30 centimeters wide, joined without any nails, because the world is open, and the coffin must not be closed, or nailed. The corpse is put on the naked ground and it's all covered with three boards. That's the ritual burial. And you say prayers at a funeral.

My parents were born between 1890 and 1892. My father was called Jankiel and my mother Estera. They met each other, as it used to be back then, through a matchmaker. Mom was a very attractive woman, of medium height, with a round face and very pretty eyes. I have Mom's eyes. She didn't wear a wig, she had nice hair. And Father was tall, blond, very unlike a Jew. He had a finger missing. He had cut it off himself so that they wouldn't draft him to the tsarist army. He could only write in Yiddish and not in Polish. In Russian, he was just able to sign his name, just like Mom. [Editor's note: Prior to WWI that part of Poland was under the Russian rule, meaning the official language was Russian.]

Mom was a seamstress. Father traded orchards, I mean he leased them from the farmers, utilized them, watched over them, sprayed them, and sold the fruits. Often he would buy ripe fruits and sell them. Sometimes he traded chickens or geese. He was a small time merchant; he didn't have his own stall. We always lacked money. I come from a poor family, very honest people, very hard-working, but they were not rich.

We only spoke Yiddish at home. My parents dressed the European way, observed the [religious] rules, the food was kosher. My father didn't go to the synagogue very often, not on every Saturday, and Mom only once a year, on Yom Kippur. There were two synagogues in Gora Kalwaria. One belonged to the kahal, the Jewish community, a progressive one, and the other belonged to the tzaddik [Rabbi Avraham Mordechai Alter, or Imrei Emes, 4th rebbe of the Ger dynasty, the last of the dynasty to live in Poland]. My parents used to go to the progressive synagogue.

I was born on 30th December 1916 as Froim Fiszel. I had a sister and a brother. My sister's name was Golda, after Grandma. She was older than me, she was born in 1914. She was a pretty young girl, dark haired. She was a very good student, one of the best in her class. She finished seven grades of the Polish elementary school. When she was 16 or 17 she went to Warsaw and became a bookkeeper in a small soap factory on 12 Radzyminska Street in the Praga district. They paid her rather well, 120-130 zlotys per month. It was not too much, but you could get on. Bread was very cheap back then, 25, 35, 50 groszes [1 Polish zloty = 100 Polish groszes], a bun two groszes, five groszes.

It was a small workshop in the backyard plus a shop, six or seven people were employed there, they made and sold various soaps and washing articles. My sister lived with the factory's owners, the Hirszhorns, they were Jews. I was in Warsaw once or twice before the war, and stayed with my sister there, once as I was on furloughed from the army.

My brother Dawid was born in 1919. He completed six grades, he was a good student, too. He was a handsome, tall man, he had a slight squint though, he had good sight, but his left eye would always wander a bit to the side. After finishing school he learned saddle making. A saddler makes saddles, harnesses, horse-collars. We were both members of the youth organization 'Frayhayt' of the Right Poalei Zion 2 party. My brother hadn't been in the army, his year had not yet been drafted [when the war broke out].

We lived in Gora Kalwaria. The town was founded by the Poznan bishop Stefan Wierzbowski to symbolize Jerusalem. [Editor's note: the urban design and toponymy of Gora Kalwaria, or Calvary Hill, was intended by its founder to recall the Jerusalem of Jesus's times; it was even called New Jerusalem at first]. That's why dissenters [non-Catholics] couldn't live there. The ban wasn't canceled until Napoleonic times and the Congressional Kingdom [Editor's note: actually earlier, in 1797; the Congressional Kingdom, or the Kingdom of Poland, was created after Napoleon's fall, in 1815].

The Jews started to settle in Gora Kalwaria in 1802. In the 1930s there were already 3,000 Jews and 3,500 Poles. It was a very primitive town at the time. No waterworks whatsoever, just some wells far apart, you needed to walk some couple hundred meters to fetch water. It was only Mayor Dziejko [in the 1930s] who ordered pumps to be installed on every street and so you could take water from just next to your house. Electricity was introduced in Gora Kalwaria in the 1920s, but the poor households didn't have it until shortly before the war. Luckily, we had electric lighting, because Mom was a seamstress and needed it to work. Everyone has fond memories of Mayor Dziejko, as he was a good host. He did much for the town, and with some help of Jewish money, too. When Jews came to see the tzaddik, they had to pay the mayor a zloty each. The money was then used for the town's needs.

The tzaddiks came to Gora Kalwaria from Przysucha and Kock. [Yitzchak Meir (Icik Majer), the founder of the Alter dynasty, was a disciple of tzaddiks Simcha Binem (Bunim) of Przysucha and Menachem Mendel of Kock (Kotzker Rebbe).] Since their arrival the inflow of Jews increased, most of them Orthodox. The Gora tzaddik [Yiddish: Gerer Rebbe] didn't have many followers in Gora itself, though.

The Gora Jews recognized the tzaddik from Kozienice rather than the one from Gora Kalwaria. [Editor's note: there were no tzaddiks in Kozienice between the two world wars; Mr. Prajs refers to the tradition of the Maggid of Kozienice, or Israel Yitzchak Hofstein (Hapstein), 1733-1814.] His followers were mostly outsiders. They came from all over Poland, from every city except maybe for the Poznan district, from all of eastern and southern Poland: Cracow, Rzeszow, Lodz, Warsaw, Lublin, all the small towns [surrounding the big cities]. They came to him on High Holidays. On New Year - or Rosh Hashanah in Hebrew, on Yom Kippur, and on Shavuot - or Pentecost, I'd say 2,000 Jews would come to Gora Kalwaria. They rented rooms from the local Jews. My Mom, for example, used to rent them a room to earn an extra zloty or two.

The tzaddik was well-known. I saw him a few times. Just an ordinary bearded Jew. I've never been one of his followers. In my opinion he was no sage, just a man who knew the Torah really well. Surely, there had to be something about him, since he had so many followers and everyone thought of him as a miracle-worker. Even the Poles respected him. There was a telling moment, when Cardinal Kakowski [Aleksander Kakowski, 1862-1938, archbishop of Warsaw, cardinal, politician] came to Gora Kalwaria in 1933 or 1934. They built a triumphal arch and everyone welcomed him, including the Jews with the rabbi. But the tzaddik did not come to greet the cardinal, and received him in his house instead. They exchanged gifts.

Growing up

We lived by my grandfather Majer's at Pilsudskiego Street. The house was made of wood and quite poor. The whole family was squeezed into one room. It was a big room, perhaps ten by six meters. There was everything in it: Mom's workbench, and a place to sleep, and the eating table, and we also did our homework there, but only after Mom had finished her work. Beds stood in the corner, the sewing machine by the window; the window had four or six panes and was next to the door, and to the left stood a chest to store this and that. The beds were behind a screen. The kitchen stove was made of bricks and a pipe connected it to the chimney. It was always very tidy, Mom kept things in order. The clients complimented her, as they came to see her.

There were three Polish and three Jewish families in our yard. We got on with each other very well, like a family. There was no anti-Semitism, none at all. Our Polish neighbors were called Wozniak, Rytko, and Jarosz, and the Jewish ones Bielawski and Kielman. When Mrs. Wozniak baked the holiday cakes, she used to come to my Mom and share them with her: 'Here, Estera, it's for your kids.' When we, on the other hand, got our matzot, Mom would bring it to Mrs. Wozniak and Zosia Jarosz just the same: 'Na, Zosia, take the matzah, take it.' I used to come to Wozniak's as if it was my house. And Mom taught Zosia how to sew.

My friends were mostly Poles: Mietek and Wladek Zetek, Janek Bialek, Wojciechowski, Wozniak, Stasiek Rytko, Maniek Jarosz, we all grew up together. We spent time together in the yard, played soccer, dodge-ball, and so on. We pretended we were soldiers. I was a bit older and so I was in charge, we made sabers out of tin scraps 'aaand maaarch, hut two three four, hut two three four!'

We celebrated all the Jewish holidays: Pesach, Rosh Hashanah. During Pesach everything in the house had to be kosher, there could be nothing containing leavened bread. Father always went to the synagogue and Mom prepared the breakfast. When he returned, we ate. The breakfast was a bit better than usually, just as the holiday supper; we had fish, broth, and such.

We sang various religious songs, according to the psalms appropriate for the time of year. On Rosh Hashanah the prayers in the synagogue lasted till well after midnight, at which time someone blew the shofar, or horn. This is to remind of Moses addressing the Jewish tribes as he received the Ten Commandments. On Yom Kippur one fasts all day. And Chanukkah and Purim were no different from any ordinary day. In the poor families there was nothing at all, just the prayers. If one was a strong believer, he would go to the synagogue in the evening to listen to the Esther's prayer [The Book of Esther, or Megillat Esther, is read aloud during Purim], because it [Purim] was a celebration of Esther's miracle. But it was no holiday.

On Fridays we simply had a supper after work. Saturdays I either worked or went to the organization [Mr. Prajs was at first a member of the Bund's children organization, Skif, and after that - of Frayhayt]. I didn't observe Sabbath too rigorously, and later not at all. It made my Mom sad, but I was progressive, not a bit religious, I didn't even pray anymore. I didn't feel the need to. And I dined at Mrs. Wozniakowa's [the neighbor], oh yes. I didn't observe the kashrut even in my early youth. Mom never knew it, God forbid, never, no one knew, it was unthinkable! They would separate my dishes right away, wouldn't use them at all. That's the rule, the Jewish rite.

What did Mom use to cook? I like fish Jewish style above all. Nothing else, really. Mom prepared fish thus: she skinned it, chopped some onion, added an egg, some salt and pepper, and mixed it all. Then she stuffed the skin with it, and cooked it for two hours.

What other dishes did Jews eat? Well, chulent. Chulent is very heavy, stodgy, nothing interesting really. You had to have an earthen pot. You filled it with potatoes, barley, some fat - oil or such, and a fair bit of meat, a beef shoulder for example. It was then covered, wrapped, and put into the stove for the whole night. It roasted till morning, and then was brought home and eaten after the prayers.

Rich Jews would put another pot inside the bigger one, not necessarily earthenware but made for example of metal, and fill it with some fancy tidbits, some delicacies. It also had to be covered so that the dishes couldn't mix. It was called kugel. It was a sort of pudding, a dessert, something like that. You only eat kugel on Saturdays after the prayers. You mustn't eat before that.

I know Jewish religion and I'm proud I do. Our parents sent me and my brother to a cheder. There were no illiterates among the Jews, because children had to be sent to school as soon as they were five, no matter what. A cheder could be organized in any Jewish house. Any Jew could teach in it, if he knew anything of the Jewish religion, didn't have to be some pundit. A dozen or so boys would gather, aged five to 12-13.

My teacher was called Majer Mesyng. The cheder was in his house on Kilinskiego Street. The building does no longer exist, it was demolished after the war. He taught us the Jewish [Hebrew] alphabet, how to write the names Abraham, Jacob, Isaac, David, showed us the east, west, north, and south, told us that Israel was located in Asia, and what Africa was. I attended it for five years, from age five to ten. I know Mishnah, Gemara, and I can still speak Hebrew and Yiddish.

My parents were not rich enough to throw any bar mitzvah party. When I turned 13, I went to the synagogue with my father and had to read aloud some passages from the Torah. You have to say those prayers in a special way, putting accents in all the right places. I did great. Father was proud of me. We went home, Mom prepared a festive dinner, I got 5 zlotys for saying the prayers so well, and that was it. My brother's bar mitzvah was exactly the same. Well, only he didn't read from the Torah as well as I did.

I went to a Polish elementary school at the age of seven. From 7am to 1 or 2pm I was at school, and after that I went to the cheder. At school they taught us Polish, math, geography, music, and from fourth grade on we also had German classes. Jews and Poles studied together, but the Jews were fewer. There were I think 36 people in my class, and only three of them Jewish: me - they called me Heniek at school, not Froim - Uszer, and Josel Mesing. I already knew Polish, because there were Poles in my yard, but it was definitely the school that taught me the proper grammar and basically to speak correct Polish. I was very popular at the school, I liked the teachers, I liked to study and had good marks, except for math, but otherwise I had A's and B's.

From among the teachers I'd mention Mrs. Karniewska, who taught German. She was my Mom's client. She often asked me to fetch something, or do something for her. No other favors, though. I remember celebrating 3rd May 3 at the school. Students from all the schools would gather in the morning and sing 'Long live May, the 3rd of May, it's like the paradise for all the Poles.' We would have an assembly in the evening. The firemen, the soldiers, and the students would parade through the town. I always took part in those celebrations.

When I was 12 or 13 my friends and I joined the Skif 4. Skif stands for Sotsyalkinderfarband, or the Socialist Youth Union, a children's organization connected with the Bund party 5. Bund was a social democratic party, struggling for the emancipation and equality of Jews. While still a 'skifist' I was the Gora Kalwaria delegate at the funeral of Bejnysz Michalewicz [a.k.a. Jozef Izbicki, 1876-1928, a Bund activist since 1905, pedagogue, journalist, co-founder of TsIShO (Central Jewish School Organization)], a Bund leader, on Okopowa Street in Warsaw. It was a huge funeral. Naturally, there were Bund delegates there, giving speeches: [Wiktor] Alter, [Jakub] Pat, I guess [Henryk] Ehrlich 6 as well, to name a few. There were lots of people from all over Poland. At some point we all left Skif. They wanted Jewish emancipation [instead of building a Jewish state], and that's not possible. Only two of us stayed: Krupka and one more person.

I preferred to join a Jewish [here: Zionist] organization, because I believed it necessary to build our own state. That's why I joined the Right Poalei Zion as a scout. I was still a kid, I was 14. It was a social democratic labor party, they wanted to liberate Palestine to create our own state in which the social democratic parties would flourish. There were maybe 50 of us [Frayhayt members] in Gora Kalwaria. We rented a room on Pilsudskiego Street. It was about 10 meters long and 7 wide. There was a library and everything else was there. The room was paid for from the membership fees. All the pre-war organizations were funded from membership fees, unless someone rich from abroad donated 100 zlotys, it was an awful lot of money before the war.

We often had our meetings there, always on a Saturday or Sunday, on free days. There were talks, excursions. The talks were basically about the culture, the world, what was going on, how things in India or China were, in Warsaw, or in the rest of the world. Basically the economic life, wars, and so on. If I knew something, I prepared a short speech. Do I recall any such speech? We fought for freedom, democracy, or the unions in other words, for equal rights, and against exploitation. You had to quote a paper, Robotnik [The Worker, a Warsaw newspaper of the Polish Socialist Party] or some Jewish paper. There were many different of those, the Bund published Folks-Shtime [Editor's note: probably Folks-Tsaytung, People's Journal, a newspaper published by the Bund; Folks-Shtime, People's Voice was published after WW II], there was Haynt 7, and later the orthodox Jews started to publish their paper, and the Zionists published some, you quoted one of them and basically gave a speech.

We didn't go on excursions, where would we go, we didn't have the money. But we did take walks into the woods on Saturday mornings in May. It was called Kepa, nowadays a pasture a few kilometers from Gora Kalwaria. There was also the so-called Klajnowski Forest, or Karolin, or we would simply take a walk to the river Wisla, if the weather was nice. There was always a lecturer on such trips and he gave his speech.

The chairman of the Gora Kalwaria branch of Poalei Zion was Mojsze Skrzypek. He was also our lecturer. We had those, well in Yiddish it's called 'kestelgesprekh,' talks. Questions were posed anonymously and the speaker would answer them. He spoke about literature for instance. Everything in Yiddish of course, I don't know if maybe ten people in Gora Kalwaria spoke Hebrew. Mojsze Skrzypek was an intelligent guy. I don't remember what he did for a living, perhaps he worked in some office, there was the Zajdemans soap factory, a bank, maybe he was a bookkeeper there, I don't know. Chaskiel Goldsztajn, Mendel Cukier, Chane Gotlib were my friends from the organization. I remember them all, I can still see their faces.

I didn't have much free time. You went to pick currants or give someone a hand to earn some money. When it was warm, we would go swimming in our free time, usually Saturdays. But I also read a lot. Historical novels, most of all. I remember books about Lokietek [Wladislaus I the Elbow-high], Kazimierz Wielki [Casimir III the Great], Zygmunt Stary [Sigismund I the Old; all three were Polish kings]. I do also remember some Jewish authors: Peretz 8, Sholem Aleichem 9, An-ski 10, Asch 11, Bergelson 12. I seldom bought books, didn't have the money. I was sometimes given books as a school prize. Mostly I borrowed them from a library.

There were three libraries in Gora Kalwaria. There was the Peretz's library, where the Jewish youth would meet up, no matter, left- or right- wing. That was the first one. As for the other two, the Bundists had their own library, and so did the Zionists. They only had the writings in accordance with their programs, as each party believed in different things. The Bundists were generally freethinkers, so they didn't even consider religious books, only contemporary literature, that's what they supported. I used to go to the library at the Zionists' place, to Poalei Zion. They had some literature, but it was no big library.

I read various newspapers, both Jewish and Polish. The Polish would be 'Kurier Codzienny' [full name 'Kurier Codzienny 5 groszy,' The Daily Herald 5 groszes, a pro-government paper published from 1932 to 1936], Oblicze dnia [The Day's Visage, a socialist weekly published in 1936], sometimes I even leafed through ABC [a weekly published by the nationalist Oboz Wielkiej Polski, Camp of Great Poland, from 1926 to 1939], an anti-Semitic magazine. When did you actually buy a paper? On Saturdays. Newspapers were pretty expensive, Haynt cost 1.20 zlotys, Moment 13 - 1.50, while other papers 40, 50 groszes. We read Haynt at home. My father was a member of a Jewish craftsmen organization called Handverker [Central Union of the Jewish Craftsmen of the Republic of Poland] 14 and they all read Haynt. They even got elected to the Sejm [the Parliament; the union formed part of the National Minorities Bloc that won 17% of the votes in the 1928 election]. Generally my father was apolitical, though.

Ever since 1933, when Hitler came to power 15, people grew more and more certain a war was coming. Everyone who had the chance to do so, fled to Israel [Editor's note: until 1948 Palestine]. Apart from that, the ones who fled were patriots, they wanted to build their own country, and did the right thing; emancipation is one thing, but having your country goes a long way. Many of my friends left before the war, Mojszele Rawski was one of them. At first before leaving they were Hahalutzim 16. They formed teams and took up the toughest tasks, trying to prepare for Israel, to build their country. They knew beginnings are always tough, so they learned to farm, to work in a sawmill, they learned the trade of masonry, all the worst drudgeries.

There were two kibbutzim in Gora Kalwaria. One belonged to the right-wing Zionists [the General Zionists party] 17, or Grinbaum's 18 democratic Zionists in other words. It was located in a house on the corner of Polna and Dominikanska streets. The whole upper floor was theirs. They had many talented people among them - there was a painter for example, she painted landscapes. The other kibbutz was on Ksiedza Sajny Street, the one leading down to the river. I don't remember what group they were.

My organization, Right Poalei Zion, didn't have a kibbutz in Gora Kalwaria. If one of us wanted to join a kibbutz, he had to go to the eastern regions of the country. Lots of folks were preparing for that, but I doubt if all of them actually left. It was hard to just leave your father, your mother, your brother, and go. I didn't take part in kibbutzim activities. Neither did I think about leaving for Israel.

Immediately after finishing elementary school I started to learn tailoring. My first master was Izrael Cybula, and I worked for him in the workshop on 15 Pilsudskiego Street for two years without a pay, in exchange for training. After that I had an exam in Jaszeniec near Warka. They had sort of a crafts corporation there, the so-called guild. I passed my apprentice exam, received a certificate, and was allowed to practice as a tailor. An apprentice can make a suit or a pair of trousers by himself. A trainee is being trained, but an apprentice should be able to do it himself. And a master can train others, he should know all the tricks of his trade.

Later I worked for various tailors, both Jewish and Polish, I worked for Cybula a month or two, when he had a job for me, I worked for Ryszard Gorecki, Jasinski, Jaworski, Pelc, in many different workshops. I didn't make much, 15-20 zlotys a week, it varied, because sometimes there was no job for me.

I was a member of the Tailors' Union. There were both Jews and Poles in it. I was the secretary of the Gora Kalwaria branch, and the voivodship [district] secretary had his office in Warsaw, on Leszno Street. The union [branch] had its own place, the size of this room maybe. And that was it. A stool in the middle and nothing else. So what can I say about such a union. When necessary, we organized some lectures and such. We couldn't call a strike, there was unemployment, well not as high as nowadays. You were happy to get a job at some shoemaker's, tailor's, cobbler's.

The union was funded from membership fees as well, there was no state funding. The municipality wouldn't give us anything. They gave some support to the unemployed a couple of times a year, about 5 zlotys, and the Poles would get 90 per cent, while the Jews maybe 5 per cent.

Jews before the war were mainly craftsmen, tailors, shoemakers, cobblers, saddlers, hat makers, all such professions, mainly services. How many truly wealthy Jews were there in Gora Kalwaria? Poloniecki, Rapaport, Wajnsztok, Mardyks, Doctor Rozenberg, ten at most. They mainly traded in grain, had their own houses, could have as much as 2,000, 3,000, 10,000 zlotys. Around 40 per cent of the Jewish population were from the middle class, and 50 per cent were poor. [Editor's note: the ten wealthy Jews accounted for much less than the remaining 10%]. I was one of the, well, not the very poor, but the poor. Before I started to work as an apprentice, we were living pretty much hand to mouth.

It was the poor who suffered most during the anti-Semitic riots 19. Because each wealthy Jew had some Polish friends, who would say, 'You can beat up all the Jews you want, but stay away from my Moszek.' It was no different in Gora Kalwaria. At the St. Anthony Day's fair [13th June] people placed their stalls and began to sell. Those from Falanga 20 came by, smashed the stalls, beat up some Jewish men and women. A tumult began, the police came, but it was already done. That's how things were in 1936, 1937, I don't know about later as I was in the army. They often started such riots. They were not pogroms, but brawls, beatings.

The Falangists came from Warka, Karczew, Otwock [towns in the dozen or so kilometer radius from Gora Kalwaria]. There was an Endeks 21 organization in Gora Kalwaria as well, but they used to go rumble somewhere else, not in our town. Mayor Dziejko and Police Chief Boleslaw Janica wouldn't allow it. There were fewer of such unrests thanks to them. Once, as they came to rumble, Janica told the Jews, 'Listen, people, you defend yourselves, and I'll handle the rest.' And so a self-defense was formed, no matter, Zionists, Communists, or Bundists but simply the Jewish youth, particularly the workers, coachmen, all the tough ones. They formed the self-defense and stood up to the attackers.

Janica and Dziejko were objective people, they'd say: 'Alright, he's a Jew, and let him be one - that doesn't bother me.' While in other towns no Jews were allowed into the city council, he, Dziejko had two Jewish councilors. I remember the last Jewish councilors were Szyje Kaufman and Aron Poznanski.

In the army

I was drafted at the age of 21. It was a regular draft, all the boys born in 1916 were drafted in November 1937. I served in the Jan Hipolit Kozietulski 3rd Mazovian Chevaux-Leger [Light Cavalry] Regiment in Suwalki. There were only three regiments of elite cavalry [the Chevaux-Legers] in Poland, the other two were the Jozef Pilsudski Regiment, stationed in Warsaw, and the Dwernicki Regiment in Stargard Gdanski. I was assigned to the regiment because I was an absolutely unblemished and loyal citizen, and I was not a member of any anti-Pilsudski 22 organizations. My commander was Colonel Edward Milewski, and my officer in charge - Borys Zaryn.

How was the army? Well, I was a tailor suddenly turned cavalryman. And I had always been afraid of horses. Well, I had seen them, pulling a coach for example, but that's different. I mounted a horse for the first time then, but I did learn to ride, and how! A recruit was trained for a few months and then given a rifle. I managed to figure it all out somehow.

In 1938 I was assigned to a non-commissioned officer school, as I had completed seven years of school. It wasn't very common, many of the recruits were illiterate. I used to write letters for everyone. They began with 'Praised be Jesus Christ' and ended with 'Waiting for your reply, now and for ever, amen.' I ranked high in the [NCOs] school, because I was able. I ranked second out of 85 in the knowledge of Poland course, the first place was taken by a Mastalerz from Warsaw. I was promoted to corporal. I was doing well in the army, I can't say I was favored but they treated me fair, no complaints.

In the Polish army before the war every unit had a few Germans, some Jews, a couple of Belarussians and Ukrainians. [Poland between the world wars was a country with ethnic and national minorities accounting for 1/3 of the population] The Ukrainians - we called them Ruthenians - were very good soldiers, first of all very physically fit, and the best riders. At a Saturday or Sunday muster the officers would call, 'Of Jewish persuasion, step forward, of Lutheran persuasion, step forward, of Orthodox persuasion, step forward!' and if you wanted to pray, you went your way.

My friend in the army was Eliezer Geller [1918-1943, a Gordonia (a Zionist organization) activist, soldier of the Warsaw ZOB (see below), he fought in the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising and later went into hiding; he was probably killed in Auschwitz]. He came from Opoczno in the Mazovia region. He was my age. We often times went to the synagogue together, spoke with each other.

He was a very intelligent boy, very handsome, a blond. He was a left-wing Zionist, like me. I don't know what his profession was, but I think he'd finish a gymnasium, completed more than seven years of school. They didn't take him to the non-commissioned officer school, though, I don't know why, maybe he just didn't want to go. He was in the second squadron and I was in the forth, so I never saw him from September [1939] on. He was later in Warsaw, I don't know by what miracle he ended up there. I was certain all the time he died in the Warsaw Uprising 23.

Military service lasted two years and mine was to finish in 1939, so instead of going home I went to war. I fought in the September campaign 24. On 14th September I was wounded in a battle with the Germans at Olszewo [near Bransk and Lapy, in the Bialystok district]. There's still a memorial room there with a photo of me, among other things, and a description of the battle. I was messed up by a shrapnel, had a couple of wounds. I was unfit to fight on, so I was assigned to the regimental train [service column].

During the war

On 17th September the Russians marched in 25 and took us all prisoners. We were interned in a place called Negroloc, some 40 kilometers further east from Minsk, Belarus. They didn't treat us bad. We had to work and if we fulfilled the ordered quota, it was alright. The food was also acceptable. Every Saturday we had a bath, they called it 'bania.' We weren't given any clothes for change. In December [1939] there was a prisoners exchange, the Russians returned the Germans and the Poles. I was in that group and so got back to Gora Kalwaria. [Editor's note: An exchange of the prisoners-of-war - privates and NCOs. The Poles originating from the German-occupied parts of Poland were sent to the German authorities and later released; similarly with the ones from the Soviet-occupied regions.]

Everyone thought I'd been killed because there had been no news from me since September. And so it started, the occupation, the Gehenna [misery, hell]. I was told that when the Germans entered Gora Kalwaria the first Jew they saw was Pinio Rawski, leaving the synagogue at the very moment. And they shot him. I was also told about a Jewish boy called Mojsze Cybula - his father was the master Cybula I used to work for - who took a tiny crumble of bread when the Germans ordered the boys to work and they shot him for that, too. So I said to myself, 'My God, as a human being, not mentioning the nationality, I promise myself that if I survive the war, I'll put a symbol, so that the people will know what has happened here.' That was my obligation.

Right in the beginning the Germans confiscated all the front shops [with their display facing the street]. Jews were not allowed to trade at all. The ghetto in Gora Kalwaria was created in May 1940 26. Things were already very bad at the time. They evicted the Jews from the outskirts of Gora Kalwaria, the ghetto was right in the center of the town: the Pilsudskiego and Senatorska streets, and a short section of Pijarska Street. We all had to squeeze in somehow.

My family was not evicted, because it was already ghetto where we lived on Pilsudskiego Street. Leaving the ghetto was forbidden on the death penalty. Mom and I continued to sew, we had clients coming, some Poles, they commissioned clothes and we could make some money, just to get by. Plus we still had some supplies, we were always selling something. Yes, but what kind of life it was?! Vegetation, we couldn't afford anything, just the potatoes all the time, potato soup, there was nothing else.

When the relocation to the ghetto started [in May 1940], the head of the Jewish community in Gora, Josef Lubliner, came to my Polish neighbor Rytko, and left him the Torah and all the sacred books. Rytko, as the decent man that he was, kept them safe throughout the war. When I came back after the war, he gave the books to me as his neighbor. I later sent them to Israel, to my Uncle Mosze. I simply put them in a parcel, went to Professor Tyloch [Witold Tyloch, 1927-1990, Hebrew philologist and Bible scholar, a Warsaw University professor] to get a certificate they were not items of historical value, and sent them by post; legally, absolutely. I should think it was in the 1960s. The Torah is now in Israel, in Netanya.

In 1940 a group of ZOB 27 fighters came to Gora Kalwaria [Editor's note: ZOB did not yet exist at the time]: Lajbl Frydman, Horowic, and a woman. Frydman was a Bund member, Horowic was from Poalei Zion, and as for the woman, I don't know. They wanted to organize a combat team consisting of those who had served in the army to fight in self-defense. We only admitted the people we trusted. The 25 of us gathered at Aron Nusbaum's. We didn't have any weapons but the spirit was there, that we will defend ourselves. But nothing happened.

On 25th February 1941 they deported the Jews from Gora Kalwaria to the ghetto in Warsaw. My sister was already there, she hadn't come back to Gora Kalwaria with the outbreak of the war. Mom didn't even think of escaping, and me neither, I wanted to go to the ghetto with my family. The neighbors would come over and say, 'Listen, run away, go, you don't look like a Jew, maybe you'll make it.' I heard there were Jews in Magnuszew [town 25 km from Gora Kalwaria] - there was this sort of grapevine during the occupation - and that there are no deportations there. And so I basically ran away in the evening, after a talk with Mom. I don't know what happened to my family. I lost contact with them on that day. They were gone without a trace. Only my brother came to me later on. Lots of people left the ghetto then, everyone tried not to surrender.

It's twenty-something kilometers from Gora Kalwaria to Magnuszew, wintertime, so I stepped in a yard once in a while, knocked on the door, I asked, ' Hello sir, open, please, I'm a Jew, I ran away, please, help me.' If it was a good man - he'd let me in, if not - he'd say 'Go away, go away!' The Jews stayed in Magnuszew until May or June 1942. [The Magnuszew ghetto was liquidated in October 1942]. I didn't know anyone there. I basically worked as a tailor, people came in, gave me something to sew, I did it, and it was enough to get by.

Two months before the deportations they created a ghetto, put everyone in, and later moved them to Kozienice [town ca. 20 km from Gora Kalwaria, 80 km from Warsaw]. In Kozienice they selected young men and took them to Chmielew [village 5 km from Magnuszew] to dig irrigation ditches. There was a labor camp for Jews. I was one of those transported there.

We stayed there until December [1942], and later came the deportation and we went back to Magnuszew. I already had many friends there at the time, among those whom I tailored for. On our way back from Chmielew a Polish friend, Janek Cwyl, pulled me out of the column while the policemen weren't paying attention. He took me with him, he saved me.

In hiding

Somehow I managed to get through to Gora Kalwaria. I went to my neighbor, Mrs. Wasilewska. She immediately started to plan what to do. We went to Osieck [town 15 km of Gora Kalwaria] together, to a parish priest, Kuropek was his name I think. He issued a birth certificate for me. Later I got myself a kenkarta 28, in the name Feliks Zoladek. You had to do it with the help of friends and friends of friends. Because the priest gave me the certificate, but not the kenkarta, naturally. A friend took the certificate, went to one of those doing funny business [people who fabricated false IDs], and had them make me a kenkarta, that's how it was done. It wasn't legal.

I lived in the country, staying with different farmers and tailoring for them. One told some other he knew a tailor, and so I kept going from one person to another. Some of them knew I was a Jew, they figured it out, but well, I did survive. I stayed in one village, returned to another, kept in hiding for some time, had to run away on another occasion, one was always looking for a safe house.

I've been exceptionally lucky. They told me: 'Heniek, you don't look like a Jew at all.' I also spoke correct Polish, more or less, I mean I had the right accent, because as for the grammar a peasant wouldn't notice. I could quite safely assume I wouldn't be recognized by anyone. Plus I was a soldier, I was brave. That's why I took risks, I probably wouldn't otherwise, just like many others. You can't imagine, you could be killed any time, and not just you, but also the person harboring you. [Editor's note: On 15th October 1941 the death penalty for hiding a Jew was introduced in the General Government.]

I saw my brother [Dawid] in 1943, I don't remember if it was January or December. He came to see me in that village, Ostrowie [3 km from Magnuszew], he knew I stayed there with a farmer. I spoke with him but couldn't do anything, I couldn't! The farmer came to wake him up at 5am and told him he had to run. And so he did. He was hiding, too, he went from one farm to another, they gave him some work to do, he made horse-collars. Somewhere near Machcin some farmers gave him away, they brought him to the Germans. And the Germans killed him in the cemetery in Gora Kalwaria.

My longest single stay was in the village Podwierzbie near Zelechow [Podlez community, Garwolin district] with a Mrs. Pokorska. She was an acquaintance or a cousin of Mrs. Wasilewska [Mr. Prajs' neighbor]. Many decent people lived there generally, the Pyz family for example, the Polak family, the Marciniaks. Even the head of the village protected me. And as for the villagers, some did and some did not believe that I was a Pole. Not once did they later tell me, after the end of the war: 'It made us think, you lived here, it's a poor house, and nobody came to see you, you didn't leave for Christmas; we eyed you, a nice looking boy.' They didn't know what to think.

I went to the dances once, but later decided not to go anymore, because I was afraid. I went to the church once, too, but was afraid someone would recognize me as well. But nobody gave me away, simply Godsend. I went to that church after the war and ordered a thanksgiving mess for all the villagers.

I'm not surprised people didn't want to hide Jews. Everyone was afraid, who would risk his family's lives? You can accuse the ones who kept a Jew, exploited him financially, and later gave him away or killed him. They're murderers. But you absolutely can't blame an average Pole, I don't know if anyone would be more decent, if any Jew would be more decent.

Some Germans came to Mrs. Pokorska one day. I spoke with a Gestapo man face to face. He asked me, 'Weser das Mantel ist?' [incorrect German: 'whose coat is it?'], and I answered, 'It's not mine,' and he went, 'Du verstehst Deutsch?' [German: 'you understand German?'] It was getting bad, so I changed the subject and said, 'Sir, just take a look, everything's falling apart here, the roof, perhaps you could write a paper to the Kreishauptmann [German: district administrator]...'

That shocked the Gestapo man, he came from Silesia, he understood Polish. He saw my face didn't belong there. And she [Mrs. Pokorska] said I was her son, he asked her like a dozen times, and me as well, if I was her son. I said 'mom,' and she said 'son,' and again, 'mom, son.' I had a birth certificate in her son's name, Stanislaw Pokorski, so I said, 'I got the certificate, but I don't have the money to go to Garwolin and have me an ID made.' He didn't even want to take a look at the ID. And so I made it somehow.

He could have just said: 'Take off your pants,' and what, the whole family would have been doomed, all the children, the mother, everyone. She was very kind. But what cunning one's got to have, and what nerve, to stay calm and not to panic. These are terrible things, these are not the things to talk about, because a dog or a cat were worth more than a human being, just because the latter was of Jewish descent.

I had to hide once, and from whom, from ours [Poles]. The frontline was already near, it had almost reached the Wisla river. NSZ 29 or WiN 30, I don't even know, sentenced me to death. I had met them by chance, as a tailor. I'd sewn for them, they'd got to like me, we'd spent all the time together. I used to refashion what they'd stolen somewhere. One of them didn't agree with the sentence, hadn't said a word to them, but later told me: 'Heniek, be careful, hide, mister, 'cause it's so and so.' So NSZ's history has a not-so-exquisite [sic] chapter - their attitude towards the Jewish nation. When the Red Army took over the area, they [the NSZ soldiers] killed two or three Jews. They all came to me later and apologized, a couple of times. So I don't really want to get back to the subject, I've forgiven them and that's it.

After the war

That village, Podwierzbie, was on the right bank of the river, so they liberated it six months earlier than the left bank. It was in the summer, in July. [Editor's note: In the summer of 1944 the Red Army stopped on the east bank of the Wisla river. At that time the Warsaw Uprising was taking place, and its commanders counted on Soviet support. The uprising ended on 2nd October with Polish defeat. The Soviet army resumed its offensive only in January 1945.]

I took a walk and was standing on a levee as I saw the first 'razviedka' [Russian: reconnaissance patrol] of the Red Army. I was overwhelmed. They asked me, 'Who are you?', and I got scared, but soon enough answered, since I spoke Russian a bit, because I'd been interned in the Soviet Union in 1939: 'Ya Yevrey, ya Yevrey, zdes spratalsya, Yevrey' [Russian: 'I'm a Jew, I've been hiding here.']. And the one in charge was of Jewish descent. He immediately came over to me, overjoyed, and started to talk to me in Yiddish. He said, 'Listen, you'll go to the martial commandant and he'll take care of you.' And so I did, and they took me to work for them.

I was a hired hand, not in the army, but on their boarding. They reached Wisla in the summer and stopped, the offensive didn't start before January. I tailored for them, and later had no obligations, so I stayed in the village, another six months or so, as a free man at last. Everyone in the village knew about me, and they'd say, 'Well, Heniek, you've made it.' And the girls were crazy about me!

I fell in love with a girl there, but I'd already had an obligation. The story is characteristic and even a bit funny. During the war Mrs. Wasilewska told me, 'Heniek, listen, I'll help you out, but remember, when the war's over, you'll marry one of my daughters.' I said, 'Mrs. Wasilewska, if I only make it through the war, why not, I like them, they're all pretty girls after all.' So I came back to Gora Kalwaria and indeed married the youngest one before long.

I'm proud I was the first one to commemorate the fallen. I took out the wicket from the synagogue fence and put it in the Jewish cemetery. It still has the bullet marks made when the Germans shot Pinio Rawski. I hired a guy I knew named Cieplak to put a fence around the cemetery. There were four or five mazevot left. The Germans and the Poles took the rest. [The mazevot from the Jewish cemetery in Gora Kalwaria were used by the Germans as road pavement. Some of the tombstones were stolen by the Poles.]

It was a total mess. I started to put things in order at the cemetery. People reported some tombstones to me, so I collected them, transported to the cemetery and put them upright. These are pre-war mazevot, but they're not standing on their previous spots. Many of these people I knew personally, could be 80 per cent: Szternfeld, Rozenblum, Skrzypek, Mesing, I just didn't recall their burial places exactly, I hadn't attended every funeral.

The tzaddiks' tomb is real. Two of them are buried there, the founder of the dynasty, Chidusz ha-Rem, or Arie Lejb, and his grandson Sfas Emes [Chidushei ha-Rim, or Yitzchak Meir Alter, 1785-1866, the founder of the Ger dynasty; Sfas Emes, or Yehudah Arieh Leib Alter, 1847-1905, Yitzchak Meir's grandson, 3rd Rebbe of the dynasty]. The ohel was demolished during the war, but they didn't get inside, so it's the actual burial place. The new ohel was put up a few years ago by the Hasidim from Israel or America, from the Gora Kalwaria [Ger] communities. They visit the tzaddik's tomb very often.

Only one member of my family survived the war, Uncle Mosze. My calculations show I've lost 36 members of my immediate family, meaning the aunts and their children. Uncle Mosze miraculously survived somewhere in the Sandomierz region. He stayed with a farmer just like me, or so they say. I never asked him. His wife was killed. After the war he remarried in Lodz. He settled with his second wife in Gora Kalwaria. In 1950 they moved to Israel together. They had a son, Dawid. Uncle Mosze became a farmer in Israel, he had some land, an orchard, he kept geese. He died in May 1972.

After the war I lived in a state owned house on the corner of Dominikanska and Polna streets. It had been a German property and the owners were gone. I received an apartment there from the municipality. When I got married, I lived there with my wife. It wasn't until 1960 that I built my own house.

We got married in 1949. My wife was called Czeslawa Maria Wasilewska. She was eight years younger than me. We were an exemplary couple, we lived together for 41 years. She was Catholic and it didn't bother me one bit. We only have one daughter, Malgonia [from Malgorzata], my wife couldn't have any more children. I never kept it secret I was a Jew, but she didn't see that Jewishness in the house. We celebrated the Catholic holidays.

My wife's parents were called Jan and Helena. My father-in-law served in the tsarist army for five years. My wife had four siblings. They lived in Gora Kalwaria. They were farmers, had some land nearby.

Back before the marriage I changed my name to Henryk at the district administration in Grojec. Why shouldn't I have a Polish first name while I'm a Pole, well yes, of Jewish descent, but still a Pole. I never felt, however, the urge to erase my nationality. It's not a shame, and it's not a distinction either, that's who I was born, that's who I am, that's who I will be.

You mustn't forget your nationality, it's no shame. Every human being has a right to live, and it doesn't make any difference if someone is black, or a Gypsy [Roma], or a German. Even against the Germans I don't hold any grudge anymore. A German named Kulc harbored me for three months, could I have any grudge against him, could I refuse to shake hands with him? I would do anything to help that man, because he helped me knowing I was a Jew. There's no place for chauvinism, nationalism, or racism in my mind.

Immediately after the war I worked on my own, and later in a tailor's co- operative. I earned pathetically little there, 2,000 zlotys. After seven years of that I started my own tailoring business. Later I completed a technical high school and took up horticulture. My father used to sell orchards, so I knew something about it, my father-in-law and my brothers-in- law were farmers and gardeners, so I thought I'd learn, and so I did. I planted some trees, and they fruited wonderfully, I had beautiful fruits. I built a house. My wife worked in a shop at first and later in the community cooperative, selling coal, and finally as a deputy manager of a restaurant in Gora Kalwaria. She then retired. She died, my poor thing, in 1990.

We have three grandchildren, Mateusz, Ola [Aleksandra], and Jula. We've worked hard, we've made our way, I've been respected and still am. I had a good life. My house is cultured, open, if a Jew comes knocking, I'll let him in, if a priest, I'll let him in as well. Our parish priest is a great friend of mine, we speak like father and son, he respects me and vice versa.

I had the Pokorski family come to Gora Kalwaria and as my grandfather had a small patch of land in Coniew near Gora Kalwaria, I made it over to them. I arranged for them to receive the Righteous Medal 31 from Yad Vashem 32. They're dead now.

I think only about 30 Jews from Gora Kalwaria survived the war. They returned but fled soon. They moved mainly to Israel, but also to the Scandinavian countries: Sweden, Denmark, Holland. They welcomed Jews. The situation in Poland was not very good for the Jews at first, there was the Kielce pogrom 33 right in 1946, and later the events of 1968 34.

Why, it's horrible that a supposedly socialist country makes up some myths about a fifth column and so on [In his speech on 12th June 1968 Wladyslaw Gomulka, head of the Polish Communist party, accused the persons of Jewish descent of pro-Israeli bias and stigmatized that attitude as a betrayal of the state, using the phrase 'the fifth column'; the term 'fifth column,' coined during the Spanish Civil War, was also being used to refer to the German saboteurs during the Hitler's invasion of Czechoslovakia and Poland]. And yet everyone, Jews and non-Jews, was working, creating, helping to build. How could one order the people of Jewish descent to leave the country? Is that the way it should be? So one shouldn't blame those who left. I never had the intention to leave.

I do have a grudge against the ones I knew in the Gora Kalwaria municipality. They had me come over to the office and declare if I was objective, if I was a good Pole. I told them, 'What's that supposed to mean, what do I declare? You know me very well, I have fought in the Polish army, I've been wounded, I've paid with blood, what do you want from me?' I didn't even say good bye, turned my back on them and left. I think it was sheer stupidity, what is this 'good Pole,' I live here, I'm a citizen, they know me, if they have anything against me, there are penalties, judges. Are all the Poles good?

Recent years

As I've served in the army, after the war I was a member of the ZBoWiD, Union of Fighters for Freedom and Democracy 35. In the 1990s ZBoWiD was transformed into the Veterans Union and the Disabled Soldiers Union. I'm a member of the latter now, of the Piaseczno branch. I've recently received a medal, the Disabled Soldiers Union gold medal, for taking part in the Olszewo battle, where I was wounded.

I've been a member of the TSKZ 36 for 50 years now I think, ever since its creation. I go to the seniors club in Warsaw once or twice a week when the weather is fine. Very rarely in the wintertime. I have my friends there: Kawka, Janowski, Wajnryb, Mrs. Szymanska, Mrs. Kaczmarska, all of them elder people, some are even older than me. We tell each other tall tales, what comes, our life stories, we talk of our youth and the later years.

I've been to Israel twice, in 1965 and 1990. Nothing special about the trip, I asked for a visa and got it, they refused the first time but later changed their mind. Jerusalem was still divided in 1965, so I couldn't get to Bethlehem, to the tomb [Rachel's tomb just outside Bethlehem], the Wailing Wall was also on the other side, but you could more or less see it. I don't know if a million Jews lived there at the time, maybe a million and a half, not more. The immigration increased after the 1967 war 37.

What's with the anti-Semitism in Poland, against whom, as the Jews are gone?! They make up their own Jews. Whenever I talk to such people, I say, 'Okay, well, come on, show me a Jewish shop here, show me people speaking the Jewish language, well, let's go, I want to see, if you say Jews rule the country, show me those Jewish rulers. You idiot, they call everyone who's objective a Jew.' I have a friend, and because we like each other a lot, they say he's a Jew.

It's like that: there are those anti-Semitic hooligans on the one hand, you know - oh, a Jew! and that's it, and on the other hand there are the prewar intellectuals, the Endeks, whole families, the Giertychs, Dmowski, it's a strong group, anti-Semitic since always and that's the bottom-line, no way to persuade them. You have to be liberal and objective, you have to think reasonably. That's how I raised my daughter, that's how she raises my grandchildren.

The center of Gora Kalwaria, the streets Dominikanska, Pijarska, were inhabited by Jews. Poles lived mostly on the outskirts. There was a whole block of tzaddik houses on Pijarska Street. Nowadays there's a shop of the community cooperative in the tzaddik's house. There's also the Alter Synagogue. The Jews don't own it officially, but you can get inside. It stands empty. It's both Jewish and non-Jewish, half Jewish and half non- Jewish. The Hasidim 38 coming from Israel visit the cemetery, the synagogue, and the tzaddik's house.

A man called Karpman and I have the keys to the cemetery. If there's anything to be done in the cemetery, we hire a person and it's fixed. The fence was funded by the Nissenbaum Foundation. Excursion groups come here, plenty of them, to visit their grandparents, great-grandparents, because many Israelis have Polish origins. They often come over to see me, ask me to give them some information, and I speak with them with pleasure. But I don't take care about them that much anymore, I don't have the strength. It's great anyway, that my head still works, that I still have the memory.

Glossary

Ida Goldshmidt
Riga
Latvia
Interviewer: Ella Levitskaya
Date of interview: August 2005

This interview with Ida Goldshmidt was conducted in the Riga Jewish Charity Center. There is a Jewish choir in this center, and Ida sings in this choir. We met after a rehearsal. Ida is one of those ladies, when each next year of their life only adds to their charm. She is a tall, slender, shapely lady with good stature. Her black hair with gray streaks is cut short. One can hardly see any wrinkles on her face. Ida wore light trousers and a light flowered blouse. This outfit was very becoming. It's hard to believe that this 74-year-old lady has lived a very hard life. Ida is very friendly and kind. She told me willingly about her family and her life, however hard these memories are for her.

My family background
Growing up
The war begins
Post-war
Married life
Our son Boris
Glossary

My family background

My parents' families lived in Daugavpils [200 km from Riga], Latvia. I have no information about my father's family. My paternal grandfather and grandmother died long before I was born. My father had brothers, but I never met them. They must have been scattered around the world. My father, Isaac Zaks, was born in 1886. I only know one thing about my father for sure, and that is that he studied at cheder. This was mandatory for all Jewish boys, and this is pretty much all I know about my father's childhood or boyhood.

My mother's family also lived in Daugavpils. I never met my grandfather. I don't know his first name, but his last name was Liberzon. I remember Grandmother well. Her name was Hana. My grandfather didn't live long, and my grandmother had to raise six children alone. My mama Buna was born in 1890. She was the oldest of all the children, and helped her mother to raise the other children. After Mama her brother Hersh, who was usually addressed with Grigoriy, the Russian name [common name] 1 or, I'd rather say, Grisha, an affectionate of Grigoriy, and Borukh-Zelek, or Boris in the Russian manner, were born. I know that Boris was the youngest of the children. Mama also had three sisters, but they lived in different towns with their families, and I never met them.

Before Latvia gained independence in 1918 it belonged to the Russian Empire [see Latvian Independence] 2. Daugavpils was within the [Jewish] Pale of Settlement 3, and Jews constituted a big part of its population. Only Jewish people with higher education, traders and craftsmen with specialties in demand in the town, were allowed to settle down in Riga. A major part of the Jewish population settled down in Riga after the [Russian] Revolution of 1917 4, when the Pale of Settlement was cancelled. I believe the Jewish population constituted at least half of the total population in Daugavpils. There were several synagogues in the town. Each guild had its own synagogue: butchers, leather tanners, tinsmiths, etc. All Jewish people were religious, and it couldn't have been otherwise. All Jewish boys had to go to cheder. All weddings followed the Jewish traditions. If a rabbi didn't bless the marriage, the man and woman were considered to be living in sin.

When World War I began in 1914, Nicholas II 5, the Russian Emperor, ordered to deport all Jewish people to Russia from Latvia. The emperor had concerns that Jews were to support the German armies, if they came to Latvia. My parents' families were also deported. I think my mother and father got married in Russia. However, they both came from Daugavpils and must have known each other before their deportation. All I know is that their first baby was born in Russia and died shortly after his birth. After the revolution, when the tsar was overthrown, my parents could return to Latvia. They settled down in Riga. Mama's brothers also lived in Riga. It was difficult to find a job in Daugavpils, and many people were moving to bigger towns looking for a better life.

Poor Jewish people mainly settled down in Moscowskiy forstadt 6, a suburb of Riga. Most streets were named after Russian writers and poets such as Turgenev 7, Pushkin 8, Gogol 9, etc. They had been named so during the Russian Empire, and their names were not changed afterward. There were also Moskovskaya, Kievskaya and Katolicheskaya [Catholic] streets. Even Katolicheskaya Street was mostly populated by poor Jewish people. My parents rented an apartment on the 2nd floor of a two-storeyed wooden house. It was owned by a Jewish man, and its tenants were also Jews. They were poor Jewish families, and couldn't afford to pay higher fees, and the owner wasn't much wealthier than the tenants. Other houses in this street were as shabby as ours.

My father became a cab driver. He bought a cart and a horse. The horse stayed in our yard. My parents' horses often died since my father had no money to feed them properly. This was like a vicious circle. A horse died, and my father had to borrow money to buy another horse. Then he had to pay back his debt, and again he had no money to feed the horse. He also had to feed the family. Mama didn't have a job. She had to take care of four children. Jewish women didn't work at the time. They had many children and had to take care of their homes.

Growing up

My brother Todres, the oldest of the children, was born in 1921. The next was my sister Joha, born in 1926. My brother Haim-Shleime [Semyon] was born in 1929. I was born in 1931 and was the last child. I was given the name of Ida.

My maternal grandmother lived with us. Jewish mothers commonly stayed with older daughters. And there was another Jewish rule: brothers could only get married after all of their sisters were married. Mama's brothers also lived in Riga. Both were tinsmiths. Both brought Mama money every week in order for her to support Grandmother. Mothers were well-honored in Jewish families. I remember my grandmother well. She was short and wore her gray hair in a knot on the back of her head. My grandmother wore long, dark skirts and dark, long-sleeved blouses. My grandmother was kind and friendly. She always had a smile and a kind word for others. My grandmother loved her grandchildren dearly. She particularly spent much time with me. I was a sickly child. I was allergic, but I only know now that I was allergic. At my time the doctors couldn't identify the disease. Whatever food I ate I had red blisters on my skin. A doctor in the Jewish hospital [Bikkur Holim] 10 told Mama I would overgrow them, and this happened to be true.

Our family was a typical Jewish family. We lived a Jewish life. We lived in a Jewish environment, and the Jewish religion and Jewish traditions constituted a natural element of our life. We followed strictly all traditions, and it never occurred to anyone to skip any of them. Newly-born boys were circumcised. At the age of 13, boys had the bar mitzvah ritual. Of course, there were no big celebrations in our poor neighborhood, but there were mandatory rituals and treatments at the synagogue. I was just three, when my older brother Todres had his bar mitzvah, and don't remember any details, but I don't think there was a celebration. My parents couldn't afford it. However, I remember how proud he was, when he put on his tallit to go to the synagogue with our father. My husband also told me about his bar mitzvah, and it was about the same. There was a cheder in our neighborhood, and all boys attended it. My father also studied at cheder in Daugavpils in his time, and so did my brothers. Girls studied Hebrew and prayers when they studied at Jewish schools.

However poor we were, we celebrated all Jewish holidays in our family, following all rules. Mama saved money for holidays. When my father brought his salary, she put a few coins into a box. Mama cooked gefilte fish and chicken broth on holidays. We had that on Pesach, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. We also celebrated Sabbath. On Friday evening Mama lit candles and prayed over them. On the following day my father went to the synagogue. He never missed one Saturday. My brothers went to the synagogue with my father. Mama didn't attend all Saturday services at the synagogue, but she went there, and my older sister and I joined her. The synagogue was actually the only place of Jewish gatherings. Our poor neighbors couldn't afford to go to the theater or to a restaurant. The synagogue was the center, coordinating the Jewish life of our neighborhood.

There was a major clean up before Pesach. All belongings were taken outside to whitewash the walls and clean the windows. Mama and I cleaned the house from chametz. My father, holding a candle and a goose feather, swept off breadcrumbs that were purposely left in an open space. They were wrapped in a piece of cloth to be burnt. Mama baked matzah for Pesach in an oven. Mama added eggs to the dough, and it was yellow and crunchy like thin crunchy cookies. Now they make rectangular matzah, while Mama used to make it round. My sister and I assisted her. Mama made the dough and baked the matzah, my sister rolled the dough and I made little holes in it with a little wheel. We had to do everything very quick, because 18 minutes after the dough was made it was no longer good for matzah. Therefore there were smaller portions of dough made. There was plenty of matzah to be made to last through all days of the holiday. We had no bread at home throughout the holiday. Mama had special utensils for Pesach. During the year they were stored separately from our everyday utensils. Mama also used different utensils for meat and dairy products, though we hardly ever could afford meat.

On the first day of Pesach we got together for a festive dinner. For this dinner Mama made chicken broth, gefilte fish, matzah and potato puddings. In the evening we conducted the seder. Everything was according to the rules. There was special wine, and a big glass of wine for Elijah the Prophet. My father conducted the seder and read the Haggadah. He broke a piece of matzah into three and hid away one piece called the afikoman. One of the children was to find it and hide it away again to have Father pay the ransom. My brother Haim-Shleime was usually the one. There was also everything required for seder on the table: a piece of meat with a bone, a hard-boiled egg, greenery and a saucer with salty water. Our father told us what these stood for. The seder lasted long, but I didn't feel like sleeping. I kept staring at the glass meant for Elijah, and there seemed to be less wine in the glass, which meant to me that Elijah had visited our seder and blessed our home. After the Haggadah we sang Jewish songs. Jewish songs are usually sad, but we only sang merry songs at Pesach. My father couldn't afford to stay at home on all days of the holiday since we could hardly make ends meet. He only stayed away from work two days at the beginning and one day at the end of the holiday.

On Yom Kippur my parents, my older brother Todres and my sister fasted 24 hours. Haim-Shleime and I weren't allowed to fast, but we tried as hard as we could. On Yom Kippur everybody spent the day praying at the synagogue. We went to the synagogue with our parents. Children were allowed to play in the yard during the prayer. We also celebrated Rosh Hashanah and Chanukkah. Chanukkah was our favorite holiday. My mother's brothers visited us to greet grandmother and my parents. They gave us a few coins. We could buy lollies, which was a rare delicacy for us.

We only spoke Yiddish at home. This was the only language I knew, when a child. Later I learned Latvian. I don't remember how I managed to learn Latvian. We lived in the Jewish environment and went to a Jewish school. We even had the Yevreyskaya Street, Zidu Yela, in our neighborhood.

There were two Jewish schools in our neighborhood: 'Zidas skola' and 'Ebrais skola'. Zidas skola was a six-year general education Jewish school. All subjects were taught in Yiddish. We also had Hebrew and religious classes. Ebrais skola was a Hebrew school. All subjects were taught in Hebrew, and children studied the Torah and the Talmud. We went to Zidas skola. I liked studying, and my teachers praised me for my successes.

My older brother Todres tried to help our parents. Even when he was still at school, he tried to earn some money. My mother's brothers were tinsmiths. They rented a shop. Mama cooked lunch for them, and Todres delivered this food to the shop. Mama's brothers gave him some change for this, and he gave this money to Mama. After finishing school my brother went to work at the leather factory. He became an apprentice. When he started working, he brought home his wages, and life became easier, when two men were working. I was the youngest in the family, and my brother liked spoiling me. He gave me the most precious gift in my life. When he received his first wage, he bought me a purse. I can still remember it: red leather and a clasp with a shiny yellow lock. I believed it was made of gold. I had never had a beautiful thing like this before, and I put it on my pillow beside me, when I went to bed. When Todres started earning money, we moved to another apartment. It was also located in Moscow forstadt, but it was a better house and a better apartment. It was more spacious and comfortable. My grandmother moved in with us. In 1940 Todres went to learn the furrier's specialty. It didn't take him long to learn this vocation.

Mama's brother Girsh was single. Mama's younger brother Borukh-Zelek got married in 1928. His wife's name was Zhenia. She came from Riga. She also came from a traditional Jewish family. It goes without saying that they had a traditional Jewish wedding. They were very much in love, but they didn't have children for a long time. Their only daughter, whose name I can't remember, was born in 1935.

I have very dim memories about the establishment of the Soviet regime [see Annexation of Latvia to the USSR] 11. I was nine years old. I remember Soviet tanks decorated with flowers driving along the streets. Basically, our situation didn't change. The Soviet regime was loyal to poor people. Perhaps, our situation even improved. A pioneer unit [see All-Union pioneer organization] 12 was established in our school. Children joined the pioneer organization. My brother Haim-Shloime became a pioneer. I was too young, since the admissions started only in the 4th grade. My brother became a pioneer along with his other schoolmates. The children lined up and red neck-ties were tied round their necks. I wished I had been one of them. Actually, there were no changes in our life. Jewish schools were operating, though Jewish history and religious classes were cancelled. We studied the 'History of the USSR,' a new subject. We also observed Jewish traditions and celebrated Jewish holidays at home. The synagogue was open, and my parents attended it on Saturday. There were new Soviet holidays: 1st May and 7th November [October Revolution Day] 13. We didn't celebrate them at home, but there were celebrations and concerts at school. I sang in the school choir. We sang Jewish songs since we didn't study Russian at school.

In early June 1941 I finished the 2nd grade and my brother finished the 4th grade. We usually spent summer vacations at home. Our parents couldn't afford to arrange vacations elsewhere for us. We played with our neighbors' children and went to swim in the Daugava River. Wealthier Jewish families had summer houses at the seashore, but my brother and I had never seen the sea, though we lived just a few kilometers from the seashore. In June 1941 Soviet authorities established a pioneer camp for children in Ogre. Children from poor families could go there on summer vacation. My brother and I were also to spend the summer there. We were looking forward to going to the summer camp, and our parents were very happy that we would have decent vacations. I remember so well that when we were leaving, our parents gave us a whole bag of cheap candy. We had them in the bus and offered some to our friends. The trip started like a feast! Most children came from poor Jewish families. They were on the priority list of the camp.

There were small houses in the woods in the camp. There was a spot in the center where the children lined up in the mornings. The pioneer tutors reported to the camp director and then the flag was raised on the post. There was a flowerbed with flowers planted in the shape of a red star.

The war begins

We were busy in the camp. There were clubs, and also, we went to the woods or to bathe. My brother and I were in different pioneer groups, and didn't see each other often. Sunday was the day of parents' visits. Our parents visited us once. They brought us sweets and candy. The following Sunday was to be 22nd June [the beginning of the Great Patriotic War] 14. We heard distant explosions in the morning. We ignored them. There were frequent military trainings, and we were used to such noises. Later we noticed that adults looked concerned about something. In the late afternoon German planes attacked the camp. The red star in the flower bed suffered the most. Perhaps, it was seen best from the planes. We were hiding in the forest during this air raid. At night evacuation of the camp began. We headed to the railway station where we boarded freight carriages. Children were crying asking to be taken home. We knew nothing about the war. We associated it with boys' games. Only the children who were ill at the time stayed in the camp for fear of epidemic, and they all died, of course.

Our train left Ogre. Children were crying, and our tutors tried to comfort us. My brother and I stayed together. Our train stopped at a crossing. There was another train with recruits right there. My brother and I were looking through the window, when all of a sudden we saw our older brother Todres. He was standing near the military train. Later we got to know that he volunteered to the front on the first day of the war. His gaze was sliding along our train, when he suddenly saw us. When he told us about it later, he said that his heart almost stopped. He didn't know whether we were alive or how our parents were doing. He ran to our carriage. He wanted to get in and talk to us, but he wasn't allowed to come inside. My brother and I also ran to the door, begging our tutors to let us see him, but all in vain. Our train started. My brother and I kept looking at Todres standing on the track. We saw the tears running down his cheeks.

Only after the war we found out what happened to our family. Uncle Boris told us the story, and he heard it from his Latvian acquaintances. When my parents got to know about the war, they prepared for evacuation. They packed their luggage onto the cart and were ready to leave, but Mama didn't want to go without us. She tried to get to Ogre, but there were no trains available, and she failed to reach us. The others were telling her that we would be taken care of, and she had to think about the rest of the family, Joha, Grandmother. Mama made up her mind to go, but they couldn't get to the opposite bank of the Daugava River. German planes were bombing the bridge, and our family had to go back. They stayed in Riga. A few days later German forces came to Riga. The Moscowskiy forstadt area was fenced with barbed wire to make a Jewish ghetto [see Riga ghetto] 15. At first Jews from Riga were taken to the ghetto, and then Jews from other towns followed. The first prisoners were those families, who lived in this neighborhood. In late November 1941 the shootings of prisoners began. November in Latvia is frosty, and there is usually snow on the ground. Prisoners were convoyed to Rumbula [forest] 16, about 15 kilometers from the ghetto, where they were killed. My father, mother, grandmother and my older sister Joha perished in Rumbula. My grandmother was perhaps unable to walk as far as the forest. It didn't matter. The Germans killed the weak ones who stopped to take a rest. There were no survivors. It didn't matter whether a person lived one or two extra hours on his last road. Maybe those who died on the way were luckier to avoid the horror of mass shooting. I think at times whether these Jews going to Rumbula knew what to expect or whether they were hoping to be taken to another ghetto? Of course, I will never get an answer to this question. In 1944 the Germans opened these huge graves in Rumbula to burn the remains of the people who had been buried there. They also crushed the bones in bone crushing machines.

In early June 1941 my uncle Boris' wife Zhenia and their daughter went on vacation to Pliavinias where Boris rented a room for them from Latvian landlords. Boris and his wife were hoping that their daughter would gain more strength during the vacation. When the war began, Boris was mobilized to the front. After the war we got to know that the Latvian landlords killed Boris' daughter even before the Germans came to the town. Zhenia hanged herself after this happened. Boris didn't know what had happened to them until after the war. Recently the memory of Zhenia and her daughter came back to me. My husband, my friend Ella Perl and I went to the exhibition 'Jews of the Riga ghetto.' We heard on the radio about it and didn't hesitate to visit it. My family members perished in this ghetto. I was hoping to find a mention of them at the exhibition. There was a large book of victims of the ghetto. However, I didn't find the names of my family, though Katolicheskaya Street where we lived was within the ghetto territory. Thus, I found the name of Zhenia Liberzon and her home address. The book also mentioned that she hanged herself after the vicious murder of her daughter. Zhenia was very young.

In June 1941 our train, full of children, was moving to Russia. The train was camouflaged with tree branches, so that German pilots wouldn't be able to identify the train. Regretfully, I cannot remember the places where we stopped. There were many stops. I knew no Russian, and couldn't remember Russian names. When the train stopped in a village or town, we got off, if there was an opportunity for us to stay for some time in school buildings or in local houses. For some time we stayed in a distant village where people had never seen a plane before. They used to look into the sky asking, 'What is that flying thing?' Usually a few children and a tutor were accommodated in a room. We were provided meals. However poor the food was, nobody starved. We never had enough food, and before going to sleep we often thought about our mothers' dinners. We didn't go to school. There were mostly children from poor Jewish families in our train. None of us knew Russian. We spoke Yiddish to one another and Latvian to our tutors. We couldn't attend Russian schools. Our tutors tried to teach us things, but they were not teachers. When the front line advanced we moved farther into the rear. We had left our homes with summer clothes on, and on our way we were given warmer clothes. Local women at places where we stopped felt sorry for us and shared their warm clothes with us. Of course, these clothes were different sizes. Now I know that we looked like scarecrows, but we didn't care then. So we kept moving till early 1943. We were called a children's home from Riga, but there were also children from other Latvian towns in our group. I don't remember if there were any Latvian children among us.

During this journey across Russia we faced anti-Semitism for the first time. We found out we were different from others. Speaking no Russian we didn't play with local children. We usually stayed in smaller groups. Local children used to follow a group of us shouting, 'Zhid, running along the line' [in Russian, the lines rhyme]. We knew the word 'zhid,' of course. Zhid in Latvia meant 'Jew' and had no abusive underlying note. This was the only word we knew, and we didn't know what the locals were shouting. Later we asked our tutors and they told us what it meant. The translation sounded nothing but funny, but the intonation and conduct of these boys indicated abuse.

In 1943 our former pioneer camp and current children's home arrived at Ivanovo [300 km from Moscow]. There was an international children's home, known all over the Soviet Union, located there. It was established in 1936 or 1937, during the war in Spain [see Spanish Civil War] 17, when Spanish orphan children started arriving in the Soviet Union. Initially, these children were let for adoption, and those coming afterward were taken to the children's home. Then came Polish children, whose parents were killed, when Hitler attacked Poland in 1939 [see Invasion of Poland] 18. There were children from Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and when the Great Patriotic War began, Soviet children were also brought to the children's home. Also, there were many children from the countries annexed to the USSR in the late 1930s, early 1940s: the Baltic Republics, Western Ukraine and Moldova. They didn't know Russian, but there were also Russian children at the home.

My brother and I stayed together during our wanderings across Russia. In Ivanovo we were separated: my brother, being two years older than me, was assigned to a different group of children. In Ivanovo we attended Russian classes. Children learn fast, but what is surprising is that I forgot Yiddish, when I started speaking Russian. I remembered Latvian, though, and when I returned to Latvia, I could speak Russian and Latvian. I also spoke Russian to my friends from the Riga children's home. All children of different nationalities spoke Russian to one another in this international children's home. We faced no anti-Semitism in the children's home. There were so many different children at this home, that nobody looked foreign. Of course, life in the children's home was no idyll, and I would never believe those who say they were happy there. However good a children's home can be, it will never replace a family. However, we knew we had no alternative, and that we would have died, if it hadn't been for the children's home. Actually, we had sufficient food and clothes, studied, had clean beds and were treated all right. I was continuously ill in Ivanovo. The doctors really saved my life at the children's home.

I became a pioneer at the children's home, and I was very proud of it. I studied from the 3rd to the 5th grade at school at the children's home. I was doing all right at school. I had friends: three sisters from Latvia, their last name was Pesakhovich. They came from the eastern part of Latvia. Feiga, the middle daughter, was in my group and my class. Her older sister Fania and the younger Sonia were also my friends. My other friend was Sonia, a Polish Jewish girl, whose parents were killed by the Germans in 1939.

We knew the war was coming to an end. In 1944 Soviet forces advanced as far as Latvia. We looked forward to the day when Latvia would be free and we could go home. My brother and I often discussed how we would come home and our parents would be waiting for us. It never occurred to us that none of them had survived. We thought that they were in evacuation, but couldn't find us, considering that we were moving from one place to another.

In 1945 children from Latvia left Ivanovo for the Daugavpils children's home. In fall I went to the 6th grade. The majority of our tutors were Russian. They only spoke Russian. They treated us well, and there was no anti-Semitism in our boarding school. Our tutor, Tatiana, was a Russian Jew. I owe my life to her. In winter I fell ill with pneumonia. The doctor of the boarding school had no positive feelings about curing me. Our tutor's sister was a doctor in the municipal hospital of Daugavpils. One night I was taken to her hospital on sleighs. A bag with my dress, underwear and some food was beside me, but the cabman stole this bag. I was unconscious in the hospital for a long time. My tutor's sister brought me back to life. She felt sorry for the Jewish orphan girl and spent much time with me. When I recovered from pneumonia, I fell ill with measles. I don't know how I survived.

Post-war

Two months later I returned to the boarding school. My head was shaved, and I rather looked like a skeleton. Our tutor helped me a lot. I had missed many classes. Tatiana helped me to catch up with the other children. We had individual classes, and I managed to complete the curricula of the 5th and 6th grade. In fall 1946 I went to the 7th grade. After finishing the 7th grade well, I was awarded a trip to Moscow. Ten children and a tutor went on this trip. This was the first time we went to Moscow, and everything was interesting. Moscow was being reconstructed, but theaters and museums were open. We went on excursions and to the theater. This was the first time I went to the theater, and I loved it.

Our boarding school tutors took efforts to find our relatives. One Sunday children from Riga were taken to Riga hoping that we might find someone we knew. We had an appointed place to meet in the evening, and I went walking along the streets. I went to our neighborhood, walked along familiar streets recalling my childhood. An older woman looked at me closely and asked, 'Are you Buna's daughter?' Buna was my mother's name. Everybody said I looked like her. The woman recognized me. She told me that my family had perished, but that my uncle Boris was alive. He had returned from the front. The woman promised to find his address, and take me there the following Sunday. She gave me her address, and the following Sunday my brother and I went to see her. We went to our uncle together. The reunion was joyful.

After the war Uncle Boris got to know that our family had been killed, and that my brother and I were evacuated with the camp. Our older brother Todres also came back to Riga. He was at the front during the war. The commander of his regiment heard that he could speak German and my brother became an interpreter at the headquarters. Our uncle and brother were looking for us. They never lost hope that we had survived, and we finally reunited. Todres also came to my uncle. We told each other what we had been through, talked about our dear ones and made plans for the future. Our uncle worked as a tinsmith in Riga. He remarried. His new wife was a Jewish woman from Latvia. Her husband had perished during the war, and she and her son were in evacuation. When my uncle married her, they rented two small rooms in a shared [communal] apartment 19. Boris wife's sister and her son also lived with them.

Boris told us about our uncle Hirsh. He was a very good tinsmith. Germans gave him orders, but later sent him to Germany. My uncle died of consumption in Germany shortly before the liberation in 1945. We don't know where he was buried.

I could hardly remember my parents' faces. All I remember is that they were tall. My uncle said that all I had to do to recall my mama was look into the mirror, but I wished I had my parents' picture. Our family pictures were gone. There were different tenants in our house after the ghetto was eliminated. They didn't preserve any of our belongings. My uncle found some acquaintances. They had their wedding pictures, and in one picture my parents were among other guests. There was no opportunity to make copies of photos at the time, but I remembered the faces of my parents and they were engraved in my memory for the rest of my life.

My brother had finished school by then. In Ivanovo he was called by the Russian name of Semyon, and after the war he continued to be called by this name. However, when receiving a passport, my brother had his name of Shleime indicated in it. I called him Shlemike affectionately. My brother and I were very close. Boris trained him in his vocation as a tinsmith. Later my brother started working in his shop. He rented a bed from a Jewish family.

Our older brother Todres changed dramatically after the war. I remember how kind and caring he had been before the war, but the war made him cruel. After the war he went to work as a leather worker. Leather workers earned well. Todres was young and wanted a good life. My brother and I were a burden to him. He had a family and had to take care of it. He was married to Uncle Boris wife's sister for six months. Something went wrong and they divorced. Todres married Sima Taiz, a very beautiful Jewish girl from Riga. They had a traditional Jewish wedding. In 1949 their son Isaac, named after our father, and in 1959 their daughter Bella were born. The first letter of her name repeated the first letter of our mother Buna's name. Todres believed that it was his duty to take care of his family, and we were mature enough to take care of ourselves. Perhaps, he had some reason...

After finishing the 7th grade I came of age to leave the boarding school. I moved to Riga. I stayed with my uncle for six months. I became an apprentice at the sewing factory in Riga. I also went to the 8th grade of an evening school. When my uncle's daughter was born, I helped his wife to look after the baby. However, I couldn't stay with my uncle any longer. There were five of us living in two small rooms, and when the baby was born, there was no space for a baby bed. I rented a bed from a family. I didn't stay long with those families. When their situation changed, I had to look for another bed. I became friends with my distant relative, my uncle's first wife Zhenia's relative. We were the same age, and our situation was the same. She helped me with my luggage, when I had to move to another place, and I helped her, when she had to move. I was pressed for money. Apprentices received 30 rubles of allowance. I paid 15 rubles per month for the bed, and it was difficult to make a living on 15 rubles, particularly after the war, when there was a lack of food. When I started working, I didn't earn much either. I was just a beginner, and was paid based on a piece-rate basis. Life was hard, but I knew I could only rely on myself. I joined the Komsomol 20 at the factory. I was an active Komsomol member and participated in all events. After finishing the 8th grade I couldn't afford to continue my studies. I had to earn my living. There were many Jewish, Latvian and Russian employees at the factory, but there was no anti-Semitism.

In 1948 the cosmopolitan trials [see campaign against 'cosmopolitans'] 21 took place in the USSR. I remember this period, though it had no effect on me. I was a seamstress' apprentice and was far from politics. However, all of us knew that this was a struggle against Jews. According to our newspapers all cosmopolitans were Jews. The trial against cosmopolitans was followed by the Doctors' Plot 22. However, I had too many other problems to take care of: I had no place to live and at times no food. This was scary.

When Stalin died in 1953, I took it as a personal disaster, as if it were the end of the world. Actually, I grew up in children's homes where children were raised as patriots. Our tutors called Stalin the 'father of all people' and 'Stalin is our sun.' They must have been sincere having grown up in the USSR. This had been hammered into their heads, and they, in their turn, were hammering this into our heads without giving it much thought. I cried after Stalin, our chief and teacher like all others did. After the Twentieth Party Congress 23, where Khrushchev 24 denounced the cult of Stalin and disclosed his crimes, I cursed Stalin. How much grief this man had brought to people, and how much more he would have caused had he lived longer! People were returning from exile [see Deportations from the Baltics] 25, and their stories proved the truth of what Khrushchev had said. The processes against cosmopolitans and the Doctors' Plot meant to unleash anti-Semitism and nobody knows what it might have resulted in, maybe even in Jewish pogroms. After the Twentieth Congress we had hopes for some improvements. It was like taking a breath of fresh air, but some time later everything was back: the poverty and lack of human rights for common Soviet people, anti-Semitism. Only repression was in the past. I also understood that this open and aggressive anti-Semitism was brought to Latvia by those, who arrived in Latvia from the USSR after the war. They felt like they owned our country. They were used to anti- Semitism, which existed in Russia during the tsarist or the Soviet regime.

In 1957 fortune smiled on me. Uncle Boris' wife found a room in a shared apartment for me. There were no shared apartments in our country before the USSR. There were 8-10 square meter servants' rooms in all bigger rooms, and I was to get one such room. When I came to the executive office [Ispolkom] 26, where the housing commission was to decide whether I should have this room, I was so scared that I was shaking all over. However, they took a positive decision, and I lived in this room for 17 years. From the moment I moved into this apartment I faced Russian anti-Semitism. The tenants in this apartment were a Jewish family and a Russian woman and her son. They had arrived from Siberia. When I just came in there without my belongings this woman began to shout that zhidi were buying everything and that they believed that everything there was for them, but that I would never have this room. Anyway, there was nothing she could do about it. I had an order and I moved into this room. My uncle refurbished it and bought me some furniture. The Russian woman continuously made scandals with me and with the Jewish family. She even dared to fight with us.

I became a good dressmaker and was offered a job in a shop. They offered a bigger salary and I accepted the offer. There were Jewish employees in the shop. They spoke Yiddish to one another. I had forgotten the language when in the children's home, but when I came to this environment, it took me no time to restore my language skills.

My brother and I celebrated all Jewish holidays at my uncle's place. He observed Jewish traditions and celebrated Jewish holidays. His wife was very religious. There was a lack of food products after the war. At one time there was even the system of food cards [Card system] 27, but whatever the situation, Boris' wife followed the kashrut. She bought kosher meat and sausage from a shochet. She bought live chickens at the market and took them to the shochet. They celebrated Sabbath on Friday. Saturday was a working day in the USSR, and my uncle had to go to work, but his wife didn't work on Saturday. They also celebrated Jewish holidays according to all rules. She also baked matzah for Pesach. The synagogue in Riga was open in the postwar years. It was amazing that the Germans didn't ruin it. Perhaps, it was because it was hidden behind apartment houses. The Germans burnt a number of synagogues in Riga, and later the Soviet regime closed the remaining synagogues. They didn't remove the synagogues, but instead, they used them as storage facilities or even residential quarters. However, this one survived. Even on weekdays it was full, and on holidays, such as Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur or Pesach, there wasn't an inch of room inside. There were people crowding outside. My uncle's wife had a seat of her own, and she paid for it each year. There was a beautiful choir and a wonderful cantor. We went to the synagogue on all holidays.

Married life

I got married in 1961. I met my future husband, Samuel Goldshmidt, at work. He was a tailor and worked in the shop. I made women's overcoats, and Samuel made men's wear. Samuel came from Daugavpils. His father, Hirsh Goldshmidt, was the best shoemaker in Daugavpils, and his mother, Basia, was a housewife. Besides Samuel, they had a son, David, and two daughters, Paya and Frieda. All children looked like their father. They were tall and had fair hair. Paya, the oldest one, was born in 1923, and Samuel was born in 1924. Frieda was born in 1925, and David was the youngest child. They grew up in a traditional Jewish family. The children were raised to respect Jewish traditions. After finishing cheder Samuel went to the yeshivah in Liepaja. Samuel can read and write in Hebrew well. One day a hooligan threw a brick and hit Samuel on the head. Samuel survived miraculously, but he asked his father to take him home. He went to a general education Jewish school and after finishing it became an apprentice of a tailor. His brother David was also a tailor. They spoke Yiddish in the family. None of them knew any Russian.

When the war began, Samuel's father went to the front, and the family evacuated to Irkutsk. Samuel was regimented to the army in 1943. He was at the front and had several awards: an order and a few medals. Samuel's father perished at the front. His mother became a widow at the age of 48. She never remarried. Basia was a very energetic woman. She raised four children alone and managed to give them a start in life. After the war the family moved to Riga. Samuel's sisters got married. Paya's marital name was Zilber, and Frieda's marital name was Benhen. Paya had two daughters, and Frieda had a son, Hersh, named after the deceased father, and a daughter. Basia lived with her younger daughter. David was the first to move to Israel in the 1970s, during the mass emigration of Jews. He got married in Israel and had two daughters. David was very kind, cheerful and witty. He was well-loved by all. He died of cancer prematurely. Samuel's sister and his mother also lived in Israel. Basia lived a long life. She died at the age of 90. Samuel's older sister Paya died in 2003. Paya and her husband loved each other very much. She used to say that if he was the first to die, she wouldn't be able to live without him. Paya died first. Her husband had cancer, and refused from medical treatment. He didn't want to live without her. He died one year after Paya. Frieda and David and Paya's children still live in Israel.

We had a traditional Jewish wedding. My husband and I grew up in respect of Jewish traditions, and followed them even during the Soviet regime. I was an orphan, and my uncle told me he would arrange the wedding for me. It was a beautiful wedding. There were Jewish musicians and a rabbi. The wedding took place at his dacha 28 in Majori, at the seashore. There was a big party in the hall, and a chuppah in the yard. There were many guests at the wedding party. After the wedding my husband moved in with me.

In 1962 our son Boris was born. We named him after my mama, by the first letter of her name. His Jewish name is Boruch. He had his brit milah according to the rules. Following the Jewish tradition, we did not cut his hair before the age of three, and at the age of three we arranged the upsheren ritual, the first hair cut. He had long fair hair and was often mistaken for a girl. He didn't quite like it and was happy to have his hair cut short.

We spoke Yiddish at home, and my son knows Yiddish well. My husband taught him Jewish traditions, history and religion. We always celebrated Jewish holidays at home. I didn't have as much time as my uncle's wife to prepare for holidays, though. My husband and I worked, and I had no time to stand in long lines to buy food products, but I did my best. We always had matzah at Pesach and no bread. We went to the synagogue on holidays and took our son with us. My husband and I often recall beautiful services on holidays and how beautiful the choir was. When in the 1970s local Jews started moving to Israel, fewer people were coming to the synagogue. [Editor's note: according to the 1970 census, the Jewish population in Riga constituted 30,581 people. The population in Riga went down due to Jewish emigration to Israel and other countries: in 1979 to 23,583 people, and by 1st January 1989 to 18,814 people].

There were only newcomers left, and they didn't observe Jewish traditions. This wasn't their fault. They had grown up under the Soviet regime, when there was a ban on religion [see struggle against religion] 29, when everything of Jewish origin was extirpated from their life. An acquaintance of mine, who came to Riga from Russia, told me that they were even afraid of teaching their children Yiddish. Her grandmother spoke Yiddish, and her mother already didn't know it. Also, only older people, who had no fears left, went to the synagogue. Younger people didn't attend the synagogues for fear of losing their jobs. They were not to blame. The Jewish religion and traditions have always been a part of our life in independent Latvia before 1940 or even during the period of the Soviet regime. My son and I sat on the upper tier at the synagogue, and my husband sat on the ground floor. When our son grew older, he stayed with his father at the synagogue.

We didn't celebrate Soviet holidays at home. We were happy to have another day off, though. I liked parades on 1st May and 7th November, when people got together for the parade and for parties after the parade. We drank a little and then sang songs. We had lots of fun. Then we went for a walk with our son and visited our relatives on every other day off.

My brother Shleime, a tinsmith, married Ida, a Jewish girl, in 1954. He also had a traditional Jewish wedding. His wife was born in Liepaja in 1934. Her parents had nine children. During the Holocaust the family was in evacuation and they all survived. Ida's mother sent her children to the children's home fearing that she wouldn't be able to provide food for all of them. After the war they moved to Riga. Ida told me that during their evacuation, when they were running along the streets of Liepaja to the railway station, Latvian residents kept shooting at them. They had often killed Jews even before the Germans came to the country.

Their son Boris was born in 1955, and their daughter Hana, named after Grandmother, was born in 1960. Boris was named after our mama, by the first letter of her name Buna. In 1971 my brother and his family emigrated to Israel. It was very difficult to obtain a permit to leave the USSR, and Ida and other Jews from Riga, who were refused such a permit, went to Moscow to insist on getting the permit. They went on a hunger strike in front of the Supreme Soviet 30 of the USSR, and they finally managed to obtain this permit to move to Israel. However, they only stayed in Israel for three years. My brother could hardly cope with the climate in Israel. He and I have problems with joints resulting from our hard childhood in the children's home. The disease recrudesced in Israel, and my brother had problems walking.

Ida decided they should move to Germany. My brother hated the very idea, and they argued so hard that at times they were on the edge of divorce, but my brother couldn't leave his wife and children. They moved to Berlin. They have citizenship of Israel and Germany. My brother had a hard time at the beginning. It had to do with his work considering that there were different technologies and different materials, but also, he suffered from living in the country, whose citizens had been exterminating Jews. I know that this wasn't so hard on his wife: her family survived in the Holocaust and none of them was murdered or burnt. Besides, she is five years younger than my brother and she doesn't remember all of these horrors. It was hard for my brother. Later my brother made friends with a Jewish shoemaker from Latvia, who taught him his vocation. My brother went to work in his shop and began to earn well. He supported me since he went to Israel. He sent parcels via Joint 31, and also sent money occasionally, when someone traveled to Latvia. A few years later his partner decided to move to his daughter in Canada. He sold the shop to my brother just for peanuts. My brother has lived in Germany for 30 years. He adjusted to living there and it is easier now. Shleime and his family observe Jewish traditions. His daughter is married to a Jewish man, and his son has a Jewish wife. My brother has grandchildren. Shleime was very upset, when our niece Bella, Todres' daughter, married a Latvian man, and his son's second wife is Russian. Shleime loved our brothers' children. He didn't criticize them, but he suffered a lot. However, Bella and Isaac have very good families, and I'm very happy for them and wish them happiness.

We still lived in our small room. We suffered from continuous attacks of our Russian neighbor. She was really a sadist. We spent summers renting a summer house in the vicinity of Riga. For ten years we were on the lists of the executive committee for getting an apartment. We knew that a bribe given to those officials who were responsible for the distribution of apartments would have accelerated the process, and once somebody even gave my husband a hint in this regard. However, we didn't have any extra money, and secondly, my husband would have never done such a thing. So we waited patiently till it was our turn to receive an apartment, until there was a vacant apartment available in the suburb of Riga. It was rather shabby and had stove heating, but we gave our consent to have it. Our son was 13, when we moved in there. There were two rooms, and we were quite content about it.

During the mass departures of Jews to Israel in the 1970s my husband and I also decided to move there. His relatives and my brother were moving. My older brother Todres and Uncle Boris were also going to move to Israel, but none of them obtained a permit from the Soviet authorities. My uncle had two refusals before he was allowed to leave with his wife in 1991, when Latvia became independent [see Reestablishment of the Latvian Republic] 32. They've lived in Israel for almost twelve years. Todres was severely ill in 1991 and could not relocate. He died in 1992. He was buried in the Jewish cemetery in Riga. His wife lived five years longer. She was buried beside Todres' grave. His son and daughter live in Riga. They have grandchildren. We occasionally see each other or talk on the phone. However, at that moment we were hoping to leave with our relatives. We wanted to be near our dear ones, and we couldn't even imagine staying here. Unfortunately, this was not to be. I developed a severe heart disease. We had to call an ambulance several times, and once I was taken to hospital. Then I was appointed for a pension for disability and the doctors advised me not to change the climate. We could not relocate. Our son often rebuked us for staying, but what could we do...

Our son Boris

After finishing the 8th grade of his general education school my son entered the technical school of light industry. After finishing it he wanted to continue his studies at a higher educational institution, but he also wanted to learn a vocation and go to work. When a student of this technical school, my son fell in love with a Russian girl. There were no Jews in our neighborhood, and there was not much choice. The girl also loved him, and she was beautiful, but I couldn't even imagine letting her into our family. When Boris told me he wanted to marry her, I was outraged. We had a Jewish family and had our traditions and a non-Jewish woman coming into our family was out of the question. My husband was also flatly against it. We told Boris that if he married her, our family would be his no longer. I don't know what Boris told his girlfriend, but they broke up. Later she got married and left Riga with her husband. My son developed a terrible depression. He used to lie in his room staring onto the ceiling without talking to anybody in the evenings. It was hard for him, and I didn't know how to help. Later he recovered.

Boris met his future wife at the synagogue 20 years ago. We went there on Simchat Torah, and my husband's acquaintance suggested that we introduced Boris to a Jewish girl. We were positive about it, and she came back with a beautiful Jewish girl. We liked the girl. Our son also liked her. They started seeing each other. My daughter-in-law's name is Sophia. Her maiden name was Taiz. She came from the town of Rezekne, 300 kilometers from Riga. Sophia's mother died, when the girl was eight. Her father was a construction foreman. He was busy and couldn't spend much time with his daughter. She was raised by her aunt, a philologist, a teacher of upper secondary school. Now Rachel, my daughter-in-law's aunt, is the chairwoman of the Rezekne Jewish community. After finishing school Sophia came to Riga where she entered the Faculty of Physics and Mathematic. She lived in a dormitory. When my son and Sophia got married, she moved in with us.

In 1986 our granddaughter Lubov was born. Sophia was in her last year, and I took responsibility for taking care of my granddaughter. I wanted Sophia to continue her studies and defend her diploma successfully. My son was a crew leader in a big woodwork shop. He also studied at the extramural department of the Riga Polytechnic College. I looked after my granddaughter, and when my husband came home in the evening, he took her out for a walk. Of course, it was difficult for us, but we wanted to help our children. When Sophia received her diploma, her father visited us and said that Sophia wouldn't have graduated from university if it hadn't been for our assistance. It was true. I get along well with my daughter-in-law, but I think children and parents shouldn't live together. It's hard for different generations to get along. However, we had no conflicts living three years together. My son worked hard, and they saved money to buy an apartment. My husband also earned well, and we supported them to help them to save more. During perestroika 33, when it was allowed to have one's own business, my son and his partner rented an office and opened their own woodwork company. There are five of them working there and they are doing well.

Perestroika enabled us to receive an apartment. According to a decree of Gorbachev 34, veterans of the war were allowed the privilege of building cooperative apartments. My husband submitted a request, and two years later we received a two-room apartment in our building. My son and his wife stayed in our old apartment. Our granddaughter stayed with us on weekdays. On Friday evening her parents picked her to take her home for the weekend. We have a wonderful granddaughter. Of course, we wanted them to have another child, but it didn't work out. My son said he had to provide for the daughter, and wanted her to have everything she needed, but that he didn't want to have anther child to live in poverty. There is a Jewish saying that each child comes into life with its own fortune. My granddaughter went to the Jewish elementary school. She only had the highest grades in all subjects. Her Hebrew teacher always complimented her. I was so happy to hear this! My granddaughter was also a kind child and got along with all children. She went to a good gymnasium after finishing elementary school. My son and his wife earned well to pay for her studies.

Lubov studied very well and took part in Olympiads. She even went to the all-Union Olympiad for schoolchildren in Moscow. When she finished school, my son received a letter of appreciation of his good care of the girl issued by the school management. That year [2005] my granddaughter entered the Faculty of Economics at the university. The competition was high, but she was successful. My son and his wife also pay for her studies. Sophia is chief accountant in a company. She earns well. My son is also doing well. There is a lot of competition, but thank God, my son can provide for his family and support us. My husband and I are pensioners, the poorest people in present-day Latvia, but our son helps us to feel more comfortable than other pensioners. My son has fewer orders these days, but we hope for the better. We have to hope that he will have new customers soon.

Our son and his wife often visit us. My son remembers Yiddish and speaks Yiddish with us. My daughter-in-law does not know Yiddish. Rezekne was a Jewish town before the war. There were 13,000 Jews in it. They were exterminated during the war. Now the Jewish community of Rezekne accounts to 35 people, and my daughter-in-law's aunt is the only native resident in the town. A few years ago there were still about 100 Jewish residents there, but some of them passed away and the others emigrated...

We celebrate Jewish holidays at home. My husband and I go to the synagogue, and then our children visit us and we have a festive dinner. Sophia has no time to cook a big meal, and I am so happy, when our big family gets together at the table.

Gorbachev's perestroika was not only good because we received an apartment. We felt the freedom, and that was important. We also were allowed to correspond with our relatives abroad, visit them and invite them to visit us. I haven't been to Israel due to my health, but my husband has visited his relatives several times. He will go there again soon. We wouldn't even dream about anything like this, if it hadn't been for perestroika.

I was positive about the breakup of the USSR [1991]. I think this was the right thing to happen. Each republic needs to live as it wants rather than being directed by Moscow. My husband is also happy about it. There has always been anti-Semitism in Russia. During the Soviet times we heard so many times from visitors from Russia that zhidi were to blame for everything. Even if Jews never did anything bad to them they would continue to blame Jews for all their misfortunes. Rude and uneducated people don't hesitate to blame others for their problems since it's much harder for them to recognize their own faults. Even visiting Jews dislike local Jews. Every now and then I asked them what was so bad about local Jews. One cannot say that all local Jews are no good. They are different. Same with visitors. There are bad and good people. My close friend moved to Riga from Zaporozhiye, and she is a wonderful person. One cannot judge all after having one bad experience.

I think anti-Semitism in Russia is getting stronger, but the most concerning fact is that it is not punished properly. If they beat a rabbi in the street or anybody looking like a Jew, if a Duma deputy can call people to do pogroms and remain a deputy, this is terrible, and I'm happy that our independent Latvia is so far from Russia now. Here, if a politician makes an anti-Semitic statement, his career would be over. One of the Seim deputies said once that Jews assisted the Russian occupational army in 1940. There was a huge response to his statement. The Jewish community of Latvia pronounced its protest. Latvians may feel apprehensive about the Jewish community. It's no secret that Latvians took an active part in the extermination of Jews. This deputy was dismissed from the Party and deprived of his deputy's mandate. So, if one fights against anti- Semitism, it can be destroyed. Of course, there is routinely anti-Semitism in Latvia. There have always been rascals. Once an igniting bottle was thrown into the synagogue. Then a police post was established near the synagogue, and also, cameras were installed. It was a good thing to do, but how come no church or cathedral need police to secure the people, and it's different with the synagogue? They also desecrated the Jewish cemetery. These boys were captured, and there were Russian and Latvian boys among them. I know that the community fights against such demonstrations and anti- Semitic rascals. I hope this struggle will be more successful now, that Latvia has become independent.

During perestroika the Jewish community, LSJC [Latvian Society of Jewish Culture] 35 was established in Riga. There was a Jewish choir organized at the charity center. I like singing and I joined the choir. There are native residents of Latvia and those who moved to Latvia later in this choir. We all love Jewish songs, and this unites us. We enjoy each rehearsal or performance. We often give concerts in Jewish communities of different Latvian towns. Sometimes it's hard. We are older people, and it's even difficult to stand for one and a half or two hours, but we forget about it, when we start singing. There are new people and new songs coming. We've become friends. We celebrate birthdays and Jewish holidays together. We need each other and those people, who come to our concerts to listen to Jewish songs.

Glossary

Simon Gutman
Riga
Latvia
Interviewer: Svetlana Kovalchuk
Date of interview: February 2002

Do you know how old I am today? It is in the militia that they ask you the year of your birth, but for ordinary people it's good enough to know how old you are. I turned 94 in September 2001. And in my soul, I feel very young. I'm an artist, caricaturist by specialty, a humorist, and also an actor. My daddy's surname was Gutnomen-Gutman. It was in the Soviet times that we simplified it, abridged it to Gutman. My father's full name was Israel Solomonovich Gutnomen-Gutman, and he was born in 1873. He died in Kharkov in 1919, at the age of 46, of a heart attack. He was old, in my childish view.

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

My family background

I know very little about my grandfathers and grandmothers. They traded in wood and lumber, mainly in Latgalia. About my daddy I can say that he was a good businessman. He wore rimless glasses, smoked Zefir cigarettes, and always knocked down a small glass of vodka before dinner. He was a lumber trader, but then he bought a cinema in Dvinsk. It was called Grand Electro. He bought the equipment for his cinema in Germany. This I remember very well. And when the front was very near Dvinsk, during World War I, my father was in Dvinsk all the time - the profit was quite good. There was a front zone, a large garrison. The Germans couldn't seize Dvinsk for three years. Only in 1917, when the Russian army fell apart, only then Dvinsk was taken.

About 1915, my father sent our family - mum, me and my two brothers, to Zilupe, formerly Razumovskoye. And later we lived in the vicinity of Moscow, in Pavlovski Posad. There I studied at school. We were three brothers. The eldest was Yakov and then came my twin brother, Solomon, and I. Solomon, or Salya, as we called him, was 20 minutes older than me. I was very small - no bigger than a scoop. Daddy took mum to the maternity house. Later, when he went back there on a cart to find out who was born, he was told, 'A boy!' - and he answered, 'Okay, that's fine!' Then, a couple of hours later, he went there again asking, 'Well, how's that boy?' And they told him, 'You've got another one!' Daddy apparently told the carter, 'Just don't you go in that direction again!' That was later told as a joke. Yakov was two years older than we, born in 1905. We had a governess in Dvinsk.

My elder sister Nyuta, born Anna Israelevna in 1903, had a sick leg. Mum took her to Berlin for medical treatment. She was eleven years old then, and on the eve of the war mum took her to Switzerland, and my sister stayed there. She learned German and French in Switzerland. Daddy helped her financially. When the West was cut off completely, my sister helped there working in mountain sanatoriums around Lausanne. She worked as much as she could to justify her stay in the sanatorium. She returned to Riga, to our uncle's place, via Finland in 1921. We only met in 1923.

Before we left for evacuation, we lived on 20 Rizhskaya Street in Dvinsk. Once, when mum was seeing her sister Tirtsa off to Vilnius [today Lithuania], she took me and Salya to the station. They were standing in front of the railway car and talking and had temporarily forgotten about us. And we didn't know what to do. We were six years old at the time. Salya was a dashing guy and he said, 'Let's go!'. So we addressed the cab driver, 'Hey, old man, have you seen our mum?' - 'What does she look like?' - 'She is tall and beautiful.' - 'No, I haven't.' - 'Take us home then.' And off we went to 20 Rizhskaya Street, right down the road, near the station! It seemed to us a long way to walk, but very close on a horse-cart. Just imagine, my mum turning around at the railway station, and both of us being gone! She cried, panicked and was scared to death.

My mum's name was Berta Borisovna; her maiden name Aronovich. Her mother, my grandmother Sheina Aronovich, was married three times. All her husbands died one after the other. Mum was a single child from my grandmother's first marriage. With her second husband, Velvel Israeltan, my grandmother had a whole bunch of children - my mother's stepbrothers and stepsisters. She lived with her last husband in Copenhagen, Denmark, but returned to her daughter from the second husband, Aunt Tirtsa Koldobskaya, nee Israeltan, to Vilnius. There she lived and there she died. Aunt Tirtsa's husband was a prominent businessman. Grandmother died in the summer of 1931. Mum went to Vilnius to attend the funeral. Aunt Tirts? died in Vilnius in 1936, before the war.

Let me tell you about the Israeltans, the family of my mother's stepbrother. They are the most apparent victims of the Holocaust of all my relatives. Bella Karpovna, nee Rabinovich, my uncle's wife, called me around 20th June 1941, and asked, whether it was possible for them to leave with me. And I didn't know myself what to do.

My uncle's name was Solomon Velvel - they also called him Solomon Vladimirovich - Israeltan. The state of Israel wasn't yet established, but the surname already existed. We called him Uncle Sam. He had been to the USA several times and spoke good English. They lived on ?ntonievskaya Street in Riga, in a large beautiful apartment with wall-paintings, ornaments and pictures. It is he who gave shelter to Nyuta after she returned from Switzerland in 1921. And whenever I went to Riga, I stayed in their apartment. He was the manager of a large textiles shop, owned by Kazatsky, a Jew. This big shop was situated on the corner of Krishyan Baron and Elizavetinskaya Streets. When the Soviet power was established, he was appointed the shop's manager. The relatives of his wife - the Rabinovich family - lived in Dvinsk and were engaged in the trading business. Uncle Sam sent them the goods.

His wife, Bella Karpovna, wasn't as beautiful as she was imperious and clever. They had wonderful, educated sons Yulik or Yuly, and Vovik or Velvel. They were proficient in German, Latvian and Russian, but they didn't speak Yiddish. My uncle and aunt only spoke Russian at home. Velvel married a nice girl in May 1941. I visited them on the occasion and we had a lot of fun. He sent her to a sanatorium in Sigulda [a town 50 km from Riga]; she was pregnant then. You can imagine, the war began, and she remained alone in Sigulda, expecting a baby. I was told that Yulik and Vovik were shot by Nazis at the very beginning of the war. Aunt Bella and Uncle Sam perished in the ghetto in Riga. In the 1960s I accidentally met their former housemaid in the street, Tanya, a simple Russian woman with a Nizhniy Novgorod accent. It was she who told me that my aunt and uncle had been in the ghetto and that she had brought them food suppressing her fear.

Growing up

My mother and grandmother lived in Griva district in Dvinsk. Financially they lived under very low standards, and my mother had to read books under the blanket. She was persecuted at home for wasting kerosene and candles. Daddy was much older than mum. I don't remember exactly how much older. My mother's attitude towards my father wasn't so romantic. He bought a carriage, a horse and used to take her for a ride. I learned that from my sister. Mum communicated more with her than with us.

Our language at home was exclusively Russian. However, mum spoke good Yiddish. As she was going to go abroad to bring my sister home, she attended courses in French.

In 1917 daddy took us from Pavlovski Posad to a resort on the coast of the Azov sea, in Berdyansk, for six weeks, and there we ended up staying for four years - during the revolution [see Russian Revolution of 1917] 1 and the Civil War 2 in Russia. We lived poorly, having taken to Berdyansk almost nothing, only my mother's fur coat, a coat of seal skin, which we sold, and just enough food for the winter. Daddy wasn't a religious man, but it was a generally accepted rule to visit the synagogue. When he occasionally went to Berdyansk, where there was a choral synagogue, he used to attend the service. He had a special silk cloak. I remember, he would point towards us in the synagogue and say in Yiddish, 'These are the performers of my funeral rites'.

There was that turmoil in Russia, and daddy still stayed in Dvinsk. In 1919 he was once more making his way to us with a train transporting some Austrian captives. The train was heading south. They robbed him of his purse and all his documents. He couldn't do a thing, they would just throw him out of the moving train. He was already sick, had heart attacks, and his whole body was shaking. Traveling was no good for him, but he still kept coming back to Dvinsk. So, during his last trip, he stopped in Kharkov, at my mum's cousin. He was put into a hospital and he died there of what they now call an infarct. Mum buried him in Kharkov. She went especially from Berdyansk to Kharkov to be present at the funeral ceremony. It was very difficult to get there.

We went to the synagogue when daddy died. My brother and me would go there daily, three times a day, to recite the Kaddish - the prayer of repentance. My elder brother, Yakov, didn't go. There were situations during the Civil War, when there was shooting, but all the same we used to attend the synagogue. My brother Solomon was fanatically religious in those years. He even read prayers for the night, lying in bed. But, you see, to offer a prayer you need a kippah! So he pulled a blanket over his head to say the prayer. Mum was religious, too. That was her family feature. She spoke extremely good Yiddish. And we haven't learned to speak Yiddish, whereas she taught all of her sons Hebrew. Wherever we lived, a teacher came to us, we always had a teacher of Hebrew. Many words I know up until today. A comrade taught us to read in Yiddish, when we were in the Komsomol 3. He was a highly principled, noble lad. He had taught us, and I felt somewhat comfortable at once. I still read in Yiddish today.

In Pavlovski Posad we went to a secondary school, and in Berdyansk to a grammar school. During the four years in Berdyansk I saw everything - the Civil War, the landing of troops, the anarchists of Makhno 4, the Red army, the White army 5, bombings. If I could recollect it all, you could shoot a whole film about it. In our Berdyansk home we met very interesting people. The second studio of MHAT [the Moscow Academic Arts Theater] came for guest performances, and the famous actors used to stay in our house - Stanitsyn [Viktor (1897-1976), real name Geze], Khmelev and so on. The elite of the Russian theatre. We had never been to the theater before, and they used to take us. Fantastic impressions! My elder brother was sick, he suffered from some mental disease. In 1921 my mother managed to obtain a free ticket for a group tour and our entire family went to Moscow. Imagine a free tour, at such complete poverty! We prepared for the journey, took some crackers. The journey from Berdyansk to Moscow was a whole epopee; too many details! We saw the starving people from Volga region at the stations, small children corpses! We were robbed, everything was stolen! We arrived in Moscow sick with measles, and that illness was a final blow for the mental condition of my elder brother. He was put into a hospital in Moscow, and there he died in 1922.

In Berdyansk we sympathized with the White troops, the environment was wholly bourgeois - shop-keepers, small retailers. And when from 1921 to 1923 we again lived in Pavlovski Posad, I became 'Red' under the influence of my comrades. We were publishing a newspaper! We collected money for the construction of planes, when Curzon 6 announced the ultimatum to the Red Russia. What a joy it was, when mum had finally taken our money to Moscow, and they printed a list of our names in the newspaper Izvestiya.

Salya and I liked to draw since we were children, but he drew better than me. He used to copy pictures by Russian artists from postcards. He liked water-colors, but he didn't use water; he used his tongue instead of water. His lips were always colored with paint. I copied flowers from cards. Mum found a drawing teacher in Berdyansk. I also did some modeling. I used to draw my teachers and schoolmates at lessons in Dvinsk.

We returned to Riga in September 1923 the three of us - mum, my brother and I. We arrived in Riga and stayed some time with my Uncle Solomon Israeltan, and then moved to Dvinsk. Our cinema was still there, but it appeared that the premises were already occupied. Mum tried to earn some money. We managed to make ends meet somehow, with mum borrowing some money sometimes.

The cinema attracted me and my brother. We were known in Dvinsk as the family of Gutman - the former director of Grand Electro - so they let us into the cinema free of charge. Once a mechanic at_ppolo cinema entrusted me with turning the handle of the manual film projector; his elder brother worked for my father in Grand Electro. Now they don't do it anymore! And there was a problem: when I thought the film was about to finish, I started to turn slowly, and the spectators were indignant! Wow! That's how I let myself down - and I stopped to go to the cinema from that moment on! It was really embarrassing!

We studied in a secondary Jewish school in Dvinsk. All subjects were taught in the Russian language. Of course we had to pay for the school. My brother and I participated in the Komsomol movement in school. The Komsomol had a very strong influence in Latgalia. The Komsomol organization was underground. Only the youth clubs were legal; we attended those as well. I wasn't the most active member, but I was in prison for some time, nonetheless! I was in Riga's Central prison, in the solitary cell, but only for one month. In Daugavpils [formerly called Dvinsk] I served a short term, too. I had close connections with one comrade; we rented a room together. And when the members of our central committee were arrested, they were searching apartments and I was also put under arrest. They finally released me, but I remained under the supervision of the police. Later I was acquitted! In Riga, when I started to work, I had no links with the Komsomol any more. But the police knew me. I was always shadowed.

Later, when I arrived in Riga in 1928, my sister helped me to get a job with the Jewish theatre on 6 School Street. Every inch is familiar to me there. I'm the only living employee of that Jewish theater. All the rest are dead by now! Michael Io - his stage name was Io, but his full name was Ioffe - was the chief artist of the theatre. There were many actors, I made sketches of them all. What wonderful acquaintances we had! From America, from Poland, from different countries! In the first season I worked in a workshop. I thought, let them think there, in Dvinsk, 'Wow, Simka is an actor in a theatre!' And in fact it was like this: take a brush and do the wall-painter's job!

During the first year I worked in the decoration workshop, and the next year I was offered the position of a stage property-man. What is a property- man? Well, I was supposed to prepare everything: the tools, the guns and so on. If they were going to eat on stage, I was to cut the bread. I prepared the wine, but diluted it with water; it was just for make-belief. Our guests included the American stage director Adler, and Clara Young. She was 70 years old then, but behaved like a young girl on stage. I met the local actors as well: Einas, Shapiro, Ronich, Peter Surits. There were a lot of amusing episodes. The actor and director Rubin once came from Moscow, from the theater of S. Mikhoels 7; he staged Sholom Aleichem's 8 'The Big Money' in our theater. That was a great performance! All in the modern style - the decorations, the actors' make-up, and the stage manager's fantastic ideas!

In my life I was lucky to see in close up how the famous stars like Mozhukhin [Mozhukin, Ivan (1889-1939): Russian-born actor, died of tuberculosis in France]. In the middle of the 1920s the French director Turzansky [Turzansky, Viktor (1891-1976): director, born in Kiev, today Ukraine.], a Russian emigrant was shooting a film with Russian actors Mozhukhin and Kovanko [Kovanko, Natalya (1899-1967): actress born in Yalta, died in Kiev]. The film was based on the novel by Jules Verne and was called 'Michel Strogoff'. The film was shot in Dvinsk, they thought that the nature was suitable there - Siberian! All the town did nothing except watching how the film was being shot! The Dvinsk garrison of the Latvian army participated in these shootings - they played the Russian army. I took part, too!

I studied in a number of art schools in Riga. I attended the arts studio of the Riga graphic artist Roman Suta 9, I was his 'disciple' and took part in the exhibitions. One exhibition was in 1932. They chose some pictures for the museum, including mine. I created it in my mind, when they were taking me from Dvinsk jail to Riga central prison. It is now that they transport prisoners in a special truck, but back then the guards were just convoying me along the pavement. I kept the impression from that walk for a long time! Sitting in the solitary cell, I began to draw sketches of that image. In spring they let me out, and in summer I finished the picture. And when there was an exhibition of our studio, supervised by Roman Suta, my picture was bought for the Arts Museum. The picture is entitled 'Escorting of a prisoner'.

I remember the studio of Yan Liepin on Mariinskaya Street, in the court yard. When I went there, a few more or less skilled pupils were sitting and drawing. I sat down, too, and took a sheet of paper. And here enters a naked model! Holy smoke, I held my breath! I almost fainted! Well, really! Boys use to spy, through a hole in the fence, and here she comes out in what she was born! I started to draw, and during the break I looked at the other sketches. And the other guys represented the model not in her natural size, like me, but made her look stout - with heavy legs and arms. I asked, 'Where do you see such arms and legs? The model is of quite normal stature!' And they answered, 'You should draw what you think, rather than what you see!' Well, that's the Latvian style! Later I got used to it.

My brother was staying in Dvinsk at that time. When he arrived in Riga, he found a job as an ordinary transport worker, and used to carry heavy bags. Then he left for Slovakia, the city of Brno. He studied there for about two years. It was a rare thing for Riga Jews to get a higher education. And he was studying to become a foreman in textile factories - he learnt how to make carpets, tapestries. Having returned from Brno, he worked in Dvinsk in a small textile factory. The bosses and owners of such small factories were usually Jewish. And when the Soviet power was established, he was appointed director of that factory.

Married life

In 1931 I got acquainted with my future wife, Ida Ruvimovna Kvasnik, born in 1917. I met her in Stropy. The remarkable Stropy Lake! She was sitting there on a bench near a kiosk for the holiday-makers, and I approached her and started a conversation. I'm of a deleterious character to women! I liked to fall in love back then. I had affairs with women disregarding age. That's why I had two infarcts. Back then it was a country-side romance - I took her on boat trips, though I could hardly row at that time.

I was enlisted for the army that year. She used to come down to the walls of the Dvinsk fortress, where I served in Zemgalskaya division. Once I was punished for coming late, thus violating the strict order, because I was spending time till late at night with her! And I had a watch that I had won in a soldiers' lottery - this watch worked all right while I was walking, but as soon as I stopped, it stopped too. Oh, it was a romantic story! I had a very good and beautiful wife. She was younger than me, but she's dead by now; during her last years she was very seriously ill.

We married in 1936. Did we have a chuppah? Let me just tell you this: I wasn't religious, and to this day I am not. Her father, who came from Lithuania, was religious. Her mum died two or three years before our wedding, of breast cancer. Her father spoke Russian, as everyone from Lithuania, with a very strong accent. Well, there was something like a chuppah, but I preferred not to disclose this to people! We had a kind of chuppah at some relatives' home, in an apartment. I yielded to their request to avoid a scandal. My wife wasn't especially religious. She spoke good Yiddish, but didn't go to the synagogue. They lived poorly, although they ran a small grocery store, in the house where they lived. The apartment was miserable. Her younger sister Rosa was plump and chubby. Her brother looked kind of unhealthy.

We had no property at all at first, we were renting furnished rooms, and only once we stayed in them for the summer season. In summer we usually rented a cheap cottage in Melluzhi, Yurmala. By that time, in 1938-39, I had some savings, money I had earned as an artist, and I could afford to rent the rooms in town in summer as well. We paid about 35-40 lats a month. After we started to live together, my wife stopped working. We could hardly afford buying anything. The first time we bought some furniture was in 1940, in the Soviet times!

I had an attraction for cinema, inherited from my father, and I went to work in film advertising. They gave me photographs, and I made drawings for the ?RS company. That company used to show Soviet and American films. I made posters for the Soviet films. The posters without text were used all over the pre-Baltic countries. Later I gave the originals of my posters to a cinema archive. Simultaneously, I made some additional money as a caricaturist. I signed my pictures Gutman.

By 1940 everybody knew how the situation was likely to develop. In 1939 Moscow presented an ultimatum to Ulmanis 10 and there were Soviet military bases at sea. The bases needed protection! The war was going on in full swing all around, and the people's state of mind was quite predictable! We knew that nothing good was going to come out of it. On 17th June the Soviet troops entered Riga. On the 21st there was a demonstration at the central prison: all communists were granted amnesty. On that very day I decided to go to Riga from our summer residence. I saw an incredible show! Crowds of people moving, carrying red banners. It was something tremendous! Just recently, for a red cloth, thrown at night on wires, you were sentenced to several years of imprisonment.

Not far from the prison, behind the railway, a crowd of people gathered waving trade union flags. They were mainly Latvians. Suddenly a Soviet airplane appeared, and there one elderly Latvian lady exclaimed, 'Look, our eagles are flying!' When I nowadays narrate this story to Latvians, they cannot believe it! Later, communists began to come out of the prison and the crowd greeted them warmly. Then we all headed for the presidential palace and the presidential banner was hanging there. The Latvians shouted, 'Nost so kabatlakatinu!' [Remove that handkerchief!]. There was a bunch of dare-devils, who tied an Ulmanis portrait to a bicycle, wrapped it in a prisoner's uniform and were riding along that way! All these historical events were tremendous! But I noticed angry faces in many windows as well. It should be remembered, you know, the climax was yet to come!

In 1940 there were meetings with many well-known Soviet artistic figures. We received a prominent Soviet film director Grigori Aleksandrov and actor Lyubov Orlova. Then we had a meeting with writer Mikhail Zoshchenko 11. I worked with the Riga magazine Crocodile then.

I didn't care about nationalization. They did what they considered necessary, but I kept my distance from it! The New Year celebrations of 1941 were very cheerful! We all gathered in the house of the Jewish community, on School Street; there was a remarkable ball!

There was a Jewish newspaper in Yiddish, a communist newspaper, and I was drawing good caricatures for it. Ulmanis expected the events and declared, that in each house there should be a pair of top-boots and a shirt, as reserves for the army. I remembered that declaration! And I made a caricature, which consisted of two parts. Part one - Ulmanis shows the boots, and part two - the boot of history, the Soviet boot, kicks him out! That caricature didn't survive, but apart from that I have a large number of caricatures at home! Especially from 'The Soviet Latvia'!

During the war

1941 - the smell of a thunder-storm hung in the air! I remember that morning, Sunday, 22nd June [the beginning of the so-called Great Patriotic War] 12, I was in our office. I remember the speech delivered by Molotov 13. And then we hid in a cellar as the Germans were bombing the city. On Wednesday the 25th the Fifth Column riflemen started to fire from roofs! From all roofs! It was horrible! Everything was prepared! We were sitting and asking each other, especially Jews, 'What now?!' Everyone was panic- stricken!

In our film company we had our own transport base. Mister Gudkin, a Jew, was in charge of that base. He later went to Israel, I don't know if he's still alive. He worked as a film mechanic with the 'Cinema-Town', and then he got that transport supervisor position. And so, here comes a truck, and my wife and I approach it. We were told that all men were supposed to stay and defend Riga! But where were the rifles?! Everybody kept looking at each other! The truck stopped and my wife boarded it with a bag and pillow, among other women and children. I stayed. Then came Gudkin and said, 'There, pal, get in the truck, if you want to go.' We both wrote some kind of passes for each other, saying that we were accompanying the groups, otherwise they wouldn't have let us out! That's how we left with the women.

On the way we passed by 'Cinema-Town'. There were crowds of people! They raised their hands! But it was impossible to take everybody! It was a dramatic scene! So we headed for Pskov along the highway. We saw dead bodies on the road. Somewhere far away, planes were flying low. In Pskov, in turmoil, I got over to the truck in which my wife was. Bombing began. The Germans were bombing Pskov. Later we reached the railway station, got on a train and went in the direction of Yaroslavl, Gorky. Finally, we found ourselves in Sharya, Gorky region.

The heat was awful, we were thirsty all the time. We were assigned to a wood-processing plant to work. We were accommodated in a school and given some bed linen. We worked for several weeks, preparing the logs. What for, do you think? Logs for Donetsk [the biggest coal basin in the Ukraine]. The front needed coal! In August a message was received, saying that men from Latvia were ordered to join the Latvian Battalion. I was enlisted as well. There came the moment of farewell! We went to Gorky. I swear to you, when the train was approaching the station, the howling of the women was unbearable! A nightmare! In no country do women scream as loud as in Russia when they see their men off!

From August till December I was in Gorokhovets camps. The Latvian Battalion was being formed there. Our everyday life? Nothing worth talking about! We took a hot shower in a tent. Four of us at a time - standing. Those who were taller than me were all right, but I was left only with dirty water dropping down on me! Then we were jumping out, barefoot, in October, running through the woods over cones and thorny grass. The same pot that we used for dinner we used for washing ourselves, too. The commissary in charge was arrested later and tried in the military tribunal.

On 3rd December 1941 we approached the city of Naro-Fominsk, where the Latvian Division was fighting. I was a private and remained in this rank until the end of the war. My first impression of the war was when I saw young inexperienced soldiers in a truck coming from the front line - all blood-stained and bandaged! When I saw it, I understood what it was all about. Shortly after I fell ill with an acute form of dysentery. It was hard to feel sick in the frost and while on the move! When we came to a halt, I told the commander that I felt unwell. But the military have no such word in their vocabulary - unwell that is. You are either okay or wounded in the army. So we were lying there and then the 'Katyusha' [a powerful Soviet rocket artillery unit] suddenly struck! Such an explosion, so many flames! I was moving with my last ounce of strength.

All this was happening around 1st January. I wasn't sent to hospital at once. I had been to a couple of first-aid posts first. On 1st January 1942 we were passing some sanitary unit, and they gave me a bowl of hot tea with a lump of sugar! I haven't ever drunk a tastier cup of tea! It was hot, it was sweet! Finally I reached the hospital. It was the hospital for infectious diseases of the Western front. Practically all the staff was from Belarus. The commissar, having learned that I was an artist, ordered at once, 'Leave him here! We need him.' A country woman from an adjacent village worked as a nurse there. She prepared the bed for me in the following way: she lifted me with her left arm and made the bed with her right one. That's how weak I was! Afterwards I stayed in the same hospital for a long time, until summer, with the attendants team. I was in charge of linen in the laundry. It was necessary to control the cleanliness of linen very strictly. If the boss saw an insect, you were dismissed. Then we were brought to the region of Vyazma, to the front line. I was enlisted to the Urals division; I was reluctant to go to the Latvian Battalion again.

On 12th September 1943 I thrust myself out from the trench, and was hit on my left arm. Bleeding profusely I crawled to my comrades and they gave me first aid, bandaged me - my arm was twisted the wrong way and broken. I was taken by cart to a sanitary unit. Then I got on a sanitary train, and found myself in Kuibyshev region, the station of Shantala, in a hospital. In that hospital I stayed from September to February 1944. Then I went to my wife in Stalinabad [today Dushanbe, Tajikistan].

My mum, my sister and Salya's family set off from Riga on foot. A friend, a military officer, helped them. Nyuta had always limped, so she was put on a horse. And Salya had two boys by then. How we found each other after the war, I cannot recollect. Fact is, that I had visited them, my mum and sister, in Chelyabinsk region in 1943. The family of my brother went somewhere further. My wife went via Tashkent to Stalinabad. There she found work in the directorate of a power station construction project. She had a room there. I joined her after I recovered.

From Stalinabad I returned with my wife to Riga in March 1945. We had an apartment on _k_s Street. Mum and Nyuta joined us in the fall of 1945. In November 1946, on the eve of the November holidays, my mother died in a hospital; she was extremely exhausted from the time in evacuation. My sister was very devoted to my mother, and mum suffered greatly from the fact that she had to leave her alone. She worked as a nurse in a polyclinic. She was often sick and was frequently treated in hospitals. My sister never married. She had a boyfriend, as she told me shortly before her death, a businessman from Dvinsk. He courted her for quite some time and seemed to be in love with her, but when he understood that she had nowhere to live, he broke up with her and she didn't see him again. My sister died five years ago. She was 90 years old when she died.

Many of my friends had no children before the war! But after the war the situation changed sharply. The law of nature! My son was born in May 1945, just before Victory Day 14. My son's name is Lyova, or Lev, a name inherited from our Jewish grandfathers, almost all of them had double names. My brother's name is Solomon, but in honor of our grandfather his real name is Zalman-Mendel. I'm Simon, but in honor of our grandfather I'm Simom-Shleme. Lyova was first called Ruvin-Leibe, like the father of my wife, but then we decided to give him a name in honor of Leo Tolstoy 15. He graduated from the Polytechnic Institute, the power faculty. In the army he served in Kaliningrad region. He worked here, got married and has a daughter. After some time his wife had the idea to leave for the USA. They lived in Houston. He worked under contract. Then they moved to Colorado, the State of Denver. He now works as an interpreter in the Hague, Holland, translating from English to Russian. But he divorced his wife. His daughter must be around 23 by now.

Post-war

My second son, Naum, was born in 1951. He is named in honor of grandfather Nakhman, on my wife's side. He is very devoted to me. I always consult him, I consider him to be the boss. Not I am the boss, but he is the boss for me. Naum failed to enter the Academy of Applied Arts, he didn't get enough points at the exams. He worked as an artist in the Aurora cinema, but when all the cinemas were closed, he actually remained without work. He is married and has a son.

My twin brother was absolutely different from me. But somehow we always had similar ideas. He was taller than me. In the beginning he was frantically religious, but when we both changed our views in Pavlovski Posad and Dvinsk, he became an outermost left-winger. He was politically more to the left than me, but he was never touched by the police. I was a less active Komsomol member and still I managed to serve several terms in prison somehow. He was severe, strict, and very erudite. In his apartment there were a lot of books. He was very interested in politics. His appearance was unlike mine.

After the war he came to Riga and worked in the advertising department of a film company, made large posters for cinema, and worked in the Lachplesis cinema. He worked there for a long time and had a good reputation. He didn't like melodramas, broken hearts and things. For example, he was contemptuous of the film by Sergei Bondarchuk, 'Fate of a Man'. Emotional break-down! Fie! He didn't care much about himself, but he was very devoted to children!

My brother got married even earlier than I. He was a good artist. Our father could only play the accordion and our mother could sew. There wasn't anything artistic in their characters. Salya's son, Naftoly Gutman, is also an artist, an old man by now, too. And Naftoly's son is an artist as well. Salya's daughter chose a musical career, although she was reluctant to study music as a girl and her parents had to push her. Anyway, she has become a good musician. She's a teacher in a music school. She has left for Germany with her second husband and children. My brother died a few years ago, of pancreas disease. His widow lives in Germany now. The eldest son of my brother, Sergei, was kind of a ne'er-do-well fellow. They found a job for him, in a commodity railway terminal, but he was squeezed to death between carriages there. He was only eighteen.

Gudkin invited me to work in the cinema company in 1945. I stayed there all the time, up to my retirement age. I became a member of the Union of Artists of Latvia and took part in many exhibitions. There were exhibitions of caricaturists, placard-artists, and performances by the front artists. Readers of The Soviet Latvia of the elder generation know me very well. My caricatures were constantly published. The caricatures were political. During the Palestinian-Israeli conflict in 1967 [see Six-Day-War] 16 I was telling everybody, that I wasn't Simon Israelevich, but Simon Aggressorovich! Yes, I'm a humorist, an actor, a film director, and when I feel high emotionally, I can write verses. I wrote verses not so long ago. When I worked at the film-studio, I composed poems for amateur performances. I retired rather late. My labor experience is 45 years. My wife worked in the ticket office at the Pioneris cinema for a long time.

Glossary

Moisey Goihberg
Kiev
Ukraine
Interviewer: Zhanna Litinskaya
Date of interview: July 2002

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

My family background

My paternal grandfather and grandmother, Moisey and Zlata Goihberg, who were born in the 1860s, lived in Ivanovka village, in Mohilev-Podolsk district in Vinnitsa province. Ivanovka was a very picturesque village on the bank of the Murafa River. Ivanovka was a small village with a population of 500 people. There were 3 Jewish families in the village, including my grandfather's family. The Jewish families earned their living in the retail trade of essential goods, fuel, grain, etc. They had good neighborly relationships with the Ukrainian population.

My grandfather Moisey was a decent and honest businessman. He was an orderly man. He wore a small beard. My grandfather owned a store where he sold haberdashery, tools and all other essential commodities. He often went to purchase merchandise in Mohilev. In such cases my grandmother Zlata was his replacement in the store. Farmers greatly respected my grandfather's family. My grandfather often gave them food products on credit and sometimes lent them money without charging them interest. They always paid their debts on time.

My grandfather's family observed all the Jewish traditions and celebrated the Jewish holidays. They honored the Sabbath and tried to follow the laws of kashrut. I don't know whether other Jewish families in Ivanovka had a similar level of religiosity. However, I wouldn't say that my grandparents were really religious. They didn't pray and they didn't go to the synagogue in Mohilev, which was about 20 km from Ivanovka. They only went there once a year, at Rosh Hashanah. There was no synagogue in the village. My grandfather kept his store open even on Saturday if it was necessary.

My grandfather Moisey and grandmother Zlata had 4 sons and a daughter. My father Iosif, the oldest, was born in 1893. Motia was born in 1895, Meyir in 1899, Zicia in 1903, and their sister Rachel was born in 1905. There was no school or cheder in Ivanovka and the children received their religious and secular education in Mohilev. The boys finished cheder and Russian elementary school. Rachel also went to the Russian school. This was all the education my father and his brothers got. But they were very intelligent people and achieved many successes in life although they didn't have a classical education. They spoke Yiddish at home and Ukrainian with their neighbors.

Sometime in 1918, during the Civil War 1, my grandfather went from Mohilev to sell merchandise. He was coming back with 2 or 3 farmers from his village when they were attacked by either Petliura 2 or Denikin 3 units. They beat my grandfather and stole his commodities. The farmers begged the bandits to leave my grandfather alone and tried to convince them that he was a very nice man, but it didn't help. They killed my grandfather and threw his body into the Dnestr River. This happened in the fall, and the following morning the river froze. My father and his brothers went to the river to search for my grandfather's body, but they couldn't find it. My grandfather Moisey wasn't even buried.

After my grandfather's death my grandmother Zlata was inconsolable, but she had to provide for her children. She lived in the village for some time. Around 1921 she moved to America with 3 of their sons and their daughter. They had crossed the Dnestr to Romania and from there left for America. I don't know whether they observed Jewish traditions in America.

Motia and Meyir opened a small commission store in New York. Later, they expanded their business. By the time World War II started they owned two big stores. Motia had two children, a son and a daughter. His daughter fell from a horse in the 1930s and died. His son died in a car accident some time later. Motia died in the mid-1970s. Meyir's daughter inherited her father's business. Meyir died around 1978.

Rachel ran her own business, too. She lived in New York. She owned a laundry. Rachel was married but had no children. She died in the late 1960s. All my relatives abroad were rather wealthy people. My grandmother Zlata lived with Meyir's family. She died in 1938.

It happened so that Motia, Meyer and Rachel went to America from Rumania. Zicia's life story is different. Zicia thought it took too long to obtain all the necessary documentation to move to America. He decided to cross the American-Canadian border illegally. He was arrested and sent back to the Soviet Union. He lived with us until 1928. Later Zicia married a very distant relative who lived in Brazil and left with her. He first worked as a laborer and later he became a distributor of some goods. He was very successful and became a board member at the Savira Company, a garment factory. In the mid-1960s when the iron curtain 4 was removed Zicia visited Kiev. Zicia was eager to see his older brother. He stayed almost two weeks with us. Zicia lives in Rio de Janeiro now. He retired at 90 and his daughter and son took over his business. He will turn 100 in 2003. I don't know whether he has been observing the Jewish traditions in Brazil.Rachel had her business, too. She owned a laundry. Rachel was married but had no children. She died in the late 1930s. All my relatives abroad were rather wealthy people. My grandmother Zlata lived with Meyer's family. She died in the late 1930s.

My father was married by the time of his mother's departure. This was one of the reasons why he stayed in the Soviet Union. In 1918 or 1919, soon after my grandfather was killed, my father was captured by members of a gang, who wanted to kill him. They took him to Yaruga, the neighboring town. Then all the men of Ivanovka, Jews and Ukrainians, went to Yaruga to fight for my father. They came to the ataman [headman or leading cossack official of a town] and demanded that he released Iosif. However strange it may seem they managed to rescue my father. I don't know how they managed this. The bandits probably released my father because so many people came to ask for him.

That same year my father met my mother, Lisa Voloshyna. She lived in Yaruga, this typical town within the Jewish Pale of Settlement 5. There were many Jews in Yaruga. They lived in peace with the Ukrainians. There were no national conflicts. There were 3 synagogues and rabbis in Yaruga. There also was a Christian church. People in Yaruga respected the national traditions of one another.

My mother's parents, Gersh and Blima Voloshyn, were born in the 1860s and came from Yaruga. Grandfather Gersh had brothers and sisters. I only know his sisters Esphir and Hana. Esphir married Naum Liber, a Jew. The last name of Hana's husband was Balaban. Hana's daughter Mura married her cousin, Itshak Liber, Esphir's son.

My grandfather Gersh Voloshyn was a vine grower. I don't think the wine his vineyard produced was kosher wine. He sold it to Jewish and non-Jewish customers. He owned 2 hectares of vineyard, which enabled him to have a comfortable life. His sons helped him with the work at the vineyard. They all worked very hard, but my grandfather was a very cheerful and merry man and there was always a lot of laughter in my grandparents' house. My grandfather's wife, Blima, was a housewife. They had four children: my mother's older brothers Moisey and Osher, my mother Lisa, and her younger sister Rachel. Their family wasn't very religious. They went to synagogue and celebrated all the Jewish holidays, mainly in tribute to tradition. They spoke Yiddish at home, but they were fluent in Russian and Ukrainian. My parents also spoke Yiddish to one another, but they spoke Russian to me. My grandfather Gersh had brothers and sisters. I only know his sisters Esphir and Hana. Esphir married Naum Liber, a Jewish man. The last name of Hana's husband was Balaban. Hana's daughter Mura married her cousin Itshak Liber, Esphir's son. During one of the pogroms that often happened in Yaruga in the 1920s my grandfather's family was hiding in the vineyard adjacent to the forest. It was a late, cold and rainy autumn. My grandfather caught a cold that resulted in the exacerbation of his tuberculosis. My grandfather died around 1921. My mother's brother Moisey, born in 1882 and Osher, born in 1892 studied at the cheder like all Jewish boys. I don't know whether they studied at the elementary school. They worked in their father's vineyard from an early age and left to study in Leningrad in the early 1920s after their father died.

Moisey and his wife Fania had 3 children: two sons, Srul and Misha, and a daughter named Tania. Moisey was a shop assistant at a food store. When the war began Srul and Misha went to the front. Srul perished defending Leningrad and Misha returned from the war as an invalid and didn't live long. Uncle Moisey, Fania and Tania stayed in Leningrad. Tania was a volunteer medical nurse and was awarded the medal 'For the defense of Leningrad'. After the first and hardest winter of the blockade of Leningrad 6, Moisey, Fania and Tania were evacuated to Middle Asia. They stayed there after the war. Moisey and Fania died in the mid-1960s. Tania died in 1990.

Osher lived in Leningrad. He lived in Leningrad with his wife Luba, and son Grisha. He was a laborer at a plant, I don't know which one. Like his older brother, Osher remained in Leningrad during the blockade. In 1941, during the first winter of the blockade, Osher and Luba were on the edge of death from starvation. Grisha who was about 8-10 years old could still walk, and they gave him a tablecloth to exchange for some bread. It happened on a late evening. Grisha left and never returned. It was a terrible time when even cannibalism was known to have happened. Osher died, too, during that winter, but Luba survived.

My mother's younger sister Rachel was born in 1898. Her husband, Moisey Serson, their two daughters, Dusia and Riva, and their son Naum lived in Yaruga and worked at my grandfather's vineyard. My grandmother Blima lived with them. The Germans occupied Yaruga in the summer of 1941. They exterminated some of the Jews there and moved on. Yaruga, as well as the rest of Vinnitsa province, was in Transnistria 7. All the Jews of Yaruga were taken to the ghetto. Rachel, her husband Moisey, their daughters and my grandmother Blima were in the ghetto. Life there was horrible, with starvation, cold, diseases, tortures and raids. The Jews in the ghetto surrendered their jewelry or other valuables in order to ransom themselves from the Romanians. Rachel's family survived. They were liberated in 1944. My poor grandmother Blima starved to death in the ghetto. After the war Rachel's family stayed in Yaruga. Rachel and Moisey died in the mid-1970s. My cousins Dusia, Riva and Naum live in New York. They moved to America in the 1970s.

My mother was born in 1894. My mother only finished elementary school, but she read a lot, mainly Russian and foreign classics in Russian. She was an intelligent person for her time. She worked at the vineyard along with the other children.

My parents married in 1920. They had a traditional Jewish wedding with a chuppah in Yaruga. But they didn't have a big wedding party. They just arranged a dinner for guests. This was a difficult time when the remnants of gangs attacked the villages. At first my parents lived in the house of my paternal grandparents in Ivanovka.

Growing up

I was born in Ivanovka on 23rd May 1921 and was named after my grandfather Moisey. There was a midwife in Ivanovka named Palashka who helped with my mother's delivery. The inhabitants of Ivanovka treated Jewish families very well, but there was still danger from pogroms. Three of Ivanovka's Jewish families decided that it was better to live in a Jewish environment, and so they left. I was 6 months old when my parents sold their house and moved to my mother's parents home in Yaruga. A few weeks later, the other two families from Ivanovka also moved to Yaruga.

There, my father bought a vineyard. It was hard work taking care of the vines. In the spring they had to unearth the vines and tie them. In the autumn they harvested the grapes and made wine and in winter they sold the wine. This work paid well and provided for my family's living. Besides, the family really enjoyed working with sweet juicy grapes. I grew up and began to help my father at the vineyard which was located on the southern slope of the Ivanov hill. We spent the hottest time of the day in a small lodge on the hill. At harvest time my father and I stayed at the vineyard overnight.

We lived near my grandmother Blima and Aunt Rachel. My father bought half of a house. We had two rooms: a dining room, a bedroom, and a kitchen. The toilet was in the yard. My mother was a wonderful cook. She baked delicious bread. There were mainly old wooden houses in Yaruga, but our house was made of stone. The houses were close to one another, very much like those in Marc Chagall's 8 paintings. I can't remember the titles of his pictures, but the village resembled the images created by this artist. There were no gardens near the houses. There was a shed near our houses where we kept two horses before the collectivization 9. I also used to keep rabbits in this shed. My mother bought vegetables and meat from the local Ukrainian farmers - it wasn't kosher. My mother was a wonderful cook. She baked delicious bread.

The Jews lived in Yaruga and the Ukrainian farmers lived in the adjacent village. The Jews were involved in vine growing and crafts and the farmers grew wheat and vegetables and raised livestock. The craftsmen included tailors, shoemakers, roofers, coopers, barbers, and so on.

There was a church in the central square in Yaruga - it seemed very big and beautiful to me when I was small. Many years later I saw its green cupolas and crosses in my dreams. My father and I visited Yaruga once after the war and I was surprised to see how small the church actually was. There were 3 synagogues in Yaruga. Each one was attended by members of different professional guilds. This was a tradition. Perhaps, it was for the sake of seeing and talking to one another. Besides, they all contributed money and it was good to know that the money went to their own group. My parents attended the largest synagogue of vine growers only on holidays. There were rabbis, a schochet and a melamed in Yaruga. There was a cheder at the synagogue. I didn't attend it, but I remember other boys going to the cheder wearing kippot and carrying huge volumes of the Talmud.

On Sundays there was a market in the central square where farmers from the surrounding villages came to sell their food products. They came on horseback or in bull driven carts or on foot. Those who came on foot put on their shoes before they entered the town, as they were walking barefoot. Girls, women and men wore beautiful embroidered blouses and shirts. Men wore sheepskin hats at rakish angles. The market lasted a whole day. By the end of the day many men got drunk and there were fights. But they didn't touch Jews. I don't remember one single expression of anti-Semitism in pre- war Yaruga. This bright, colorful market existed until the late 1920s.

There was also a cultural center or club in Yaruga. People turned one of the bigger sheds into a club. There was an amateur theater organized in this club in the late 1920s. They staged some plays by Jewish writers; one of them was Sholem Aleichem 10, whose plays were staged in Yiddish. The local Jews spoke Yiddish. They communicated with the Ukrainian farmers in Ukrainian. Ukrainian farmers also knew some Yiddish. My parents also talked in Yiddish to one another, but they spoke Russian to me. I also remember the musician. He had something like a street organ. There was a dove on his organ and for a small fee it picked fortune-telling notes out of a bag. This musician was blind and I felt sorry for him. My mother always gave me some food to give him.

My mother was a very kind woman. I felt that she wanted to warm up and feed all needy people. My father was also kind and intelligent. He was a very respectable man in Yaruga and people chose him to be a judge in resolving routine disputes.

My parents weren't religious people. They went to synagogue only once or twice a year. I don't remember them praying at home. However, they honored and celebrated the Jewish holidays, the Sabbath in particular. On Fridays my mother cooked Sabbath dinner. We had a nice dinner on Friday, but nobody said a prayer or lit candles. Mother made stuffed fish, chicken broth, cracklings and pastries. She didn't cook on Saturday. She wouldn't even light a fire. My parents didn't work on Saturday. They rested, read books or went to see their friends or relatives. So work on Saturday became my chore. My parents didn't follow the rules strictly and they thought it was all right for me to do it. My mother always invited poor people and visitors to our Sabbath dinners.

Pesach was my favorite holiday. Firstly, there was warm weather on this holiday. We could run barefoot on the grass outside. Our feet could feel the warmth of the soil. The housewives prepared thoroughly for Pesach, buying eggs, chicken and geese. Two or three families in Yaruga had machines for making matzah. My neighbors had one of these machines and we bought matzah from them. I watched them making matzah. It was all so very interesting to watch them making the dough and putting pieces of it into the machine, then to see the thin sheets of matzah coming out of the machine, and afterwards I like to watch the people packing the matzah into baskets and covering them with clean cloths. At home preparations for the holiday started in advance. We did a major clean up. Chametz was removed from the house. We also took fancy dishes down from the attic. The food at Pesach was very delicious. There were mandatory dishes on seder night: matzah, bitter greens, chicken, potatoes, eggs and kosher wine. My father didn't conduct the seder ritual, a tradition for religious Jews. We just had a fancy dinner. We also sent treats to our Ukrainian neighbors at Pesach, and they sent us their treats at Christian Easter. This exchange was customary among Jews and non-Jews in Yaruga.

When I turned 13 my grandmothers demanded that I had bar mitzvah, the celebration of the coming of age of Jewish boys. Circumcision is traditionally done in infancy. My father invited a man who knew Hebrew and Jewish traditions to teach me the prayer that I was supposed to recite. So, I had my bar mitzvah in secret at the age of 13, because at that time the authorities did not allow religious rituals. A rabbi presided at the ritual and many of our relatives and friends attended. My mother made a lekkah, a type of traditional egg caketraditin. She cut it into small slices, put a few into a letter, and sent them to my grandmother Zlata in America.

Our town was small and poor. We didn't have electricity or radio. Only the central street was paved. Sometimes in the spring the unpaved streets turned into impassable mud roads. On holidays the town changed. People dressed up and couples walked in the central square. Later there was another entertainment besides the Jewish theater. It was a cinema that came to town once a week. The cinema showed silent movies, but we enjoyed them. The film projector was manual and sometimes when operators got tired they allowed us to turn the handle, which was the greatest fun ever for us.

People in Yaruga were very cheerful. They were simple and naïve and often became the subject of funny stories and jokes. Thus, old miller Meylekh, a Jew, once went to Odessa on business. He decided to stay at the apartment of our relative Maria Meylekh. When he came into a typical yard in Odessa he looked around him, saw no one, and decided to change his clothes. He took off his clothes and was standing there in his underwear, ready to get dressed. At this moment he heard someone on a balcony say, 'Manya, you have a visitor!' Poor Meylakh froze in the middle of the yard. It is a true story - he just believed that he was in a safe corner and was shocked to know that he was watched.

Once in 1929 my mother took me to Odessa. My doctor, Mashkovskiy, had advised her to take me to the sea, and so we went to Odessa, where we had relatives. I was afraid that we would look too provincial in Odessa. But, as a matter of fact, we were treated very nicely. This was the first time I had ever seen a big town, and I admired the huge houses, streetcars, parks and the sea.

In the late 1920s, during the period of collectivization and dispossession of kulaks 11 someone named Firyubin came to supervise these processes. Firyubin was a communist, although he had no education whatsoever. He organized a meeting, and the people attending the meeting took a unanimous decision to join the collective farm 12 voluntarily. But in reality this decision was not voluntary. Before this meeting Firyubin and his assistants made the rounds of all the families, offering them the chance to enroll in the collective farm. If people didn't agree they were declared kulaks and enemies of the Soviet power. Some of these people ran away and others were sent into exile to Siberia. My father entered the collective farm. There were 3 collective farms in Yaruga. The Jewish farm was the vine growing and wine making collective farm. My father soon became chief vintner of thee Jewish farm. The two other collective farms were Ukrainian. One of them was agricultural and the other obtained sandstone and manufactured stone mills.

My school years

There were two schools in Yaruga: a Jewish elementary school and a Ukrainian lower secondary school that had 7 grades. The only difference between the two schools was the language of instruction, no special Jewish subjects were taught in this school. . The Jewish school was closed some time in 1935-36. In 1928 I went to the Jewish elementary school. After we finished elementary school, our entire class attended the Ukrainian secondary school, and we had no problems there. We were all fluent in Ukrainian. However, I still do my counting in Yiddish because I'm accustomed to it. The Jewish school was closed down some time in 1935-36.

I enjoyed studying very much, and began to learn chemistry, physics and botany with great interest. I studied well. I had a good voice and liked reciting poems. During the Soviet holidays there were meetings held in the central square. A stand was installed from where the chairman of the village council, chairmen of collective farms and other officials delivered their speeches, and from where I usually read a greeting from the school. I rehearsed my speech at home and my mother and father took my preparations extremely seriously.

In the early 1930s there was a great famine in Ukraine 13. We were hungry, but no people starved to death in Yaruga or the surrounding villages, because the collective farm managed to sell enough wine to provide for those who worked there. My father helped another family that had moved with us from Ivanovka to survive through those years. It was the family of a widow with 3 children. My father supported the widow and her family until her children finished their education and could earn their living.

I studied for two years in the Ukrainian secondary school. In 1934 our family left Yaruga. My parents wanted me to get a good education and so did I. It was hard to say good-bye to our house, to the town and the Ukrainian village where I had many friends. It was especially hard to say good-bye to my grandmother Blima. She was a very nice, kind grandmother. I used to call on her during intervals at school, and she prepared a nice tea for me and gave me cherry jam. I didn't know that I was saying farewell to my grandmother forever. It was hard to leave everything that I loved, but I was looking forward to a new and beautiful life.

We moved to the town of Ovruch in the Zhytomir region. My father was offered an opportunity to establish a transport agency from scratch: to purchase horses, build stables and employ the staff. My father was a very intelligent man, and he managed to do everything promptly. He was chief of this transport agency until the beginning of the war. We received a two- room apartment in the building where the office was located. It was more comfortable than our house in Yaruga: we had electricity, a radio and a bathroom.

Ovruch seemed a big town to me. It had beautiful houses, asphalted streets, a park, a stadium and a library. I read several books in Yiddish and Ukrainian every week: books about faraway countries, islands and seas, adventures and traveling. I became very fond of books.

Ovruch was mainly a Jewish town. There were several synagogues and a Jewish lower and upper secondary school. Jews held leading positions in the municipal council and the town party committee. There was also a Ukrainian secondary school and a Russian secondary school for children of the military. I studied in the Ukrainian secondary school because I had already been in a Ukrainian school and it was easier for me to continue there. I became a Komsomol 14 member and was very fond of various social activities. I was assistant chairman of the Kkomsomol committee and was responsible for conducting meetings and propaganda for the Soviet authorities. I was also editor of our newspaper and carried the flag at the parades on holidays.

It was during the so-called Great Terror 15 that the arrests of innocent people began. People were surprised at how it could happen that party and trade union leaders came to be branded enemies of the people. It was amazing that outstanding cultural and party leaders, comrades of Lenin, were arrested and declared enemies of the people. My father didn't believe this. A freight forwarder from my father's office was arrested. He vanished and nobody knew what happened to him. Every night when I went to bed, I would say inwardly good-bye to my father. I wasn't sure that I would be seeing him in the morning. Fortunately, he survived the ordeal.

After reading the book Investigating Officer's Notes by Leo Sheinin 16, I decided to enter the Faculty of Law after finishing school. But my father wanted me to become a doctor. I obeyed my parents, and never in my life did I regret it.

There were two medical institutes in Kiev; one of them was in the regional hospital, formerly a Jewish hospital. I gained admission to the Kiev Medical Institute #2. I had no problems gaining admission, as there was no anti-Semitism before the war. At first I lived in the hostel, but it was very hard living there. There were 10 of us sharing one room. It was too noisy to study, so my parents rented me a room in the home of a Jewish family living near Sennoy Market.

I liked Kiev very much: its streets and parks, museums and theaters. I spent all my free time walking in the town. I'm still surprised that I managed to finish two years of school successfully before the war. We went to the Opera, buying the cheapest tickets, listened to symphony concerts, and attended performances at the Jewish Theater located in Kreschatik, the central street in Kiev. I had relatives in Kiev, my Aunt Mura and her husband Itshak Liber who was her cousin. Mura was a dentist at the Communications College and Itshak was a violinist. Their son Vitia was a very talented young man. He knew several foreign languages and studied at the Kiev Institute of Motion Picture Engineers. We were friends and I often visited their hospitable family.

During the war

On the morning of 22nd June 1941 I was lying in bed reading the History of the Russian Communist Party manual, preparing for my exam in Marxism- Leninism, when my landlady Fania ran into my room to tell me that she heard stories told by farmers from Zhuliany [formerly a suburb of Kiev, presently a town neighborhood with an airport] that Zhuliany was being bombed by German bombers and that the war had begun. I ran to see my cousin Vitia. I couldn't believe that this could be true. Vitia was listening to Churchill's speech on the BBC. Churchill was talking about Germany's treacherous attack on the Soviet Union, and said that Great Britain was going to support the Soviet Union. So we heard about the beginning of the war even before we heard Molotov's 17 speech. I remember crowds of people on Kreschatik Street listening to Molotov's speech. It was a sunny day, but it seemed that there was a cloud over Kreschatik, so serious and grave were the faces of the people.

On the very first day of the war, my fellow-students and I went to the military registration office to volunteer to go to the front immediately. But we were medical students, so we had to continue our studies. Vitia, my second cousin, the son of Aunt Mura and Uncle Itshak, went to the front and perished during the defense of Kiev in the first months of the war. We finished our second year of studies at the Institute. The hospitals of the Institute began to receive the wounded. We helped to carry the wounded patients to the hospital. We also organized a unit to fight against parachutists. We patrolled the ravines coordinating our patrol duty with our schedules at the Institute. This was the area of Babi Yar 18. There were 20-30 of us armed only with pistols. We were lucky to have met no parachutists. If we had, there would have been no survivors in our group, because parachuters were well armed. At that time we didn't know that Babi Yar, where we used to walk before the war, would become a mass grave for hundreds of thousands of people. We were also responsible for meeting trains of refugees from the West. These were mostly families of the military. We took them to the Botanical Garden where they fell asleep either on benches or on the ground. Kiev was often bombed and we were on duty at the Institute. We were not allowed to leave our posts during air raids. It was frightening to be there alone, and I tried to stand beside a support wall just in case a bomb hit the building.

The front was nearing Ovruch and my father decided to move his transport agency to Kiev and transfer it to the authorities. My father had about a dozen carts with open platforms. My father and other Jewish men decided to move their families from Ovruch on these carts. When they arrived in Kiev nobody wanted to accept the horses. My parents moved on to Kharkov and I stayed on in Kiev. In August 1941 our Institute evacuated. The teachers went by train and the students went to Kharkov on foot. It was fun at first. The weather was nice and the road was smooth for the first 30 km. But then it became much more difficult. We covered 500 km in about a month. We stayed in villages and farmers gave us food and milk. Sometimes we felt like staying in those villages. We came to Kharkov at the end of August. My parents found me in Kharkov. They moved on to the Gorky region with some acquaintances of theirs. We didn't know whether we were ever going to see each other again.

Our Institute settled down in the very center of Kharkov. Our classes began on 1st September. We received a very small stipend that was not enough for our living expenses. Some other students and I went to work as nurses at the hospital. We worked at night and studied during the day. Two weeks later evacuation from Kharkov began. The hospital was to be evacuated and the issue of the Institute was still up in the air. The hospital management allowed us to evacuate with them. When we were boarding the train on 19th September we heard on the radio that Kiev had surrendered.

The trip took over a month and at the end of October we arrived in Krasnoyarsk, Russia. I was met there by my relatives from Kiev, Aunt Mura and Uncle Itshak. Mura evacuated with the Communications College from Kiev. They insisted that I tell my parents to come to Krasnoyarsk. I sent them a telegram, but it probably took too long before they received it. At that time there was a staff inspection at our hospital. The commission fired those few students that were working there. Their argument was that the students had to study. Our Institute was evacuated to Cheliabinsk. I didn't want to go that far away from where my parents were supposed to be. I went to Novosibirsk and was admitted to the 3rd year of Novosibirsk Medical Institute. I had to earn my living and got a job as a nurse at the radio factory. I went to classes in the morning and stayed overnight at the factory. It was a very cold winter and we didn't have enough food. Those students that came from Novosibirsk and were living with their families often took us to their homes to treat us to a meal. Soon my parents came to Krasnoyarsk and I spent my winter vacation of 1941-42 with them.

My father was mobilized into the army, but due to his age he didn't have to go to the front. Instead, he was sent to the logistics department of the Kiev Communications College that was located in Cheliabinsk. He organized a farmyard where they grew vegetables and raised pigs. In 1944 the College reevacuated and my father and mother and Mura and Itshak came to Kiev. In Kiev my father organized another farmyard and was demobilized in 1945.

After I finished my 3rd year in Novosibirsk a representative of the Military Faculty of Moscow Institute #2, located in Omsk came to enroll students for the 4th year. I submitted my application and went to Omsk in August 1942. This Military Faculty was very different from an ordinary faculty. We lived in the barracks, wore military uniforms and had to march everywhere. In May 1943 the Institute was reevacuated to Moscow. The headquarters of the Military Faculty and Military Clinics were located in the old building of Moscow Hospital #2. Well-known doctors and scientists lectured there. Soon we were given the rank of lieutenants of medical services. By that time we were allowed few freedoms. My friend Volodia Shteinberg and I rented an apartment. We were lucky with our landladies. They were two very nice women who worked at the booking offices of the Stanislavskiy and Nemirovich-Danchenko Theaters. All the theaters and other cultural institutions in Moscow were operating in 1943. We often went to plays at these theaters, as well as to the Bolshoi Theater 19 and the Philharmonic. We also went to the Jewish State Theater to watch Tevye the Dairyman by Sholem Aleichem and King Lear staged by the well-known theatrical producer Mikhoels 20. At the end of 1943 we passed our state exams and became professional doctors. We were also promoted to the rank of captains of medical services. We received our diplomas and a personal stamp. I still keep it.

In January 1944 I was sent to the Karelian front. I became commander of the sanitary unit for the infantry regiment. I got a baptism of fire in February. I volunteered to go to the rear of the enemy as a doctor with a battalion. The chief of headquarters who heard of my desire to go to the rear of the enemy asked with a hint of irony, 'Captain, can you ski? Can you shoot an automatic gun, hold the all-round defense and camouflage? So, what are you butting into, you newly born doctor?' He noticed that I was hurt by his comments and advised me to be careful and to follow what the others were doing. I didn't realize then that the chief of headquarters was worrying about me and wanted to save my life. Later I became a doctor for the medical and sanitary battalion and senior doctor of the regiment, but I always remembered the wise chief of headquarters and my dangerous campaign into the rear of the enemy.

I became a member of the Communist Party at the front. I believed it was my duty to be a communist and to face the most dangerous and difficult tasks. In 1944 we were transferred to the Murmansk area, liberated the town of Petsamo, came out to the Norwegian border and liberated the town of Kirkenes, the main navy base of the enemy. Kirkenes was practically destroyed and the fascists took all food stocks when retreating. Every day there were lines of Norwegian children with bowls lining up before the military cooks. Our cooks tried to give food to all needy people.

In November 1944 we left Norway to deploy in the vicinity of the town of Petsamo, in the tundra. I faced anti-Semitism for the first time there. Once we were sitting in the company of doctors. There were women doctors there, as well as the director of the hospital and the visiting chief of headquarters of the regiment. We were talking with him and he said to me, 'You are a good guy, even though you are a Jew'. I froze, but kept silent. The chief of headquarters was senior in rank and if I had decided to sort things out with him it might have cost me several years in prison camps. At dawn on 9th May 1945 I woke up to the sound of people shouting, 'Get up all! Victory!'. People all around were saluting and shooting their guns.

Post-war

My division doctor was appointed human resources manager at the sanitary headquarters of the Belomorsk Military Regiment. He offered me a position as his assistant. I served under him for two years at the construction of the Belomorcanal 21 in Belomorsk, and in 1947 he also helped me to get a transfer to the Kiev Military Regiment. My parents lived in Kiev after the war. My father received an apartment from the Kiev Communications College. I worked as a doctor at the military unit for some time and demobilized after few months. I left my well-paying position with a salary of 2,000 rubles for the position of a common doctor with a salary of 600 rubles. But I was eager to do scientific research in medicine.

I was introduced to my future tutor, Professor Boris Polonskiy, the best urologist in the country. I studied urology under his supervision. Soon I became a registrar at the Onco-Urological Department. I studied urology from zero. Professor Polonskiy patiently taught me everything he knew and could perform well: the science of urology, and practical skills. Soon I began to perform surgeries and soon I was performing complicated surgeries successfully.

At the beginning of 1953 when the Doctors' Plot 22 started along with other anti-Semitic campaigns stirred up in Moscow, I was going through a hard time. In February 1953 I performed a surgery on an elderly man. All the other doctors refused to operate on him. They were afraid that the patient would not survive the operation. At the end of the surgery my assistant told me that by negligence we had transfused the patient with the wrong blood type. This meant death for the patient. We quickly retransfused the patient with the appropriate blood. By some miracle the patient survived. This annoying mistake that was not my fault had serious consequences. The chief doctor of the hospital believed it was his task to get rid of Jews. If the patient had died I would have been taken to court. Before his release from hospital the patient, who didn't know what had happened during his surgery, asked a nurse for my name, saying, 'My granddaughter is a schoolgirl. There are articles in newspapers about doctors that poison people. I want to go to my granddaughter's school to tell children about this wonderful Jewish doctor, Moisey Goihberg. All the other doctors refused to operate on me, but he performed this surgery and saved me.' Every day I opened newspapers with horror. There were satirical articles with Jewish names (specifying their real names in brackets). Assistant Professor Krisson and a few other Jews were fired from our clinic. The party district committee issued a decree stating that it was difficult for a Christian to get employed because many people of different faiths got jobs.

Stalin died in 1953. I cried for him along with many other people not because I loved him, but because I was afraid that things might get worse. In 1954 they found a possibility to get rid of me. There was a party decree about strengthening the villages. I was called to the district health department and ordered to become head of the district health department in the town of Stavysche near Kiev. I had my objections, saying that I was a practicing surgeon doing scientific research and had never been an administrator. But I was told, 'You have worked enough in Kiev. Somebody else will take up your job.' Only I and another Jewish woman were sent to the village from our clinic. I worked for a year in Stavysche and did well. I also performed surgeries at the local hospital. After a year I was allowed to return to Kiev. I don't know whether it happened because I was a talented surgeon, or because my tutor Polonskiy pulled strings for me, or whether it was due to a general improvement of the situation.

We were enthusiastic about the decisions of the Twentieth Party Congress 23 denouncing the cult of Stalin. I was secretary of the party unit and received a letter at the district party committee that I had to read to the communists concerning the murderous deeds of Stalin and his colleagues. I did this with pleasure. I stopped doing anything for the party at that time.

My life after that was quiet. I defended my candidate's thesis although I was an ordinary doctor-registrar. In 1965 the Institute of Urology was established in Kiev and I was a successful applicant for the position of senior researcher. I worked successfully in that post until 1984. After I turned sixty I went to work as a consultant at the Kiev Oncological Clinic.

I've had a happy private life. I met my wife Mara Khersonskaya, a Jew, in Vorzel near Kiev in the early 1950s. Mara was born in Kiev in 1928. Her father Mikhail Khersonskiy was a party activist. Before the war he was secretary of the Podol 24 party committee. When the war began Mikhail volunteered to go to the front and perished defending Kiev. Mara's mother worked at the Torgmash Plant before and after the war. They were a very intelligent family without any religious prejudices. During the war Mara and her mother were evacuated to the Riazan region. Before we met Mara had graduated from the Philology Faculty of Kiev State University and worked as a schoolteacher of Russian language and literature. We had much in common: we both loved literature and poetry, and were fond of theater and classical music. We courted for two years. After we got married I was sent to Stavysche. At first we lived at Mara's apartment and later we moved to my parents. In due time we bought a big cooperative apartment. That's where we still live.

My father worked at the logistics department of Kiev Garrison. He died in 1976. My mother died in 1984 at the age of 90. My daughter Natalia was born in 1956. She was an ordinary Soviet child. She became a pioneer at school and then a Komsomol member. In the summer she went to pioneer camps. She had many friends. She knew that she was a Jew from early childhood, but we didn't follow any Jewish traditions or lead a Jewish way of life. She tried to enter the Kiev Conservatory after finishing music school. But this was the period when it was next to impossible to enter a cultural institution, especially in Ukraine. My daughter went to Russia and entered the Sverdlovsk Conservatory. She graduated successfully. Upon graduation she returned to Kiev. She is a pianist and works at a concert organization. She married Oleg Samsonov, a Russian, in Sverdlovsk, but divorced him later. I have a lovely granddaughter named Masha. She is a student at the English Faculty of the Kiev Institute of Foreign Languages.

I have identified myself as a Jew all my life. I have been interested in everything Jewish. After the war it was not safe to be a Jew and celebrate Jewish holidays. We went to my parents' to celebrate. My parents celebrated Jewish holidays until the end of their lives. They didn't go to synagogue or pray, but my mother always laid a fancy dinner table and had matzah at Pesach. They bought matzah secretly from some people in Podol, and fasted on Yom Kippur. In recent years the attitude towards Jews in independent Ukraine has changed dramatically. We have an opportunity to observe traditions and study the language, history and religion. There are many Jewish charity, cultural, religious and youth organizations in Kiev. I have the opportunity to compensate for all those years when we were just Soviet people without any nationality. I read a lot, attend lectures and sometimes make speeches at various Jewish organizations. Unfortunately, I have never been abroad. It was impossible in the past and now we are too old and we can't afford to travel. But I'm still happy. I like Israel and am interested in that country, but I never considered emigrating there. I would only go if Israel needed me as a doctor. However, it would still be difficult for me to move, because I was brought up on the foundations of Russian culture. I love my motherland. I'm a Russian intellectual of Jewish nationality. And now, when all conditions for the development of the Jewish nation have been created in my beloved Ukraine, I am happy.

Glossary

Ruth Halova
Holubov
Czech Republic
Interviewer: Lenka Koprivova
Date of interview: July 2006 - March 2007

Mrs. Ruth Halova is from the beautiful southern Bohemian town of Cesky Krumlov. Although during a large portion of her live she lived and worked elsewhere, after she retired she returned here, and I visited her in Holubov, a small town surrounded by the hills of the Czech Forest. Already on my way to her place, I was saying to myself that I'd never seen such beautiful forests as they have here anywhere else. And after meeting Mrs. Halova, I'm convinced that I've also never ever met such a beautiful and kind person as she is. As she herself mentions, already from the time she was little, she was fascinated by the gift of life - hers was saved by Nicholas Winton 1, who enabled her and her sister to leave for exile in England. It's already been some time since she celebrated her 80th birthday, but thanks to her vitality, no one would ever guess that she's really that old. Mrs. Halova is a member of the Plzen [Pilsen] Jewish community, and among other things, she was very involved in the saving of the synagogue in her hometown of Cesky Krumlov.

Life is the greatest of the gifts that God gave to Man, and the greatest miracle is the fact that the life of every being in the universe is singular and unrepeatable. In this life of mine, I've had the luck that it was given to me twice, which is why I was asked to talk about what I remember of it.

Growing up
My school years
During the war
My escape to England
Post-war
My university years
Working at the hospital in Prague
My first marriage
My children
Retirement
Glossary

Growing up

I'm originally from Cesky Krumlov, where in 1926 I was born to my parents, Leopold and Zdenka Adler, as their second child - my sister Eva was born five years earlier. Alas, shortly after I came into the world, Dad left it - during World War I he'd been a Legionnaire, and had traveled through Siberia with his unit. While crossing one mighty river, my dad refused to be taken across by boat - though as an officer he had the right to that, but he decided to swim across with his soldiers. That sealed his fate; he fell ill, and when I was ten months old, he died. So that she could support us, Mom worked at Spiro's factory as a secretary, which is why her mother, our self-sacrificing grandma Marie Kohnova, took care of the household.

Grandma Marie was from Kostelec, not far from Hluboka, where her family had a farm. When she got married, she lived with her husband in Protivin, and together they ran a general store; they also had their two daughters there, my mom Zdenka and my aunt Olga. While this part of my family was composed of Czech-speaking Jews, my dad's mother tongue was German. His mother [Josefa Adlerova] was from Sobeslav, and Grandpa [Jakub Adler] was from somewhere in the Czech-Austrian border region. One day he appeared, selling Hungarian flour, and met Grandma. The Adlers then lived in [Ceske] Budejovice; one could say they were a family of public servants.

The same year that I was born, so in 1926, Grandpa died. It was actually my grandma from Budejovice who then held the entire family together; we used to gather at her place for all Jewish celebrations. Grandma cooked, baked, and served - she was in her element. She made a living by selling Tiger brand cheese for some Swiss company. I used to go shopping with her in Budejovice, and they knew her everywhere. She was this well-known, beautiful, canny woman. She belonged amongst those in the Jewish community who take care of corpses [Editor's note: The interviewee is referring to Chevra Kaddisha: an Aramaic term for a volunteer group or association that performs last rites and oversees the performance of funerals.]

Dad was one of five siblings. The oldest was Uncle Max, a professor of Latin and Greek, initially at a girls' high school, and then at the German university in Prague. Second was Aunt Ida, whom I particularly loved. She got married and moved to Linz, Austria, which lies about 60 kilometers from Krumlov, and I always yearned to go visit her, Uncle Richard and my cousin Fritz. Even more so, when I found out that their good friends raised boxers - I've liked animals all my life. Alas, it never worked out; Uncle Richard would write and send me fairy tales about the beautiful blue Danube, which were supposed to console me. It was a consolation, but in my eyes a poor one nevertheless. Aunt Ida immigrated with her family to the United States still before the war.

Another of Dad's brother's was named Arthur, and it was actually thanks to him and his wife Marta that my parents met. You see, Aunt Marta was a widow from her first marriage, and besides her two sons, Franta and Karel, she also inherited from her husband the responsibility for a chocolate factory in Budejovice, where my mother started working as an accountant. Dad's youngest brother Hugo was a phtysiologist, and for long years he was the director of a hospital in Usti nad Labem, where I also worked after the war.

Already when I was very little, I was fascinated by nature. My earliest memories are of trees - I'm lying in a carriage and looking up into their crowns. The person pushing the carriage is my kind grandma Marie. Alas, the conditions weren't there for me to have some sort of animal at home, which was my only wish for all my birthdays. My mother's older sister, Olga Ledererova, died while giving birth to her second child, and Grandma had to start taking care of her household, too - the newborn Hanicka and Jenik, two years older; at least until Uncle Sigmund remarried. Thus when she proclaimed, either an animal or me, that was the end of my hopes. Several times I tried to smuggle some animal foundling into the house, but success was always only temporary. My first animal at home wasn't until my second marriage.

As a little girl, I didn't want to go to bed. I had the feeling that life was too interesting to sleep through. For the same reason I later didn't want to read - after all, life was too precious for me to waste it reading! I loved life and I loved colors. I was very tormented by the fact that some don't see the world in all its colors. You see, for me each numeral and vowel had its own color. Once I saw a beggar on Krumlov Bridge. For several subsequent nights, I woke up from a dream crying - I couldn't stand the thought of him and his sad life. Grandma and Mom tried to console me, but nothing helped.

Then, one night I again woke and wept for the blind beggar. Mom and Grandma rushed over to me, but I was embarrassed to tell them that I was again weeping for him. And so I told a lie - I said that I was crying because I didn't have a daddy. It wasn't true, I never knew my dad, so I couldn't miss him, but I immediately realized from the sad look in their faces how sorry they were for it. Certainly they tried to do everything to make up for our losing our father. Back then I clearly realized what lying was, and swore that I'd never lie again.

At that time there were about 9000 people living in Cesky Krumlov. About half of them would've been Czechs, and the other half German-speaking citizens of the Czechoslovak Republic 2. The town might have been located in the Sudetenland 3, but really, until Henlein 4 came along and the Germans began with their 'Heim ins Reich,' we lived in peace. My friends were Czechs, Germans and Jews, and no one saw any problem in it. [Editor's note: The 'Heim ins Reich' initiative (German for 'Back to the Reich') was a policy pursued by Adolf Hitler starting in 1938 and was one of the factors leading to WWII. The initiative attempted to convince people of German descent living outside of Germany that they should strive to bring these regions 'home' into a greater Germany. This includes both areas ceded after the Treaty of Versailles and areas which were not previously part of Germany such as Sudentenland. Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heim_ins_Reich]

Despite that, Uncle Max, Dad's brother, who after our father's death became our guardian, made a wise decision, and put us into a German school. One reason was for us to really learn German properly, but our uncle also used to say that anti-Semitism is much more noticeable in German institutions than in Czech ones - and so it would be best for us to get used to it as early as possible. As it turned out, our uncle was right, but only later; in the beginning I didn't perceive anything like that.

My school years

I began attending German elementary school, and fell in love with my teacher, Miss Martha Nehybova. She was young, beautiful, and wore her long black hair braided in a ponytail on the nape of her neck. Besides that, she was also kind, truthful, just and noble, and I think that we absorbed more human values in that first school year than in the next several decades.

Martha died no long ago; when I visited her once, she remembered how once long ago my grandma had pleaded with her to talk to me, so that I'd start eating breakfast. Because grandma knew that whatever my teacher told me was holy to me, and because I was a skinny child, that looked forward to school so much in the morning that it refused to eat breakfast, she told Miss Nehybova about it. Martha then really did mention in front of me that eating breakfast is good, so I began eating breakfast, and a few days later Grandma again appeared at the school to thank her.

I had not even a clue about this episode, I didn't find out about it until now. After the war, Martha and her family were deported 5. I think it was precisely to Sudeten Germans such as these that our former president Havel's 6 apology for the deportations belonged.

The members of the Krumlov Jewish community represented an insignificant fraction of the entire population of 9,000, about one percent. Most of them were employees of the paper factory in Vetrni, whose owners, the Spiro family, were also Jews. We didn't have a rabbi, the one from Budejovice used to come see us, but we did have our own cantor, Mr. Karel Krebs. He was a nice young man, who was most likely from Hungary, and devoted very much of his time to young people. He taught us religion, put on plays with us, and so on.

The construction of the Krumlov synagogue was financed by the Spiro family, and I think that they were far from being bad employers. Besides building the synagogue, they also founded the Krumlov Jewish cemetery, and the Christian church in Vetrni. We lived in one apartment building that belonged to the factory. The building was divided into five apartments, and I remember that we even had subsidized electricity. This only applied to electricity from wall outlets, so we mostly used table lamps, and very rarely switched on the [main, ceiling] lights.

Only now, with the passage of time, do I realize how hard it must have been for Grandma to make ends meet on Mom's modest salary for a household of four. I actually had this normal, happy childhood. I've got to say, that until the time the Germans began with their Turnvereins 7 and began goading people against us, our life flowed on in uninterrupted peace. During the summer we went swimming, in the winter we skated and sledded.

One fall day in 1938, I went to school as usual. I entered the classroom, sat down and began to take things out of my briefcase. But my classmates began chanting the slogan 'Juden raus!,' 'Jews out!,' so I stacked my things nicely back into my briefcase, and my Jewish friend Leo and I left the class. We were the only two Jews in the class. I remember telling him in front of the school: 'The worst thing about it is that now we'll stay dumb forever, as we can't count on any more education.'

During the war

I was in sekunda [second year of an eight-year high school, or Grade 6] when I was forced out of school. My sister was even worse off; she was in her last year. We spent the next few days at home, and couldn't even go out into the street - young Germans, the Hitlerjugend 8 were marching around outside, and you wouldn't have met a decent person in the street. But my brave mother kept on going to work. One day, still at the beginning of September, she returned and said that we were to pack up some necessities, because we could no longer remain in Krumlov. She ordered a taxi, and sent us to Protivin, her hometown north of the Sudeten border. She herself remained in Krumlov, saying that she'd try to pack up our household.

It's peculiar, but I have to admit that I wasn't afraid for her. A child probably doesn't fully realize how dangerous a situation can be, plus I was convinced that my mom could handle anything. She did handle it, plus the Spiros, when they were leaving their factory and moving to Prague, offered her a job working several hours a day as a companion for old Mrs. Spiro. Mom of course took the job, found some accommodations in Prague for us, and we moved from Protivin to be with her in Prague.

A couple of days later, our home became part of the German Reich - Czechoslovakia was forced to accept the humiliating agreement, and give up its border regions. To this day, I remember the tears in the eyes of the soldiers, who were mobilized 9, but then recalled again, and didn't get a chance to defend their homeland.

In Prague I began attending school again, while my sister didn't continue her studies. She went to learn how to cook and bake pastries instead. I attended a school located on Namesti Jiriho z Podebrad [Jiri from Podebrady Square]; it's this large building, and is a school to this day. But soon my school attendance was once again interrupted - on 15th March 1939, a sign appeared on the school gates that there was to be no school until further notice. The Germans had arrived - Czechoslovakia was occupied. It was a cold, gray day, and the German tanks drew black lines on the snowy streets of Prague.

With the passage of time, my mom's face grew more and more serious. I don't know where, but somewhere she'd managed to find out that someone was helping Jewish children get into foster families in England. And so she took my sister and me to an office on Vorsilska Street to register us, then we stood in a long, long queue for passports, and on the last day of June I was leaving Wilson Station towards an unknown fate. I had the luck that one English family had decided to take me in. My sister also managed to get into England, and went in the following transport: in the last one to leave Czechoslovakia.

Mom didn't have to explain much to me before the trip. After all, I was already a big girl, and knew that the situation was serious. During the train trip, I also felt that at the age of 13, I belonged to the older ones in the transport, and should therefore help take care of the younger children - the two women the Germans had allowed to come with us couldn't keep up with caring for 250 children. In the compartment where I was sitting, there was also one toddler. Before we left, his mother had stuck a bottle of milk for him through the window to us. I took it and put it on the bench, but when the train started moving, the bottle fell over and the milk spilled. For the rest of the trip we fed the little tyke chocolate that we'd all been given for the trip.

When we were crossing the German border, we stood still at it for a terribly long time. The wait seemed endless to us, and we began to be gripped by fear. German uniforms were walking around the train station, and from the faces of the adults and fragments of conversations, we realized that some important documents weren't in order, or perhaps were even missing. Somehow it was all cleared up, the train once again began moving, and after long, endless hours we arrived at Hoek van Holland [Hook of Holland] harbor. We boarded a ship, and when I climbed up on the top bunk in the cabin, I was terribly afraid that I'd fall off it in my sleep.

My escape to England

On 1st July we arrived in London. It was by coincidence my mother's birthday. Before our foster parents took us our separate ways, we were sitting in this large, green room, maybe a gym. We had name cards hanging around our necks, and I clearly remember my feelings, not so much of sadness or tragedy, but of absolute helplessness. This is how calves must feel, when they're separated from the nourishment and protection of their mothers, put in human hands and at the mercy of human beings, I said to myself. My young friends gradually disappeared, leaving with their new parents to their new foster homes, until finally a few of us for whom no one had come remained in that whole big room. You can imagine the anxiety we little pilgrims sitting on our suitcases felt.

When I was still back home in Czechoslovakia, I'd received a letter from the couple whom I was supposed to live with. So I knew that I was going to be living in Birmingham, with the Joneses. Unfortunately they didn't manage to pick me up in London, so a young man came over to us and said: 'Come along, young people, I'll take you to the train and your families will pick you up in Birmingham.' It was only years later, when I met him again, and knew who he was, that I realized that this young man had been Nicky Winton.

The Joneses were a very kind, older pair. They lived in the suburbs of Birmingham, where they ran a newsstand that also sold all sorts of sweets and ice cream. Aunt and Uncle, as I called them, were very kind to me, and used to give me as much ice cream as I wanted. Another consolation for me was that the Joneses had a female German shepherd named Peggy at home. I could speak Czech to her, and she was the only one that understood me, even if no one else did.

Even though I'd studied some English basics before departure, my knowledge was far from sufficient. And so I didn't understand Englishmen at all, and they didn't understand me. When the Joneses noticed how fond I was of Peggy, our home menagerie grew even bigger: a kitty and a budgie joined it. Another person who tried to make my melding into the new environment as easy as possible was the butcher's helper from the store next door. We were about the same age, and whenever he noticed my tears, he sat me in the sidecar of his motorcycle amongst the sausages and meat, and drove me around. He was also my first English teacher, and my English soon came to resemble his. The problem was that he had a strong Birmingham accent, which of course I didn't know, so my style of speaking must have chafed sensitive ears.

I liked it at school, and I quickly made friends with my classmates. My English surroundings behaved very kindly towards me, and in all manner of ways tried to help me get used to the new environment. Despite that, I had big problems with it. I had problems getting used to England, and upon my return, to once again get used to Czechoslovakia. What bothered me a lot in England was that form was emphasized over content. Everyone says 'sorry,' while they're not at all sorry. Also the sentence 'That's not done' always irritated me greatly, and I couldn't get used to it.

When my first school year in England was drawing to a close, my compulsory school attendance was also drawing to a close. Was this to mean the end of my further education? I didn't want to accept the fact that for the rest of my life I'd be as dumb as I felt myself to be back then. The Joneses were planning to set up a little business for me in this little shop, where I'd sell cotton, wool and silk, and teach people to knit, crochet and embroider. I'd actually always liked handiwork, but the notion that all my life I'd just sit and embroider, or perhaps sell wool? Luckily, a solution was found.

The Joneses wouldn't have had the money to support me in some high school. Mrs. Evelyn Sturge managed to find the finances; she actually wasn't a Mrs., but an older unmarried lady, who used to visit us emigrant children from time to time to see how we were doing. Once she simply arrived, asked how things were, then stopped by at my school and then left again. A few days later a message arrived that I'm to move from Birmingham to Rugby, and that I'd be attending high school there!! It's very moving to recall a person who made this possible for me.

On the way to Rugby, I stopped off at an annual gathering of Quakers in Birmingham, and Miss Sturge introduced me to a white-haired man with a round, kind face. Mr. Albright walked with a cane, and when we met, he just patted me on the head and said: 'So you're Ruth? Well, well.' Later, many years after his death, Miss Evelyn revealed to me that he'd been the one who'd made my studies possible. He hadn't wanted me to find out about it while he was alive. Such beautiful people live amongst us...

In Rugby I lived with the Cleaver family. The man was named Eric, the lady Phyllis, and they had two children, Russell and Rosemary. Later, when I was already leaving them, they had a second son, Marcus, whose diapers I helped iron while I was still there. And they also had a beautiful longhaired smoky-gray cat, Smoky. But despite everything, taking care of an emigrant child on top of their own children was a burden for an average wartime English family. We didn't go hungry, but food was rationed. And so it would happen that we emigrant children would be cared for by several families, and we'd shuttle back and forth between them. It was once every half-year or year, so not extremely often, but despite that, just when you finally got used to your new home, you'd have to move someplace else.

I lived like this with the Cleavers and Boags. Jack Boag was just 15 years older than I, and had married his wife Isabella shortly before I came to live with them. They lived in a gorgeous bungalow on the outskirts of Rugby, and the view from their dining room windows looked out over meadows and fields of ripe wheat. So that we could get our fill of that beautiful view, all three of us used to sit on the same side of the dining room table, and fed not only our bodies with food, but also our souls with beauty.

The town of Rugby lies not far from Coventry, and so when Coventry was subjected to destructive German air raids, Rugby had its share, too. It was always a very unpleasant experience, when German bombers were flying above our heads. Jack was a member of the fire department, and always when the air raid siren sounded, he'd take his safety helmet and flashlight, and go to work. In the meantime, Isabella and I would hide under the stairs to the attic, and from scratchy khaki wool knit scarves, gloves and socks for soldiers.

When after several nighttime air raids, Coventry was almost razed to the ground, one morning the Boags brought over an older married pair from Coventry and their mentally ill daughter, who'd lost the roof over their heads. Because that lady was bedridden, Jack and Isabella even gave them their bedroom. And this isn't the end of the list of new occupants of our house at that time. In England my sister Eva was attending a nursing school at the orthopedic hospital in Birmingham. At the time of the Coventry air raids, she was helping out at the Rugby hospital, and the Boags arranged for her to live with us, too; she shared my tiny little room with me.

Back then, all this seemed natural to me, but today when I look back, I feel a deep admiration for my foster parents, which in their attitude and actions showed an almost unrivalled example of selfless service. They definitely set the bar of my obstacle race through life very high.

The Boags, like Miss Sturge and Mr. Albright, were Quakers. But besides that, they were also Methodists, so on Sunday we'd go to both services, and there was nothing unusual about it. I didn't have any contact with anyone from Jewish society; no opportunity to do so even ever came up. I know that some rabbis reproached Nicky Winton for having Christian families raise Jewish children. Nicky's answer was something along the lines of that perhaps they prefer a dead Jewish child to a Jewish child being raised in a Christian family, but he certainly doesn't, and in that case they themselves should do something to save them.

The school where I studied was the elite Rugby High School. I liked it there a lot; for one, my beloved friend Anne was there, and for another my beloved teacher Connie Everett. Anne Heidenheim had been on the same boat as I had. She was also a Jewish child that had been sent into emigration, but as opposed to me, from the German town of Chemnitz. I called her 'Ducky' and she called me 'Dicky.' Each day, we'd meet halfway to school, and then we'd walk the rest of the way holding hands. Anna was a year older than I was. I very much wanted to be in the same year with her, and thanks to the fact that we had a considerate lady for our school principal, it was made possible for me. We sat in the same desk, lent each other clothing, and shared food as well as all our troubles and joys.

Connie Everett taught biology, and I transferred my love for her to her subject as well. I'm not completely sure of it, but it's possible that one of the reasons I worshipped Connie so much was because she had certain qualities in common with Martha, my elementary school teacher.

One day I'd caught a cold, and was sent home with a temperature to sweat it out. On the way there I was passing a library, and so it occurred to me that I could borrow some book to pass the time while sick. I went up to the shelves and took one at random. What I pulled out was the biography of Louis Pasteur. [Pasteur, Louis (1822-1895): French chemist and microbiologist known for his remarkable breakthroughs in microbiology.] I've stopped believing in coincidences long ago. There's a universal plan, and he who is its author is also its dramaturg and director. We're just actors on the stage of life. Who else could have led the hand of a snuffling, coughing, 15-year-old schoolgirl? One thing is certain: From that day onwards, I knew that I wanted to be a microbiologist, and would consider nothing else.

The microbes that live everywhere around us as well as inside our bodies, and are so small that even the sharpest human eye cannot see them, fascinated me to such a degree that my interest in them has lasted my whole life, and has brought joy and a feeling of satisfaction into each new day of my active life.

I completed my studies at Rugby High School with an exam called the Oxford School Certificate. The Boags were moving to the country, and so once again I returned to the Cleavers. I of course tried to find work as soon as possible, so I wouldn't keep burdening their family budget. My priority was work in a laboratory; I sent an application to several dozen of them, but with no success. It was wartime, and state institutions weren't allowed to employ foreigners. And so I started working at a local drugstore.

When I was 17, I got the most beautiful birthday present. A letter from the Boags, who'd in the meantime moved from the country to London, and were writing me that I could again move in with them, and not only that: Jack was working at a hospital in Hammersmith, and had spoken with the head of the bacteriological department about me. They were urgently looking for a new employee for the bacteriological department just then, and the department head had decided to sidestep the law in my case, and give me the job!!! And I started working there, and was absolutely happy...

However, the head lab technician and my boss didn't much like my dream of becoming a lab technician. He kept needling me, that I've got more potential than to just work as a lab technician for the rest of my life, what's more in England, where the pay of lab technicians is very low. He pressured me to try to keep studying, and for this reason asked the Czechoslovak government-in-exile for a scholarship. But I refused it, I stood my ground, and said that I wanted to stay where I was and become a qualified lab technician. And so, when I wasn't going to do it, he visited our ministry-in-exile himself. He found out from the officials there that a Czechoslovak exile school was just in the process of being opened in Wales, and that I should start attending it and finish my Czech high school there, which I would need in any case upon my return home. That they'd consider my scholarship after I graduated, if by then the war wasn't over.

I hope I don't have to emphasize very much that I didn't have the smallest desire to leave the laboratory. With a heavy heart, but nevertheless, I left for Llanwrtyd Wells in the fall of 1943, where at a Czechoslovak high school of the boarding school type I spent two years full of friendship, which I very much like to reminisce about. We were a varied group: most of the students were children from the children's transports, whose lives, like mine, had been saved by Nicholas Winton. Part of us were also children of soldiers and airmen who were serving in the British armed forces, or children of civil servants and high officials of the Czechoslovak government-in-exile. After two beautiful years, I graduated from there. It was May 1945, the end of the war.

Post-war

We didn't have much information about what was happening at home. Despite that, we suspected that it wasn't anything nice. We were all living in uncertainty, as to what fate had befallen our loved ones, and to this day I remember the day when I found out about my mother. It was one of the most joyous days of my life. At the school they gave out mail during lunchtime in the cafeteria. One May day I received a postcard written in pencil and with the first Czechoslovak stamp in six years. It was from one family friend who'd returned to his homeland as a soldier right after Victory Day, and met my mother in the Jewish ghetto in Terezin 10.

My boldest hope had been fulfilled, my most fervent prayer had been answered. I lived through the next several weeks that separated me from my repatriation on 25th August and the subsequent reunion with my mother on the platform of the Usti nad Labem train station in some sort of trance, as if I was floating on a rose-colored fog of joy, and my feet were barely touching the ground. All I can clearly remember is that on that big day, I wanted to look my best, and wore a bright red beret, like Marshal Montgomery wore, which flew off my head and rolled along the platform right when I flew into my mom's arms. [Montgomery, Bernard (1887-1976): Field Marshal, nick-named 'Monty'; most well-known British general of WWII, best remembered for his victory at the Battle of El Alamein in 1942.] We met up in Usti nad Labem, which was more or less halfway between Prague and Teplice, where Mom was living after the war. At that time my sister was already at home, as a nurse she'd returned right after the war ended, and helped stop the typhus epidemic in Terezin.

What had been the fate of my family after I left for England? Mom and Grandma had to leave our Prague apartment and moved to some little closet on Kourimska Street, where they lived up until my mom's deportation to Terezin. Actually, almost all the members of my family were deported, except for Aunt Ida's family, who'd managed to immigrate in time to the United States, Uncle Hugo's family, who'd emigrated to Norway, and Grandma Marie Kohnova. Grandma died shortly after Mom's departure, probably from sorrow, in the Jewish hospital in Prague's Old Town. Alas, of those that went to Terezin, most also kept going, and so no one else from the family survived.

My mother survived, working as an X-ray technician in Terezin, and this thanks to her cousin Arnost. Arnost was an engineer, and was responsible for the Terezin water plant. You see, they'd hidden the fact that they were cousins, and they got married in Terezin. Thanks to this, my mom remained in Terezin and didn't go any further onwards.

The thing that surprised me the most upon my return to Czechoslovakia was how small all Czech towns and squares were, and how narrow were Wenceslaus Square in Prague and all the streets of Krumlov, in comparison to the images that had lived on in my memory for all those years. In Czechoslovakia there were shortages of absolutely everything: food, warm clothing and shoes, electricity and public transport, but that didn't bother me so much. What touched me much more painfully was the mentality of my fellow citizens. I'd gotten used to English politeness and patience, to the way they stood in orderly queues, and couldn't bring myself to shove my way forward and fight for a place in an overcrowded streetcar, bus or train. All transportation in those days really was overcrowded, and differed in no way from pictures from overpopulated India, with travelers hanging in clusters around doors and windows of wagons like dark grapes.

While I left for England with one suitcase, I returned home with two. So I could say that I'd actually improved my lot; I'd collected some clothes in England that we used to get from the Red Cross, and then there were some books that I couldn't bear to part with. But it wasn't anything too amazing. I remember that winter boots were a big problem. England didn't have very cold winters, so normal shoes sufficed, whereas here it was really freezing. Mom managed to find some leather on the black market, and so she had a shoemaker custom-make me these boots.

I also brought frostbite back with me from England. The English, being convinced that they don't have a real winter, had only single-glaze windows in their homes, and only one heat source, which is a fireplace. And so always when we came home frozen through, we'd rush to the fireplace and try to warm up. I got frostbite right that first year, and it lasted several years. They're these large sores that itch a lot. I had them only on my feet, whereas my friend Anne had them on her hands as well.

My university years

With a feeling of patriotic pride, I registered as a student of the Faculty of Sciences at the old and famous Charles University in Prague. Today's students would probably have a hard time comprehending what it meant for me back then, that our Czech university had survived the German occupation and six years of war, that I'd also survived that horrific time, and that I was allowed to set foot on academic ground that had been founded by such an enlightened and wise ruler as was the Father of our nation, Charles IV [Charles IV (1316-1378): Czech king, from 1355 Roman Emperor], for whom I feel great respect and admiration to this day.

The field I'd picked was, what else, microbiology. And to this day I'm convinced that it was the right choice; it's a beautiful field, it's so exciting, it's interesting, and a very suitable profession for a woman. It has no night or weekend shifts... I found a sublet with one Prague family in exchange for teaching both their daughters English. I hope that my services were better than the cubicle that I was given in a beautiful bourgeois apartment on the riverfront in Smichov. It was a small closet behind the kitchen, apparently intended for a servant, and it had no heat. So during my first winter in Prague I suffered a lot, and my frostbite from England tormented me quite a bit.

The lecture halls at the faculty, the same as the trains that I used to take every Friday to Teplice to see my mom, were overcrowded and the glass was missing from windows in many of the wagons. When I once got onto one of these cold wagons and was sitting, all frozen, in the draft, I met another angel that stepped into my life. He was an older gentleman without one outstanding feature that would have recorded itself in my memory, besides his rare kindness. By that broken window, he promised me that the next Friday he'd bring an electric heater for me to the train station. He said that he wouldn't miss it - and he really did bring it that one week later. I still thank you today, my angel, thank you, because for an extra hour or two of English a week, I was allowed to turn it on in my closet, and so I survived that first winter unscathed.

Working at the hospital in Prague

As soon as I could, I found work in a diagnostic lab at the hospital in Motol in Prague. At that time we were investigating many infectious post- war diseases. Croup was rampant among small children, and many youngsters as well as old people were suffering from tuberculosis. I later wrote my dissertation on the laboratory diagnosis of croup, for my PhD in Science. So many people were dying of tuberculosis back then several cases a day were dissected at our pathology department. The bacteriological laboratory was separated from the dissection room by only an old, ill-sealed door, and between 1945 and 1948, all employees of the pathology department came down with tuberculosis, with the exception of the head pathologist and me.

Perhaps to partly compensate for the dangerousness of this work, we used to get special rations in addition to the usual food coupons; I think it was thirty eggs, some butter and some milk for the month, whether also meat, that I don't remember any more. But I used to take these special coupons home to my family in Teplice, because they were quite starved after Terezin, and they never did receive any special assistance.

I was never a very fervent reader, perhaps with the exception of several periods of my life, when I first devoured the books of Axel Munthe, then the novels of Romain Rolland, later Franz Werfel and finally Dostoevsky 11. When I read all his books in one go, and got to his diary, I was shocked by his anti-Semitism and disappointed by his opinion that Russia will save the world. [Munthe, Axel (1857-1949): Swedish physician and psychiatrist, best known for his autobiographical work 'The Story of San Michele.' Rolland, Romain (1866-1944): French novelist and dramatist, best known for his novel series 'Jean Christopher,' a satirical criticism of the world he saw about him. Werfel, Franz (1890-1945): Austrian-Jewish novelist poet and playwright, born in Prague, whose 1933 realistic novel 'The Forty Days of Musa Dagh' won him international fame. He fled from Nazi-Germany in 1938 and immigrated to the USA in 1940. He died in California five years later.]

Otherwise I tried, besides keeping tabs on professional literature, to widen my perspective from time to time. One day I even began to read Schopenhauer [Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860): German philosopher, best known for his work 'The World as Will and Idea' (1819)]. I've got to admit that I didn't get too far, but an invisible hand must have pointed with an invisible finger exactly to that place where I was supposed to read, and which has engraved itself indelibly into my memory. It was a deep wisdom that related to my first marriage, and in retrospect I'd say that it could've even influenced my choice of partner. Schopenhauer believes that a young person is attracted to precisely that partner who is needed so that their union can bear precisely that child for which he yearns, or which he is fated to have. That's the main force that ignites first loves in inexperienced young couples and apparently no longer has an effect on the choice of partner in a more mature phase of life.

Because I'd experienced anti-Semitism already in my youth, and believed that my future husband must be as one body and one soul with me, I suffered from a fixed idea that I had to marry a Jew. Not because the Orthodox faith forbade mixed marriages. For one, I'd grown up in a liberal Jewish family, and for another, prohibitions for which I could find no justification had always on the contrary goaded me into defying them. But I couldn't at all imagine that 'part of my body and soul' could ever hold my being Jewish against me. But it's possible that back then the main reason was still deeply buried in my subconscious. I was internally certain that I'd have at least two longed-for children, a boy and a girl, and that they'd have typically Jewish dark eyes and black, curly hair.

My first marriage

I met my first husband, Ing. Hanus Eisler, in 1946, soon after his return from emigration to the United States. He was a childhood friend of my dorm roommate Eva. Up until then all my first loves and friendships had been platonic. His American behavior differed from my Puritan upbringing, and he got me into bed; I became convinced that I had to marry him.

We were married in November 1947 in the Clam-Gallas Palace on the Old Town Square in Prague. The first months after the wedding, I was truly happy. We had to skimp and save a lot, as we both had small salaries from which we had to furnish our household. Because back then everything was in short supply, and we were always happy when someone gave us something that they no longer needed. We were happy for every iron bed frame, old mattress or piece of carpet. At the end of December 1948 our son Petr was born, and I worked up until the doctors urgently advised me to take maternity leave early due to the danger of infection. I continued my studies by correspondence, because our cheerful and very active son was the center of my interests.

Alas, after our son was born, the problems in our marriage culminated. Already when I was marrying my first husband, I couldn't help but see certain features of his character from which one could suspect that life with him won't be a walk through a rose garden. But when a person is in love, and back then I really was, he moves in more elevated spheres and his feet barely touch the ground. I think that in no way was Hanus a bad person. Alas, he suffered from a strong jealousy complex, which was aimed at everything around us far and wide. Perhaps it was also caused by the fact that he grew up as an only child.

The German psychologist Alfred Adler developed a theory according to which a younger sibling has to come to terms with the lust for power, because he understandably wants to rule as much or even more than his older sibling, while an older child must learn to not be jealous of the younger one for getting more attention as the new addition to the family. When children grow up together, they learn in a natural way to come to terms with both problems, which weakens their childhood egocentricity, which of course is stronger in an only child. Another important factor is that through that same natural process, children learn to share things and attention in the family. [Adler, Alfred (1870-1937): Austrian-Jewish doctor and psychologist, founder of the school of individual psychology. Along with Sigmund Freud and a small group of his colleagues, Adler was among the co- founders of the psychoanalytic movement.]

In the beginning he was even jealous of my mother, when I wasn't pleased by his indecent behavior towards her and often took her side, then of my friends, when I for example dared to treat them to fried eggs that used up more eggs than was allegedly usual in our modest household, and after our son was born, he didn't like it at all when my mom or sister came to help me out. The situation wasn't easy, but I was convinced that I'd manage everything, and in any case, I wanted a second child. Hanicka was born in 1952, when I finished school and Petr was three.

After about a year, I wanted to start working again. By coincidence, it was at the time when the political trial with Jewish doctors was taking place in the Soviet Union 12. Another coincidence was that one of them was named Adler, the same as my maiden name, which was enough for me to not be able to find any work. This is an example of the anti-Semitism that I encountered after the war. Though I answered ads that were offering a position for a microbiologist, after a certain time, a negative answer would come. My friend Frantisek, who as a journalist had access to cadre materials, revealed to me the reason for my failure.

The head doctor at the Motol hospital helped me, by arranging for me to start working at Motol as a lab technician. And when the director changed, I was able to transfer to a microbiologist's position. I got a raise, and was even promised my salary would be matched three months back, but then the currency reform arrived 13 and nothing was remained of the money. Despite that, I've got to admit that poverty bothered me much less than relationships in our marriage.

One day, when I was once again taking the unheated streetcar to Motol, to work, I began daydreaming. Then I woke up and was truly horrified, when I realized what I'd been dreaming about: that World War III had broken out, that they'd drafted Hanus into the army, and I - had felt relieved! It terrified me that I could think of something like that lightheartedly, but on the other hand I forced myself to face the truth. I had to ask myself the hardest and most painful question of all: How is it possible that I don't love him any more? Up until then, I'd believed that love was eternal, that it never dies. It was actually only later that I realized that human love is a feeling, and that it's subject to change, as opposed to God's pure love, which is a state, and nothing can shake it. Slowly I began to realize that during eight years of marriage, my husband through his jealousy had managed to achieve that I no longer felt anything towards him.

Anyways, when things came to a head in our relationship and I couldn't provide a calm, happy and safe home for our children, I decided to leave. Our friends and later also lawyers advised me to try to preserve the marriage at any cost, and I remember courteously answering them, that I'd be glad to follow their advice as to how I should do my hair or how long my skirt should be, but I asked them to not try and influence me in such an important life decision.

Then the long journey of our divorce proceedings began. I had to go degradingly to the Ministry of Health and there ask for them to transfer me somewhere where I'd at least get one room for the children and me. So I was transferred to the Soviet sanatorium in Karlovy Vary 14. I'll mention just two experiences from there: for one a recollection of a man who spoke relatively openly about the conditions that existed in the Soviet Union, and was amazed as to why we wanted to outdo our big brother in everything, which was our motto, when for example our social facilities, from nursery schools to hospitals, were at a much better level than the Soviet ones. He was Maestro Mravinskij, a great conductor, and a great, brave person.

Another memory is of a decree, according to which when a patient was leaving, we had to count more blood cells and hemoglobin in his blood test than he had when he arrived. You see, the truth wasn't very popular with Communists. At Marxist-Leninist night school, which was mandatory for university students, they even taught us the heretic thesis that the truth changes with conditions and over time.

The divorce proceedings went on for an unbelievable seven long years, and I think that the saddest part of it was the fight over our children. Once again, the Communist Party 15 and its ideology had a part to play in it. Both Hanus and his mother were Communists, and after the wedding they'd decided to give me an ideological education as well. Up till then I'd never even had the slightest brush with politics, but because I'd come across class discrimination two or three times in British society, I agreed and submitted an application to the Communist Party. During my two years of candidacy, they were hard at work persuading me to end my membership in the Jewish religious community. If, as they claim, there's no God, why be in some group like that? But I, for my part, wasn't about to do that, especially because of solidarity with dozens of friends and relatives who'd died as victims of Nazism, back then not even so much because of some strong belief in God. I believed in Love, which leads and teaches us all our lives, but back then I didn't yet call it God.

I don't even know for what reason, but after two years of candidacy, the comrades swallowed my being Jewish and accepted me into the Party. I have my membership to thank for the fact that my children were with me those entire seven years when we were getting divorced. Otherwise they would probably have been taken away from me earlier. This way, they weren't taken away until we moved to Usti nad Labem, where I began working at the virology department of the local Regional Hygiene Station. My former husband and mother-in-law had managed to convince the court to grant them custody. The reason given was that while their paternal grandmother was a party member, and thus being in contact with her was commendable, their maternal grandmother wasn't in the Party, and it was thus necessary to avoid contact with her.

My children

Then that wild merry-go-round began, where I wasn't willing to give up my children at any cost, and where my ex-husband and his mother didn't intend to back down either. Alas, I went from court to court, and always lost. I appealed all the way to the Supreme Court, and the civil servant that met me at the security desk got into the paternoster lift with me, and we rode it round and round. It seemed strange to me that we weren't getting off but he then began talking: 'Look, madam, you love your children, and I love my children, too. That's why I'll tell you something, and will trust you to keep it between the two of us. I've studied your file, and it's clear to me that the decision is unjust, and their being taken out of your custody is groundless. But what I'd like to tell you is that you can't win this battle. This is because your opponent is the secret police 16.' Then I realized that this was something he couldn't tell me in his office - it would definitely have been heavily bugged.

Despite everything, the children were still with me, from time to time a lady from the children's welfare department would visit us and have a talk with them; she'd ask them where they wanted to be, and they always said that they wanted to be with me, and so for a while there'd be peace. Until one day, when a lady from the social welfare department called me at work, and in an agitated voice told me that my husband, armed with a copy of the court decision and with the assistance of his mother and two SNB officers 17, had picked up the kids from school and taken them away somewhere. There'd been a big commotion at the school because of it, because Petr's father had dragged him by force down the stairs, with little Hanicka walking behind them, meek as a lamb, with tears streaming down her face.

My children were in Prague and I remained in Usti with my great pain and justified worries about them. Not even ten days had gone by, when Petr ran away from Prague and returned to Usti. He apologized that he hadn't been able to take Hana with him for fear that his escape would be given away, but gallantly offered to go get her. I could well imagine how sad Hanicka must have been alone in Prague, and so I set out to her school. But I didn't find her at school; her father had hidden here away somewhere. Now my small, brave daughter decided to act. She took out of her piggy bank exactly as much money as she'd need for a half-price ticket from Prague to Usti, and got home without any problems.

So the children actually decided for themselves that they could stay with me. Because after that the street committee took things in hand. This was a local citizen's organization, which officially under the aegis of, in reality under the command of the Communist Party, was responsible for local civil matters and supervised the behavior of citizens in a given area and definitively decided that the children would stay with me.

As I've already mentioned, at first I worked as a lab technician, then as a science PhD at the autopsy department of Motol Hospital in Prague. In Karlovy Vary I worked for a year doing biochemistry at the Imperial sanatorium, and from there I went to become the head of the virology department of the Regional Hygiene & Epidemiology Station in Usti nad Labem. Back then, we were testing a polio vaccine. That was a big breakthrough in immunology back then, and for us it was an exciting project. Two American doctors had found a way to save thousands of children from death or lifelong paralysis, and needed to test this new vaccine.

Under socialism, our health care system was highly organized. Each child had to be registered, and had a record at the children's health center. Preventive vaccination was mandatory for everyone, and the law was that whoever didn't show up with their child for vaccination after receiving a written request, was to be summoned to see the police.

That was exactly what was needed for this project. Dr. Salk, the American doctor who'd developed the vaccine with his colleague Dr. Sabin, even came to Czechoslovakia to personally sign the appropriate agreement. The vaccine was given orally, and our virology laboratories were performing thousands of tests on children's stools for the presence of the weakened virus at various intervals after its administration. There was a lot of work involved, but the whole project was successful, and showed itself to be a major blessing for millions of children and their parents. Thanks to it, one of the most feared childhood diseases simply disappeared from the world.

I really enjoyed my work there, even though I've got to admit that I would've enjoyed it more if the absurdity of socialist management hadn't been so evident in it. At that time the activity and power of the party organization at our institute was at its zenith. Whatever its functionaries wanted, and of course whatever those higher up in the Party hierarchy wanted, had to be unanimously agreed to and performed. So once when a decree came that one of our young colleagues, who'd I'd come to know as a good and hard-working person, was to be thrown out of the institute for political reasons, I was the only one who defied the principles of so- called democratic party centralism, that is, the fact that the minority obeys the majority, and voted against his expulsion.

Another of my conflicts with the system came when I refused to vote for one candidate in elections to the party committee; but the climax of our mutual clashes didn't take place until a young lady doctor started working there as a hygienist. The faculty of hygienic medicine had been founded in socialist times, and gave Communists and their sympathizers an easier opportunity to get a university degree. This lady doctor soon began to act like the department head, and when I caught her taking a sterile syringe out of water where it had been boiling for a half hour with her un-sterile fingers, I knew that I had no intention of staying there. But where to go next? In Usti there was only one remaining choice for me: the regional lab for cultivation of mycobacteria, located at a detached hospital for lung and respiratory illnesses on Bukov Hill.

By coincidence, this very hospital was co-founded during the time of the First Republic by my beloved Uncle Hugo, my father's brother, who headed it until 1939, when he immigrated to Norway. When I asked the director whether they didn't need a microbiologist, he took me on immediately, and so I started there in 1959, and didn't leave until the day before my 55th birthday, when as a mother of two children, I was eligible for retirement.

Besides routine cultivation, isolation, tests for sensitivity to anti- tuberculosis substances and classification of various types of mycobacteria, there was also time for various experiments and research. Most of them were related to shortening incubation time. Mycobacteria grow much more slowly than other microbes; they need three to six, sometimes even nine weeks before they form colonies on substrates rich in egg protein and other nutrients. Once I heard one German professor say that mycobacteria must exude special volatile essences, vibrations or something that helps form beautiful relationships among people. Perhaps that's also the case, but definitely that slow growth of theirs plays a role.

Work and working conditions in this field were calm. No one was rushing to be the first to come up with some earth-shaking discovery. Everyone tried to share their scientific knowledge with their colleagues in a spirit of friendly collaboration. The relations in this field of medicine were really a rare exception in today's egocentric world.

Somewhere in the Five Books of Moses, I once found mention of the fact that the Lord spoke to him not only when awake, but also when he was asleep. Dreams played an important role in my life. When thanks to my English brother Russell Cleaver I got to know the work of Carl Jung and his teachings on dreams, I began recording them faithfully. Since that time, dreams have taught me and showed me the way. [Jung, Carl (1875-1961): Swiss psychiatrist, influential thinker, and founder of analytic psychology.]

Once at an opening of a show of children's drawings, I met a young violinist with guileless blue eyes, Milan Hala, and I fell in love with him. Milan was a Christian and steered me towards reading the New Testament; up till then I'd only read the Old. I began reading, and my heart melted. Here was the gospel of love expressed in the most moving picture of the embodiment of love itself, that of the gentle Nazarene. But soon I stood before a serious problem: Could I, as a Jewess, accept something like that? Wouldn't it be a character flaw, to be so enthused by Christianity the moment I fell in love with a Christian?

Right during that time I had a dream. I was at a concert, where Jews and Christians were sitting separately. I was among the Jews. But my neighbors were making so much noise that I couldn't hear the music at all, much less take it in. And then my Uncle Hugo came along, took me by the hand and sat me down amongst the Christians. Milan and I were married the day before my birthday in 1965. Milan was an angel, literally and to the letter, and my children accepted him readily. We spent a beautiful 41 years together. He died this last summer; we were together in the forest, picking mushrooms, and I'd just said: 'it's beautiful here' and suddenly I heard this thud. Milan was dead. Few are granted such a beautiful death, and I'm glad that Milan was one of them.

After the famous Prague Spring 18, after the entry of allied tanks onto our territory on 21st August 1968 19 and after the occupation of our country by the Soviet army, after Mr. Alexandr Dubcek 20 was forced to abdicate, all state employees were faced with tragicomic torture in the form of so-called political screening. I'm choosing the word 'tragicomic' because when I look back today, it seems to me to have been an unbelievably stupid farce, that every citizen of an occupied country was to answer the same main question, whether he agreed with the arrival of the troops. But it wasn't only a comical, nonsensical game. It was a tragedy, because almost all employees lied out of fear for losing their jobs and being persecuted, and thus actually confirmed the occupants' right to perpetrate the blatant injustice under which we all lamented.

I think that the screenings began shortly after the first anniversary of 21st August, when a large majority of the nation went to work that day in black, as a sign of mourning and protest. The Communists must have been beside themselves with rage, but they couldn't pillory us, because they couldn't object to the wearing of black or to walking. Besides, at that time there were many of us that went like this - hundreds and hundreds of citizens in every town. Which is probably why those in high places thought up the screening, to keep people afraid. Every employee had to come in front of the commission and answer that nonsensical, feared question about the entry of the troops, or brotherly assistance, which was the official terminology for the Russian occupation. Most people answered yes and signed a supplementary evaluation for their cadre materials, upon which they could leave the room and remained in their job positions.

When it was my turn, our director, who meant well, read me my evaluation and asked me whether I was willing to sign it. The first sentence read: 'Comrade Dr. R. H. agreed with the Party's politics both before August as well as with the Party's policies after 1968.' At first I thought that he was joking, and began laughing. It wasn't a joke, and finally I ended up in tears. When I told him that I can't sign something that doesn't make sense, and what's more isn't true, the director grew angry and asked me that feared question, which perhaps he had wanted to avoid with that formulation, because he was well aware of my opinions.

We were actually quite good friends, because he loved his boxer and I my poodles, and during the time of the thaw under Dubcek, we'd talked together quite openly several times while walking our dogs. I answered that I didn't agree with the entry of the troops. I asked whether the goal of this torment was letting some people go from work. The director answered that no, but when he read the final version of my evaluation, the last sentence said: 'We recommend that our comrade remain in her position she has held until now.'

So I can't help but note that my assumption was correct. The atmosphere grew tense. I told him: 'If you don't need me here, tell me, and I'll go work someplace else.' That was too much for him, and he shot back: 'You can be sure that with the evaluation you'd leave here with, you wouldn't get a job just like that somewhere.' By then I was in tears, but I asked him one more thing, why was he tormenting people like this, whether someone wasn't forcing him? That after all, I knew that a year ago his thinking had been quite normal. In front of all the members of that sad tribunal, the director had been forced to say that he'd been mistaken back then.

This moment of truth cost me a lot of money. Not only that I didn't get a raise when the long-promised and awaited wage reform in the health care sector was implemented, but I also lost my premiums, including the so- called 'funeral allowance' for working in the region with the worst air pollution in the whole country. But for my conscience it meant a huge relief. I left the Party during the time of Israel's conflicts with its neighbors. At a party meeting, someone addressed this issue in a report, and during the discussion that followed, our ambulance medic, Bohousek, a Russian by origin and still an illiterate, proclaimed that it was after all common knowledge that Jews are like rats leaving a sinking ship. All eyes turned to me, and I turned red from head to toe. I sat there stunned, and waited for someone to say something. No one said even a word. I took advantage of this incident to rid myself of a yoke that had long weighed on me.

I think that the Communists harassed me the most because of another thing related to the occupation of Czechoslovakia, this being that my son Petr had decided to emigrate right afterwards. So they once again summoned me to be interrogated, and tried to get me to say that he'd escaped because of the occupation. I started crying there - can you imagine what it's like when your child runs away, you don't know anything about him, and on top of that they torture you like this. I kept repeating that I didn't know why he'd escaped, that he hadn't let me in on his plans, which was also true, but they were adamant.

After several hours, I said to the person that was interrogating me: 'Excuse me, permit me to ask one question. Do you have children?' He said yes. I asked him: 'Can you imagine your son escaping. You don't know anything about him, you can't help him, you don't know what's happening to him out there in the world, so why are you torturing me because of it here? Is it of some use to you, or what?' So he then let me go, but it was really horrible.

Petr went to Canada, and I went there to see him in 1975, when he was graduating. It wasn't my first trip to the West, but it's true that such trips were few and far between. Actually, the first time I went abroad was in 1963. Beforehand, however, people from the secret police were coming to see me, saying that I must certainly have many friends in the West, and if I'll work for them [the secret police], I'll be able to go visit without any problems. I played dumb, that I wasn't capable, that I didn't even remember whom all I knew there... Then they came again when I was getting divorced, and at that time I argued that I wasn't after all going to go traveling when my children were being taken away from me.

So the first time I got to England after the war was in 1963, when a friend of mine from the ROH 21, a decent person, arranged an internship for me there. Upon my return, I had to write a report on my trip, and say which emigrants I'd met with, and what we did. So of course, I wrote up five copies of the report, but everything was only about laboratory methods that I'd learned there. I argued that the entire time I'd worked and worked, that I'd been shut up in a lab, and so didn't have time for anything else. I'd of course made use of the trip to meet up with my old friends, but after all that wasn't something I was going to tell them. One more thing about relations with investigators: I found out that when you find some sort of human connection with even the biggest snoop, you'll be able to come to some sort of agreement.

Actually, the way I got to go see Petr in Canada is also very interesting. In this I had help from my faithful canine friends, concretely poodles, that I was breeding. The puppies that they had were simply irresistible. We gave one of them to a friend of ours that worked for the passport and visa department, and soon the powerful department head himself developed a strong desire for a puppy like that, too. Because I used to go give Bobik regular haircuts, too, he really did help make my trip abroad possible. But I had to promise that I wouldn't tell anyone that it was through doggie acquaintances.

When I wanted to go visit my family in Israel in 1989, nothing similar helped me. I was retired, so if I'd emigrated the state would have only saved money on my pension, but the comrades dug in their heels and didn't want to give me permission to leave. They did offer me that I could meet my relatives in Romania, which was purportedly how other Czechoslovak Jews did it, but this solution was on the other hand not satisfactory to me.

This is why I sent a letter from Dresden to my cousin Yakov in Israel, for him to send my promised plane ticket and money to the Israeli consulate in Vienna, and mainly for him to not mention anything in letters written to me at home. Because I knew that the comrades were reading my mail. Some letters didn't arrive at all; other mail from abroad came regularly every Tuesday. My plans finally succeeded, and I traveled to the Holy Land in the spring before the revolution 22, in 1989.

The country thrilled me. In the beginning I was afraid of what sort of an effect it was going to have on me, so many Jews in one place, but the atmosphere there was excellent, this... participation. I had the feeling that the people there needed to be a part of the lives of others, everything interested them... For example, I'd just sat down in the bus, and already everyone was asking what I'd done during the war, what I'd experienced, which was beautiful. Also, when I was walking around, for the first time I felt truly free.

Alas, I've got to say that with every subsequent visit I felt that the situation there was getting worse. When I last visited my cousin, who lives in the north, an atmosphere full of fear, stress and hate weighed on me. Cars with loudspeakers were driving around and announcing that we should go into shelters.... it didn't at all leave a good impression on me. I've got to say that now I feel freer in India than in Israel.

And what's my opinion of Israel? I'm not a politician, and I can just state my subjective impressions. It's a beautiful country, full of holy light, but over which they'll keep arguing until they realize that all humanity is one family, and that we people have to share things. As to why I didn't emigrate there? When I returned home from England after the war, I was glad to be home and had no thoughts of another emigration. My cousins live in Israel, along with their large families; their names are Hanicka and Fricek, who calls himself Yakov after Grandpa Jakub.

Retirement

I retired the day before my 55th birthday, with great joy. I enjoyed my work, but my health wasn't the best, and I've also got to say that work was continually sadder and sadder. While in the post-war years tuberculosis was very widespread in our population, gradually the percentage of patients with it declined, and the percentage of those that had lung cancer grew.

Cancer is a much more dangerous enemy than tuberculosis. During my entire career, the best result we achieved in the treatment of cancer was survival for five years of 25 percent of patients operated upon. It's very difficult to diagnostically distinguish between carcinoma and tuberculosis, and often an exact diagnosis is impossible until you open up the chest. By chance, it was I that was given the responsibility for these diagnoses. It was extremely demanding work, and I was always very afraid that I'd hurt a patient through some mistake of mine.

But mainly it was extraordinarily sad work. The air quality in northern Bohemia definitely also had an influence on how rapidly the number of cancerous tumors was increasing. It was actually a written-off region. When you drove from Prague and were nearing Lovosice, you could already see this orange cloud above the city. The inhabitants used to get certain premiums for having to live there, but that three hundred a month for ruined health was ludicrous. What's more, this 'funeral money' was taken away from me after I disagreed with the entry of the occupational troops. [Editor's note: the last setting of the gold content of the crown took place with Act. No. 41/1953 on currency reform, when the gold content of the crown was set (unrealistically and outside of any wider context) to 0.123426 g of pure gold, which remained so until the end of the 1980s. ]

So as soon as it was possible, I left northern Bohemia and returned to my home region, to southern Bohemia. It's unbelievable, but I've already been retired the same amount of time as I spent working. At least I see how relative time is. The first 30 years dragged on in an unbelievable fashion, and these ones have gone by so fast that I don't even want to believe it. We got ourselves our miniature dachshund Cliff, and I used to take him for walks every day; here we'd pick herbs, there pine cones for heating...

When we lived in Budejovice, I among other things occupied myself with teaching English at the local Faculty of Education, and guiding tourists around town. Amongst the first guests that I was privileged to tour around was the Danish queen Margarethe II.

During retirement I also started painting. Up till then I thought that I don't know how, but one day my friend, the painter Jan Cihla, brought me an article by Winston Churchill, where it said that whoever hasn't tried to paint during his lifetime, has lost out on a lot. That all you need is a brush, paper, paint, and a good dose of courage. Winston Churchill was always a big authority for me, and to this day I claim that it was he who won the war for us, and so I started painting.

In amateur painting everything is allowed. At first I slavishly followed the subject, but then I found out that it after all doesn't have to exactly the same. Mainly the overall harmony can't be disturbed. There's harmony in the universe, in nature, and its disturbance is a big mistake. This criterion is also decisive for me in deciding what is kitsch and what isn't. When I look out the window and see blue sky, in it white clouds, in front of the house a pond with a swan, everyone would say that that's kitsch. But it's actually this Ladaesque harmony. [Lada, Josef (1887-1957): Czech painter, best known as illustrator of Jaroslav Hasek's World War I novel 'The Good Soldier Schweik.' Lada produced landscapes, created frescoes and designed costumes for plays and films. Over the years he created a series of paintings and drawings depicting traditional Czech occupations and situations.]

This is why painting is so beneficial, that a person learns to concentrate, and is forced to look at the world in such a way as to be able to pass on his point of view. I found out that every dot, line and free space is terribly important. That's also how I imagine the mosaic of our life; one could say that I've got this notion of a God that sits there and is putting a puzzle together. Each one of us is unique, has his own shape, his color and place in the world that belongs to him and him alone.

Today I know that all the joys and pains, all the successes and failures that life prepared for me were lessons from which I'm to draw lessons, that everything that once came to be must also disappear, and that there's not only the external world, in which this drama takes place, but also the internal one, the world of our unborn and immortal soul. Everything I lived through in my life was preparation for the commencement of searching for the truth about my soul, or a so-called spiritual journey.

Already at the age of 17, I was pondering on the purpose of life. Back then I wrote in my diary that I think that it's probably: 'To be happy and help others be happy.' When I was 37 and my children no longer needed to have their noses blown and behinds washed, I felt the need to stop that merry-go- round of everyday life, to ponder about things, and widen my earlier credo, which still counts for me. I asked myself questions that humanity has been asking itself since ancient times: 'Why am I here, what is the purpose of my life? Where have I come from, and where am I headed?' That was in 1963, and back then I was allowed to travel to England for the first time since 1945.

I threw myself on for us forbidden and thus inaccessible literature, and with the help of books by Carl Jung began my search for the Truth. For five full years I regularly recorded my dreams and contemplated them. I learned to sort through them and recognize which events originated in my subconscious, which means from unfulfilled desires or from strong, not yet processed experiences, and which ones come from somewhere up above, from some heavenly teacher or advisor. As soon as a person turns his attention inwards, further help is at hand.

In 1965, soon after my second wedding, I met my first spiritual teacher through my husband. He was a man with a big and loving heart, and until his departure from this world in 1994, thus for almost a whole 30 years, we exchanged countless letters and visited each other regularly. Besides exchanging many questions and answers, we also sat together in silence every time. We didn't call it meditation, but silence. Not until this teacher of mine 'preceded us,' did the teacher of all teachers let himself be known to me: Sai Baba, the incarnation of God walking among us in Puttaparthi, a small village in the south of India, where he was born. [Sathya Sai Baba: born Sathyanarayana Raju in 1926; a South Indian guru and religious leader.]

For ten years already, I've been translating his words from English to Czech, and I regularly go to India to see him, to 'be silent' in his ashram.For me Sai Baba is God incarnate. He came to teach and lead us, to remind us of who we are, and to console us. He teaches us that we aren't a body, but clean, unselfish love and clear consciousness, an eternal and immortal soul - the spark of Godliness.

Glossary

Ruth Hálová
Holubov
Česká republika
Rozhovor pořídila: Lenka Kopřivová
Období vzniku rozhovoru: červenec 2006 – březen 2007

Paní Rúth Hálová pochází z nádherného jihočeského města Český Krumlov. Ačkoli  velkou část života žila a pracovala někde jinde, po odchodu do důchodu se sem vrátila a já jsem ji navštívila v Holubově, malé obci rozložené v náruči kopců Českého lesa. Už cestou k ní jsem si říkala, že tak krásné lesy, jaké mají tady, jsem nikde jinde neviděla. A po setkání s paní Hálovou jsem přesvědčena, že tak krásného a milého člověka, jako je ona, jsem nikdy jindy nepotkala. Jak se sama zmiňuje, už od malička byla fascinována darem života - ten její byl zachráněn Nicholasem Wintonem, který jí a její sestře umožnil ještě před válkou odjezd do anglického exilu. Sice už je to nějaká doba, co oslavila své osmdesáté narozeniny, díky její vitalitě by jí ale takový věk nikdo nehádal. Paní Hálová je členkou plzeňské židovské obce a mimo jiné se velice angažovala za záchranu synagogy ve svém rodišti, Českém Krumlově.

Rodina
Dětství
Za války - pobyt v Anglii
Po válce
Glosář

Rodina

Život je největším z darů, které Bůh člověku uštědřil, a největším zázrakem je skutečnost, že život každého jsoucna ve vesmíru je jedinečný a neopakovatelný. V tomto svém životě jsem měla to štěstí, že mi byl darován dvakrát, a proto jsem byla požádána, abych vyprávěla, co si z něho pamatuji.

Pocházím z Českého Krumlova, kde jsem se roku 1926 narodila rodičům Leopoldu a Zdeňce Adlerovým jako jejich druhé dítě – moje sestra Eva se narodila o pět let dříve. Bohužel krátce poté, co jsem přišla na svět já, ho tatínek opustil – za první světové války byl legionářem a se svou jednotkou putoval Sibiří. Při překonávání jedné mohutné řeky tatínek odmítl nechat se převézt na lodi – ač by jako důstojník na to měl právo, ale rozhodl se přeplavat ji se svými vojáky. Stalo se mu to osudným, onemocněl a když mi bylo deset měsíců, zemřel. Aby nás maminka uživila, pracovala ve Spirově továrně jako sekretářka, a proto se o domácnost starala její matka, naše obětavá babička Marie Kohnová.

Babička Marie pocházela z Kostelce nedaleko Hluboké, kde její rodina hospodařila na statku. Když se provdala, žila se svým mužem v Protivíně a společně provozovali koloniál, narodily se jim tady také jejich dvě dcery, moje maminka Zdeňka a teta Olga.  Zatímco tato část mé rodiny byli Židé mluvící česky, tatínkovým mateřským jazykem byla němčina. Jeho maminka [Josefa Adlerová] pocházela ze Soběslavi, dědeček [Jakub Adler] odněkud z česko-rakouského pomezí. Jednoho dne se objevil, prodával maďarskou mouku a seznámil se s babičkou. Adlerovi pak žili v [Českých] Budějovicích a dá se říct, že to byla úřednická rodina. Ve stejném roce, kdy jsem se já narodila, tedy roku 1926, dědeček zemřel. Byla to vlastně budějovická babička, kdo pak držel celou rodinu pohromadě, na všechny židovské oslavy jsme se scházeli u ní. Babička vařila, pekla, obsluhovala, to byla ve svém živlu. Živila se tím, že prodávala pro nějakou švýcarskou firmu sýry značky Tygr. Chodívala jsem s ní v Budějovicích nakupovat a všude ji znali. Byla to taková známá, krásná, rozšafná paní. V židovské obci patřila k těm, co zaopatřují mrtvoly [Chevra Kadiša: aramejský termín označující dobrovolnou skupinu či spolek, který provádí poslední obřady a dohlíží na pořádání pohřbů – pozn. red.].

Tatínek pocházel z pěti sourozenců. Nejstarší byl strýček Max, profesor latiny a řečtiny nejprve na dívčím gymnáziu, potom na pražské německé univerzitě. Druhá byla teta Ida, tu jsem obzvlášť milovala. Provdala se do rakouského Linze, který leží asi 60 kilometrů od Krumlova, a já vždy toužila jezdit za ní, za strýcem Richardem a bratrancem Frickem na návštěvu. O to vroucněji, když jsem se dozvěděla, že jejich dobří známí chovají boxery – odjakživa jsem měla ráda zvířata. Bohužel, nikdy se mi to nepoštěstilo, strýček Richard mi psal a posílal pohádky o krásném modrém Dunaji, které mě měly utěšit. Útěcha to byla, ale v mých očích přeci jen slabá. Teta Ida s rodinou emigrovala ještě před válkou do Spojených států. Další tatínkův bratr se jmenoval Arthur a díky němu a jeho ženě Martě se moji rodiče vlastně seznámili. Teta Marta totiž byla po prvním manželství vdova, kromě dvou synů Franty a Karla ještě po svém muži zdědila starost o budějovickou továrnu na čokoládu, do níž maminka nastoupila jako účetní. Tatínkův nejmladší bratr Hugo byl ftizeolog a dlouhé léta řediteloval nemocnici v Ústí nad Labem, kde jsem po válce pracovala i já.

Dětství

Už odmalička jsem velice obdivovala přírodu. Mé nejranější vzpomínky se týkají stromů – ležím v kočárku a dívám se do jejich korun. Osoba, která kočárek tlačí, je moje milá babička Marie. Bohužel na to, abych doma měla nějaké zvíře, což bylo mé jediné přání ke všem narozeninám, nebyly podmínky. Při porodu svého druhého dítěte zemřela maminčina starší sestra Olga Ledererová a babička musela převzít, alespoň do doby, než se strýc Sigmund znovu oženil, starost i o její domácnost – o právě narozenou Haničku a o dva roky staršího Jeníka. Proto když prohlásila, buď zvíře nebo já, znamenalo to konec mých nadějí. Několikrát jsem se sice pokusila nějakého zvířecího nalezence domů propašovat, ale úspěch byl vždy dočasný. První zvíře jsem si mohla domů pořídit, až když jsem se podruhé provdala.

Jako malá jsem nechtěla chodit spát. Měla jsem totiž pocit, že život je příliš zajímavý na to, abych ho prospala. Ze stejného důvodu jsem později nechtěla ani číst – život je přece příliš cenný na to, abych ho promarnila čtením! Milovala jsem život a milovala jsem barvy. Velice mě trápilo pomyšlení, že někdo nevidí svět v jeho barevnosti. Pro mě totiž i každá číslice a samohláska měla svou barvu. Jednou jsem viděla na krumlovském mostě žebráka. Několik dalších nocí jsem se potom s pláčem budila ze sna – nemohla jsem snést pomyšlení na něj a na jeho smutný život. Babička s maminkou se sice snažily mě utěšit, ale nic nepomáhalo. Pak, jedné noci jsem se opět probudila a plakala pro slepého žebráka. Maminka s babičkou přispěchaly za mnou, ale já se styděla jim říct, že opět pláču pro něj. A tak jsem zalhala – řekla jsem, že pláču pro to, že nemám tatínka. Nebyla to pravda, tatínka jsem nikdy nepoznala, proto mi nemohl chybět, ze smutného výrazu jejich tváře jsem si ale hned uvědomila, jak moc je to mrzí. Zajisté se snažily dělat vše pro to, aby nám ztrátu otce nahradily. Tenkrát jsem jasně poznala, co je to lhát, a zařekla se, že už nikdy lhát nebudu.

V Českém Krumlově žilo tou dobou asi devět tisíc lidí. Polovina z toho mohli být Češi, druhá polovina německy mluvící občané Československé republiky 1. Město sice leželo v Sudetech 2, ale opravdu, až do doby, než přišel Henlein 3 a Němci začali s tím svým „Heim ins Reich“, jsme žili v poklidu. Moji kamarádi byli jak Češi, tak Němci a Židé a žádný problém v tom nikdo neviděl. Přesto strýček Max, tatínkův bratr, který se stal po smrti otce naším poručníkem, učinil moudré rozhodnutí a dal nás do německé školy. Jednak z důvodu, abychom se němčinu opravdu pořádně naučily, ale strýc také říkal, že v německých institucích je antisemitismus daleko více patrný než v českých – proto bude pro nás nejlepší, když si na něj zvykneme co nejdřív. Ukázalo se, že strýček měl pravdu, to ale až později, zpočátku jsem nic takového nepociťovala. Nastoupila jsem do německé obecné školy a zamilovala si svou učitelku, slečnu Marthu Nehybovou. Byla mladá, krásná, dlouhé černé vlasy nosila poskládané v cop na šíji. Mimo to byla také laskavá, pravdomluvná, spravedlivá a šlechetná a já myslím, že v tom prvním školním roce jsme nasály víc lidských hodnot než v několika následujících desetiletích. Martha před nedávnem zemřela, když jsem ji jednou navštívila, vzpomněla si, jak ji kdysi moje babička prosila, aby mi domluvila a já začala snídat. Babička totiž věděla, že vše, co řekne moje učitelka, bude pro mě svaté, a protože já byla hubené dítě, které se ráno tak těšilo do školy, že odmítalo snídat, informovala o tom slečnu učitelku. Martha se pak skutečně přede mnou zmínila, že snídat je dobré, já tedy snídat začala a po pár dnech se babička prý znovu objevila ve škole, aby jí poděkovala. Já o této epizodě neměla ani tušení, dozvěděla jsem se ji až nyní. Po válce byla Martha se svou rodinou odsunuta 4. Myslím, že právě takovým sudetským Němcům, jako byla ona, patřila omluva našeho bývalého prezidenta Havla 5 za odsun.

Z celkového počtu devíti tisíc obyvatel představovali členové krumlovské židovské obce nepatrný zlomek, asi jen jedno procento. Většina z nich byli zaměstnanci továrny na papír ve Větřní, jejíž majitelé, rodina Spirů, byli také Židé. Rabína jsme neměli, jezdil k nám budějovický, ale měli jsme vlastního kantora, pana Karla Krebse. Byl to milý mladý muž, který nejspíš pocházel z Maďarska, a velice se věnoval mládeži. Vyučoval nás náboženství, hrál s námi divadlo a podobně. Stavba krumlovské synagogy byla financována rodinou Spirů a myslím, že to zdaleka nebyli špatní zaměstnavatelé. Kromě toho, že postavili synagogu, založili také krumlovský židovský hřbitov a křesťanský kostel ve Větřní. My bydleli v jednom nájemním domě, patřícím do vlastnictví továrny. Dům byl rozdělen na pět bytů a pamatuji si, že jsme měli dokonce subvencovánu elektřinu. Platilo to pouze pro tu ze zásuvek, proto se u nás většinou svítilo stolními lampami a světla jsme zapínali velice zřídka. Až teprve nyní, s odstupem si uvědomuji, jak těžké to pro babičku muselo být, aby z maminčina skromného platu dokázala hospodařit v čtyřčlenné domácnosti. Já vlastně měla takové normální, šťastné dětství. Musím říci, že až do té doby, než Němci začali s těmi svými Turnvereiny 6 a začali proti nám štvát, plynul náš život v nerušeném poklidu. V létě jsme chodili na plovárnu, v zimě jsme bruslili a sáňkovali. 

Jednoho podzimního dne roku 1938 jsem jako vždy šla do školy. Vstoupila jsem do třídy, posadila se a začala si vybalovat z aktovky věci. Moji spolužáci ale začali skandovat heslo „Juden raus!“, „Židé ven!“, tak jsem si věci zase pěkně naskládala do aktovky a s mým židovským kamarádem Leem jsme třídu opustili. Byli jsme jediní dva Židé ve třídě. Pamatuji si, jak jsem mu před školou řekla: „Nejhorší na tom je, že teď už zůstaneme navždy hloupí, s žádným dalším vzděláním už nemůžeme počítat.“ Já byla v sekundě, když jsem byla ze školy vypuzena. Má sestra to měla ještě horší, studovala v maturitním ročníku. Několik následujících dnů jsme strávily doma a nemohly jsme vyjít ani na ulici – venku pochodovala německá mládež, Hitlerjugend 7, a slušného člověka byste na ulici nepotkal. Moje odvážná maminka však dále chodila do práce. Jednoho dne, ještě na začátku září, se vrátila s tím, že si máme sbalit to nejnutnější, protože v Krumlově už dál zůstat nemůžeme. Objednala taxi a poslala nás do Protivína, svého rodiště a města severně od hranice Sudet. Sama v Krumlově ještě zůstala s tím, že se pokusí zabalit naši domácnost. Je to zvláštní, ale musím se přiznat, že jsem o ni strach neměla. Dítě si asi plně neuvědomuje, jak moc může být situace nebezpečná, navíc jsem byla přesvědčena, že maminka si poradí se vším. Poradila si, navíc ji Spirovi, když opouštěli svou továrnu a stěhovali se do Prahy, nabídli místo pracovat několik hodin denně jako společnice staré paní Spirové. Maminka práci samozřejmě přijala, našla v Praze pro nás nějaké bydlení a my se z Protivína přestěhovali za ní do Prahy. Pár dní nato se náš domov stal součástí německé říše – Československo bylo donuceno přijmout potupnou dohodu a vzdát se svého pohraničí. Dodnes si vzpomínám na slzy v očích vojáků, kteří sice byli mobilizováni 8, ale vzápětí zase odvoláni a příležitost hájit svou vlast nedostali.

V Praze jsem znovu začala chodit do školy, kdežto má sestra už ve studiu nepokračovala. Místo toho se šla učit vařit a péct cukroví. Navštěvovala jsem školu na náměstí Krále Jiřího z Poděbrad, je to taková velká budova a dodnes se v ní učí. Jenže za nedlouho byla moje školní docházka opět přerušena – patnáctého března 1939 se na vratech školy objevil nápis, že až do odvolání se výuka nekoná. Přijeli Němci, Československo bylo okupováno. Byl chladný, šedivý den a německé tanky kreslily černé čáry na zasněžených pražských ulicích.

Postupem času se maminčina tvář stávala vážnější a vážnější. Nevím kde, ale někde se jí podařilo zjistit, že kdosi pomáhá židovským dětem dostat se do náhradních rodin v Anglii. A tak mě a sestru maminka vzala do kanceláře ve Voršilské ulici na registraci, potom jsme vystály dlouhatánskou frontu na pas a poslední červnový den jsem odjížděla z Wilsonova nádraží vstříc neznámému osudu. Měla jsem to štěstí, že jedna anglická rodina se rozhodla se mne ujmout. Mé sestře se rovněž podařilo do Anglie se dostat, jela v dalším transportu. V tom posledním, který Československo opustil. 

Za války - pobyt v Anglii

Maminka mi nemusela před cestou nic moc vysvětlovat. Byla jsem přece už velká a věděla jsem, že situace je vážná. Rovněž cestou ve vlaku jsem cítila, že ve svých třinácti letech patřím k starším účastníkům transportu, a proto bych měla pomáhat v péči o mladší děti – ty dvě ženy, kterým Němci povolili jet s námi, nemohly na dvě stě padesát dětí vystačit. V kupé, kde jsem seděla, jelo i jedno batole. Jeho maminka nám ještě před odjezdem strčila do okna láhev s mlékem pro něj. Vzala jsem ji, postavila na lavici, jenže když se vlak rozjel, láhev se převrhla a mléko se vylilo. Zbytek cesty jsme pak to malé krmili čokoládami, kterými jsme všichni byli na cestu vybaveni. Když jsme přejížděli německé hranice, hrozně dlouhou dobu jsme na nich stáli. Čekání se nám zdálo být nekonečné a zmocňoval se nás strach. Po nádraží chodily německé uniformy a my z výrazu tváří dospělých a úryvků hovoru pochopili, že jakési důležité dokumenty nejsou v pořádku, nebo snad dokonce chybí. Vše se nějak vysvětlilo, vlak se dal opět do pohybu a po dlouhých, nekonečných hodinách jsme přijeli do přístavu Hoek van Holland [Hook of Holland]. Nalodili jsme se na loď a když jsem vylezla na vrchní palandu lodní kabiny, měla jsem hrozný strach, že s ní ve spánku spadnu. 1. července jsme dorazili do Londýna. Shodou okolností to bylo v den narozenin mé maminky. Než si nás náhradní rodiče rozebrali, seděli jsme ve velké, zelené místnosti, snad tělocvičně. Kolem krku jsme měli cedulky se jménem a jasně si vzpomínám na svůj pocit ani ne tak smutku nebo nějaké tragédie, ale naprosté bezmoci. Tak si asi musejí připadat telata, když jsou oddělena od výživy a ochrany svých matek, předána do lidských rukou a vydána na milost lidským bytostem, říkala jsem si. Mých dětských kamarádů ubývalo a ubývalo, odcházeli se svými novými rodiči do nových náhradních domovů, až nakonec v celé velké místnosti zbylo nás několik, pro něž si nikdo nepřišel. Dovedete si představit, jak nám, malým poutníkům sedícím na svých kufrech, bylo úzko.

Ještě doma, v Československu, jsem dostala dopis od manželů, u nichž jsem měla bydlet. Věděla jsem tedy, že budu bydlet v Birminghamu u manželů Jonesových. Bohužel se jim nepodařilo si mě v Londýně vyzvednout, tak k nám přišel mladý muž a řekl: „Pojďte mládeži, já vás dovedu k vlaku a vaše rodiny si vás vyzvednou v Birminghamu.“ Až po letech, když jsem se s ním znovu setkala a věděla, o koho se jedná, jsem si uvědomila, že tento mladík byl Nicky Winton 9.

Jonesovi byli velmi milý, starší manželský pár. Bydleli na předměstí Birminghamu, kde provozovali trafiku spojenou s prodejem sladkostí všeho druhu a zmrzliny. Teta a strýc, jak jsem je oslovovala, byli ke mně velice laskaví a dostávala jsem od nich tolik zmrzliny, kolik jsem chtěla. Další mojí útěchou bylo, že Jonesovi měli doma fenku vlčáka Peggy. S ní jsem mohla mluvit česky a ona jediná mi rozuměla, když všichni ostatní ne. I když jsem se totiž před odjezdem nějaké základy angličtiny učila, přeci jen mé znalosti zdaleka nepostačovaly.  A tak já jsem vůbec nerozuměla Angličanům a oni nerozuměli mně. Když si Jonesovi všimli, jakou náklonnost chovám vůči Peggy, náš domácí zvěřinec se ještě rozrostl: přibyla kočička a andulka. Dalším člověkem, který se snažil sžívání s novým prostředím co nejvíce ulehčit, byl řeznický pomocník z vedlejšího krámu. Věkově jsme byli přibližně stejně staří a on, vždy, když si všiml mých slz, mě posadil na vozík své tříkolky mezi klobásy a maso a vozil mě po okolí. Byl to také můj první učitel angličtiny, a má angličtina se brzy začala podobat jeho. Problém byl v tom, že měl silný birminghamský přízvuk, o čemž jsem samozřejmě nevěděla, takže styl mé mluvy musel drásat citlivé uši.

Ve škole se mi líbilo a rychle jsem se se svými spolužačkami spřátelila. Mé anglické okolí se tedy ke mně chovalo velice mile a všemožně se snažilo pomoci mi zvyknout si na nové prostředí. Přesto jsem s tím měla velké problémy. Měla jsem problémy zvyknout si na Anglii a po návratu zvyknout si znovu na Československo. V Anglii mi hodně vadilo, že se klade větší důraz na formu než na obsah. Všichni říkají „sorry“, ale přitom jim to vůbec není líto. Také věta: „Tohle se nedělá,“   „That´s not done“ mě vždy velice rozčilovala a nemohla jsem si na ni zvyknout.

Když se chýlil ke konci můj první školní rok v Anglii, chýlila se ke konci také má povinná školní docházka. Mělo to pro mě znamenat také konec mého dalšího vzdělání? Nechtěla jsem se smířit s tím, že po celý život už budu tak hloupá, jak jsem si tenkrát připadala. Jonesovi měli v plánu zřídit mi v jednom krámku obchůdek, v němž bych prodávala bavlnky, vlnu a hedvábí a učila lidi plést, háčkovat a vyšívat. Což o to, ruční práce jsem měla vždycky ráda, ale představa, že celý život budu jen sedět a vyšívat, případně prodávat vlnu? Naštěstí, řešení se našlo. Jonesovi by na to, aby mě vydržovali na nějaké střední škole, neměli prostředky. Prostředky dokázala obstarat paní Evelyn Sturge, vlastně to nebyla paní, ale postarší neprovdaná dáma, která nás, emigrantské děti, chodila čas od času navštěvovat a zjišťovala, jak se nám daří. Prostě jednou přijela, zeptala se, jak se daří, pak se zastavila u nás ve škole a zase odjela. Několik dní nato přišla zpráva, že se nám z Birminghamu stěhovat do Rugby a že tam budu navštěvovat střední školu!!! Je velice dojemné vzpomínat na člověka, který mi to umožnil. Cestou do Rugby jsem se stavila na výročním shromáždění kvakerů [kvaker: příslušník náboženské společnosti odmítající obřady a tradiční dogmatickou teologii – pozn. red.] v Birminghamu a slečna Sturge mě seznámila s bělovlasým pánem s kulatou laskavou tváří. Pan Albright chodil o holi, když jsme se setkali, jen mě pohladil po vlasech a řekl: „Tak Ty jsi Ruth? Vida, vida.“ Později, mnoho let po jeho smrti, mi slečna Evelyne prozradila, že to byl on, kdo moje studium umožnil. Nepřál si, abych se o tom dozvěděla, pokud bude živ. Tak krásní lidé žijí mezi námi...

V Rugby jsem bydlela u rodiny Cleaverových. Pán se jmenoval Eric, paní Phyllis a měli dvě děti, Rusella a Rosemary. Později, když už jsem odcházela, se jim narodil ještě druhý syn Markus, ještě jsem pomáhala žehlit jeho plínky. A taky u nich bydlela krásná dlouhosrstá kouřová kočka Smoky. Jenže přeci jen, starat se kromě svých dětí ještě o jedno emigrantské představovalo pro průměrnou anglickou rodinu za války zátěž. Hlady jsme sice netrpěli, ale jídlo bylo na příděl. A tak se stávalo, že se o nás, emigrantské děti, staralo více rodin a my mezi nimi pendlovaly. Bylo to tak jednou za půl roku nebo za rok, čili ne nějak extrémně často, ale přeci jen, když si konečně člověk na svůj nový domov zvykl, stěhoval se zase jinam. Já takto bydlela u Cleavrových a u Boagových. Jack Boag byl jen o patnáct let starší než já a svou ženu Isabelu si vzal krátce před tím, než jsem k nim přišla. Bydleli v překrásném bungalovu na okraji Rugby a z oken jejich jídelny byl výhled na louky a pole zralého obilí. Abychom se mohli toho krásného pohledu dosyta nabažit, sedávali jsme všichni tři z jedné strany jídelního stolu a krmili nejen tělo potravou, ale zároveň i ducha krásou.

Městečko Rugby leží nedaleko od Coventry, a tak když bylo Coventry vystaveno ničivým německým náletům, i Rugby si zažilo své. Byl to velice nepříjemný pocit, když nám nad hlavami přelétávaly německé bombardéry. Jack byl členem hasičského sboru a vždy, když byl odhoukán nálet, vzal si ochranou helmu a baterku a šel do služby. Já s Isabelou jsme se mezitím schovaly pod schody do podkroví a pletly ze škrábavé khaki vlny šály, rukavice a ponožky pro vojáky. Když bylo Coventry po několika nočních náletech téměř srovnáno se zemí, Boagovi k nám jednoho rána přivezli starší manžele z Coventry a jejich duševně nemocnou dceru, kteří přišli o střechu nad hlavou. Protože ta paní byla upoutána na lůžko, Jack s Isabelou jim dokonce přenechali svou ložnici. A tím výčet nových obyvatel našeho domu v této době nekončí. Moje sestra Eva chodila v Anglii do školy pro ošetřovatelky při ortopedické nemocnici v Birminghamu. V době náletů na Coventry vypomáhala v nemocnici v Rugby a i jí umožnili Boagovi u nás bydlet, sdílela se mnou můj malinký pokojík. Tenkrát mi tohle všechno připadalo zcela přirozené, ale když se dnes podívám zpět, cítím hluboký obdiv ke svým pěstounům, kteří mi svým postojem a jednáním ukázali téměř nedostižný příklad nesobecké služby. Rozhodně nasadili laťku mého překážkového běhu životem hodně vysoko.

Boagovi se hlásili, stejně jako slečna Sturge a pan Albright, ke kvakerům. Mimo to ale byli i metodisté, takže jsme chodili v neděli na bohoslužby jak k těm, tak k těm, a nic zvláštního na tom nebylo. S nikým z židovské společnosti jsem se nestýkala, žádná příležitost se k tomu ani nikdy nenaskytla. Vím, že Nickymu Wintonovi jacísi rabíni vyčítali, že dává židovské děti na výchovu do křesťanských rodin. Nicky jim na to odpověděl ve smyslu, jestli je jim milejší mrtvé židovské dítě než židovské dítě dané na výchovu do křesťanské rodiny, tak jemu rozhodně ne a ať dělají oni sami něco pro jeho záchranu. 

Škola, na níž jsem studovala, byla elitní Rugby High School. Líbilo se mi tu velice, jednak jsem tu měla svou milovanou přítelkyni Anne, jednak svou milovanou učitelku Connie Everetovou. Anne Heidenheimová byla se mnou na stejné lodi. Také to bylo židovské dítě, které bylo posláno do emigrace, na rozdíl ode mě však z německého města Chemnitz. Já jí říkala „Ducky“, ona mě „Dicky“. Každý den jsme se setkávaly na půli cesty do školy a pak jsme, držíc se za ruce, jely dále společně. Anna byla o rok starší než já. Moc jsem toužila být s ní ve stejném ročníku, a díky tomu, že jsme měli uznalou ředitelku naší školy, bylo mi to umožněno. Seděly jsme ve stejné lavici, půjčovaly si oblečení, dělily se o jídlo i o všechny své starosti a radosti. Connie Everettová vyučovala biologii a svou lásku k ní jsem přenesla i na její předmět. Nejsem si tím úplně jistá, ale je možné, že Connie jsem tak moc zbožňovala i proto, že měla určité shodné rysy s Marthou, mou učitelkou z obecné školy. Jednoho dne jsem byla pro nachlazení a teplotu poslána ze školy domů, abych se vypotila. Cestou jsem míjela knihovnu, a tak mě napadlo, že bych si mohla půjčit nějakou knihu, aby se mi lépe stonalo. Přistoupila jsem k polici a namátkou po nějaké sáhla. To, co jsem vytáhla, byl životopis Louise Pasteura. Už dávno jsem přestala věřit na náhody. Existuje vesmírný plán a ten, kdo je jeho autorem, je také jeho dramaturgem a režisérem. My jsme pouze herci na jevišti života. Kdo jiný mohl vést ruku usmrkané, ukašlané patnáctileté školačky? Jedna věc je jistá: Od toho dne jsem věděla, že chci být mikrobiologem a nic jiného už nepřicházelo v úvahu. Mikrobi, kteří žijí všude kolem nás i uvnitř našeho těla a jsou tak malí, že je nerozezná ani nejostřejší lidské oko, mě natolik fascinovali, že mi zájem o ně vydržel po celý život a do každého nového dne mého aktivního života přinášel radost a pocit uspokojení.

Své studium na Rugby High School jsem ukončila zkouškou zvanou Oxford School Certificate. Boagovi se stěhovali na venkov, a tak jsem se znovu vrátila ke Cleaverům. Pochopitelně jsem se snažila co nejdříve najít si práci, abych už dále nezatěžovala rodinný rozpočet. Mojí prioritou byla práce v laboratoři, obeslala jsem jich několik desítek se svou žádostí, ale bez úspěchu. Byla válka a státní instituce měly zakázáno zaměstnávat cizince. A tak jsem nastoupila do místní drogérie... Když mi bylo sedmnáct, dostala jsem ten nejkrásnější dárek k narozeninám. Dopis od Boagů, kteří se mezitím přestěhovali z venkova do Londýna, a psali mi, že se můžu přestěhovat opět k nim a nejen to: Jack pracoval v nemocnici v Hammersmith a hovořil o mně s přednostou bakteriologického oddělení. Zrovna urgentně sháněli novou sílu do bakteriologického oddělení a pan přednosta se rozhodl obejít v mém případě zákon a přijmout na to místo mě!!! A já na toto místo nastoupila a byla jsem absolutně šťastná...

Jenže hlavnímu laborantu a mému nadřízenému se můj sen stát se laborantkou moc nezamlouval. Pořád mě popichoval tím, že mám na víc, než abych dělala navždy laborantku, ještě k tomu v Anglii, kde jsou platy laborantů velice nízké. Tlačil na mě, abych se snažila dále studovat a za tímto účelem požádala československou exilovou vládu o stipendium. Jenže já to odmítala, stála jsem si za tím, že prostě chci zůstat tam, kde jsem a získat kvalifikaci laboranta. A tak, když jsem se neměla k tomu já, navštívil naše exilové ministerstvo on. Od tamějších úředníků se dozvěděl, že se právě otvírá československá exilová škola ve Walesu, že mám nastoupit na ni a dodělat si tam českou maturitu, kterou budu stejně po návratu domů potřebovat. O mém stipendiu se bude uvažovat až po maturitě, pokud do té doby neskončí válka.

Snad nemusím moc zdůrazňovat, že jsem neměla nejmenší chuť laboratoř opouštět. S těžkým srdcem, ale přeci jen, jsem se na podzim 1943 odebrala do Llanwrtyd-Wellsu, kde jsem v československém gymnáziu internátního typu strávila dva přátelské roky, na které moc ráda vzpomínám. Naše společnost byla pestrá: většinu studentů představovaly děti z dětských transportů, kterým, stejně jako mně, zachránil život Nicholas Winton. Část z nás byla také dětmi vojáků a letců, kteří sloužili v britských ozbrojených jednotkách, nebo dětmi úředníků a vysokých představitelů československé exilové vlády. Po dvou krásných letech jsem zde odmaturovala. Byl květen 1945, konec války.

Moc informací o tom, co se děje doma, jsme neměli. Přesto jsme tušili, že se nejedná o nic pěkného. Všichni jsme žili v nejistotě, jaký osud potkal naše blízké a já si dodnes přesně pamatuji na den, kdy jsem se dozvěděla, co je s maminkou. Byl to jeden z těch nejšťastnějších dnů v mém životě. Pošta se ve škole rozdávala při obědě v jídelně. Jednoho květnového dne jsem obdržela korespondenční lístek psaný tužkou a ofrankovaný první československou známkou po šesti letech. Byl od jednoho známého naší rodiny, který se jako voják vrátil do vlasti hned po Dni vítězství a setkal se v židovském ghettu v Terezíně 10 s mou maminkou. Moje nejsmělejší naděje se splnila, moje nejhoroucnější modlitba byla vyslyšena. Dalších několik týdnů, které mě dělily od naší repatriace 25. srpna a následného setkání s maminkou na nástupišti ústeckého nádraží, jsem prožívala v jakémsi transu, jako bych se vznášela v růžovém oparu štěstí a moje nohy se sotva dotýkaly země. Vše, co si dovedu jasně vybavit, je, že v onen velký den jsem chtěla vypadat co nejlépe a vzala jsem si jasně červenou rádiovku, jakou nosil maršál Montgomery, která mi odlétla z hlavy a kutálela se po perónu v okamžiku, kdy jsem já vletěla mamince do náruče. Setkaly jsme se v Ústí nad Labem, bylo tak nějak na půl cesty mezi Prahou a Teplicemi, kde maminka po válce bydlela. Moje sestra tou dobou už byla doma, jakožto zdravotnice se vrátila hned po skončení války a pomáhala v Terezíně likvidovat epidemii tyfu.

Jaký byl osud mé rodiny poté, co jsem odjela do Anglie? Maminka s babičkou musely opustit náš pražský byt a přestěhovaly se do jakéhosi malého kumbálku v Kouřimské ulici, kde žily až do maminčiny deportace do Terezína. Deportováni byli vlastně téměř všichni členové mé rodiny, až na rodinu tety Idy, která zavčas stihla emigrovat do Spojených států, rodinu strýčka Huga, která emigrovala do Norska, a na babičku Marii Kohnovou. Babička zemřela krátce po odjezdu maminky, asi smutkem, v židovské nemocnici v Praze na Starém Městě. Bohužel, z těch, co šli do Terezína, velká většina šla i dále, a tak z rodiny nikdo další nepřežil. Přežila maminka, v Terezíně pracující jako laborantka u rentgenu, a to díky svému bratranci Arnoštovi. Arnošt byl inženýr a měl na starosti terezínskou vodárnu. Zatajili totiž, že jsou bratranec a sestřenice, a uzavřeli v Terezíně sňatek. Díky tomu maminka v Terezíně zůstala a dál už nešla.

Po válce

Po návratu do Československa mě nejvíce překvapilo, jak byla všechna česká města a náměstí malá a jak úzké bylo Václavské náměstí v Praze a všechny krumlovské uličky v porovnání s obrazy, které po všechna léta žily v mé paměti. V Československu byl nedostatek úplně všeho: potravin, teplého oblečení a bot, elektrického proudu i veřejné dopravy, ale to mi tolik nevadilo. Co se mě dotýkalo mnohem bolestněji, byla mentalita mých spoluobčanů. Zvykla jsem si na anglickou zdvořilost a trpělivost, na způsob, jak ukázněně stáli ve frontách, a nedokázala jsem se rvát dopředu a vybojovat si místo v přeplněné tramvaji, autobusu či vlaku. Všechny dopravní prostředky byly v té době skutečně přecpané a s ničím si nezadaly s obrázky z přeplněné Indie s cestujícími visícími v hroznech kolem dveří a oken vagónů jako bobulky tmavého vína.

Zatímco do Anglie jsem odjížděla s jedním kufrem zavazadel, domů jsem se vracela se dvěma. Tudíž jsem mohla říct, že jsem si vlastně polepšila, nasbírala jsem v Anglii nějaké ošacení, které jsme dostávali od Červeného kříže, a pak také nějaké knihy, od nichž jsem se nemohla odloučit. Jenže moc velká sláva to nebyla. Pamatuji si, že velkým problémem byly zimní boty. V Anglii totiž nikdy nějaká příliš tuhá zima nebyla, proto stačily polobotky, kdežto tady mrzlo pořádně. Mamince se podařilo někde sehnat načerno kůži, a tak mi z ní nechala u ševce ušít takové holiny na míru. Z Anglie jsem si přivezla také omrzliny. Angličané totiž, jak jsou přesvědčeni o tom, že pořádnou zimu nemají, měli v domech jen jednoduchá okna a jedno jediné topení, tím je krb. A tak vždycky, když jsme přišli zvenku promrzlí, honem jsme spěchali ke krbu, natáhli k němu ruky a snažili se ohřát. Omrzliny se mi udělaly hned ten první rok, a vydržely několik let. Jsou to takové velké boláky, které hodně svědí. Já je měla jen na nohou, kdežto má přítelkyně Anne i na rukách.

S pocitem vlastenecké pýchy jsem se zapsala jako posluchačka přírodovědecké fakulty staroslavné Karlovy univerzity v Praze. Těžko by asi pochopili dnešní studenti, co pro mne tehdy znamenalo, že naše česká univerzita přežila německou okupaci a šest let války, že jsem tuto hrůznou dobu přežila i já a že mi bylo dovoleno vstoupit na akademickou půdu, založenou tak osvíceným a moudrým panovníkem, jako byl náš Otec vlasti Karel IV. [Karel IV. (1316 – 1378): český král, od 1355 římský císař – pozn. red.], k němuž dodnes chovám velkou úctu a obdiv. Obor, který jsem si vybrala, byla, jak jinak, mikrobiologie. A dodnes jsem přesvědčena, že to byla správná volba, je to krásný obor, je to vzrušující, je to zajímavé a pro ženu velmi vhodné zaměstnání. Nejsou u něj noční, víkendové směny... Našla jsem si podnájem u pražské rodiny výměnou za to, že jsem obě dcery učila anglicky. Doufám, že moje služba byla lepší než kamrlík, který mi byl přidělen v krásném buržoazním bytě na Nábřeží Legií na Smíchově. Byl to malý kumbál za kuchyní, zřejmě míněn pro služebnou, a nebylo tam žádné topné zařízení. Během první zimy v Praze jsem tedy pořádně trpěla a moje omrzliny z Anglie se mě za tu první zimu v Praze dost natrápily. Přednáškové místnosti na fakultě, stejně jako vlaky, kterými jsem jezdívala každý pátek za maminkou do Teplic, bývaly přeplněné a v mnohých vagónech chyběla skla v oknech. Když jsem se jednou dostala do takového podchlazeného vagónu a seděla celá zkřehlá v průvanu, potkala jsem dalšího anděla, který vkročil do mého života. Byl to starší pán bez jediného zvláštního rysu, který by se mi zapsal do paměti, kromě jeho vzácné laskavosti. U toho rozbitého okna mi tehdy slíbil, že mi příští pátek přinese na nádraží elektrická kamínka. Říkal, že je může snadno postrádat – a opravdu mi je za týden přinesl. Ještě dnes ti, můj anděli, děkuji, protože za nějakou hodinu angličtiny navíc jsem je směla ve svém kumbále zapínat, a tak jsem tu první zimu přečkala bez úhony.

Jakmile to šlo, našla jsem si práci v diagnostické laboratoři při nemocnici v pražském Motole. V té době jsme vyšetřovali mnohé poválečné infekční choroby. Mezi malými dětmi řádil záškrt, mnoho mladistvých i starých lidí trpělo tuberkulózou. O laboratorní diagnóze záškrtu jsem později psala svou disertační práci, abych získala doktorát na přírodovědecké fakultě. Na tuberkulózu tehdy umíralo tolik lidí, že se na naší prosektuře pitvalo několik případů denně. Jen velmi špatně těsnící staré dveře oddělovaly bakteriologickou laboratoř od pitevny, a skutečně během let 1945 – 1948 se všichni zaměstnanci prosektury, s výjimkou primáře patologa a mne tuberkulózou nakazili. Snad aby nám byla nebezpečnost této práce částečně kompenzována, dostávali jsme mimo běžné potravinové lístky ještě zvláštní přídavky, tuším, že to bylo třicet vajec, nějaké máslo a nějaké mléko na měsíc, jestli i maso, to už si nevzpomínám. Ale tyhle zvláštní lístky jsem vozila domů našim do Teplic, protože ti byli po Terezíně pořádně vyhladovělí a žádné zvláštní pomoci se nedočkali.

Nikdy jsem nebyla moc vášnivou čtenářkou, snad s výjimkou několika období ve svém životě, kdy jsem napřed hltala knihy Axela Muntheho, potom romány Romaina Rolanda, později Franze Werfla a posléze Dostojevského. Když jsem jedním dechem přečetla všechny jeho romány a dospěla jsem k jeho deníku, byla jsem šokována jeho antisemitismem a zklamána jeho názorem, že Rusko spasí svět. Jinak jsem se snažila kromě sledování odborné literatury také čas od času rozšiřovat svůj obzor. Jednoho dne jsem začala číst i Schopenhauera. Musím přiznat, že moc daleko jsem se v té četbě nedostala, ale neviditelná ruka musela neviditelným prstem ukázat právě na to místo, které jsem měla číst a které se nesmazatelně vrylo do mé paměti. Byla to hluboká moudrost, která se vztahovala k mému prvnímu manželství, a z pohledu retrospekce bych řekla, že mohla ovlivnit i volbu mého partnera. Schopenhauer věří, že mladého člověka přitahuje právě ten partner, kterého je třeba, aby se z jejich spojení mohlo narodit přesně to dítě, po němž touží nebo které je mu souzeno. To je hlavní silou, která zažehává první lásky u nezkušených mladých dvojic a zřejmě už nepůsobí při volbě partnera v zralejším období života. Protože jsem se s antisemitismem setkala již v mládí a věřila jsem, že můj budoucí manžel bude muset být se mnou jedno tělo a jedna duše, trpěla jsem fixní ideou, že si musím vzít za manžela Žida. Ne proto, že ortodoxní víra zakazovala smíšené manželství. Jednak jsem vyrůstala v liberální židovské rodině, jednak mne odjakživa zákazy, pro něž jsem nemohla najít žádné opodstatnění, spíše nutily, abych je porušovala. Ale nedovedla jsem si vůbec představit, že by mi „část mého těla a duše“ mohla někdy můj židovský původ vyčíst. Je možné, že ale hlavní důvod byl tehdy ještě hluboko zasunutý v mém podvědomí. Byla jsem si vnitřně jistá, že budu mít alespoň dvě vytoužené děti, kluka a holčičku, a že budou mít typicky židovské tmavé oči a černé kudrnaté vlasy.

Se svým prvním manželem, Ing. Hanušem Eislerem, jsem se setkala v roce 1946 brzy po jeho návratu z emigrace ve Spojených státech. Byl to známý z dětství mé spolubydlící na kolejích Evy. Až do této doby byly všechny moje první lásky a přátelství platonické. Jeho americké chování se lišilo od mé puritánské výchovy a když mě dostal do postele, nabyla jsem přesvědčení, že si ho musím vzít.

Brali jsme se v listopadu 1947 v Clam-Gallasově paláci na pražském Staroměstském náměstí. První měsíce po svatbě jsem byla opravdu šťastná. Museli jsme hodně šetřit, protože jsme oba měli malé platy, ze kterých jsme si museli zařídit domácnost. Protože v té době bylo všechno ještě nedostatkovým zbožím, byli jsme vždy šťastni, když nám někdo dal něco, co už nepotřeboval. Radovali jsme se z každé kovové kostry na lůžko, staré matrace nebo kusu koberce. Koncem prosince 1948 se nám narodil syn Petr a já pracovala až do doby, než mi lékaři naléhavě radili, abych kvůli nebezpečí infekce odešla na mateřskou dovolenou dříve. I ve studiu jsem pokračovala externě, protože středem mého zájmu byl náš usměvavý a velmi živý synek.

Bohužel, po synově narození kulminovaly problémy v našem manželství. Už když jsem si svého prvního muže brala, nemohly mi uniknout jisté rysy v jeho povaze, z nichž se dalo tušit, že život s ním nebude procházkou růžovým sadem. Jenže když je člověk zamilován, a to já jsme tehdy opravdu byla, pohybuje se ve vyšších sférách a jeho nohy se sotva dotýkají země. Myslím, že Hanuš v žádném případě nebyl špatný člověk. Bohužel ale trpěl silným komplexem žárlivosti, který byl namířen na celé naše široké okolí. Snad tomu zavdalo příčinu i to, že vyrůstal jako jedináček. Německý psycholog Alfred Adler rozvinul teorii, podle níž se musí mladší sourozenec vyrovnat s touhou po moci, protože pochopitelně chce zvládnout tolik nebo ještě více než jeho starší sourozenec, zatímco starší dítě se musí naučit nežárlit na toho mladšího za to, že je mu jako novému přírůstku do rodiny věnována větší pozornost. Když děti vyrůstají spolu, naučí se přirozenou cestou, jak se s oběma problémy vyrovnat, a také se u nich zeslabuje dětský egocentrismus, který je samozřejmě u jedináčků výraznější. Dalším důležitým faktorem je, že se děti naučí toutéž přirozenou cestou s ostatními se o věci a pozornost v rodině dělit. Hanuš tuto příležitost neměl a později, jako mladý muž, manžel a otec už nedohnal to, oč v dětství přišel. Zpočátku žárlil dokonce na svou matku, když jsem nelibě nesla jeho nedůstojné chování vůči ní a často jí stranila, pak na mé přátele, když jsem si například dovolila pohostit je smaženými vajíčky, sestávajícími z více vajec, než bylo v naší skromné domácnosti prý obvyklé, no a po narození syna velice nelibě nesl, když mi maminka nebo sestra přišly pomoci. Situace nebyla lehká, já jsem ale byla přesvědčená o tom, že všechno zvládnu a každopádně jsem si přála druhé dítě. Hanička se narodila, když jsem dokončila školu a Péťovi byly tři roky.

Asi po roce jsem chtěla znovu nastoupit do práce. Shodou okolností to bylo v době, kdy v Sovětském svazu probíhal politický proces se židovskými lékaři 11. Další shoda okolností byla, že jeden z nich se jmenoval Adler, stejně jako já za svobodna, což stačilo k tomu, že jsem žádnou práci nemohla najít. Tohle je příklad antisemitismu, se kterým jsem se setkala po válce. I když jsem odpovídala na inzeráty, nabízející místo mikrobiologa, po určité době přišla zamítavá odpověď. Můj přítel František, který měl jako novinář přístup ke kádrovým materiálům, mi odhalil příčinu mého neúspěchu. Pomohl mi primář motolské nemocnice, který zajistil, že jsem do Motola nastoupila jako laborantka. Až když se změnil ředitel, mohla jsem přejít na místo mikrobiologa. Dostala jsem přidáno a dokonce mi bylo slíbeno vyrovnání platu tři měsíce dozadu, jenže do toho přišla měnová reforma 12 a z peněz nebylo nic. Přesto musím uznat, že naše chudoba mě trápila mnohem méně než vztahy v našem manželství. Jednoho dne, když jsem opět jela nevytopenou tramvají do Motola do práce, jsem se zasnila. Pak jsem se probrala a vyděsila se opravdu pořádně, když mi došlo, o čem jsem snila: o tom, že vypukla třetí světová válka, že Honzu povolali do armády a já – při tom cítila úlevu! Vyděsilo mě, že na něco takového můžu myslet s ulehčením, na druhou stranu jsem se ale přiměla postavit se k pravdě čelem. Musela jsem si položit tu nejtěžší a nejbolestnější otázku ze všech: Jak je možné, že už ho nemiluji? Až do té doby jsem věřila, že láska je věčná, nikdy neumírá. Vlastně až později jsem pochopila, že lidská láska je cit, a ten podléhá změnám, na rozdíl od čisté lásky Boží, která je stav a nic jí neotřese. Pomalu jsem si začala uvědomovat, že za osm let manželství se mému muži podařilo dosáhnout svou žárlivostí toho, že jsem k němu už nic necítila.

Zkrátka a dobře, když se náš vztah vyhrotil a já našim dětem nemohla zajistit klidný, radostný a bezpečný domov, rozhodla jsem se odejít. Naši přátelé a později i advokáti mi radili, abych se za každou cenu snažila manželství zachovat, a já si pamatuji, jak jsem jim zdvořile odpovídala, že se budu ráda řídit jejich radou, jaký mám nosit účes nebo jak dlouhá má být sukně, ale prosila jsem je, aby se mě nesnažili ovlivňovat při tak životně důležitém rozhodnutí. Potom nastala dlouhá peripetie našeho rozvodového řízení. Potupně jsem se musela vydat na ministerstvo zdravotnictví a tam žádat, aby mě přeložili někam, kde bych dostala alespoň jednu místnost pro sebe a děti. Stalo se, byla jsem přeložena do sovětského sanatoria v Karlových Varech 13. Odtud zmíním jen dva zážitky, jednak vzpomínku na muže, který poměrně otevřeně hovořil a poměrech panujících v Sovětském svazu a divil se, proč že chceme ve všem předehnat svého velkého bratra, což bylo naše heslo, když například naše sociální zařízení, od mateřských školek po nemocnice, jsou na mnohem vyšší úrovni než ta sovětská. Byl to Maestro Mravinskij, velký dirigent a velký, odvážný člověk. Další vzpomínka je na nařízení, podle nějž jsme museli při odchodu pacienta napočítat v jeho krevním obrazu více krvinek i hemoglobinu, než jich měl při svém příchodu. Pravda se totiž u komunistů moc nenosila. Dokonce nás na večerní škole marxismu-leninismu, která byla pro vysokoškoláky povinná, učili rouhačské tezi, že pravda se mění s podmínkami a časem.

Rozvodové řízení se protáhlo na neuvěřitelně dlouhých sedm let a myslím, že jeho nejsmutnější částí byl zápas o naše děti. Opět v něm měla slovo komunistická strana 14 a její ideologie. Jak Honza, tak jeho maminka byli komunisté a po svatbě se jali ideologicky vzdělávat i mě. Já sama do té doby o politiku ani nezavadila, ale protože jsem se v anglické společnosti setkala jednou nebo dvakrát s třídní diskriminaci, souhlasila jsem a podala jsem si přihlášku do Komunistické strany. Během dvou let kandidatury jsem byla pilně přesvědčována, abych ukončila své členství v židovské náboženské obci. Když prý žádný Bůh není, nač být v nějakém takovém spolku? Jenže to jsem zase já nehodlala udělat, zejména kvůli solidaritě s tucty příbuznými a známými, kteří zemřeli jako oběti nacismu, tehdy ani ne tak kvůli nějaké silné víře v Boha. Věřila jsem v Lásku, která nás celý život vede a učí, ale v té době jsem ji ještě nenazývala Bohem. Ani nevím, z jakého důvodu, ale po dvou letech kandidatury soudruzi moje židovství překousli a do strany mě přijali. Svému členství vděčím za to, že děti byly celých těch sedm let, kdy jsme se rozváděli, se mnou. Jinak by mi asi byly odebrány už dříve. Takto k odebrání došlo až v době, kdy jsme se přestěhovali do Ústí nad Labem, kde jsem začala pracovat na virologickém oddělení tamní Krajské hygienické stanice. Mému bývalému manželovi a tchýni se totiž podařilo přesvědčit soud, aby je svěřil do péče jejich. Odůvodnění bylo, že zatímco babička z otcovy strany je stranička, a tudíž styk s ní je chválihodný, babička z matčiny strany ve straně není, a proto je nutno styku s ní zamezit.

Nyní nastal ten zběsilý kolotoč, kdy já jsem nebyla ochotna za žádnou cenu se svých dětí vzdát, a kdy ani můj bývalý manžel a jeho matka nehodlali couvnout. Bohužel, chodila jsem od soudu k soudu a vždy prohrávala. Odvolala jsem se až k Nejvyššímu soudu a úředník, který si mě vyzvedl na vrátnici, se mnou nastoupil do páternosteru a jezdil se mnou pořád dokola. Bylo mi divné, že nevystupujeme, ale on pak začal hovořit: „Podívejte se, paní, Vy máte ráda svoje děti a já mám svoje děti také rád. Proto Vám něco řeknu a budu spoléhat na to, že to zůstane mezi námi. Prostudoval jsem Váš spis a je mi jasné, že to rozhodnutí je nespravedlivé a odnětí z Vaší péče neopodstatněné. Chci Vám ale říct, že spor nemůžete vyhrát. Vaším oponentem je totiž tajná policie 15.“ Pak mi došlo, že ve své kanceláři mi tohle říct nemohl – určitě byla prošpikována odposlouchávacími zařízeními. Děti přesto zůstávaly u mne, čas od času nás navštívila pracovnice úřadu péče o mládež, pohovořila s nimi, zeptala se jich, kde chtějí být, ony vždy řekly, že se mnou, a tak byl na čas zase klid. Až do dne, kdy mi jednou zavolala do práce paní ze sociální péče a rozčíleným hlasem povídá, že můj muž, vyzbrojen kopií soudního rozhodnutí a za asistence své matky a dvou SNBáků 16 vyzvedl děti ze školy a odvezl neznámo kam. Ve škole z toho bylo velké pozdvižení, protože otec vlekl Petra násilím po schodech a malá Hanička šla za nimi mlčky jako beránek a po tváří ji tekly slzy. Děti byly v Praze a já zůstala v Ústí se svou velkou bolestí a oprávněnou starostí o ně. Neuběhlo ani deset dní a Petr utekl z Prahy a vrátil se do Ústí. Omlouval se, že Hanu nemohl vzít s sebou ze strachu, že by se jeho útěk prozradil, ale galantně nabídl, že pro ni pojede. Dovedla jsem si představit, jak muselo být Haničce samotné v Praze smutno, a tak jsem se tam za ní vydala do školy. Jenže ve škole jsem ji nezastihla, otec ji někde ukryl. Teď přistoupila k činu moje malá, statečná dcera. Ze své pokladničky na desetníky vybrala přesně tolik peněz, kolik jí stačilo na poloviční lístek z Prahy do Ústí, a v pořádku přijela domů. Tak vlastně děti samy rozhodly o tom, že u mě mohly zůstat. Věci se potom totiž ujal uliční výbor, to byla místní organizace občanů, která oficiálně pod záštitou, ve skutečnosti pod komandováním Komunistické strany, měla na starosti místní občanské záležitosti a dohled nad chováním občanů v daném okrsku) a rozhodl, že děti zůstanou definitivně se mnou.

Jak jsem se již zmínila, pracovala jsem nejprve jako laborantka, posléze jako doktorka přírodních věd na prosektuře v nemocnici v Motole v Praze. V Karlových Varech jsem rok pracovala na biochemii v sanatoriu Imperial a odtud jsem přešla na místo vedoucí virologického oddělení Krajské hygienicko-epidemické stanice v Ústí nad Labem. V té době se u nás testovala vakcína proti poliomyelitidě, neboli dětské obrně. To byl velký průlom do tehdejší imunologie a pro nás vzrušující projekt. Dva američtí lékaři našli způsob, jak zachránit tisíce dětí od smrti nebo celoživotního postižení obrnou, a potřebovali tuto novou vakcínu vyzkoušet. Naše zdravotnictví bylo za socialismu vysoce organizované. Každé dítě muselo být registrováno a mělo na dětském zdravotním středisku svůj záznam. Ochranné preventivní očkování bylo pro všechny povinné, a bylo uzákoněno, že kdo se na písemnou výzvu se svým dítětem k očkování nedostaví, má být předvolán na policii. To bylo přesně to, co bylo pro tento projekt třeba. Doktor Salk, americký lékař, který se svým kolegou Dr. Sabinem vakcínu vyvinul, přijel dokonce do Československa osobně, aby podepsal příslušnou dohodu. Vakcína se podávala perorálně a naše virologické laboratoře prováděly tisíce zkoušek dětských stolic na přítomnost oslabeného viru v různých intervalech po jejím podání. Bylo s tím spojeno mnoho práce, ale celá akce byla úspěšná a ukázala se být velkým požehnáním pro miliony dětí a jejich rodiče. Díky ní jedna z nejobávanějších dětských nemocí prostě zmizela ze světa.

Práce na tomto pracovišti mě velice bavila, i když musím přiznat, bavila by mě víc, kdyby se tu tak zřetelně neprojevovala absurdita socialistického zřízení. V této době byla aktivita a moc stranické organizace v našem ústavu na vrcholu. Cokoli si její funkcionáři přáli, a samozřejmě cokoli si přáli ti výše postavení ve stranické hierarchii, muselo být jednomyslně odsouhlaseno a provedeno. Tak když jednou přišlo nařízení, že jeden mladý kolega, kterého jsem poznala jako dobrého a pracovitého člověka, má být z politických důvodů z ústavu vyhozen, byla jsem jediná, kdo se vzepřel zásadám tzv. stranického demokratického centralismu, tedy tomu, že se menšina podrobí většině, a proti jeho vyloučení jsem hlasovala. Další můj konflikt se systémem přišel, když jsem odmítla hlasovat pro jednotnou kandidátku ve volbách do stranického výboru, ale vrchol našich vzájemných střetů nastal až ve chvíli, kdy na naše pracoviště nastoupila mladá doktorka hygienička.  Hygienická lékařská fakulta byla založena v dobách socialismu a dávala komunistům a jejich sympatizantům snadnější možnost získat vysokoškolský titul. Paní doktorka si brzy začala počínat jako vedoucí oddělení, a když jsem ji přistihla, jak svými nesterilními prsty vybírá sterilní stříkačku z vody, v níž se předtím půl hodiny vyvařovala, věděla jsem, že na tomto pracovišti dále zůstat nehodlám. Jenže kam jít dál? V Ústí mi zbývala jediná možnost: krajská laboratoř pro kultivaci mykobakterií, sídlící při detašované nemocnici plicních a respiračních chorob na kopci Bukově.

Shodou okolností právě tuto nemocnici spoluzakládal za první republiky můj milovaný strýček Hugo, tatínkův bratr, a vedl ji až do roku 1939, kdy emigroval do Norska. Zdejší pan ředitel mě po otázce, jestli nepotřebují mikrobiologa, okamžitě přijal, nastoupila jsem tedy v roce 1959 a odcházela až poslední den před svými padesátými pátými narozeninami, kdy jsem jako matka dvou dětí mohla odejít do důchodu. Vedle rutinních kultivací, izolací, zkoušek citlivosti na antituberkulozní látky a typizací různých druhů mykobakterií, zbýval ještě čas na různé pokusy a výzkumné práce. Většina z nich se týkala zkrácení doby inkubace. Mykobakterie rostou mnohem pomaleji než ostatní mikroby, potřebují tři až šest, někdy dokonce devět týdnů, než utvoří kolonie na živných půdách bohatých na vaječnou bílkovinu a jiné živiny. Jednou jsem slyšela jednoho německého profesora prohlásit, že mykobakterie musí vydávat speciální prchavé esence, tresti, vibrace či cosi, co napomáhá krásným mezilidským vztahům. Snad tomu tak i je, ale rozhodně hraje roli ten jejich pomalý růst. Práce i pracovní poměry byly v tomto oboru klidné. Nikdo se nehonil, aby s nějakým světoborným objevem přišel jako první. Všichni se v přátelské spolupráci snažili podělit o svá vědecká poznání s ostatními kolegy. Vztahy v tomto oboru medicíny byly opravdu v dnešním egocentrickém světě vzácnou výjimkou.

Někde v pěti knihách Mojžíšových jsem kdysi našla zmínku, že Hospodin s ním mluvil nejen ve stavu bdělosti, ale i ve spánku. Sny hrály v mém životě důležitou roli. Když jsem se díky svému anglickému bratrovi Russellu Cleaverovi seznámila s dílem Carla Junga a jeho učení o snech, začala jsem si je poctivě zapisovat. Od té doby mě sny učily a ukazovaly mi cestu. Jednou jsem se na vernisáži dětských kreseb seznámila s mladým houslistou s bezelstným pohledem v modrých očích, a do tohoto Milana Hály jsem se zamilovala. Milan byl křesťan a přivedl mě k četbě Nového zákona, do té doby jsem četla jen Starý. Začala jsem číst a mé srdce roztálo. Zde bylo evangelium lásky vyjádřeno těmi nejdojímavějšími podobenstvími samotným vtělením lásky, něžným Nazaretským. Jenže, brzy jsem stála před palčivým problémem: Můžu já jako židovka něco takového přijmout? Nebyla by to vada charakteru, kdybych se tak nadchla křesťanstvím hned, když jsem se zamilovala do křesťana? A právě v té době se mi zdál sen. Byla jsem na koncertě, kde seděli odděleně židé a křesťané. Já byla mezi židy. Jenže moji sousedé dělali takový rámus, že jsem hudbu vůbec neslyšela, natož abych ji mohla vnímat. A tu přišel můj strýc Hugo, vzal mě za ruku a posadil mezi křesťany. S Milanem jsme se brali den před mými narozeninami v roce 1965. Milan byl anděl, doslova a do písmene, moje děti ho výborně přijaly. Strávili jsme spolu nádherných 41 let. Zemřel letošní léto, byli jsme právě spolu v lese na houbách, já jsem řekla: „tady je krásně“ a najednou slyším žuchnutí, Milan byl mrtvý. Taková krásná smrt je dopřána málokomu, a já jsem ráda, že zrovna Milanovi se jí dostalo.

Po slavném Pražském jaru 17, po vstupu spojeneckých tanků na naše území 21. srpna 1968 18 a po okupaci naší země sovětským vojskem, po tom, co pan Alexandr Dubček 19 byl donucen abdikovat, čekalo všechny státní zaměstnance tragikomické mučení v podobě tak zvaných politických prověrek. Volím slovo „tragikomické“, protože když se dnes na to dívám zpátky, zdá se mi to jako neuvěřitelně hloupá fraška, že každý občan v okupované zemi měl odpovědět jednu stěžejní otázku, zda souhlasí se vstupem vojsk. Jenže to nebyla jen komická, nesmyslná hra. Byla to tragédie, protože téměř všichni zaměstnanci ze strachu, aby nepřišli o místo a nebyli pronásledovaní, lhali, a tím okupantům vlastně potvrdili právo na nehorázné bezpráví, pod nímž jsme všichni úpěli.

Myslím, že prověrky začaly brzy po prvním výročí 21.srpna, kdy velká většina národa šla v ten den do práce pěšky v černém, na znamení smutku a protestu. Komunisté museli být vzteky bez sebe, ale nemohli nás pranýřovat, protože proti nošení smutku nebo chození pěšky nemohli nic namítat. Kromě toho nás tehdy takto šlo moc – stovky a stovky občanů v každém městě. Asi proto ti nahoře vymysleli prověrky, aby drželi lid ve strachu. Každý zaměstnanec musel přijít před komisi a odpovědět na tu nesmyslnou obávanou otázku o vstupu vojsk neboli bratrské pomoci, což byl oficiální název používaný pro ruskou okupaci. Většina lidí odpověděla, že ano, podepsala dodatečný posudek ke kádrovému materiálu, načež mohli odejít z místnosti a zůstávali dále na svých pracovních místech. Když jsem přišla na řadu já, náš ředitel, který to se mnou nemyslel špatně, mi přečetl můj posudek a zeptal se, jestli jsem ochotná ho podepsat. První věta zněla: Soudružka Dr.R.H souhlasila s politikou strany jak před srpnem, tak i s politickou linii strany po roce 1968. Zprvu jsme myslela, že žertuje, a začala jsem se smát. Nebyl to žert a nakonec jsem skončila v slzách. Když jsem mu řekla, že nemohu podepsat něco, co nedává smysl a navíc to není pravda, pan ředitel se rozzlobil a položil mi tu obávanou otázku, které se možná právě tou formulací chtěl vyhnout, protože moje názory dobře znal. Byli jsme totiž docela dobrými přáteli, protože on miloval svého boxera a já pudly, a v době dubčekovského tání jsme si několikrát při venčení psů docela otevřeně popovídali. Odpověděla jsem, že se vstupem vojsk nesouhlasím. Ještě jsem se zeptala, zda účelem tohoto týrání je propouštění některých lidí z práce. Pan ředitel odpověděl, že ne, ale když četl konečnou verzi mého posudku, v poslední větě stálo: Doporučujeme soudružku ponechat ve funkci, kterou dosud zastávala. Neodpustila jsem si poznamenat, že můj předpoklad byl tedy správný. Atmosféra houstla. Řekla jsem mu: „Jestli mě tu nepotřebujete, tak mi to řekněte, a já půjdu pracovat jinam.“ To už bylo na něho příliš a odvětil: „Můžete být ujištěna, že s posudkem, se kterým byste odtud odešla, Vás hned tak někde nezaměstnají.“ To už jsem byla v slzách, ale ještě jsem se ho zeptala, proč takto lidi týrá, jestli je tím někým donucován? Že přece vím, že před rokem smýšlel docela normálně. Před všemi členy toho smutného tribunálu byl soudruh ředitel nucen pronést větu, že byl tehdy pomýlený.

Tato hodina pravdy mě stála hodně peněz. Nejen, že jsem nedostala přidáno, když konečně vešla v platnost dlouho slibovaná a očekávaná reforma mezd ve zdravotnictví, ale přišla jsem i o příplatky, včetně tak zvaného „pohřebního“ za práci v kraji s nejvíce znečištěném ovzduší v celé republice. Avšak pro moje svědomí to znamenalo obrovskou úlevu. Ze strany jsem vystoupila v čase konfliktu Izraele s jeho sousedy. Na stranické schůzi se ve svém referátu někdo situaci věnoval a v následné diskusi prohlásil náš sanitář Bohoušek, původem Rus a stále ještě analfabet, že je přeci známo, že židé jsou jako krysy, které opouští potápějící se loď. Všechny oči se obrátily na mne a já jsem se červenala až po kořínky vlasů. Seděla jsem jako opařená a čekala, že někdo něco řekne. Nikdo nepronesl ani slovo. Využila jsem této příhody, abych se zbavila jha, které mě dlouho tížilo.

Myslím, že nejvíc mě páni soudruzi trápili v další souvislosti s okupací Československa, a to proto, že můj syn Petr se bezprostředně po ní rozhodl emigrovat. To si mě opět předvolali k výslechu a snažili se ze mě dostat, že utekl kvůli okupaci. Tenkrát jsem se tam rozplakala – dovedete si představit, jaké to je, když vám uteče dítě, nic o něm nevíte, a ještě oni vás tam takto týrají. Opakovala jsem, že nevím, proč utekl, že mě do svých plánů nezasvětil, což také byla pravda, oni ale byli neoblomní. Po několika hodinách jsem tomu člověku, co mě vyslýchal, řekla:  „Prosím Vás, dovolte mi jednu otázku. Máte děti?“ Řekl, že ano. Zeptala jsem se ho: „Dovedete si představit, když vám syn uteče,  Vy o něm nevíte, nemůžete mu pomoct, nevíte, co se s ním v tom světě děje, tak proč mě tady kvůli tomu týráte? Vy z toho máte nějaký užitek nebo co?“ Tak pak mě pustil, ale opravdu to bylo hrozné.

Petr šel do Kanady a já jsme se za ním podívala v pětasedmdesátém roce, když měl promoci. Nebyla to má první cesta na Západ, ale je pravda, že takovýchto cest bylo poskrovnu. Vlastně poprvé jsem vyjela až v třiašedesátém roce. Předtím za mnou sice chodili z tajné policie s tím, že mám určitě na Západě mnoho známých, a že když pro ně (tajnou policii) budu pracovat, můžu se tam podívat bez problému. To jsem hrála hloupou, že na to nemám, že už si ani nepamatuji, koho tam všechno znám... Pak znovu přišli, když jsem se rozváděla, to jsem zase argumentovala, že přeci nebudu nikam jezdit, když mi berou děti. Poprvé od války jsem se tedy dostala do Anglie v třiašedesátém roce, kdy mi tam jeden známý z ROH 20, slušný člověk, zařídil stáž. Po návratu jsem musela napsat o cestě zprávu a v ní, s kým z emigrantů jsem se setkala a co jsme dělali. Tak samozřejmě, zprávu jsem napsala v pěti vyhotovění, ale vše jen o laboratorních metodách, které jsem se tam naučila. Argumentovala jsem tím, že jsem celou dobu pracovala a pracovala, byla zavřená v laboratoři, čili jsem neměla na nic jiného čas. Jistěže jsem cestu využila k tomu, abych se setkala se svými dávnými přáteli, to jim tam ale přece nebudu vykládat. Co se ještě týče styku s vyšetřovateli, zjistila jsem, že když najdete lidskou notu i k tomu největšími špiclovi, tak se s ním nějak domluvíte.

Vlastně i způsob, jak jsem se dostala za Petrem do Kanady, je velice zajímavý. V tom mi pomohli moji věrní psí přátelé, konkrétně pudli, jejichž chovatelkou jsem se stala. Štěňata, která jsme odchovali, byla prostě neodolatelná. Jedno z nich jsme dali známému na tehdejším oddělení pasů a víz a záhy zatoužil po právě takovém štěněti i sám mocný šéf svého oddělení. Protože jsem Bobíka chodívala i pravidelně stříhat, stalo se a opravdu mi k umožnění cesty do zahraničí pomohl. Musela jsem ale slíbit, že nikomu neřeknu, že je to skrz psí známosti. Když jsem se v roce 1989 chtěla podívat za rodinou do Izraele, nic podobného už mi nepomohlo. Sice jsem byla důchodkyně, takže i kdybych emigrovala, stát by jedině ušetřil na mém důchodu, ale soudruzi si postavili hlavu a svolení k výjezdu mi dát nechtěli. Sice mi nabízeli, abych se se svými příbuznými setkala v Rumunsku, jak to prý dělali jiní českoslovenští židé, ale tohle řešení zase neuspokojovalo mne. Proto jsem z Drážďan poslala dopis mému bratranci Jakovovi v Izraeli, aby mi slíbenou letenku a peníze poslal na izraelský konzulát ve Vídni a hlavně, aby se o ničem nezmiňoval v dopisech psaných ke mně domů. Věděla jsem totiž, že soudruzi mou poštu pročítají. Některé dopisy mi nepřišly vůbec, ostatní pošta ze zahraničí chodila pravidelně v úterý. Cesta do Izraele se zdařila a já se do Svaté země podívala, bylo to na jaře před revolucí 21 v osmdesátém devátém roce. Zemí jsem byla nadšená. Ze začátku jsem měla sice strach, jak to tam na mě bude působit, tolik židů pohromadě, ale byla tam výborná atmosféra, takové... účastenství. Měla jsem pocit, že místní židé mají potřebu být účastni na životu druhých, všechno je zajímalo... Třeba jsem jen nasedla do autobusu a hned se každý ptal, co jsem dělala za války, co jsem prožila, bylo to krásné. Také, když jsem se procházela, jsem se cítila poprvé opravdově svobodná. Bohužel musím říct, že s každou další návštěvou jsem cítila, jak se tam situace zhoršuje. Když jsem byla naposledy u sestřenice, která žije na severu, doléhala na mě atmosféra plná strachu, stresu a nenávisti. Projížděla tam auta s ampliony a hlásila, že máme jít do krytu... vůbec to na mě nepůsobilo dobře. Musím říct, že nyní se cítím svobodněji v Indii než v Izraeli. A jaký je můj názor na Izrael? Nejsem politik, mohu říci jen své subjektivní dojmy. Je to země nádherná, plná svatého světla, o kterou se ale pořád budou hádat, dokud nepochopí, že všechno lidstvo je jedna rodina a že o věci se my, lidé, musíme dělit. Snad ještě k otázce, proč jsem tam neemigrovala? Když jsem se po válce vrátila z Anglie domů, byla jsem ráda, že jsem doma a na žádnou další emigraci jsem nepomýšlela. V Izraeli žijí má sestřenice Hanička a bratranec Fricek, který si tam říká Jakov, podle dědečka Jakuba, a jejich početné rodiny.

Do důchodu jsem odcházela den před svými padesátými pátými narozeninami s velkou radostí. Má práce mě sice bavila, ale nebyla jsem na tom zdravotně moc dobře a také, musím říct, práce byla pořád smutnější a smutnější. Zatímco v poválečných letech byla v naší populaci velice rozšířená tuberkulóza, postupně podíl takto nemocných pacientů klesal a rostl podíl těch, kdo měli rakovinu plic. Rakovina je mnohem nebezpečnější nepřítel než tuberkulóza. Za celou dobu své pracovní činnosti nejlepší výsledek, kterého jsme při léčbě rakoviny dosáhli, bylo pětileté přežití 25 % operovaných pacientů. Je velice obtížné diagnostikovat mezi karcinomem a tuberkulózou, a často je přesná diagnóza nemožná, dokud se neotevře hrudník. Shodou okolností jsem byla tímto diagnostikováním pověřena já. Byla to práce nesmírně náročná a já měla vždy velký strach, abych pacientovi nějakou svou chybou neublížila. Hlavně to ale byla práce neobyčejně smutná. Na to, že vzrůst počtu rakovinných nádorů byl tak rapidní, mělo rozhodně vliv i ovzduší, které v severních Čechách bylo. Vlastně to byl odepsaný kraj. Už když se od Prahy přijíždělo k Lovosicím, byl nad městem vidět takový oranžový dým. Zdejší obyvatelé sice dostávali za to, že zde musí žít, určité přídavky, ale ty tři stovky [k poslednímu stanovení zlatého obsahu koruny došlo zákonem č. 41/1953 o peněžní reformě, kdy byl zlatý obsah koruny stanoven (nerealisticky a bez širších souvislostí) na 0,123426 g ryzího zlata, což zůstalo až do konce osmdesátých let – pozn. red.] měsíčně  byly za zničené zdraví směšné. Navíc tohle „pohřebné“ mi bylo odňato poté, co jsem nesouhlasila se vstupem okupačních vojsk.

Hned jak to tedy bylo možné, severní Čechy jsem opustila a vrátila se do svého rodného kraje, do jižních Čech. Je to neuvěřitelné, ale už jsem v důchodu vlastně stejnou dobu, jako jsem byla v práci. Alespoň vidím, jak  je čas relativní. Těch prvních dvacet tři let se neuvěřitelně vleklo, a že tady tyto tak rychle uběhly, se mi nechce ani věřit. Pořídili jsme si ratlíka Cliffa, já s ním chodila každý den na procházky, tu jsme sbírali byliny, tu šišky na otop... Když jsme bydleli v Budějovicích, zaměstnávala jsem se mimo jiné tím, že jsem učila na místní pedagogické fakultě angličtinu a  prováděla jsem po městě turisty. Mezi prvními hosty, jimž jsem měla tu čest dělat doprovod, byla  královna dánská Margarethe II. Také jsem v důchodu začala malovat. Do té doby jsem si myslela, že to neumím, ale jednoho dne mi můj přítel, malíř Jan Cihla [-], přinesl článek Winstona Churchilla, kde se praví, že kdo nikdy v životě nezkusil malovat, ten o hodně přišel. Stačí prý jen štětec, papír, barva a notná dávka odvahy. Winston Churchill byl pro mě vždy velkou autoritou, dodnes tvrdím, že to byl on, kdo nám vyhrál válku, a tak jsem začala malovat. V amatérském malování je vše dovoleno. Zpočátku jsem se otrocky držela předlohy, ale pak jsem zjistila, vždyť to přece nemusí být úplně stejné. Hlavně nesmí být narušena harmonie celku. Ve vesmíru, v přírodě harmonie je a její porušení je velkou chybou. Toto kritérium je pro mě rozhodující i pro to, co je kýč nebo není. Když se podívám z okna a vidím modré nebe, na něm bílá oblaka, před domem rybník s labuťákem, každý by řekl, že to kýč je. Jenže ona je to taková ladovská harmonie. V tom je právě malování tak přínosné, že člověk se učí soustředěnosti a je nucen dívat se na svět tak, aby svůj pohled mohl předat. Zjistila jsem, že každá tečka, čárka, volný prostor je ohromně důležitý. Zrovna tak si představuji mozaiku našeho života; dalo by se říci, že mám představu Boha, který sedí a skládá puzzle. Každý z nás je unikátní, má svůj tvar, svou barvu a místo ve světě, které patří jen a jen jemu.

Dnes vím, že všechny prožité radosti a bolesti, všechny zdary a nezdary, které mi život nachystal, byly lekce, z nichž se mám poučit, že všechno, co vzniklo, musí opět zaniknout a že tu je nejen svět vnější, v kterém se toto drama odehrává, ale i vnitřní, svět naší nezrozené a nesmrtelné duše. Všechno, co jsem v životě prožila, bylo přípravou k nástupu hledání pravdy o mé duši neboli tak zvané duchovní cesty. Již ve svých sedmnácti letech jsem přemýšlela o účelu života. Tehdy jsem si
zapsala do deníčku, že si myslím, že to asi bude : "Žít šťastně a pomáhat druhým ke štěstí." Když mi bylo 37 a děti už nepotřebovaly vysmrkávat nosíky a omývat zadečky, pocítila jsem potřebu zastavit se na chvíli v tom kolotoči všedních dnů, popřemýšlet a svoje dřívější krédo, které pro mne stále platí, rozšířit. Kladla jsem si otázky, které si klade lidstvo už od pradávna: "Proč jsem tady, jaký účel má můj život? Odkud jsem přišla a kam se ubírám?" To bylo v roce 1963 a tehdy jsem směla poprvé od roku 45 vycestovat do Anglie. Vrhla jsem se na u nás zakázanou  a tudíž nedostupnou literaturu a s pomocí knih Carla Junga začalo moje hledání Pravdy. Pět plných let jsem si pravidelně zapisovala svoje sny a zamýšlela se nad nimi. Naučila jsem se je přebírat a rozeznat, které děje pocházely z mého podvědomí, to znamená z nesplněných tužeb nebo ze silných, ještě nezpracovaných zážitků, a které přicházejí odněkud shůry od nějakého nebeského učitele či rádce. Jakmile člověk obrátí svou pozornost do nitra, hned mu přichází další pomoc. V roce1965 jsem se brzy po své druhé svatbě prostřednictvím svého muže seznámila se svým prvním duchovním učitelem. Byl to pán s velikým a milujícím srdcem a až do jeho odchodu z tohoto světa v roce 1994, tedy téměř celých 30 let, jsme si vyměňovali nespočet dopisů a pravidelně jsme se navštěvovali. Kromě výměny mnohých otázek a odpovědí jsme pokaždé spolu také poseděli v tichu. Neříkali jsme tomu meditace, ale mlčení. Až když tento můj učitel "nás předešel", dal se mi poznat učitel všech učitelů avatár Saí Baba, božské vtělení, chodící mezi námi v Puttaparthi, malé vesnici na jihu Indie, kde se narodil. Již deset let překládám jeho promluvy z angličtiny do češtiny a pravidelně jezdím za ním do Indie "mlčet" v jeho ášramu. Pro mne je Saí Baba vtělený Bůh. Přišel, aby nás učil a vedl, aby nám připomněl, kdo jsme, a aby nás utěšoval. Učí nás, že my nejsme tělo, ale čistá, nesobecká láska a čiré vědomí, věčná a nesmrtelná duše – jiskra Božství.

Glosář:

Ferenc Sandor
Budapest
Hungary
Interviewer: Dora Sardi and Eszter Andor

My great-grandmother Cili, Cecilia Rosenthal, was a great beauty even at
the age of 92. She had beautiful blue eyes and white hair, and her hands
were soft and warm ... and out of vanity she said she was younger than she
actually was. She knocked a few years off her age. Because only when she
passed away did it turn out that she was already 92, not 90. She was the
heart and soul of the family. She had a good sense of humor too.

Great-grandmother's sister, Aunt Fani, was a Jewish schoolteacher in Papa.
She had two sons, Geza and Miklos. Geza committed suicide. I do not know
why, and I have no more knowledge of him. Miklos was apparently gifted.
They apprenticed him to a bookbinder, but it was quite clear that his
ambition was to pursue further studies and that was what he did. For some
years he spent his summer holidays with my grandmother and grandfather in
Sopron. He told my grandfather, his uncle, that he would get a doctorate.
"If you get one," Grandfather said, "I'll get my head chopped off." So when
Miklos got his first doctorate, he said, "Uncle Ferenc, I am coming to chop
off your head." And when he got his second doctorate, he said, "Uncle, I am
coming to chop off your second head!"

Granny Cili's husband was Beno Fogel. They were miserably poor.

We could never stand the so-called Polish Jews, those "fin" folks with the
payot (sidelocks). (Interviewer's note: The Jews of northeast Hungary who
spoke Yiddish and followed the Orthodox tradition bore this nickname
because they twisted the Yiddish word fun, meaning "from, out of," into
fin). There were no such people in the entire family.

It is not easy to say what my great-grandfather did for a living, because
he worked at various jobs in various places. My grandmother was born in
Mezokovacshaza. In those days the family was so poor that they had to move
from village to village in the hope of earning a better living at a
different place. But by the time I was born, they owned a house and a small
store in Megyesegyhaza; later a tavern, too. Fourteen children were born to
them and nine lived to adulthood. Of the nine, three were boys.

Uncle Jeno magyarized his name to Fodor.

Another one was some kind of backward creature, yet an absolute genius at
fixing things. He lived in Megyesegyhaza, County Bekes. He had a motor
scooter, which was a very big deal at that time, and he held movie shows.

Then there was Andor Fogel, who magyarized his name to Andras Vago. He
fought in World War One.

The eldest child was Etelka, who later became a schoolteacher. She ended up
in a mental ward. She must have been quite a funny lady. I've got only the
faintest memories of her, maybe not even real memories, just from some
photo.

Then there was Rozsi. She lived in Mako with a husband who was a porter.
He once wrote in a letter, "I live in beautiful harmonium here with my dear
wife."

Then came Irma. Irma lived in Megyesegyhaza with her husband, whose name
was Guttman. They owned a store too. Later they had a tavern next to Great-
grandmother Celi and Great-grandfather Beno's. Their daughter Terez was an
extremely beautiful young lady. I was completely infatuated with her.

Then there was Mariska. Both of her sons suffered from hemophilia, and both
of them died later, I think during displacement.

Juliska, the youngest one, was so much younger than my grandmother that
Grandmother used to nurse her and change her diapers when she was a baby.

Ferenc Rosenthal, my grandfather, was a brother of Cecilia, my great
grandmother, and this rather unfortunate thing happened: he married his own
niece, my great grandmother's daughter, a very beautiful young girl. But
then my granddad was a full-fledged schoolteacher, and when he took fancy
to Janka, the 17-year-old niece of his, the poor creature was duly married
to the schoolteacher.

I never knew my grandfather because he was born in 1849 and he was sensible
enough to die in due course in 1913.

My grandparents married in 1893 in Sopron, and that's where they lived.
Only one child was born to them, my mother. It was a pretty unlucky kind of
business. The bridegroom was 25 years older than the bride. And
Grandmother wanted to kill herself, by jumping out of the window, on the
first night of her marriage.

It was typical of my grandfather, Ferenc Rosenthal, that in the Neolog
school where he worked, the word cheder (a Jewish religious primary school
attended only by the children of the Orthodox) was considered a dirty word.
In Sopron there was both a Neolog school and an Orthodox one. Well, some
supervisor remarked: "This is not a school, this is a cheder." A word of
abuse, it was. And so my Grandfather retorted: "Yes, schools will become
cheders if they have directorates like ours."

Grandfather was an orphan. He took an unusual career path to become a
schoolteacher. One year he would work regularly as a private tutor in the
service of a particular family. Then the following year he would study at
college.

They must have lived in extreme poverty when he was a child. He was raised
by his elder brother. As a young boy he was supposed to eat a variety of
foods, but they usually had nothing but bread. He would ask his brother,
"Please, give me something to eat!"

"You want bread and jam?"

"No, I don't want bread, give me something to eat." He was craving for
something, it could have been meat or fruit, I cannot tell, but he said:
"Give me something!"

"Bread and lard? You want bread and lard."

"Not bread, I want something to eat." He got nothing else.

He was twenty-four when he got his degree. The general nickname for
teachers in those days was "light," or "lamp." People called my grandfather
was that. He told my grandmother that he once met an upper class Jew who
remarked: "I wear velvet and you wear rags, yet you are the one called 'the
lamp!'"

Grandfather lived completely in the spirit of the Austro-Hungarian
monarchy. When Grandfather was about three or four years old, the Emperor
Franz Joseph stopped in Sopron on his way somewhere. They lifted him above
the crowd, and he yelled, "Uncle Emperor, Uncle Emperor!" The story goes
that Franz Josef even waved back to him, but, of course, one cannot be sure
of that.

My grandfather wrote reviews of performances staged at the theatre in
Sopron. I had the chance to read a few of them. And if the primadonna
happened to show her ankles in some performance, he went to see that play
thirty times in a row. He most have been a man of brains for sure.

They lived in comfort, had a fine house and were able to provide well for
their daughter, their only child.

My mother attended the upper middle school for girls in Sopron. Then her
parents registered her for a one-year course in a business school.

She found work as a clerk at the local administration center. Most of the
time I was looked after by my aunt, who moved in with us after my father
did not come back from the war. I was practically raised by her.

My father was called Vilmos Sandor. He magyarized his name from Spielman
before he married. That had to be done on account of his job, as he worked
for the Veszto office of the Bekes County Savings Bank. He had a high
school education. He met the young lady who became my mother on a train
trip. My mother was sitting in the train with my grandmother and he sat
beside them. That must have been in 1910 or 1911. Right there on the train
they decided to get married. The actual wedding ceremony in the temple
followed in 1912 in Sopron. After the wedding he immediately took my mother
to Veszto, where they lived in a family house, an official residence,
secured by the Savings Bank. He had previously run into debts, which were
then paid off from the dowry. As an unmarried man he had been accustomed to
leading an easy life. Most likely, he did not abstain from alcohol either.

There was a large Jewish community in Veszto. In my father's family alone
there were five brothers: Bari, Miksa, Jozsi, one whose name I forgot, and
Vilmos, my father. They all lived in Veszto. Most of them owned some kind
of store or other. Uncle Miksa had a grocery. After we moved to Budapest, I
spent my summer holidays at Uncle Miksa's. They were very religious and
kept kosher. My aunt Giza would definitely have had a stroke if she had
known I was offered bread and lard at Balint Torok's and ate it.

In World War One, my father was called up from Veszto to the Russian front.
Then he returned and spent some time at home, and had the chance to see me
as a baby of a few weeks old. I have no memories of him whatsoever. There
is only one thing I know. When he came home from the front he said that one
was not allowed to laugh any more. I have seen the postcard he sent home to
my mother. On it was written: "Don't cry, darling. The country must be
saved from the enemy." The poor fellow, he could not have suspected that
during a 1944 death march, my war-widow mother would helplessly fall victim
to this same country he was trying to save from the enemy.

I had an elder sister, Sari. She was born in 1913. There were eleven months
between us. Sari went to school downtown in the Vaci street gymnasium,
where she took her finals. Later she took a course where they learned how
to make corsets. Before that she worked as a typist, and as she earned some
money, we were able to move to Legrady Karoly Street, where we had a very
pretty little flat that consisted of one room, a foyer, and small room for
the house-maid.

Sari later married. My first brother-in-law, Laci Reisenfeld, died during
his forced labor service in 1944. He was born in 1902 and worked as a clerk
for the Goldberger Works. When Sari learned that he had died, she wanted to
kill herself. Then in 1944 she married a gentile, Laci Foldessy. She would
not have been able to cope with the prospect of having another husband get
killed. A daughter, Marika, was born to them, and the three of them fled to
Holland in 1957, shortly after the 1956 revolution when the borders were
open for some time. The borders had already been closed, but they managed
to smuggle themselves out. They passed their flat on to someone at the
Ministry of the Interior, so an eye was shut for them.

In 1916 the whole family-my mother, my grandmother, my sister and I-all
moved from Veszto to Budapest. We had a flat on Maria Valeria street. A
really decent fellow helped Mother get a very good job at the Central
Institute of Finances. Up to the last moment, as long as the anti-Jewish
laws permitted, she kept that job. She got a good salary, as the Central
Institute of Finances was the second biggest bank in the country. "That's
why I did not have to raise my two orphans in poverty," she often said.

My grandmother Janka drew a fairly good pension after my grandfather's
death. We had a huge family scattered throughout the country from Sopron to
Bekescsaba. We were the only ones who lived in Budapest, so we put up
everyone who came to Budapest from the countryside on any business.

In the apartment house where we lived, there was a front staircase, and a
back one, which was normally called the "servant staircase." We had to use
the back staircase, but all the same, we lived in a sunlit, airy apartment
on the third floor. The toilet was at the end of the corridor. For a time
we had a proper housemaid who lived with us. Later on, a cleaning lady came
regularly. The first housemaid, Roza, accompanied us when we moved to the
capital from Veszto. Later, when I spent my vacation with my uncle in
Veszto, I went to see her. She lived at the edge of the village in dire
poverty. In my mind's eye, I can still see her child, who suffered from
consumption, and whom she unwrapped as if it were some small bundle. The
housemaid was always a family member to us.

My mother had a colleague, Mr. Sziklai. This was a magyarized name, and
originally he was called Spisak. It was a great thing for me because he was
the only male role model for me to follow. He liked me too. Then when
Mother died I did not know how to relate to him any more.

I started high school at an orphanage for war orphans in Cegled. I was
completely crushed in that place in the second year. Broke my spine, so to
speak. There were a hundred of us there and only one other Jew, who was in
the seventh grade. I came second, a second grader. And ninety-eight
children teased me for a whole year because I was Jewish. When I managed to
get into the infirmary, that was a relief. I remember once it was really
cold outside and I was outdoors and did not feel like going in. A bunch of
these pests kept following me, and when the teacher noticed that it had
something to do with me, he told me off because I did not tell on them, I
did not inform him that they were pestering me. He put the responsibility
for that scene on me.

I was very bad at languages at school. Math was easier. In my free time I
went on rowing trips with my friends, or we went to a dance. I actually
learned dancing in the Czech lands. We were sent there to spend our summer
holidays as students on an exchange visit. We lived with Czech families,
and then Czech students visited us in return.

Hungarian poetry is very dear to me. I live in those poems, I practically
live for them, even if I only tell them to myself. I have performed a lot
of poetry recitals in my life; how well, I cannot say.

I used to be a boy scout too. We sang songs around the campfire late at
night and until daybreak. We never sang the same song twice.

My family never made a special issue out of the fact that we were Jewish.
I heard that my father was considering converting, but in 1915 he lost his
life at the Russian front.

At elementary school I received a Roman Catholic religious education. I
went to school on Cukor Street in downtown Budapest. Novitiates would
frequently come to us and visit, or do their teaching practice there. They
were very nice young men and I, for my part, was a hundred percent Roman
Catholic, duly making the sign of the cross. I had had my First Communion
and was on very good terms with God, asking Him for things now and then, as
was common in those days.

Then a really strange thing happened to me. A Hungarian law ruled that
children between six and eighteen were not allowed to change religion. And
now this very law became the reason for the fact that that I had to change
religion. I had received my registration card from the Roman Catholic
Church. The Church was not interested in how the state classified people in
terms of religion: it had its own rules and regulations. However, a state
law ruled the way I described before. It was discovered that the
authorities had failed to correct my birth certificate. According to my
documents, I was still a Jew, even though I was a Christian. At the home of
the war orphans in Cegled, this document business was taken rather
seriously, so they wouldn't acknowledge that I was a Catholic. I was
compelled to resume Judaism and attend Jewish religious education classes.
For me it was the most terrible split. In this little provincial town, the
way those Jewish people lived seemed utterly unkempt and messy. Not so very
civilized, so to speak. Otherwise they were very kind to me, inviting me to
join them for holidays and feasts such as Pesach.

I was twelve then, and I revolted. I insisted that I should be taken home
to my grandmother immediately. And so I was sent then to the school on
Barcsay Street, where the atmosphere was somewhat Jewish. As when we lived
on the Maria Valeria Street before, from our window if I leaned out a
little I could see the tower of the church were I was baptized. I also had
to go past the synagogue twice a day. Now, when I walked past the church,
if I did not remember to take my cap off, I was committing a sin, and a few
hundred meters further away, if I did the same-or the other way round-I
got completely confused. I looked up in the sky and wondered whether there
was someone up there watching what I was doing with my uniform cap. I
finally got over it somehow.

In that school I was accepted, because the headmaster, a young man of
Swabian origin, was a wonderful, kind person and loved me dearly. I was
almost like an adopted son to him. (Translator's note: Swabians were ethnic-
German farmers who had lived in Hungary since the 18th century.)

In our house we celebrated Christmas and Easter and we never observed any
Jewish holiday, at least I cannot recall any. In Veszto with Uncle Miksa,
everything was observed, but that's all I remember. Today I am deeply
irreligious.

I took my finals at secondary school in 1933. Not long before my exam I was
walking home - walking, because we did not normally take the tram: tickets
were expensive. I went past a newspaper stand and there I saw the news on
Hitler's takeover.

After my finals I wanted to go to university but I ended up at a printing
house. That's how I became a printer. I did lithography: paintings,
posters, color prints. That lasted until 1978, when I retired.

During the war, first I was sent to Gyongyos for forced labor service, then
to Vac, and following that I spent one and a half years in Sastov, Ukraine,
near Kiev. It was in August, 1942 when we went there. When full Jews were
ordered to be sent further away, I, as a war-orphan, was offered the chance
to stay in Vac. People who had Christian spouses were allowed to stay. They
were given white armbands. I was contemplating whether I should go or stay,
and in the end I decided to leave. But right then a guard kicked me back to
the line. He wouldn't let me leave. Thank God. Because less than fifty
percent of the company I was supposed to join ever returned. Later on, it
was our turn to be sent to Ukraine. My company was a wonderful unit, an
extraordinary group of people. Lots of medical doctors and lawyers among
them. At the beginning of 1944 we were disarmed. Then on May 20, 1944 I was
taken to Pecs, and from there to Szombathely. There I pulled the gold ring
off my finger because I knew it would be taken from me anyway. I gave it
away to someone in the street, so at least I gave it to someone I wanted
to. We worked at an airport in Szombathely.

A friend of mine had some work at the Bruck Textile Works, and he went
there time to time. That's where Zsuzsa, who later became my wife, worked.
Before Christmas, my friend told them we were throwing a party on New
Year's Eve, and he was in charge of inviting some nice girls. Zsuzsa would
have loved to come but her parents wouldn't let her. So the two of them
agreed that she would bring a girlfriend along who would look after her all
night. On that condition, the parents finally gave in. One afternoon a few
days before New Year's Eve, Zsuzsa and her friend came over to my flat to
check the place they were coming to. They found only my grandmother at
home, and they sorted everything out with her, as far as what to bring and
all. When I came home, my grandmother informed me about their visit and
said that a very pretty girl had visited us who was going to come to my New
Year's Eve party. Our wedding ceremony took place at the City Hall.

Ruzena Guttmannova
Bratislava
Slovakia

Growing up
During the war
Post-war
Glossary

Growing up

I was born in 1921 in Breznica, Eastern Slovakia, into a strictly Orthodox
family and have adhered to the Jewish traditions up until now.

My father, Aron Kleinmann, was born in 1880 in the town of Ladomirov, which
was in Austria-Hungary at the time. He owned a large estate in Breznica. We
had an inn, and in summer, we used to sit at the tables outside. I even
have a picture of this. We also used to congregate on a big porch in
summer. My father had a short beard and a moustache, always wore a cap, a
coat and a tie, and dressed in modern fashion.

My mother was born Ester Gruenwaldova in Breznica in 1882. She had two
brothers, Adolf and Toba. Malvina Gruenwaldova, who was born in Presov in
1907, is the daughter of one of my uncles. She was a housewife. My cousin
Malvina survived the Holocaust and died in Montreal, Canada, in 1980.

My mother also had a sister, who was very pretty and was always elegantly
dressed. In America she married a cousin called Friedman. He was born in
1899 in Breznica and became a successful businessman in the United States.
He owned some hotels. He died in New York in 1988.

My parents had eight children. My oldest brother, Nabel, was born in 1900.
In 1929 he went to America and worked as a servant first, and, after a
while, as a waiter. There he changed his name to Irving. I was 22 when he
left for America. I hardly knew him and we met for the first time after the
war, when he turned 75. Irving used to send us pictures from America.

All other children stayed at home and helped our parents on the farm. My
second oldest brother Emil, born in 1902, was married, so he wasn't with
us. My oldest sister, Tonci, was born in Breznica in 1910, then there were
my twin brothers Max and Adolf, born in 1914, then my brother Iosef, my
sister Malvina, born in 1919, and me.

We got along rather well with the non-Jews in our village. I remember that
we used to sit in the courtyard with Helena and Dulet Friedmanova; the
Friedman family were our neighbors. They were nice and very helpful. We
enjoyed friendly relations until the great tragedy came with the rise of
the war-time Slovak State and that state destroyed our whole family.

During the war

When the first deportations started in 1942, I was rounded up as a young
girl, the first one of my family. I was deported on 22nd March 1942 with
the first transport. I remember the despair of my parents when they learned
that I had to go; I packed my suitcase, my brother harnessed two horses,
and, along with my father and a policeman, I left. I still remember those
painful first moments in the assembly center in Poprad.

We were on the train for several days, and my first impression of Auschwitz
was that I had arrived in hell. I managed to stay alive for three years in
Auschwitz. I survived several selections and experienced Dr. Mengele's
periodic inspections. Toward the end of the war, I was forced out of the
camp and on to a death march. We went through several other concentration
camps. Until now, I have never returned to Auschwitz.

While still in Auschwitz, I learned from my neighbor, who was deported
later on, that my parents paid 4,000 Slovak crowns in order to obtain an
exception as economically important Jews because they had a big farm.
However, the very next day Slovak guards 1 came to pick up my parents. So
it seems the bribe they paid did them no good.

Many members of my family didn't survive the Holocaust. My father Aron and
my brothers Emil and Max were killed in Auschwitz. My sister Tonci, along
with her three little children, of whom one was only a baby, and her
husband Berkovic were all killed in Auschwitz, too, probably in 1942. My
mother Ester died in Majdanek concentration camp 2 in 1942.

Two of my brothers - Emil, who was 27 year old and already married, and
Max, who was 22 - didn't want to leave our parents and went with them to
the concentration camp. Max had served in the Czechoslovak army, so we have
a lovely picture of him in his uniform.

I remember my cousin Kosen Goldman, who was born in Ladomirov in 1907.
Before World War II he was a businessman. During the Holocaust he was taken
to Auschwitz, and killed there.

My brother Adolf and I survived together. My other brother, Iosef, also
survived because he had been in a forced labor brigade attached to the
army, and that's how he made his escape. And, of course, Irving, who had
left for America in the 1920s, also survived.

Post-war

After the liberation, I returned to Breznica for a while. However, our
house had been destroyed by bombs, everything was in ruins. But my brother
and I were well received by our neighbors and classmates. These good
relations have lasted until now.

I then moved to Stropkov in Eastern Slovakia along with my brother, and we
lived in our cousin's house.

I got married in Stropkov in 1946. My husband, Viktor Guttmann came from an
Orthodox family from Vranov. Out of six siblings, he was the only one to
survive the Holocaust.

We moved to Bratislava in 1949. Our first-born son lives in the USA now. We
had two more sons, one of them lives in Bratislava. Our family property is
now owned by an agricultural cooperative and as yet I haven't got any
compensation for it. I'm retired. After the death of my husband I live
alone, but keep in touch with my sons and their families.

My brother Irving worked as a manager after World War II. He was married to
Ester Kleinmannova, who was born in Poland in 1912. She was a housewife.
She died in Florida in 1999. Irving died in Florida in 1986. He suffered
from mental disorder. My other brother, Adolf, died in Israel in 1990.

I was at the funeral in the USA. Many people came to the ceremony and there
was a big mirror. Police were in the front, then the body was carried in a
car following the police and then people who attended the funeral were
following. There were about ten long big cars with about twelve people. I
attended this funeral where bodies in coffins were put into a wall. Ester
was put next to Irving.

Glossary